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Illinois  Industrial  University,  3 

CHAMPAIGN,  ILiL.  3) 

) V*  are  nof  f0  }je  ta-sen  frcm  the  Library  I£oom  ^ 


IOC  is  bV£ 


CYCLOPAEDIA 

OF 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


CYCLOPAEDIA 

OF 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


A HISTORY,  CRITICAL  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL,  OP  BRITISH  AUTHORS, 
FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIMES. 


EDITED  BY 

ROBERT  CHAMBERS. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


YOL.  II. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  & CO. 

1867. 


) 

Sfat  jof 

Page 

Page 

Page 

Portrait  of  Oliver  Goldsmith, 

2 

Portrait  of  George  Crabbe,  . 

266 

View  of  Miss  Edgeworth’s  House, 

463 

View  of  the  Ruins  of  the  House  at 

Autograph  of  Crabbe, 

266 

Autograph  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

476 

Lissoy,  where  Goldsmith  spent  his 

View  of  the  Birthplace  of  Crabbe,  . 

266 

Portrait  of  Washington  Irving,  . 

486 

Youth,  . 

2 

Portrait  of  Samuel  Rogers, 

273 

View  of  Washington  Irving’s  Cottage,  486 

Portrait  of  Dr  Thomas  Percy, 

11 

Autograph  of  Rogers, 

273 

Portrait  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  . 

489 

View  of  the  Deanery,  Carlisle, 

12 

View  of  the  House  of  Mr  Rogers  in 

Portrait  of  James  Morier, 

496 

Portrait  of  James  Macpherson,  . 

13 

St  James’s  Place,  . 

273 

Autograph  of  Morier,  . . 

496 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Chatterton, 

18 

Portrait  of  William  Wordsworth, 

279 

Portrait  of  Theodore  Edward  Hook, 

499 

View  of  Bruce’s  Monument  in  Port- 

Autograph  of  Wordsworth, 

279 

Autograph  of  Hook,  . 

499 

moak  Churchyard,  . 

32 

View  of  Rydal  Lake  and  Words- 

Portrait  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford, 

508 

View  of  Windsor  Castle,  . 

36 

worth’s  House,  . . . 

281 

Portrait  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  . 

514 

Portrait  of  James  Beattie, 

40 

View  of  Tin  tern  Abbey,  . 

285 

Portrait  of  George  Combe, 

525 

Portrait  of  Sir  William  Jones, 

53 

Portrait  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 

292 

Portrait  of  Rev.  Robert  Hall, 

528 

Portrait  of  William  Cowper, 

56 

View  of  Mr  Gillman’s  House,  Highgate ; 

Portrait  of  Dr  Thomas  Chalmers, 

532 

View  of  Olney  Church, 

57 

the  last  Residence  of  Coleridge,  . 

294 

Portrait  of  William  Cobbett, . 

536 

Cowper’s  Monument, 

58 

View  of  Bremhill  Rectory,  in  Wilt- 

Portrait  of  Rev.  Sydney  Smith, 

541 

Portrait  of  Dr  Erasmus  Darwin, 

68 

shire,  . . . . 

303 

Portrait  of  Francis  Jeffrey,  . 

544  , 

View  of  Balcarres  House,  Fifeshire, 

Portrait  of  Robert  Southey, 

305 

Portrait  of  Henry  Lord  Brougham, 

548 

where  Auld  Robin  Gray  was 

Autograph  of  Southey, 

305 

Portrait  of  Isaac  Disraeli, 

549 

composed,  .... 

88 

View  of  Southey’s  House, 

308 

Portrait  of  Jeremy  Bentham, 

554 

Portrait  of  Robert  Fergusson, 

90 

Portrait  of  Charles  Lamb,  . 

313 

View  of  the  Coliseum, 

560 

Fergusson’s  Tomb, 

91 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Moore, 

321 

Portrait  of  Sir  John  Franklin,  . 

565 

View  of  Edinburgh  from  the  Castle, 

93 

Autograph  of  Moore,  . 

321 

Tail-piece,  . 

571 

Portrait  of  Robert  Burns, 

95 

View  of  Moore’s  Cottage  near  Devizes, 

, 325 

Initial  Letter, 

572 

Autograph  of  Burns, 

95 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Campbell, 

328 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Hood,  . 

577 

View  of  Burns’s  Birthplace,  . 

96 

Autograph  of  Campbell,  . 

328 

Portrait  of  David  Macbeth  Moir, 

580 

View  of  Ellisland,  . 

97 

View  of  Alison  Square,  Edinburgh, 

329 

Portrait  of  Alfred  Tennyson, 

586 

View  of  the  Banks  of  Doon,  with  the 

Portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

338 

Portrait  of  Charles  Mackay, 

597 

Old  Bridge  and  Burns’s  Monument, 

98 

View  of  Abbotsford, 

340 

Autograph  of  Charles  Mackay, 

597 

View  of  Lincluden  Abbey,  . 

104 

Portrait  of  Lord  Byron, 

346 

Portrait  of  Lord  Macaulay, 

599 

Mausoleum  of  Burns,  Dumfries, . 

105 

Autograph  of  Byron, 

346 

Portrait  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  . 

623 

Portrait  of  Alexander  Wilson, 

106 

View  of  Newstead  Abbey, 

347 

Portrait  of  James  Fenimore  Cooper, 

624 

Portrait  of  George  Colman, 

115 

Lord  Byron’s  Tomb, 

349 

Portrait  of  Captain  Frederick  Marryat, 

, 626 

Portrait  of  George  Colman,  the 

Portrait  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  . 

355 

Portrait  of  Mrs  Trollope, 

630  ; 

Younger,  .... 

122 

View  of  Shelley’s  House,  . 

357 

Portrait  of  Mrs  S.  C.  Hall, 

632 

Portrait  of  Laurence  Sterne, 

134 

Portrait  of  John  Keats, 

363 

Autograph  of  Mrs  Hall, 

632 

Autograph  of  Horace  Walpole, 

139 

View  of  Heber’s  Parish  Church, 

369 

View  of  Mrs  Hall’s  former  Residence, 

View  of  Strawberry  Hill,  near  Twick- 

Portrait of  Robert  Pollok, 

372 

Brompton,  .... 

633 

enham  ; the  Residence  of  Horace 

View  of  Mid  Muirhouse,  the  Resi- 

Portrait of  George  P.  R.  James, . 

634 

Walpole,  .... 

139 

dence  of  Pollok  in  Boyhood, 

373 

Portrait  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer 

Portrait  of  Henry  Mackenzie, 

141 

Portrait  of  James  Montgomery,  . 

375 

Lytton,  .... 

635 

Portrait  of  Frances  Burney,  . 

144 

Portrait  of  Leigh  Hunt, 

383 

Portrait  of  Benjamin  Disraeli,  . 

640 

Portrait  of  Matthew  Gregory  Lewis, 

168 

Portrait  of  James  Smith, 

390 

Portrait  of  Samuel  Warren,  . 

643 

Portrait  of  Edward  Gibbon,  . 

179 

Portrait  of  John  Wilson, 

395 

Portrait  of  Charles  Dickens, 

645 

View  of  the  Residence  of  Gibbon  at 

Portrait  of  Mrs  Hemans,  . 

398 

Portrait  of  William  Makepeace 

Lausanne,  .... 

181 

Autograph  of  Mrs  Hemans,  . 

398 

Thackeray,  .... 

650 

Portrait  of  William  Roscoe, 

188 

View  of  Rhyllon,  the  Residence  of 

Portrait  of  Charles  James  Lever, 

662 

View  of  House  of  Lord  Karnes,  Canon- 

Mrs  Hemans  in  Wales, 

398 

Portrait  of  Sir  Archibald  Alison, 

679 

gate,  Edinburgh,  . 

190 

Portrait  of  Henry  Hart  Milman, 

404 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Carlyle, 

720  i 

Tomb  of  Bishop  Porteous  at  Sun- 

Portrait  of  Miss  Landon, 

407 

Portrait  of  John  Kitto, 

736  , 

bridge,  Kent, 

198 

Autograph  of  Miss  Landon, 

407 

Autograph  of  Kitto, 

736  ; 

Portrait  of  Edmund  Burke, 

210 

View  of  the  Birth  place  of  Miss  Landon, 

408 

Portrait  of  Sir  John  Herschel, 

742  : 

View  of  Beaconsfield,  . 

211 

View  of  Joanna  Baillie’s  House, 

Autograph  of  Herschel,  . 

742 

Portrait  of  Hannah  More, 

235 

Hampstead, 

409 

Portrait  of  Sir  David  Brewster, 

749 

Autograph  of  Hannah  More, 

235 

Autograph  of  Joanna  Baillie, 

409 

Autograph  of  Brewster,  . 

749 

Staircase  at  Kinnaird  House,  Stir- 

Portrait of  Ebenezer  Elliott, 

414 

Portrait  of  Dr  Buckland, 

751 

lingshire— Scene  of  Bruce’s  Fatal 

Portrait  of  Robert  Tannahill, 

424 

Portrait  of  Sir  Henry  Thomas  De  La 

Accident,  .... 

244 

Portrait  of  James  Hogg, 

429 

Beche,  .... 

753 

Initial  Letter, 

246 

Portrait  of  Allan  Cunningham,  . 

432 

Portrait  of  Hugh  Miller,  . 

755 

Portrait  of  Robert  Bloomfield, 

250 

Autograph  of  Cunningham,  . 

432 

Autograph  of  Miller,  . 

755 

View  of  Austin’s  Farm,  the  early 

Autograph  of  Charles  Robert  Maturin, 

445 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Chandler  Hali- 

Residence  of  Bloomfield,  . 

251 

Portrait  of  James  Sheridan  Knowles, 

447 

burton,  . . 

769 

View  of  Birthplace  of  II.  K.  White, 

Autograph  of  Knowles, 

447 

Portrait  of  Harriet  Martineau,  . 

775 

Nottingham, 

259 

Portrait  of  William  Godwin, 

454 

Portrait  of  Austen  Henry  Layard,  . 

796 

Portrait  of  James  Grahame, 

261 

Autograph  of  Godwin, 

454 

Portrait  of  David  Livingstone,  . 

798 

"b'bt'b'k 


^£frntt|r  ^ztiob. 

REIGN  OF  GEORGE  III.  FIRST  SECTION. 
[1760  TO  1800.]. 


POETS. 

Oliver  Goldsmith, 

Page 

2 

Italians  and  Swiss  contrasted, 

4 

France  contrasted  with  Holland,  . 

5 

Description  of  Auburn,  . 

5 

Edwin  and  Angelina, 

7 

Extracts  from  Retaliation , . 

8 

William  Mason,  .... 

9 

From  Caractacus, 

9 

Epitaph  on  Mrs  Mason,  . 

10 

Dr  John  Langhorne,  . 

10 

Appeal  to  Country  Justices, 

10 

Advice  to  the  Married, 

11 

The  Dead,  ..... 

11 

Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan, 

11 

Dr  Thomas  Percy, 

11 

O Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  Me  ? 

12 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  . . 

12 

James  Macpherson, 

13 

Ossian’s  Address  to  the  Sun, 

15 

Fingal’s  Airy  Hall, 

15 

Address  to  the  Moon, 

15 

Desolation  of  Balclutha, 

15 

Description  of  Female  Beauty,  . 

15 

The  Songs  of  Selma,  . 

16 

The  Cave,  ..... 

17 

Fragment  from  Belleville  Manuscripts, 

17 

Thomas  Chatterton, 

17 

Fragment  of  Hymn, 

17 

Extracts  from  Satirical  Poems,  . 

19 

Bristow  Tragedy, 

20 

The  Minstrel’s  Song  in  Ella, 

23 

Resignation,  .... 

24 

William  Falconer,  . . 

24 

Extracts  from  The  Shipwreck , 

25 

Robert  Lloyd,  .... 

28 

The  Miseries  of  a Poet’s  Life, 

28 

Wretchedness  of  a School  Usher, 

29 

Charles  Churchill, 

29 

Extract  from  Prophecy  of  Famine, 

30 

Extracts  from  The  Rosciad,  . 

31 

Michael  Bruce,  .... 

31 

A Rural  Picture, 

32 

Elegy— Written  in  Spring, 

32 

John  Logan,  .... 

33 

To  the  Cuckoo,  .... 

34 

Written  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  in  Autumn, 

34 

Complaint  of  Nature, 

35 

Thomas  Warton, 

36 

Written  after  Seeing  Windsor  Castle,  . 

36 

Written  in  a Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale’s  Monasticon, 

37 

On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddon, 

37 

On  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  Painted  Window  at  Oxford, 

37 

The  Hamlet,  an  Ode,  . . . 

38 

Joseph  Warton, 

38 

To  Fancy,  ..... 

38 

Thomas  Blacklock, 

39 

Terrors  of  a Guilty  Conscience,  . 

40 

Ode  to  Aurora, 

40 

James  Beattie,  .... 

40 

Opening  of  the  Minstrel, 

42 

Description  of  Edwin, 

Morning  Landscape,  . 

Life  and  Immortality, 

Retirement,  . 

The  Hermit, 

Christopher  Smart,  . 

Song  to  David, 

William  Julius  Mickle. 

Cumnor  Hall, 

The  Mariner’s  Wife,  . 

The  Spirit  of  the  Cape, 

Christopher  Anstey,  . 

The  Public  Breakfast, 

Mrs  Thrale, 

The  Three  Warnings, 

Thomas  Moss,  . 

The  Beggar, 

Sir  William  Jones, 

Ode  in  imitation  of  Alcaeus, 

A Persian  Song  of  Hafiz, 

Concluding  Sentence  of  Berkeley’s  Siris  imitated, 
Tetrastic,  from  the  Persian,  . 

Nathaniel  Cotton, 

The  Fireside,  .... 

William  Cowper,  .... 

Character  of  Chatham, 

The  Greenland  Missionaries, 

Rural  Sounds, 

The  Diversified  Character  of  Creation, 

From  Conversation,  . 

On  the  Receipt  of  his  Mother’s  Picture, 

Voltaire  and  the  Lace-worker, 

To  Mary  (Mrs  Unwin),  . 

Winter  Evening  in  the  Country, 

Love  of  Nature,  .... 

English  Liberty, 

John  Gilpin,  .... 

William  Hayley,  . . 

Tribute  to  a Mother, 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cowper, 

On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs  Unwin, 

Dr  Erasmus  Darwin,  . 

Extracts  from  Loves  of  the  Plants , 

Invocation  to  the  Goddess  of  Botany, 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib’s  Army, 

The  Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague, 

Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Minden, 
Philanthropy— Mr  Howard,  . 

Song  to  May, 

Song  to  Echo,  .... 

The  Rolliad,  ... 

Character  of  Mr  Pitt,  . 

William  Gifford,  .... 

Extracts  from  The  Baviad , . 

Extract  from  The  Mceviad, 

The  Grave  of  Anna,  . . . 

Greenwich  Hill,  ... 

To  a Tuft  of  Early  Violets,  . **  . 

The  Anti-Jacobin  Poetry, 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-grinder, 
Song  by  Rogero  in  The  Rovers , . 

Canning’s  Epitaph  on  his  Son, 

Dr  John  Wolcot,  . 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters, 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas, 

The  Apple  Dumplings  and  a King, 


Page 

42 

43 

44 

44 

45 
45 
45 

47 

48 

49 

49 

50 

50 

51 

51 

52 

52 

53 

54 

54 

55 
55 
55 

55 

56 
58 

58 

59 
59 

59 

60 
61 
61 
61 
64 

64 

65 
67 

67 
63 

68 
68 

69 

70 

70 

71 
71 

71 

72 
72 

72 

73 
73 

73 

74 

75 

75 

76 

76 

77 
77 

77 

78 

79 

79 

80 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Whitbread’s  Brewery  Visited  by  their  Majesties, 
Lord  Gregory,  .... 

May  Day,  ...... 

Epigram  on  Sleep,  .... 


POETESSES. 

Charlotte  Smith,  . 

Flora’s  Horologe, 

Sonnets,  .... 
Recollections  of  English  Scenery,  . 
Miss  Blamiee, 

The  Nabob,  .... 
What  Ails  this  Heart  o’  Mine?  . 

Auld  Robin  Forbes,  . 

Mbs  Baebauld, 

Stanza  on  Life, 

Ode  to  Spring, 

To  a Lady  with  some  Painted  Flowers, 
Hymn  to  Content, 

Miss  Sewabd,  .... 


Page 

80 

82 

82 

82 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Alexander  Ross,  ......  87 

Woo’d,  and  Married,  and  a’,  . . . . 87 

John  Lowe,  ....  ...  87 

Mary’s  Dream,  .....  87 

Lady  Anne  Babnabd,  ....  88 

Auld  Robin  Gray,  .....  88 

Miss  Jane  Elliot  and  Mbs  Cockburn,  ...  88 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  ....  89 

Baroness  Nairn,  ......  89 

The  Land  o’  the  Leal,  ....  89 

The  Laird  o’  Cockpen,  .....  89 

Robert  Fergusson,  .....  90 

Braid  Claith,  ......  91 

To  the  Tron  Kirk  Bell,  ....  91 

Scottish  Scenery  and  Music,  ....  92 

Cauler  Water,  ......  92 

A Sunday  in  Edinburgh,  ....  94 

Robert  Burns,  ......  94 

Extract  from  The  Vision,  ....  98 

From  Burns’s  Epistles,  ....  100 

To  a Mountain  Daisy,  .....  101 

On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  ...  101 

Songs : Macpherson’s  Farewell ; Menie ; Ae  Fond  Kiss ; 

My  Bonny  Mary;  MaryMorison;  Bruce’s  Address,  102,103 
A Vision,  ......  104 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn,  ....  104 

Alexander  Wilson,  .....  106 

The  Bald  Eagle,  .....  106 

A Village  Scold,  ......  107 

A Pedler’s  Story,  .....  107 

Hector  Macneill,  .....  108 

Extracts  from  Scotland's  Skaith,  . . . 108 

Mary  of  Castle-Cary,  .....  109 

Richard  Gall,  ......  109 

My  Only  Jo  and  Dearie  O,  . . . 109 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire,  . . . . .110 

DRAMATISTS. 

Murphy— Jephson— Walpole— Sheridan— Lewis,  110,  111 

Rolla’s  Address  to  the  Peruvian  Army,  . . Ill 

Joanna  Baillie,  ......  Ill 

Scene  from  De  Montfort,  . . . 112 

Female  Picture  of  a Country  Life,  . . . 114 

Fears  of  Imagination,  ....  114 

Speech  of  Prince  Edward  in  his  Dungeon,  . . 114 

Description  of  Jane  de  Montfort,  ...  114 

George  Colman— Murphy— Cumberland— Goldsmith,  114, 115 
A Deception,  from  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  . . 115 

Arrival  at  the  Supposed  Inn,  . . 116 

R.  B.  Sheridan,  ......  117 

A Sensitive  Author,  from  The  Critic , . 118 

Anatomy  of  Character,  from  The  School  for  Scandal,  120 
Mbs  Cowley— George  Colman,  the  Younger,  . 122 

Scene  from  the  Heir  at  Lave,  ....  123 


From  The  Poor  Gentleman,  . 
The  Newcastle  Apothecary, 
Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen, 
Mbs  Elizabeth  Inchbald,  . 
Thomas  Holcroft, 


Page 

125 

127 

128 
128 
129 


NOVELISTS. 

Robert  Pdltock,  ..... 

Peter  Wilkins  and  his  Flying  Bride, 

Laurence  Sterne,  ..... 

The  Story  of  Le  Fevre, 

The  Starling— Captivity, 

A French  Peasant’s  Supper,  . 

Horace  Walpole — Clara  Reeve— Oliver  Goldsmith, 
Henry  Brooke— Henry  Mackenzie, 

Negro  Servitude,  .... 

Harley  sets  out  on  his  Journey, . 

The  Death  of  Harley, 

Frances  Burney,  ..... 

A Game  of  Highway  Robbery, 

Miss  Burney  and  George  III.,  . 

Sarah  Harriet  Burney, 

William  Beckford,  .... 

Caliph  Vathek  and  his  Palaces, 

The  Hall  of  Eblis,  .... 

Richard  Cumberland— Mrs  Frances  Sheridan 
Thomas  Holcroft,  .... 

Gaffer  Gray,  ..... 

Robert  Bage— Sophia  and  Harriet  Lee, 

Introduction  to  the  Canterbury  Tales, 

Dr  John  Moore,  ..... 

Dispute  and  Duel  between  Two  Scotch  Servants, 

Mrs  Inchbald,  ..... 

Service  in  London,  .... 

Estimates  of  Happiness,  .... 

The  Judge  and  the  Victim,  . . # 

Charlotte  Smith,  ..... 

Ann  Radcliffe,  .... 

English  Travellers  Visit  a Neapolitan  Church, 

Description  of  the  Castle  of  Udolpho, 

Hardwick,  in  Derbyshire, 

An  Italian  Landscape, 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis, 

Scene  of  Conjuration  by  the  Wandering  Jew, 

HISTORIANS. 

David  Hume,  ...... 

State  of  Parties  at  the  Reformation, 

The  Middle  Ages— Progress  of  Freedom, 

Death  and  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  . 

Dr  William  Robertson,  ..... 

Character  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  . 

Martin  Luther,  ...... 

Discovery  of  America,  .... 

Chivalry,  ....... 

Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V., 

Goldsmith  — Lyttelton  — Birch  — Henry  — Stuart — 
Warner— Leland — Whittaker— Granger—  Orme 
— Macphebson  — Lord  Hailes — Watson  — Rus- 
sell, ......  178, 

Edward  Gibbon,  ..... 

Opinion  of  the  Ancient  Philosophers  on  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul,  ...... 

The  City  of  Bagdad,  ..... 

Conquest  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Crusaders,' 

Appearance  and  Character  of  Mohammed, 

Conquest  of  Timour  or  Tamerlane, 

Invention  and  Use  of  Gunpowder,  . 

Gibbon’s  mode  of  Life  at  Lausanne, 

Remarks  on  Reading,  .... 

Gillies— Roscoe— Laixg— Pinkerton,  . 

METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

Dr  Reid,  ...... 

Lord  Kames,  ..... 

Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  the  Ear, 


130 

131 
133 
135 

137 

138 

139 

140 

141 

141 

142 

144 

145 

147 

148 
148 

150 

151 

154 

155 

155 

156 

158 

159 
161 
162 
162 
162- 

163 

164 

165 

166 
167 
167 

167 

168 


171 

171 

172 

173 

174 

175 
1T5 

177 

178 


179 

179 

1S2 

183 

183 

1S4 

185 

186 
187 
187 
183 


189 
199 

190 


CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 


Dr  Beattie, 

On  the  Love  of  Nature,  . 

On  Scottish  Music,  . 

Abraham  Tucker — Dr  Priestley, 


THEOLOGIANS. 


Dr  Paley, 

Of  Property,  . 

The  World  was  made  with  a Benevolent  Design, 

Dr  Watson  — Dr  Horsley  — Dr  Porteous —Gilbert 
Wakefield,  ...... 

Mr  Wilberforce,  ..... 

On  the  Effects  of  Religion,  .... 

Jortin— Hurd— Horne,  .... 

Dr  Hugh  Blair,  ...  • 

On  the  Cultivation  of  Taste, 

Difference  between  Taste  and  Genius,  . 

Dr  George  Campbell,  .... 


Page 

192 

192 

193 

194 


195 

195 

196 

197 

198 

198 

199 
199 

199 

200 
200 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

Earl  of  Chesterfield,  ....  201 

On  Good  Breeding,  .....  201 

Charlotte  Lennox— Catherine  Macauley,  . 202 

Dr  Richard  Farmer— George  Steevens,  . . 202 

Jacob  Bryant,  .....  202 

Thomas  Amory,  ......  202 

Picture  of  Arcadia,  .....  203 

Portrait  of  Marinda  Bruce,  ....  203 

Dr  Samuel  Johnson,  .....  203 

From  the  Preface  to  the  Dictionary,  . . 204 

Reflections  on  Landing  at  Iona,  . . . 205 

Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden,  . . . 205 

Picture  of  the  Miseries  of  War,  . . . 206 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  . . . . .206 

Scenery  of  the  Alps,  .....  206 

A Sketch  of  the  Universe,  ....  207 

Scenery  of  the  Sea-coast,  ....  208 

On  the  Increased  Love  of  Life  with  Age,  . . 208 

A City  Night  Piece,  ...  .209 

Edmund  Burke,  ......  209 

On  Conciliation  with  America,  1775,  . . 212 

Dependence  of  English  on  American  Freedom,  . 213 

Destruction  of  the  Carnatic,  . . . 214 

Mr  Burke’s  Account  of  his  Son,  . . .214 

The  British  Monarchy,  . . . . 215 

Marie  Antoinette,  ....  215 

The  Order  of  Nobility,  ....  215 

Difference  between  Mr  Burke  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  216 
Character  of  Howard  the  Philanthropist,  . . 217 

Junius  and  Sir  Philip  Francis,  . . . 217 

Extracts  from  Letters  to  Duke  of  Grafton  and  Duke  of 

Bedford, 218 

Extracts  from  Francis’s  Letters  and  Speeches,  . 219 

Junius’s  Letter  to  the  King,  . . . .221 

John  Horne  Tooke,  .....  224 

Speech  of  Beckford  the  Lord  Mayor,  . . .225 

De  Lolme,  ....  . 225 

Popular  Agitation  in  England,  . . . .226 

The  Earl  of  Chatham,  ....  226 

Speech  on  being  taunted  with  his  Youth,  . . 226 

Speech  against  the  Employment  of  Indians  in  the  War 
with  America,  . . . . *■ . . 227 

Last  Public  Appearance  of  Chatham,  . 227 

Character  of  Chatham  by  Grattan,  . . 228 

Sir  William  Blackstone,  ....  228 

On  the  Right  of  Property,  . . . .229 

Dr  Adam  Smith,  .....  230 

The  Division  of  Labour,  .....  231 

Adam  Ferguson — Lord  Monboddo,  . . 231 

Horace  Walpole,  ......  232 

Strawberry  Hill,  .....  232 

Politics  and  Evening  Parties,  ....  233 

The  Scottish  Rebellion,  1745,  . . . 233 

London  Earthquakes  and  London  Gossip,  . . 234 

Mbs  Montagu  and  Mrs  Chapone,  . . . 235 


Hannah  More, 

Interviews  with  Dr  Johnson, 

Death  and  Character  of  Garrick, 
Samuel  and  W.  H.  Ireland, 

Lines  from  Vortigern, 

Edmund  Malone— Richard  Porson, 


WORKS  ON  TASTE,  NATURAL  HISTORY, 
ANTIQUITIES. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds— Pennant— Grose— Gough — 
Gilbert  White,  ..... 
The  Rooks  returning  to  their  Nests, 

Joseph  Ritson— Rev.  W.  Gilpin— Sir  Uvedale  Price, 
Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Woods, 

The  Rev.  Archibald  Alison, 

Memorials  of  the  Past,  ..... 
The  Effect  of  Sounds,  .... 


239 

240 


240 

241 


242 


BIOGRAPHERS. 
Boswell— Gibbon— Currie, 

TRAVELLERS. 

Macartney— Staunton— Bruce— Mungo  Park, 
Bruce  at  the  Source  of  the  Nile, 

Park  sheltered  by  the  African  Women, 

Park’s  Fortitude  under  Suffering,  . 


242,  243 


243 

244 

245 
245 


®i S&tjj  fJtiffi*. 

CONCLUSION  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  GEORGE  III.,  AND 
REIGN  OF  GEORGE  IY.  [1800  TO  1830.] 


POETS. 

Mrs  Opie— Mrs  Hunter— Mrs  Grant— Mrs  Tighe, 
The  Orphan  Boy’s  Tale, 

Song— (Go,  youth  beloved), 

Song— (The  season  comes  when  first  we  met) 
Song— (O  tuneful  voice!) 

The  Death-song,  written  for  an  Indian  Air, 

To  my  Daughter,  .... 

The  Lot  of  Thousands, 

On  a Sprig  of  Heath, 

The  Highland  Poor,  . 

Extract  from  Mrs  Tighe’s  Psyche , 

The  Lily,  by  Mrs  Tighe, 

Robert  Bloomfield, 

Extracts  from  The  Farmer's  Boy , 

Rosy  Hannah,  .... 

Lines  Addressed  to  my  Children, 

Description  of  a Blind  Youth,  . . 

Banquet  of  an  English  Squire, 

The  Soldier’s  Home,  . . . 

John  Leyden,  .... 

Sonnet  on  Sabbath  Morn, 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin, 

The  Mermaid,  .... 

Henry  Kirke  White,  . . . 

To  an  Early  Primrose,  . 

Sonnet,  .... 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem,  . 

A Hymn  for  Family  Worship, 

The  Christiad,  .... 

James  Grahame, 

Extracts  from  The  SabbatJi, 

Spring  and  Summer  Sabbath  Walks, 

Autumn  and  Winter  Sabbath  Walks, 

The  Impressed  Sailor  Boy,  . 

To  my  Son,  .... 

The  Thanksgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar, 

George  Crabbe,  . ' . 

The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary 
Isaac  Ashford,  .... 


247 

247 

247 

247 

248 
248 
248 
248 
248 

248 

249 

250 

250 

251 

252 

253 

253 

254 

254 

255 

256 

256 

257 

259 

260 
260 
260 
260 
261 
261 
262 

263 

264 

265 
265 
265 
265 
268 
268 





CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Page 

Page 

Phoebe  Dawson,  .... 

269 

Thomas  Moore,  . . . 

. 

321 

Dream  of  the  Condemned  Felon, 

270 

Extract  from  Odes  and  Epistles, 

322 

Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble  Life, 

270 

Literary  Advertisement, 

322 

An  English  Fen— Gipsies, 

271 

When  He  who  Adores  Thee, 

323 

v Gradual  Approaches  of  Age,  . . . 

272 

I saw  from  the  Beach,  . 

323 

Song  of  the  Crazed  Maiden, 

272 

Extracts  from  Lalla  Rookh,  . 

323 

Sketches  of  Autumn,  .... 

272 

John  Hookham  Frere, 

325 

Samuel  Rogers, 

272 

Extracts  from  Whistlecraft, 

326 

Extracts  from  the  Pleasures  of  Memory , 

274 

Passage  from  Version  of  one  of  the  Romances 

of  the  Cid, 

327 

Extract  from  Human  Life, 

276 

Thomas  Campbell,  . 

328 

Ginevra,  . . 

276 

Elegy  written  in  Mull,  1795, 

331 

An  Italian  Song, 

277 

Picture  of  Domestic  Love, 

331 

To  the  Butterfly,  .... 

277 

Death  of  Gertrude,  . . . 

331 

Written  in  the  Highlands, 

277 

Ye  Mariners  of  England, 

332 

Paestum,  . • . 

278 

Battle  of  the  Baltic,  . . 

333 

To , .... 

278 

Hohenlinden,  . . . 

333 

A Wish,  ..... 

278 

From  The  Last  Man, 

334 

On  a Tear,  .... 

278 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis, 

334 

William  Wordsworth, 

279 

Durandarte  and  Belerma, 

336 

Extracts  from  The  Excursion,  . 

281 

Alonzo  the  Brave, 

336 

Sonnets : London,  1802 ; The  World  is  Too  Much  with 

The  Hours,  .... 

337 

Us;  Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 

and 

On 

Sir  Walter  Scott, 

337 

King’s  College  Chapel, 

283, 

284 

On  the  Setting  Sun,  . 

338 

Lines,  ...... 

284 

Portrait  of  * The  Last  Minstrel,’ 

341 

Lucy,  ..... 

284 

Description  of  Melrose  Abbey, 

342 

A Portrait,  ..... 

. 

285 

Love  of  Country, 

342 

Tintern  Abbey,  . 

285 

* Day  set  on  Norham’s  castled  steep,’ 

342 

Picture  of  Christmas  Eve, 

286 

Battle  of  Flodden, 

343 

Ruth,  ..... 

287 

Death  of  Marmion, 

343 

To  a Highland  Girl,  .... 

. 

289 

Young  Lochinvar, 

344 

Laodamia,  .... 

289 

Coronach,  from  Lady  of  the  Lake,  . 

345 

Samuel  Tatlor  Coleridge,  . 

291 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  . 

345 

Extract  from  Wallenstein , 

293 

Time,  from  The  Antiquary,  . 

345 

Epitaph  on  Himself, 

294 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid, 

346 

Extracts  from  Christdbel, 

295 

Song,  from  The  Pirate,  . , 

346 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 

296 

Lord  Byron, 

346 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year, 

299 

Picture  of  Modern  Greece,  . 

349 

Hymn  in  the  Yale  of  Chamouni,  . 

301 

Image  of  War, 

350 

Love,  ..... 

301 

Ancient  Greece, 

350 

From  Frost  at  Midnight,  . 

302 

Descriptive  extracts  from  Childe  Harold, 

351 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience, 

302 

Temple  of  Clitumnus, 

351 

Youth  and  Age,  .... 

302 

The  Gladiator, 

351 

Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles, 

303 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean, 

352 

Sonnets : To  Time  ; Winter  Evening  ; and  Hope, 

303, 

304 

An  Italian  Evening, 

352 

South  American  Scenery, 

304 

Midnight  Scene  in  Rome, 

352 

Sun-dial  in  a Churchyard,  . 

304 

The  Shipwreck,  from  Don  Juan, 

353 

The  Greenwich  Pensioners, 

304 

Description  of  Haidee,  . . 

353 

Robert  Southey,  .... 

305 

Haidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast,  . 

354 

Extract  from  Joan  of  Arc,  . 

305 

The  Death  of  Haidee, 

354 

Extract  from  Thalaba, 

306 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley, 

355 

Extracts  from  Curse  of  Kehama, 

307 

Extract  from  Revolt  of  Islam, 

355 

Extracts  from  Roderick, 

307 

Extract  from  The  Cenci, 

358 

Epitaph  on  Southey  by  Wordsworth,  . 

303 

Flight  of  the  Hours,  from  Prometheus, 

359 

The  Holly  Tree,  .... 

309 

Opening  of  Queen  Mab,  . 

359 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 

309 

The  Cloud,  .... 

359 

Description  of  Clifton, 

310 

To  a Skylark,  . . . 

360 

The  Maid’s  Lament, 

310 

From  The  Sensitive  Plant,  . » 

361 

Sixteen,  . . . 

310 

Forest  Scenery,  . 

362 

Conversation  between  Lords  Chatham  and  Chesterfield, 

311 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection, 

362 

•Grandiloquent  Writing,  . 

312 

On  a Faded  Violet, 

363 

Milton,  ..... 

312 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air, 

363 

Edwin  Atherstone, 

312 

To , . 

363 

Extract  from  The  Fall  of  Nineveh, 

312 

John  Keats,  .... 

363 

Charles  Lamb,  .... 

313 

Saturn  and  Thea, 

365 

Extract  from  John  Woodvil, 

314 

The  Lady  Madeline  at  her  Devotions, 

365 

To  Hester,  .... 

315 

Hymn  to  Pan,  . . 

366 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  . 

315 

Ode  to  a Nightingale, 

366 

A Farewell  to  Tobacco,  . 

315 

To  Autumn, 

367 

Dream  Children,  .... 

316 

Sonnets : On  Chapman’s  Homer,  The  Human  Seasons, 

Poor  Relations,  .... 

317 

and  On  England, 

367 

William  Sotheby,  .... 

319 

Lines— (There  is  a charm  in  footing  slow), 

367 

Staffa,  ..... 

319 

Dr  Reginald  Hebkr, 

368 

Approach  of  Saul  and  his  Guards,  . 

320 

Extracts  from  Palesiitte,  . 

368 

Song  of  the  Virgins, 

320 

Missionary  Hymn, 

869 

Edward  Lord  Thurlow,  . . . 

321 

From  Bishop  Heber’s  Journal, 

369 

Song  to  May,  .... 

321 

Evening  Walk  in  Bengal, 

370 

Sonnets,  ... 

321 

Charles  Wolfe,  . . . 

. 

370 

X 


CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 

Page 

Page 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  . 

370 

Jerusalem  before  the  Siege, 

404 

Song— (0  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold),  . 

371 

Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews,  . 

405 

Song — (If  I had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died), 

371 

Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel, 

405 

Herbert  Knowles,  .... 

371 

The  Fair  Recluse,  . 

405 

Lines  Written  in  Richmond  Churchyard, 

371 

The  Day  of  Judgment,  . 

406 

Robert  Pollok,  .... 

372 

Rev.  George  Croly, 

406 

Love,  ...... 

373 

Pericles  ,and  Aspasia, 

406 

Morning,  ..... 

373 

The  French  Army  in  Russia, 

407 

Friendship,  ..... 

374 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon, 

407 

Happiness,  ..... 

374 

Change, 

408 

James  Montgomery,  .... 

375 

From  the  Improvisatrice, 

408 

Greenland,  ..... 

376 

Last  Verses  of  L.  E.  L.,  . 

409 

Night,  ...... 

377 

Joanna  Baillie,  ' . 

409 

Picture  of  a Poetical  Enthusiast,  . . 

377 

The  Kitten,  . \ 

409 

The  Pelican  Island,  .... 

378 

From  Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie, 

410 

The  Recluse,  ..... 

378 

William  Knox — Thomas  Pringle, 

411 

The  Field  of  the  World,  .... 

379 

Conclusion  of  Songs  of  Israel, 

411 

Aspirations  of  Youth, 

379 

Afar  in  the  Desert, 

411 

The  Common  Lot,  ..... 

379 

Robert  Montgomery, 

412 

Prayer,  ..... 

379 

Description  of  a Maniac, 

412 

Home,  ...... 

380 

The  Starry  Heavens, 

412 

The  Hon.  William  Robert  Spencer, 

380 

William  Herbert, 

413 

Beth  Gelert,  . . . * . 

380 

Lines  from  Helga, 

413 

Wifg,  Children,  and  Friends, 

381 

Musings  on  Eternity,  from  Attila,  . 

413 

To 

381 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  . . 

413 

Stanzas,  ..... 

381 

To  the  Bramble  Flower, 

414 

Henry  Luttrell,  ..... 

382 

The  Excursion,  ^ . 

414 

London  in  Autumn,  .... 

382 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius, 

415 

November  Fog  of  London, 

382 

Apostrophe  to  Futurity,  . 

415 

Henry  Gally  Knight— Crowe— Sayers— Helen 

Maria 

A Poet’s  Prayer,  . . ^ 

416 

Williams,  .... 

382 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  . 

416 

Sonnet  to  Hope,  ..... 

383 

Verses  to  his  Wife, 

416 

Leigh  Hunt,  ..... 

383 

Rev.  John  Keble, 

416 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna, 

384 

Extracts  from  The  Christian  Tear , . 

416 

Funeral  of  the  Lovers  in  Rimini, 

385 

Twenty-first  Sunday  after  Trinity, 

416 

To  T.  L.  H.,  Six  Years  Old, 

385 

Noel  Thomas  Carrington,  . 

417 

Dirge,  ...... 

385 

The  Pixies  of  Devon, 

417 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket, 

385 

Fitzgreene  Halleck, 

417 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel, 

385 

Marco  Bozzaris,  . . . 

418 

The  Celebrated  Canzone  of  Petrarch, 

386 

William  Cullen  Bryant, 

419 

John  Clare,  ..... 

386 

From  Thanatopsis, 

419 

Sonnet  to  the  Glowworm, 

387 

The  Wind-flower, 

419 

Extract  from  ballad,  The  Fate  of  Amy, 

388 

The  Disinterred  Warrior, 

419 

What  is  Life?  .... 

388 

The  Indian  at  the  Burying-place  of  his  Fathers,  . 

420 

Summer  Morning,  .... 

388 

Archdeacon  Wrangham — H.  F.  Cary 

9 • 

420 

Sonnets  : The  Primrose,  and  The  Thrush’s  Nest, 

388 

Francesca  of  Rimini, 

• • 

421 

First-love’s  Recollections, 

388 

Ugolini  and  his  Sons  in  the  Tower  of  Famine, . 

421 

Dawnings  of  Genius,  .... 

389 

William  Stewart  Rose, 

422 

Scenes  and  Musings  of  the  Peasant  Poet, 

389 

Sonnet : Dedication  to  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

422 

James  and  Horace  Smith,  . . . 

390 

Stanzas  from  translation  of  Ariosto, 

422 

The  Theatre,  by  the  Rev.  G.  C.,  . 

392 

William  Taylor— The  Earl  of  Ellesmere,  . 

422 

The  Baby’s  Debut,  by  W.  W.,  . 

392 

The  Military  Execution, 

423 

A Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  by  W.  S., 

393 

Thomas  Mitchell— Viscount  Strangford, 

423 

The  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane, 

394 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni’s  Exhibition, 

394 

John  Wilson,  ..... 

395 

SCOTTISH  POETS. 

A Home  among  the  Mountains, 

395 

Robert  Tannahill, 

423 

A Sleeping  Child,  .... 

396 

The  Braes  o’  Balquhither, 

424 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer,  . . 

396 

The  Braes  o’  Gleniffer,  . 

• • 

424 

Lines  Written  in  a Burial-ground  in  the  Highlands, 

397 

The  Flower  o’  Dumblane,  . . 

• • 

425 

The  Shipwreck,  .... 

397 

Gloomy  Winter ’s  now  Awa’, 

• • 

425 

Mrs  Hemans,  ..... 

398 

John  Mayne,  .... 

• 

425 

The  Voice  of  Spring,  .... 

399 

Logan  Braes, 

• • 

425 

The  Homes  of  England,  .... 

399 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel,  . . 

• • 

426 

The  Graves  of  a Household,  . . 

400 

Shooting  for  the  Siller  Gun, 

426 

Bernard  Barton,  ..... 

400 

Sir  Alexander  Boswell, 

• • 

427 

To  the  Evening  Primrose,  . . 

400 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver, 

• •* 

427 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea,  .... 

401 

Jenny’s  Bawbee, 

» • 

427 

Power  and  Gentleness,  ... 

401 

Good-Night,  and  Joy  be  wi’  ye  a’, 

428 

Bryan  Walter  Procter,  .... 

401 

The  High  Street  of  Edinburgh, 

428 

Address  to  the  Ocean, 

401 

James  Hogg, 

428 

Marcelia,  ...... 

402 

Bonny  Kilmeny, 

430 

Night,  ...... 

402 

To  the  Comet  of  1811, 

431 

The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena, 

402 

Song— When  the  Kye  comes  Hame, 

432 

An  Invocation  to  Birds,  . . . 

403 

The  Skylark, 

• • 

432 

Death  of  Amelia  Wentworth,  ... 

403 

Allan  Cunningham,  . . 

• 1 

432 

Henry  Hart  Milman,  .... 

404 

The  Young  Maxwell,  . . 

• • 

’xi 

433 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Hame,  Hame,  Hame,  . ... 

Fragment— (Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld), 

She’s  Gane  to  Dwall  in  Heaven, 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea, 

My  Nannie  0,  ... 

The  Poet’s  Bridal-day  Song,  .... 

William  Tennant,  ..... 

Extracts  from  Anster  Fair,  .... 

William  Motherwell,  .... 

Jeanie  Morrison,  ..... 

The  Midnight  Wind,  ..... 

Sword  Chant,  ...... 

Robert  Nicoll,  ..... 

We  are  Brethren  a’, 

Thoughts  of  Heaven,  ..... 

Death,  ....... 

Kobert  Gilfillan,  ..... 

The  Exile’s  Song,  ..... 

In  the  Days  o’  Langsyne,  . . . v 

Detached  Scottish  Poems— 

The  Hills  o’  Gallowa’,  by  T.  Cunningham, 

Lucy’s  Flittin’,  by  William  Laidlaw, 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch,  by  W.  Nicholson,  . 

Song,  by  Joseph  Train,  .... 

The  Cameronian’s  Dream,  by  J.  Hislop, 

DRAMATISTS. 

William  Godwin— William  Sothebt— S.  T.  Coleridge, 
Scene  from  Remorse,  ..... 
Rev.  C.  R.  Maturin,  ..... 
Scene  from  Bertram,  .... 


Page 

433 

433 

434 
434 
434 

434 

435 

435 

436 

437 

437 

438 
438 

438 

439 
439 


Athanasia  in  Prison,  .... 

Description  of  an  Old  English  Mansion, 

Professor  Wilson,  .... 

The  * Flitting,’  or  Removal  of  the  Lyndsays, 

Mrs  Johnstone — Sir  T.  Dick  Lauder— Hamilton 
— A.  Picken,  ..... 

Mary  Ferrier,  ...... 

A Scotch  Lady  of  the  Old  School,  . . . 

James  Morier,  ..... 

James  Baillie  Fraser,  ..... 

Meeting  of  Eastern  Warriors  in  the  Desert, 

Desolation  of  War,  ..... 

Theodore  Edward  Hook,  .... 

Thomas  Collet  Grattan — T.  H.  Lister— Marquis  of 
Normanby,  ..... 

London  at  Sunrise,  ..... 


Page 

489 

49t) 

491 

492 

Hook 
492,  493 


494 

496 

497 

497 

498 


509 

500 


439 

439 

440 

440 

440 

441 

442 
442 


443 

443 

445 

445 


Lady  Caroline  Lamb — Lady  Dacre — Countess  of 
Morley — Lady  Charlotte  Bury, 

R.  Plumer  Ward,  ...... 

Power  of  Literary  Genius,  .... 

John  Banim,  . . . . . 

Burning  of  a Croppy’s  House, 

Eyre  Evans  Crowe— Rev.  Cesar  Otway— Gerald 
Griffin,  ...... 

Verses  by  Gerald  Griffin,  .... 

William  Carleton,  . . ; 

Irish  Village  and  School-house,  . . 

Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  .... 

Tom  Cordery,  the  Poacher,  .... 

Mr  J.  L.  Peacock,  ...  , 

Freebooter  Life  in  the  Forest, 


501 

501 

501 

503 

504 

504 

505 

505 

506 
50S 

509 

510 
519 


Richard  L.  Sheil— J.  H.  Payne— B.  W.  Procter— James 

Haynes,  ......  446 

Extracts  from  Eoadne,  Mirandola,  and  Conscience,  446,  447 
James  Sheridan  Knowles,  ....  447 

Scene  from  Virginias,  ....  448 

Scene  from  The  Wife,  .....  449 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes— Dr  Thomas  Beddoes,  . 450 

From  The  Bride's  Tragedy,  ....  450 

John  Tobin,  ......  451 

Passage  from  The  Honeymoon,  ....  451 

John  O’Keefe— Frederick  Reynolds— Thomas  Morton 

— Maria  Edgeworth,  ....  451 


NOVELISTS. 


William  Godwin,  . . . . 

Concluding  Scene  of  Caleb  Williams, 

St  Leon’s  Escape  from  the  Auto  de  Fe, 

Mrs  Opie— Anna  Marla  Porter, 

Miss  Jane  Porter— Miss  Edgeworth,  . 

An  Irish  Landlord  and  Scotch  Agent, 

An  Irish  Postilion,  ..... 

English  Shyness,  or  ‘ Mauvaise  Honte,’ 

Miss  Austen — Mrs  Brunton,  ...» 
Final  Escape  of  Laura,  .... 

Mrs  Hamilton,  ...... 

Picture  of  Glenburnie,  .... 

Lady  Morgan,  ...... 

Mrs  Shelley,  ...... 

Creation  of  the  Monster  Frankenstein, 

Love,  ....... 

Rev.  C.  R.  Maturin,  ..... 

Extract  from  Women,  .... 

A Lady’s  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth  Century, 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  ..... 

John  Galt,  . . . 

Placing  of  a Scottish  Minister, 

The  Windy  Yule,  or  Christmas, 

Thomas  Hope,  ...... 

The  Death  of  Anastasius’s  Son, 

Washington  Irving,  ..... 

Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch  Times, 

Feelings  of  an  American  on  First  arriving  in  England, 
A Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn,  .... 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  . . . . 

xii 


453 

456 

459 

461 

462 

464 

465 

465 

466 

467 


471 

472 
472 
474 
474 

474 

475 

476 

480 

481 
463 

483 

484 

485 

486 
488 
488 
4SS 


HISTORIANS. 


William  Mitford,  ...... 

Condemnation  and  Death  of  Socrates, 

Dr  John  Gillies— Sharon  Turner— William  Coxe— 
George  Chalmers— C.  J.  Fox, 

Sir  James  Mackintosh,  .... 

Chivalry  and  Modern  Manners,  .... 

Speech  in  Defence  of  Mr  Peltier, 

Dr  John  Lingard,  ..... 

Cromwell’s  Expulsion  of  the  Parliament,  . 

Brodie— Godwin— Southey,  .... 

Henry  Hallam,  ..... 

Effects  of  the  Feudal  System,  .... 

Shakspeare’s  Self-Retrospection, 

Milton’s  Blindness  and  Early  Reading, 

P.  Fraser  Tytler — Colonel  Napier — &c.,  . 


510 

511 

513 

514 

515 

515 

516 

516 

517 

517 

518 

519 
519 
519 


BIOGRAPHERS. 

Hayley— Lord  Holland— Scott— Moore,  &c.,  . 520 

METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

Dugald  Stewart— Dr  Thomas  Brown,  . . 522,  523 

Desire  of  the  Happiness  of  Others,  . . . 523 

Mackintosh — Mill — Abercrombie — George  Combe,  524 

Distinction  between  Power  and  Activity,  . . 525 


THEOLOGIANS. 

Dr  Samuel  Parr— Dr  Edward  Maltby,  . . 526 

Dr  Thomas  H.  Horxe— Dr  Herbert  Marsh — Archbishop 


and  Bishop  Sumner— Dr  D’Oyly,  &c., 

Bev.  Robert  Hall,  ..... 

On  Wisdom,  ...... 

Funeral  Sermon  for  the  Princess  Charlotte, 

Rev.  John  Foster,  ...... 

Changes  in  Life  and  Opinions, 

Dr  Adam  Clarke— Rev.  Archibald  Alison, 

From  Alison’s  Sermon  on  Autumn,  . 

Dr  Andrew  Thomson— Dr  Thomas  Chalmers,  . 
Inefficacy  of  mere  Moral  Preaching,  . . 

Picture  of  the  Chase— Cruelty  to  Animals,  . 
Insignificance  of  this  Earth,  . . . 

The  Statute-book  not  necessary  towards  Christianity, 


527 

527 

528 
52S 

529 

529 

530 

530 

531 

532 

534 

535 
535 


CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

ENCYCLOPAEDIAS  AND  SERIAL  WORKS. 

Page 

Page 

"William  Cobbett,  ..... 

536 

Rees’s  Cyclopjedta— Encyclopedia  Britannica— Edin- 

Boyish Scenes  and  Recollections, 

. 

537 

burgh  Encyclopaedia— Lardner’s  Cyclopaedia — 

On  Field  Sports,  ..... 

537 

Constable’s  Miscellany— Family  Library,  &c. — 

William  Combe— Robert  Southey, 

537 

Reviews  and  Magazines,  . . . 569-571 

Effects  of  the  Mohammedan  Religion, 

538 

Effects  of  the  Death  of  Nelson,  . 

539 

William  Hazlitt,  ..... 

539 

The  Character  of  Falstaff, 

540 

Stinife  ^ * r i a b. 

The  Character  of  Hamlet,  .... 

540 

Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  .... 

541 

REIGNS  OF  GEORGE  IV..  WILLIAM  IV.,  AND 

The  Edinburgh  Review  projected, 

541 

Extracts  from  Peter  Plymley's  Letters , 

542 

QUEEN  VICTORIA  [1830  TO  1859]. 

Story  of  Mrs  Partington,  .... 

542 

Wit  the  Flavour  of  the  Mind, 

543 

POETS. 

Difficulty  of  Governing  a Nation,  . 

543 

Hartley,  Derwent,  and  Sara  Coleridge,  . 

572 

Means  of  Acquiring  Distinction, 

543 

Sonnets  by  Hartley  Coleridge,  .... 

573 

Locking  in  on  Railways,  .... 

543 

Address  to  certain  Gold  Fishes, 

573 

A Real  Bishop,  ..... 

544 

History  and  Biography,  . . v . . 

573 

All- Curates  hope  to  draw  Great  Prizes, 

544 

The  Opposing  Armies  on  Marston  Moor, 

573 

Francis  Jeffrey,  ..... 

544 

Discernment  of  Character,  .... 

574 

Origin  of  the  Editiburgh  Review , 

544 

J.  A.  Heraud— Mrs  Southey, 

574 

On  the  Genius  of  Shakspeare,  . 

545 

Mariner’s  Hymn, 

575 

The  Perishable  Nature  of  Poetical  Fame,  . 

547 

Once  upon  a Time,  ..... 

575 

Henry  Lord  Brougham,  .... 

547 

The  Pauper’s  Death-bed,  .... 

575 

Isaac  Disraeli,  ...... 

549 

John  Edmund  Reade,  ..... 

576 

Caleb  C.  Colton,  ..... 

550 

WlNTHROP  MACKWORTH  PrAED,  .... 

576 

True  Genius  always  united  to  Reason, 

550 

Quince,  ...... 

576 

Error  only  to  be  Combated  by  Argument, 

550 

Thomas  Hood,  ...... 

577 

Mvstery  and  Intrigue,  .... 

550 

Lines  Written  a few  Weeks  before  his  Death, 

577 

Magnanimity  in  Humble  Life,  . 

551 

Extract  from  Lament  for  Chivalry , 

578 

Avarice,  ...... 

551 

Extract  from  Ode  to  the  Moon, 

578 

William  Ellery  Channing, 

551 

Parental  Ode  to  my  Son, 

579 

The  Intellectual  and  Moral  Character  of  Napoleon, 

551 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  .... 

579 

Great  Ideas,  . : . . . 

552 

The  Death-bed,  ....  . . 

580 

John  Nichols— Arthur  Young, 

552 

David  Macbeth  Moir,  .... 

580 

Sir  John  Carr— Rev.  James  Beresford— Brydges— 

Casa  Wappy,  ...... 

580 

Douce,  &c.,  ..... 

553 

Hon.  Mrs  Norton,  ..... 

581 

To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  .... 

582 

Extracts  from  Winter's  Walk, 

583 

Picture  of  Twilight,  ..... 

583 

POLITICAL  ECONOMISTS. 

Thomas  K.  Hervey— Alaric  A.  Watts, 

583 

Jeremy  Bentham  — Malthus  — Ricardo  — Mill  - 

- Dr 

The  Convict  Ship,  ..... 

583 

Whately — Mrs  Marcet — Rev.  Dr  Chalmers— 

Ten  Years  Ago,  . . . ... 

5S4 

\ J.  R.  M'Culloch— Sadler— Senior, 

554, 

, 555 

George  Darley— Sir  Aubrey  and  Aubrey  S.  de  Vere— 

R.  C.  Trench— Thomas  Aird, 

584 

From  The  Devil's  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck, 

585 

The  Swallow,  ...... 

586 

TRAVELLERS. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  ..... 

586 

Denham  and  Clapperton,  .... 

555 

Extracts  from  Locksley  Hall,  .... 

587 

R.  Lander — Bowdich— Campbell — Burchell— J. 

L. 

Extracts  from  the  Talking  Oak,  Godiva , The  Lotus 

Burckhardt— Belzoni, 

556 

Eaters,  &c.,  .....  588, 

, 589 

The  Ruins  at  Thebes,  .... 

557 

Lyric— (The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls), 

589 

Opening  a Tomb  at  Thebes,  .... 

557 

Extracts  from  In  Memoriam  and  Maud , 

590 

Dr  E.  D.  Clarke,  ..... 

558 

Mrs  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 

591 

Description  of  the  Pyramids, 

558 

Extract  from  Flush,  my  Dog,  .... 

591 

Classic  Travellers  : Forsyth— Eustace— &c., 

559 

Extracts  from  The  Drama  of  Exile  and  Vision  of  Poets, 

592 

The  Coliseum,  ..... 

560 

Extract  from  The  Cry  of  the  Children, 

593 

Funeral  Ceremony  at  Rome, 

561 

Sonnet— (I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung), 

593 

Statue  of  the  Medicean  Venice  at  Florence, 

561 

An  English  Landscape,  from  Aurora  Leigh,  . 

594 

A Morning  in  Venice,  .... 

562 

From  Cowper's  Grave,  .... 

595 

Description  of  Pompeii,  .... 

562 

Philip  James  Bailey— Robert  Browning— R.  H.  Horne, 

595 

Arctic  Discovery  : Ross— Parry— Franklin— &c., 

563 

Detached  Extracts  from  Bailey's  Poems , 

595 

Description  of  the  Esquimaux, 

563 

Picture  of  the  Grape  Harvest, 

596 

Eastern  Travellers  : W.  Rae  Wilson— Claudius 

J. 

From  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  . . . 

596 

Rich — J.  S.  Buckingham — Dr  Madden— Carne — 

Charles  Mackay,  ..... 

597 

Richardson— Sir  John  Malcolm— Sir  W.  Ouseley 

Apologue  from  Egeria,  ..... 

597 

—Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter— &c.,  . 

565 

, 566 

Street  Companions,  ..... 

597 

View  of  Society  in  Bagdad,  .... 

566 

Song — Tubal  Cain,  ..... 

598 

A Persian  Town,  ..... 

567 

Lord  Macaulay,  ..... 

598 

Sir  George  Staunton— Sir  John  Barrow— Mr  Ellis— 

Desolation  of  the  Cities  whose  Warriors  marched  against 

Dr  Abel,  ..... 

567 

Rome,  ....... 

600 

Scene  at  Pekin,  described  by  Mr  Ellis, 

567 

The  Fate  of  the  first  Three  who  advanced  against  the 

Captain  Basil  Hall— Mr  H.  D.  Inglis, 

568 

Heroes  of  Rome,  ..... 

600 

M.  SlMOND,  ...... 

. 

569 

How  Horatius  was  Rewarded,  .... 

601 

Swiss  Mountain  and  Avalanche, 

569 

Ivry,  

xiii 

601 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Page 

Page 

W.  E.  Aytoun— Theodore  Martin, 

. 

602 

Richard  H.  Barham— Capt.  Frederick  Marry  at, 

626 

The  Burial  March  of  Dundee, 

602 

A Prudent  Sea-Captain — Abuse  of  Ship’s  Stores,  . 

627 

Sonnet  to  Britain,  . . . 

. 

604 

Captain  Glasscock— Howard— Chamier — Micblael  Scott 

Frances  Brown,  .... 

. 

604 

— James  Hannay,  ..... 

628 

The  Last  Friends, 

. 

604 

Nights  at  Sea,  from  Eustace  Conyers , . 

628 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  . 

604 

Mrs  Catherine  F.  Gore,  .... 

628 

The  Men  of  Old,  . . . 

. 

605 

Character  of  a Prudent  Worldly  Lady, 

629 

The  Long-ago,  .... 

# 

605 

Exclusive  London  Life,  .... 

630 

Edgar  Poe,  ..... 

605 

Mrs  Trollope — Adolphus  and  Anthony  Tbollopb, 

630 

The  Raven,  ..... 

605 

Marguerite  Countess  of  Blessington, 

631 

R.  H.  Dana— N.  P.  Willis— 0.  W.  Holmes— H.  W.  Long- 

Mrs  S.  C.  Hall,  ..... 

632 

fellow,  .... 

607 

Depending  upon  Others,  .... 

633 

A Psalm  of  Life,  .... 

607 

G.  P.  R.  James,  . . 

634 

The  Ladder  of  St  Augustine, 

. 

608 

Sir  Edward  Bulweb  Lytton,  .... 

634 

Charles  Swain,  .... 

608 

Extract  from  Bulwer’s  poetry,  . . 

635 

The  Death  of  the  Warrior  King, 

# 

608 

Admiration  of  Genius,  ..... 

636 

Sydney  Dobell — Alex.  Smith — George  Macdonald  — 

Death  of  Gawtrey,  the  Coiner,  . . . 

637 

Gerald  Massey,  .... 

m 

609 

Talent  and  Genius,  ..... 

637 

The  Italian  Brothers, 

. 

609 

Extract  from  King  Arthur,  a portrait  of  Guizot,  . 

639 

The  Ruins  of  Ancient  Rome, 

609 

Imagination  on  Canvas  and  in  Books,  . 

639 

Autumn,  ..... 

. 

610 

Power  and  Genius— Idols  of  Imagination,  . 

640 

Unrest  and  Childhood,  . . 

# 

610 

William  Harrison  Ainsworth,  .... 

640 

Conclusion  of  Babe  Christabel,  . 

# 

610 

Benjamin  Disraeli,  ..... 

640 

Thomas  Ragg — Thomas  Cooper, 

# 

611 

The  Principle  of  Utility,  .... 

642 

The  Earth  Full  of  Love,  . 

611 

The  Hebrew  Race,  ..... 

642 

Matthew  Arnold— Rev.  J.  Mitford,  &c., 

611 

Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  of  the  City  of  Venice,  . 

643 

W.  C.  Bennett— D.  F.  M'Cabthy— William  Allingham, 

612 

Samuel  Warren,  ...... 

643 

The  Seasons,  .... 

612 

Mbs  Bray— Thomas  Crofton  Croker,  . 

644 

Summer  Rain,  .... 

. 

612 

The  Last  of  the  Irish  Serpents, 

644 

A Young  Female  taking  the  Veil, 

. 

. 

612 

Charles  Dickens,  ...... 

644 

Lady  Alice,  ..... 

. 

612 

Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper,  . . . 

646 

Eliza  Cook,  ..... 

. 

. 

613 

A Man  from  the  Brown  Forests  of  Mississippi,  . 

648 

Old  Songs,  ..... 

. 

613 

The  Bustling,  Affectionate,  little  American  Woman, 

648 

Coventry  Patmore— E.  R.  Edlwer  Lytton, 

. 

613 

The  Coliseum,  . . . . . .. 

649 

Detached  extracts  from  Patmore’s  Poems,  . 

. 

613 

William  M.  Thackeray,  .... 

650 

The  Chess-board,  .... 

. 

614 

Car-travelling  in  Ireland,  .... 

651 

Changes,  ..... 

. 

614 

Extract  from  Thunder  and  Small  Beer, 

652 

James  Hedderwick,  . . 

. 

. 

614 

Decay  of  Matrimonial  Love,  .... 

653 

Middle  Age,  ..... 

. 

614 

Lady  Clara  Newcome,  .... 

654 

John  Ramsay,  .... 

615 

Detached  extracts  from  The  Virginians, 

655, 

My  Grave,  ..... 

. 

615 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  .... 

655 

Miss  Parkes— Miss  Hijme— Miss  Procter— Mis 

s Craig, 

615 

The  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley,  .... 

656 

Robin  Hood,  .x 

. 

615 

Three  Fishers  went  Sailing, 

657 

A Dream  of  Love,  V . 

. 

616 

Scene  in  the  Indian  Forest,  .... 

658 

A Doubting  Heart, 

. 

. ■ 

616 

Charlotte  Bronte,  ..... 

659 

Prize  Poem  in  Honour  of  Burns, 

. 

616 

Description  of  Yorkshire  Moors, 

659 

Translators  : Bowsing— Blackie— &c., 

• 

• 

617 

Emily  Bronte  and  her  Dog  ‘ Keeper,’ 

660 

Extracts  from  poetry  of  Rev.  P.  Bronte— note, 

661 

SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Death  of  Emily  and  Anne  Bronte,  . 

662 

William  Thom,  ..... 

617 

Charles  James  Lever— Samuel  Lover,  . 

662 

The  Mitherless  Bairn, 

. 

. 

617 

Leitch  Ritchie— Mrs  Crowe,  .... 

663 

David  Vedder,  ..... 

617 

The  Priest  of  St  Quentin,  .... 

664 

The  Temple  of  Nature,  . 

. 

. 

618 

Miss  Pardoe,  ...... 

666 

Living  Contributors  to  Scottish  Song, 

618 

Mrs  Marsh— Lady  Georgina  Fullerton— Miss  Kava- 

From  The  Widow,  by  A.  Maclagan, 

618 

nagh — Mrs  Gaskell,  .... 

667 

Ilka  Blade  o’  Grass  Keps  its  ain  Drap  o’  Dew,  by  James 

Picture  of  Green  Heys  Fields,  Manchester, 

667 

Ballantine,  .... 

618 

Wilkie  Collins— Captain  Mayne  Reid, 

668 

When  the  Glen  all  is  Still,  by  H.  S.  Riddell, 

619 

Miss  Mulock,  ...... 

669 

Florence  Nightingale,  by  F.  Bennoch, 

619 

Death  of  Leigh  Pennythorne,  . . ' . 

669 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne— Mrs  Stowe,  . 

670 

DRAMATISTS. 

American  Law  of  Slavery,  .... 

671 

Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  . 

620 

English  Trees— Warwick  Castle, 

671 

Extracts  from  Ion,  .... 

620 

Mrs  Ellis,  ....... 

671 

Henry  Taylor— Leigh  Hunt— William  Smith, 

I 

622 

Miss  C.  M.  Yonge — Miss  Sewell — Miss  Jewsbury— 

Lines  from  Athelwold, 

622 

Selina  Bunbury— Mrs  Oliphant— Miss  Catharine 

Douglas  Jerbold,  .... 

622 

Sinclair— Mbs  Cowden  Clarke— Charles  Reade, 

672 

Fancy  Fair  in  Guildhall, 

623 

Newhaven  Fisherwomen,  .... 

673 

Time’s  Changes,  .... 

624 

G.  R.  Gleig— W.  H.  Maxwell— James  Grant, 

673 

Retired  from  Business, 

. 

624 

Samuel  Phillips— Angus  B.  Reach— Albert  Smith, 

674 

Gilbert  A.  a Beckett — Tom  Taylor — Charles 

Dickens 

The  South  of  France,  .... 

674 

—Shirley  Brooks— Mark  Lemon— Wilkie  Collins, 

G.  H.  Lewes,  ...... 

675 

&c., 

624 

Superiority  of  the  Moral  over  the  Intellectual  Nature  of 

Man,  ..... 

675 

NOVELISTS. 

Real  Men  of  Genius  resolute  Workers, 

675 

James  Feximore  Cooper, 

624 

The  Brothers  Mayhew— Williams— Brooks— Cupples 

A Virgin  Wilderness— Lake  Otsego, 

625 

— Hughes — &c.,  . . . . . 

676 

Death  of  Long  Tom  Coffin,  . 
xiv 

• 

625 

The  Browns,  ...... 

677 

REIGN  OF  GEORGE  III.— FIRST  SECTION— [1760  TO  1800.] 


POETS. 

The  great  variety  and  abundance  of  the  literature 
of  this  period,  especially  towards  its  close,  might, 
in  some  measure,  have  been  predicted  from  the 
progress  made  during  the  previous  thirty  or  forty 
years,  in  which,  as  Johnson  said,  almost  every 
man  had  come  to  write  and  to  express  himself 
correctly,  and  the  number  of  readers  had  been 
vastly  multiplied.  The  increase  in  national 
wealth  and  population  naturally  led,  in  a country 
like  Great  Britain,  to  the  improvement  of  litera- 
ture and  the  arts,  and  accordingly  we  find  that 
a more  popular  and  general  style  of  composition 
began  to  supplant  the  conventional  stiffness  and 
classic  restraint  imposed  upon  former  authors.  The 
human  intellect  and  imagination  were  sent  abroad 
on  wider  surveys,  and  with  more  ambitious  views. 
To  excite  a great  mass  of  hearers,  the  public  orator 
finds  it  necessary  to  appeal  to  the  stronger  passions 
and  universal  sympathies  of  his  audience ; and  in 
writing  for  a large  number  of  readers,  an  author 
must  adopt  similar  means  or  fail  of  success.  Hence 
it  seems  natural  that  as  society  advanced,  the  char- 
acter of  our  literature  should  become  assimilated  to 
it,  and  partake  of  the  onward  movement,  the  popular 
feeling,  and  rising  energy  of  the  nation.  There  were, 
however,  some  great  public  events,  and  accidental 
circumstances,  which  assisted  in  bringing  about 
a change.  The  American  war,  by  exciting  the 
eloquence  of  Chatham  and  Burke,  awakened  the 
spirit  of  the  nation.  The  enthusiasm  was  continued 
by  the  poet  Cowper,  who  sympathised  keenly  with 
his  fellow-men,  and  had  a warm  love  of  his  native 
country.  Cowper  wrote  from  no  system;  lie  had 
53 


not  read  a poet  for  seventeen  years ; but  he  drew  the 
distinguishing  features  of  English  life  and  scenery 
with  such  graphic  power  and  beauty,  that  the  mere 
poetry  of  art  and  fashion,  and  the  stock  images  of 
descriptive  verse,  could  not  but  appear  mean, 
affected,  and  commonplace.  Warton’s  History  of 
Poetry , and  Percy’s  Reliques,  threw  back  the  imagin- 
ation to  the  bolder  and  freer  era  of  our  national 
literature,  and  in  the  Scottish  poetry  of  Burns,  a 
new  world  of  rustic  life,  humour,  tenderness,  and 
pathos  was  opened  up.  Even  the  German  imagin- 
ative literature — which  began  to  be  cultivated  in 
this  country — was,  with  all  its  horrors  and  extrava- 
gance, something  better  than  mere  delineations  of 
manners  or  incidental  satire.  The  French  Revolution 
came  next,  and  seemed  to  break  down  all  artificial 
distinctions.  Talent  and  virtue  only  were  to  be 
regarded,  and  the  spirit  of  man  was  to  enter  on  a 
new  course  of  free  and  glorious  action.  This  dream 
passed  away ; but  it  had  sunk  deep  into  some  ardent 
minds,  and  its  fruits  were  seen  in  bold  speculations 
on  the  hopes  and  destiny  of  man,  in  the  strong 
colourings  of  nature  and  passion,  and  in  the  free 
and  flexible  movements  of  the  native  genius  of 
our  poetry.  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Southey,  and 
Campbell  had  each  commenced  his  poetical  career, 
but  they  belong  distinctively  to  the  nineteenth 
century. 

One  remarkable  peculiarity  in  the  period  is,  that  it 
comprises  the  most  striking  and  memorable  of  our 
literary  frauds  or  forgeries — those  of  Macpherson, 
Chatterton,  and  Ireland.  Macpherson  had  some 
foundation  for  his  Ossianic  poems,  though  assuredly 
he  discovered  no  entire  epic  in  the  Hebrides.  The 
two  others  were  sheer  fabricators — Chatterton 

l 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


possessing,  while  yet  a boy,  the  genius  of  a true 
poet,  combined  with  the  taste  and  acquirements  of 
the  antiquary;  while  Ireland  excelled  only  in  the 
mechanical  imitation  of  ancient  writings,  and  was 
destitute  of  the  talent  or  knowledge  to  give  them 
verisimilitude  and  animation.  It  is  some  apology 
for  these  literary  felonies  or  misdemeanours,  that 
the  oldest  of  the  culprits  was  barely  of  age  when  he 
entered  on  his  perilous  and  discreditable  enterprise, 
and  that  all  of  them  were  cheered  and  encouraged 
by  popular  applause.  In  the  case  of  the  Shakspeare 
forgeries,  public  credulity  was  strongly  displayed, 
but  the  Celtic  and  Rowley  imitations  had  many 
redeeming  and  attractive  qualities. 

At  the  opening  of  this  section,  Johnson  was  the 
great  literary  dictator,  and  he  had  yet  to  produce 
his  best  work,  the  Lives  of  the  Poets.  The  exquisite 
poetry  of  Goldsmith  was  the  most  precious  product 
of  the  age.  In  fiction,  Sterne  was  triumphantly 
successful,  and  he  found  many  imitators,  the  best 
of  whom  was  Henry  Mackenzie.  Several  female 
writers — as  Miss  Burney,  Mrs  Inchbald,  Charlotte 
Smith,  and  Mrs  Radcliffe — also  enjoyed  great  popu- 
larity, though  they  are  now  comparatively  little 
read.  The  more  solid  departments  of  literature 
were  well  supported.  Hume  and  Robertson  com- 
pleted their  historical  works,  and  a fitting  rival  or 
associate  appeared  in  Gibbon,  the  great  historian  of 
the  Roman  Empire.  In  theological  literature  we 
have  the  names  of  Paley,  and  Campbell,  and  Blair 
— the  latter  highly  popular,  if  not  profound.  In 
metaphysics  or  mental  philosophy,  the  writings  of 
Reid  formed  a sort  of  epoch ; and  Smith’s  Wealth  of 
Nations  first  explained  to  the  world,  fully  and  sys- 
tematically, the  principles  upon  which  the  wealth 
and  prosperity  of  states  must  ever  rest. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  whose  writings  range  over 
every  department  of  miscellaneous  literature,  chal- 
lenges attention  as  a poet  chiefly  for  the  unaffected 
ease,  grace,  and  tenderness  of  his  descriptions  of 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


rural  and  domestic  life,  and  for  a certain  vein  of 
pensive  philosophic  reflection.  His  countryman 
Burke  said  of  himself,  that  he  had  taken  his  ideas 
of  liberty  not  too  high,  that  they  might  last  him 
2 


through  life.  Goldsmith  seems  to  have  pitched 
his  poetry  in  a subdued  under-tone,  that  he  might 
luxuriate  at  will  among  those  images  of  quiet 
beauty,  comfort,  benevolence,  and  simple  pathos, 
which  were  most  congenial  to  his  own  character,  his 
hopes,  or  his  experience.  This  popular  poet  was 
born  at  Pallas,  a small  village  in  the  parish  of 
Forney,  county  of  Longford,  Ireland,  on  the  10th 
of  November  1728.  He  was  the  sixth  of  a family 


Ruins  of  the  house  at  Lissoy,  where  Goldsmith  spent 
his  youth. 


of  nine  children,  and  his  father,  the  Rev.  Charles 
Goldsmith,  was  a poor  curate,  who  eked  out  the 
scanty  funds  which  he  derived  from  his  profession, 
by  renting  and  cultivating  some  land.  The  poet’s 
father  afterwards  succeeded  to  the  rectory  of 
Kilkenny  West,  and  removed  to  the  house  and 
farm  of  Lissoy,  in  his  former  parish.  Here  Gold- 
smith’s youth  was  spent,  and  here  he  found  the 
materials  for  his  Deserted  Village.  After  a good 
country  education,  Oliver  was  admitted  a sizer  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  June  11,  1745.  The 
expense  of  his  education  was  chiefly  defrayed  by  i 
his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Contarini,  an  excellent 
man,  son  to  an  Italian  of  the  Contarini  family  at 
Venice,  and  a clergyman  of  the  established  church. 
At  college,  the  poet  was  thoughtless  and  irregular, 
and  always  in  want.  His  tutor  was  a man  of  fierce 
and  brutal  passions,  and  having  struck  him  on  one  j 
occasion  before  a party  of  friends,  the  poet  left  I 
college,  and  wandered  about  the  country  for  some  j 
time  in  the  utmost  poverty.  His  brother  Henry  > 
clothed  and  carried  him  back  to  college,  and  oil  i 
the  27th  of  February  1749,  he  was  admitted  to 
the  degree  of  B.A.  Goldsmith  now  gladly  left  the 
university,  and  returned  to  Lissoy.  His  father  was 
dead,  but  he  idled  away  two  years  among  his  rela- 
tions. He  afterwards  became  tutor  in  the  family  of 
a gentleman  in  Ireland,  where  he  remained  a year. 
His  uncle  then  gave  him  £50  to  study  the  law  in 
Dublin,  but  he  lost  the  whole  in  a gaming-house. 

A second  contribution  was  raised,  and  the  poet  next 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


POETS. 


proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  continued  a year 
and  a half  studying  medicine.  He  then  drew  upon 
his  uncle  for  £20,  and  embarked  for  Bordeaux.  The 
vessel  was  driven  into  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  and 
whilst  there,  Goldsmith  and  his  fellow-passengers 
were  arrested  and  put  into  prison,  where  the  poet 
was  kept  a fortnight.  It  appeared  that  his  com- 
panions were  Scotsmen,  in  the  French  service,  and 
had  been  in  Scotland  enlisting  soldiers  for  the 
French  army.  Before  he  was  released  the  ship 
sailed,  and  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Garonne,  the  whole  of  the  crew  having  perished. 
He  embarked  in  a vessel  bound  for  Rotterdam,  and 
arriving  there  in  nine  days,  travelled  by  land  to 
Leyden.  These  particulars  (which  have  a very 
apocryphal  air)  rest  upon  the  authority  of  a letter 
written  from  Leyden  by  Goldsmith  to  his  uncle, 
Contarine.  At  Leyden  he  appears  to  have  remained, 
without  making  an  effort  for  a degree,  about  a 
twelvemonth ; and  in  February  1755,  he  set  off  on 
a continental  pedestrian  tour,  provided,  it  is  said, 
with  a guinea  in  his  pocket,  one  shirt  to  his  back, 
and  a flute  in  his  hand.  He  stopped  some  time  at 
Louvain  in  Flanders,  at  Antwerp,  and  at  Brussels. 
In  France,  he  is  said,  like  George  Primrose,  in  his 
Vicar  of  Wakefield , to  have  occasionally  earned  a 
night’s  lodging  and  food  by  playing  on  his  flute. 

How  often  have  I led  thy  sportive  choir, 

With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire ! 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 

But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer’s  skill, 

Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 

And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Traveller. 

Scenes  of  this  kind  formed  an  appropriate  school 
for  the  poet.  He  brooded  with  delight  over  these 
pictures  of  humble  primitive  happiness,  and  his 
imagination  loved  to  invest  them  with  the  charms 
of  poetry.  Goldsmith  afterwards  visited  Germany 
and  the  Rhine.  From  Switzerland  he  sent  the  first 
sketch  of  the  Traveller  to  his  brother.  The  loftier 
charms  of  nature  in  these  Alpine  scenes  seem  to 
have  had  no  permanent  effect  on  the  character  or 
direction  of  his  genius.  He  visited  Florence,  Verona, 
Venice,  and  stopped  at  Padua  some  months,  where 
he  is  supposed  to  have  taken  his  medical  degree. 
In  1756  the  poet  reached  England,  after  one  year 
of  wandering,  lonely,  and  in  poverty,  yet  buoyed  up 
by  dreams  of  hope  and  fame.  Many  a hard  struggle 
he  had  yet  to  encounter!  He  was  some  time 
assistant  to  a chemist  in  a shop  at  the  corner  of 
Monument  Yard  on  Fish  Street  Hill.  A college- 
friend,  Dr  Sleigh,  enabled  him  to  commence  prac- 
tice as  a humble  physician  in  Bankside,  Southwark : 
but  this  failed ; and  after  serving  for  a short  time 
as  a reader  and  corrector  of  the  press  to  Richardson 
the  novelist,  he  was  engaged  as  usher  in  a school  at 
Peckliam,  kept  by  Dr  Milner.  At  Milner’s  table  he 
met  Griffiths  the  bookseller,  proprietor  of  the  Monthly 
Review;  and  in  April  1757,  Goldsmith  agreed  to 
leave  Dr  Milner’s,  to  board  and  lodge  with  Griffiths, 
to  have  a small  salary,  and  devote  himself  to  the 
Review.  Whatever  he  wrote  is  said  to  have  been 
tampered  with  by  Griffiths  and  his  wife ! In  five 
months  the  engagement  abruptly  closed.  For  a 
short  time  he  was  again  at  Dr  Milner’s  as  usher. 
In  1758  he  presented  himself  at  Surgeons’  Hall  for 
examination  as  a hospital  mate,  with  the  view  of 
entering  the  army  or  navy,  but  he  had  the  mor- 
tification of  being  rejected  as  unqualified.  That 
he  might  appear  before  the  examining  surgeon 


suitably  dressed,  Goldsmith  obtained  a new  suit 
of  clothes,  for  which  Griffiths  became  security. 
The  clothes  were  immediately  to  be  returned  when 
the  purpose  was  served,  or  the  debt  was  to  be 
discharged.  Poor  Goldsmith,  having  failed  in  his 
object,  and  probably  distressed  by  urgent  want, 
pawned  the  clothes.  The  publisher  threatened,  and 
the  poet  replied:  ‘I  know  of  no  misery  but  a jail, 
to  which  my  own  imprudences  and  your  letter 
seem  to  point.  I have  seen  it  inevitable  these 
three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heavens ! request  it  as 
a favour — as  a favour  that  may  prevent  somewhat 
more  fatal.  I have  been  some  years  struggling  with 
a wretched  being — with  all  that  contempt  and  indi- 
gence brings  with  it — with  all  those  strong  passions 
which  make  contempt  insupportable.  What,  then, 
has  a jail  that  is  formidable?’  Such  was  the 
almost  hopeless  condition,  the  deep  despair,  of  this 
imprudent  but  amiable  author,  who  has  added  to 
the  delight  of  millions,  and  to  the  glory  of  English 
literature. 

Henceforward  the  life  of  Goldsmith  was  that  of  a 
man  of  letters.  He  lived  solely  by  his  pen.  Besides 
numerous  contributions  to  the  Monthly  and  Critical 
Reviews , the  Lady’s  Magazine , the  British  Magazine , 
&c.,  he  published  an  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of 
Polite  Learning  in  Europe  (1759),  his  admirable 
Chinese  Letters , afterwards  published  with  the  title 
of  The  Citizen  of  the  World , a Life  of  Beau  Nash, 
and  the  History  of  England  in  a series  of  letters 
from  a nobleman  to  his  son.  The  latter  was  highly 
successful,  and  was  popularly  attributed  to  Lord 
Lyttelton.  In  December  1761  appeared  his  poem 
of  The  Traveller,  the  chief  corner-stone  of  his  fame, 

‘ without  one  bad  line,’  as  has  been  said ; 1 without 
one  of  Dryden’s  careless  verses.’  Charles  Fox  pro- 
nounced it  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English 
language;  and  Dr  Johnson — then  numbered  among 
Goldsmith’s  friends — said  that  the  merit  of  The 
Traveller  was  so  well  established,  that  Mr  Fox’s 
praise  could  not  augment  it,  nor  his  censure 
diminish  it.  The  periodical  critics  were  unanimous 
in  its  praise.  In  1766  he  published  his  exquisite 
novel,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  which  had  been 
written  two  years  before,  and  sold  to  Newberry,  the 
bookseller,  to  discharge  a pressing  debt.  His 
comedy  of  The  Good-natured  Man  was  produced 
in  1767,  his  Roman  History  next  year,  and  The 
Deserted  Village  in  1770.  The  latter  was  as  popular 
as  The  Traveller,  and  speedily  ran  through  a number 
of  editions.  In  1773,  Goldsmith’s  comedy,  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  with  immense  applause.  He  was  now  at 
the  summit  of  his  fame  and  popularity.  The  march 
had  been  long  and  toilsome,  and  he  was  often  nearly 
fainting  by  the  way ; but  his  success  was  at  length 
complete.  His  name  stood  among  the  foremost  of 
his  contemporaries:  the  booksellers  courted  him, 
and  his  works  brought  him  in  large  sums.  Diffi- 
culty and  distress,  however,  still  clung  to  him : 
poetry  had  found  him  poor  at  first,  and  she  kept 
him  so.  From  heedless  profusion  and  extrava- 
gance, chiefly  in  dress,  and  from  a benevolence 
which  knew  no  limit  while  his  funds  lasted,  Gold- 
smith was  scarcely  ever  free  from  debt.  The 
gaming-table  also  presented  irresistible  attractions. 
He  hung  loosely  on  society,  without  wife  or 
domestic  tic ; and  his  early  habits  and  experience 
were  ill  calculated  to  teach  him  strict  conscien- 
tiousness or  regularity.  He  continued  to  write 
task-work  for  the  booksellers,  and  produced  a 
History  of  England  in  four  volumes.  This  was 
succeeded  by  a History  of  Greece  in  two  volumes, 
for  which  he  was  paid  £250.  lie  had  contracted  to 

3 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


write  a History  of  Animated  Nature  in  eight  volumes, 
at  the  rate  of  a hundred  guineas  for  each  volume; 
but  this  work  he  did  not  live  to  complete,  though 
the  greater  part  was  finished  in  his  own  attractive 
and  easy  manner.  In  March  1774,  he  was  attacked 
by  a painful  complaint  (strangury)  caused  by  close 
study,  which  was  succeeded  by  a nervous  fever. 
Contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  apothecary,  he  per- 
sisted in  the  use  of  James’s  powders,  a medicine  to 
which  he  had  often  had  recourse;  and  gradually 
getting  worse,  he  expired  in  strong  convulsions  on 
the  4th  of  April.  The  death  of  so  popular  an  author, 
at  the  age  of  forty-six,  was  a shock  equally  to  his 
friends  and  the  public.  The  former  knew  his  ster- 
ling worth,  and  loved  him  with  all  his  foibles — his 
undisguised  vanity,  his  national  proneness  to  blun- 
dering, his  thoughtless  extravagance,  his  credulity, 
and  his  frequent  absurdities.  Under  these  ran  a 
current  of  generous  benevolence,  of  enlightened  zeal 
'for  the  happiness  and  improvement  of  mankind, 
and  of  manly  independent  feeling.  He  died  £2000 
in  debt : ‘Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before ! 5 ex- 
claimed Johnson.  His  remains  were  interred  in  the 
Temple  burying-ground,  and  a monument  erected 
to  his  memory  in  Westminster  Abbey,  next  the 
grave  of  Gay,  whom  he  somewhat  resembled  in 
character,  and  far  surpassed  in  genius.  The  fame 
of  Goldsmith  has  been  constantly  on  the  increase, 
and  two  copious  lives  of  him  have  lately  been 
produced — one  by  Prior,  in  1837,  and  another,  The 
Life  and  Times  of  Oliver  Goldsmith , by  John  Forster, 
in  two  volumes,  1854.  The  latter  is  a valuable  and 
interesting  work. 

The  plan  of  The  Traveller  is  simple,  yet  compre- 
hensive and  philosophical.  The  poet  represents 
himself  as  sitting  among  Alpine  solitudes,  looking 
down  on  a hundred  realms — 

Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 

The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd’s  humbler  pride. 

He  views  the  whole  with  delight,  yet  sighs  to  think 
that  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  is  so  small,  and  he 
wishes  to  find  some  spot  consigned  to  real  happiness, 
where  his  ‘ worn  soul  ’ 

Might  gather  bliss  to  see  his  fellows  blessed. 

But  where  is  such  a spot  to  be  found  ? The  natives 
of  each  country  think  their  own  the  best — the  patriot 
boasts — 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 

If  nations  are  compared,  the  amount  of  happiness  in 
each  is  found  to  be  about  the  same  ; and  to  illustrate 
this  position,  the  poet  describes  the  state  of  manners 
and  government  in  Italy,  Switzerland,  France, 
Holland,  and  England.  In  general  correctness  and 
beauty  of  expression,  these  sketches  have  never  been 
surpassed.  The  politician  may  think  that  the  poet 
ascribes  too  little  importance  to  the  influence  of 
government  on  the  happiness  of  mankind,  seeing 
that  in  a despotic  state  the  whole  must  depend  on 
the  individual  character  of  the  governor ; yet  in  the 
cases  cited  by  Goldsmith,  it  is  difficult  to  resist  his 
conclusions ; while  his  short  sententious  reasoning 
is  relieved  and  elevated  by  bursts  of  true  poetry. 
His  character  of  the  men  of  England  used  to  draw 
tears  from  Dr  Johnson : 

Stern  o’er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I see  the  lords  of  humankind  pass  by ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a thoughtful  band, 

By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  nature’s  hand. 

4 


Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagined  right,  above  control, 

While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Goldsmith  was  a master  of  the  art  of  contrast  in 
heightening  the  effect  of  his  pictures.  In  the  follow- 
ing quotation,  the  rich  scenery  of  Italy,  and  the 
effeminate  character  of  its  population,  are  placed  in 
striking  juxtaposition  with  the  rugged  mountains  of 
Switzerland  and  their  hardy  natives. 

[. Italians  and  Swiss  Contrasted .] 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain’s  side, 

Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride ; 

While  oft  some  temple’s  mouldering  tops  between, 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature’s  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 

The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 

Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 

That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 

Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year ; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 

These,  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 

Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter’s  toil ; 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand, 

To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 

In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign : 
Though  poor,  luxurious ; though  submissive,  vain  ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling ; zealous,  yet  untrue ; . 

And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the  state; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learned  to  rise, 

Again  the  long-fallen  column  sought  the  skies  ; 

The  canvas  glowed  beyond  even  nature  warm, 

The  pregnant  quai*ry  teemed  with  human  form, 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 

Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail ; 

While  nought  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave, 

But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a slave ; 

And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill, 

Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 

From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed, 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love, 

A mistress  or  a saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child ; 

Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control, 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  : 

As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a smile. 

My  soul  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a nobler  race  display, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 
And  force  a churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread ; 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 

But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword  ; 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May ; 

No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain’s  breast, 

But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 

Though  poor  the  peasant’s  hut,  his  feasts  though 
small, 

He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  ; 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 

To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a shed ; 

Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children’s  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze ; 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 

And  haply,  too,  some  pilgrim  thither  led, 

With  many  a tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 

And  even  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 

And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms ; 
And  as  a child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s  breast, 

So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind’s  roar, 

But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

[. France  Contrasted  with  Holland .] 

So  blest  a life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away  : 

Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 

For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here. 

Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 

Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains, 

Here  passes  current ; paid  from  hand  to  hand, 

It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land. 

From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 

And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise ; 

They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 

It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  : 

For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 

And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 

Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another’s  breast. 

Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 

Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 

And  trims  her  robe  of  frieze  with  copper  lace ; 

Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 

To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a year  ; 

The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self -applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 


And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lift  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 

Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore  : 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile, 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  to 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 

And  industry  begets  a love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  displayed.  Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

Even  liberty  itself  is  bartered  here. 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 

A land  of  tyrants,  and  a den  of  slaves ; 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 

And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

The  Deserted  Village  is  limited  in  design,  and, 
according  to  Macaulay,  is  incongruous  in  its  parts. 
The  village  in  its  happiest  days  is  a true  English 
village,  while  in  its  decay  it  is  an  Irish  village. 

‘ The  felicity  and  the  misery  which  he  has  brought 
close  together  belong  to  two  different  countries  and 
to  two  different  stages  in  the  progress  of  society.’ 
But  there  is  no  poem  in  the  English  language  more 
universally  popular  than  the  Deserted  Village.  Its 
best  passages  are  learned  in  youth,  and  never  quit 
the  memory.  Its  delineations  of  rustic  life  accord 
with  those  ideas  of  romantic  purity,  seclusion, 
and  happiness,  which  the  young  mind  associates 
with  the  country  and  all  its  charms,  before  modern 
manners  and  oppression  had  driven  them  away — 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind. 

Political  economists  may  dispute  the  axiom,  that 
luxury  is  hurtful  to  nations  ; and  curious  speculators, 
like  Mandeville,  may  even  argue  that  private  vices 
are  public  benefits ; but  Goldsmith  has  a surer 
advocate  in  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  which  yield  a 
spontaneous  assent  to  the  principles  he  inculcates, 
when  teaching  by  examples,  with  all  the  efficacy  of 
apparent  truth,  and  all  the  effect  of  poetical  beauty 
and  excellence. 

[Description  of  Auburn — The  Village  Preacher , the 
Schoolmaster , and  Ale-house — Reflections.'] 

Sweet  Auburn  ! loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain ; 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer’s  lingering  blooms  delayed ; 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please  ; 
How  often  have  I loitered  o’er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 

How  often  have  I paused  on  every  charm  ! 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm  ; 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill ; 
The  hawthorn-bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I blessed  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play ; 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired : 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove — 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  ! sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to  please. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening’s  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 

There  as  I passed,  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below ; 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young ; 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool, 

The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 

The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  : 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 

And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year ; 

Remote  from  towns,  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  shewed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 

And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue’s  side ; 

But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 

And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 

To  tempt  her  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway ; 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

"With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile ; 


His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  expressed, 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm ; 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion  skilled  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning’s  face ; 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 

Yet  he  was  kind ; or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage ; 

And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For  even,  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thundering  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame : the  very  spot 
Where  many  a time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired ; 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place ; 

The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 

The  chest,  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay ; 

While  broken  tea- cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 

Ranged  o’er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a row. 

Vain  transitory  splendour  ! could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall ! 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart. 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale, 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  prevail ; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  ! let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway : 
Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 

And  even  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man’s  joys  increase,  the  poor’s  decay, 

’Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a splendid  and  a happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 

And  shouting  folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards,  even  beyond  the  miser’s  wish,  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

Yet  count  our  gains.  This  wealth  is  but  a name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  product  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss.  The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  parks  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds ; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 

Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 

While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 

In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed, 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed ; 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a garden,  and  a grave. 


Edwin  and  Angelina. 

‘ Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

‘ For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow ; ' 

Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I go.’ 

‘ Forbear,  my  son,’  the  hermit  cries, 

‘ To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  phantom  only  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

‘ Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want, 
My  door  is  open  still : 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I give  it  with  good-will. 

‘ Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

‘ No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 
To  slaughter  I condemn  ; 

Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 
I learn  to  pity  them. 


‘ But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side, 

A guiltless  feast  I bring ; 

A scrip,  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

‘ Then,  Pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 

“ Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.”  ’ * 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell ; 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a wilderness  obscure, 

The  lonely  mansion  lay ; 

A refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a master’s  care ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire, 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  pressed  and  smiled ; 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries ; 

The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a charm  impart, 

To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  opprest : 

‘ And  whence,  unhappy  youth,’  he  cried, 

‘ The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

‘ From  better  habitations  spurned, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

‘ Alas  ! the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

£ And  what  is  friendship  but  a name : 

A charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ! 

A shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep ! 

* And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one’s  jest ; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle’s  nest. 

* From  Young— “ Man  wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  long.” 
Goldsmith,  in  the  original  copy,  marked  the  passage  as  a 
quotation. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


‘ For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,’  he  said  : 

But  while  he  spoke,  a rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view, 

Like  colours  o’er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms ; 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 
A maid  in  all  her  charms. 

* And  ah ! forgive  a stranger  rude, 

A wretch  forlorn,’  she  cried, 

‘ Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

‘ But  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray : 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

‘ My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A wealthy  lord  was  he ; 

And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine ; 
He  had  but  only  me. 

‘ To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feigned,  a flame. 

‘ Each  hour  a mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 

But  never  talked  of  love. 

‘ In  humblest,  simplest,  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had ; 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

‘ The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

‘ The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his ; but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

‘ For  still  I tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain ; 

And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

I triumphed  in  his  pain. 

* Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 

And  sought  a solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died ! 

‘ But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay : 

I ’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

‘And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid. 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  : 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.’ 


‘ Forbid  it,  Heaven  ! ’ the  hermit  cried, 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast : 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide  : 
’Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  prest ! 

‘ Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

‘ Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life— my  all  that ’s  mine  ? 

‘No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.’ 


[ Extracts  from  Retaliation .] 

[Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dined  to- 
gether at  the  St  James’s  Coffee-house.  One  day  it  was  proposed 
to  write  epitaphs  upon  him.  His  country,  dialect,  and  blunders, 
furnished  subjects  for  witticism.  He  was  called  on  for  retalia- 
tion, and,  at  the  next  meeting,  produced  part  of  this  poem 
(which  was  left  unfinished  at  his  death),  in  which  we  find 
much  of  the  shrewd  observation,  wit,  and  liveliness  which 
distinguish  the  happiest  of  his  prose  writings.] 

* * * * 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,*  whose  genius  was 
such, 

We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much ; 

Who,  bom  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 
throat, 

To  persuade  Tommy  Townsend  to  lend  him  a vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 
dining. 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 

Too  nice  for  a statesman,  too  proud  for  a wit : 

For  a patriot  too  cool ; for  a drudge  disobedient, 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 

In  short,  ’twas  his  fate,  unemployed,  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a razor. 

* * * * 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, ' 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 

As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine ; 

As  a wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 

Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  exqellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings — a dupe  to  his  art ; 

Like  an  ill- judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 

And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting : 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a day  ; 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  : 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them 
back. 

Of  praise  a mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came ; 
And  the  puff  of  a dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind ; 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

* Burke. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 

What  a commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 
gave ! 

How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you 
raised, 

While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies : 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 

Old  Shakspeare,  receive  him  with  praise  and  with 
love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

* * * * 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid ; and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 

He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland ; 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering ; 

When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing : 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and 
stuff, 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuff. 

By  flattery  unspoiled  * * 


WILLIAM  MASON. 

William  Mason,  the  friend  and  literary  executor 
of  Gray,  long  survived  the  connection  which  did  him 
so  much  honour,  but  he  appeared  early  as  a poet. 
He  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Mr  Mason,  vicar  of  St 
Trinity,  Yorkshire,  where  he  was  born  in  1725.  At 
Pembroke  College,  Cambridge,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Gray,  who  assisted  him  in  obtaining  his  degree 
of  M.A.  His  first  literary  production  was  a poem, 
entitled  Isis,  being  an  attack  on  the  Jacobitism  of 
Oxford,  to  which  Thomas  Warton  replied  in  his 
Triumph  of  Isis.  In  1753  appeared  his  tragedy  of 
Elfrida,  ‘written,’  says  Southey,  ‘on  an  artificial 
model,  and  in  a gorgeous  diction,  because  he  thought 
Shakspeare  had  precluded  all  hope  of  excellence  in 
any  other  form  of  drama.’  The  model  of  Mason  was 
the  Greek  drama,  and  he  introduced  into  his  play 
the  classic  accompaniment  of  the  chorus.  A second 
drama,  Caractacus,  is  of  a higher  cast  than  Elfrida : 
more  noble  and  spirited  in  language,  and  of  more 
sustained  dignity  in  scenes,  situations,  and  character. 
Mason  also  wrote  a series  of  odes  on  Independence, 
Memory,  Melancholy,  and  The  Fall  of  Tyranny,  in 
which  his  gorgeousness  of  diction  swells  into  extra- 
vagance and  bombast.  His  greatest  poetical  work 
is  his  English  Garden,  a long  descriptive  poem  in 
blank  verse,  extended  over  four  books,  which  were 
published  separately  between  1772  and  1782.  He 
wrote  odes  to  the  naval  officers  of  Great  Britain,  to 
the  Honourable  William  Pitt,  and  in  commemo- 
ration of  the  Revolution  of  1688.  Mason,  under  the 
name  of  Malcolm  Macgregor,  published  a lively 
satire,  entitled  An  Heroic  Epistle  to  Sir  William 
Chambers,  Knight,  1773.  The  taste  for  Chinese 
pagodas  and  Eastern  bowers  is  happily  ridiculed  in 
this  production,  so  different  from  the  other  poetical 
works  of  Mason.  Gray  having  left  Mason  a legacy 
of  £500,  together  with  his  books  and  manuscripts, 
the  latter  discharged  the  debt  due  to  his  friend’s 
memory,  by  publishing,  in  1775,  the  poems  of  Gray 
with  memoirs  of  his  life.  As  in  his  dramas  Mason 

* Sir  Joshua  was  so  remarkably  deaf,  as  to  be  under  the 
necessity  of  using  an  ear-trumpet  in  company.  This  portrait 
was  the  last  sketched  by  Goldsmith. 


had  made  an  innovation  on  the  established  taste  of 
the  times,  he  ventured,  with  greater  success,  to  depart 
from  the  practice  of  English  authors,  in  writing  the 
life  of  Gray.  Instead  of  presenting  a continuous 
narrative,  in  which  the  biographer  alone  is  visible, 
he  incorporated  the  journals  and  letters  of  the  poet 
in  chronological  order,  thus  making  the  subject  of 
the  memoir  in  some  degree  his  own  biographer, 
and  enabling  the  reader  to  judge  more  fully  and 
correctly  of  his  situation,  thoughts,  and  feelings. 
The  plan  was  afterwards  adopted  by  Boswell  in  his 
Life  of  Johnson,  and  has  been  sanctioned  by  subse- 
quent usage,  in  all  cases  where  the  subject  is  of 
importance  enough  to  demand  copious  information 
and  minute  personal  details.  The  circumstances  of 
Mason’s  life  are  soon  related.  After  his  career  at 
college,  he  entered  into  orders,  and  was  appointed 
one  of  the  royal  chaplains.  He  held  the  living  of 
Ashton,  and  was  precentor  of  York  Cathedral. 
When  politics  ran  high,  he  took  an  active  part  on 
the  side  of  the  Whigs,  but  was  respected  by  all 
parties.  He  died  in  1797. 

Mason’s  poetry  cannot  be  said  to  be  popular,  even 
with  poetical  readers.  His  greatest  want  is  simpli- 
city, yet  at  times  his  rich  diction  has  a fine  effect. 
In  his  English  Garden,  though  verbose  and  languid 
as  a whole,  there  are  some  exquisite  images.  Thus, 
he  says  of  Time,  its 

Gradual  touch 

Has  mouldered  into  beauty  many  a tower 
Which,  when  it  frowned  with  all  its  battlements, 

Was  only  terrible. 

Of  woodland  scenery : 

Many  a glade  is  found 
The  haunt  of  wood-gods  only ; where,  if  art 
E’er  dared  to  tread,  ’twas  with  unsandaled  foot, 
Printless,  as  if  ’twere  holy  ground. 

Gray  quotes  the  following  lines  in  one  of  Mason’s 
odes  as  ‘ superlative : ’ 

While  through  the  west,  where  sinks  the  crimson  day, 
Meek  twilight  slowly  sails,  and  waves  her  banners  gray. 

[ From  Caractacus .] 

Mona  on  Snowdon  calls : 

Hear,  thou  king  of  mountains,  hear ; 

Hark,  she  speaks  from  all  her  strings : 

Hark,  her  loudest  echo  rings ; 

King  of  mountains,  bend  thine  ear : 

Send  thy  spirits,  send  them  soon, 

Now,  when  midnight  and  the  moon 
Meet  upon  thy  front  of  snow ; 

See,  their  gold  and  ebon  rod, 

Where  the  sober  sisters  nod, 

And  greet  in  whispers  sage  and  slow. 

Snowdon,  mark  ! ’tis  magic’s  hour, 

Now  the  muttered  spell  hath  power ; 

Power  to  rend  thy  ribs  of  rock, 

And  burst  thy  base  with  thunder’s  shock : 

But  to  thee  no  ruder  spell 
Shall  Mona  use,  than  those  that  dwell 
In  music’s  secret  cells,  and  lie 
Steeped  in  the  stream  of  harmony. 

Snowdon  has  heard  the  strain  : 

Hark,  amid  the  wondering  grove 
Other  harpings  answer  clear, 

Other  voices  meet  our  ear, 

Pinions  flutter,  shadows  move, 

Busy  murmurs  hum  around, 

Rustling  vestments  brush  the  ground ; 

Round  and  round,  and  round  they  go, 

Through  the  twilight,  through  the  shade, 
Mount  the  oak’s  majestic  head, 

And  gild  the  tufted  misletoe. 

9 


from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Cease,  ye  glittering  race  of  light, 

Close  your  wings,  and  check  your  flight ; 

Here,  arranged  in  order  due ; 

Spread  your  robes  of  saffron  hue ; 

For  lo  ! with  more  than  mortal  fire, 

Mighty  Mador  smites  the  lyre  : 

Hark,  he  sweeps  the  master-strings ; 

Listen  all 

Epitaph  on  Mrs  Mason , in  the  Cathedral  of  Bristol. 

Take,  holy  earth ! all  that  my  soul  holds  dear : 

Take  that  best  gift  which  heaven  so  lately  gave : 

To  Bristol’s  fount  I bore  with  trembling  care 
Her  faded  form  ; she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave, 

And  died  ! Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the  line  ? 

Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  ? 

Speak,  dead  Maria ! breathe  a strain  divine ; 

Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to  charm. 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent,  like  thee ; 

Bid  them  in  duty’s  sphere  as  meekly  move ; 

And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free ; 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love. 

Tell  them,  though  ’tis  an  awful  thing  to  die, 

(’Twas  even  to  thee)  yet  the  dread  path  once  trod, 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high, 

And  bids  ‘the  pure  in  heart  behold  their  Cod.’ 


DR  JOHN  LANQHORNE. 

Dr  John  Langhorne,  an  amiable  and  excellent 
clergyman,  has  long  lost  the  popularity  which  he 
possessed  in  his  own  day  as  a poet ; but  his  name, 
nevertheless,  claims  a place  in  the  history  of  English 
literature.  He  was  born  at  Kirkby  Steven,  in 
Westmoreland,  in  1735,  and  held  the  curacy  and 
lectureship  of  St  John’s,  Clerkenwell,  in  London. 
He  afterwards  obtained  a prebend’s  stall  in  Wells 
Cathedral,  and  was  much  admired  as  a preacher. 
He  died  in  1779.  Langhorne  wrote  various  prose 
works,  the  most  successful  of  which  was  his  Letters 
of  Theodosius  and  Constantia;  and  in  conjunction 
with  his  brother,  he  published  a translation  of 
Plutarch’s  Lives,  which  still  maintains  its  ground 
as  the  best  English  version  of  the  ancient  author. 
His  poetical  works  were  chiefly  slight  effusions, 
dictated  by  the  passion  or  impulse  of  the  moment ; 
but  he  made  an  abortive  attempt  to  repel  the  coarse 
satire  of  Churchill,  and  to  walk  in  the  magic  circle 
of  the  drama.  His  ballad,  Owen  of  Carron,  founded 
on  the  old  Scottish  tale  of  Gil  Morrice,  is  smoothly 
versified,  but  in  poetical  merit  is  inferior  to  the 
original.  The  only  poem  of  Langhorne’s  which  has 
a cast  of  originality  is  his  Country  Justice.  Here  he 
seems  to  have  anticipated  Crabbe  in  painting  the 
rural  life  of  England  in  true  colours.  His  picture 
of  the  gipsies,  and  his  sketches  of  venal  clerks  and 
rapacious  overseers,  are  genuine  likenesses.  He 
has  not  the  raciness  or  the  distinctness  of  Crabbe, 
but  is  equally  faithful,  and  as  sincerely  a friend  to 
humanity.  He  pleads  warmly  for  the  poor  vagrant 
tribe: 

Still  mark  if  vice  or  nature  prompts  the  deed  ; 

Still  mark  the  strong  temptation  and  the  need : 

On  pressing  want,  on  famine’s  powerful  call, 

At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  faff 
For  him  who,  lost  to  every  hope  of  life, 

Has  long  with  Fortune  held  unequal  strife, 

Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care, 

The  friendless  homeless  object  of  despair ; 

For  the  poor  vagrant  feel,  while  he  complains, 

Nor  from  sad  freedom,  send  to  sadder  chains. 

Alike  if  folly  or  misfortune  brought 

Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought ; 

10 


Believe  with  social  mercy  and  with  me, 

Folly’s  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
The  houseless  wretch  a widowed  parent  bore ; 

Who  then,  no  more  by  golden  prospects  led, 

Of  the  poor  Indian  begged  a leafy  bed. 

Cold  on  Canadian  hills  or  Minden’s  plain, 

Perhaps  that  parent  mourned  her  soldier  slain ; 

Bent  o’er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 

The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 

Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 

The  child  of  misery,  baptised  in  tears. 

This  allusion  to  the  dead  soldier  and  his  widow  on 
the  field  of  battle  was  made  the  subject  of  a print 
by  B unbury,  under  which  were  engraved  the 
pathetic  lines  of  Langhorne.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has 
mentioned,  that  the  only  time  he  saw  Burns,  the 
Scottish  poet,  this  picture  was  in  the  room.  Bums 
shed  tears  over  it ; and  Scott,  then  a lad  of  fifteen, 
was  the  only  person  present  who  could  tell  him 
where  the  lines  were  to  be  found.  The  passage  is 
beautiful  in  itself,  but  this  incident  will  embalm  and 
preserve  it  for  ever. 

[Appeal  to  Country  Justices  in  Behalf  of  the  Rural 
Poor.] 

Let  age  no  longer  toil  with  feeble  strife, 

Worn  by  long  service  in  the  war  of  life ; 

Nor  leave  the  head,  that  time  hath  whitened,  bare 
To  the  rude  insults  of  the  searching  air  ; 

Nor  bid  the  knee,  by  labour  hardened,  bend, 

0 thou,  the  poor  man’s  hope,  the  poor  man’s  friend ! 

If,  when  from  heaven  severer  seasons  fall, 

Fled  from  the  frozen  roof  and  mouldering  wall, 

Each  face  the  picture  of  a winter  day, 

More  strong  than  Teniers’  pencil  could  portray ; 

If  then  to  thee  resort  the  shivering  train, 

Of  cruel  days,  and  cruel  man  complain, 

Say  to  thy  heart — remembering  him  who  said — 

‘ These  people  come  from  far,  and  have  no  bread.’ 

Nor  leave  thy  venal  clerk  empowered  to  hear ; 

The  voice  of  want  is  sacred  to  thy  ear. 

He  where  no  fees  his  sordid  pen  invite, 

Sports  with  their  tears,  too  indolent  to  write ; 

Like  the  fed  monkey  in  the  fable,  vain 
To  hear  more  helpless  animals  complain. 

But  chief  thy  notice  shall  one  monster  claim ; 

A monster  furnished  with  a human  frame — 

The  parish-officer ! — though  verse  disdain 
Terms  that  deform  the  splendour  of  the  strain, 

It  stoops  to  bid  thee  bend  the  brow  severe 
On  the  sly,  pilfering,  cruel  overseer ; 

The  shuffling  farmer,  faithful  to  no  trust, 

Kuthless  as  rocks,  insatiate  as  the  dust ! 

When  the  poor  hind,  with  length  of  years  decayed, 
Leans  feebly  on  his  once-subduing  spade, 

Forgot  the  service  of  his  abler  days, 

His  profitable  toil,  and  honest  praise, 

Shall  this  low  wretch  abridge  his  scanty  bread, 

This  slave,  whose  board  his  former  labours  spread  ? 

When  harvest’s  burning  suns  and  sickening  air 
From  labour’s  unbraced  hand  the  grasped  hook  tear, 
Where  shall  the  helpless  family  be  fed, 

That  vainly  languish  for  a father’s  bread  ? 

See  the  pale  mother,  sunk  with  grief  and  care, 

To  the  proud  farmer  fearfully  repair ; 

Soon  to  be  sent  with  insolence  away, 

Referred  to  vestries,  and  a distant  day ! 

Referred — to  perish  ! Is  my  verse  severe  ? 

Unfriendly  to  the  human  character? 

Ah  ! to  this  sigh  of  sad  experience  trust : 

The  truth  is  rigid,  but  the  tale  is  just. 

If  in  thy  courts  this  caitiff  wretch  appear, 

Think  not  that  patience  were  a virtue  here. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


His  low-born  pride  with  honest  rage  control ; 

Smite  his  hard  heart,  and  shake  his  reptile  soul. 

But,  hapless ! oft  through  fear  of  future  woe, 

And  certain  vengeance  of  the  insulting  foe ; 

Oft,  ere  to  thee  the  poor  prefer  their  prayer, 

The  last  extremes  of  penury  they  bear. 

Wouldst  thou  then  raise  thy  patriot  office  higher? 
To  something  more  than  magistrate  aspire  ! 

And,  left  each  poorer,  pettier  chase  behind, 

Step  nobly  forth,  the  friend  of  humankind  ! 

The  game  I start  courageously  pursue  ! 

Adieu  to  fear  ! to  insolence  adieu  ! 

And  first  we  ’ll  range  this  mountain’s  stormy  side, 
Where  the  rude  winds  the  shepherd’s  roof  deride, 
As  meet  no  more  the  wintry  blast  to  bear, 

And  all  the  wild  hostilities  of  air. 

That  roof  have  I remembered  many  a year  ; 

It  once  gave  refuge  to  a hunted  deer — 

Here,  in  those  days,  we  found  an  aged  pair ; 

But  time  untenants — ha  ! what  seest  thou  there  ? 

‘ Horror  ! — by  Heaven,  extended  on  a bed 
Of  naked  fern,  two  human  creatures  dead ! 
Embracing  as  alive  ! — ah,  no  ! — no  life  ! 

Cold,  breathless  !’ 

’Tis  the  shepherd  and  his  wife. 

I knew  the  scene,  and  brought  thee  to  behold 
What  speaks  more  strongly  than  the  story  told — 
They  died  through  want — 

4 By  every  power  I swear, 

If  the  wretch  treads  the  earth,  or  breathes  the  air, 
Through  whose  default  of  duty,  or  design, 

These  victims  fell,  he  dies.’ 

They  fell  by  thine. 

4 Infernal ! Mine  ! — by  ’ 

Swear  on  no  pretence : 

A swearing  justice  wants  both  grace  and  sense. 

[An  Advice  to  the  Married .] 

Should  erring  nature  casual  faults  disclose, 

Wound  not  the  breast  that  harbours  your  repose  ; 
For  every  grief  that  breast  from  you  shall  prove, 

Is  one  link  broken  in  the  chain  of  love. 

Soon,  with  their  objects,  other  woes  are  past, 

But  pains  from  those  we  love  are  pains  that  last. 
Though  faults  or  follies  from  reproach  may  fly, 

Yet  in  its  shade  the  tender  passions  die. 

Love,  like  the  flower  that  courts  the  sun’s  kind  ray, 
Will  flourish  only  in  the  smiles  of  day ; 

Distrust’s  cold  air  the  generous  plant  annoys, 

And  one  chill  blight  of  dire  contempt  destroys. 

0 shun,  my  friend,  avoid  that  dangerous  coast, 
Where  peace-  expires,  and  fair  affection ’s  lost ; 

By  wit,  by  grief,  by  anger  urged,  forbear 
The  speech  contemptuous  and  the  scornful  air. 

The  Dead. 

Of  them,  who  wrapt  in  earth  are  cold, 

No  more  the  smiling  day  shall  view, 

Should  many  a tender  tale  be  told, 

For  many  a tender  thought  is  due. 

Why  else  the  o’ergrown  paths  of  time, 

Would  thus  the  lettered  sage  explore, 

With  pain  these  crumbling  ruins  climb, 

And  on  the  doubtful  sculpture  pore  ? 

Why  seeks  he  with  unwearied  toil, 

Through  Death’s  dim  walks  to  urge  his  way, 
Reclaim  his  long-asserted  spoil, 

And  lead  Oblivion  into  day  ? 

’Tis  nature  prompts  by  toil  or  fear, 

Unmoved  to  range  through  Death’s  domain ; 
The  tender  parent  loves  to  hear 
Her  children’s  story  told  again  1 


PR  THOMAS  PERCY. 


[A  Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan .] 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’ s vale, 

My  infant  years  where  Fancy  led, 

And  soothed  me  with  the  western  gale, 

Her  wild  dreams  waving  round  my  head, 

While  the  blithe  black-bird  told  his  tale. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale  ! 

The  primrose  on  the  valley’s  side, 

The  green  thyme  on  the  mountain’s  head, 

The  wanton  rose,  the  daisy  pied, 

The  wilding’s  blossom  blushing  red  ; 

No  longer  I their  sweets  inhale. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale  ! 

How  oft,  within  yon  vacant  shade, 

Has  evening  closed  my  careless  eye  ! 

How  oft,  along  those  banks  I ’ve  strayed, 
And  watched  the  wave  that  wandered  by ; 

Full  long  their  loss  shall  I bewail. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale  ! 

Yet  still,  within  yon  vacant  grove, 

To  mark  the  close  of  parting  day ; 

Along  yon  flowery  banks  to  rove, 

And  watch  the  wave  that  winds  away ; 

Fair  Fancy  sure  shall  never  fail, 

Though  far  from  these  and  Irwan’s  vale. 


DR  THOMAS  PERCY. 

Dr  Thomas  Percy,  afterwards  bishop  of 
Dromore,  in  1765  published  his  Reliques  of  English 
Poetry , in  which  several  excellent  old  songs  and 
ballads  were  revived,  and  a selection  made  of  the 


best  lyrical  pieces  scattered  through  the  works  of 
modern  authors.  The  learning  and  ability  with 
which  Percy  executed  his  task,  and  the  sterling 
value  of  his  materials,  recommended  his  volumes  to 
public  favour.  They  found  their  way  into  the 
hands  of  poets  and  poetical  readers,  and  awakened 
a love  of  nature,  simplicity,  and  true  passion,  in 


FROM  1760 


contradistinction  to  that  coldly  correct  and  senti- 
mental style  which  pervaded  part  of  our  literature. 
The  influence  of  Percy’s  collection  was  general  and 
extensive.  It  is  evident  in  many  contemporary 
authors.  It  gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  genius 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott;  and  it  may  he  seen  in  the 
writings  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth.  A fresh 
fountain  of  poetry  was  opened  up — a spring  of 
sweet,  tender,  and  heroic  thoughts  and  imaginations, 
which  could  never  be  again  turned  back  into  the 
artificial  channels  in  which  the  genius  of  poesy  had 
been  too  long  and  too  closely  confined.  Percy  was 
himself  a poet.  His  ballad,  0 Nancy,  wilt  thou 
go  with  Me  ? the  Hermit  of  Warkworth,  and  other 
detached  pieces,  evince  both  taste  and  talent.  We 
subjoin  a cento,  The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray , which 
Percy  says  he  compiled  from  fragments  of  ancient 
ballads,  to  which  he  added  supplemental  stanzas  to 
connect  them  together.  The  greater  part,  however, 
is  his  own,  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  too 
prone  to  tamper  with  the  old  ballads.  Dr  Percy 
was  bom  at  Bridgnorth,  Shropshire,  in  1728,  and 
was  successively  chaplain  to  the  king,  dean  of 
Carlisle,  and  bishop  of  Dromore : the  latter  dignity 


The  Deanery,  Carlisle. 


he  possessed  from  1782  till  his  death  in  1811.  He 
enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and 
other  distinguished  men  of  his  day,  and  lived  long 
enough  to  hail  the  genius  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

0 Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  Mel* 

0 Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 

Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, 

The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown  ? 

No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare, 

Say,  eanst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

* From  Dodslev’s  Collection  of  Poemt,  1758.  In  Johnson's 
Musical  Museum  it  is  printed  as  a Scottish  production.  * It  is 
too  barefaced,’  says  Burns,  * to  take  I)r  Percy’s  charming 
song,  and,  by  means  of  transposing  a few  English  words  into 
Scots,  to  offer  to  pass  it  for  a Scots  song.’ 

12 


to  1800. 


0 Nancy,  when  thou  ’rt  far  away, 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a wish  behind  ? 

Say,  canst  thou  face  the  parching  ray, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  wintry  wind? 

0 can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 
Extremes  of  hardship  learn  to  bear, 

Nor,  sad,  regret  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

0 Nancy,  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  with  me  to  go  ? 

Or,  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue, 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe  ? 

Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse’s  care, 

Nor,  wistful,  those  gay  scenes  recall, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  parting  breath  ? 

Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh, 

And  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death  ? 

And  wilt  thou  o’er  his  breathless  clay 
Strew  flowers,  and  drop  the  tender  tear  ? 

Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 


The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

It  was  a friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads, 

And  he  met  with  a lady  fair, 

Clad  in  a pilgrim’s  weeds. 

‘ Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar  ! 
I pray  thee  tell  to  me, 

If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 
My  true  love  thou  didst  see.’ 

‘ And  how  should  I know  vour  true  love 
From  many  another  one  ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! by  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon : 

‘ But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view, 

His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled. 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue.’ 

‘ 0 lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he ’s  dead  and  gone  ! 

At  his  head  a green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a stone. 

‘Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 
He  languished,  and  he  died, 

Lamenting  of  a lady’s  love, 

And  ’plaining  of  her  pride. 

‘ Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 
Six  proper  youths  and  tall ; 

And  many  a tear  bedewed  his  grave 
Within  yon  kirkyard  walL’ 

‘ And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth — 
And  art  thou  dead  and  gone? 

And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  ! ’ 

‘ 0 weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so, 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 

Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek.’ 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  . 


JAMES  MACPHERSON. 


POETS. 


‘ 0 do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  sorrow  now  reprove ; 

For  I have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 
That  e’er  won  lady’s  love. 

‘ And  now,  alas  ! for  thy  sad  loss 
I ’ll  evermore  weep  and  sigh  ; 
For  thee  I only  wished  to  live, 

For  thee  I wish  to  die.’ 


‘ Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 
These  holy  weeds  I sought ; 

And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls, 

To  end  my  days  I thought. 

‘ But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 
Is  not  yet  passed  away, 

Might  I still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I stay.’ 


‘ Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more ; 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  : 

For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  shower 
Will  ne’er  make  grow  again. 


‘Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 
Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 

For  since  I’ve  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 
We  never  more  will  part.’  * 


‘ Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last  ? 

Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss, 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past.’ 

* 0 say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar ! 

I pray  thee  say  not  so ; 

For  since  my  true  love  died  for  me, 

’Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

‘ And  will  he  never  come  again — 

Will  he  ne’er  come  again? 

Ah,  no  ! he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
For  ever  to  remain. 

‘ His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose — 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he ; 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Alas ! and  woe  is  me.’ 

‘ Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 

One  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

‘ Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy.’ 

‘ Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I pray  thee  say  not  so ; 

My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart — 

0 he  was  ever  true  ! 

‘ And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 

Then  farewell  home ; for  evermore 
A pilgrim  I will  be. 


JAMES  MACPHERSON. 

The  translator  of  Ossian  stands  in  a dubious  light 
with  posterity,  and  seems  to  have  been  willing  that 
his  contemporaries  should  be  no  better  informed. 
With  the  Celtic  Homer,  however,  the  name  of 


James  Macpherson. 

Macpherson  is  inseparably  connected.  They  stand, 
as  liberty  does  with  reason, 


‘ But  first  upon  my  true  love’s  grave 
My  weary  limbs  I ’ll  lay, 

And  thrice  I ’ll  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 
That  wraps  his  breathless  clay.’ 

‘Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  a while 
Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 

The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blows, 
And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall.’ 

‘0  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

0 stay  me  not,  I pray ; 

No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  mo, 

Can  wash  my  fault  away.’ 

‘ Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears  ; 

For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray, 

Thy  own  true  love  appears. 


Twinned,  and  from  her  hath  no  dividual  being. 

Time  and  a better  taste  have  abated  the  pleasure 
with  which  these  productions  were  once  read ; but 
poemsl*  which  engrossed  so  much  attention,  which 
were  translated  into  many  different  languages, 
which  were  hailed  with  delight  by  Gray,  by  David 
Hume,  John  Home,  and  other  eminent  persons,  and 
which,  in  a bad  Italian  translation,  formed  the 
favourite  reading  of  Napoleon,  cannot  be  considered 
as  unworthy  of  notice. 

James  Macpherson  was  born  at  Kingussie,  a 
village  in  Inverness-shire,  on  the  road  northwards 
from  Perth,  in  1738.  lie  was  intended  for  the 
church,  and  received  the  necessary  education  at 
Aberdeen.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  published  a 

* As  this  ballad  resembles  Goldsmith’s  Edwin  and  Angelina, 
it  is  but  right  to  mention  that  Goldsmith  (as  Percy  has  stated) 
had  the  priority. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


heroic  poem,  in  six  cantos,  entitled  The  Highlander , 
which  at  once  proved  his  ambition  and  his  inca- 
pacity. It  is  a miserable  production.  For  a short 
time  Macpherson  taught  the  school  of  Ruthven, 
near  his  native  place,  whence  he  was  glad  to 
remove  as  tutor  in  the  family  of  Mr  Graham  of 
Balgowan.  While  attending  his  pupil  (afterwards 
Lord  Lynedoch)  at  the  spa  of  Moffat,  he  became 
acquainted,  in  the  autumn  of  1759,  with  Mr  John 
Home,  the  author  of  Douglas , to  whom  he  shewed 
what  he  represented  as  translations  of  some  frag- 
ments of  ancient  Gaelic  poetry,  which  he  said  were 
still  floating  in  the  Highlands.  He  stated  that  it 
was  one  of  the  favourite  amusements  of  his  country- 
men to  listen  to  the  tales  and  compositions  of  their 
ancient  bards,  and  he  described  these  fragments  as 
full  of  pathos  and  poetical  imagery.  Under  the 
patronage  of  Mr  Home’s  friends — Blair,  Carlyle, 
and  Fergusson — Macpherson  published  next  year 
a small  volume  of  sixty  pages,  entitled  Fragments 
of  Ancient  Poetry;  translated  from  the  Gaelic  or 
Erse  Language.  The  publication  attracted  general 
attention,  and  a subscription  was  made  to  enable 
Macpherson  to  make  a tour  in  the  Highlands  to 
collect  other  pieces.  His  journey  proved  to  be 
highly  successful!  In  1762  he  presented  the  world 
with  Fingal,  an  Ancient  Epic  Poem , in  Six  Books; 
and  in  1763,  Temora , another  epic  poem,  in  eight 
books.  The  sale  of  these  works  was  immense. 
The  possibility  that,  in  the  third  or  fourth  century, 
among  the  wild  remote  mountains  of  Scotland, 
there- existed  a people  exhibiting  all  the  high  and 
chivalrous  feelings  of  refined  valour,  generosity, 
magnanimity,  and  virtue,  was  eminently  calculated 
to  excite  astonishment ; while  the  idea  of  the  poems 
being  handed  down  by  tradition  through  so  many 
centuries  among  rude,  savage,  and  barbarous  tribes, 
was  no  less  astounding.  Many  doubted — others  dis- 
believed— but  a still  greater  number  ‘ indulged  the 
pleasing  supposition  that  Fingal  fought  and  Ossian 
sang.’  Macpherson  realised  £1200,  it  is  said,  by 
these  productions.  In  1764  the  poet  accompanied 
Governor  Johnston  to  Pensacola  as  his  secretary, 
but  quarrelling  with  his  patron,  he  returned,  and 
fixed  his  residence  in  London.  He  became  one  of 
the  literary  supporters  of  the  administration,  pub- 
lished some  historical  works,  and  was  a popular 
pamphleteer.  In  1773  he  published  a translation 
of  the  Iliad  in  the  same  style  of  poetical  prose  as 
Ossian,  which  was  a complete  failure,  unless  as  a 
source  of  ridicule  and  personal  opprobrium  to  the 
translator.  He  was  more  successful  as  a politician. 
A pamphlet  of  his  in  defence  of  the  taxation  of 
America,  and  another  on  the  opposition  in  parlia- 
ment in  1779,  were  much  applauded.  He  attempted, 
as  we  have  seen  from  his  manuscripts,  to  combat 
the  Letters  of  J unius,  writing  under  the  signatures 
of  ‘Musaeus,’  ‘Scsevola,’  &c.  He  was  appointed 
agent  for  the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  and  obtained  a seat 
in  parliament  as  representative  for  the  borough  of 
Camelford.  It  does  not  appear,  however,  that,  with 
all  his  ambition  and  political  zeal,  Macpherson  ever 
attempted  to  speak  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In 
1789  the  poet,  having  realised  a handsome  fortune, 
purchased  the  property  of  Raitts,  in  his  native 
parish,  and  having  changed  its  name  to  the  more 
euphonious  and  sounding  one  of  ^gjlevillgv  he  built 
upon  it  a splendid  residence  designedly  the  Adelphi 
Adams,  in  the  style  of  an  Italian  villa,  in  which  he 
hoped  to  spend  an  old  age  of  ease  and  dignity.  He 
died  at  Belleville  on  the  17tli  of  February  1796, 
leaving  a handsome  fortune,  which  is  still  enjoyed 
by  his  family.  His  eldest  daughter,  Miss  Mac- 
pherson, is  at  present  (1858)  proprietrix  of  the 
14 


estate.  The  eagerness  of  Macpherson  for  posthu- 
mous distinction  was  seen  by  some  of  the  bequests 
of  his  will.  He  ordered  that  his  body  should  be 
interred  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  that  a sum  of 
£300  should  be  laid  out  in  erecting  a monument 
to  his  memory  in  some  conspicuous  situation  at 
Belleville.  Both  injunctions  .were  duly  fulfilled ; 
the  body  was  interred  in  Poets’  Corner,  and  a 
marble  obelisk,  containing  a medallion  portrait  of 
the  poet,  may  be  seen  gleaming  amidst  a clump  of 
trees  by  the  roadside  near  Kingussie. 

The  fierce  controversy  which  raged  for  some  time 
as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  poems  of  Ossian,  the 
incredulity  of  Johnson,  and  the  obstinate  silence  of 
Macpherson,  are  circumstances  well  known.  There 
seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  a great  body  of  tradi- 
tional poetry  was  floating  over  the  Highlands,  which 
Macpherson  collected  and  wrought  up  into  regular 
poems.  It  would  seem  also  that  Gaelic  manuscripts 
were  in  existence,  which  he  received  from  different 
families  to  aid  in  his  translation.  One  of  these 
has  been  preserved  in  the  Advocates’  Library, 
Edinburgh.  It  refers  to  a dialogue  between  Ossian 
and  St  Patrick  on  Christianity — a fact  which 
Macpherson  suppressed,  as  his  object  was  to  repre- 
sent the  poems  as  some  centuries  older.  The  Irish 
antiquaries  have  published  many  of  these  Celtic 
fragments,  and  they  appear  to  have  established  a 
good  claim  to  Ossian.  The  poetry  was  common 
equally  in  Ireland  and  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, varied  to  suit  localities,  or  according  to  the 
taste,  knowledge,  and  abilities  of  the  reciter.  The 
people,  the  language,  and  the  legends  were  the 
same  in  both  countries.  How  much  of  the  pub- 
lished work  is  ancient,  and  how  much  fabricated, 
cannot  now  be  ascertained.  The  Highland  Society 
instituted  a regular  inquiry  into  the  subject;  and 
in  their  report,  the  committee  state  that  they 
‘have  not  been  able  to  obtain  any  one  poem  the 
same  in  title  and  tenor  with  the  poems  published.’ 
Detached  passages,  the  names  of  characters  and 
places,  with  some  of  the  wild  imagery  characteristic 
of  the  country,  and  of  the  attributes  of  Celtic 
imagination,  undoubtedly  existed.  The  ancient 
tribes  of  the  Celts  had  their  regular  bards,  even 
down  to  a comparatively  late  period.  A people 
like  the  natives  of  the  Highlands,  leading  an  idle 
inactive  life,  and  doomed  from  their  climate  to  a 
severe  protracted  winter,  were  also  well  adapted 
to  transmit  from  one  generation  to  another  the 
fragments  of  ancient  song  which  had  beguiled 
their  infancy  and  youth,  and  which  flattered  their 
love  of  their  ancestors.  No  person,  however,  now 
believes  that  Macpherson  found  entire  epic  poems 
in  the  Highlands.  The  original  materials  were 
probably  as  scanty  as  those  on  which  Shakspeare 
founded  the  marvellous  superstructures  of  his 
genius ; and  he  himself  has  not  scrupled  to  state, 
in  the  preface  to  his  last  edition  of  Ossian,  that  ‘ a 
translator  who  cannot  equal  his  original  is  incapable 
of  expressing  its  beauties.’  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
has  suggested,  as  a supposition  countenanced  by 
many  circumstances,  that,  after  enjoying  the 
pleasure  of  duping  so  many  critics,  Macpherson 
intended  one  day  to  claim  the  poems  as  his  own. 

‘ If  he  had  such  a design,  considerable  obstacles  to 
its  execution  arose  around  him.  He  was  loaded 
with  so  much  praise,  that  he  seemed  bound  in 
honour  to  his  admirers  not  to  desert  them.  The 
support  of  his  own  country  appeared  to  render 
adherence  to  those  poems,  which  Scotland  incon- 
siderately sanctioned,  a sort  of  national  obligation. 
Exasperated,  on  the  other  hand,  by  the  perhaps 
unduly  vehement,  and  sometimes  very  coarse  attacks 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  MACPHEKSON. 


made  on  him,  he  was  unwilling  to  surrender  to  such 
opponents.  He  involved  himself  at  last  so  deeply, 
as  to  leave  him  no  decent  retreat.’  A somewhat 
sudden  and  premature  death  closed  the  scene  on 
Macpherson ; nor  is  there  among  the  papers  which 
he  left  behind  him  a single  line  that  throws  any 
light  upon  the  controversy. 

Mr  Wordsworth  has  condemned  the  imagery  of 
Ossian  as  spurious.  ‘ In  nature  everything  is 
distinct,  yet  nothing  defined  into  absolute  inde- 
pendent singleness.  In  Macpherson’s  work  it  is 
exactly  the  reverse ; everything,  that  is  not  stolen, 
is  in  this  manner  defined,  insulated,  dislocated, 
deadened — yet  nothing  distinct.  It  will  always  be 
so  when  words  are  substituted  for  things.’  Part  of 
this  censure  may  perhaps  be  owing  to  the  style  and 
diction  of  Macpherson,  which  have  a broken  abrupt 
appearance  and  sound.  The  imagery  is  drawn  from 
the  natural  appearances  of  a rude  mountainous 
country.  The  grass  of  the  rock,  the  flower  of  the 
heath,  the  thistle  with  its  beard,  are,  as  Blair 
observes,  the  chief  ornaments  of  his  landscapes. 
The  desert,  with  all  its  woods  and  deer,  was  enough 
for  Pingal.  We  suspect  it  is  the  sameness — the 
perpetual  recurrence  of  the  same  images — which 
fatigues  the  reader,  and  gives  a misty  confusion  to 
the  objects  and  incidents  of  the  poem.  That  there 
is  something  poetical  and  striking  in  Ossian — a 
wild  solitary  magnificence,  pathos,  and  tenderness 
— is  undeniable.  The  Desolation  of  Balclutha,  and 
the  lamentations  in  the  Song  of  Selma,  are  conceived 
with  true  feeling  and  poetical  power.  The  battles 
of  the  car-borne  heroes  are,  we  confess,  much  less  to 
our  taste,  and  seem  stilted  and  unnatural.  They 
are  like  the  Quixotic  encounters  of  knightly 
romance,  and  want  the  air  of  remote  antiquity, 
of  dim  and  solitary  grandeur,  and  of  shadowy 
superstitious  fear,  which  shrouds  the  wild  heaths, 
lakes,  and  mountains,  of  Ossian. 

[Qssiarfs  Address  to  the  Sun.] 

I feel  the  sun,  0 Malvina!  leave  me  to  my  rest. 
Perhaps  they  may  come  to  my  dreams ; I think  I hear 
a feeble  voice ! The  beam  of  heaven  delights  to  shine 
on  the  grave  of  Carthon  : I feel  it  warm  around. 

0 thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of 
my  fathers ! Whence  are  thy  beams,  0 sun ! thy 
everlasting  light?  Thou  comest  forth  in  thy  awful 
I beauty ; the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky  ; the 
( moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  western  wave;  but 
thou  thyself  movest  alone.  Who  can  be  a companion 
of  thy  course?  The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall ; the 
mountains  themselves  decay  with  years ; the  ocean 
shrinks  and  grows  again  ; the  moon  herself  is  lost  in 
heaven,  but  thou  art  for  ever  the  same,  rejoicing  in 
the  brightness  of  thy  course.  When  the  world  is  dark 
with  tempests,  when  thunder  rolls  and  lightning  flies, 
thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and 
laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest  in 
vain,  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more ; whether  thy 
yellow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou  trem- 
blest  at  the  gates  of  the  west.  But  thou  art  perhaps 
like  me  for  a season;  thy  years  will  have  an  end. 
Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds  careless  of  the  voice  of 
the  morning.  Exult,  then,  0 sun,  in  the  strength  of 
thy  youth ! Age  is  dark  and  unlovely ; it  is  like  the 
glimmering  light  of  the  moon  when  it  shines  through 
broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is  on  the  hills  : the  blast 
of  the  north  is  on  the  plain ; the  traveller  shrinks  in 
the  midst  of  his  journey. 

[FingaVs  Airy  Hall.] 

His  friends  sit  around  the  king,  on  mist ! They  hear 
the  songs  of  Ullin : he  strikes  the  half -viewless  harp. 


He  raises  the  feeble  voice.  The  lesser  heroes,  with  a 
thousand  meteors,  light  the  airy  hall.  Malvina  rises 
in  the  midst ; a blush  is  on  her  cheek.  She  beholds 
the  unknown  faces  of  her  fathers.  She  turns  aside  her 
humid  eyes.  ‘ Art  thou  come  so  soon  ? ’ said  Fingal, 
‘ daughter  of  generous  Toscar.  Sadness  dwells  in  the 
halls  of  Lutha.  My  aged  son  is  sad  ! I hear  the  breeze 
of  Cona,  that  was  wont  to  lift  thy  heavy  locks.  It 
comes  to  the  hall,  but  thou  art  not  there.  Its  voice  is 
mournful  among  the  arms  of  thy  fathers ! Go,  with 
thy  rustling  wing,  0 breeze ! sigh  on  Malvina’s  tomb. 
It  rises  yonder  beneath  the  rock,  at  the  blue  stream  of 
Lutha.  The  maids  are  departed  to  their  place.  Thou 
alone,  0 breeze,  mournest  there ! ’ 

[ Address  to  the  Moon .] 

Daughter  of  heaven,  fair  art  thou ! the  silence  of 
thy  face  is  pleasant ! Thou  comest  forth  in  loveliness. 
The  stars  attend  thy  blue  course  in  the  east.  The 
clouds  rejoice  in  thy  presence,  0 moon ! they  brighten 
their  dark-brown  sides.  Who  is  like  thee  in  heaven, 
light  of  the  silent  night?  The  stars  are  ashamed  in 
thy  presence.  They  turn  away  their  sparkling  eyes. 
Whither  dost  thou  retire  from  thy  course,  when  the 
darkness  of  thy  countenance  grows  ? hast  thou  thy 
hall,  like  Ossian?  dwellest  thou  in  the  shadow  of 
grief?  have  thy  sisters  fallen  from  heaven  ? are  they 
who  rejoiced  with  thee,  at  night,  no  more?  Yes,  they 
have  fallen,  fair  light ! and  thou  dost  often  retire  to 
mourn.  But  thou  thyself  shalt  fail,  one  night,  and 
leave  thy  blue  path  in  heaven.  The  stars  will  then  lift 
their  heads  : they,  who  were  ashamed  in  thy  presence, 
will  rejoice.  Thou  art  now  clothed  with  thy  brightness. 
Look  from  thy  gates  in  the  sky.  Burst  the  cloud,  0 
wind ! that  the  daughter  of  night  may  look  forth  ! that 
the  shaggy  mountains  may  brighten,  and  the  ocean  roll 
its  white  waves  in  light. 


[Desolation  of  Balclutha.] 

I have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  halls ; and  the 
voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The  stream  of 
Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of  the 
walls.  The  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head;  the 
moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  from 
the  windows ; the  rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved  round 
its  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina  ; silence  is 
in  the  house  of  her  fathers.  Raise  the  song  of  mourn- 
ing, 0 bards  ! over  the  land  of  strangers.  They  have 
but  fallen  before  us  : for  one  day  we  must  fall.  Why 
dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged  days  ? Thou 
lookest  from  thy  towers  to-day : yet  a few  years,  and 
the  blast  of  the  desert  comes ; it  howls  in  thy  empty 
court,  and  whistles  round  thy  half-worn  shield.  And 
let  the  blast  of  the  desert  come  ! we  shall  be  renowned 
in  our  day  ! The  mark  of  my  arm  shall  be  in  battle  ; 
my  name  in  the  song  of  bards.  Raise  the  song,  send 
round  the  shell : let  joy  be  heard  in  my  hall.  When 
thou,  sun  of  heaven,  shalt  fail ! if  thou  shalt  fail,  thou 
mighty  light ! if  thy  brightness  is  but  for  a season,  like 
Fingal,  our  fame  shall  survive  thy  beams.  Such  was 
the  song  of  Fingal  in  the  day  of  his  joy. 


[A  Description  of  Female  Beauty.] 

The  daughter  of  the  snow  overheard,  and  left  the 
hall  of  her  secret  sigh.  She  came  in  all  her  beauty, 
like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east.  Loveliness 
was  around  her  as  light.  Her  steps  were  like  the 
music  of  songs.  She  saw  the  youth  and  loved  him. 
He  was  the  stolen  sigh  of  her  soul.  Her  blue  eyes 
rolled  on  him  in  secret;  and  she  blest  the  chief  of 
Morven. 

15 


from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ' to  1800. 


[The  Songs  of  Selma.] 

Star  of  descending  night ! fair  is  thy  light  in  the 
west ! thou  liftest  thy  unshorn  head  from  thy  cloud : 
thy  steps  are  stately  on  thy  hill.  What  dost  thou 
behold  in  the  plain?  The  stormy  winds  are  laid.  The 
murmur  of  the  torrent  comes  from  afar.  Roaring 
waves  climb  the  distant  rock.  The  flies  of  evening 
are  on  their  feeble  wings ; the  hum  of  their  course  is 
on  the  field.  What  dost  thou  behold,  fair  light  ? But 
thou  dost  smile  and  depart.  The  waves  come  with  joy 
around  thee : they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair.  Farewell, 
thou  silent  beam  ! Let  the  light  of  Ossian’s  soul  arise  ! 

And  it  does  arise  in  its  strength  ! I behold  my 
departed  friends.  Their  gathering  is  on  Lora,  as  in 
the  days  of  other  years.  Fingal  comes  like  a watery 
column  of  mist ; his  heroes  are  around : And  see 
the  bards  of  song,  gray-haired  Ullin ! stately  Ryno  ! 
Alpin,  with  the  tuneful  voice ! the  soft  complaint  of 
Minona  ! How  are  ye  changed,  my  friends,  since  the 
days  of  Selma’s  feast  ? when  we  contended,  like  gales 
of  spring,  as  they  fly  along  the  hill,  and  bend  by  turns 
the  feebly  whistling  grass. 

Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty,  with  downcast 
look  and  tearful  eye.  Her  hair  flew  slowly  on  the  blast, 
that  rushed  unfrequent  from  the  hill.  The  souls  of 
the  heroes  were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tuneful  voice. 
Often  had  they  seen  the  grave  of  Salgar,  the  dark 
dwelling  of  white-bosomed  Colma.  Colma  left  alone  on 
the  hill,  with  all  her  voice  of  song  ! Salgar  promised 
to  come  : but  the  night  descended  around.  Hear  the 
voice  of  Colma,  when  she  sat  alone  on  the  hill ! 

Colma.  It  is  night ; I am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill 
of  storms.  The  wind  is  heard  in  the  mountain.  The 
torrent  pours  down  the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from 
the  rain  ; forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds  ! 

Rise,  moon ! from  behind  thy  clouds.  Stars  of  the 
night,  arise ! Lead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where 
my  love  rests  from  the  chase  alone  ! his  bow  near  him, 
unstrung:  his  dogs  panting  around  him.  But  here  I 
must  sit  alone,  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The 
stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I hear  not  the  voice 
of  my  love ! Why  delays  my  Salgar,  why  the  chief 
of  the  hill  his  promise?  Here  is  the  rock,  and  here 
the  tree ! here  is  the  roaring  stream ! Thou  didst 
promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah ! whither  is  my 
Salgar  gone  ? With  thee  I would  fly  from  my  father ; 
with  thee  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have 
long  been  foes ; we  are  not  foes,  0 Salgar  ! 

Cease  a little  while,  0 wind ! stream,  be  thou  silent 
a while  ! let  my  voice  be  heard  around  ! Let  my  wan- 
derer hear  me  ! Salgar,  it  is  Colma  who  calls ! Here 
is  the  tree  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love ! I am  here. 
Why  delayest  thou  thy  coming  ? Lo  ! the  calm  moon 
comes  forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The 
rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep.  I see  him  not  on  the 
brow.  His  dogs  come  not  before  him  with  tidings  of 
his  near  approach.  Here  I must  sit  alone ! 

Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me?  Are  they  my 
love  and  my  brother  ? Speak  to  me,  0 my  friend  ! To 
Colma  they  give  no  reply.  Speak  to  me  : I am  alone  ! 
My  soul  is  tormented  with  fears  ! Ah ! they  are  dead  ! 
Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  0 my  brother ! 
my  brother ! why  hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar  ? why,  0 
Salgar  ! hast  thou  slain  my  brother  ? Dear  were  ye 
both  to  me  ! what  shall  I say  in  your  praise  ? Thou 
wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands ! he  was  terrible 
in  fight.  Speak  to  me ; hear  my  voice ; hear  me,  sons 
of  my  love  ! They  are  silent ; silent  for  ever  ! Cold, 
cold  are  their  breasts  of  clay ! Oh ! from  the  rock  on 
the  hill ; from  the  top  of  the  windy  steep,  speak,  ye 
ghosts  of  the  dead ! speak,  I will  not  be  afraid  ! Whither 
are  you  gone  to  rest  ? In  what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I 
find  the  departed?  No  feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale:  no 
answer  half-drowned  in  the  storm ! 

16 


I sit  in  my  grief ! I wait  for  morning  in  my  tears ! 
Rear  the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not 
till  Colma  come.  My  life  flies  away  like  a dream  : 
why  should  I stay  behind?  Here  shall  I rest  with 
my  friends  by  the  stream  of  the  sounding  rock.  When 
night  comes  on  the  hill,  when  the  loud  winds  arise,  my 
ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast,  and  mourn  the  death 
of  my  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from  his  booth  ; 
he  shall  fear,  but  love  my  voice ! for  sweet  shall  my 
voice  be  for  my  friends:  pleasant  were  her  friends  to 
Colma ! 

Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly  blushing  daughter 
of  Torman.  Our  tears  descended  for  Colma,  and  our 
souls  were  sad ! Ullin  came  with  his  harp  ; he  gave 
the  song  of  Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was  pleasant ; 
the  soul  of  Ryno  was  a beam  of  fire ! But  they  had 
rested  in  the  narrow  house ; their  voice  had  ceased  in 
Selma.  Ullin  had  returned  one  day  from  the  chase 
before  the  heroes  fell.  He  heard  their  strife  on  the 
hill ; their  song  was  soft  but  sad ! They  mourned  the 
fall  of  Morar,  first  of  mortal  men ! His  soul  was  like 
the  soul  of  Fingal ; his  sword  like  the  sword  of  Oscar. 
But  he  fell,  and  his  father  mourned ; his  sister’s  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Minona’ s eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
the  sister  of  car-borne  Morar.  She  retired  from  the 
song  of  Ullin,  like  the  moon  in  the  west,  when  she 
foresees  the  shower,  and  hides  her  fair  head  in  a cloud. 
I touched  the  harp,  with  Ullin ; the  song  of  mourning 
rose ! 

Ryno.  The  wind  and  the  rain  are  past ; calm  is  the 
noon  of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven.  Over 
the  green  hills  flies  the  inconstant  sun.  Red  through 
the  stony  vale  comes  down  the  stream  of  the  hill. 
Sweet  are  thy  murmurs,  0 stream ! but  more  sweet  is 
the  voice  I hear.  It  is  the  voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of 
song,  mourning  for  the  dead ! Bent  is  his  head  of 
age  ; red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpin,  thou  son  of  song,  why 
alone  on  the  silent  hill?  why  complainest  thou,  as  a 
blast  in  the  wood  ; as  a wave  on  the  lonely  shore  ? 

■ Alpin.  My  tears,  0 Ryno  ! are  for  the  dead ; my  voice 
for  those  that  have  passed  away.  Tall  thou  art  on 
the  hill;  fair  among  the  sons  of  the  vale.  But  thou 
shalt  fall  like  Morar  ; the  mourner  shall  sit  on  thy  tomb. 
The  hills  shall  know  thee  no  more  ; thy  bow  shall  lie  in 
the  hall,  unstrung ! 

Thou  wert  swift,  0 Morar ! as  a roe  on  the  desert ; 
terrible  as  a meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the 
storm.  Thy  sword  in  battle,  as  lightning  in  the  field. 
Thy  voice  was  a stream  after  rain  ; like  thunder  on 
distant  hills.  Many  fell  by  thy  arm;  they  were  con- 
sumed in  the  flames  of  thy  wrath.  But  when  thou  didst 
return  from  war,  how  peaceful  was  thy  brow ! Thy 
face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain  ; like  the  moon  in  the 
silence  of  night ; calm  as  the  breast  of  the  lake  when 
the  loud  wind  is  laid. 

Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now ; dark  the  place  of  thine 
abode ! With  three  steps  I compass  thy  grave,  0 thou 
who  wast  so  great  before ! Four  stones,  with  their 
heads  of  moss,  are  the  only  memorial  of  thee.  A tree 
with  scarce  a leaf,  long  grass  which  whistles  in  the 
wind,  mark  to  the  hunter’s  eye  the  grave  of  the  mighty 
Morar.  Morar ! thou  art  low  indeed.  Thou  hast  no 
mother  to  mourn  thee  ; no  maid  with  her  tears  of  love. 
Dead  is  she  that  brought  thee  forth.  Fallen  is  the 
daughter  of  Morglan. 

Who  on  his  staff  is  this?  who  is  this,  whose  head 
is  white  with  age  ? whose  eyes  are  red  with  tears  ? who 
quakes  at  every  step  ? It  is  thy  father,  0 Morar ! the 
father  of  no  son  but  thee.  He  heard  of  thy  fame  in 
war  ; he  heard  of  foes  dispersed ; he  heard  of  Morar’ s 
renown ; why  did  he  not  hear  of  his  wound  ? Weep, 
thou  father  of  Morar ! weep ; but  thy  son  heareth 
thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead  ; low  their 
pillow  of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice ; no 
more  awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in 
the  grave,  to  bid  the  slumberer  awake?  Farewell, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


thou  bravest  of  men ! thou  conqueror  in  the  field ! but 
the  field  shall  see  thee  no  more  ; nor  the  dark  wood  be 
lightened  with  the  splendour  of  thy  steel.  Thou  hast 
left  no  son.  The  song  shall  preserve  thy  name.  Future 
times  shall  hear  of  thee ; they  shall  hear  of  the  fallen 
Morar ! * * 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards  in  the  days  of  song, 
when  the  king  heard  the  music  of  harps,  the  tales  of 
other  times  ! The  chiefs  gathered  from  all  their  hills, 
and  heard  the  lovely  sound.  They  praised  the  voice  of 
Cona  ! the  first  among  a thousand  bards  ! But  age  is 
now  on  my  tongue  ; my  soul  has  failed  ! I hear,  at 
times,  the  ghosts  of  bards,  and  learn  their  pleasant  song. 
But  memory  fails  on  my  mind.  I hear  the  call  of  years ! 
They  say,  as  they  pass  along,  why  does  Ossian  sing  ? 
Soon  shall  he  lie  in  the  narrow  house,  and  no  bard  shall 
raise  his  fame  ! Roll  on,  ye  dark-brown  years  ; ye  bring 
no  joy  on  your  course  ! Let  the  tdmb  open  to  Ossian, 
for  his  strength  has  failed.  The  sons  of  song  are  gone 
to  rest.  My  voice  remains,  like  a blast  that  roars,  lonely 
on  a sea-surrounded  rock,  after  the  winds  are  laid.  The 
dark  moss  whistles  there  ; the  distant  mariner  sees  the 
waving  trees  ! 

When  Macplierson  had  not  the  groundwork  of 
Ossian  to  build  upon,  he  was  a very  indifferent  poet. 
The  following,  however,  shews  that,  though  his  taste 
was  defective,  he  had  poetical  fancy : 


The  Cave — Written  in  the  Highlands. 

The  wind  is  up,  the  field  is  bare, 

Some  hermit  lead  me  to  his  cell, 

Where  Contemplation,  lonely  fair, 

With  blessed  content  has  chose  to  dwell. 

Behold  ! it  opens  to  my  sight, 

Dark  in  the  rock,  beside  the  flood ; 

Dry  fern  around  obstructs  the  light ; 

The  winds  above  it  move  the  wood. 

Reflected  in  the  lake,  I see 

The  downward  mountains  and  the  skies, 
The  flying  bird,  the  waving  tree, 

The  goats  that  on  the  hill  arise. 

The  gray-cloaked  herd  drives  on  the  cow ; 

The  slow-paced  fowler  walks  the  heath ; 
A freckled  pointer  scours  the  brow  ; 

A musing  shepherd  stands  beneath. 

Curved  o’er  the  ruin  of  an  oak, 

The  woodman  lifts  his  axe  on  high  ; 

The  hills  re-echo  to  the  stroke  ; 

I see — I see  the  shivers  fly  ! 

Some  rural  maid,  with  apron  full, 

Brings  fuel  to  the  homely  flame ; 

I see  the  smoky  columns  roll, 

And,  through  the  chinky  hut,  the  beam. 

Beside  a stone  o’ergrown  with  moss, 

Two  well-met  hunters  talk  at  ease  ; 
Three  panting  dogs  beside  repose ; 

One  bleeding  deer  is  stretched  on  grass. 

A lake  at  distance  spreads  to  sight, 
Skirted  with  shady  forests  round  ; 

In  midst,  an  island’s  rocky  height 
Sustains  a ruin,  once  renowned. 

One  tree  bends  o’er  the  naked  walls ; 

Two  broad-winged  eagles  hover  nigh  ; 

By  intervals  a fragment  falls, 

As  blows  the  blast  along  the  sky. 

54 


The  rough-spun  hinds  the  pinnace  guide 
With  labouring  oars  along  the  flood  ; 

An  angler,  bending  o’er  the  tide, 

Hangs  from  the  boat  the  insidious  wood. 

Beside  the  flood,  beneath  the  rocks, 

On  grassy  bank,  two  lovers  lean ; 

Bend  on  each  other  amorous  looks, 

And  seem  to  laugh  and  kiss  between. 

The  wind  is  rustling  in  the  oak  ; 

They  seem  to  hear  the  tread  of  feet ; 

They  start,  they  rise,  look  round  the  rock ; 

Again  they  smile,  again  they  meet. 

But  see  ! the  gray  mist  from  the  lake 
Ascends  upon  the  shady  hills  ; 

Dark  storms  the  murmuring  forests  shake, 

Rain  beats  around  a hundred  rills. 

To  Damon’s  homely  hut  I fly  ; 

I see  it  smoking  on  the  plain  ; 

When  storms  are  past  and  fair  the  sky, 

I ’ll  often  seek  my  cave  again. 

From  Macpherson’s  manuscripts  at  Belleville  we 
copy  the  following  fragment,  marked  An  Address  to 
Venus , 1785 : 

Thrice  blest,  and  more  than  thrice,  the  morn 
Whose  genial  gale  and  purple  light 
Awaked,  then  chased  the  night, 

On  which  the  Queen  of  Love  was  born  ! 

Yet  hence  the  sun’s  unhallowed  ray, 

With  native  beams  let  Beauty  glow  ; 

What  need  is  there  of  other  day, 

Than  the  twin-stars  that  light  those  hills  of  snow  ? 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

Tlie  success  of  Macpherson’s  Ossian  seems  to  have 
prompted  the  remarkable  forgeries  of  Chatterton — 

The  marvellous  boy, 

The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride.* 

Such  precocity  of  genius  was  never  perhaps  before 
witnessed.  We  have  the  poems  of  Pope  and  Cowley 
written,  one  at  twelve , and  the  other  at  fifteen  years 
of  age,  but  both  were  inferior  to  the  verses  of  Chat- 
terton at  eleven ; and  his  imitations  of  the  antique, 
executed  when  he  was  fifteen  and  sixteen,  exhibit  a 
vigour  of  thought  and  facility  of  versification — to 
say  nothing  of  their  antiquarian  character,  which 
puzzled  the  most  learned  men  of  the  day,  and 
stamp  him  a poet  of  the  first  class.  His  education 
also  was  miserably  deficient ; yet  when  a mere  boy, 
eleven  years  of  age,  this  obscure  youth  could  write 
as  follows : 

Almighty  Framer  of  the  skies, 

0 let  our  pure  devotion  rise 
Like  incense  in  thy  sight ! 

Wrapt  in  impenetrable  shade, 

The  texture  of  our  souls  was  made, 

Till  thy  command  gave  light. 

The  sun  of  glory  gleamed,  the  ray 
Refined  the  darkness  into  day, 

And  bid  the  vapours  fly  : 

Impelled  by  his  eternal  love, 

He  left  his  palaces  above, 

To  cheer  our  gloomy  sky. 

* Wordsworth. 

17 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


How  shall  we  celebrate  the  day, 

When  God  appeared  in  mortal  clay, 

The  mark  of  worldly  scorn. 

When  the  archangel’s  heavenly  lays 
Attempted  the  Redeemer’s  praise, 

And  hailed  Salvation’s  morn  ? 

A humble  form  the  Godhead  wore, 

The  pains  of  poverty  he  bore, 

To  gaudy  pomp  unknown  : 

Though  in  a human  walk  he  trod, 

Still  was  the  man  Almighty  God, 

In  glory  all  his  own. 

Despised,  oppressed,  the  Godhead  bears 
The  torments  of  this  vale  of  tears, 

Nor  bids  his  vengeance  rise : 

He  saw  the  creatures  he  had  made 
Revile  his  power,  his  peace  invade, 

He  saw  with  Mercy’s  eyes. 

Thomas  Chatterton  was  born  at  Bristol,  Novem- 
ber 20,  1752.  His  father,  who  had  taught  the 
Free  School  there,  died  before  his  birth,  and  he  was 
educated  at  a charity  school,  where  nothing  but 
English,  writing,  and  accounts  were  taught.  His 


Thomas  Chatterton. 


first  lessons  were  said  to  have  been  from  a black- 
letter  Bible,  which  may  have  had  some  effect  on 
his  youthful  imagination.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
he  was  put  apprentice  to  an  attorney,  where  his 
situation  was  irksome  and  uncomfortable,  but  left 
him  ample  time  to  prosecute  his  private  studies.  He 
was  passionately  devoted  to  poetry,  antiquities,  and 
heraldry,  and  ambitious  of  distinction.  His  ruling 
passion,  he  says,  was  ‘unconquerable  pride.’  He 
now  set  himself  to  accomplish  his  various  imposi- 
tions by  pretended  discoveries  of  old  manuscripts. 
In  October  1768  the  new  bridge  at  Bristol  was 
finished;  and  Chatterton  sent  to  a newspaper  in 
the  town  a pretended  account  of  the  ceremonies  on 
opening  the  old  bridge,  introduced  by  a letter  to 
the  printer,  intimating  that  ‘ the  description  of  the 
friars  first  passing  over  the  old  bridge  was  taken 


from  an  ancient  manuscript.’  To  one  man,  fond 
of  heraldic  honours,  he  gave  a pedigree  reaching  up 
to  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror ; to  another 
he  presents  an  ancient  poem,  the  Romaunt  of  the 
Cnyghte , written  by  one  of  his  ancestors  450  years 
before;  to  a religious  citizen  of  Bristol  he  gives 
an  ancient  fragment  of  a sermon  on  the  Divinity 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  wroten  by  Thomas  Rowley,  a 
monk  of  the  fifteenth  century ; to  another,  solicitous 
of  obtaining  information  about  Bristol,  he  makes  the 
valuable  present  of  an  account  of  all  the  churches 
of  the  city,  as  they  appeared  three  hundred  years 
before,  and  accompanies  it  with  drawings  and 
descriptions  of  the  castle,  the  whole  pretended  to  be 
drawn  from  writings  of  the  ‘ gode  prieste  Thomas 
Rowley.’  Horace  Walpole  was  engaged  in  ■writing 
the  History  of  British  Painters , and  Chatterton  sent 
him  an  account  of  eminent  ‘ Carvellers  and  Peync- 
ters,’  who  once  flourished  in  Bristol.  These,  with 
various  impositions  of  a similar  nature,  duped  the 
citizens  of  Bristol.  Chatterton  had  no  confidant  in 
his  labours ; he  toiled  in  secret,  gratified  only  by 
‘ the  stoical  pride  of  talent.’  He  frequently  wrote 
by  moonlight,  conceiving  that  the  immediate  pre- 
sence of  that  luminary  added  to  the  inspiration. 
His  Sundays  were  commonly  spent  in  walking 
alone  into  the  country  about  Bristol,  and  drawing 
sketches  of  churches  and  other  objects.  He  would 
also  lie  down  on  the  meadows  in  view  of  St  Mary’s 
Church,  Bristol,  fix  his  eyes  upon  the  ancient  edifice, 
and  seem  as  if  he  were  in  a kind  of  trance.  He 
thus  nursed  the  enthusiasm  which  destroyed  him. 
Though  correct  and  orderly  in  Ills  conduct,  Chat- 
terton, before  he  was  sixteen,  imbibed  principles  of 
infidelity,  and  the  idea  of  suicide  was  familiar  to 
his  mind.  It  was,  however,  overruled  for  a time 
by  his  passion  for  literary  fame  and  distinction. 
It  was  a favourite  maxim  with  him,  that  man  is 
equal  to  anything,  and  that  everything  might  be 
achieved  by  diligence  and  abstinence.  His  alleged 
discoveries  having  attracted  great  attention,  the 
youth  stated  that  he  found  the  manuscripts  in  his 
mother’s  house.  ‘In  the  muniment  room  of  St 
Mary  Redcliffe  Church  of  Bristol,  several  chests 
had  been  anciently  deposited,  among  which  was  one 
called  the  “Coffre”  of  Mr  Canynge,  an  eminent 
merchant  of  Bristol,  who  h^d  rebuilt  the  church 
in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  About  the  year  1727 
those  chests  had  been  broken  open  by  an  order 
from  proper  authority:  some  ancient  deeds  had 
been  taken  out,  and  the  remaining  manuscripts 
left  exposed  as  of  no  value.  Chatterton’s  father, 
whose  uncle  was  sexton  of  the  church,  had  carried 
off  great  numbers  of  the  parchments,  and  had  used 
them  as  covers  for  books  in  his  school.  Amidst  the 
residue  of  his  father’s  ravages,  Chatterton  gave  out 
that  he  had  found  many  writings  of  Mr  Canynge, 
and  of  Thomas  Rowley — the  friend  of  Canynge — a 
priest  of  the  fifteenth  century.’*  These  fictitious 
poems  were  published  in  the  Town  and  Country 
Magazine , to  which  Chatterton  had  become  a 
contributor,  and  occasioned  a warm  controversy 
among  literary  antiquaries.  Some  of  them  he  had 
submitted  to  Horace  Walpole,  who  shewed  them  to 
Gray  and  Mason;  but  these  competent  judges  pro- 
nounced them  to  be  forgeries.  After  three  years 
spent  in  the  attorney’s  office,  Chatterton  obtained 
his  release  from  his  apprenticeship,  and  went  to 
London,  where  he  engaged  in  various  tasks  for  the 
booksellers,  and  wrote  for  the  magazines  and  news- 
papers. He  obtained  an  introduction  to  Beckford, 
the  patriotic  and  popular  lord-mayor,  and  his  own 

* Campbell’a  Specimens. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


inclinations  led  him  to  espouse  the  opposition  party. 
‘ But  no  money/  he  says,  ‘ is  to  he  got  on  that  side 
of  the  question ; interest  is  on  the  other  side.  But 
he  is  a poor  author  who  cannot  write  on  both  sides’ 
He  boasted  that  his  company  was  courted  every- 
where, and  ‘ that  he  would  settle  the  nation  before 
he  had  done.’  The  splendid  visions  of  promotion 
and  wealth,  however,  soon  vanished,  and  even 
his  labours  for  the  periodical  press  failed  to  afford 
him  the  means  of  comfortable  subsistence.  He 
applied  for  the  appointment  of  a surgeon’s  mate  to 
Africa,  but  was  refused  the  necessary  recommenda- 
tion. This  seems  to  have  been  his  last  hope,  and  he 
made  no  further  effort  at  literary  composition.  His 
spirits  had  always  been  unequal,  alternately  gloomy 
and  elevated — both  in  extremes  ; he  had  cast  off  the 
restraints  of  religion,  and  had  no  steady  principle  to 
guide  him,  unless  it  was  a strong  affection  for  his 
mother  and  sister,  to  whom  he  sent  remittances  of 
money,  while  his  means  lasted.  Habits  of  intem- 
perance, succeeded  by  fits  of  remorse,  exasperated 
his  constitutional  melancholy ; and  after  being 
reduced  to  actual  want — though  with  character- 
istic pride  he  rejected  a dinner  offered  him  by  his 
landlady  the  day  before  his  death — he  tore  all  his 
papers,  and  destroyed  himself  by  taking  arsenic, 
August  25,  1770.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was 
aged  seventeen  years  nine  months  and  a few  days. 
1 No  English  poet/  says  Campbell,  ‘ ever  equalled 
him  at  the  same  age.’  The  remains  of  the  unhappy 
youth  were  interred  in  a shell  in  the  burying-ground 
of  Shoe-Lane  workhouse.  His  unfinished  papers 
he  had  destroyed  before  his  death,  and  his  room, 
when  broken  open,  was  found  covered  with  scraps 
of  paper.  The  citizens  of  Bristol  have  erected 
a monument  to  the  memory  of  their  native 
poet. 

The  poems  of  Chatterton,  published  under  the 
name  of  Rowley,  consist  of  the  tragedy  of  Ella , 
the  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin , Ode  to  Ella , 
the  Battle  of  Hastings , the  Tournament , one  or  two 
Dialogues,  and  a description  of  Canynge’s  Feast. 
Some  of  them,  as  the  Ode  to  Ella  (which  we  sub- 
join), have  exactly  the  air  of  modern  poetry,  only 
disguised  with  antique  spelling  and  phraseology. 
The  avowed  compositions  of  Chatterton  are  equally 
inferior  to  the  forgeries  in  poetical  powers  and 
diction ; which  is  satisfactorily  accounted  for  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  by  the  fact,  that  his  whole  powers 
and  energies  must,  at  his  early  age,  have  been  con- 
verted to  the  acquisition  of  the  obsolete  language 
and  peculiar  style  necessary  to  support  the  deep- 
laid  deception.  ‘ He  could  have  had  no  time  for  the 
study  of  our  modern  poets,  their  rules  of  verse,  or 
modes  of  expression  ; while  his  whole  faculties  were 
intensely  employed  in  the  Herculean  task  of  creat- 
ing the  person,  history,  and  language  of  an  ancient 
poet,  which,  vast  as  these  faculties  were,  were  suffi- 
cient wholly  to  engross,  though  not  to  overburden 
them.’  A power  of  picturesque  painting  seems  to 
be  Chatterton’s  most  distinguishing  feature  as  a 
poet.  The  heroism  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,  who 

Summed  the  actions  of  the  day 

Each  night  before  he  slept, 

and  who  bearded  the  tyrant  king  on  his  way  to  the 
scaffold,  is  perhaps  liis  most  striking  portrait.  The 
following  description  of  Morning  in  the  tragedy  of 
Ella , is  in  the  style  of  the  old  poets : 

Bright  sun  had  in  his  ruddy  robes  been  dight, 

From  the  red  east  he  flitted  with  his  train ; 

The  Houris  draw  away  the  gate  of  Night, 

Her  sable  tapestry  was  rent  in  twain  : 


The  dancing  streaks  bedecked  heaven’s  plain, 

And  on  the  dew  did  smile  with  skimmering  eye, 

Like  gouts  of  blood  which  do  black  armour  stain, 
Shining  upon  the  bourn  which  standeth  by ; 

The  soldiers  stood  upon  the  hillis  side, 

Like  young  enleaved  trees  which  in  a forest  bide. 

A description  of  Spring  in  the  same  poem : 

The  budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light, 

The  meads  be  sprinkled  with  the  yellow  hue, 

In  daisied  mantles  is  the  mountain  dight, 

The  fresh  young  cowslip  bendeth  with  the  dew ; 

The  trees  enleafed,  into  heaven  straight, 

When  gentle  winds  do  blow,  to  whistling  din  is 
brought. 

The  evening  comes,  and  brings  the  dews  along, 

The  ruddy  welkin  shineth  to  the  eyne, 

Around  the  ale-stake1  minstrels  sing  the  song, 

Young  ivy  round  the  door-post  doth  entwine; 

I lay  me  on  the  grass,  yet  to  my  will 
Albeit  all  is  fair,  there  lacketh  something  still. 

In  the  epistle  to  Canynge,  Chatterton  has  a striking 
censure  of  the  religious  interludes  which  formed 
the  early  drama ; but  the  idea,  as  Warton  remarks, 
is  the  result  of  that  taste  and  discrimination  which 
could  only  belong  to  a more  advanced  period  of 
society : 

Plays  made  from  holy  tales  I hold  unmeet ; 

Let  some  great  story  of  a man  be  sung  ; 

When  as  a man  we  God  and  Jesus  treat, 

In  my  poor  mind  we  do  the  Godhead  wrong. 

The  satirical  and  town  effusions  of  Chatterton 
are  often  in  bad  taste,  yet  display  a wonderful  com- 
mand of  easy  language  and  lively  sportive  allusion. 
They  have  no  traces  of  juvenility,  unless  it  be  in 
adopting  the  vulgar  scandals  of  the  day,  unworthy 
Ills  original  genius.  In  his  satire  of  Kew  Gardens 
are  the  following  lines,  alluding  to  the  poet-laureate 
and  the  proverbial  poverty  of  poets : 

Though  sing-song  Whitehead  ushers  in  the  year, 
With  joy  to  Britain’s  king  and  sovereign  dear, 

And,  in  compliance  to  an  ancient  mode, 

Measures  his  syllables  into  an  ode ; 

Yet  such  the  scurvy  merit  of  his  muse, 

He  bows  to  deans,  and  licks  his  lordship’s  shoes ; 
Then  leave  the  wicked  barren  way  of  rhyme, 

Fly  far  from  poverty,  be  wise  in  time  : 

Regard  the  office  more,  Parnassus  less, 

Put  your  religion  in  a decent  dress  : 

Then  may  your  interest  in  the  town  advance, 

Above  the  reach  of  muses  or  romance. 

In  a poem,  entitled  The  Prophecy , are  some  vigorous  j 
stanzas,  in  a different  measure,  and  remarkable  for  ! 
maturity  and  freedom  of  style : 

This  truth  of  old  was  sorrow’s  friend — 

* Times  at  the  worst  will  surely  mend.’ 

The  difficulty ’s  then  to  know 
How  long  Oppression’s  clock  can  go  ; 

When  Britain’s  sons  may  cease  to  sigh, 

And  hope  that  their  redemption ’s  nigh. 

When  vile  Corruption’s  brazen  face 
At  council-board  shall  take  her  place ; 

And  lords-commissioners  resort 
To  welcome  her  at  Britain’s  court ; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh, 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

See  Pension’s  harbour,  large  and  clear, 

Defended  by  St  Stephen’s  pier  ! 

1 The  sign-post  of  an  ale-house. 

19 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


The  entrance  safe,  by  current  led, 

Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 

Tiding  round  G — ’s  jetty  head ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons ! cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

With  heart  brimful  of  woe  ; 
He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate, 
And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

When  civil  power  shall  snore  at  ease ; 
While  soldiers  fire — to  keep  the  peace ; 
When  murders  sanctuary  find, 

And  petticoats  can  Justice  blind ; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh, 

But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 
And  eke  his  loving  wife, 

With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor, 

For  good  Sir  Charles’s  life. 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

Commerce  o’er  Bondage  will  prevail, 
Free  as  the  wind  that  fills  her  sail. 
When  she  complains  of  vile  restraint, 
And  Power  is  deaf  to  her  complaint ; 

‘ 0 good  Sir  Charles  ! ’ said  Canterlone, 

‘ Bad  tidings  I do  bring.’ 

‘Speak  boldly,  man,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles ; 
‘ What  says  the  traitor- king  ?’ 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh, 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  at  Bute’s  feet  poor  Freedom  lies, 
Marked  by  the  priest  for  sacrifice, 

‘ I grieve  to  tell : before  yon  sun 
Does  from  the  welkin  fly, 

He  hath  upon  his  honour  sworn, 
That  thou  shalt  surely  die.’ 

And  doomed  a victim  for  the  sins 
Of  half  the  outs  and  all  the  ins  ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

‘ We  all  must  die,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles; 

‘ Of  that  I ’m  not  afraid ; 

What  boots  to  live  a little  space  ? 

Thank  Jesus,  I ’m  prepared. 

When  time  shall  bring  your  wish  about, 

Or,  seven-years  lease,  you  sold , is  out ; 

No  future  contract  to  fulfil ; 

Your  tenants  holding  at  your  will ; 

Raise  up  your  heads  ! your  right  demand — 
For  your  redemption ’s  in  your  hand. 

‘ But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he ’s  not, 
I ’d  sooner  die  to-day, 

Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 
Though  I should  live  for  aye.’ 

Then  is  your  time  to  strike  the  blow, 
And  let  the  slaves  of  Mammon  know, 
Britain’s  true  sons  a bribe  can  scorn, 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out, 
To  tell  the  mayor  straight 
To  get  all  things  in  readiness 
For  good  Sir  Charles’s  fate. 

And  die  as  free  as  they  were  bora. 

Virtue  again  shall  take  her  seat, 

And  your  redemption  stand  complete. 

The  boy  who  could  thus  write  at  sixteen,  might 
soon  have  proved  a Swift  or  a Dryden.  Yet  in 

Then  Mr  Canynge  sought  the  king, 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee  ; 

‘I’m  come,’  quoth  he,  ‘ unto  your  grace, 
To  move  your  clemency.’ 

satire,  Chatterton  evinced  but  a small  part  of  his 
power.  His  Rowleian  poems  have  a compass  of 
invention,  and  a luxuriance  of  fancy,  that  promised 
a great  chivalrous  or  allegorical  poet  of  the  stamp 
of  Spenser. 

‘ Then,’  quoth  the  king,  ‘ your  tale  speak  out, 
You  have  been  much  our  friend  ; 

Whatever  you  request  may  be, 

We  will  to  it  attend.’ 

Bristow  Tragedy , or  the  Death  of  Sir  Charles  B aw  din* 

The  feathered  songster  chanticleer 
Had  wound  his  bugle-horn, 

‘ My  noble  liege  ! all  my  request 
Is  for  a noble  knight, 

Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong, 
He  thought  it  still  was  right. 

And  told  the  early  villager 
The  coming  of  the  morn  : 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 
Of  light  eclipse  the  gray, 

And  heard  the  raven’s  croaking  throat, 

‘ He  has  a spouse  and  children  twain  ; 

All  ruined  are  for  aye, 

If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 
Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day.’ 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

‘ Thou  ’rt  right,’  quoth  he,  ‘ for  by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high  ! 

Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 

‘ Speak  not  of  such  a traitor  vile,’ 
The  king  in  fury  said  ; 

‘ Before  the  evening-star  doth  shine, 
Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head : 

To-day  shall  surely  die.’ 

Then  with  a jug  of  nappy  ale 
His  knights  did  on  him  wait ; 
‘ Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 

‘ Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call, 
And  he  shall  have  his  meed : 
Speak,  Mr  Canynge  ! what  thing  else 
At  present  do  you  need  V 

He  leaves  this  mortal  state.’ 

* The  antiquated  orthography  affected  by  Chatterton  being 
evidently  no  advantage  to  his  poems,  but  rather  an  impedi- 
ment to  their  being  generally  read,  we  dismiss  it  in  this  and 

‘ My  noble  liege  !’  good  Canynge  said, 
‘Leave  justice  to  our  God, 

And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside ; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 

other  specimens.  The  diction  is,  in  reality,  almost  purely 
modern,  and  Chatterton’s  spelling  in  a great  measure  arbi- 
trary, so  that  there  seems  no  longer  any  reason  for  retaining 
what  was  only  designed  at  first  as  a means  of  supporting  a 
deception. 

20 

‘ Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins, 
The  best  were  sinners  great ; 

Christ’s  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 

In  all  this  mortal  state. 

poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  chatterton. 

‘ Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 
’Twill  fix  thy  crown  full  sure ; 
From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure  : 

‘ And  shall  I now,  for  fear  of  death, 
Look  wan  and  be  dismayed  ? 

No  ! from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear  ; 
Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

‘ But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 
Begin  thy  infant  reign, 

Thy  crown  upon  thy  children’s  brows 
Will  never  long  remain.’ 

‘ Ah,  godlike  Henry ! God  forefend, 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son, 

If  ’tis  his  will ; but  if  ’tis  not, 
Why,  then  his  will  be  done. 

‘ Canynge,  away  ! this  traitor  vile 
Has  scorned  my  power  and  me  ; 
How  canst  thou,  then,  for  such  a man 
Entreat  my  clemency  ? ’ 

‘ My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince ; 

And  that  I no  time-server  am, 

My  death  will  soon  convince. 

‘ My  noble  liege  ! the  truly  brave 
Will  valorous  actions  prize ; 
Respect  a brave  and  noble  mind, 
Although  in  enemies.’ 

‘ In  London  city  was  I born, 
Of  parents  of  great  note ; 
My  father  did  a noble  arms 
Emblazon  on  his  coat : 

‘ Canynge,  away  ! By  God  in  heaven 
That  did  me  being  give, 

I will  not  taste  a bit  of  bread 
Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live  ! 

‘ I make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 
Where  soon  I hope  to  go, 
Where  we  for  ever  shall  be  blest, 
From  out  the  reach  of  woe. 

‘ By  Mary,  and  all  saints  in  heaven, 
This  sun  shall  be  his  last ! ’ 

Then  Canynge  dropped  a briny  tear, 
And  from  the  presence  passed. 

‘ He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 
With  pity  to  unite  ; 

And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 
The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief, 
He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go, 

And  sat  him  down  upon  a stool, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

‘ He  taught  me  with  a prudent  hand 
To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 

Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 
The  hungry  from  my  door : 

‘ We  all  must  die,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles ; 

‘ What  boots  it  how  or  when  ? 

Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate, 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 

* And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 
I have  his  wordis  kept ; 

And  summed  the  actions  of  the  day 
Each  night  before  I slept. 

‘ Say  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 
Runs  over  at  thine  eye ; 

Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 
That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  V 

‘ I have  a spouse,  go  ask  of  her 
If  I defiled  her  bed  ? 

I have  a king,  and  none  can  lay 
Black  treason  on  my  head. 

Saith  godly  Canynge : ‘ I do  weep, 
That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 

And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife ; 
’Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye.’ 

‘ In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve, 

From  flesh  I did  refrain ; 

Why  should  I then  appear  dismayed 
To  leave  this  world  of  pain  ? 

‘ Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 
From  godly  fountains  spring  ; 

Death  I despise,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Edward,  traitor-king. 

‘ No,  hapless  Henry  ! I rejoice 
I shall  not  see  thy  death ; 
Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 
Do  I resign  my  breath. 

‘ When  through  the  tyrant’s  welcome  means 
I shall  resign  my  life, 

The  God  I serve  will  soon  provide 
For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

‘ Oh,  fickle  people  ! ruined  land  ! 

Thou  wilt  ken  peace  no  moe ; 

While  Richard’s  sons  exalt  themselves, 
Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

‘ Before  I saw  the  lightsome  sun, 
This  was  appointed  me ; 

Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 
What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

* Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace, 
And  godly  Henry’s  reign, 

That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 
For  those  of  blood  and  pain  ? 

‘ How  oft  in  battle  have  I stood, 

When  thousands  died  around  ; 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 
Imbrued  the  fattened  ground  : 

‘ What  though  I on  a sledge  be  drawn, 
And  mangled  by  a hind, 

I do  defy  the  traitor’s  power ; 

He  cannot  harm  my  mind : 

‘ How  did  1 know  that  every  dart 
That  cut  the  airy  way, 

Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart, 
And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  ? 

* What  though,  uphoisted  on  a pole, 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air, 

.And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 
Charles  Bawdin’s  name  shall  bear ; 

21 

J from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

‘ Yet  in  the  holy  hook  above, 

Which  time  can’t  eat  away, 

There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

’Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 
She  fell  upon  the  floor ; 

Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 
And  marched  from  out  the  door. 

‘ Then  welcome  death ! for  life  eterae 
I leave  this  mortal  life  : 

Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that ’s  dear, 
My  sons  and  loving  wife  ! 

Upon  a sledge  he  mounted  then, 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet ; 
Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

‘ Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes 
As  e’er  the  month  of  May ; 

Nor  would  I even  wish  to  live, 

With  my  dear  wife  to  stay.’ 

Before  him  went  the  council-men, 
In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 

And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 
Much  glorious  to  behold  : 

Saith  Canynge  : *’Tis  a goodly  thing 
To  be  prepared  to  die ; 

And  from  tins  world  of  pain  and  grief 
To  God  in  heaven  to  fly.’ 

The  friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 
Appeared  to  the  sight, 

All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds, 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll, 

And  clarions  to  sound ; 

Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses’  feet 
A -prancing  on  the  ground. 

In  different  parts  a godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant ; 
Behind  their  back  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

And  just  before  the  officers 
His  loving  wife  came  in, 
Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe 
With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

Then  five-and-twenty  archers  came ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 

From  rescue  of  King  Henry’s  friends 
Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

‘ Sweet  Florence  ! now  I pray  forbear, 
In  quiet  let  me  die ; 

Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 
May  look  on  death  as  L 

Bold  as  a lion  came  Sir  Charles, 

Drawn  on  a cloth-laid  sledde, 

By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white, 
With  plumes  upon  their  head. 

‘ Sweet  Florence ! why  these  briny  tears  ? 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 

And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life, 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 

Behind  him  five-and-twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 

With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand, 
Marched  in  goodly  rout. 

‘ ’Tis  but  a journey  I shall  go 
Unto  the  land  of  bliss ; 

Now,  as  a proof  of  husband’s  love 
Receive  this  holy  kiss.’ 

Saint  James’s  friars  marched  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say, 
Trembling  these  wordis  spoke  : 
‘Ah,  cruel  Edward ! bloody  king ! 
My  heart  is  well-nigh  broke. 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 
In  cloth  of  scarlet  decked ; 

And  their  attending  men  each  one, 
Like  eastern  princes  tricked. 

‘ Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles  ! why  wilt  thou  go 
Without  thy  loving  wife  ? 

The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 

It  eke  shall  end  my  life.’ 

And  after  them  a multitude 
Of  citizens  did  throng ; 

The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads, 
As  he  did  pass  along. 

And  now  the  officers  came  in 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 
Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 
And  thus  to  her  did  say : 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross, 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say : 

‘ 0 thou  that  savest  man  from  sin, 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day.’ 

‘ I go  to  life,  and  not  to  death ; 

Trust  thou  in  God  above, 

And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 
And  in  their  hearts  him  love. 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 
The  king  in  mickle  state, 

To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 
To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

‘ Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 
That  I their  father  run. 

Florence  ! should  death  thee  take — adiea  ! 
Ye  officers  lead  on.’ 

Soon  as  the  sledde  drew  nigh  enough, 
That  Edward  he  might  bear, 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up, 
And  thus  his  words  declare : 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad, 

And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 

‘0  stay,  my  husband,  lord,  and  life  !’— 
Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a tear. 

22 

‘ Thou  seest  me,  Edward ! traitor  vile ! 

Exposed  to  infamy ; 

But  be  assured,  disloyal  man, 

I ’m  greater  now  than  thee. 

POETS. 


• ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


‘ By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood, 

Thou  wearest  now  a crown  ; 

And  hast  appointed  me  to  die 
By  power  not  thine  own. 

‘Thou  thinkest  I shall  die  to-day; 

I have  been  dead  till  now, 

And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a crown 
For  aye  upon  my  brow ; 

‘ Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years, 
Shalt  rule  this  fickle  land, 

To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 
’Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand. 

‘ Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave  ! 

Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head  ’ — 

From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 
Departed  then  the  sledde. 

King  Edward’s  soul  rushed  to  his  face, 

He  turned  his  head  away, 

And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 
He  thus  did  speak  and  say : 

‘ To  him  that  so-much-dreaded  death 
No  ghastly  terrors  bring  ; 

Behold  the  man  ! he  spake  the  truth ; 
He’s  greater  than  a king  !’ 

‘ So  let  him  die  ! ’ Duke  Richard  said  ; 

‘ And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 

And  feed  the  carrion  crows.’ 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill ; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 

His  precious  blood  to  spill. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go, 

As  up  a gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  valorous  chiefs 
Gained  in  the  bloody  war. 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say  : 

‘ Behold  you  see  me  die, 

For  serving  loyally  my  king, 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

‘As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land, 

No  quiet  you  will  know ; 

Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain, 
And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

‘ You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king, 
When  in  adversity ; 

Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 

And  for  the  true  cause  die.’ 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 

A prayer  to  God  did  make, 

Beseeching  him  unto  himself 
His  parting  soul  to  take. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 
Most  seemly  on  the  block ; 

Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 
The  able  headsman  stroke  : 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 

And  round  the  scaffold  twine ; 

And  tears,  enough  to  wash ’t  away, 

Did  flow  from  each  man’s  eyne. 


The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 
Into  four  partis  cut ; 

And  every  part,  and  eke  his  head, 
Upon  a pole  was  put. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kinwulph-hill, 

One  on  the  minster-tower, 

And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 
The  crowen  did  devour. 

The  other  on  Saint  Paul’s  good  gate, 

A dreary  spectacle ; 

His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 
In  high  street  most  noble. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin’s  fate : 
God  prosper  long  our  king, 

And  grant  he  may,  with  Bawdin’s  soul, 
In  heaven  God’s  mercy  sing ! 

[The  MinstreVs  Song  in  Ella.] 

Oh  ! sing  unto  my  roundelay ; 

Oh ! drop  the  briny  tear  with  me ; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 

Like  a running  river  be ; 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle’s  note, 
Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 

Oh  ! he  lies  by  the  willow-tree. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark  ! the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 

In  the  briered  dell  below ; 

Hark  ! the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing, 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See  ! the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love’s  shroud ; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love’s  grave, 

Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid, 

Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a maid. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  thei  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I ’ll  bind  the  briers, 
Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 1 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires, 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  liis  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  heart’s  blood  all  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I scorn, 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

"Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes,1 
Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 

I die — I come — my  true-love  waits. 
Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

Resignation. 

0 God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys ; 
To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I fly, 

Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 

Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill — 
But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 

0 teach  me  in  the  trying  hour, 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear, 
To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power, 

Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  bat  Thee 

Encroaching  sought  a boundless  sway, 
Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 

And  Mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain  ? 

Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess  ? 
Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain, 

For  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But  ah  ! my  breast  is  human  still — 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 

My  languid  vitals’  feeble  rill, 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigned, 

I ’ll  thank  the  inflicter  of  the  blow ; 
Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind, 

Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 

Which  on  my  sinking  spirits  steals, 
Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  reveals. 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 

Tlie  terrors  and  circumstances  of  a shipwreck 
had  been  often  described  by  poets,  ancient  and 
modem,  but  never  with  any  attempt  at  professional 
j accuracy  or  minuteness  of  detail  before  the  poem 
j of  that  name  by  Falconer.  It  was  reserved  for  a 
I genuine  sailor  to  disclose,  in  correct  and  harmonious 
verse,  the  ‘secrets  of  the  deep,’  and  to  enlist  the 
J sympathies  of  the  general  reader  in  favour  of  the 
I daily  life  and  occupations  of  his  brother- seamen, 
; and  in  all  the  movements,  the  equipage,  and  tracery 
I of  those  magnificent  vessels  which  have  carried  the 
1 British  name  and  enterprise  to  the  remotest  corners 


of  the  world.  Poetical  associations — a feeling  of 
boundlessness  and  sublimity — obviously  belonged  to 
the  scene  of  the  poem — the  ocean ; but  its  interest 
soon  wanders  from  this  source,  and  centres  in  the 
stately  ship  and  its  crew — the  gallant  resistance 
which  the  men  made  to  the  fury  of  the  storm — 
their  calm  and  deliberate  courage — the  various 
resources  of  their  skill  and  ingenuity — their  con- 
sultations and  resolutions  as  the  ship  labours  in 
distress — and  the  brave  unselfish  piety  and  gene- 
rosity with  which  they  meet  their  fate,  when  at 
last 

The  crashing  ribs  divide — 

She  loosens,  parts,  and  spreads  in  ruin  o’er  the  tide. 

Such  a subject  Falconer  justly  considered  as  ‘ new 
to  epic  lore,’  but  it  possessed  strong  recommenda- 
tions to  the  British  public,  whose  national  pride 
and  honour,  and  commercial  greatness,  are  so  closely 
identified  with  the  sea,  and  so  many  of  whom  have 
‘ some  friend,  some  brother  there.’ 

William  Falconer  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on 
the  11th  of  February  1732,  and  was  the  son  of  a 
poor  barber,  who  had  two  other  children,  both  of 
whom  were  deaf  and  dumb.  He  went  early  to  sea, 
on  board  a Leith  merchant-ship,  and  was  afterwards 
in  the  royal  navy.  Before  he  was  eighteen  years  of 
age,  he  was  second-mate  in  the  Britannia,  a vessel 
in  the  Levant  trade,  which  was  sliipwrecked  off 
Cape  Colonna,  as  described  in  his  poem.  In  1751 
he  was  living  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  published  his 
first  poetical  attempt,  a monody  on  the  death  of 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales.  The  choice  of  such  a 
subject  by  a young  friendless  Scottish  sailor,  was 
as  singular  as  the  depth  of  grief  he  describes  in 
his  poem ; for  Falconer,  on  this  occasion,  wished, 
with  a zeal  worthy  of  ancient  Pistol, 

To  assist  the  pouring  rains  with  brimful  eyes, 

And  aid  hoarse  howling  Boreas  with  his  sighs ! 

He  continued  in  the  merchant-service  for  about 
ten  years.  In  1762  appeared  his  poem  of  The 
Shipwreck , preceded  by  a dedication  to  the  Duke 
of  York.  The  work  was  eminently  successful, 
and  his  royal  highness  procured  him  the  appoint- 
ment of  midshipman  on  board  the  Royal  George, 
whence  he  was  subsequently  transferred  to  the 
Glory , a frigate  of  32  guns,  on  board  which  he  held 
the  situation  of  purser.  After  the  peace,  he  resided 
in  London,  wrote  a poor  satire  on  Wilkes,  Churchill, 
&c.,  and  compiled  a useful  marine  dictionary.  In 
October  1769,  the  poet  again  took  to  the  sea, 
and  sailed  from  England  as  purser  of  the  Aurora 
frigate,  bound  for  India.  The  vessel  reached  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  in  December,  but  afterwards 
perished  at  sea,  having  foundered,  as  is  supposed, 
in  the  Mozambique  Channel.  No  ‘tuneful  Arion’ 
was  left  to  commemorate  this  calamity,  the  poet 
having  died  under  the  circumstances  he  had 
formerly  described  in  the  case  of  his  youthful 
associates  of  the  Britannia. 

Three  editions  of  the  Shipwreck  were  published 
during  the  author’s  life.  The  second  (1764)  was 
greatly  enlarged,  having  about  nine  hundred  new 
lines  added.  Before  embarking  on  his  last  fatal 
voyage,  Falconer  published  a third  edition,  dated 
October  1,  1769— the  day  preceding  his  departure 
from  England.  About  two  hundred  more  lines 
were  added  to  the  poem  in  this  edition,  and  various 
alterations  and  transpositions  made  in  the  text. 
These  were  not  all  improvements:  some  of  the  , 
most  poetical  passages  were  injured,  and  parts  of  ; 
the  narrative  confused.  Hence  one  of  the  poet’s 
editors,  Mr  Stanier  Clarke,  in  a splendid  illustrated 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


copy  of  the  poem,  1804,  restored  many  of  the  dis- 
carded lines,  and  presented  a text  compounded  of 
the  three  different  editions.  This  version  of  the 
poem  is  that  now  generally  printed ; hut  in  a sub- 
sequent illustrated  edition,  by  the  Messrs  Black, 
Edinburgh,  1858,  Falconer’s  third  and  latest  edition 
is  more  closely  followed.  Mr  Clarke  conjectured 
— and  other  editors  have  copied  his  error — that 
Falconer,  overjoyed  at  his  appointment  to  the 
Aurora,  and  busy  preparing  for  his  voyage,  had 
intrusted  to  his  friend  David  Mallet  the  revision 
of  the  poem,  and  that  Mallet  had  corrupted  the 
text.  Now,  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  Mallet  had 
been  four  years  dead,  and  that  Falconer,  in  the 
advertisement  prefixed  to  the  work,  expressly  states 
that  he  had  himself  subjected  it  to  a strict  and 
thorough  revision.  Unfortunately,  as  in  the  case 
of  Akenside,  the  success  of  the  poet  had  not  been 
commensurate  with  his  anxiety  and  labour. 

The  Shipwreck  has  the  rare  merit  of  being  a 
pleasing  and  interesting  poem,  and  a safe  guide  to 
practical  seamen.  Its  nautical  rules  and  directions 
are  approved  of  by  all  experienced  naval  officers. 
At  first,  the  poet  does  not  seem  to  have  done 
more  than  describe  in  nautical  phrase  and  simple 
narrative  the  melancholy  disaster  he  had  witnessed. 
The  characters  of  Albert,  Rodmond,  Palemon,  and 
Anna,  were  added  in  the  second  edition  of  the 
work.  By  choosing  the  shipwreck  of  the  Britannia, 
Falconer  imparted  a train  of  interesting  recollec- 
tions and  images  to  his  poem.  The  wreck  occurred 
off  Cape  Colonna — one  of  the  fairest  portions  of 
the  beautiful  shores  of  Greece.  ‘In  all  Attica,’ 
says  Lord  Byron,  ‘ if  we  except  Athens  itself  and 
Marathon,  there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than 
Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and  artist,  sixteen 
columns  are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observation 
and  design ; to  the  philosopher,  the  supposed 
scene  of  some  of  Plato’s  conversations  will  not  be 
unwelcome ; and  the  traveller  will  be  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  “ isles  that  crown 
the  JEgean  deep ; ” but  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna 
has  yet  an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of 
Falconer’s  Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten 
in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and  Campbell — 

Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna’s  steep, 

The  seaman’s  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep.’ 

Falconer  was  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  these 
historical  and  classic  associations,  and  he  was  still 
more  alive  to  the  impressions  of  romantic  scenery 
and  a genial  climate.  Some  of  the  descriptive  and 
episodical  parts  of  the  poem  are,  however,  drawn 
out  to  too  great  a length,  as  they  interrupt  the 
narrative  where  its  interest  is  most  engrossing, 
besides  being  occasionally  feeble  and  affected.  The 
characters  of  his  naval  officers  are  finely  discrimi- 
nated: Albert,  the  commander,  is  brave,  liberal, 
and  just,  softened  and  refined  by  domestic  ties  and 
superior  information;  Rodmond,  the  next  in  rank, 
is  coarse  and  boisterous,  a hardy,  weather-beaten 
son  of  Northumberland,  yet  of  a kind  compassionate 
nature,  as  is  evinced  by  one  striking  incident : 

And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high, 
Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 

A flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light, 

Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night : 
Rodmond,  who  heard  a piteous  groan  behind, 

Touched  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind ; 

And  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd, 

He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  a shroud. 

* Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend,’  he  cries, 

‘ Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies  * 


Palemon,  ‘ charged  with  the  commerce,’  is  perhaps 
too  effeminate  for  the  rough  sea : he  is  the  lover  of 
the  poem,  and  his  passion  for  Albert’s  daughter  is 
drawn  with  truth  and  delicacy — 

’Twas  genuine  passion,  Nature’s  eldest  born. 

The  truth  of  the  whole  poem  is  indeed  one  of  its 
greatest  attractions.  We  feel  that  it  is  a passage  of 
real  life ; and  even  where  the  poet  seems  to  violate 
the  canons  of  taste  and  criticism,  allowance  is  liber- 
ally made  for  the  peculiar  situation  of  the  author, 
while  he  rivets  our  attention  to  the  scenes  of  trial 
and  distress  which  he  so  fortunately  survived  to 
describe. 

[From  the  Shipwreck] 

The  sun’s  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene, 

Now  glanced  obliquely  o’er  the  woodland  scene. 
Creation  smiles  around  ; on  every  spray 
The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay. 

Blithe  skipping  o’er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train 
Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing  plain ; 

The  golden  lime  and  orange  there  were  seen, 

On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green. 

The  crystal  streams,  that  velvet  meadows  lave, 

To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave. 

The  glassy  ocean  hushed  forgets  to  roar, 

But  trembling  murmurs  on  the  sandy  shore : 

And  lo  ! his  surface,  lovely  to  behold  ! 

Glows  in  the  west,  a sea  of  living  gold  ! 

While,  all  above,  a thousand  liveries  gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 

Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy  plains  : 

Above,  beneath,  around  enchantment  reigns ! 

While  yet  the  shades,  on  time’s  eternal  scale, 

With  long  vibration  deepen  o’er  the  vale ; 

While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  love, 

With  joyful  eyes  the  attentive  master  sees 
The  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze. 

Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train, 

And  night  slow  draws  her  veil  o’er  land  and  main ; 
Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a ring ; 

By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale,  or  sing ; 

As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main, 

Or  genial  wine,  awake  their  homely  strain  : 

Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep, 

The  rest  lie  buried  in  oblivious  sleep. 

Deep  midnight  now  involves  the  livid  skies, 

While  infant  breezes  from  the  shore  arise. 

The  waning  moon,  behind  a watery  shroud, 
Pale-glimmered  o’er  the  long-protracted  cloud. 

A mighty  ring  around  her  silver  throne, 

With  parting  meteors  crossed,  portentous  shone. 

This  in  the  troubled  sky  full  oft  prevails ; 

Oft  deemed  a signal  of  tempestuous  gales. 

While  young  Arion  sleeps,  before  his  sight 
Tumultuous  swim  the  visions  of  the  night. 

Now  blooming  Anna,  with  her  happy  swain, 
Approached  the  sacred  hymeneal  fane  : 

Anon  tremendous  lightnings  flash  between ; 

And  funeral  pomp,  and  weeping  loves  are  seen  ! 

Now  with  Palemon  up  a rocky  steep, 

Whose  summit  trembles  o’er  the  roaring  deep, 

With  painful  step  he  climbed  ; while  far  above, 

Sweet  Anna  charmed  them  with  the  voice  of  love, 
Then  sudden  from  the  slippery  height  they  fell, 

While  dreadful  yawned  beneath  the  jaws  of  hell. 
Amid  this  fearful  trance,  a thundering  sound 
He  hears — and  thrice  the  hollow  decks  rebound. 
Upstarting  from  his  couch,  on  deck  he  sprung; 

Thrice  with  shrill  note  the  boatswain’s  whistle  rung  ; 
‘ All  hands  unmoor !’  proclaims  a boisterous  cry  : 

‘ All  hands  unmoor ! ’ the  caverned  rocks  reply. 

25 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OP 


Roused  from  repose,  aloft  the  sailors  swarm, 

And  with  their  levers  soon  the  windlass  arm. 

The  order  given,  upspringing  with  a hound 

They  lodge  their  bars,  and  wheel  their  engine  round : 

At  every  turn  the  clanging  pauls  resound. 

Uptorn  reluctant  from  its  oozy  cave, 

The  ponderous  anchor  rises  o’er  the  wave. 

Along  their  slippery  masts  the  yards  ascend, 

And  high  in  air  the  canvas  wings  extend : 

Redoubling  cords  the  lofty  canvas  guide, 

And  through  inextricable  mazes  glide. 

The  lunar  rays  with  long  reflection  gleam, 

To  light  the  vessel  o’er  the  silver  stream  : 

Along  the  glassy  plain  serene  she  glides, 

While  azure  radiance  trembles  on  her  sides. 

From  east  to  north  the  transient  breezes  play ; 

And  in  the  Egyptian  quarter  die  away. 

A calm  ensues ; they  dread  the  adjacent  shore ; 

The  boats  with  rowers  armed  are  sent  before ; 

With  cordage  fastened  to  the  lofty  prow, 

Aloof  to  sea  the  stately  ship  they  tow. 

The  nervous  crew  their  sweeping  oars  extend ; 

And  pealing  shouts  the  shore  of  Candia  rend. 

Success  attends  their  skill ; the  danger ’s  o’er ; 

The  port  is  doubled,  and  beheld  no  more. 

Now  morn,  her  lamp  pale  glimmering  on  the  sight, 
Scattered  before  her  van  reluctant  night. 

She  comes  not  in  refulgent  pomp  arrayed, 

But  sternly  frowning,  wrapt  in  sullen  shade. 

Above  incumbent  vapours,  Ida’s  height, 

Tremendous  rock ! emerges  on  the  sight. 

North-east  the  guardian  isle  of  Standia  lies, 

And  westward  Freschin’s  woody  capes  arise. 

With  winning  postures,  now  the  wanton  sails 
Spread  all  their  snares  to  charm  the  inconstant 
gales. 

The  swelling  stud-sails1  now  their  wings  extend, 

Then  stay- sails  sidelong  to  the  breeze  ascend : 

While  all  to  court  the  wandering  breeze  are  placed ; 
With  yards  now  thwarting,  now  obliquely  braced. 

The  dim  horizon  lowering  vapours  shroud, 

And  blot  the  sun,  yet  struggling  in  the  cloud ; 
Through  the  wide  atmosphere,  condensed  with  haze, 
His  glaring  orb  emits  a sanguine  blaze. 

The  pilots  now  their  rules  of  art  apply, 

The  mystic  needle’s  devious  aim  to  try. 

The  compass  placed  to  catch  the  rising  ray,2 
The  quadrant’s  shadows  studious  they  survey ! 

Along  the  arch  the  gradual  index  slides, 

While  Phoebus  down  the  vertic  circle  glides. 

Now,  seen  on  ocean’s  utmost  verge  to  swim, 

He  sweeps  it  vibrant  with  his  nether  limb. 

Their  sage  experience  thus  explores  the  height, 

And  polar  distance  of  the  source  of  light ; 

Then  through  the  chiliad’s  triple  maze  they  trace 
The  analogy  that  proves  the  magnet’s  place. 

The  wayward  steel,  to  truth  thus  reconciled, 

No  more  the  attentive  pilot’s  eye  beguiled. 

The  natives,  while  the  ship  departs  the  land, 
Ashore  with  admiration  gazing  stand. 

Majestically  slow,  before  the  breeze, 

In  silent  pomp  she  marches  on  the  seas. 

Her  milk-white  bottom  cast  a softer  gleam, 

While  trembling  through  the  green  translucent  stream. 
The  wales,3  that  close  above  in  contrast  shone, 

Clasp  the  long  fabric  with  a jetty  zone. 

1 Studding-sails  are  long  narrow  sails,  which  are  only  used 
in  fine  weather  and  fair  winds,  on  the  outside  of  the  larger 
square-sails.  Stay-sails  are  three-cornered  sails,  which  are 
hoisted  up  on  the  stays,  when  the  wind  crosses  the  ship’s 
course  either  directly  or  obliquely. 

2 The  operation  of  taking  the  sun’s  azimuth,  in  order  to  dis- 
cover the  eastern  or  western  variation  of  the  magnetical  needle. 

3 The  wales  here  alluded  to  are  an  assemblage  of  strong 
planks,  which  envelop  the  lower  part  of  the  ship’s  side, 


TO  1800. 


Britannia,  riding  awful  on  tbe  prow, 

Grazed  o’er  tbe  vassal-wave  that  rolled  below : 

Where’er  she  moved,  the  vassal-waves  were  seen 
To  yield  obsequious,  and  confess  their  queen.  * * 
High  o’er  the  poop,  the  flattering  winds  unfurled 
The  imperial  flag  that  rules  the  watery  world. 
Beep-blushing  armours  all  the  tops  invest; 

And  warlike  trophies  either  quarter  drest : 

Then  towered  the  masts ; the  canvas  swelled  on  high ; 
And  waving  streamers  floated  in  the  sky. 

Thus  the  rich  vessel  moves  in  trim  array, 

Like  some  fair  virgin  on  her  bridal-day. 

Thus  like  a swan  she  cleaves  the  watery  plain, 

The  pride  and  wonder  of  the  Egean  main  ! 

[The  ship,  having  been  driven  out  of  her  course  from  Candia, 
is  overtaken  by  a storm.] 

As  yet  amid  this  elemental  war, 

That  scatters  desolation  from  afar, 

Nor  toil,  nor  hazard,  nor  distress  appear 
To  sink  the  seamen  with  unmanly  fear. 

Though  their  firm  hearts  no  pageant  honour  boast, 
They  scorn  the  wretch  that  trembles  at  his  post ; 

Who  from  the  face  of  danger  strives  to  turn, 
Indignant  from  the  social  hour  they  spurn. 

Though  now  full  oft  they  felt  the  raging  tide, 

In  proud  rebellion  climb  the  vessel’s  side, 

No  future  ills  unknown  their  souls  appal ; 

They  know  no  danger,  or  they  scorn  it  all ! 

But  even  the  generous  spirits  of  the  brave, 

Subdued  by  toil,  a friendly  respite  crave ; 

A short  repose  alone  their  thoughts  implore, 

Their  harassed  powers  by  slumber  to  restore. 

Far  other  cares  the  master’s  mind  employ ; 
Approaching  perils  all  his  hopes  destroy. 

In  vain  he  spreads  the  graduated  chart, 

And  bounds  the  distance  by  the  rules  of  art ; 

In  vain  athwart  the  mimic  seas  expands 
The  compasses  to  circumjacent  lands. 

Ungrateful  task  ! for  no  asylum  traced, 

A passage  opened  from  the  watery  waste. 

Fate  seemed  to  guard  with  adamantine  mound, 

The  path  to  every  friendly  port  around. 

While  Albert  thus,  with  secret  doubts  dismayed, 

The  geometric  distances  surveyed ; 

On  deck  the  watchful  Rodmond  cries  aloud : 

‘ Secure  your  lives — grasp  every  man  a shroud ! ’ 
Roused  from  his  trance,  he  mounts  with  eyes  aghast, 
When  o’er  the  ship  in  undulation  vast, 

A giant  surge  down-rushes  from  on  high, 

And  fore  and  aft  dissevered  ruins  lie.  * * 

Thus  the  torn  vessel  felt  the  enormous  stroke ; 

The  boats  beneath  the  thundering  deluge  broke ; 
Forth  started  from  their  planks  the  bursting  rings, 
The  extended  cordage  all  asunder  springs. 

The  pilot’s  fair  machinery  strews  the  deck, 

And  cards  and  needles  swim  in  floating  wreck. 

The  balanced  mizzen,  rending  to  the  head, 

In  streaming  ruins  from  the  margin  fled. 

The  sides  convulsive  shook  on  groaning  beams, 

And,  rent  with  labour,  yawned  the  pitchy  seams. 

They  sound  the  well,1  and  terrible  to  hear’ ! 

Five  feet  immersed  along  the  line  appear. 

At  either  pump  they  ply  the  clanking  brake,2 
And  turn  by  turn  the  ungrateful  office  take. 
Rodmond,  Arion,  and  Palemon,  here, 

At  this  sad  task  all  diligent  appear. 

wherein  they  are  broader  and  thicker  than  the  rest,  and 
appear  somewhat  like  a range  of  hoops,  which  separates  the 
bottom  from  the  upper  works. 

1 The  well  is  an  apartment  in  the  ship’s  hold,  serving  to 
enclose  the  pumps.  It  is  sounded  by  dropping  a graduated 
iron  rod  down  into  it  by  a long  line.  Hence  the  increase  or 
diminution  of  the  leaks  are  easily  discovered. 

2 The  brake  is  the  lever  or  handle  of  the  pump,  by  which 
it  is  wrought. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


As  some  fair  castle,  shook  by  rude  alarms, 

Opposes  long  the  approach  of  hostile  arms ; 

Grim  war  around  her  plants  his  black  array, 

And  death  and  sorrow  mark  his  horrid  way ; 

Till  in  some  destined  hour,  against  her  wall, 

In  tenfold  rage  the  fatal  thunders  fall ; 

The  ramparts  crack,  the  solid  bulwarks  rend, 

And  hostile  troops  the  shattered  breach  ascend ; 

Her  valiant  inmates  still  the  foe  retard, 

Resolved  till  death  their  sacred  charge  to  guard : 

So  the  brave  mariners  their  pumps  attend, 

And  help  incessant  by  rotation  lend ; 

But  all  in  vain — for  now  the  sounding  cord, 

Updrawn,  an  undiminished  depth  explored. 

Nor  this  severe  distress  is  found  alone ; 

The  ribs  oppressed  by  ponderous  cannon  groan. 

Deep  rolling  from  the  watery  volume’s  height, 

The  tortured  sides  seem  bursting  with  their  weight. 

So  reels  Pelorus,  with  convulsive  throes, 

When  in  his  veins  the  burning  earthquake  glows ; 
Hoarse  through  his  entrails  roars  the  infernal  flame ; 
And  central  thunders  rend  his  groaning  frame  ; 
Accumulated  mischiefs  thus  arise, 

And  fate  vindictive  all  their  skill  defies ; 

One  only  remedy  the  season  gave — 

To  plunge  the  nerves  of  battle  in  the  wrave. 

From  their  high  platforms  thus  the  artillery  thrown, 
Eased  of  their  load,  the  timbers  less  shall  groan ; 

But  arduous  is  the  task  their  lot  requires ; 

A task  that  hovering  fate  alone  inspires  ! 

For,  while  intent  the  yawning  decks  to  ease, 

That  ever  and  anon  are  drenched  with  seas, 

Some  fatal  billow,  with  recoiling  sweep, 

May  whirl  the  helpless  wretches  in  the  deep. 

No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay ! 

Too  soon  the  eventful  moments  haste  away ; 

Here  perseverance,  with  each  help  of  art, 

Must  join  the  boldest  efforts  of  the  heart. 

These  only  now  their  misery  can  relieve ; 

These  only  now  a dawn  of  safety  give ; 

While  o’er  the  quivering  deck,  from  van  to  rear, 

Broad  surges  roll  in  terrible  career ; 

Rodmond,  Arion,  and  a chosen  crew, 

This  office  in  the  face  of  death  pursue. 

The  wheeled  artillery  o’er  the  deck  to  guide, 

Rodmond  descending  claimed  the  weather-side. 
Fearless  of  heart,  the  chief  his  orders  gave, 

Fronting  the  rude  assaults  of  every  wave. 

Like  some  strong  watch-tower  nodding  o’er  the  deep, 
Whose  rocky  base  the  foaming  waters  sweep, 

Untamed  he  stood ; the  stern  aerial  war 
Had  marked  his  honest  face  with  many  a scar. 
Meanwhile  Arion,  traversing  the  waist,1 
The  cordage  of  the  leeward  guns  unbraced, 

And  pointed  crows  beneath  the  metal  placed. 
Watching  the  roll,  their  forelocks  they  withdrew, 

And  from  their  beds  the  reeling  cannon  threw ; 

Then,  from  the  windward  battlements  unbound, 
Rodmond’s  associates  wheel  the  artillery  round ; 
Pointed  with  iron  fangs,  their  bars  beguile 
The  ponderous  arms  across  the  steep  defile ; 

Then  hurled  from  sounding  hinges  o’er  the  side, 
Thundering,  they  plunge  into  the  flashing  tide. 

[The  tempest  increases,  and  the  dismantled  ship  passes  the 
island  of  St  George.] 

But  now  Athenian  mountains  they  descry, 

And  o’er  the  surge  Colonna  frowns  on  high. 

Beside  the  cape’s  projecting  verge  is  placed 
A range  of  columns  long  by  time  defaced ; 

1 The  waist  of  a ship  of  this  kind  is  a hollow  space  of  about 
five  feet  in  depth,  contained  between  the  elevations  of  the 
quarter-deck  and  forecastle,  and  having  the  upper-deck  for  its 
base  or  platform. 


First  planted  by  devotion  to  sustain, 

In  elder  times,  Tritonia’s  sacred  fane. 

Foams  the  wild  beach  below  with  maddening  rage, 
Where  waves  and  rocks  a dreadful  combat  wage. 
The  sickly  heaven,  fermenting  with  its  freight, 

Still  vomits  o’er  the  main  the  feverish  weight : 

And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high, 
Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 

A flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light, 
Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night : 
Rodmond,  who  heard  a piteous  groan  behind, 
Touched  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind ; 
And  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd, 

He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  the  shroud, 

‘ Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend,’  he  cries ; 

‘ Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies.’ 

The  helm,  bereft  of  half  its  vital  force, 

Now  scarce  subdued  the  wild  unbridled  course ; 
Quick  to  the  abandoned  wheel  Arion  came, 

The  ship’s  tempestuous  sallies  to  reclaim. 

Amazed  he  saw  her,  o’er  the  sounding  foam 
Upborne,  to  right  and  left  distracted  roam. 

So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  pale  dismay, 

When,  mounted  on  the  flaming  car  of  day, 

With  rash  and  impious  hand  the  stripling  tried 
The  immortal  coursers  of  the  sun  to  guide. 

The  vessel,  while  the  dread  event  draws  nigh, 
Seems  more  impatient  o’er  the  waves  to  fly  : 

Fate  spurs  her  on.  Thus,  issuing  from  afar, 
Advances  to  the  sun  some  blazing  star ; 

And,  as  it  feels  the  attraction’s  kindling  force, 
Springs  onward  with  accelerated  force. 

With  mournful  look  the  seamen  eyed  the  strand, 
Where  death’s  inexorable  jaws  expand ; 

Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all  dangers  past, 

As,  dumb  with  terror,  they  beheld  the  last. 

Now  on  the  trembling  shrouds,  before,  behind, 

In  mute  suspense  they  mount  into  the  wind. 

The  genius  of  the  deep,  on  rapid  wing, 

The  black  eventful  moment  seemed  to  bring. 

The  fatal  sisters,  on  the  surge  before, 

Y oked  their  infernal  horses  to  the  prore. 

The  steersmen  now  received  their  last  command 
To  wheel  the  vessel  sidelong  to  the  strand. 

Twelve  sailors,  on  the  foremast  who  depend, 

High  on  the  platform  of  the  top  ascend  : 

Fatal  retreat ! for  while  the  plunging  prow 
Immerges  headlong  in  the  wave  below, 

Down -pressed  by  watery  weight  the  bowsprit 
bends, 

And  from  above  tlie  stem  deep  crashing  rends. 
Beneath  her  beak  the  floating  ruins  lie  ; 

The  foremast  totters,  unsustained  on  high ; 

And  now  the  ship,  fore-lifted  by  the  sea, 

Hurls  the  tall  fabric  backward  o’er  her  lee ; 

While,  in  the  general  wreck,  the  faithful  stay 
Drags  the  maintop-mast  from  its  post  away. 

Flung  from  the  mast,  the  seamen  strive  in  vain 
Through  hostile  floods  their  vessel  to  regain. 

The  waves  they  buffet,  till,  bereft  of  strength, 
O’erpowered,  they  yield  to  cruel  fate  at  length. 

The  hostile  waters  close  around  their  head, 

They  sink  for  ever,  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 

Those  who  remain  their  fearful  doom  await, 

Nor  longer  mourn  their  lost  companions’  fate. 

The  heart  that  bleeds  •frith  sorrows  all  its  own, 
Forgets  the  pangs  of  friendship  to  bemoan. 

Albert  and  Rodmond  and  Palemon  here, 

With  young  Arion,  on  the  mast  appear ; 

Even  they,  amid  the  unspeakable  distress, 

In  every  look  distracting  thoughts  confess ; 

In  every  vein  the  refluent  blood  congeals, 

And  every  bosom  fatal  terror  feels. 

Enclosed  with  all  the  demons  of  the  main, 

They  viewed  the  adjacent  shore,  but  viewed  in 
vain.  * * 

27 


prom  17C0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1S00. 


And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe, 

"With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near  ! 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death, 

Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath  ! 
In  vain,  alas  ! the  sacred  shades  of  yore, 

"Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore ; 

In  vain  they’d  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath, 

To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 

Even  Zeno’s  self,  and  Epictetus  old, 

This  fell  abyss  had  shuddered  to  behold. 

Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue  famed, 

And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaimed, 

Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress, 

His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess  ! 

0 yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers  above, 

This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate  to  prove  ! 

The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet  sustain  ! 

Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain  ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared, 

For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 

High  o’er  the  ship  they  throw  a horrid  shade, 

And  o’er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 

Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 

Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies, 

Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground, 
Earth  groans,  air  trembles,  and  the  deeps  resound  ! 
Her  giant  bulk  the  di-ead  concussion  feels, 

And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels ; 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonising  throes, 

The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer’s  blows. 
Again  she  plunges ; hark  ! a second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock  ! 

Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 

The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair ; while  yet  another  stroke, 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak : 

Till,  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 

At  length  asunder  tom  her  frame  divides, 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o’er  the  tides.  * * 

As  o'er  the  surf  the  bending  mainmast  hung, 

Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung ; 

Some  on  a broken  crag  were  struggling  cast, 

And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast ; 

Awhile  they  bore  the  o’erwhelming  billows’  rage, 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 

Till  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below ; 
Some,  from  the  main-yard-arm  impetuous  thrown 
On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a groan ; 

Three  with  Palemon  on  their  skill  depend, 

And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend ; 

Now  on  the  mountain-wave  on  high  they  ride, 

Then  downward  plunge  beneath  the  involving  tide ; 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive, 

The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive : 

The  rest  a speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 

And  pressed  the  stony  beach — a lifeless  crew  ! 

Next,  0 unhappy  chief  ! the  eternal  doom 
Of  heaven  decreed  thee  to  the  briny  tomb : 

What  scenes  of  misery  torment  thy  view ! 

"What  painful  struggles  of  thy  dying  crew  ! 

Thy  perished  hopes  all  buried  in  the  flood, 
O’erspread  with  corses,  red  with  human  blood  ! 

So  pierced  with  anguish  hoary  Priam  gazed, 

When  Troy’s  imperial  domes  in  ruin  blazed ; 

While  he,  severest  sorrow  doomed  to  feel, 

Expired  beneath  the  victor’s  murdering  steel — 

Thus  with  his  helpless  partners  to  the  last, 

Sad  refuge  ! Albert  grasps  the  floating  mast. 

His  soul  could  yet  sustain  this  mortal  blow, 

But  droops,  alas  ! beneath  superior  woe ; 

For  now  strong  nature’s  sympathetic  chain 
Tugs  at  his  yearning  heart  with  powerful  strain ; 

His  faithful  wife,  for  ever  doomed  to  mourn 
For  him,  alas  ! who  never  shall  return ; 

23 


To  black  adversity’s  approach  exposed, 

With  want,  and  hardships  unforeseen  enclosed ; 

His  lovely  daughter,  left  without  a friend 
Her  innocence  to  succour  and  defend, 

By  youth  and  indigence  set  forth  a prey 
To  lawless  guilt,  that  flatters  to  betray — 

While  these  reflections  rack  his  feeling  mind, 
Rodmond,  who  hung  beside,  his  grasp  resigned, 

And,  as  the  tumbling  waters  o’er  him  rolled. 

His  outstretched  arms  the  master’s  legs  infold : 

Sad  Albert  feels  their  dissolution  near, 

And  strives  in  vain  his  fettered  limbs  to  clear, 

For  death  bids  every  clenching  joint  adhere. 

All  faint,  to  heaven  he  throws  his  dying  eyes, 

And  ‘Oh,  protect  my  wife  and  child  !’  he  cries — 
The  gushing  streams  roll  back  the  unfinished  sound ; 
He  gasps  ! and  sinks  amid  the  vast  profound. 


ROBERT  LLOYD. 

Robert  Lloyd,  the  friend  of  Cowper  and  j 
Churchill,  was  born  in  London  in  1733.  His  lather  : 
was  under-master  at  Westminster  School.  He  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  his  talents  at  Cambridge,  but  i 
was  irregular  in  his  habits.  After  completing  his  j 
education,  he  became  an  usher  under  his  father. 
The  wearisome  routine  of  this  life  soon  disgusted  I 
him,  and  he  attempted  to  earn  a subsistence  by  his  | 
literary  talents.  His  poem  called  The  Actor  attracted  j 
some  notice,  and  was  the  precursor  of  Churchill’s  I 
Rosciad.  The  style  is  light  and  easy,  and  the 
observations  generally  correct  and  spirited.  By 
contributing  to  periodical  works  as  an  essayist,  a 
poet,  and  stage  critic,  Lloyd  picked  up  a precarious 
subsistence,  but  his  means  were  thoughtlessly  squan- 
dered in  company  with  Churchill  and  other  wits 
‘ upon  town.’  He  brought  out  two  indifferent 
theatrical  pieces,  published  his  poems  by  subscrip- 
tion, and  edited  the  St . Janies’ s Magazine , to  which 
Colman,  Bonnel  Thornton,  and  others  contributed. 
The  magazine  failed,  and  Lloyd  was  cast  into  prison 
for  debt.  Churchill  generously  allowed  him  a guinea 
a week,  as  well  as  a servant ; and  endeavoured  to  : 
raise  a subscription  for  the  purpose  of  extricating 
him  from  his  embarrassments.  Churchill  died  in 
November  1764.  ‘Lloyd,’  says  Mr  Southey,  ‘had 
been  apprised  of  his  danger ; but  when  the  news  of 
his  death  was  somewhat  abruptly  announced  to  him, 
as  he  was  sitting  at  dinner,  he  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  sickness,  and  saying:  “I  shall  follow  poor 
Charles,”  took  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never  rose 
again ; dying,  if  ever  man  died,  of  a broken  heart. 
The  tragedy  did  not  end  here : Churchill’s  favourite 
sister,  who  is  said  to  have  possessed  much  of  her 
brother’s  sense,  and  spirit,  and  genius,  and  to  have 
been  betrothed  to  Lloyd,  attended  him  during  his 
illness ; and,  sinking  under  the  double  loss,  soon 
followed  her  brother  and  her  lover  to  the  grave.’ 
Lloyd,  in  conjunction  with  Colman,  parodied  the 
Odes  of  Gray  and  Mason,  and  the  humour  of  their 
burlesques  is  not  tinctured  with  malignity.  Indeed, 
this  unfortunate  young  poet  seems  to  have  been  one 
of  the  gentlest  of  witty  observers  and  lively  satirists  ; 
he  was  ruined  by  the  friendship  of  Churchill  and 
the  Nonsense  Club,  and  not  by  the  force  of  an 
evil  nature.  The  -vivacity  of  his  style — which  both 
Churchill  and  Cowper  copied — may  be  seen  from  the 
following  short  extract : 

[The  Miseries  of  a Poets  Life.] 

Tbe  harlot  muse,  so  passing  gay, 

Bewitches  only  to  betray. 

Though  for  a while  with  easy  air 

She  smooths  the  rugged  brow  of  care, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


And  laps  the  mind  in  flowery  dreams, 

With  Fancy’s  transitory  gleams  ; 

Fond  of  the  nothings  she  bestows, 

We  wake  at  last  to  real  woes. 

Through  every  age,  in  every  place, 

Consider  well  the  poet’s  case ; 

By  turns  protected  and  caressed, 

Defamed,  dependent,  and  distressed. 

The  joke  of  wits,  the  bane  of  slaves, 

The  curse  of  fools,  the  butt  of  knaves ; 

Too  proud  to  stoop  for  servile  ends, 

To  lacquey  rogues  or  flatter  friends ; 

With  prodigality  to  give, 

Too  careless  of  the  means  to  live ; 

The  bubble  fame  intent  to  gain, 

And  yet  too  lazy  to  maintain ; 

He  quits  the  world  he  never  prized, 

Pitied  by  few,  by  more  despised, 

And,  lost  to  friends,  oppressed  by  foes, 

Sinks  to  the  nothing  whence  he  rose. 

0 glorious  trade  ! for  wit’s  a trade, 

Where  men  are  ruined  more  than  made  ! 

Let  crazy  Lee,  neglected  Gay, 

The  shabby  Otway,  Dryden  gray, 

Those  tuneful  servants  of  the  Nine — 

Not  that  I blend  their  names  with  mine — 

Repeat  their  lives,  their  works,  their  fame, 

And  teach  the  world  some  useful  shame. 

But  bad  as  the  life  of  a hackney  poet  and  critic 
seems  to  have  been  in  Lloyd’s  estimation,  the 
situation  of  a school-usher  was  as  little  to  his  mind : 

[ Wretchedness  of  a School-usher.'] 

Were  I at  once  empowered  to  shew 
My  utmost  vengeance  on  my  foe, 

To  punish  with  extremest  rigour, 

I could  inflict  no  penance  bigger, 

Than,  using  him  as  learning’s  tool, 

To  make  him  usher  of  a school. 

For,  not  to  dwell  upon  the  toil 
Of  working  on  a barren  soil, 

And  labouring  with  incessant  pains, 

To  cultivate  a blockhead’s  brains, 

The  duties  there  but  ill  befit 
The  love  of  letters,  arts,  or  wit. 

For  one,  it  hurts  me  to  the  soul, 

To  brook  confinement  or  control ; 

Still  to  be  pinioned  down  to  teach 
The  syntax  and  the  parts  of  speech ; 

Or,  what  perhaps  is  drudgery  worse, 

The  links,  and  points,  and  rules  of  verse ; 

To  deal  out  authors  by  retail, 

Like  penny  pots  of  Oxford  ale ; 

Ob,  ’tis  a service  irksome  more 
Than  tugging  at  the  slavish  oar  ! 

Yet  such  his  task,  a dismal  truth, 

Who  watches  o’er  the  bent  of  youth, 

And  while  a paltry  stipend  earning, 

He  sows  the  richest  seeds  of  learning, 

And  tills  their  minds  with  proper  care, 

And  sees  them  their  due  produce  bear ; 

No  joys,  alas  ! his  toil  beguile, 

His  own  lies  fallow  all  the  while. 

‘Yet  still  he’s  on  the  road,’  you  say, 

‘ Of  learning.’  Why,  perhaps  he  may, 

But  turns  like  horses  in  a mill, 

Nor  getting  on,  nor  standing  still ; 

For  little  way  his  learning  reaches, 

Who  reads  no  more  than  what  he  teaches. 

CHARLES  CHURCniLL. 

A second  Dryden  was  supposed  to  have  arisen  in 
Churchill,  Avlien  he  published  his  satirical  poem, 
the  Rosciad,  in  1761.  The  impression  was  con- 


tinued by  his  reply  to  the  critical  reviewers,  shortly 
afterwards  ; and  his  Epistle  to  Hogarth , the  Prophecy 
of  Famine,  Night , and  passages  in  his  other  poems — 
all  thrown  off  in  haste  to  serve  the  purpose  of  the 
day — evinced  great  facility  of  versification,  and  a 
breadth  and  boldness  of  personal  invective  that  drew 
instant  attention  to  their  author.  Though  Cowper, 
from  early  predilections,  had  a high  opinion  of 
Churchill,  and  thought  he  was  ‘ indeed  a poet,’  we 
cannot  now  consider  the  author  of  the  Rosciad  as 
more  than  a special  pleader  or  pamphleteer  in  verse. 
He  seldom  reaches  the  heart — except  in  some  few 
lines  of  penitential  fervour — and  he  never  ascended 
to  the  higher  regions  of  imagination,  then  trod  by 
Collins,  Gray,  and  Akenside.  With  the  beauties  of 
external  nature  he  had  not  the  slightest  sympathy. 
He  died  before  he  had  well  attained  the  prime  of 
life;  yet  there  is  no  youthful  enthusiasm  about  his 
works,  nor  any  indications  that  he  sighed  for  a 
higher  fame  than  that  of  being  the  terror  of  actors 
and  artists,  noted  for  his  libertine  eccentricities, 
and  distinguished  for  his  devotion  to  Wilkes.  That 
he  misapplied  strong  original  talents  in  following 
out  these  pitiful  or  unworthy  objects  of  his  ambition, 
is  undeniable;  but  as  a satirical  poet — the  only 
character  in  which  he  appears  as  an  author — he  is 
immeasurably  inferior  to  Rope  or  Dryden.  The 
‘fatal  facility’  of  his  verse,  and  his  unscrupulous 
satire  of  living  individuals  and  passing  events,  had, 
however,  the  effect  of  making  all  London  ‘ring 
from  side  to  side’  with  his  applause,  at  a time 
when  the  real  poetry  of  the  age  could  hardly  obtain 
either  publishers  or  readers.  Excepting  Marlowe, 
the  dramatic  poet,  scarcely  any  English  author  of 
reputation  has  been  more  unhappy  in  his  life  and 
end  than  Charles  Churchill.  He  was  the  son  of 
a clergyman  in  Westminster,  where  he  was  born 
in  1731.  After  attending  Westminster  School  and 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge — which  he  quitted 
abruptly — he  made  a clandestine  marriage  with,  a 
young  lady  in  Westminster,  and  was  assisted  by 
his  father,  till  he  was  ordained  and  settled  in  the 
curacy  of  Rainham,  in  Essex.  His  father  died  in 
1758,  and  the  poet  was  appointed  his  successor  in 
the  curacy  and  lectureship  of  St  John’s  at  West- 
minster. This  transition,  which  promised  an  acces- 
sion of  comfort  and  respectability,  proved  the  bane 
of  poor  Churchill.  He  was  in  his  twenty-seventh 
year,  and  his  conduct  had  been  up  to  this  period 
irreproachable.  He  now,  however,  renewed  his 
intimacy  with  Lloyd  and  other  school-companions, 
and  launched  into  a career  of  dissipation  and 
extravagance.  His  poetry  drew  him  into  notice; 
and  he  not  only  disregarded  his  lectureship,  but 
he  laid  aside  the  clerical  costume,  and  appeared  in 
the  extreme  of  fashion,  with  a blue  coat,  gold-laced 
hat,  and  ruffles.  The  dean  of  Westminster  remon- 
strated with  him  against  this  breach  of  clerical 
propriety,  and  his  animadversions  were  seconded  by 
the  poet’s  parishioners.  Churchill  affected  to  ridicule 
this  prudery,  and  Lloyd  made  it  the  subject  of  an 
epigram : 

To  Churchill,  the  bard,  cries  the  Westminster  dean, 

Leather  breeches,  white  stockings ! pray  what  do  yon 
mean? 

’Tis  shameful,  irreverent — you  must  keep  to  church 
rules. 

If  wise  ones,  I will ; and  if  not,  they’re  for  fools. 

If  reason  don’t  bind  me,  I’ll  shake  off  all  fetters  ; 

To  be  black  and  all  black,  I shall  leave  to  my  betters. 

The  dean  and  the  congregation  were,  however,  too 
powerful,  and  Churchill  found  it  necessary  to  resign 
the  lectureship.  Ilis  ready  pen  still  threw  off  at 

29 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


■will  his  popular  satires,  and  he  plunged  into  the 
grossest  debaucheries.  These  excesses  he  attempted 
to  justify  in  a poetical  epistle  to  Lloyd,  entitled 
Night , in  which  he  revenges  himself  on  prudence 
and  the  world  by  railing  at  them  in  good  set-terms. 
‘This  vindication  proceeded,’  says  his  biographer, 
‘on  the  exploded  doctrine,  that  the  barefaced  avowal 
of  vice  is  less  culpable  than  the  practice  of  it  under 
a hypocritical  assumption  of  virtue.  The  measure 
of  guilt  in  the  individual  is*  we  conceive,  tolerably 
equal;  but  the  sanction  and  dangerous  example 
alforded  in  the  former  case,  renders  it,  in  a public 
point  of  view,  an  evil  of  tenfold  magnitude.’  The 
poet’s  irregularities  affected  his  powers  of  composi- 
tion, and  his  poem  of  The  Ghost , published  at  this 
time,  was  an  incoherent  and  tiresome  production. 
A greater  evil,  too,  was  his  acquaintance  with 
Wilkes,  unfortunately  equally  conspicuous  for 
public  faction  and  private  debauchery.  Churchill 
assisted  his  new  associate  in  the  North  Briton , and 
received  the  profit  arising  from  its  sale.  ‘This 
circumstance  rendered  him  of  importance  enough 
to  be  included  with  Wilkes  in  the  list  of  those 
whom  the  messengers  had  verbal  instructions  to 
apprehend  under  the  general  warrant  issued  for 
that  purpose,  the  execution  of  which  gave  rise  to 
the  most  popular  and  only  beneficial  part  of  the 
warm  contest  that  ensued  with  government. 
Churchill  was  with  Wilkes  at  the  time  the  latter 
was  apprehended,  and  himself  only  escaped  owing 
to  the  messenger’s  ignorance  of  his  person,  and  to 
the  presence  of  mind  with  which  Wilkes  addressed 
him  by  the  name  of  Thomson.’*  The  poet  now 
set  about  his  satire,  the  Prophecy  of  Famine , 
which,  like  Wilkes’s  North  Briton , was  specially 
directed  against  the  Scottish  nation.  The  outlawry 
of  Wilkes  separated  the  friends,  but  they  kept 
up  a correspondence,  and  Churchill  continued  to 
be  a keen  political  satirist.  The  excesses  of  his 
daily  life  remained  equally  conspicuous.  Hogarth, 
who  was  opposed  to  Churchill  for  being  a friend 
of  Wilkes,  characteristically  exposed  his  habits  by 
caricaturing  the  satirist  in  the  form  of  a bear 
dressed  canonically,  with  ruffles  at  his  paws,  and 
holding  a pot  of  porter.  Churchill  took  revenge  in 
a fierce  and  sweeping  ‘epistle’  to  Hogarth,  which 
is  said  to  have  caused  him  the  most  exquisite  pain. 
After  separating  from  his  wife,  and  forming  an 
unhappy  connection  with  another  female,  the 
daughter  of  a Westminster  tradesman,  whom  he 
had  seduced,  Churchill’s  career  drew  to  a sad  and 
premature  close.  In  October  1764  he  went  to 
France  to  pay  a visit  to  his  friend  Wilkes,  and  was 
seized  at  Boulogne  with  a fever,  which  proved  fatal 
on  the  4th  of  November.  With  his  clerical  pro- 
fession Churchill  had  thrown  off  his  belief  in  Chris- 
tianity, and  Mr  Southey  mentions,  that  though  he 
made  his  will  only  the  day  before  his  death,  there 
is  in  it  not  the  slightest  expression  of  religious  faith 
or  hope.  So  highly  popular  and  productive  had 
his  satires  proved,  that  he  was  enabled  to  bequeath 
an  annuity  of  sixty  pounds  to  his  widow,  and  fifty  to 
the  more  unhappy  woman  whom  he  had  seduced, 
and  some  surplus  remained  to  his  sons.  The  poet 

* Life  of  Churchill  prefixed  to  works.  London : 1804.  When 
Churchill  entered  the  room,  Wilkes  was  in  custody  of  the 
messenger.  ‘Good-morning,  Mr  Thomson,’  said  Wilkes  to 
him.  * How  does  Mrs  Thomson  do  ? Does  she  dine  in  the 
country?’  Churchill  took  the  hint  as  readily  as  it  had  been 
given.  He  replied  that  Mrs  Thomson  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  that  he  only  came,  for  a moment,  to  ask  him  how  he 
did.  Then  almost  directly  he  took  his  leave,  hastened  home, 
secured  his  papers,  retired  into  the  country,  and  eluded  all 
search. 

30 


was  buried  at  Dover,  and  some  of  his  gay  associates 
placed  over  his  grave  a stone,  on  which  was  engraved 
a line  from  one  of  his  own  poems : 

Life  to  the  last  enjoyed,  here  Churchill  lies. 

The  enjoyment  may  be  doubted,  and  still  more 
the  taste  of  this  inscription.  It  is  certain  that 
Churchill  expressed  his  compunction  for  parts  of 
his  conduct,  in  verses  that  evidently  came  from  the 
heart: 

Look  back ! a thought  which  borders  on  despair, 
Which  human  nature  must,  yet  cannot  bear. 

’Tis  not  the  babbling  of  a busy  world, 

Where  praise  or  censure  are  at  random  hurled, 

Which  can  the  meanest  of  my  thoughts  control, 

Or  shake  one  settled  purpose  of  my  soul ; 

Free  and  at  large  might  their  wild  curses  roam, 

If  all,  if  all,  alas ! were  well  at  home. 

No ; ’tis  the  tale  which  angry  conscience  tells, 

When  she  with  more  than  tragic  horror  swells 
Each  circumstance  of  guilt ; when  stern,  but  true, 

She  brings  bad  actions  forth  into  review, 

And,  like  the  dread  handwriting  on  the  wall, 

Bids  late  remorse  awake  at  reason’s  call ; 

Armed  at  all  points,  bids  scorpion  vengeance  pass, 
And  to  the  mind  holds  up  reflection’s  glass — 

The  mind  which  starting  heaves  the  heartfelt  groan, 
And  hates  that  form  she  knows  to  be  her  own. 

The  Conference . 

The  most  ludicrous,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  best 
of  Churchill’s  satires,  is  his  Prophecy  of  Famine , a 
Scots  pastoral,  inscribed  to  Wilkes.  The  Earl  of 
Bute’s  administration  had  directed  the  enmity  of  all 
disappointed  patriots  and  keen  partisans  against 
the  Scottish  nation.  Even  Johnson  and  Junius 
descended  to  this  petty  national  prejudice,  and 
Churchill  revelled  in  it  with  such  undisguised 
exaggeration  and  broad  humour,  that  the  most 
saturnine  or  sensitive  of  our  countrymen  must 
have  laughed  at  its  absurdity.  This  unique 
pastoral  opens  as  follows : 

Two  boys  whose  birth,  beyond  all  question,  springs 
From  great  and  glorious,  though  forgotten  kings, 
Shepherds  of  Scottish  lineage,  born  and  bred 
On  the  same  bleak  and  barren  mountain’s  head, 

By  niggard  nature  doomed  on  the  same  rocks 
To  spin  out  life,  and  starve  themselves  and  flocks, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  which,  enrobed  in  mist, 

The  mountain’s  top  with  usual  dulness  kissed, 

Jockey  and  Sawney  to  their  labours  rose  ; 

Soon  clad,  I ween,  where  nature  needs  no  clothes  ; 
Where  from  their  youth  inured  to  winter  skies, 

Dress  and  her  vain  refinements  they  despise. 

Jockey,  whose  manly  high  cheek-bones  to  crown, 
With  freckles  spotted  flamed  the  golden  down, 

With  meikle  art  could  on  the  bagpipes  play, 

Even  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  day ; 

Sawney  as  long  without  remorse  could  bawl 
Home’s  madrigals,  and  ditties  from  Fingal : 

Oft  at  his  strains,  all  natural  though  rude, 

The  Highland  lass  forgot  her  want  of  food, 

And,  whilst  she  scratched  her  lover  into  rest, 

Sunk  pleased,  though  hungry,  on  her  Sawney’s  breast. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  no  tree  was  seen, 

Earth,  clad  in  russet,  scorned  the  lively  green  : 

The  plague  of  locusts  they  secure  defy, 

For  in  three  hours  a grasshopper  must  die : 

No  living  thing,  whate’er  its  food,  feasts  there, 

But  the  chameleon,  who  can  feast  on  air. 

No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage  flew; 

No  bee  was  known  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo : 

No  streams,  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear, 

Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble  here : 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MICHAEL  BRUCE. 


Rebellion’s  spring,  which  thTough  the  country  ran, 
Furnished  with  bitter  draughts  the  steady  clan : 

No  flowers  embalmed  the  air,  but  one  white  rose, 
Which,  on  the  tenth  of  June,*  by  instinct  blows ; 

By  instinct  blows  at  morn,  and,  when  the  shades 
Of  drizzly  eve  prevail,  by  instinct  fades. 

In  the  same  poem,  Churchill  thus  alludes  to  himself : 

Me,  whom  no  muse  of  heavenly  birth  inspires, 

No  judgment  tempers,  when  rash  genius  fires  ; 

Who  boast  no  merit  but  mere  knack  of  rhyme, 

Short  gleams  of  sense  and  satire  out  of  time ; 

Who  cannot  follow  where  trim  fancy  leads 
By  prattling  streams,  o’er  flower- impurpled  meads ; 
Who  often,  but  without  success,  have  prayed 
For  apt  alliteration’s  artful  aid ; 

Who  would,  but  cannot,  with  a master’s  skill, 

Coin  fine  new  epithets  which  mean  no  ill : 

Me,  thus  uncouth,  thus  every  way  unfit 
For  pacing  poesy,  and  ambling  wit, 

Taste  with  contempt  beholds,  nor  deigns  to  place 
Amongst  the  lowest  of  her  favoured  race. 

The  characters  of  Garrick,  &c.,  in  the  Rosciad, 
have  now  ceased  to  interest;  but  some  of  these 
rough  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  Churchill  are  happily 
executed.  Smollett,  who,  he  believed,  had  attacked 
him  in  the  Critical  Review , he  alludes  to  with 
mingled  approbation  and  ridicule : 

Whence  could  arise  this  mighty  critic  spleen, 

The  muse  a trifler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  ? 

What  had  I done  that  angry  heaven  should  send 
The  bitterest  foe  where  most  I wished  a friend  ? 

Oft  hath  my  tongue  been  wanton  at  thy  name, 

And  hailed  the  honours  of  thy  matchless  fame. 

For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground, 

So  nobler  Pickle  stands  superbly  bound ; 

From  Livy’s  temples  tear  the  historic  crown, 

Which  with  more  justice  blooms  upon  thine  own. 
Compared  with  thee,  be  all  life-writers  dumb, 

But  he  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 

Whoever  read  the  Regicide  but  swore 

The  author  wrote  as  man  ne’er  wrote  before  ? 

Others  for  plots  and  under-plots  may  call, 

Here ’s  the  right  method— have  no  plot  at  all ! 

Of  Hogarth : 

In  walks  of  humour,  in  that  cast  of  style, 

Which,  probing  to  the  quick,  yet  makes  us  smile ; 

In  comedy,  his  natural  road  to  fame, 

Nor  let  me  call  it  by  a meaner  name, 

Where  a beginning,  middle,  and  an  end 

Are  aptly  joined ; where  parts  on  parts  depend, 

Each  made  for  each,  as  bodies  for  their  soul, 

So  as  to  form  one  true  and  perfect  whole, 

Where  a plain  story  to  the  eye  is  told, 

Which  we  conceive  the  moment  we  behold, 

Hogarth  unrivalled  stands,  and  shall  engage 
Unrivalled  praise  to  the  most  distant  age. 

In  Night , Churchill  thus  gaily  addressed  his 
friend  Lloyd  on  the  proverbial  poverty  of  poets : 

What  is ’t  to  us,  if  taxes  rise  or  fall  ? 

Thanks  to  our  fortune,  we  pay  none  at  all 
Let  muckworms,  who  in  dirty  acres  deal, 

Lament  those  hardships  which  we  cannot  feel. 

His  Grace,  who  smarts,  may  bellow  if  he  please, 

But  must  I bellow  too,  who  sit  at  ease  ? 

By  custom  safe,  the  poet’s  numbers  flow 
Free  as  the  light  and  air  some  years  ago. 

* The  birthday  of  the  old  Chevalier.  It  used  to  be  a great 
object  with  the  gardener  of  a Scottish  Jacobite  family  of 
those  days  to  have  the  Stuart  emblem  in  blow  by  the  tenth 

of  June. 


No  statesman  e’er  will  find  it  worth  his  pains 
To  tax  our  labours  and  excise  our  brains. 

Burdens  like  these,  vile  earthly  buildings  bear ; 

No  tribute ’s  laid  on  castles  in  the  air  ! 

The  reputation  of  Churchill  was  also  an  aerial 
structure.  1 No  English  poet,’  says  Southey,  * had 
ever  enjoyed  so  excessive  and  so  short-lived  a popu- 
larity; and  indeed  no  one  seems  more  thoroughly 
to  have  understood  his  own  powers ; there  is  no 
indication  in  any  of  his  pieces  that  he  could  have 
done  anything  better  than  the  thing  he  did.  To 
Wilkes  he  said  that  nothing  came  out  till  he  began 
to  be  pleased  with  it  himself ; but,  to  the  public,  he 
boasted  of  the  haste  and  carelessness  with  which  his 
verses  were  poured  forth. 

Had  I the  power,  I could  not  have  the  time, 

While  spirits  flow,-  and  life  is  in  her  prime, 

Without  a sin  ’gainst  pleasure,  to  design 
A plan,  to  methodise  each  thought,  each  line, 

Highly  to  finish,  and  make  every  grace 
In  itself  charming,  take  new  charms  from  place. 
Nothing  of  books,  and  little  known  of  men, 

When  the  mad  fit  comes  on,  I seize  the  pen ; 

Rough  as  they  run,  the  rapid  thoughts  set  down, 
Rough  as  they  run,  discharge  them  on  the  town. 

‘Popularity  which  is  easily  gained,  is  lost  as  easily; 
such  reputations  resembling  the  lives  of  insects, 
whose  shortness  of  existence  is  compensated  by  its 
proportion  of  enjoyment.  He  perhaps  imagined 
that  his  genius  would  preserve  his  subjects,  as 
spices  preserve  a mummy,  and  that  the  individuals 
whom  he  had  eulogised  or  stigmatised  would  go 
down  to  posterity  in  his  verse,  as  an  old  admiral 
comes  home  from  the  West  Indies  in  a puncheon  of 
rum : he  did  not  consider  that  the  rum  is  rendered 
loathsome,  and  that  the  spices  with  which  the 
Pharaohs  and  Potiphars  were  embalmed,  wasted 
their  sweetness  in  the  catacombs.  But,  in  this  part 
of  his  conduct,  there  was  no  want  of  worldly  pru- 
dence : he  was  enriching  himself  by  hasty  writings, 
for  which  the  immediate  sale  was  in  proportion  to 
the  bitterness  and  personality  of  the  satire.’ 


MICHAEL  BRUCE. 

Michael  Bruce  was  born  at  Kinnesswood,  parish 
of  Portmoak,  county  of  Kinross,  on  the  27th  of 
March  1746.  His  father  was  a humble  trades- 
man, a weaver,  who  was  burdened  with  a family  of 
eight  children,  of  whom  the  poet  was  the  fifth.  The 
dreariest  poverty  and  obscurity  hung  over  the  poet’s 
infancy,  but  the  elder  Bruce  was  a good  and  pious 
man,  and  trained  all  his  children  to  a knowledge  of 
their  letters,  and  a deep  sense  of  religious  duty.  In 
the  summer  months,  Michael  was  put  out  to  herd 
cattle.  His  education  was  retarded  by  this  employ- 
ment ; but  his  training  as  a poet  was  benefited  by 
solitary  communion  with  'nature,  amidst  scenery 
that  overlooked  Lochleven  and  its  fine  old  ruined 
castle.  When  he  had  arrived  at  his  fifteenth  year, 
the  poet  was  judged  fit  for  college,  and  at  this  time 
a relation  of  his  father  died,  leaving  him  a legacy  of 
200  merks  Scots,  or  £11,  2.9.  2d.  sterling.  This  sum 
the  old  man  piously  devoted  to  the  education  of  his 
favourite  son,  who  proceeded  with  it  to  Edinburgh, 
and  was  enrolled  a student  of  the  university.  Michael 
was  soon  distinguished  for  his  proficiency,  and  for 
his  taste  for  poetry.  Having  been  three  sessions  at 
college,  supported  by  his  parents  and  some  kind 
friends  and  neighbours,  Bruce  engaged  to  teach  a 
school  at  Gairncy  Bridge,  where  he  received  for  his 
labours  about  £11  per  annum ! He  afterwards 

81 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


removed  to  Porest  Hill,  near  Alloa,  where  he  taught 
for  some  time  with  no  better  success.  His  school- 
room was  low-roofed  and  damp,  and  the  poor 
youth,  confined  for  five  or  six  hours  a day  in  this 
unwholesome  atmosphere,  depressed  by  poverty  and 
I disappointment,  soon  lost  health  and  spirits.  He 
wrote  his  poem  of  Lochleven  at  Forest  Hill,  but  was 
at  length  forced  to  return  to  his  father’s  cottage, 
which  he  never  again  left.  A pulmonary  complaint 
had  settled  on  him,  and  he  was  in  the  last  stage  of 
consumption.  With  death  full  in  his  view,  he 
■wrote  his  Elegy , the  finest  of  all  his  productions. 
He  was  pious  and  cheerful  to  the  last,  and  died  on 
the  5th  of  July  1767,  aged  twenty-one  years  and 
three  months.  His  Bible  was  found  upon  his  pillow, 
marked  down  at  Jer.  xxii.  10:  ‘Weep  ye  not  for 
the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him.’  So  blameless  a life 
could  not  indeed  be  contemplated  without  pleasure, 
j but  its  premature  termination  must  have  been  a 
I heavy  blow  to  his  aged  parents,  who  had  struggled 
I in  their  poverty  to  nurture  his  youthful  genius. 


Bruce’s  Monument  in  Portmoak  Churchyard. 


The  poems  of  Bruce  were  first  given  to  the  world 
by  his  college-friend  John  Logan,  in  1770,  who 
warmly  eulogised  the  character  and  talents  of  his 
brother-poet.  They  were  reprinted  in  1784,  and 
afterwards  included  in  Anderson’s  edition  of  the 
poets.  The  late  venerable  and  benevolent  Principal 
Baird,  in  1807,  published  an  edition  by  subscription 
for  the  benefit  of  Bruce’s  mother,  then  a widow.  In 
1837,  a complete  edition  of  the  poems  was  brought 
out,  with  a life  of  the  author  from  original  sources, 
by  the  Rev.  William  Mackelvie,  Balgedie,  Kinross- 
shire.  In  this  full  and  interesting  memoir,  ample 
reparation  is  made  to  the  injured  shade  of  Michael 
Bruce  for  any  neglect  or  injustice  done  to  his  poeti- 
cal fame  by  his  early  friend  Logan.  Had  Bruce 
lived,  it  is  probable  he  would  have  taken  a higher 
place  among  our  national  poets.  The  pieces  he  has 
left  have  all  the  marks  of  youth ; a style  only  half 
formed  and  immature,  and  resemblances  to  other 
poets,  so  close  and  frequent,  that  the  reader  is 
constantly  stumbling  on  some  familiar  image  or 
32 


expression.  In  Lochleven , a descriptive  poem  in  blank 
verse,  he  has  taken  Thomson  as  his  model.  The 
opening  is  a paraphrase  of  the  commencement  of 
Thomson’s  Spring , and  epithets  taken  from  the 
Seasons  occur  throughout  the  whole  poem,  with 
traces  of  Milton,  Ossian,  &c.  The  following  passage 
is  the  most  original  and  pleasing  in  the  poem : 


[A  Rural  Picture .] 

Behold  the  village  rise, 

In  rural  pride,  ’mong  intermingled  trees  ! 

Above  whose  aged  tops  the  joyful  swains, 

At  eventide  descending  from  the  hill, 

With  eye  enamoured,  mark  the  many  wreaths 
Of  pillared  smoke,  high  curling  to  the  clouds. 

The  streets  resound  with  Labour’s  various  voice, 

Who  whistles  at  his  work.  Gay  on  the  green, 

Young  blooming  boys,  and  girls  with  golden  hair, 
Trip,  nimble-footed,  wanton  in  their  play, 

The  village  hope.  All  in  a reverend  row, 

Their  gray-haired  grandsires,  sitting  in  the  sun, 
Before  the  gate,  and  leaning  on  the  staff, 

The  well-remembered  stories  of  their  youth 
Recount,  and  shake  their  aged  locks  with  joy. 

How  fair  a prospect  rises  to  the  eye, 

Where  Beauty  vies  in  all  her  vernal  forms, 

For  ever  pleasant,  and  for  ever  new ! 

Swells  the  exulting  thought,  expands  the  soul, 
Drowning  each  ruder  care  : a blooming  train 
Of  bright  ideas  rushes  on  the  mind, 

Imagination  rouses  at  the  scene ; 

And  backward,  through  the  gloom  of  ages  past, 
Beholds  Arcadia,  like  a rural  queen, 

Encircled  with  her  swains  and  rosy  nymphs, 

The  mazy  dance  conducting  on  the  green. 

Nor  yield  to  old  Arcadia’s  blissful  vales 
Thine,  gentle  Leven ! Green  on  either  hand 
Thy  meadows  spread,  unbroken  of  the  plough, 

With  beauty  all  their  own.  Thy  fields  rejoice 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  golden  year. 

Fat  on  the  plain,  and  mountain’s  sunny  side, 

Large  droves  of  oxen,  and  the  fleecy  flocks, 

Feed  undisturbed  ; and  fill  the  echoing  air 
With  music,  grateful  to  the  master’s  ear. 

The  traveller  stops,  and  gazes  round  and  round 
O’er  all  the  scenes,  that  animate  his  heart 
With  mirth  and  music.  Even  the  mendicant, 
Bowbent  with  age,  that  on  the  old  gray  stone, 

Sole  sitting,  suns  him  in  the  public  way, 

Feels  his  heart  leap,  and  to  himself  he  sings. 

The  Last  Day  is  another  poem  by  Bruce  in  blank 
verse,  but  is  inferior  to  Lochleven.  In  poetical 
beauty  and  energy,  as  in  biographical  interest,  his 
latest  effort,  the  Elegy,  must  ever  rank  the  first 
in  his  productions.  With  many  weak  lines  and 
borrowed  ideas,  this  poem  impresses  the  reader,  and 
leaves  him  to  wonder  at  the  fortitude  of  the  youth, 
who,  in  strains  of  such  sensibility  and  genius,  could 
describe  the  cheerful  appearances  of  nature,  and  the 
certainty  of  his  own  speedy  dissolution. 


Elegy — Written  in  Spring. 

’Tis  past : the  iron  North  has  spent  his  rage  ; 

Stern  Winter  now  resigns  the  lengthening  day ; 
The  stormy  bowlings  of  the  winds  assuage, 

And  warm  o’er  ether  western  breezes  play. 

Of  genial  heat  and  cheerful  light  the  source, 

From  southern  climes,  beneath  another  sky, 

The  sun,  returning,  wheels  his  golden  course  : 
Before  his  beams  all  noxious  vapours  fly. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 


POETS. 


Far  to  the  north  grim  Winter  draws  his  train, 

To  his  own  clime,  to  Zemhla’s  frozen  shore  ; 

Where,  throned  on  ice,  he  holds  eternal  reign  ; 

Where  whirlwinds  madden,  and  where  tempests 
roar. 

Loosed  from  the  hands  of  frost,  the  verdant  ground 
Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green, 

Again  puts  forth  her  flowers  ; and  all  around 
Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  spring  is  seen. 

Behold  ! the  trees  new  deck  their  withered  houghs  ; 

Their  ample  leaves,  the  hospitable  plane, 

The  taper  elm,  and  lofty  ash  disclose  ; 

The  blooming  hawthorn  variegates  the  scene. 

The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen, 

Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sewed  nor  spun  ; 

The  birds  on  ground,  or  on  the  branches  green, 

Hop  to  and  fro,  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 

Soon  as  o’er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers, 

From  her  low  nest  the  tufted  lark  upsprings  ; 

And,  cheerful  singing,  up  the  air  she  steers  ; 

Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet  she 
sings. 

On  the  green  furze,  clothed  o’er  with  golden  blooms 
That  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  all  around, 

The  linnet  sits,  and  tricks  his  glossy  plumes, 

While  o’er  the  wild  his  broken  notes  resound. 

While  the  sun  journeys  down  the  western  sky, 

Along  the  greensward,  marked  with  Roman  mound, 
Beneath  the  blithesome  shepherd’s  watchful  eye, 

The  cheerful  lambkins  dance  and  frisk  around. 

Now  is  the  time  for  those  who  wisdom  love, 

Who  love  to  walk  in  Virtue’s  flowery  road, 

Along  the  lovely  paths  of  spring  to  rove, 

And  follow  Nature  up  to  Nature’s  God. 

Thus  Zoroaster  studied  Nature’s  laws ; 

Thus  Socrates,  the  wisest  of  mankind ; 

Thus  heaven-taught  Plato  traced  the  Almighty  cause, 
And  left  the  wondering  multitude  behind. 

Thus  Ashley  gathered  academic  bays ; 

Thus  gentle  Thomson,  as  the  seasons  roll, 

Taught  them  to  sing  the  great  Creator’s  praise, 

And  bear  their  poet’s  name  from  pole  to  pole. 

Thus  have  I walked  along  the  dewy  lawn  ; 

My  frequent  foot  the  blooming  wild  hath  worn ; 
Before  the  lark  I’ve  sung  the  beauteous  dawn, 

And  gathered  health  from  all  the  gales  of  morn. 

And,  even  when  winter  chilled  the  aged  year, 

I wandered  lonely  o’er  the  hoary  plain  : 

Though  frosty  Boreas  warned  me  to  forbear, 

Boreas,  with  all  his  tempests,  warned  in  vain. 

Then,  sleep  my  nights,  and  quiet  blessed  my  days ; 

I feared  no  loss,  my  mind  was  all  my  store; 

No  anxious  wishes  e’er  disturbed  my  ease ; 

Heaven  .gave  content  and  health — I asked  no  more. 

Now,  Spring  returns : but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known  ; 

Dim  in  my  breast  life’s  dying  taper  burns, 

And  all  the  joys  of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

Starting  and  shivering  in  the  inconstant  wind, 

Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  I was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I lie  reclined, 

And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass : 

55 


The  winged  moments,  whose  unstaying  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead, 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  at  rest. 

Oft  morning  dreams  presage  approaching  fate ; 

And  morning  dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true. 

Led  by  pale  ghosts,  I enter  Death’s  dark  gate, 

And  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 

I hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  woe  ? 

I see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore, 

The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below, 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields  ! ye  cheerful  plains  ! 

Enough  for  me  the  churchyard’s  lonely  mound, 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns, 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o’er  the  cheerless  ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  shut  of  eve, 

When  sleep  sits  dewy  on  the  labourer’s  eyes : 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave, 

And  talk  with  Wisdom  where  my  Daphnis  lies. 

There  let  me  sleep,  forgotten  in  the  clay, 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary  aching  eyes ; 
Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day, 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  morn  arise. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 

Mr  D’lsraeli,  in  his  Calamities  of  Authors , has 
included  the  name  of  John  Logan  as  one  of  those 
unfortunate  men  of  genius  whose  life  has  been 
marked  by  disappointment  and  misfortune.  He 
had  undoubtedly  formed  to  himself  a high  standard 
of  literary  excellence  and  ambition,  to  which  he 
never  attained ; but  there  is  no  evidence  to 
warrant  the  assertion  that  Logan  died  of  a broken 
heart.  Erom  one  source  of  depression  and  misery, 
he  was  happily  exempt : though  he  died  at  the 
early  age  of  forty,  he  left  behind  him  a sum  of 
£600.  Logan  was  born  at  Soutra,  in  the  parish  of 
Fala,  Mid-Lothian,  in  1748.  His  father,  a small 
farmer,  educated  him  for  the  church,  and,  after  he 
had  obtained  a licence  to  preach,  he  distinguished 
himself  so  much  by  his  pulpit  eloquence,  that  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  ministers  of  South  Leith. 
He  afterwards  read  a course  of  lectures  on  the 
Philosophy  of  History  in  Edinburgh,  the  substance 
of  which  he  published  in  1781 ; and  next  year  he 
gave  to  the  public  one  of  his  lectures  entire  on  the 
Government  of  Asia.  The  same  year  he  published 
his  poems,  which  were  well  received ; and  in  1783 
he  produced  a tragedy  called  Runnimede,  founded 
on  the  signing  of  Magna  Charta.  His  parishioners 
were  opposed  to  such  an  exercise  of  his  talents,  and 
unfortunately  Logan  had  lapsed  into  irregular  and 
dissipated  habits.  The  consequence  was,  that  he 
resigned  his  charge  on  receiving  a small  annuity, 
and  proceeded  to  London,  where  he  resided  till  his 
death  in  December  1788.  During  his  residence  in 
London,  Logan  was  a contributor  to  the  English 
Review , and  wrote  a pamphlet  on  the  Charges 
Against  Warren  Hastings , which  attracted  some 
notice.  Among  his  manuscripts  were  found  several 
unfinished  tragedies,  thirty  lectures  on  Roman 
history,  portions  of  a periodical  work,  and  a collec- 
tion of  sermons,  from  which  two  volumes  were 
selected  and  published  by  his  executors.  The 
sermons  are  warm  and  passionate,  full  of  piety  and 
fervour,  and  must  have  been  highly  impressive  when 
delivered. 

33 


from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


One  act  in  the  literary  life  of  Logan  we  have 
already  adverted  to — his  publication  of  the  poems 
of  Michael  Bruce.  His  conduct  as  an  editor  cannot 
he  justified.  He  left  out  several  pieces  by  Bruce, 
and,  as  he  states  in  his  preface,  ‘to  make  up 
a miscellany,’  poems  by  different  authors  were 
inserted.  The  best  of  these  he  claimed,  and 
published  afterwards  as  his  own.  The  friends  of 
Bruce,  indignant  at  his  conduct,  have  since 
endeavoured  to  snatch  this  laurel  from  his  brows, 
and  considerable  uncertainty  hangs  over  the  ques- 
tion. With  respect  to  the  most  valuable  piece  in 
the  collection,  the  ode  To  the  Cuckoo — ‘magical 
stanzas,’  says  D’lsraeli,  and  all  will  echo  the  praise, 
‘of  picture,  melody,  and  sentiment,’  and  which  Burke 
admired  so  much,  that  on  visiting  Edinburgh,  he 
sought  out  Logan  to  compliment  him — with  respect 
to  this  beautiful  effusion  of  fancy  and  feeling,  the 
evidence  seems  to  be  as  follows:  In  favour  of 
Logan,  there  is  the  open  publication  of  the  ode 
under  his  own  name ; the  fact  of  his  having  shewn 
it  in  manuscript  to  several  friends  before  its  publi- 
cation, and  declared  it  to  be  his  composition ; and 
that,  during  the  whole  of  his  life,  his  claim  to  be 
the  author  was  not  disputed.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  favour  of  Bruce,  there  is  the  oral  testimony  of  his 
relations  and  friends,  that  they  always  understood 
him  to  be  the  author;  and  the  written  evidence 
of  Dr  Davidson,  Professor  of  Natural  and  Civil 
History,  Aberdeen,  that  he  saw  a copy  of  the  ode 
in  the  possession  of  a friend  of  Bruce,  Mr  Bickerton, 
who  assured  liim  it  was  in  the  handwriting  of 
Bruce ; that  this  copy  was  signed  ‘ Michael  Bruce,’ 
and  below  it  were  written  the  words:  ‘You  will 
think  I might  have  been  better  employed  than 
writing  about  a gowk’ — [Anglice,  cuckoo.]  It  is 
unfavourable  to  the  case  of  Logan,  that  he  retained 
some  of  the  manuscripts  of  Bruce,  and  bis  conduct 
throughout  the  whole  affair  was  careless  and 
unsatisfactory.  Bruce’s  friends  also  claim  for  him 
some  of  the  hymns  published  by  Logan  as  his  own, 
and  they  shew  that  the  unfortunate  young  bard  had 
applied  himself  to  compositions  of  this  kind,  though 
none  appeared  in  his  works  as  published  by  Logan. 
The  truth  here  seems  to  be,  that  Bruce  was  the 
founder,  and  Logan  the  perfecter,  of  these  exquisite 
devotional  strains:  the  former  supplied  stanzas 
which  the  latter  extended  into  poems,  imparting  to 
the  whole  a finished  elegance  and  beauty  of  diction 
which  certainly  Bruce  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
capable  of  giving.  Without  adverting  to  the  dis- 
puted ode,  the  best  of  Logan’s  productions  are  his 
verses  on  a Visit  to  the  Country  in  Autumn , his  half- 
dramatic  poem  of  The  Lovers , and  his  ballad  stanzas 
on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.  A vein  of  tenderness  and 
moral  sentiment  runs  through  the  whole,  and  his 
language  is  select  and  poetical.  In  some  lines  On 
the  Death  of  a Young  Lady,  we  have  the  following 
true  and  touching  exclamation : 

What  tragic  tears  bedew  the  eye ! 

What  deaths  we  suffer  ere  we  die ! 

Our  broken  friendships  we  deplore, 

And  loves  of  youth  that  are  no  more ! 

No  after-friendships  e’er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days, 

And  ne’er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove, 

As  when  it  first  began  to  love. 

To  the  Cuckoo. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring ! 

Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 


What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear ; 

Hast  thou  a star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant ! with  thee 
I hail  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the  wood 
To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 

Starts,  the  new  voice  of  spring  to  hear,* 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  ! thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year ! 

Oh,  could  I fly,  I ’d  fly  with  thee  ! 

We’d  make,  with  joyful  wing, 

Our  annual  visit  o’er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 


[ Written  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  in  Autumn.'] 

’Tis  past ! no  more  the  Summer  blooms ! 

Ascending  in  the  rear, 

Behold  congenial  Autumn  comes, 

The  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

What  time  thy  holy  whispers  breathe, 

The  pensive  evening  shade  beneath, 

And  twilight  consecrates  the  floods ; 

While  nature  strips  her  garment  gay, 

And  wears  the  vesture  of  decay, 

0 let  me  wander  through  the  sounding  woods ! 

Ah  ! well-known  streams  ! — ah  ! wonted  groves, 
Still  pictured  in  my  mind  ! 

Oh  ! sacred  scene  of  youthful  loves, 

Whose  image  lives  behind  ! 

While  sad  I ponder  on  the  past, 

The  joys  that  must  no  longer  last ; 

The  wild-flower  strown  on  Summer’s  bier 
The  dying  music  of  the  grove, 

And  the  last  elegies  of  love, 

Dissolve  the  soul,  and  draw  the  tender  tear ! 

Alas  ! the  hospitable  hall, 

Where  youth  and  friendship  played, 

Wide  to  the  winds  a ruined  wall  • 

Projects  a death -like  shade  ! 

The  charm  is  vanished  from  the  vales ; 

No  voice  with  virgin-whisper  hails 
A stranger  to  his  native  bowers : 

No  more  Arcadian  mountains  bloom, 

Nor  Enna  valleys  breathe  perfume ; 

The  fancied  Eden  fades  with  all  its  flowers ! 

* This  line  originally  stood  : 

‘ Starts  thy  curious  voice  to  hear,’ 
which  was  probably  altered  by  Logan  as  defective  in  quantity. 
‘ Curious  may  be  a Scotticism,  but  it  is  felicitous.  It  marks 
the  unusual  resemblance  of  the  note  of  the  cuckoo  to  the 
human  voice,  the  cause  of  the  start  and  imitation  which  follow. 
Whereas  the  “new  voice  of  spring”  is  not  true;  for  many 
voices  in  spring  precede  that  of  the  cuckoo,  and  it  is  not 
peculiar  or  strikmg,  nor  does  it  connect  either  with  the  start 
or  imitation .’ — Note  by  Lord  Mackenzie  ( son  of  the  1 Man  of 
Feeling  ’)  in  Bruce's  Poems , by  Rev . W.  Mackelvie. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 


Companions  of  the  youthful  scene, 

Endeared  from  earliest  days  ! 

With  whom  I sported  on  the  green, 

Or  roved  the  woodland  maze  ! 

Long-exiled  from  your  native  clime, 

Or  by  the  thunder  stroke  of  time 
Snatched  to  the  shadows  of  despair ; 

I hear  your  voices  in  the  wind, 

Your  forms  in  every  walk  I find ; 

I stretch  my  arms  : ye  vanish  into  air  ! 

My  steps,  when  innocent  and  young, 

These  fairy  paths  pursued ; 

And  wandering  o’er  the  wild,  I sung 
My  fancies  to  the  wood. 

I mourned  the  linnet-lover’s  fate, 

Or  turtle  from  her  murdered  mate, 

Condemned  the  widowed  hours  to  wail : 

Or  while  the  mournful  vision  rose, 

I sought  to  weep  for  imaged  woes, 

Nor  real  life  believed  a tragic  tale  ! 

Alas  ! misfortune’s  cloud  unkind 
May  summer  soon  o’ercast ! 

And  cruel  fate’s  untimely  wind 
All  human  beauty  blast ! 

The  wrath  of  nature  smites  our  bowers, 

And  promised  fruits  and  cherished  flowers, 
The  hopes  of  life  in  embryo  sweeps ; 

Pale  o’er  the  ruins  of  his  prime, 

And  desolate  before  his  time, 

In  silence  sad  the  mourner  walks  and  weeps ! 

Complaint  of  Nature. 

1 Few  are  thy  days,  and  full  of  woe, 

0 man,  of  woman  born ! 

Thy  doom  is  written,  “ Dust  thou  art, 

And  shalt  to  dust  return.” 

Determined  are  the  days  that  fly 
Successive  o’er  thy  head ; 

The  numbered  hour  is  on  the  wing 
That  lays  thee  with  the  dead. 

Alas ! the  little  day  of  life 
Is  shorter  than  a span ; 

Yet  black  with  thousand  hidden  ills 
To  miserable  man. 

Gay  is  thy  morning,  flattering  hope 
Thy  sprightly  step  attends ; 

But  soon  the  tempest  howls  behind, 

And  the  dark  night  descends. 


The  Winter  past,  reviving  flowers 
Anew  shall  paint  the  plain, 

The  woods  shall  hear  the  voice  of  Spring, 
And  flourish  green  again. 

But  man  departs  this  earthly  scene, 

Ah  ! never  to  return  ! 

No  second  Spring  shall  e’er  revive 
The  ashes  of  the  urn. 

The  inexorable  doors  of  death 
What  hand  can  e’er  unfold  ? 

Who  from  the  cerements  of  the  tomb 
Can  raise  the  human  mould  ? 

The  mighty  flood  that  rolls  along 
Its  torrents  to  the  main, 

The  waters  lost  can  ne’er  recall 
From  that  abyss  again. 

The  days,  the  years,  the  ages,  dark 
Descending  down  to  night, 

Can  never,  never  be  redeemed 
Back  to  the  gates  of  light. 

So  man  departs  the  living  scene, 

To  night’s  perpetual  gloom  ; 

The  voice  of  morning  ne’er  shall  break 
The  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

Where  are  our  fathers  ? Whither  gone 
The  mighty  men  of  old  ? 

The)'  patriarchs,  prophets,  princes,  kings, 

In  sacred  books  enrolled  ? 

Gone  to  the  resting-place  of  man, 

The  everlasting  home, 

Where  ages  past  have  gone  before, 

Where  future  ages  come.’ 

Thus  nature  poured  the  wail  of  woe, 

And  urged  her  earnest  cry ; 

Her  voice,  in  agony  extreme, 

Ascended  to  the  sky. 

The  Almighty  heard : then  from  his  throne 
In  majesty  he  rose ; 

And  from  the  heaven,  that  opened  wide, 
His  voice  in  mercy  flows. 

1 When  mortal  man  resigns  his  breath, 

And  falls  a clod  of  clay, 

The  soul  immortal  wings  its  flight 
To  never-setting  day. 


Before  its  splendid  hour  the  cloud 
Comes  o’er  the  beam  of  light ; 

A pilgrim  in  a weary  land, 

Man  tarries  but  a night. 


1 Prepared  of  old  for  wicked  men 
The  bed  of  torment  lies ; 

The  just  shall  enter  into  bliss 
Immortal  in  the  skies.’ 


Behold  ! • sad  emblem  of  thy  state, 

The  flowers  that  paint  the  field ; 

Or  trees  that  crown  the  mountain’s  brow, 
And  boughs  and  blossoms  yield. 


The  above  liymn  has  been  claimed  for  Michael  Bruce 
by  Mr  Mackelvio,  his  biographer,  on  the  faith 
of  ‘internal  evidence,’  because  two  of  the  stanzas 
resemble  a fragment  in  the  handwriting  of  Bruce. 
We  subjoin  the  stanzas  and  the  fragment : 


When  chill  the  blast  of  Winter  blows, 
Away  the  Summer  flies, 

The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes, 
And  all  their  beauty  dies. 


When  chill  the  blast  of  winter  blows, 
Away  the  summer  flies, 

The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes, 
And  all  their  beauty  dies. 


Nipt  by  the  year  the  forest  fades ; 

And,  shaking  to  the  wind, 

The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 
The  wilderness  behind. 


Nipt  by  the  year  the  forest  fades ; 

And,  shaking  to  the  wind, 

The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 
The  wilderness  behind. 

35 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


‘ The  hoar-frost  glitters  on  the  ground,  the  frequent 
leaf  falls  from  the  wood,  and  tosses  to  and  fro  down 
on  the  wind.  The  summer  is  gone  with  all  his 
flowers ; summer,  the  season  of  the  muses ; yet  not 
the  more  cease  I to  wander  where  the  muses  haunt 
near  spring  or  shadowy  grove,  or  sunny  hill.  It 
was  on  a calm  morning,  while  yet  the  darkness 
strove  with  the  doubtful  twilight,  I rose  and  walked 
out  under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn.’ 

If  the  originality  of  a poet  is  to  be  questioned  on 
the  ground  of  such  resemblances  as  the  above,  what 
modem  is  safe?  The  images  in  both  pieces  are 
common  to  all  descriptive  poets.  Bruce’s  Ossianic 
fragment  is  patched  with  expressions  from  Milton, 
which  are  neither  marked  as  quotations  nor  printed 


as  poetry.  The  reader  will  easily  recollect  the 
following : 

Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  iii, 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

We  drove  afield. 

Lycidas. 

THOMAS  WARTON. 

The  Wartons,  like  the  Beaumonts,  were  a poeti- 
cal race.  As  literary  antiquaries,  they  were  also 
honourably  distinguished.  Thomas,  the  historian 


Windsor  Castle. 


of  English  poetry,  was  the  second  son  of  Dr  Warton  ’ 
of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  who  was  twice  chosen 
Professor  of  Poetry  by  his  university,  and  who 
wrote  some  pleasing  verses,  half  scholastic  and 
half  sentimental.  A sonnet  by  the  elder  Warton 
is  worthy  being  transcribed,  for  its  strong  family- 
likeness  : 

[ Written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle.'] 

From  beauteous  Windsor’s  high  and  storied  halls, 
Where  Edward’s  chiefs  start  from  the  glowing  walls, 

To  my  low  cot  from  ivory  beds  of  state, 

Pleased  I return  unenvious  of  the  great. 

So  the  bee  ranges  o’er  the  varied  scenes 
Of  corn,  of  heaths,  of  fallows,  and  of  greens, 

Pervades  the  thicket,  soars  above  the  hill, 

Or  murmurs  to  the  meadow’s  murmuring  rill : 

Now  haunts  old  hollowed  oaks,  deserted  cells, 

Now  seeks  the  low  vale  lily’s  silver  bells; 

36 


Sips  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  greenhouse  bowers, 
And  tastes  the  myrtle  and  the  citron’s  flowers ; 

At  length  returning  to  the  wonted  comb, 

Prefers  to  all  his  little  straw-built  home. 

The  poetry-professor  died  in  1745.  His  tastes,  his 
love  of  poetry,  and  of  the  university,  were  continued 
by  his  son  Thomas,  born  in  1728.  At  sixteen, 
Thomas  Warton  was  entered  of  Trinity  College.  He 
began  early  to  write  verses,  and  his  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy , published  when  he  was  nineteen,  gave  a 
promise  of  excellence  which  his  riper  productions 
did  not  fulfil.  Having  taken  his  degree,  Warton 
obtained  a fellowship,  and  in  1757  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Poetry.  He  was  also  curate  of  Wood- 
stock,  and  rector  of  Kiddington,  a small  living  near 
Oxford.  The  even  tenor  of  his  life  was  only  varied 
by  his  occasional  publications,  one  of  which  Avas  an 
elaborate  Essay  on  Spenser’s  Faery  Queen.  He  also 
edited  the  minor  poems  of  Milton,  an  edition  which 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


POETS. 


Leigh  Hunt  says  is  a wilderness  of  sweets,  and  is 
the  only  one  in  which  a true  lover  of  the  original 
can  pardon  an  exuberance  of  annotation.  Some  of 
the  notes  are  highly  poetical,  while  others  display 
Warton’s  taste  for  antiquities,  for  architecture, 
superstition,  and  his  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  old  Elizabethan  writers.  A still  more  important 
work,  the  History  of  English  Poetry , forms  the  basis 
of  his  reputation.  In  this  history,  Warton  poured 
out  in  profusion  the  treasures  of  a full  mind.  His 
antiquarian  lore,  his  love  of  antique  manners,  and 
his  chivalrous  feelings,  found  appropriate  exercise 
in  tracing  the  stream  of  our  poetry  from  its  first 
fountain- springs,  down  to  the  luxuriant  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  which  he  justly  styled  ‘the  most  poetical 
age  of  our  annals.’  Pope  and  Gray  had  planned 
schemes  of  a history  of  English  poetry,  in  which  the 
authors  were  to  be  arranged  according  to  their  style 
and  merits.  Warton  adopted  the  chronological 
arrangement,  as  giving  freer  exertion  for  research, 
and  as  enabling  him  to  exhibit,  without  transposition, 
the  gradual  improvement  in  our  poetry,  and  the 
progression  of  our  language.  The  untiring  industry 
and  learning  of  the  poet-historian  accumulated  a 
mass  of  materials  equally  valuable  and  curious.  His 
work  is  a vast  storehouse  of  facts  connected  with 
our  early  literature ; and  if  he  sometimes  wanders 
from  his  subject,  or  overlays  it  with  extraneous 
details,  it  should  be  remembered,  as  his  latest  editor, 
Mr  Price,  remarks,  that  new  matter  was  constantly 
arising,  and  that  Warton  ‘was  the  first  adventurer 
in  the  extensive  region  through  which  he  journeyed, 
and  into  which  the  usual  pioneers  of  literature 
had  scarcely  penetrated.’  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
Warton’s  plan  excluded  the  drama,  which  forms  so 
rich  a source  of  our  early  imaginative  literature ; 
but  this  defect  has  been  partly  supplied  by  Mr 
Collier’s  Annals  of  the  Stage.  On  the  death  of 
Whitehead  in  1785,  Warton  was  appointed  poet- 
laureate.  His  learning  gave  dignity  to  an  office 
usually  held  in  small  esteem,  and  which  in  our  day 
has  been  wisely  converted  into  a sinecure.  The 
same  year  he  was  made  Camden  Professor  of 
History.  While  pursuing  his  antiquarian  and 
literary  researches,  Warton  was  attacked  with  gout, 
and  his  enfeebled  health  yielded  to  a stroke  of 
paralysis  in  1790.  Notwithstanding  the  classic 
stiffness  of  his  poetry,  and  his  full-blown  academical 
honours,  Warton  appears  to  have  been  an  easy 
companionable  man,  who  delighted  to  unbend  in 
common  society,  and  especially  with  boys.  ‘ During 
his  visits  to  his  brother,  Dr  J.  Warton — master  of 
Winchester  School — the  reverend  professor  became 
an  associate  and  confidant  in  all  the  sports  of  the 
school-boys.  When  engaged  with  them  in  some 
culinary  occupation,  and  when  alarmed  by  the 
sudden  approach  of  the  master,  he  has  been  known 
to  hide  himself  in  a dark  corner  of  the  kitchen ; and 
has  been  dragged  from  thence  by  the  doctor,  who 
had  taken  him  for  some  great  boy.  He  also  used  to 
help  the  boys  in  their  exercises,  generally  putting 
in  as  many  faults  as  would  disguise  the  assist- 
ance.’* If  there  was  little  dignity  in  this,  there 
was  something  better — a kindliness  of  disposition 
and  freshness  of  feeling  which  all  would  wish  to 
retain. 

The  poetry  of  Warton  is  deficient  in  natural  ex- 
pression and  general  interest,  but  some  of  his  longer 
pieces,  by  their  martial  spirit  and  Gothic  fancy, 
arc  calculated  to  awaken  a stirring  and  romantic 
enthusiasm.  Hazlitt  considered  some  of  his  sonnets 
the  finest  in  the  language,  and  they  seem  to  have 

* Vide  Campbell’s  Specimens,  second  edition,  p.  620. 


caught  the  fancy  of  Coleridge  and  Bowles.  The 
following  are  picturesque  and  graceful : 

Written  in  a Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale's  Monasticon. 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 

By  Fancy’s  genuine  feelings  unbeguiled 
Of  painful  pedantry,  the  poring  child, 

Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  page, 
Now  sunk  by  Time,  and  Henry’s  fiercer  rage. 

Think’ st  thou  the  warbling  muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours  ? Ingenious  views  engage 
His  thoughts  on  themes  unclassic  falsely  styled, 
Intent.  While  cloistered  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 

Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 

Not  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 


On  Revisiting  the  River  Lodclon. 

Ah  ! what  a weary  race  my  feet  have  run 
Since  first  I trod  thy  banks  with  alders  crowned, 
And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  ground, 
Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun — 

When  first  my  muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 

While  pensive  memory  traces  back  the  round 
Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between ; 

Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow  marks  the  scene. 
Sweet  native  stream  ! those  skies  and  suns  so  pure, 
No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road  ! 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure 
Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed 
From  youth’s  gay  dawn  to  manhood’s  prime  mature, 
Nor  with  the  muse’s  laurel  unbestowed. 


On  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Painted  Window  at  Oxford. 

Ye  brawny  Prophets,  that  in  robes  so  rich, 

At  distance  due,  possess  the  crisped  niche ; 

Ye  rows  of  Patriarchs  that,  sublimely  reared, 

Diffuse  a proud  primeval  length  of  beard  : 

Ye  Saints,  who,  clad  in  crimson’s  bright  array, 

More  pride  than  humble  poverty  display  : 

Ye  Virgins  meek,  that  wear  the  palmy  crown 
Of  patient  faith,  and  yet  so  fiercely  frown : 

Ye  Angels,  that  from  clouds  of  gold  recline, 

But  boast  no  semblance  to  a race  divine  : 

Ye  tragic  Tales  of  legendary  lore, 

That  draw  devotion’s  ready  tear  no  more ; 

Ye  Martyrdoms  of  unenlightened  days, 

Ye  Miracles  that  now  no  wonder  raise ; 

Shapes,  that  with  one  broad  glare  the  gazer  strike, 
Kings,  bishops,  nuns,  apostles,  all  alike  ! 

Ye  Colours,  that  the  unwary  sight  amaze, 

And  only  dazzle  in  the  noontide  blaze  ! 

No  more  the  sacred  window’s  round  disgrace, 

But  yield  to  Grecian  groups  the  shining  space. 

Lo  ! from  the  canvas  Beauty  shifts  her  throne  ; 

Lo  ! Picture’s  powers  a new  formation  own  ! 

Behold,  she  prints  upon  the  crystal  plain, 

With  her  own  energy,  the  expressive  stain  ! 

The  mighty  Master  spreads  his  mimic  toil 
More  wide,  nor  only  blends  the  breathing  oil ; 

But  calls  the  lineaments  of  life  complete 
From  genial  alchemy’s  creative  heat ; 

Obedient  forms  to  the  bright  fusion  gives, 

While  in  the  warm  enamel  Nature  lives. 

Reynolds,  ’tis  thine,  from  the  broad  window’s  height, 
To  add  new  lustre  to  religious  light : 

Not  of  its  pomp  to  strip  this  ancient  shrine, 

But  bid  that  pomp  with  purer  radiance  shine  : 

With  arts  unknown  before,  to  reconcile 
The  willing  Graces  to  the  Gothic  pile. 


I 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


The  Hamlet. — An  Ode. 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who,  ne’er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet’s  hawthorn  wild, 

Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main, 
For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain ! 

When  morning’s  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue, 

To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew ; 

The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fed, 

That  nodding  shades  a craggy  dell. 

Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear, 

Wild  nature’s  sweetest  notes  they  hear  : 

On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth’s  neglected  hue  : 

In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds, 
They  spy  the  squirrel’s  airy  bounds ; 

And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray, 

Across  the  glen  the  screaming  jay ; 

Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude’s  sequestered  store. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts  to  illume  their  homeward  way : 

Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve, 

The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 

No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare, 

That  o’er  a glimmering  hearth  they  share : 
But  when  the  curfew’s  measured  roar 
Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o’er, 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town, 

They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down, 

No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 
Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay-built  room, 

Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray, 

Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay ; 

Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip -twine, 

Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine ; 

Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hill, 

To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill ; 

Or  climb  the  tall  pine’s  gloomy  crest, 

To  rob  the  raven’s  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honied  flowers, 

The  curling  woodbine’s  shade  embowers ; 
From  the  small  garden’s  thymy  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound : 

Nor  fell  disease  before  his  time, 

Hastes  to  consume  life’s  golden  prime  : 

But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar  ; 

As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep, 

Beneath  a flowery  turf  they  sleep. 


JOSEPH  WAKTON. 

The  elder  brother  of  Thomas  Warton  closely 
resembled  him  in  character  and  attainments.  He 
was  born  in  1722,  and  was  the  schoolfellow  of 
Collins  at  Winchester.  He  was  afterwards  a com- 
moner of  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  and  ordained  on  his 
father’s  curacy  at  Basingstoke.  He  was  also  rector 
of  Tamworth.  In  1766  he  was  appointed  head- 
master of  Winchester  School,  to  which  were 
subsequently  added  a prebend  of  St  Paul’s  and  of 
Winchester.  He  survived  his  brother  ten  years, 
dying  in  1800.  Dr  Joseph  Warton  early  appeared 
as  a poet,  but  is  considered  by  Mr  Campbell  as 
38 


inferior  to  his  brother  in  the  graphic  and  romantic 
style  of  composition  at  which  he  aimed.  His  ode 
To  Fancy  seems,  however,  to  be  equal  to  all  but  a 
few  pieces  of  Thomas  Warton’s.  He  was  also  editor 
of  an  edition  of  Pope’s  works,  which  was  favourably 
reviewed  by  Johnson.  Warton  was  long  intimate 
with  Johnson,  and  a member  of  his  literary  club. 

To  Fancy. 

O parent  of  each  lovely  muse  ! 

Thy  spirit  o’er  my  soul  diffuse, 

O’er  all  my  artless  songs  preside, 

My  footsteps  to  thy  temple  guide, 

To  offer  at  thy  turf-built  shrine 
In  golden  cups  no  costly  wine, 

No  murdered  fatling  of  the  flock, 

But  flowers  and  honey  from  the  rock. 

O nymph  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 

With  buskined  leg,  and  bosom  bare, 

Thy  waist  with  myrtle-girdle  bound, 

Thy  brows  with  Indian  feathers  crowned, 

Waving  in  thy  snowy  hand 
An  all-commanding  magic  wand, 

Of  power  to  bid  fresh  gardens  grow 
’Mid  cheerless  Lapland’s  barren  snow, 

Whose  rapid  wings  thy  flight  convey 
Through  air,  and  over  earth  and  sea, 

While  the  various  landscape  lies 
Conspicuous  to  thy  piercing  eyes  ! 

O lover  of  the  desert,  hail ! 

Say  in  what  deep  and  pathless  vale, 

Or  on  what  hoary  mountain’s  side, 

’Midst  falls  of  water,  you  reside ; 

Midst  broken  rocks  a rugged  scene, 

With  green  and  grassy  dales  between ; 

’Midst  forests  dark  of  aged  oak. 

Ne’er  echoing  -with  the  woodman’s  stroke, 

Where  never  human  heart  appeared, 

Nor  e’er  one  straw-roofed  cot  was  reared, 

Where  Nature  seemed  to  sit  alone, 

Majestic  on  a craggy  throne ; 

Tell  me  the  path,  sweet  wanderer,  tell, 

To  thy  unknown  sequestered  cell, 

Where  woodbines  cluster  round  the  door, 

Where  shells  and  moss  o’erlay  the  floor, 

And  on  whose  top  a hawthorn  blows, 

Amid  whose  thickly-woven  boughs 
Some  nightingale  still  builds  her  nest, 

Each  evening  warbling  thee  to  rest ; 

Then  lay  me  by  the  haunted  stream, 

Wrapt  in  some  wild  poetic  dream, 

In  converse  while  methinks  I rove 
With  Spenser  through  a fairy  grove ; 

Till  suddenly  awaked,  I hear 
Strange  whispered  music  in  my  ear, 

And  my  glad  soul  in  bliss  is  drowned 
By  the  sweetly  soothing  sound  ! 

Me,  goddess,  by  the  right  hand  lead, 

Sometimes  through  the  yellow  mead, 

Where  Joy  and  white-robed  Peace  resort, 

And  Venus  keeps  her  festive  court ; 

Where  Mirth  and  Youth  each  evening  meet* 

And  lightly  trip  with  nimble  feet, 

Nodding  their  lily-crowned  heads, 

Where  Laughter  rose-lipped  Hebe  leads ; 

Where  Echo  walks  steep  hills  among, 

Listening  to  the  shepherd’s  song. 

Yet  not  these  flowery  fields  of  joy 
Can  long  my  pensive  mind  employ ; 

Haste,  Fancy,  from  these  scenes  of  folly, 

To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 

Goddess  of  the  tearful  eye, 

That  loves  to  fold  her  arms  and  sigh ! 

Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 
To  charnels  and  the  house  of  woe, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 


POETS. 


To  Gothic  churches,  vaults,  and  tombs, 
Where  each  sad  night  some  virgin  comes, 
With  throbbing  breast,  and  faded  cheek, 
Her  promised  bridegroom’s  urn  to  seek ; 

Or  to  some  abbey’s  mouldering  towers, 
Where  to  avoid  cold  winter’s  showers, 

The  naked  beggar  shivering  lies, 

Whilst  whistling  tempests  round  her  rise, 
And  trembles  lest  the  tottering  wall 
Should  on  her  sleeping  infants  fall. 

Now  let  us  louder  strike  the  lyre, 

For  my  heart  glows  with  martial  fire ; 

I feel,  I feel,  with  sudden  heat, 

My  big  tumultuous  bosom  beat ! 

The  trumpet’s  clangours  pierce  mine  ear, 

A thousand  widows’  shrieks  I hear ; 

‘ Give  me  another  horse,’  I ciy ; 

Lo  ! the  base  Gallic  squadrons  fly. 

Whence  is  this  rage  ? What  spirit,  say, 

To  battle  hurries  me  away  ? 

’Tis  Fancy,  in  her  fiery  car, 

Transports  me  to  the  thickest  war, 

* There  whirls  me  o’er  the  hills  of  slain, 
Where  Tumult  and  Destruction  reign ; 
Where,  mad  with  pain,  the  wounded  steed 
Tramples  the  dying  and  the  dead ; 

Where  giant  Terror  stalks  around, 

With  sullen  joy  surveys  the  ground, 

And,  pointing  to  the  ensanguined  field, 
Shakes  his  dreadful  Gorgon  shield ! 

0 ! guide  me  from  this  horrid  scene 
To  high-arched  walks  and  alleys  green, 
Which  lovely  Laura  seeks,  to  shun 
The  fervours  of  the  mid-day  sun  ! 

The  pangs  of  absence,  0 ! remove, 

For  thou  canst  place  me  near  my  love, 

Canst  fold  in  visionary  bliss, 

And  let  me  think  I steal  a kiss. 

When  young-eyed  Spring  profusely  throws 
From  her  green  lap  the  pink  and  rose ; 
When  the  soft  turtle  of  the  dale 
To  summer  tells  her  tender  tale  : 

When  Autumn  cooling  caverns  seeks, 

And  stains  with  wine  his  jolly  cheeks; 
When  Winter,  like  poor  pilgrim  old, 

Shakes  his  silver  beard  with  cold; 

At  every  season  let  my  ear 
Thy  solemn  whispers,  Fancy,  hear. 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 

A blind  descriptive  poet  seems  such  an  anomaly  in 
nature,  that  the  case  of  Dr  Blacklock  has  engaged  the 
attention  of  the  learned  and  curious  in  no  ordinary 
degree.  We  read  all  concerning  him  with  strong 
interest,  except  his  poetry , for  this  is  generally  tame, 
languid,  and  commonplace.  He  was  an  amiable 
and  excellent  man,  of  warm  and  generous  sensi- 
bilities, eager  for  knowledge,  and  proud  to  com- 
municate it.  TnoMAS  Blacklock  was  the  son 
of  a Cumberland  bricklayer,  who  had  settled  in  the 
town  of  Annan,  Dumfriesshire.  When  about  six 
months  old,  the  child  was  totally  deprived  of  sight 
by  the  small-pox;  but  his  worthy  father,  assisted 
by  his  neighbours,  amused  his  solitary  boyhood  by 
reading  to  him ; and  before  he  had  reached  the 
age  of  twenty,  he  was  familiar  with  Spenser,  Milton, 
Pope,  and  Addison.  He  was  enthusiastically  fond  of 
poetry,  particularly  of  the  works  of  Thomson  and 
Allan  Ramsay.  From  these  he  must,  in  a great 
degree,  have  derived  his  images  and  impressions 
of  nature  and  natural  objects ; but  in  after-life  the 
classic  poets  were  added  to  his  store  of  intellectual 
enjoyment.  His  father  was  accidentally  killed  when 
the  poet  was  about  the  age  of  nineteen ; but  some 


of  his  attempts  at  verse  having  been  seen  by  Dr 
Stevenson,  Edinburgh,  this  benevolent  gentleman 
took  their  blind  author  to  the  Scottish  metropolis, 
where  he  was  enrolled  as  a student  of  divinity.  In 
1746,  he  published  a volume  of  his  poems,  which 
was  reprinted  with  additions  in  1754  and  1756. 
He  was  licensed  a preacher  of  the  gospel  in  1759, 
and  three  years  afterwards,  married  the  daughter 
of  Mr  Johnston,  a surgeon  in  Dumfries.  At  the 
same  time,  through  the  patronage  of  the  Earl 
of  Selkirk,  Blacklock  was  appointed  minister  of 
Kirkcudbright.  The  parishioners,  however,  were 
opposed  both  to  church  patronage  in  the  abstract, 
and  to  this  exercise  of  it  in  favour  of  a blind  man, 
and  the  poet  relinquished  the  appointment  on 
receiving  in  lieu  of  it  a moderate  annuity.  He  now 
resided  in  Edinburgh,  and  took  boarders  into  his 
house.  His  family  was  a scene  of  peace  and  happi- 
ness. To  his  literary  pursuits  Blacklock  added  a 
taste  for  music,  and  played  on  the  flute  and  flageolet. 
Latterly,  he  suffered  from  depression  of  spirits, 
and  supposed  that  his  imaginative  powers  were 
failing  him  ; yet  the  generous  ardour  he  evinced  in 
1786,  in  the  case  of  Burns,  shews  no  diminution  of 
sensibility  or  taste  in  the  appreciation  of  genius. 
In  one  of  his  later  poems,  the  blind  bard  thus 
pathetically  alludes  to  the  supposed  decay  of  his 
faculties : 

Excursive  on  the  gentle  gales  of  spring, 

He  roved,  whilst  favour  imped  his  timid  wing. 
Exhausted  genius  now  no  more  inspires, 

But  mourns  abortive  hopes  and  faded  fires  ; 

The  short-lived  wreath,  which  once  his  temples  graced, 
Fades  at  the  sickly  breath  of  squeamish  taste ; 

Whilst  darker  days  his  fainting  flames  immure 
In  cheerless  gloom  and  winter  premature. 

He  died  on  the  7th  of  July  1791,  at  the  age  of 
seventy.  Besides  his  poems,  Blacklock  wrote  some 
sermons  and  theological  treatises,  an  article  on 
Blindness  for  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica — which  is 
ingenious  and  elegant — and  two  dissertations, 
entitled  Paraclesis ; or  Consolations  Deduced  from 
Natural  and  Revealed  Religion , one  of  them  original, 
and  the  other  translated  from  a work  ascribed  to 
Cicero. 

Apart  from  the  circumstances  under  which  they 
were  produced,  the  poems  of  Blacklock  offer  little 
room  or  temptation  to  criticism.  He  has  no  new 
imagery,  no  commanding  power  of  sentiment,  reflec- 
tion, or  imagination.  Still,  he  was  a fluent  and 
correct  versifier,  and  his  familiarity  with  the  visible 
objects  of  nature — with  [trees,  streams,  the  rocks, 
and  sky,  and  even  with  different  orders  of  flowers 
and  plants — is  a wonderful  phenomenon  in  one  blind 
from  infancy.  He  could  distinguish  colours  by 
touch ; but  this  could  only  apply  to  objects  at  hand, 
not  to  the  features  of  a landscape,  or  to  the  appear- 
ances of  storm  or  sunshine,  sunrise  or  sunset,  or 
the  variation  in  the  seasons,  all  of  which  he  has 
described.  Images  of  this  kind  he  had  at  will. 
'Thus,  he  exclaims : 

Ye  vales,  which  to  the  raptured  eye 
Disclosed  the  flowery  pride  of  May ; 

Ye  circling  hills,  whose  summits  high 
Blushed  with  the  morning’s  earliest  ray. 


Or  he  paints  flowers  with  artist-like  precision : 

Let  long-lived  pansies  here  their  scents  bestow, 
The  violet  languish,  and  the  roses  glow ; 

In  yellow  glory  let  the  crocus  shine, 

Narcissus  here  his  love-sick  head  recline  : 

Here  hyacinths  in  purple  sweetness  rise, 

And  tulips  tinged  with  beauty’s  fairest  dyes. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


In  a man  to  whom  all  external  phenomena  were, 
and  had  ever  been,  one  ‘ universal  blank,’  this  union 
of  taste  and  memory  was  certainly  remarkable. 
Poetical  feeling  he  must  have  inherited  from  nature, 
which  led  him  to  take  pleasure  even  from  his  infancy 
in  descriptive  poetry ; and  the  language,  expressions, 
and  pictures  thus  imprinted  on  his  mind  by  habitual 
acquaintance  with  the  best  authors,  and  in  literary 
conversation,  seem  to  have  risen  spontaneously  in 
the  moment  of  composition. 

Terrors  of  a Guilty  Conscience. 

Cursed  with  unnumbered  groundless  fears, 

How  pale  yon  shivering  wretch  appears  ! 

For  him  the  daylight  shines  in  vain, 

For  him  the  fields  no  joys  contain  ; 

Nature’s  whole  charms  to  him  are  lost, 

No  more  the  woods  their  music  boast ; 

No  more  the  meads  their  vernal  bloom, 

No  more  the  gales  their  rich  perfume  : 

Impending  mists  deform  the  sky, 

And  beauty  withers  in  his  eye. 

In  hopes  his  terrors  to  elude, 

By  day  he  mingles  with  the  crowd, 

Yet  finds  his  soul  to  fears  a prey, 

In  busy  crowds  and  open  day. 

If  night  his  lonely  walks  surprise, 

What  horrid  visions  round  him  rise  ! 

The  blasted  oak  which  meets  his  way, 

Shewn  by  the  meteor’s  sudden  ray, 

The  midnight  murderer’s  lone  retreat 
Felt  heaven’s  avengeful  bolt  of  late  ; 

The  clashing  chain,  the  groan  profound, 

Loud  from  yon  ruined  tower  resound  ; 

And  now  the  spot  he  seems  to  tread, 

Where  some  self-slaughtered  corse  was  laid  ; 

He  feels  fixed  earth  beneath  him  bend, 

Deep  murmurs  from  her  caves  ascend  ; 

Till  all  his  soul,  by  fancy  swayed, 

Sees  livid  phantoms  crowd  the  shade. 

Ode  to  A urora  on  Melissa's  Birthday. 

* A compliment  and  tribute  of  affection  to  the  tender  assi- 
duity of  an  excellent  wife,  which  I have  not  anywhere  seen 
more  happily  conceived  or  more  elegantly  expressed.’ — Henry 
Mackenzie. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 

Emerge,  thou  rosy-fingered  morn ; 

Emerge,  in  purest  dress  arrayed, 

And  chase  from  heaven  night’s  envious  shade, 

That  I once  more  may  pleased  survey, 

And  hail  Melissa’s  natal-day. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 

Emerge,  thou  rosy -fingered  morn ; 

In  order  at  the  eastern  gate 

The  hours  to  draw  thy  chariot  wait ; 

Whilst  Zephyr  on  his  balmy  wings, 

Mild  nature’s,  fragrant  tribute  brings, 

With  odours  sweet  to  strew  thy  way, 

And  grace  the  bland  revolving  day. 

But,  as  thou  lead’st  the  radiant  sphere, 

That  gilds  its  birth  and  marks  the  year, 

And  as  his  stronger  glories  rise, 

Diffused  around  the  expanded  skies, 

Till  clothed  with  beams  serenely  bright, 

All  heaven’s  vast  concave  flames  with  light;: 

So  when  through  life’s  protracted  day, 

Melissa  still  pursues  her  way, 

Her  virtues  with  thy  splendour  vie, 

Increasing  to  the  mental  eye ; 

40 


Though  less  conspicuous,  not  less  dear, 

Long  may  they  Bion’s  prospect  cheer ; 

So  shall  his  heart  no  more  repine, 

Blessed  with  her  rays,  though  robbed  of  thine. 

JAMES  BEATTIE. 

James  Beattie  was  the  son  of  a small  farmer  and 
shopkeeper  at  Laurencekirk,  county  of  Kincardine, 
where  he  was  born  October  25,  1735.  His  father 


died  while  he  was  a child,  but  an  elder  brother, 
seeing  signs  of  talent  in  the  boy,  assisted  him  in 
procuring  a good  education ; and  in  his  fourteenth 
year  he  obtained  a bursary  or  exhibition  (always 
indicating  some  proficiency  in  Latin)  in  Marischal 
College,  Aberdeen.  His  habits  and  views  were 
scholastic,  and  four  years  afterwards,  Beattie  was 
appointed  schoolmaster  of  the  parish  of  Fordoun. 
He  was  now  situated  amidst  interesting  and  roman- 
tic scenery,  which  increased  his  passion  for  nature 
and  poetry.  The  scenes  which  he  afterwards  deline- 
ated in  his  Minstrel  were,  as  Mr  Southey  has  justly 
remarked,  those  in  which  he  had  grown  up,  and 
the  feelings  and  aspirations  therein  expressed,  were 
those  of  his  own  boyhood  and  youth.  In  1758,  he 
was  elected  usher  of  the  Grammar  School  of  Aber- 
deen ; and  in  1760,  professor  of  moral  philosophy 
and  logic  in  Marischal  College.  About  the  same 
time,  he  published  in  London  a collection  of  his 
poems,  with  some  translations.  One  piece,  Retire- 
ment, displays  poetical  feeling  and  taste;  but  the 
collection,  as  a whole,  gave  little  indication  of  the 
Minstrel.  The  poems,  without  the  translations, 
were  reprinted  in  1766,  and  a copy  of  verses  on  the 
Death  of  Churchill  were  added.  The  latter  are 
mean  and  reprehensible  in  spirit,  as  Churchill  had 
expiated  his  early  follies  by  an  untimely  death. 
Beattie  was  a sincere  lover  of  truth  and  virtue,  but 
his  ardour  led  him  at  times  into  intolerance,  and  he 
was  too  fond  of  courting  the  notice  and  approbation 
of  the  great.  In  1770  the  poet  appeared  as  a meta- 
physician, by  his  Essay  on  Truth , in  wliich  good 
principles  were  advanced,  though  with  an  unphilo- 
sophical  spirit,  and  in  language  which  suffered  greatly 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


from  comparison  with  that  of  his  illustrious  oppo- 
nent, David  Hume.  Next  year,  Beattie  appeared 
in  his  true  character  as  a poet.  The  first  part  of 
the  Minstrel  was  published,  and  was  received  with 
universal  approbation.  Honours  flowed  in  on  the 
fortunate  author.  He  visited  London,  and  was 
admitted  to  all  its  brilliant  and  distinguished  circles. 
Goldsmith,  Johnson,  Garrick,  and  Reynolds,  were 
numbered  among  his  friends.  On  a second  visit  in 
1773,  he  had  an  interview  with  the  king  and  queen, 
which  resulted  in  a pension  of  £200  per  annum. 
The  University  of  Oxford  conferred  upon  him  the 
degree  of  LL.D.,  and  Reynolds  painted  his  portrait 
in  an  allegorical  picture,  in  which  Beattie  was  seen 
by  the  side  of  an  angel  pushing  down  Prejudice, 
Scepticism,  and  Eolly ! Need  we  wonder  that  poor 
Goldsmith  was  envious  of  his  brother-poet?  To  the 
honour  of  Beattie,  it  must  be  recorded,  that  he 
declined  entering  the  Church  of  England,  in  which 
preferment  was  promised  him,  and  no  doubt  would 
have  been  readily  granted.  The  second  part  of  the 
Minstrel  was  published  in  1774.  Domestic  circum- 
stances marred  the  felicity  of  Beattie’s  otherwise 
happy  and  prosperous  lot.  His  wife — the  daughter 
of  Dr  Dun,  Aberdeen — became  insane,  and  was 
obliged  to  be  confined  in  an  asylum.  He  had  two 
sons,  both  amiable  and  accomplished  youths.  The 
eldest  lived  till  he  was  twenty-two,  and  was  asso- 
ciated with  his  father  in  the  professorship : he  died 
in  1790,  and  the  afflicted  parent  soothed  his  grief 
by  writing  his  life,  and  publishing  some  specimens 
of  his  composition  in  prose  and  verse.  The  second 
son  died  in  1796,  aged  eighteen;  and  the  only  con- 
solation of  the  now  lonely  poet  was,  that  he  could 
not  have  borne  to  see  their  ‘ elegant  minds  mangled 
with  madness  ’ — an  allusion  to  the  hereditary 
insanity  of  their  mother.  By  nature,  Beattie  was 
a man  of  quick  and  tender  sensibilities.  A fine 
landscape,  or  music— in  which  he  was  a proficient 
— affected  him  even  to  tears.  He  had  a sort  of 
hysterical  dread  of  meeting  with  his  metaphysical 
opponents,  which  was  an  unmanly  weakness.  When 
he  saw  Garrick  perform  Macbeth,  he  had  almost 
thrown  himself,  from  nervous  excitement,  over  the 
front  of  the  two-shilling  gallery ; and  he  seriously 
contended  for  the  grotesque  mixture  of  tragedy  and 
comedy  in  Shakspeare,  as  introduced  by  the  great 
dramatist,  to  save  the  auditors  from  ‘ a disordered 
head  or  a broken  heart ! ’ This  is  ‘ parmaceti  for  an 
inward  bruise  ’ with  a vengeance ! He  had,  among 
his  other  idiosyncrasies,  a morbid  aversion  to  that 
cheerful  household  and  rural  sound,  the  crowing 
of  a cock ; and  in  his  Minstrel  he  anathematises 
‘ fell  chanticleer  ’ with  burlesque  fury : 

0 to  thy  cursed  scream,  discordant  still, 

Let  harmony  aye  shut  her  gentle  ear  : 

Thy  boastful  mirth  let  jealous  rivals  spill, 

Insult  thy  crest,  and  glossy  pinions  tear, 

And  ever  in  thy  dreams  the  ruthless  fox  appear. 

Such  an  organisation,  physical  and  moral,  was  ill 
fitted  to  insure  happiness  or  fortitude  in  adversity. 
When  his  second  son  died,  he  said  he  had  done  with 
the  world.  He  ceased  to  correspond  with  his  friends, 
or  to  continue  his  studies.  Shattered  by  a long 
train  of  nervous  complaints,  in  April  1799  the  poet 
had  a stroke  of  palsy,  and  after  different  returns  of 
the  same  malady,  which  excluded  him  from  all 
society,  he  died  on  the  18th  of  August  1803. 

In  the  early  training  of  his  eldest  and  beloved  son, 
Dr  Beattie  adopted  an  expedient  of  a romantic  and 
interesting  description.  His  object  was  to  give  him 
the  first  idea  of  a Supreme  Being ; and  his  method, 
as  Dr  Porteous,  bishop  of  London,  remarked,  ‘ had 


all  the  imagination  of  Rousseau,  without  his  folly 
and  extravagance.’ 

‘ He  had,’  says  Beattie,  { reached  his  fifth  (or 
sixth)  year,  knew  the  alphabet,  and  could  read  a 
little ; but  had  received  no  particular  information 
with  respect  to  the  author  of  his  being,  because  I 
thought  he  could  not  yet  understand  such  informa- 
tion, and  because  I had  learned,  from  my  own 
experience,  that  to  be  made  to  repeat  words  not 
understood,  is  extremely  detrimental  to  the  faculties 
of  a young  mind.  In  a corner  of  a little  garden, 
without  informing  any  person  of  the  circumstance,  I 
wrote  in  the  mould,  with  my  finger,  the  three  initial 
letters  of  his  name,  and  sowing  garden  cresses  in 
the  furrows,  covered  up  the  seed,  and  smoothed  the 
ground.  Ten  days  after,  he  came  running  to  me, 
and  with  astonishment  in  his  countenance,  told  me 
that  his  name  was  growing  in  the  garden.  I smiled 
at  the  report,  and  seemed  inclined  to  disregard  it ; 
but  he  insisted  on  my  going  to  see  what  had 
happened.  “Yes,”  said  I carelessly,  on  coming  to 
the  place ; “ I see  it  is  so ; but  there  is  nothing  in 
this  worth  notice ; it  is  mere  chance ; ” and  I went 
away.  He  followed  me,  and  taking  hold  of  my 
coat,  said  with  some  earnestness  : “ It  could  not  be 
mere  chance,  for  that  somebody  must  have  contrived 
matters  so  as  to  produce  it.”  I pretend  not  to  give 
his  words  or  my  own,  for  I have  forgotten  both, 
but  I give  the  substance  of  what  passed  between 
us  in  such  language  as  we  both  understood.  “ So 
you  think,”  I said,  “that  what  appears  so  regular 
as  the  letters  of  your  name  cannot  be  by  chance  ? ” 
“Yes,”  said  he  with  firmness,  “I  think  so.”  “Look 
at  yourself,”  I replied,  “ and  consider  your  hands 
and  fingers,  your  legs  and  feet,  and  other  limbs ; 
are  they  not  regular  in  their  appearance,  and  use- 
ful to  you  ? ” He  said  they  were.  “ Came  you 
then  hither,”  said  I,  “by  chance?”  “No,”  he 
answered ; “ that  cannot  be  ; something  must  have 
made  me.”  “ And  who  is  that  something  ? ” I 
asked.  He  said  he  did  not  know.  (I  took  parti- 
cular notice  that  he  did  not  say,  as  Rousseau  fancies 
a child  in  like  circumstances  would  say,  that  his 
parents  made  him.)  I had  now  gained  the  point 
I aimed  at;  and  saw  that  his  reason  taught  him 
— though  he  could  not  so  express  it — that  what 
begins  to  be,  must  have  a cause,  and  that  what 
is  formed  with  regularity,  must  have  an  intelligent 
cause.  I therefore  told  him  the  name  of  the  Great 
Being  who  made  him  and  all  the  world,  concerning 
whose  adorable  nature  I gave  him  such  information 
as  I thought  he  could  in  some  measure  comprehend. 
The  lesson  affected  him  deeply,  and  he  never  forgot 
either  it  or  the  circumstance  that  introduced  it.’ 

The  Minstrel , on  which  Beattie’s  fame  now  rests, 
is  a didactic  poem,  in  the  Spenserian  stanza, 
designed  to  ‘ trace  the  progress  of  a poetical  genius, 
born  in  a rude  age,  from  the  first  dawning  of  fancy 
and  reason  till  that  period  at  which  he  may  be 
supposed  capable  of  appearing  in  the  world  as  a 
minstrel.’  The  idea  was  suggested  by  Percy’s  pre- 
liminary Dissertation  to  his  Reliques — one  other 
benefit  which  that  collection  has  conferred  upon 
the  lovers  of  poetry.  The  character  of  Edwin,  the 
minstrel — in  which  Beattie  embodied  his  own  early 
feelings  and  poetical  aspirations— is  very  finely 
drawn.  The  romantic  seclusion  of  his  youth,  and 
his  ardour  for  knowledge,  find  a response  in  all 
young  and  generous  minds ; while  the  calm  phil- 
osophy and  reflection  of  the  poet,  interest  the  more 
mature  and  experienced  reader.  The  poem  was 
left  unfinished,  and  this  is  scarcely  to  be  regretted. 
Beattie  had  not  strength  of  pinion  to  keep  long  on 
I the  wing  in  the  same  lofty  region ; and  Edwin 


PROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


would  have  contracted  some  earthly  taint  in  his 
descent.  Gray  thought  there  was  too  much  des- 
cription in  the  first  part  of  the  Minstrel , but  who 
would  exchange  it  for  the  philosophy  of  the  second 
part  ? The  poet  intended  to  have  carried  his  hero 
into  a life  of  variety  and  action,  but  he  certainly  ; 
would  not  have  succeeded.  As  it  is,  when  he  finds 
it  necessary  to  continue  Edwin  beyond  the  ‘ flowery 
path’  of  childhood,  and  to  explore  the  shades  of 
life,  he  calls  in  the  aid  of  a hermit,  who  schools 
the  young  enthusiast  on  virtue,  knowledge,  and 
the  dignity  of  man.  The  appearance  of  this  sage 
is  happily  described : 

At  early  dawn  the  youth  his  journey  took, 

And  many  a mountain  passed  and  valley  wide, 

Then  reached  the  wild,  where,  in  a flowery  nook, 

And  seated  on  a mossy  stone,  he  spied 
An  ancient  man ; his  harp  lay  him  beside. 

A stag  sprung  from  the  pasture  at  his  call, 

And,  kneeling,  licked  the  withered  hand  that  tied 
A wreath  of  woodbine  round  his  antlers  tall, 

And  hung  his  lofty  neck  with  many  a floweret  small. 


[ Opening  of  the  Minstrel .] 

Ah ! who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame’s  proud  temple  shines  afar ; 
Ah  ! who  can  tell  how  many  a soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 

And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal  war ; 

Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy’s  frown, 

And  Poverty’s  unconquerable  bar, 

In  life’s  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone. 

Then  dropped  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  unknown ! 

And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  days 
Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all ; 

Him,  who  ne’er  listened  to  the  voice  of  praise, 

The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne’er  appal. 

There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition’s  call, 

Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump  of  Fame ; 
Supremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall 
Health,  competence,  and  peace.  Nor  higher  aim 
Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines  proclaim. 

The  rolls  of  fame  I will  not  now  explore ; 

Nor  need  I here  describe,  in  learned  lay, 

How  forth  the  Minstrel  fared  in  days  of  yore, 

Right  glad  of  heart,  though  homely  in  array ; 

His  waving  locks  and  beard  all  hoary  gray ; 

While  from  his  bending  shoulder,  decent  hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way, 

Which  to  the  whistling  wind  responsive  rung : 

And  ever  as  he  went  some  merry  lay  he  sung. 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride, 

That  a poor  villager  inspires  my  strain ; 

With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide ; 

The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign  ; 

Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely  swain 
Enraptured  roams,  to  gaze  on  Nature’s  charms. 

They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain ; 

The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms, 

Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold  alarms. 

Though  richest  hues  the  peacock’s  plumes  adorn, 

Yet  horror  screams  from  his  discordant  throat. 

Rise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  morn, 

While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float : 

Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote, 

Where  the  gray  linnets  carol  from  the  hill, 

0 let  them  ne’er,  with  artificial  note, 

To  please  a tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill, 

But  sing  what  Heaven  inspires,  and  wander  where  they 
will. 

42 


Liberal,  not  lavish,  is  kind  Nature’s  hand ; 

Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below. 

Yet  all  her  schemes  with  nicest  art  are  planned, 

Good  counteracting  ill,  and  gladness  woe. 

With  gold  and  gems  if  Chilian  mountains  glow, 

If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia’s  hills  arise ; 

There  plague  and  poison,  lust  and  rapine  grow ; 

Here  peaceful  are  the  vales,  and  pure  the  skies, 

And  freedom  fires  the  soul,  and  sparkles  in  the  eyes. 

Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent  Muse 
Youchsafes  a portion  of  celestial  fire : 

Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet  and  the  rich  attire. 

Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 

Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  ? 

No  ; let  thy  heaven-taught  soul  to  Heaven  aspire, 

To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned  ; 

Ambition’s  grovelling  crew  for  ever  left  behind. 

Canst  thou  forego  the  pure  ethereal  soul, 

In  each  fine  sense  so  exquisitely  keen, 

On  the  dull  couch  of  Luxury  to  loll, 

Stung  with  disease,  and  stupified  with  spleen ; 

Fain  to  implore  the  aid  of  Flattery’s  screen, 

Even  from  thyself  thy  loathsome  heart  to  hide — 

The  mansion  then  no  more  of  joy  serene — 

Where  fear,  distrust,  malevolence  abide, 

And  impotent  desire,  and  disappointed  pride  ? 

0 how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields ! 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 

The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields ; 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 

And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 

All  that  the  mountain’s  sheltering  bosom  shields, 

And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, 

0 how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ? 

* * * 

There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 

A shepherd  swain,  a man  of  low  degree, 

Whose  sires,  perchance,  in  Fairyland  might  dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady ; 

But  he,  I ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie ; 

A nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty’s  charms ; 
Zealous,  yet  modest ; innocent,  though  free ; 

Patient  of  toil ; serene  amidst  alarms ; 

Inflexible  in  faith ; invincible  in  arms. 

The  shepherd  swain  of  whom  I mention  made, 

On  Scotia’s  mountains  fed  his  little  flock ; 

The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough  he  never  swayed ; 

An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock ; 

His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock : 

The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  winter’s  shock ; 

And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  besprent, 

Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  whei*esoe’er 
they  went. 

[Description  of  Edwin. ] 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy. 

Deep  thought  oft  seemed  to  fix  his  infant  eye. 
Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaud,  nor  toy, 

Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy ; 

Silent  when  glad ; affectionate,  though  shy ; 

And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad, 

And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 

The  neighbours  stared  and  sighed,  yet  blessed  the  lad ; 
Some  deemed'  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  believed 
him  mad. 

But  why  should  I his  childish  feats  display  ? 
Concourse,  and  noise,  and  toil,  he  ever  fled ; 

Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps ; but  to  the  forest  sped, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


Or  roamed  at  large  the  lonely  mountain’s  head, 

Or  where  the  maze  of  some  bewildered  stream 
To  deep  untrodden  groves  his  footsteps  led, 

There  would  he  wander  wild,  till  Phoebus’  beam, 

Shot  from  the  western  cliff,  released  the  weary  team. 

The  exploit  of  strength,  dexterity,  or  speed, 

To  him  nor  vanity  nor  joy  could  bring : 

His  heart,  from  cruel  sport  estranged,  would  bleed 
To  work  the  woe  of  any  living  thing, 

By  trap  or  net,  by  arrow  or  by  sling ; 

These  he  detested ; those  he  scorned  to  wield : 

He  wished  to  be  the  guardian,  not  the  king, 

Tyrant  far  less,  or  traitor  of  the  field, 

And  sure  the  sylvan  reign  unbloody  joy  might  yield. 

Lo  ! where  the  stripling,  wrapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o’erhung  with  pine ; 

And  sees  on  high,  amidst  the  encircling  groves, 

From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine ; 

While  waters,  woods,  and  winds,  in  concert  join, 

And  echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 

Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman’s  puny  craft  supplies? 

Ah,  no  ! he  better  knows  great  Nature’s  charms  to  prize. 

And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands  to  survey, 

When  o’er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling  dawn, 

The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain  gray, 
And  lake,  dim-gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn  : 

Far  to  the  west  the  long,  long  vale  withdrawn, 

Where  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  a while ; 

And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn, 

And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil : 

But,  lo ! the  sun  appears,  and  heaven,  earth,  ocean, 
smile. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 

When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost — 

What,  dreadful  pleasure  there  to  stand  sublime, 

Like  shipwrecked  mariner  on  desert  coast, 

And  view  the  enormous  waste  of  vapour,  tost 
In  billows,  lengthening  to  the  horizon  round, 

Now  scooped  in  gulfs,  with  mountains  now  embossed ! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound, 

Flocks,  herds,  and  water-falls,  along  the  hoar  profound  ! 

In  truth  he  was  a strange  and  wayward  wight, 

Fond  of  each  gentle  and  each  dreadful  scene. 

In  darkness  and  in  storm  he  found  delight ; 

* Nor  less  than  when  on  ocean- wave  serene, 

The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  sheen. 

Even  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul ; 

And  if  a sigh  would  sometimes  intervene, 

And  down  his  cheek  a tear  of  pity  roll, 

A sigh,  a tear,  so  sweet,  ffe  wished  not  to  control. 

* * * 

Oft  when  the  winter  storm  had  ceased  to  rave, 

He  roamed  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  cloud  stupendous,  from  the  Atlantic  wave 
High-towering,  sail  along  the  horizon  blue ; 

Where,  ’midst  the  changeful  scenery,  ever  new, 

Fancy  a thousand  wondrous  forms  descries, 

More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew ; 

Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size, 

And  glittering  cliffs  on  cliffs,  and  fiery  ramparts  rise. 

Thence  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 

The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way, 

Listening,  with  pleasing  dread,  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.  In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  rolled  on  the  autumiial  day, 
Even  then  he  hastened  from  the  haunt  of  man, 

Along  the  trembling  wilderness  to  stray, 

What  time  the  lightning’s  fierce  career  began, 

And  o’er  heaven’s  rending  arch  the  rattling  thunder  ran. 


Responsive  to  the  sprightly  pipe,  when  all 
In  sprightly  dance  the  village  youth  were  joined, 
Edwin,  of  melody  aye  held  in  thrall, 

From  the  rude  gambol  far  remote  reclined, 

Soothed  with  the  soft  notes  warbling  in  the  wind. 

Ah  then,  all  jollity  seemed  noise  and  folly ! 

To  the  pure  soul  by  Fancy’s  fire  refined, 

Ah,  what  is  mirth  but  turbulence  unholy, 

When  with  the  charm  compared  of  heavenly  melancholy  ! 

Is  there  a heart  that  music  cannot  melt  ? 

Alas  ! how  is  that  rugged  heart  forlorn  ; 

Is  there,  who  ne’er  those  mystic  transports  felt 
Of  solitude  and  melancholy  born  ? 

He  needs  not  woo  the  Muse ; he  is  her  scorn. 

The  sophist’s  rope  of  cobweb  he  shall  twine  ; 

Mope  o’er  the  schoolman’s  peevish  rage;  or  mourn, 
And  delve  for  life  in  Mammon’s  dirty  mine ; 

Sneak  with  the  scoundrel  fox,  or  grunt  with  glutton 
swine. 

For  Edwin,  Fate  a nobler  doom  had  planned ; 

Song  was  his  favourite  and  first  pursuit. 

The  wild  harp  rang  to  his  adventurous  hand, 

And  languished  to  his  breath  the  plaintive  flute. 

His  infant  muse,  though  artless,  was  not  mute. 

Of  elegance  as  yet  he  took  no  care ; 

For  this  of  time  and  culture  is  the  fruit ; 

And  Edwin  gained  at  last  this  fruit  so  rare : 

As  in  some  future  verse  I purpose  to  declare. 

Meanwhile,  whate’er  of  beautiful  or  new, 

Sublime,  or  dreadful,  in  earth,  sea,  or  sky, 

By  chance,  or  search,  was  offered  to  his  view, 

He  scanned  with  curious  and  romantic  eye. 

Whate’er  of  lore  tradition  could  supply 
From  Gothic  tale,  or  song,  or  fable  old, 

Roused  him,  still  keen  to  listen  and  to  pry. 

At  last,  though  long  by  penury  controlled, 

And  solitude,  his  soul  her  graces  ’gan  unfold. 

Thus  on  the  chill  Lapponian’s  dreary  land, 

For  many  a long  month  lost  in  snow  profound, 

When  Sol  from  Cancer  sends  the  season  bland, 

And  in  their  northern  cave  the  storms  are  bound ; 
From  silent  mountains,  straight,  with  startling  sound, 
Torrents  are  hurled  ; green  hills  emerge ; and  lo  ! 

The  trees  with  foliage,  cliffs  with  flowers  are 
crowned ; 

Pure  rills  through  vales  of  verdure  warbling  go ; 

And  wonder,  love,  and  joy  the  peasant’s  heart  o’erflow. 

[ Morning  Landscape .] 

Even  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture  glow, 

As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes  of  morn, 

Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre  blow, 

Where  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns  adorn, 

A thousand  notes  of  joy  in  every  breeze  are  borne. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain  side ; 
The  lowing  herd ; the  sheepfold’s  simple  bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley ; echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 

The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet’s  lay  of  love, 

And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid 
sings ; 

The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ; and,  hark ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings ; 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 

The  partridge  hursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 


[ Life  and  Immortality .] 

0 ye  wild  groves,  0 where  is  now  your  bloom ! — 

The  Muse  interprets  thus  his  tender  thought — 

Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy  gloom, 

Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought  ? 

Why  do  the  birds,  that  song  and  rapture  brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  forsake  ? 

Ah ! why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought  ? 

For  now  the  storm  howls  mournful  through  the  brake, 
And  the  dead  foliage  flies  in  many  a shapeless  flake. 

Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure,  and  cool, 

And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth,  and  beauty  crowned  ? 
Ah  ! see,  the  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish  pool, 

Have  all  the  solitary  vale  embrowned ; 

Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  melting  sound, 
The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray. 

And  hark ! the  river,  bursting  every  mound, 

Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with  wasteful  sway 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shattered  rocks  away. 

Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth  : 

So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  man. 

Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth, 

And  fostering  gales  a while  the  nursling  fan. 

O smile,  ye  heavens,  serene ; ye  mildews  wan, 

Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his  balmy  prime, 

Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 

Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent  wings  of  Time, 

Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 

And  be  it  so.  Let  those  deplore  their  doom 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn ; 

But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  how  they  mourn. 

Shall  Spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no  more  return  ? 

Is  yonder  wave  the  Sun’s  eternal  bed  ? 

Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lustre  burn, 

And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed, 

Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 

Shall  I be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust, 

When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive? 

Shall  Nature’s  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 

Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 

Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? 

No  : Heaven’s  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive, 

And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 

Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of  Love’s  triumphant 
reign. 

Retirement. — 1 758. 

When  in  the  crimson  cloud  of  even 
The  lingering  light  decays, 

And  Hesper  on  the  front  of  heaven 
His  glittering  gem  displays  ^ 

Deep  in  the  silent  vale,  unseen, 

Beside  a lulling  stream, 

A pensive  youth,  of  placid  mien, 

Indulged  this  tender  theme  : • 

‘ Ye  cliffs,  in  hoary  grandeur  piled 
High  o’er  the  glimmering  dale ; 

Ye  woods,  along  whose  windings  wild 
Murmurs  the  solemn  gale  : 


Where  Melancholy  strays  forlorn, 

And  Woe  retires  to  weep, 

What  time  the  wan  moon’s  yellow  horn 
Gleams  on  the  western  deep : 

‘ To  you,  ye  wastes,  whose  artless  charms 
Ne’er  drew  Ambition’s  eye, 

’Scaped  a tumultuous  world’s  alarms, 

To  your  retreats  I fly. 

Deep  in  your  most  sequestered  bower 
Let  me  at  last  recline, 

Where  Solitude,  mild,  modest  power, 
Leans  on  her  ivied  shrine. 

‘ How  shall  I woo  thee,  matchless  fair  ? 
Thy  heavenly  smile  how  win  ? 

Thy  smile  that  smooths  the  brow  of  Care, 
And  stills  the  storm  within. 

0 wilt  thou  to  thy  favourite  grove 
Thine  ardent  votary  bring, 

And  bless  his  hours,  and  bid  them  move 
Serene,  on  silent  wing  ? 

‘ Oft  let  Remembrance  soothe  his  mind 
With  dreams  of  former  days, 

When  in  the  lap  of  Peace  reclined 
He  framed  his  infant  lays ; 

When  Fancy  roved  at  large,  nor  Care 
Nor  cold  Distrust  alarmed, 

Nor  Envy,  with  malignant  glare, 

His  simple  youth  had  harmed. 

‘ ’Twas  then,  0 Solitude  ! to  thee 
His  early  vows  were  paid, 

From  heart  sincere,  and  warm,  and  free, 
Devoted  to  the  shade. 

Ah,  why  did  Fate  his  steps  decoy 
In  stormy  paths  to  roam, 

Remote  from  all  congenial  joy ! — 

0 take  the  wanderer  home. 

‘ Thy  shades,  thy  silence  now  be  mine, 
Thy  charms  my  only  theme ; 

My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff,  whose  pine 
Waves  o’er  the  gloomy  stream. 

Whence  the  scared  owl  on  pinions  gray 
Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs, 

And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose. 

‘ Oh,  while  to  thee  the  woodland  pours 
Its  wildly  warbling  song, 

And  balmy  from  the  bank  of  flowers 
The  zephyr  breathes  along ; 

Let  no  rude  sound  invade  from  far, 

No  vagrant  foot  be  nigh, 

No  ray  from  Grandeur’s  gilded  car 
Flash  on  the  startled  eye. 

‘ But  if  some  pilgrim  through  the  glade 
Thy  hallowed  bowers  explore, 

0 guard  from  harm  his  hoary  head, 

And  listen  to  his  lore ; 

For  he  of  joys  divine  shall  tell, 

That  wean  from  earthly  woe, 

And  triumph  o’er  the  mighty  spell 
That  chains  his  heart  below. 

‘ For  me,  no  more  the  path  invites 
Ambition  loves  to  tread ; 

No  more  I climb  those  toilsome  heights, 
By  guileful  Hope  misled ; 

Leaps  my  fond  fluttering  heart  no  more 
To  Mirth’s  enlivening  strain ; 

For  present  pleasure  soon  is  o’er, 

And  all  the  past  is  vain.’ 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


The  Hermit. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 

When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale’s  song  in  the  grove  : 
’Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a hermit  began  : 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 

He  thought  as  a sage,  though  he  felt  as  a man. 

‘ Ah  ! why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  woe, 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthral : 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay, 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn ; 

0 soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away : 
Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they  never  return. 

‘ Now  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon  half  extinguished  her  crescent  displays  : 
But  lately  I marked,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again ; 

But  man’s  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ? 

Ah,  fool ! to  exult  in  a glory  so  vain  ! 

‘ ’Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more ; 

1 mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I mourn  not  for  you ; 

For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew: 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I mourn ; 

Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 

But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn — 

0 when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ? 

‘’Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 
That  leads,  to  bewilder ; and  dazzles,  to  blind ; 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to 
shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

“ 0 pity,  great  Father  of  Light,”  then  I cried, 

“ Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee ; 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I relinquish  my  pride  : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free  ! ” 

‘ And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away, 

No  longer  I roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 
And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden’s  first  bloom  ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are 
blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  "the  tomb.’ 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 

Christopher  Smart,  an  unfortunate  and  irregular 
man  of  genius,  was  born  in  1722  at  Shipbourne,  in 
Kent.  His  father  was  steward  to  Lord  Barnard — 
afterwards  Earl  of  Darlington — and  dying  when 
his  son  was  eleven  years  of  age,  the  patronage  of 
Lord  Barnard  was  generously  continued  to  his 
family.  Through  the  influence  of  this  nobleman, 
Christopher  procured  from  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland 
an  allowance  of  £40  per  annum.  He  was  admitted 
of  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge,  in  1739,  elected  a 
fellow  of  Pembroke  in  1745,  and  took  his  degree  of 
M.A.  in  1747.  At  college,  Smart  was  remarkable 
for  folly  and  extravagance,  and  his  distinguished 


contemporary  Gray  prophesied  truly  that  the  result 
of  his  conduct  would  be  a jail  or  bedlam.  In  1747, 
he  wrote  a comedy  called  a Trip  to  Cambridge , or 
The  Grateful  Fair , which  was  acted  in  Pembroke 
College  Hall,  the  parlour  of  which  was  made  the 
green-room.  No  remains  of  this  play  have  been 
found,  excepting  a few  songs  and  a mock-heroic 
soliloquy,  the  latter  containing  the  following 
humorous  simile : 


Thus  when  a barber  and  a collier  fight, 

The  barber  beats  the  luckless  collier  white; 

The  dusty  collier  heaves  his  ponderous  sack, 

And,  big  with  vengeance,  beats  the  barber  black. 

In  comes  the  brick-dust  man,  with  grime  o’erspread, 
And  beats  the  collier  and  the  barber  red; 

Black,  red,  and  white,  in  various  clouds  are  tossed, 
And  in  the  dust  they  raise  the  combatants  are  lost. 


Having  written  several  pieces  for  periodicals  pub- 
lished by  Newberry,  Smart  became  acquainted 
with  the  bookseller’s  family,  and  married  his  step- 
daughter, Miss  Carnan,  in  the  year  1753.  He  now 
removed  to  London,  and  endeavoured  to  subsist  by 
his  pen.  The  notorious  Sir  John  Hill — whose  wars 
with  the  Royal  Society,  with  Fielding,  &c.,  are 
well  known,  and  who  closed  his  life  by  becoming  a 
quack-doctor — having  insidiously  attacked  Smart, 
the  latter  replied  by  a spirited  satire,  entitled  The 
Hilliad.  Among  his  various  tasks  was  a metrical 
translation  of  the  Fables  of  Phaedrus.  He  also 
translated  the  psalms  and  parables  into  verse,  but 
the  version  is  destitute  of  talent.  He  had,  however, 
in  his  better  days,  translated  with  success,  and 
to  Pope’s  satisfaction,  the  Ode  on  St  Cecilia’s  Dag. 

In  1756,  Smart  was  one  of  the  conductors  of  a 
monthly  periodical  called  The  Universal  Visitor;  and 
to  assist  him,  Johnson — who  sincerely  sympathised, 
as  Boswell  relates,  with  Smart’s  unhappy  vacilla- 
tion of  mind — contributed  a few  essays.  In  1763,  we 
find  the  poor  poet  confined  in  a madhouse.  ‘He 
has  partly  as  much  exercise,’  said  J ohnson,  ‘ as  he 
used  to  have,  for  he  digs  in  the  garden.  Indeed, 
before  his  confinement,  he  used  for  exercise  to  walk 
to  the  ale-house ; but  he  was  carried  back  again.  I 
did  not  think  he  ought  to  be  shut  up.  His  infir- 
mities were  not  noxious  to  society.  He  insisted  on 
people  praying  with  him — also  falling  upon  his 
knees  and  saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  any 
other  unusual  place ; and  I ’d  as  lief  pray  with  Kit 
Smart  as  any  one  else.  Another  charge  was,  that 
he  did  not  love  clean  linen ; and  I have  no  passion 
for  it.’  During  his  confinement,  it  is  said,  writing 
materials  were  denied  him,  and  Smart  used  to 
indent  his  poetical  thoughts  with  a key  on  the 
wainscot  of  his  walls.  A religious  poem,  the 
Song  to  David,  written  at  this  time  in  his  saner 
intervals,  possesses  passages  of  considerable  power, 
and  must  be  considered  one  of  the  greatest  curio- 
sities of  our  literature.  What  the  unfortunate 
poet  did  not  write  down — and  the  whole  could  not 
possibly  have  been  committed  to  the  walls  of  his 
apartment — must  have  been  composed  and  retained 
from  memory  alone.  Smart  was  afterwards  released 
from  his  confinement ; but  his  ill-fortune— following, 
we  suppose,  his  intemperate  habits — again  pursjj£d~-|--~~ , 
him.  He  was  committed  to  the  K\n&r?&cnc}\ 
prison  for  debt,  and  died  there,  after  ss, 

in  1770.  The  following  is  part  of 


Song  to  David. 

0 thou,  that  sit’st  upon  a tf 
With  harp  of  high,  majestic 


Of 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


To  praise  the  King  of  kings : 

And  voice  of  heaven,  ascending  swell, 
Which,  while  its  deeper  notes  excel,  • 
Clear  as  a clarion  rings : 

How  sweetly  Kidron  purled — 

To  further  knowledge,  silence  vice, 
And  plant  perpetual  paradise, 
Wheir  God  had  calmed  the  world. 

To  hless  each  valley,  grove,  and  coast, 
And  charm  the  cherubs  to  the  post 
Of  gratitude  in  throngs ; 

To  keep  the  days  on  Zion’s  Mount, 
And  send  the  year  to  his  account, 
With  dances  and  with  songs : 

Strong — in  the  Lord,  who  could  defy 
Satan,  and  all  his  powers  that  lie 
In  sempiternal  night ; 

And  hell,  and  horror,  and  despair 
Were  as  the  lion  and  the  bear 
To  his  undaunted  might. 

0 servant  of  God’s  holiest  charge, 

The  minister  of  praise  at  large, 

Which  thou  mayst  now  receive ; 
From  thy  blest  mansion  hail  and  hear, 
From  topmost  eminence  appear 
To  this  the  wreath  I weave. 

Constant — in  love  to  God,  the  Truth, 
Age,  manhood,  infancy,  and  youth — 
To  J onathan  his  friend 
Constant,  beyond  the  verge  of  death ; 
And  Ziba,  and  Mephibosheth, 

His  endless  fame  attend. 

Great,  valiant,  pious,  good,  and  clean, 
Sublime,  contemplative,  serene, 

Strong,  constant,  pleasant,  wise  ! 
Bright  effluence  of  exceeding  grace ; 
Best  man  ! the  swiftness  and  the  race, 
The  peril  and  the  prize  ! 

Pleasant — and  various  as  the  year ; 
Man,  soul,  and  angel  without  peer, 
Priest,  champion,  sage,  and  boy ; 
In  armour,  or  in  ephod  clad, 

His  pomp,  his  piety  was  glad ; 
Majestic  was  his  joy. 

Great — from  the  lustre  of  his  crown, 
From  Samuel’s  horn,  and  God’s  renown, 
Which  is  the  people’s  voice  ; 

For  all  the  host,  from  rear  to  van, 
Applauded  and  embraced  the  man — 
The  man  of  God’s  own  choice. 

Wise — in  recovery  from  his  fall, 

Whence  rose  his  eminence  o’er  all, 

Of  all  the  most  reviled ; 

The  light  of  Israel  in  his  ways, 

Wise  are  his  precepts,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  counsel  to  his  child. 

Valiant — the  word,  and  up  he  rose ; 
The  fight — he  triumphed  o’er  the  foes 
Whom  God’s  just  laws  abhor 
And,  armed  in  gallant  faith,  he  took 
Against  the  boaster,  from  the  brook, 
The  weapons  of  the  war. 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 

Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce, 
For  all  the  pangs  that  rage ; 

Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 

Pious — magnificent  and  grand, 

’Twas  he  the  famous  temple  planned — 
The  seraph  in  his  soul : 

Foremost  to  give  the  Lord  his  dues, 
Foremost  to  bless  the  welcome  news, 
And  foremost  to  condole. 

He  sang  of  God — the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — the  stupendous  force 
On  which  all  strength  depends ; 

From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes, 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 
Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

Good — from  Jehudah’s  genuine  vein, 
From  God’s  best  nature,  good  in  grain, 
His  aspect  and  his  heart : 

To  pity,  to  forgive,  to  save, 

Witness  En-gedi’s  conscious  cave, 

And  Shimei’s  blunted  dart. 

Angels — their  ministry  and  meed, 
Which  to  and  fro  with  blessings  speed, 
Or  with  their  citterns  wait ; 

Where  Michael,  with  his  millions,  bows, 
Where  dwells  the  seraph  and  his  spouse, 
The  cherub  and  her  mate. 

Clean — if  perpetual  prayer  be  pure, 
And  love,  which  could  itself  inure 
To  fasting  and  to  fear — 

Clean  in  his  gestures,  hands,  and  feet, 
To  smite  the  lyre,  the  dance  complete, 
To  play  the  sword  and  spear„ 

Of  man — the  semblance  and  effect 
Of  God  and  love — the  saint  elect 
For  infinite  applause — 

To  rule  the  land,  and  briny  broad, 
To  be  laborious  in  his  laud, 

And  heroes  in  his  cause. 

Sublime — invention  ever  young, 

Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue, 
To  God  the  eternal  theme ; 

Notes  from  yon  exaltations  caught, 
Unrivalled  royalty  of  thought, 

O’er  meaner  strains  supreme. 

The  world — the  clustering  spheres  he  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 

The  multitudinous  abyss, 

Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

Contemplative — on  God  to  fix 
His  musings,  and  above  the  six 
The  Sabbath-day  be  blest ; 

’Twas  then  his  thoughts  self-conquest  pruned, 
And  heavenly  melancholy  tuned, 

To  bless  and  bear  the  rest. 

Trees,  plants,  and  flowers — of  virtuous  root ; 
Gem  yielding  blossom,  yielding  fruit, 

Choice  gums  and  precious  balm ; 

Bless  ye  the  nosegay  in  the  vale, 

And  with  the  sweetness  of  the  gale 
Enrich  the  thankful  psalm. 

Serene — to  sow  the  seeds  of  peace, 
Remembering  when  he  watched  the  fleece, 
46 

Of  fowl — e’en  every  beak  and  wing 
Which  cheer  the  winter,  hail  the  spring, 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


That  live  in  peace,  or  prey ; 

They  that  make  music,  or  that  mock, 

The  quail,  the  brave  domestic  cock, 

The  raven,  swan,  and  jay. 

Of  fishes — every  size  and  shape, 

Which  nature  frames  of  light  escape, 
Devouring  man  to  shun  : 

The  shells  are  in  the  wealthy  deep, 

The  shoals  upon  the  surface  leap, 

And  love  the  glancing  sun. 

Of  beasts — the  beaver  plods  his  task ; 

While  the  sleek  tigers  roll  and  bask, 

Nor  yet  the  shades  arouse ; 

Her  cave  the  mining  coney  scoops ; 

Where  o’er  the  mead  the  mountain  stoops,- 
The  kids  exult  and  browse. 

Of  gems — their  virtue  and  their  price, 
Which,  hid  in  earth  from  man’s  device, 
Their  darts  of  lustre  sheath ; 

The  jasper  of  the  master’s  stamp, 

The  topaz  blazing  like  a lamp, 

Among  the  mines  beneath. 

Blest  was  the  tenderness  he  felt, 

When  to  his  graceful  harp  he  knelt, 

And  did  for  audience  call ; 

When  Satan  with  his  hand  he  quelled, 

And  in  serene  suspense  he  held 
The  frantic  throes  of  Saul. 

His  furious  foes  no  more  maligned 
As  he  such  melody  divined, 

And  sense  and  soul  detained ; 

Now  striking  strong,  now  soothing  soft, 

He  sent  the  godly  sounds  aloft, 

Or  in  delight  refrained. 

When  up  to  heaven  his  thoughts  he  piled, 
From  fervent  lips  fair  Michal  smiled, 

As  blush  to  blush  she  stood ; 

And  chose  herself  the  queen,  and  gave 
Her  utmost  from  her  heart — ‘ so  brave, 

And  plays  his  hymns  so  good.’ 

The  pillars  of  the  Lord  are  seven, 

Which  stand  from  earth  to  topmost  heaven ; 

His  wisdom  drew  the  plan ; 

His  Word  accomplished  the  design, 

From  brightest  gem  to  deepest  mine, 

From  Christ  enthroned  to  man. 


0 David,  scholar  of  the  Lord  ! 

Such  is  thy  science,  whence  reward, 
And  infinite  degree ; 

0 strength,  0 sweetness,  lasting  ripe ! 
God’s  harp  thy  symbol,  and  thy  type 
The  lion  and  the  bee ! 

There  is  but  One  who  ne’er  rebelled, 
But  One  by  passion  unimpelled, 

By  pleasures  unenticed ; 

He  from  himself  his  semblance  sent, 
Grand  object  of  his  own  content, 

And  saw  the  God  in  Christ. 

‘ Tell  them,  I Am,’  Jehovah  said 
To  Moses ; while  earth  heard  in  dread, 
And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 

At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 

All  nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 
Replied  : ‘ 0 Lord,  Thou  Art.’ 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 

An  admirable  translation  of  the  Lusiad  of 
Camoens,  the  most  distinguished  poet  of  Portugal, 
was  executed  by  William  Julius  Mickle,  himself  a 
poet  of  taste  and  fancy,  but  of  no  great  originality 
or  energy.  Mickle  was  son  of  the  minister  of 
Langholm,  in  Dumfriesshire,  where  he  was  born  in 
1731.*  He  was  engaged  in  trade  in  Edinburgh  as 
conductor,  and  afterwards  partner,  of  a brewery ; 
but  he  failed  in  business,  and  in  1764:  went  to 
London,  desirous  of  literary  distinction.  Lord 
Lyttelton  noticed  and  encouraged  his  poetical 
efforts,  and  Mickle  was  buoyed  up  with  dreams  of 
patronage  and  celebrity.  Two  years  of  increasing 
destitution  dispelled  this  vision,  and  the  poet  was 
glad  to  accept  the  situation  of  corrector  of  the 
Clarendon  press  at  Oxford.  Here  he  published 
Pollio , an  elegy,  and  The  Concubine , a moral  poem 
in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  which  he  afterwards 
reprinted  with  the  title  of  Syr  Martyn.  Mickle 
adopted  the  obsolete  phraseology  of  Spenser,  which 
was  too  antiquated  even  for  the  age  of  the  Faery 
Queen,  and  which  Thomson  had  almost  wholly  dis- 
carded in  his  Castle  of  Indolence.  The  first  stanza 
of  this  poem  has  been  quoted  by  Sir  Walter  Scott 
— divested  of  its  antique  spelling — in  illustration  of 
a remark  made  by  him,  that  Mickle,  1 with  a vein  of 
great  facility,  united  a power  of  .verbal  melody, 
which  might  have  been  envied  by  bards  of  much 
greater  renown : ’ 

Awake,  ye  west  winds,  through  the  lonely  dale, 

And  Fancy  to  thy  faery  bower  betake ; 

Even  now,  with  balmy  sweetness,  breathes  the  gale, 
Dimpling  with  downy  wing  the  stilly  lake ; 

Through  the  pale  willows  faltering  whispers  wake, 
And  Evening  comes  with  locks  bedropped  with  dew ; 
On  Desmond’s  mouldering  turrets  slowly  shake 
The  withered  rye-grass  and  the  harebell  blue, 

And  ever  and  anon  sweet  Mulla’s  plaints  renew. 

Sir  Walter  adds,  that  Mickle,  ‘being  a printer  by 
profession,  frequently  put  his  lines  into  types  with- 
out taking  the  trouble  previously  to  put  them  into 
writing.’  This  is  mentioned  by  none  of  the  poet’s 
biographers,  and  is  improbable.  The  office  of  a 
corrector  of  the  press  is  quite  separate  from  the 
mechanical  operations  of  the  printer.  Mickle’s 
poem  was  highly  successful— not  the  less,  perhaps, 
because  it  was  printed  anonymously,  and  was 
ascribed  to  different  authors — and  it  went  through 
three  editions.  In  1771,  he  published  the  first  canto 
of  his  great  translation,  which  was  completed  in 
1776 ; and  being  supported  by  a long  list  of  sub- 
scribers, was  highly  advantageous  both  to  his  fame 
and  fortune.  In  1779,  he  went  out  to  Portugal  as 
secretary  to  Commodore  J ohnston,  and  was  received 
with  much  distinction  in  Lisbon  by  the  countrymen 
of  Camoens.  On  the  return  of  the  expedition, 
Mickle  was  appointed  joint-agent  for  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  prizes.  His  own  share  was  consider- 
able ; and  having  received  some  money  by  his 
marriage  with  a lady  whom  he  had  known  in  his 
obscure  sojourn  at  Oxford,  the  latter  days  of  the 
poet  were  spent  in  ease  and  leisure.  He  died  at 
Forest  Hill,  near  Oxford,  in  1788. 

* The  poet  altered  the  spelling  of  his  name  from  Meiklo  to 
Mickle,  ‘without,’  as  Johnson  says  of  Mallet’s  change  of  name, 
‘ any  imaginable  reason  of  preference  which  the  eye  or  ear  can 
discover.’  Telford  the  engineer  (a  native  of  the  same  parish 
as  Mickle)  changed  his  name  from  Telfer,  and  John  Moyne 
(also  a Dumfriesshire  man)  was  originally  John  Mein. 

47 


FR03I  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


The  most  popular  of  Mickle’s  original  poems 
is  his  ballad  of  Cumnor  Hall,  which  has  attained 
additional  celebrity  by  its  having  suggested  to 
Sir  Walter  Scott  the  groundwork  of  his  romance 
of  Kenilworth*  The  plot  is  interesting,  and  the 
versification  easy  and  musical.  Mickle  assisted  in 
Evans’s  Collection  of  Old  Ballads — in  which  Cumnor 
Hall  and  other  pieces  of  his  first  appeared;  and 
though  in  this  style  of  composition  he  did  not  copy 
the  direct  simplicity  and  unsophisticated  ardour  of 
the  real  old  ballads,  he  had  much  of  their  tenderness 
and  pathos.  A still  stronger  proof  of  this  is 
afforded  by  a Scottish  song,  the  author  of  which 
was  long  unknown,  but  which  seems  clearly  to  have 
been  written  by  Mickle.  An  imperfect,  altered,  and 
corrected  copy  was  found  among  his  manuscripts 
after  his  death;  and  his  widow  being  applied  to, 
confirmed  the  external  evidence  in  his  favour,  by 
an  express  declaration  that  her  husband  had  said 
the  song  was  his  own,  and  that  he  had  explained 
to  her  the  Scottish  words.  It  is  the  fairest  flower 
in  his  poetical  chaplet.  The  delineation  of  humble 
matrimonial  happiness  and  affection  which  the  song 
presents,  is  almost  unequalled : 

Sae  sweet  his  voice,  sae  smooth  his  tongue ; 

His  breath ’s  like  caller  air ; 

His  very  fit  has  music  in ’t 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I hear  him  speak  ? 

I ’m  downright  dizzy  wi’  the  thought : 

In  troth,  I ’m  like  to  greet. 

Beattie  added  a stanza  to  tliis  song,  containing  a 
happy  Epicurean  fancy,  elevated  by  the  situation 
and  the  faithful  love  of  the  speaker — which  Burns 
says  is  ‘ worthy  of  the  first  poet  ’ — 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

Mickle  would  have  excelled  in  the  Scottish  dialect, 
and  in  portraying  Scottish  life,  had  he  truly  known 
his  own  strength,  and  trusted  to  the  impulses  of 
his  heart  instead  of  his  ambition. 


Cumnor  Hall 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall. 

The  moon — sweet  regent  of  the  sky — 

Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

How  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies — 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still — 

Save  an  unhappy  lady’s  sighs, 

That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

‘ Leicester,’  she  cried,  ‘ is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me, 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 

Immured  in  shameful  privity  ? 

‘No  more  thou  com’st,  with  lover’s  speed, 
Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see ; 

But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

I fear,  stem  Earl’s,  the  same  to  thee. 

‘Not  so  the  usage  I received 

When  happy  in  my  father’s  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 

No  chilling  fears  did  me  appal. 


* Sir  Walter  intended  to  have  named  his  romance  Cumnor 
Hall,  but  was  persuaded — wisely,  we  think— by  Mr  Constable, 
his  publisher,  to  adopt  the  title  of  Kenilworth. 

4S 


‘ I rose  up  with  the  cheerful  mom, 

No  lark  so  blithe,  no  flower  more  gay  ; 

And,  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 

So  merrily  sung  the  live-long  day. 

‘ If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small, 

Among  court-ladies  all  despised. 

Why  didst  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall, 
Where,  scornful  Earl,  it  well  was  prized  ? 

‘ And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit, 

How  fair  I was,  you  oft  would  say ! 

And,  proud  of  conquest,  plucked  the  fruit, 
Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 

‘ Yes  ! now  neglected  and  despised, 

The  rose  is  pale,  the  lily ’s  dead ; 

But  he  that  once  their  charms  so  prized, 

Is  sure  the  cause  those  charms  are  fled. 

‘ For  know,  when  sickening  grief  doth  prey, 
And  tender  love ’s  repaid  with  scorn, 

The  sweetest  beauty  will  decay : 

What  floweret  can  endure  the  storm  ? 

‘ At  court,  I ’m  told,  is  beauty’s  throne, 
Where  every  lady ’s  passing  rare, 

That  eastern  flowers,  that  shame  the  sun, 

Are  not  so  glowing,  not  so  fair. 

‘ Then,  Earl,  why  didst  thou  leave  the  beds 
Where  roses  and  where  lilies  vie, 

To  seek  a primrose,  whose  pale  shades 
Must  sicken  when  those  gauds  are  by  ? 

‘ ’Along  rural  beauties  I was  one  ; 

Among  the  fields  wild-flowers  are  fair ; 

Some  country  swain  might  me  have  won, 

And  thought  my  passing  beauty  rare. 

‘ But,  Leicester — or  I much  am  wrong — 

It  is  not  beauty  lures  thy  vows  ; 

Bather  ambition’s  gilded  crown 

Makes  thee  forget  thy  humble  spouse. 

‘ Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I plead — 

The  injured  surely  may  repine — 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a country  maid, 

When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine  ? 

‘ Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms, 
And,  oh  ! then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 

Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms, 

Then  leave  me  to  mourn  the  live-long  day  ? 

‘ The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 
Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go  : 

Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a countess  can  have  woe. 

‘ The  simple  nymphs ! they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy ’s  their  estate  ; 

To  smile  for  joy,  than  sigh  for  woe; 

To  be  content,  than  to  be  great. 

‘ How  far  less  blessed  am  I than  them, 

Daily  to  pine  and  waste  with  care  ! 

Like  the  poor  plant,  that,  from  its  stem 
Divided,  feels  the  chilling  air. 

‘ Nor,  cruel  Earl ! can  I enjoy 
The  humble  charms  of  solitude ; 

Your  minions  proud  my  peace  destroy, 

By  sullen  frowns,  or  pratings  rude. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


‘ Last  night,  as  sad  I chanced  to  stray, 
The  village  death-bell  smote  my  ear ; 
They  winked  aside,  and  seemed  to  say : 

“ Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.” 


There  are  twa  hens  into  the  crib, 

Hae  fed  this  month  and  mair, 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare. 


‘ And  now,  while  happy  peasants  sleep, 

Here  I sit  lonely  and  forlorn ; 

No  one  to  soothe  me  as  I weep, 

Save  Philomel  on  yonder  thorn. 

‘ My  spirits  flag,  my  hopes  decay ; 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear ; 

And  many  a body  seems  to  say : 

“ Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.”  ’ 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 

And  let  fall  many  a bitter  tear.  - 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared, 

In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 

An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  his  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

♦ 

The  mastiff  howled  at  village  door, 

The  oaks  were  shattered  on  the  green  ; 

Woe  was  the  hour,  for  never  more 
That  hapless  Countess  e’er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor,  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  or  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids  with  fearful  glance, 

Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance 

Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a traveller  has  sighed, 

And  pensive  wept  the  Countess’  fall, 

As  wandering  onwards  they  ’ve  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 


The  Mariner's  Wife. 

But  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he ’s  weel  ? 

Is  this  a time  to  think  o’  wark  ? 

Ye  jauds,  fling  by  your  wheel. 

There ’s  nae  luck  about  the  house, 
There ’s  nae  luck  at  a’, 

There ’s  nae  luck  about  the  house, 
When  our  gudeman  ’s  awa.’ 

Is  this  a time  to  think  o’  wark, 

When  Colin ’s  at  the  door  ? 

Rax  down  my  cloak — I ’ll  to  the  key, 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Rise  up  and  make  a clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  mickle  pat ; 

Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  goun,* 

And  Jock  his  Sunday’s  coat. 

And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 
Their  stockins  white  as  snaw ; 

It ’s  a’  to  pleasure  our  gudeman — 

He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

* In  the  author’s  manuscript  ‘button  gown.’ 
56 


Bring  down  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop’s  sattin  gown, 

For  I maun  tell  the  bailie’s  wife, 

That  Colin’s  come  to  town. 

My  Turkey  slippers  I ’ll  put  on, 

My  stockins  pearl  blue — 

It ’s  a,’  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he ’s  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  tongue ; 

His  breath ’s  like  caller  air ; 

His  very  fit  has  music  in ’t 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I hear  him  speak  ? 

I ’m  downright  dizzy  wi’  the  thought : 

In  troth,  I ’m  like  to  greet. 

In  the  author’s  manuscript,  another  verse  is 
added : 

If  Colin’s  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I hae  nae  mair  to  crave, 

And  gin  I live  to  mak  him  sae, 

I ’m  blest  aboon  the  lave. 

The  following  is  the  addition  made  by  Dr  Beattie  : 

The  cauld  blasts  of  the  winter  wind 
That  thrilled  through  my  heart, 

They  ’re  a’  blawn  by ; I hae  him  safe, 

Till  death  we  ’ll  never  part. 

But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa’  ; 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

[The  Spirit  of  the  Cape] 

[From  the  Lusiad .] 

Now  prosperous  gales  the  bending  canvas  swelled  ; 
From  these  rude  shores  our  fearless  course  we  held : 
Beneath  the  glistening  wave  the  god  of  day 
Had  now  five  times  withdrawn  the  parting  ray, 

When  o’er  the  prow  a sudden  darkness  spread, 

And  slowly  floating  o’er  the  mast’s  tall  head 
A black  cloud  hovered ; nor  appeared  from  far 
The  moon’s  pale  glimpse,  nor  faintly  twinkling  star ; 
So  deep  a gloom  the  lowering  vapour  cast, 

Transfixed  with  awe  the  bravest  stood  aghast. 
Meanwhile  a hollow  bursting  roar  resounds, 

As  when  hoarse  surges  lash  their  rocky  mounds ; 

Nor  had  the  blackening  wave,  nor  frowning  heaven, 
The  wonted  signs  of  gathering  terhpest  given. 

Amazed  we  stood — 0 thou,  our  fortune’s  guide, 

Avert  this  omen,  mighty  God,  I cried ; 

Or  through  forbidden  climes  adventurous  strayed, 
Have  we  the  secrets  of  the  deep  surveyed, 

Which  these  wide  solitudes  of  seas  and  sky 
Were  doomed  to  hide  from  man’s  unhallowed  eye  ? 
Whate’er  this  prodigy,  it  threatens  more 
Than  midnight  tempest  and  the  mingled  roar, 

When  sea  and  sky  combine  to  rock  the  marble  shore. 

I spoke,  when  rising  through  the  darkened  air, 
Appalled  we  saw  a hideous  phantom  glare  ; 

High  and  enormous  o’er  the  flood  he  towered, 

And  thwart  our  way  with  sullen  aspect  lowered. 
Unearthly  paleness  o’er  his  cheeks  was  spread, 

Erect  uprose  his  hairs  of  withered  red ; 

Writhing  to  speak,  his  sable  lips  disclose, 

Sharp  and  disjoined,  his  gnashing  teeth’s  blue  rows  ; 

43 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


His  haggard  heard  flowed  quivering  on  the  wind, 
Revenge  and  horror  in  his  mien  combined ; 

His  clouded  front,  by  withering  lightning  scared, 

The  inward  anguish  of  his  soul  declared. 

His  red  eyes  glowing  from  their  dusky  caves 
Shot  livid  fires  : far  echoing  o’er  the  waves 
His  voice  resounded,  as  the  caverned  shore 
With  hollow  groan  repeats  the  tempest’s  roar. 

Cold  gliding  horrors  thrilled  each  hero’s  breast ; 

Our  bristling  hair  and  tottering  knees  confessed 
Wild  dread ; the  while  with  visage  ghastly  wan, 

His  black  lips  trembling,  thus  the  Fiend  began : 

‘ 0 you,  the  boldest  of  the  nations,  fired 
By  daring  pride,  by  lust  of  fame  inspired, 

Who,  scornful  of  the  bowers  of  sweet  repose, 

Through  these  my  waves  advance  your  fearless 
prows, 

Regardless  of  the  lengthening  watery  way, 

And  all  the  storms  that  own  my  sovereign  sway, 

Who  ’mid  surrounding  rocks  and  shelves  explore 
Where  never  hero  braved  my  rage  before ; 

Ye  sons  of  Lusus,  who,  with  eyes  profane, 

Have  viewed  the  secrets  of  my  awful  reign, 

Have  passed  the  bounds  which  jealous  Nature  drew, 
To  veil  her  secret  shrine  from  mortal  view 
Hear  from  my  lips  what  direful  woes  attend, 

And  bursting  soon  shall  o’er  your  race  descend. 

‘ With  every  bounding  keel  that  dares  my  rage, 
Eternal  war  my  rocks  and  storms  shall  wage ; 

The  next  proud  fleet  that  through  my  dear  domain, 
With  daring  search  shall  hoist  the  streaming  vane, 
That  gallant  navy  by  my  whirlwinds  tost, 

And  raging  seas,  shall  perish  on  my  coast. 

Then  He  who  first  my  secret  reign  descried, 

A naked  corse  wide  floating  o’er  the  tide 
Shall  drive.  Unless  my  heart’s  full  raptures  fail, 

0 Lusus ! oft  shalt  thou  thy  children  wail ; 

Each  year  thy  shipwrecked  sons  shalt  thou  deplore, 
Each  year  thy  sheeted  masts  shall  strew  my  shore.’  * * 
He  spoke,  and  deep  a lengthened  sigh  he  drew, 

A doleful  sound,  and  vanished  from  the  view ; 

The  frightened  billows  gave  a rolling  swell, 

And  distant  far  prolonged  the  dismal  yell ; 

Faint  and  more  faint  the  howling  echoes  die, 

And  the  black  cloud  dispersing,  leaves  the  sky. 

CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEY. 

Christopher  Anstey  (1724-1805)  was  author  of 
the  New  Bath  Guide , a light  satirical  and  humorous 
poem,  which  appeared  in  1766,  and  set  an  example 
in  this  description  of  composition,  that  has  since 
been  followed  in  numerous  instances,  and  with 
great  success.  Smollett,  in  his  Humphry  Clinker, 
published  five  years  later,  may  be  almost  said  to 
have  reduced  the  New  Bath  Guide  to  prose.  Many 
of  the  characters  and  situations  are  exactly  the 
same  as  those  of  Anstey.  This  poem  seldom  rises 
above  the  tone  of  conversation,  but  is  easy,  sportive, 
and  entertaining.  The  fashionable  Fribbles  of  the 
day,  the  chat,  scandal,  and  amusements  of  those 
attending  the  wells,  and  the  canting  hypocrisy  of 
some  sectarians,  are  depicted,  sometimes  with 
indelicacy,  but  always  with  force  and  liveliness. 
Mr  Anstey  was  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr  Anstey,  rector 
of  Brinkeley,  in  Cambridgeshire,  a gentleman  who 
possessed  a considerable  landed  property,  which  the 
poet  afterwards  inherited.  He  was  educated  at 
Eton  School,  and  elected  to  King’s  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  in  both  places  he  distinguished  himself 
as  a classical  scholar.  In  consequence  of  his  refusal 
to  deliver  certain  declamations,  Anstey  quarrelled 
with  the  heads  of  the  university,  and  was  denied 
the  usual  degree.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  New  Bath 
Guide,  he  alludes  to  this  circumstance — 

50 


Granta,  sweet  Granta,  where  studious  of  ease, 

Seven  years  did  I sleep,  and  then  lost  my  degrees. 

He  then  went  into  the  army,  and  married  Miss 
Calvert,  sister  to  his  friend  John  Calvert,  Esq.,  of 
Allbury  Hall,  in  Hertfordshire,  through  whose 
influence  he  was  returned  to  parliament  for  the 
borough  of  Hertford.  He  was  a frequent  resident 
in  the  city  of  Bath,  and  a favourite  in  the  fashion- 
able and  literary  coteries  of  the  place.  In  1766 
was  published  his  celebrated  poem,  which  instantly 
became  popular.  He  wrote  various  other  pieces — 
A Poem  on  the  Death  of  the  Marquis  of  Tavistoclc, 
1767  ; An  Election  Ball,  in  Poetical  Letters  from  Mr 
Inkle  at  Bath  to  his  Wife  at  Gloucester ; a Para- 
phrase of  the  Thirteenth  Chapter  of  the  First  Epistle 
to  the  Corinthians ; a satire,  entitled  The  Priest  Dis- 
sected ; Speculation,  or  a Defence  of  Mankind  (1780); 
Liberality,  or  Memoirs  of  a Decayed  Macceroni 
(1788);  The  Farmer's  Daughter , a Poetical  Tale 
(1795) ; and  various  other  copies  of  occasional  verses. 
Anstey  also  translated  Gray’s  Elegy  into  Latin 
verse,  and  addressed  an  elegant  Latin  Ode  to  Dr. 
Jenner.  While  the  New  Bath  Guide  was  ‘ the  only 
thing  in  fashion,’  and  relished  for  its  novel  and 
original  kind  of  humour,  the  other  productions  of 
Anstey  were  neglected  by  the  public,  and  have 
never  been  revived.  In  the  enjoyment  of  his 
paternal  estate,  the  poet,  however,  was  independent 
of  the  public  support,  and  he  took  part  in  the  sports 
of  the  field  up  to  his  eightieth  year.  While  on  a 
visit  to  his  son-in-law,  Mr  Bosanquet,  at  Harnage, 
Wiltshire,  he  was  taken  ill,  and  died  on  the  3d  of 
August  1805. 

The  Public  Breakfast. 

Now  my  lord  had  the  honour  of  coming  down  post, 

To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a toast ; 

In  hopes  he  her  ladyship’s  favour  might  win, 

By  playing  the  part  of  a host  at  an  inn. 

I’m  sure  he’s  a person  of  great  resolution, 

Though  delicate  nerves,  and  a weak  constitution  ; 

For  he  carried  us  all  to  a place  cross  the  river, 

And  vowed  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for  his  liver : 
He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote, 

If  we  all  for  Spring  Gardens  set  out  in  a boat : 

I never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain, 

Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 
For  sure  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known ; 

Here  a cap  and  a hat,  there  a cardinal  blown : 

While  his  lordship,  embroidered  and  powdered  all  o’er, 
Was  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore  : 

How  the  Misses  did  huddle,  and  scuddle,  and  run ; 
One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good  fun  ; 
For  by  waggling  their  tails,  they  all  seemed  to  take 
pains 

To  moisten  their  pinions  like  ducks  when  it  rains ; 
And  ’twas  pretty  to  see,  how,  like  birds  of  a feather, 
The  people  of  quality  flocked  all  together ; 

All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond, 

Just  the  same  as  those  animals  are  in  a pond  : 

You’ve  read  all  their  names  in  the  news,  I suppose, 
But,  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it  goes : 
There  was  Lady  Greasewrister, 

And  Madam  Yan-Twister, 

Her  ladyship’s  sister : 

Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulture, 

Sir  Brandish  O’Culter, 

With  Marshal  Carouzer, 

And  old  Lady  Mouzer, 

And  the  great  Hanoverian  Baron  Panzmowzer ; 
Besides  many  others  who  all  in  the  rain  went, 

On  purpose  to  honour  this  great  entertainment : 

The  company  made  a most  brilliant  appearance, 

And  ate  bread  and  butter  with  great  perseverance  : 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


All  the  chocolate  too,  that  my  lord  set  before  ’em, 
The  ladies  despatched  with  the  utmost  decorum. 

Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around, 

The  horns  and  the  clarions  echoing  sound. 

Sweet  were  the  strains,  as  odorous  gales  that  blow 
O’er  fragrant  banks,  where  pinks  and  roses  grow. 
The  peer  was  quite  ravished,  while  close  to  his  side 
Sat  Lady  Bunbutter,  in  beautiful  pride  ! 

Oft  turning  his  eyes,  he  with  rapture  surveyed 
All  the  powerful  charms  she  so  nobly  displayed  : 

As  when  at  the  feast  of  the  great  Alexander, 
Timotheus,  the  musical  son  of  Thersander, 

Breathed  heavenly  measures. 

* * * * 

Oh ! had  I a voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel, 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I feel, 

And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  lord  made  to  Lady  Bunbutter ! 

So  polite  all  the  time,  that  he  ne’er  touched  a bit, 
While  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his  wit : 

For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  true  taste,  when  they 
treat, 

Should  talk  a great  deal,  but  they  never  should  eat : 
And  if  that  be  the  fashion,  I never  will  give 
Any  grand  entertainment  as  long  as  I live  : 

For  I ’m  of  opinion,  ’tis  proper  to  cheer 
The  stomach  and  bowels  as  well  as  the  ear. 

Nor  me  did  the  charming  concerto  of  Abel 
Regale  like  the  breakfast  I saw  on  the  table  : 

I freely  will  own  I the  muffins  preferred 
To  all  the  genteel  conversation  I heard. 

E’en  though  I ’d  the  honour  of  sitting  between 
My  Lady  Stuff-damask  and  Peggy  Moreen, 

Who  both  flew  to  Bath  in  the  nightly  machine. 

Cries  Peggy : ‘ This  place  is  enchantingly  pretty ; 

We  never  can  see  such  a thing  in  the  city. 

You  may  spend  all  your  lifetime  in  Cateaton  Street, 
And  never  so  civil  a gentleman  meet ; 

You  may  talk  what  you  please;  you  may  search 
London  through ; 

You  may  go  to  Carlisle’s,  and  to  Almack’s  too  ; 

And  I ’ll  give  you  my  head  if  you  find  such  a host, 
For  coffee,  tea,  chocolate,  butter,  and  toast : 

How  he  welcomes  at  once  all  the  world  and  his  wife, 
And  how  civil  to  folk  he  ne’er  saw  in  his  life  ! ’ 

‘ These  horns,’  cries  my  lady,  ‘ so  tickle  one’s  ear, 

Lard  ! what  would  I give  that  Sir  Simon  was  here  ! 
To  the  next  public  breakfast  Sir  Simon  shall  go, 

For  I find  here  are  folks  one  may  venture  to  know : 
Sir  Simon  would  gladly  his  lordship  attend, 

And  my  lord  would  be  pleased  with  so  cheerful  a 
friend.’ 

So  when  we  had  wasted  more  bread  at  a breakfast 
Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this  week 
past, 

I saw,  all  at  once,  a prodigious  great  throng 
Come  bustling,  and  rustling,  and  jostling  along  ; 

For  his  lordship  was  pleased  that  the  company  now 
To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  curtsy  and  bow ; 

And  my  lady  was  pleased  too,  and  seemed  vastly  proud 
At  once  to  receive  all  the  thanks  of  a crowd. 

And  when,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had  adored 
This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  lord, 

Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away, 

Just  to  follow  the  employments  and  calls  of  the  day ; 
But  those  who  knew  better  their  time  how  to  spend, 
The  fiddling  and  dancing  all  chose  to  attend. 

Miss  Clunch  and  Sir  Toby  performed  a cotillon, 

Just  the  same  as  our  Susan  and  Bob  the  postilion.; 
All  the  while  her  mamma  was  expressing  her  joy, 
That  her  daughter  the  morning  so  well  could  employ. 
Now,  why  should  the  Muse,  my  dear  mother,  relate 
The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  great? 

As  homeward  we  came — ’tis  with  sorrow  you  ’ll  hear 
What  a dreadful  disaster  attended  the  peer ; 


MRS  THRALE. 


For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a Naiad  should  long  to  ennoble  her  breed  ; 

Or  whether  his  lordship  was  charmed  to  behold 
His  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old ; 

In  handing  old  Lady  Comefidget  and  daughter, 

This  obsequious  lord  tumbled  into  the  water ; 

But  a nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to  the 
boat, 

And  I left  all  the  ladies  a-cleaning  his  coat. 


MRS  THRALE. 

Mrs  Thrale — afterwards  Mrs  Piozzi — who  lived 
for  many  years  in  terms  of  intimate  friendship  with 
Dr  Johnson,  is  authoress  of  an  interesting  little 
moral  poem,  The  Three  Warnings , which  is  so 
superior  to  her  other  compositions,  that  it  has 
been  supposed  to  have  been  partly  written,  or  at 
least  corrected,  by  Johnson.  This  lady  was  a native 
of  Wales,  being  born  at  Bodville,  in  Caernarvonshire, 
in  1740.  In  1764  she  was  married  to  Mr  Henry 
Thrale,  an  eminent  brewer,  who  had  taste  enough 
to  appreciate  the  rich  and  varied  conversation  of 
Johnson,  and  whose  hospitality  and  wealth  afforded 
the  great  moralist  an  asylum  in  his  house.  After 
the  death  of  this  excellent  man,  his  widow  married 
Signior  Piozzi,  an  Italian  music-master,  a step 
which  Johnson  never  could  forgive.  The  lively 
lady  proceeded  with  her  husband  on  a continental 
tour,  and  they  took  up  their  abode  for  some  time  on 
the  banks  of  the  Arno.  She  afterwards  published 
a volume  of  miscellaneous  pieces,  entitled  The 
Florence  Miscellany,  and  afforded  a subject  for  the 
satire  of  Gifford,  whose  Baviad  and  Mceviad  was 
written  to  lash  the  Della  Cruscan  songsters  with 
whom  Mrs  Piozzi  was  associated.  The  Anecdotes 
and  Letters  of  Dr  Johnson,  by  Mrs  Piozzi,  are  the 
only  valuable  works  which  proceeded  from  her  pen. 
She  was  a minute  and  clever  observer  of  men  and 
manners,  but  deficient  in  judgment,  and  not  par- 
ticular as  to  the  accuracy  of  her  relations.  Mrs 
Piozzi  died  at  Clifton  in  1822. 

The  Three  Warnings. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground ; 

’Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

This  great  affection  to  believe, 

Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 

If  old  assertions  can’t  prevail, 

Be  pleased  to  hear  a modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 

On  neighbour  Dodson’s  wedding-day, 

Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 

And  looking  grave— ‘ You  must,’  says  he, 

‘ Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me.’ 

‘ With  you  ! and  quit  my  Susan’s  side  ? 

With  you  ! ’ the  hapless  husband  cried ; 

‘ Young  as  I am,  ’tis  monstrous  hard  ! 

Besides,  in  truth,  I ’m  not  prepared  : 

My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 

This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know.’ 

What  more  he  urged  I have  not  heard, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 

So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a little  longer. 

51 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Yet  calling  up  a serious  look, 

His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 

‘ Neighbour,’  he  said,  ‘ farewell ! no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour  : 

And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 

To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 

Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 

Before  you  ’re  summoned  to  the  grave ; 

Willing  for  once  I ’ll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a kind  reprieve ; 

In  hopes  you  ’ll  have  no  more  to  say ; 

But,  when  I call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave.’ 

To  these  conditions  both  consented, 

And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 

How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 

How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 

And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 

He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold, 

Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near  : 

His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 

Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 

But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase, 

While  thus  along  life’s  dusty  road, 

The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 

Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 

Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 

The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 

‘ So  soon  returned  ! ’ old  Dodson  cries. 

‘ So  soon,  d’  ye  call  it  ? ’ Death  replies : 

‘Surely,  my  friend,  you’re  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I was  here  before 
’Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore.’ 

‘ So  much  the  worse,’  the  clown  rejoined  ; 

‘ To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind  : 

However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 

And  your  authority — is ’t  regal  ? 

Else  you  are  come  on  a fool’s  errand, 

With  but  a secretary’s  warrant.* 

Beside,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 

Which  I have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings ; 

But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 

I can  recover  damages.’ 

‘ I know,’  cries  Death,  ‘ that  at  the  best, 

I seldom  am  a welcome  guest ; 

But  don’t  be  captious,  friend,  at  least ; 

I little  thought  you ’d  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  : 

Your  years  have  run  to  a great  length ; 

I wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength  !’ 

‘ Hold  ! ’ says  the  farmer ; ‘ not  so  fast ! 

I have  been  lame  these  four  years  past.’ 

‘ And  no  great  wonder,’  Death  replies : 

‘ However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes ; 

And  sure  to  see  one’s  loves  and  friends, 

For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends.’ 

* An  allusion  to  the  illegal  warrant  used  against  Wilkes, 
which  was  the  cause  of  so  much  contention  in  its  day. 

52 


‘ Perhaps,’  says  Dodson,  ‘ so  it  might, 

But  latterly  I’ve  lost  my  sight.’ 

‘ This  is  a shocking  tale,  ’tis  true ; 

But  still  there ’s  comfort  left  for  you : 

Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ; 

I warrant  you  hear  all  the  news.’ 

‘ There ’s  none,’  cries  he ; ‘ and  if  there  were, 

I ’m  grown  so  deaf,  I could  not  hear.’ 

‘Nay,  then,’  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 

‘ These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings ; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You’ve  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warnings; 
So  come  along  ; no  more  we  ’ll  part ; ’ 

He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 

And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 

Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 


THOMAS  MOSS. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Moss,  who  died  in  1808, 
minister  of  Brierly  Hill,  and  of  Trentham,  in 
Staffordshire,  published  anonymously,  in  1769,  a 
collection  of  miscellaneous  poems,  forming  a thin 
quarto,  which  he  had  printed  at  Wolverhampton. 
One  piece  was  copied  by  Dodsley  into  his  Annual 
Register , and  from  thence  has  been  transferred 
— different  persons  being  assigned  as  the  author — 
into  almost  every  periodical  and  collection  of  fugi- 
tive verses.  This  poem  is  entitled  The  Beggar — 
sometimes  called  The  Beggar's  Petition — and  con- 
tains much  pathetic  and  natural  sentiment  finely 
expressed. 

The  Beggar. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your 
door, 

Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span ; 

Oh ! give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

These  tattered  clothes  my  poverty  bespeak, 

These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  lengthened  years ; 

And  many  a furrow  in  my  grief-worn  cheek, 

Has  been  the  channel  to  a stream  of  tears. v 

Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground, 

With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my  road, 

For  plenty  there  a residence  has  found, 

And  grandeur  a magnificent  abode. 

(Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor  !) 

Here  craving  for  a morsel  of  their  bread, 

A pampered  menial  forced  me  from  the  door, 

To  seek  a shelter  in  a humbler  shed. 

Oh  ! take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome, 

Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the  cold  ! 

Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb, 

For  I am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 

Should  I reveal  the  source  of  every  grief, 

If  soft  humanity  e’er  touched  your  breast, 

Your  hands  would  not  withhold  the  kind  relief, 

And  tears  of  pity  could  not  be  repressed. 

Heaven  sends  misfortunes — why  should  we  repine  ? 
’Tis  Heaven  has  brought  me  to  the  state  you  see  : 

And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like  mine, 

The  child  of  sorrow,  and  of  misery. 

A little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot, 

Then,  like  the  lark,  I sprightly  hailed  the  morn  ; 

But  ah  ! oppression  forced  me  from  my  cot ; 

My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  corn. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


My  daughter — once  the  comfort  of  my  age  ! 

Lured  by  a villain  from  her  native  home, 

Is  cast,  abandoned,  on  the  world’s  wide  stage, 

And  doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

My  tender  wife — sweet  soother  of  my  care  ! 

Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern  decree, 

Fell — lingering  fell,  a victim  to  despair, 

And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your 
door, 

Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span; 

Oh ! give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 

‘It  is  not  Sir  William  Jones’s  poetry,’  says  Mr 
Southey,  ‘that  can  perpetuate  his  name.’  This  is 
true:  it  was  as  an  oriental  scholar  and  legislator, 
an  enlightened  lawyer  and  patriot,  that  he  earned 


his  laurels.  His  varied  learning  and  philological 
researches — he  was  master  of  twenty-eight  lan- 
guages— were  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  his 
contemporaries.  Sir  William  was  born  in  London 
in  1746.  His  father  was  an  eminent  mathematician, 
but  died  when  his  son  was  only  three  years  of  age. 
The  care  of  educating  young  Jones  devolved  upon 
his  mother,  who  was  well  qualified  for  the  duty  by 
her  virtues  and  extensive  learning.  When  in  his 
fifth  year,  the  imagination  of  the  young  scholar 
was  caught  by  the  sublime  description  of  the  angel 
in  the  tenth  chapter  of  the  Apocalypse,  and  the 
impression  was  never  effaced.  In  1753  he  was 
placed  at  Harrow  School,  where  he  continued  nearly 
ten  years,  and  became  an  accomplished  and  critical 
classical  scholar.  He  did  not  confine  himself  merely 
to  the  ancient  authors  usually  studied,  but  added  a 
knowledge  of  the  Arabic  characters,  and  acquired 
sufficient  Hebrew  to  read  the  Psalms.  In  1764  he 
■was  entered  of  University  College,  Oxford.  Here 
his  taste  for  oriental  literature  continued,  and  he 
engaged  a native  of  Aleppo,  whom  he  had  discovered 
in  London,  to  act  as  his  preceptor.  He  also  assidu- 


SIR WILLIAM  JONES. 


ously  perused  the  Greek  poets  and  historians.  In 
his  nineteenth  year,  Jones  accepted  an  offer  to  be 
private  tutor  to  Lord  Althorp,  afterwards  Earl 
Spencer.  A fellowship  at  Oxford  was  also  con- 
ferred upon  him,  and  thus  the  scholar  was  relieved 
from  the  fear  of  want,  and  enabled  to  pursue  his 
favourite  and  unremitting  studies.  An  opportunity 
of  displaying  one  branch  of  his  acquirements  was 
afforded  in  1768.  The  king  of  Denmark  in  that 
year  visited  England,  and  brought  with  him  an 
eastern  manuscript,  containing  the  life  of  Nadir 
Shah,  which  he  wished  translated  into  French. 
Jones  executed  this  arduous  task,  being,  as  Lord 
Teignmouth,  his  biographer,  remarks,  the  only 
oriental  scholar  in  England  adequate  to  the  per- 
formance. He  still  continued  in  the  noble  family  of 
Spencer,  and  in  1769  accompanied  his  pupil  to  the 
continent.  Next  year,  feeling  anxious  to  attain  an 
independent  station  in  life,  he  entered  himself  a 
student  of  the  Temple,  and,  applying  himself  with 
Jiis  characteristic  ardour  to  his  new  profession,  he 
contemplated  with  pleasure  the  ‘stately  edifice  of 
the  laws  of  England,’  and  mastered  their  most 
important  principles  and  details.  In  1774,  he  pub- 
lished Commentaries  on  Asiatic  Poetry , but  finding 
that  jurisprudence  was  a jealous  mistress,  and 
would  not  admit  the  eastern  muses  to  participate  in 
his  attentions,  he  devoted  himself  for  some  years 
exclusively  to  his  legal  studies.  A patriotic  feeling 
was  mingled  with  this  resolution.  ‘ Had  I lived  at 
Rome  or  Athens,’  he  said,  ‘ I should  have  preferred 
the  labours,  studies,  and  dangers  of  their  orators 
and  illustrious  citizens — connected  as  they  were 
with  banishment  and  even  death — to  the  groves  of 
the  poets  or  the  gardens  of  the  philosophers.  Here 
I adopt  the  same  resolution.  The  constitution  of 
England  is  in  no  respect  inferior  to  that  of  Rome 
or  Athens.’  Jones  now  practised  at  the  bar,  and  was 
appointed  one  of  the  Commissioners  of  Bankrupts. 
In  1778,  he  published  a translation  of  the  speeches 
of  Isaaus,  in  causes  concerning  the  law  of  succession 
to  property  at  Athens,  to  which  he  added  notes  and 
a commentary.  The  stirring  events  of  the  time 
in  which  he  lived  were  not  beheld  without  strong 
interest  by  this  accomplished  scholar.  He  was 
decidedly  opposed  to  the  American  war  and  to 
the  slave-trade,  then  so  prevalent,  and  in  1781 
he  produced  his  noble  Alcaic  Ode,  animated  by 
the  purest  spirit  of  patriotism,  and  a high  strain 
of  poetical  enthusiasm.  He  was  appointed  one  of 
the  judges  of  the  supreme  court  at  Fort  William,  in 
Bengal,  and  the  honour  of  knighthood  was  conferred 
upon  him.  He  married  the  daughter  of  Dr  Shipley, 
bishop  of  St  Asaph;  and  in  April  1783,  in  his 
thirty-seventh  year,  he  embarked  for  India,  never 
to  return.  Sir  William  Jones  entered  upon  his 
judicial  functions  with  all  the  advantages  of  a high 
reputation,  unsullied  integrity,  disinterested  bene- 
volence, and  unwearied  perseverance.  In  the 
intervals  of  leisure  from  his  duties,  he  directed 
his  attention  to  scientific  objects,  and  established 
a society  in  Calcutta  to  promote  inquiries  by  the 
ingenious,  and  to  concentrate  the  knowledge  to  be 
collected  in  Asia.  In  1784,  his  health  being  affected 
by  the  climate  and  the  closeness  of  his  application, 
he  made  a tour  through  various  parts  of  India,  in 
the  course  of  which  he  wrote  The  Enchanted  Fruit , 
or  Hindoo  Wife , a poetical  tale,  and  a Treatise  on 
the  Gods  of  Greece , Italy,  and  India.  He  also  studied 
the  Sanscrit  language,  being  unwilling  to  continue 
at  the  mercy  of  the  Pundits,  who  dealt  out  Hindoo 
law  as  they  pleased.  Some  translations  from  ori- 
ental authors,  and  original  poems  and  essays,  he 
contributed  to  a periodical  established  at  Calcutta, 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


entitled  The  Asiatic  Miscellany.  He  meditated  an 
epic  poem  on  the  Discovery  of  England  by  Brutus, 
and  had  matured  his  design  so  far  as  to  write  the 
arguments  of  the  intended  books  of  his  epic,  but 
the  poem  itself  he  did  not  live  to  attempt.  In  1789, 
Sir  William  translated  an  ancient  Indian  drama, 
Sacontala , or  the  Fatal  Ring , which  exhibits  a picture 
of  Hindoo  manners  in  the  century  preceding  the 
Christian  era.  He  engaged  to  compile  a digest 
of  Hindoo  and  Mohammedan  laws  ; and  in  1794  he 
translated  the  Ordinances  of  Menu,  or  the  Hindoo 
system  of  duties,  religious  and  civil.  His  motive 
to  this  task,  like  his  inducement  to  the  digest,  was 
to  aid  the-  benevolent  intentions  of  our  legislature 
in  securing  to  the  natives,  in  a qualified  degree, 
the  administration  of  justice  by  their  own  laws. 
Eager  to  accomplish  liis  digest,  Sir  William  Jones 
j remained  in  India  after  the  delicate  health  of  Lady 
Jones  compelled  her  departure  in  December  1793. 

| He  proposed  to  follow  her  in  the  ensuing  season, 
i but  in  April  he  was  seized  with  inflammation  of 
the  liver,  which  terminated  fatally,  after  an  illness 
of  one  week,  on  the  27th  of  April  1794.  Every 
honour  was  paid  to  his  remains,  and  the  East  India 
Company  erected  a monument  to  his  memory  in  St 
Paul’s  Cathedral.  The  attainments  of  Sir  William 
Jones  were  so  profound  and  various,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  conceive  how  he  had  comprised  them 
in  his  short  life  of  forty-eight  years.  As  a linguist, 
he  has  probably  never  been  surpassed;  for  his 
knowledge  extended  to  a critical  study  of  the 
literature  and  antiquities  of  various  nations.  As  a 
lawyer,  he  had  attained  to  a high  rank  in  England, 
and  he  was  the  Justinian  of  India.  In  general 
science,  there  were  few  departments  of  which  he 
was  ignorant:  in  chemistry,  mathematics,  botany, 
and  music,  he  was  equally  proficient.  With  respect 
to  the  division  of  his  time,  Sir  William  Jones 
had  written  in  India,  on  a small  piece  of  paper, 
j the  following  lines : 

Sir  Edward  Colce: 

Six  hours  in  sleep,  in  law’s  grave  study  six, 

Four  spend  in  prayer — the  rest  on  nature  fix. 

Rather: 

Seven  hours  to  law,  to  soothing  slumber  seven, 

Ten  to  the  world  allot,  and  all  to  heaven.* 

The  poems  of  Sir  William  Jones  have  been  collected 
and  printed  in  two  small  volumes.  An  early  collec- 
tion was  published  by  himself,  dedicated  to  the 
Countess  Spencer,  in  1772.  They  consist  of  a few 
original  pieces  in  English  and  Latin,  and  transla- 
tions, from  Petrarch  and  Pindar ; paraphrases  of 
I Turkish  and  Chinese  odes,  hymns  on  subjects  of 
Hindoo  mythology,  Indian  Tales,  and  a few  songs 
j from  the  Persian.  Of  these,  the  beautiful  lyric  from 
i Hafiz  is  the  most  valuable.  The  taste  of  Sir  William 
Jones  was  early  turned  towards  eastern  poetry,  in 
I which  he  was  captivated  with  new  images,  expres- 
! sions,  and  allegories,  but  there  is  a want  of  chaste- 
j ness  and  simplicity  in  most  of  these  productions. 
i The  name  of  their  illustrious  author  ‘ reflects  credit,’ 
as  Campbell  remarks,  ‘on  poetical  biography,  but 
his  secondary  fame  as  a composer  shews  that  the 
palm  of  poetry  is  not  likely  to  be  won,  even  by 
great  genius,  without  exclusive  devotion  to  the 
pursuit.’ 

* As  respects  sleep,  the  example  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  may  be 
added  to  that  of  Sir  William  Jones,  for  the  great  novelist  has 
stated  that  he  required  seven  hours  of  total  unconsciousness 
to  fit  him  for  the  duties  of  the  day. 

54 


A n Ode , in  Imitation  of  Alcaeus. 

What  constitutes  a state  ? 

Not  high-raised  battlement  or  laboured  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate ; 

Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  : men,  high-minded  men, 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain, 
Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain : 
These  constitute  a state, 

And  sovereign  Law,  that  state’s  collected  will, 

O’er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill ; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 

The  fiend  Discretion  like  a vapour  sinks, 

And  e’en  the  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 

Than  Lesbos  fairer,  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile? 

Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 

Those  sweet  rewards,  which  decorate  the  brave, 

’Tis  folly'to’decline, 

And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 


A Persian  Song  of  Hafiz. 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wouldst  charm  my  sight, 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  enfold ; 

That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand, 

Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bokhara’s  vaunted  gold, 

Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 

Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow, 

And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 

Whate’er  the  frowning  zealots  say  : 

Tell  them,  their  Eden  cannot  shew 
A stream  so  clear  as  Rocnabad, 

A bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

Oh  ! when  these  fair  perfidious  maids, 

Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest, 

Their  dear  destructive  charms  display, 

Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades, 

And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest, 

As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow : 

Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs, 

New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart? 

Can  cheeks,  where  living  roses  blow, 

Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes, 
Require  the  borrowed  gloss  of  art  ? 

Speak  not  of  fate : ah  ! change  the  theme, 
And  talk  of  odours,  talk  of  wine, 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  us  bloom  : 

’Tis  all  a cloud,  ’tis  all  a dream ; 

To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 


POETS. 


Beauty  has  such  resistless  power, 

That  even  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 
Sighed  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy  : 

For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour, 

When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 
A youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy  ! 

But  ah  ! sweet  maid,  my  counsel  hear — 

Youth  should  attend  when  those  advise 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage — 

While  music  charms  the  ravished  ear ; 

While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes, 

Be  gay,  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I heard  ? 

And  yet,  by  Heaven,  I love  thee  still : 

Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  ? 

Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 
From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill, 

Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  ? 

Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay, 

Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease, 

Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung : 

Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say ; 

But  oh  I far  sweeter,  if  they  please 
The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung ! 

The  Concluding  Sentence  of  Berkeley’s  Siris  Imitated. 

Before  thy  mystic  altar,  heavenly  Truth, 

I kneel  in  manhood  as  I knelt  in  youth  : 

Thus  let  me  kneel,  till  this  dull  form  decay, 

And  life’s  last  shade  be  brightened  by  thy  ray  : 

Then  shall  my  soul,  now  lost  in  clouds  below, 

Soar  without  bound,  without  consuming  glow.* 

Tetrastic — From  the  Persian. 

On  parent  knees,  a naked  new-born  child, 

Weeping  thou  sat’st  while  all  around  thee  smiled  ; 
So  live,  that  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 

Calm  thou  mayst  smile,  while  all  around  thee  weep. 


NATHANIEL  COTTON. 

Nathaniel  Cotton  (1721-1788)  wrote  Visions  in 
Verse , for  children,  and  a volume  of  poetical  Miscel- 
lanies. He  followed  the  medical  profession  in  St 
Albans,  and  was  distinguished  for  his  skill  in  the 
treatment  of  cases  of  insanity.  Cowper,  his  patient, 
bears  evidence  to  his  ‘well-known  humanity  and 
sweetness  of  temper.’ 

The  Fireside. 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 

The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly’s  maze  advance ; 

Though  singularity  and  pride 

Be  called  our  choice,  we  ’ll  step  aside, 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we  ’ll  oft  retire 

To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs ; 

No  noisy  neighbour  enters  here ; 

Nor  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 

• Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies ; 

* The  following  is  the  last  sentence  of  the  Siris : * He  that 
would  make  a real  progress  in  knowledge  must  dedicate  his 
age  as  well  as  youth,  the  latter  growth  as  well  as  the  first 
fruits,  at  the  altar  of  Truth.’ 


NATHANIEL  COTTON. 


And  they  are  fools  who  roam  : 

The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow  ; 

From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  flow, 
And  that  dear  hut — our  home. 

Of  rest  was  Noah’s  dove  bereft, 

When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 
That  safe  retreat,  the  ark ; 

Giving  her  vain  excursion  o’er, 

The  disappointed  bird  once  more 
Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen’s  gentle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  experience  know, 

That  marriage,  rightly  understood, 

Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 
A paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring ; 

If  tutored  right,  they  ’ll  prove  a spring 
Whence  pleasures  ever  rise  : 

We  ’ll  form  their  minds,  with  studious  care, 
To  all  that ’s  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage, 

They  ’ll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age, 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs  : 

They  ’ll  grow  in  virtue  every  day  ; 

And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

No  borrowed  joys,  they  ’re  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot : 

Monarchs  ! we  envy  not  your  state  ; 

We  look  with  pity  on  the  great, 

And  bless  our  humbler  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 

But  then  how  little  do  we  need  ! 

For  nature’s  calls  are  few  : 

In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 

To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We  ’ll  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate’er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 

For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 

’Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide, 

Patient  when  favours  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favours  given ; 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom’s  part ; 

This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

We’ll  ask  no  long-protracted  treat, 

Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet ; 

But  when  our  feast  is  o’er, 

Grateful  from  table  we’ll  arise, 

Nor  grudge  our  sons  with  envious  eyes 
The  relics  of  our  store. 

Thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  life  we  ’ll  go  ; 
Its  checkered  paths  of  joy  and  woe 

With  cautious  steps  we  ’ll  tread  ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a tear, 

Without  a trouble  or  a fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead  : 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


"While  conscience,  like  a faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 
And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a kind  angel,  whisper  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 

William  Cowper,  ‘ the  most  popular  poet  of  his 
generation,  and  the  best  of  English  letter-writers,’ 
as  Mr  Southey  has  designated  him,  belonged  empha- 
tically to  the  aristocracy  of  England.  His  father, 
the  Rev.  Dr  Cowper,  chaplain  to  George  II.,  was 


William  Cowper. 


the  son  of  Spencer  Cowper,  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
court  of  Common  Pleas,  and  a younger  brother  of 
the  first  Earl  Cowper,  lord  chancellor.  His  mother 
was  allied  to  some  of  the  noblest  families  in  Eng- 
land, descended  by  four  different  lines  from  King 
Henry  III.  This  lofty  lineage  cannot  add  to  the 
lustre  of  the  poet’s  fame,  but  it  sheds  additional 
grace  on  his  piety  and  humility.  Dr  Cowper, 
besides  his  royal  chaplaincy,  held  the  rectory  of 
Great  Berkhamstead,  in  the  county  of  Hertford, 
and  there  the  poet  was  born,  November  15,  1731. 
In  his  sixth  year  he  lost  his  mother — whom  he 
tenderly  and  affectionately  remembered  through  all 
his  life — and  was  placed  at  a boarding-school,  where 
he  continued  two  years.  The  tyranny  of  one  of  his 
school-fellows,  who  held  in  complete  subjection  and 
abject  fear  the  timid  and  home-sick  boy,  led  to 
his  removal  from  this  seminary,  and  undoubtedly 
prejudiced  him  against  the  whole  system  of  public 
education.  He  was  next  placed  at  Westminster 
School,  where,  as  he  says,  he  served  a seven  years’ 
apprenticeship  to  the  classics ; and  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  was  removed,  in  order  to  be  articled  to 
an  attorney.  Having  passed  through  this  training 
— with  the  future  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  for  his 
fellow-clerk — Cowper,  in  1754,  was  called  to  thg 
bar.  He  never,  however,  made  the  law  a study : in 
the  solicitor’s  office  he  and  Thurlow  were  ‘ con- 
stantly employed  from  morning  to  night  in  giggling 
and  making  giggle,’  and  in  Ills  chambers  in  the 
Temple  he  wrote  gay  verses,  and  associated  with 
Bonnel  Thornton,  Colman,  Lloyd,  and  other  wits. 
He  contributed  a few  papers  to  the  Connoisseur  and 
to  the  St  James’s  Chronicle , both  conducted  by  his 

5S 


friends.  Darker  days  were  at  hand.  Cowper’s 
father  was  now  dead,  his  patrimony  was  small,  and 
he  was  in  his  thirty-second  year,  almost  ‘ unpro- 
vided with  an  aim,’  for  the  law  was  with  him  a mere 
nominal  profession.  In  this  crisis  of  his  fortunes 
his  kinsman,  Major  Cowper,  presented  him  to  the 
office  of  clerk  of  the  journals  to  the  House  of  Lords 
— a desirable  and  lucrative  appointment.  Cowper 
accepted  it ; but  the  labour  of  studying  the  forms  of 
procedure,  and  the  dread  of  qualifying  himself  by 
appearing  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords,  plunged 
him  in  the  deepest  misery  and  distress.  The  seeds 
of  insanity  were  then  in  his  frame  ; and  after 
brooding  over  his  fancied  ills  till  reason  had  fled,  he 
attempted  to  commit  suicide.  Happily  this  des- 
perate effort  failed  ; the  appointment  was  given  up, 
and  Cowper  was  removed  to  a private  madhouse 
at  St  Albans,  kept  by  Dr  Cotton.  The  cloud  of 
horror  gradually  passed  away,  and  on  his  recovery, 
he  resolved  to  withdraw  entirely  from  the  society 
and  business  of  the  world.  He  had  still  a small 
portion  of  his  funds  left,  and  his  friends  subscribed 
a further  sum,  to  enable  him  to  live  frugally  in 
retirement.  The  bright  hopes  of  Cowper’s  youth 
seemed  thus  to  have  all  vanished : his  prospects  of 
advancement  in  the  world  were  gone ; and  in  the 
new-born  zeal  of  his  religious  fervour,  his  friends 
might  well  doubt  whether  his  reason  had  been 
completely  restored.  He  retired  to  the  town  of 
Huntingdon,  near  Cambridge,  where  his  brother 
resided,  and  there  formed  an  intimacy  with  the 
family  of  the  Rev.  Morley  Unwin,  a clergyman 
resident  in  the  place.  He  was  adopted  as  one  of 
the  family ; and  when  Mr  Unwin  himself  was  sud- 
denly removed,  the  same  connection  was  continued 
with  his  widow.  Death  only  could  sever  a tie  so 
strongly  knit — cemented  by  mutual  faith  and 
friendship,  and  by  sorrows  of  which  the  world,  knew 
nothing.  To  the  latest  generation  the  name  of 
Mary  Unwin  will  be  united  with  that  of  Cowper, 
partaker  of  his  fame  as  of  his  sad  decline : 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light. 

After  the  death  of  Mr  Unwin  in  1767,  the  family 
were  advised  by  the  Rev.  John  Newton — a remark- 
able man  in  many  respects — to  fix  their  abode  at 
Olney,  in  the  northern  division  of  Buckinghamshire, 
where  Mr  Newton  himself  officiated  as  curate. 
This  was  accordingly  done,  and  Cowper  removed 
with  them  to  a spot  which  he  has  consecrated  by 
his  genius.  He  had  still  the  river  Ouse  with  him, 
as  at  Huntingdon,  but  the  scenery  is  more  varied 
and  attractive,  and  abounds  in  fine  retired  walks. 
His  life  was  that  of  a religious  recluse ; he  ceased 
corresponding  with  his  friends,  and  associated  only 
with  Mrs  Unwin  and  Newton.  The  latter  engaged 
his  assistance  in  writing  a volume  of  hymns,  but 
his  morbid  melancholy  gained  ground,  and  in  1773 
it  became  a case  of  decided  insanity.  About  two 
years  were  passed  in  this  unhappy  state.  On  his 
recovery,  Cowper  took  to  gardening,  rearing  hares, 
drawing  landscapes,  and  composing  poetry.  The 
latter  was  fortunately  the  most  permanent  enjoy- 
ment ; and  its  fruits  .appeared  in  a volume  of  poems 
published  in  1782.  The  sale  of  the  work  w'as  slow  ; 
but  his  friends  were  eager  in  its  praise,  and  it 
received  the  approbation  of  Johnson  and  Franklin. 
His  correspondence  was  resumed,  and  cheerfulness 
again  became  an  inmate  of  his  retreat  at  Olney. 
This  happy  change  was  augmented  by  the  presence 
of  a third  party,  Lady  Austen,  a widow,  who  came 
to  reside  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Olney, 
and  whose  conversation  for  a time  charmed  away 
the  melancholy  spirit  of  Cowper.  She  told  him  the 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


story  of  John  Gilpin,  and  ‘the  famous  horseman 
and  his  feats  were  an  inexhaustible  source  of  merri- 
ment.’ Lady  Austen  also  prevailed  upon  the  poet 
to  try  his  powers  in  blank  verse,  and  from  her 
suggestion  sprung  the  noble  poem  of  The  Task. 
This  memorable  friendship  was  at  length  dissolved. 
The  lady  exacted  too  much  of  the  time  and  attention 
of  the  poet — perhaps  a shade  of  jealousy  on  the  part 
of  Mrs  Unwin,  with  respect  to  the  superior  charms 
and  attractions  of  her  rival,  intervened  to  increase 
the  alienation — and  before  The  Task  was  finished, 
its  fair  inspirer  had  left  Olney  without  any  intention 


Olney  Church. 


of  returning  to  it.  In  1785  the  new  volume  was 
published.  Its  success  was  instant  and  decided. 
The  public  were  glad  to  hear  the  true  voice  of 
poetry  and  of  nature,  and  in  the  rural  descriptions 
and  fireside  scenes  of  The  Task , they  saw  the  features 
of  English  scenery  and  domestic  life  faithfully  deli- 
neated. ‘ The  Task ,’  says  Southey,  ‘ was  at  once 
descriptive,  moral,  and  satirical.  The  descriptive 
parts  everywhere  bpre  evidence  of  a thoughtful 
mind  and  a gentle  spirit,  as  well  as  of  an  observant 
eye ; and  the  moral  sentiment  which  pervaded 
them  gave  a charm  in  which  descriptive  poetry  is 
often  found  wanting.  The  best  didactic  poems, 
when  compared  with  The  Task , are  like  formal 
gardens  in  comparison  with  woodland  scenery.’  As 
soon  as  he  had  completed  his  labours  for  the  publi- 
cation of  his  second  volume,  Cowper  entered  upon 
an  undertaking  of  a still  more  arduous  nature— a 
translation  of  Homer.  He  had  gone  through  the 
great  Grecian  at  Westminster  School,  and  after- 
wards read  him  critically  in  the  Temple,  and  he 
was  impressed  with  but  a poor  opinion  of  the  trans- 
lation of  Pope.  Setting  himself  to  a daily  task  of 
forty  lines,  he  at  length  accomplished  the  forty 
thousand  verses.  He  published  by  subscription,  in 
which  his  friends  were  generously  active.  The  work 
j appeared  in  1791,  in  two  volumes  quarto.  In  the 
interval  the  poet  and  Mrs  Unwin  had  removed  to 
Weston,  a beautiful  village  about  a mile  from  Olney. 
Ilis  cousin,  Lady  Ilesketh,  a woman  of  refined  and 


fascinating  manners,  had  visited  him ; he  had  also 
formed  a friendly  intimacy  with  the  family  of  the 
Throckmortons,  to  whom  Weston  belonged,  and  his 
circumstances  were  comparatively  easy.  His  malady, 
however,  returned  upon  him  with  full  force,  and 
Mrs  Unwin  being  rendered  helpless  by  palsy,  the 
task  of  nursing  her  fell  upon  the  sensitive  and 
dejected  poet/  A careful  revision  of  his  Homer, 
and  an  engagement  to  edit  a new  edition  of  Milton, 
were  the  last  literary  undertakings  of  Cowper.  The 
former  he  completed,  but  without  improving  the 
first  edition : his  second  task  was  never  finished. 
A deepening  gloom  settled  on  his  mind,  with  occa- 
sionally bright  intervals.  A visit  to  his  friend 
Hayley,  at  Eartham,  produced  a short  cessation  of 
his  mental  suffering,  and  in  1794  a pension  of  £300 
was  granted  to  him  from  the  crown.  He  was  induced, 
in  1795,  to  remove  with  Mrs  Unwin  to  Norfolk,  on 
a visit  to  some  relations,  and  there  Mrs  Unwin  died 
on  the  17th  of  December  1796.  The  unhappy  poet 
would  not  believe  that  his  long-tried  friend  was 
actually  dead ; he  went  to  see  the  body,  and  on 
witnessing  the  unaltered  placidity  of  death,  flung 
himself  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  with  a pas- 
sionate expression  of  feeling,  and  from  that  time  he 
never  mentioned  her  name  or  spoke  of  her  again. 
He  lingered  on  for  more  than  three  years,  still  under 
the  same  dark  shadow  of  religious  despondency  and 
terror,  but  occasionally  writing,  and  listening  atten- 
tively to  works  read  to  him  by  his  friends.  His 
last  poem  was  the  Castaway , a strain  of  touching 
and  beautiful  verse,  which  shewed  no  decay  of  his 
poetical  powers : at  length  death  came  to  his  release 
on  the  25th  of  April  1800.  So  sad  and  strange  a 
destiny  has  never  before  or  since  been  that  of  a man 
of  genius.  With  wit  and  humour  at  will,  he  was 
nearly  all  his  life  plunged  in  the  darkest  melancholy. 
Innocent,  pious,  and  confiding,  he  lived  in  perpetual 
dread  of  everlasting  punishment : he  could  only 
see  between  him  and  heaven  a high  wall  which  he 
despaired  of  ever  being  able  to  scale  ; yet  his  intel- 
lectual vigour  was  not  subdued  by  affliction.  What 
he  wrote  for  amusement  or  relief  in  the  midst  of 
‘ supreme  distress,’  surpasses  the  elaborate  efforts 
of  others  made  under  the  most  favourable  circum- 
stances ; and  in  the  very  winter  of  his  days,  his 
fancy  was  as  fresh  and  blooming  as  in  the  spring 
and  morning  of  existence.  That  he  was  constitu- 
tionally prone  to  melancholy  and  insanity,  seems 
undoubted ; but  the  predisposing  causes  were  as 
surely  aggravated  by  his  strict  and  secluded  mode 
of  life.  Lady  Hesketh  was  a better  guide  and  com- 
panion than  John  Newton ; and  no  one  can  read 
his  letters  without  observing  that  cheerfulness  was 
inspired  by  the  one,  and  terror  by  the  other.  The 
iron  frame  of  Newton  could  stand  unmoved  amidst 
shocks  that  destroyed  the  shrinking  and  appre- 
hensive mind  of  Cowper.  All,  however,  have  now 
gone  to  their  account — the  stern  yet  kind  minister, 
the  faithful  Mary  Unwin,  the  gentle  high-born 
relations  who  forsook  ease,  and  luxury,  and  society 
to  soothe  the  misery  of  one  wretched  being,  and  that 
immortal  being  himself  has  passed  away,  scarcely 
conscious  that  he  had  bequeathed  an  imperishable 
treasure  to  mankind.  We  have  greater  and  loftier 
poets  than  Cowper,  but  none  so  entirely  incorpor- 
ated, as  it  were,  with  our  daily  existence— none  so 
completely  a friend — our  companion  in  woodland 
wanderings,  and  in  moments  of  serious  thought — 
ever  gentle  and  affectionate,  even  in  his  transient 
fits  of  ascetic  gloom — a pure  mirror  of  affections, 
regrets,  feelings,  and  desires  which  wre  have  all  felt 
or  would  wish  to  cherish.  Shakspeare,  Spenser, 
and  Milton,  are  spirits  of  ethereal  kind : Cowper 

57 


PROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


is  a steady  and  valuable  friend,  whose  society  we 
may  sometimes  neglect  for  that  of  more  splendid 
and  attractive  associates,  but  whose  unwavering 
principle  and  purity  of  character,  joined  to  rich 


Cowper’s  Monument. 


intellectual  powers,  overflow  upon  us  in  secret,  and 
bind  us  to  him  for  ever. 

It  is  scarcely  to  he  wondered  at  that  Cowper’s 
first  volume  wa3  coldly  received.  The  subjects  of 
his  poems  ( Table  Talk,  the  Progress  of  Error , Truth , 
Expostulation,  Hope,  Charity,  &c.)  did  not  promise 
much,  and  his  manner  of  handling  them  was  not 
calculated  to  conciliate  a fastidious  public.  He 
was  both  too  harsh  and  too  spiritual  for  general 
readers.  Johnson  had  written  moral  poems  in  the 
same  form  of  verse,  but  they  possessed  a rich 
declamatory  grandeur  and  brilliancy  of  illustration 
which  Cowper  did  not  attempt,  and  probably  would, 
from  principle,  have  rejected.  There  are  passages, 
however,  in  these  evangelical  works  of  Cowper  of 
masterly  execution  and  lively  fancy.  His  character 
of  Chatham  has  rarely  been  surpassed  even  by  Pope 
or  Dryden : 

A.  Patriots,  alas  ! the  few  that  have  been  found, 
Where  most  they  flourish,  upon  English  ground, 

The  country’s  need  have  scantily  supplied ; 

And  the  last  left  the  scene  when  Chatham  died. 

B.  Not  so ; the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age, 

Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 

In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again ; 

Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain ; 

She  clothed  him  with  authority  and  awe, 

Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law. 

His  speech,  his  form,  his  action  full  of  grace, 

And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 

He  stood  as  some  inimitable  hand 
Would  strive  to  make  a Paul  or  Tully  stand. 

No  sycophant  or  slave  that  dared  oppose 
Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose ; 

And  every  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke, 

Felt  himself  crushed  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 

68 


Neither  has  the  fine  simile  with  which  the  following 
retrospect  closes : 

Ages  elapsed  ere  Homer’s  lamp  appeared, 

And  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard ; 

To  carry  nature  lengths  unknown  before, 

To  give  a Milton  birth  asked  ages  more. 

Thus  genius  rose  and  set  at  ordered  times, 

And  shot  a dayspring  into  distant  climes, 

Ennobling  every  region  that  he  chose. 

He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose ; 

And,  tedious  years  of  Gothic  darkness  past, 

Emerged  all  splendour  in  our  isle  at  last. 

Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main, 

Then  shew  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

The  poem  of  Conversation  in  this  volume  is  rich 
in  Addisonian  humour  and  satire,  and  formed  no 
unworthy  prelude  to  The  Task.  In  Hope  and  Retire- 
ment, we  see  traces  of  the  descriptive  powers  and 
natural  pleasantry  afterwards  so  finely  developed. 
The  highest  flight  in  the  whole,  and  the  one  most 
characteristic  of  Cowper,  is  his  sketch  of 

[The  Greenland  Missionaries .] 

That  sound  bespeaks  salvation  on  her  way, 

The  trumpet  of  a life-restoring  day ; 

’Tis  heard  where  England’s  eastern  glory  shines, 

And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Comubian  mines. 

And  still  it  spreads.  See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons  to  pour  it  on  the  furthest  north  ; 

Fired  with  a zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigour  of  a polar  sky, 

And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon’s  rose 
On  icy  plains  and  in  eternal  snows. 

0 blessed  within  the  enclosure  of  your  rocks, 

Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks  ; 

No  fertilising  streams  your  fields  divide. 

That  shew  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side  ; 

No  groves  have  ye  ; no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 

Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard ; 

Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those  that  walk  at  evening  where  ye  dwell ; 

But  Winter,  armed  with  terrors  here  unknown, 

Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne, 

Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste, 

And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast ; 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes  to  make  your  lands  a prey ; 
Proclaims  the  soil  a conquest  he  has  won, 

And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 

Yet  Truth  is  yours,  remote  unenvied  isle  ! 

And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile ; 

The  pride  of  lettered  ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplished  minds, 

That  decks  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true, 

A false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 

Nature  indeed  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night ; 

Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  creature  here ; 

But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies 
Have  risen  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes, 

That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

In  this  mixture  of  argument  and  piety,  poetry  and 
plain  sense,  we  have  the  distinctive  traits  of  Cowper’s 
genius.  The  freedom  acquired  by  composition,  and 
especially  the  presence  of  Lady  Austen,  led  to  more 
valuable  results  ; and  when  he  entered  upon  The 
Task,  he  was  far  more  disposed  to  look  at  the  sunny 
side  of  things,  and  to  launch  into  general  description. 
His  versification  underwent  a similar  improvement. 
His  former  poems  were  often  rugged  in  style  and 
expression,  and  were  made  so  on  purpose  to  avoid 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  cowper. 


the  polished  uniformity  of  Pope  and  his  imitators. 
He  was  now  sensible  that  he  had  erred  on  the 
opposite  side,  and  accordingly  The  Task  was  made  to 
unite  strength  and  freedom  with  elegance  and  har- 
mony. No  poet  has  introduced  so  much  idiomatic 
expression  into  a grave  poem  of  blank  verse;  but 
the  higher  passages  are  all  carefully  finished,  and 
rise  or  fall,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  subject, 
with  inimitable  grace  and  melody.  In  this  respect, 
Cowper,  as  already  mentioned,  has  greatly  the 
advantage  of  Thomson,  whose  stately  march  is  never 
relaxed,  however  trivial  he  the  theme.  The  variety 
of  The  Task  in  style  and  manner,  no  less  than  in 
subject,  is  one  of  its  greatest  charms.  The  mock- 
heroic  opening  is  a fine  specimen  of  his  humour,  and 
from  this  he  slides  into  rural  description  and  moral 
reflection  so  naturally  and  easily,  that  the  reader 
is  carried  along  apparently  without  an  effort.  The 
scenery  of  the  Ouse — its  level  plains  and  spacious 
meads — is  described  with  the  vividness  of  painting, 
and  the  poet  then  elevates  the  character  of  his 
picture  by  a rapid  sketch  of  still  nobler  features : 

[Rural  Sounds .] 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 

Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.  Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far- spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 

And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind, 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 

And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 

Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighbouring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  displays  sweet  sounds, 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night ; nor  these  alone  whose  notes 
Nice-fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

The  freedom  of  this  versification,  and  the  admirable 
variety  of  pause  and  cadence,  must  strike  the  most 
uncritical  reader.  With  the  same  playful  strength 
and  equal  power  of  landscape-painting,  he  describes 

[The  Diversified  Character  of  Creation .] 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change 
And  pleased  with  novelty,  might  be  indulged. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  lie  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade ; the  weary  sight, 

Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 

Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  sheltered  vale, 

Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 

Delight  us,  happy  to  renounce  a while, 

Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 

That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 

Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock  may  please 


That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man ; his  hoary  head 
Conspicuous  many  a league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.  At  his  waist 
A girdle  of  half- withered  shrubs  he  shews, 

And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 

The  common  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  goss,  that,  shapeless  and  deform, 

And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 

Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble ; there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  The  Task  we 
never  lose  sight  of  the  author.  His  love  of  country 
rambles,  when  a boy, 

O’er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  river’s  brink ; 

his  walks  with  Mrs  Unwin,  when  he  had  exchanged 
the  Thames  for  the  Ouse,  and  had  ‘grown  sober 
in  the  vale  of  years ; ’ his  playful  satire  and 
tender  admonition,  his  denunciation  of  slavery,  his 
noble  patriotism,  his  devotional  earnestness  and 
sublimity,  his  warm  sympathy  with  his  fellow-men, 
and  his  exquisite  paintings  of  domestic  peace  and 
happiness,  are  all  so  much  self-portraiture,  drawn 
with  the  ripe  skill  and  taste  of  the  master,  yet  with 
a modesty  that  shrinks  from  the  least  obtrusiveness 
and  display.  The  very  rapidity  of  his  transitions, 
where  things  light  and  sportive  are  drawn  up  with 
the  most  solemn  truths,  and  satire,  pathos,  and 
reproof  alternately  mingle  or  repel  each  other, 
are  characteristic  of  his  mind  and  temperament  in 
ordinary  life.  His  inimitable  ease  and  colloquial 
freedom,  which  lends  such  a charm  to  his  letters,  is 
never  long  absent  from  his  poetry ; and  his  peculiar 
tastes,  as  seen  in  that  somewhat  grandiloquent  line, 

Who  loves  a garden,  loves  a greenhouse  too, 

are  all  pictured  in  the  pure  and  lucid  pages  of  The 
Task.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Cowper  ever  aban- 
doned his  sectarian  religious  tenets,  yet  they  are 
little  seen  in  his  great  work.  His  piety  is  that 
which  all  should  feel  and  venerate ; and  if  his  sad 
experience  of  the  world  had  tinged  the  prospect  of 
life,  ‘ its  fluctuations  and  its  vast  concerns,’  with  a 
deeper  shade  than  seems  consonant  with  the  general 
welfare  and  happiness,  it  also  imparted  a higher 
authority  and  more  impressive  wisdom  to  his  earnest 
and  solemn  appeals.  He  was  * a stricken  deer  that 
left  the  herd,’  conscious  of  the  follies  and  wants  of 
those  he  left  behind,  and  inspired  with  power  to 
minister  to  the  delight  and  instruction  of  the  whole 
human  race. 

[From  ‘ Conversation .’] 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  to  oppose, 

In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose, 

As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour’s  phiz, 

Touched  with  a magnet,  had  attracted  his. 

His  whispered  theme,  dilated  and  at  large, 

Proves  after  all  a wind-gun’s  airy  charge — 

An  extract  of  his  diary — no  more — 

A tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 

He  walked  abroad,  o’ertaken  in  the  rain, 

Called  on  a friend,  drank  tea,  stept  home  again  ; 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk ; 

I interrupt  him  with  a sudden  bow, 

Adieu,  dear  sir,  lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 

A graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see, 

Quito  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he  : 

59 


prom  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


A shallow  "brain  behind  a serious  mask, 

An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask, 

The  solemn  fop,  significant  and  budge ; 

A fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a judge ; 

He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said, 

Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 

His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come, 

But  when  you  knock,  it  never  is  at  home  : 

’Tis  like  a parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage, 

Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage ; 
’Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend’s  fidelity  of  love ; 

But  when  unpacked,  your  disappointment  groans 
To  find  it  stuffed  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stones. 

Some  men  employ  their  health — an  ugly  trick — 
In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick, 
And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 
A doctor’s  trouble,  but  without  the  fees ; 

Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed, 

How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped  ; 

Nothing  is  slightly  touched,  much  less  forgot ; 

Nose,  ears,  and  eyes  seem  present  on  the  spot. 

Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill, 
Victorious  seemed,  and  now  the  doctor’s  skill ; 

And  now — alas  ! for  unforeseen  mishaps ! 

They  put  on  a damp  night-cap,  and  relapse  ; 

They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were  so 
bad ; 

Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, 

You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much : 

You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain — 

Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain ; 

You  fall  at  once  into  a lower  key — 

That’s  worse — the  drone-pipe  of  a humble-bee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a light ; 

You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  ’tis  night. 

He  shakes  with  cold — you  stir  the  fire,  and  strive 
To  make  a blaze — that ’s  roasting  him  alive. 

Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish ; 

With  sole — that ’s  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  professed  to  loathe, 

And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both ; 

Yet  still  o’erclouded  with  a constant  frown, 

He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 

Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can. 

Alas  ! his  efforts  double  his  distress. 

He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less  ; 

Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teased, 

His  only  pleasure  is  to  be  displeased. 

I pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  s&orn  and  undeserved  disdain, 

And  bear  the  marks  upon  a blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame  and  self-imposed  disgrace.. 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 

The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 

We  sometimes  think  we  could  a speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose,  if  our  tongues  were  loose ; 
But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip, 

Faint  as  a chicken’s  note  that  has  the  pip ; 

Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burns, 

Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns. 

On  the  Receipt  of  his  Mother's  Picture. 

0 that  those  lips  had  language  ! Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smiles  I see, 

The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 

Voice  only  fails,  else,  how  distinct  they  say : 

‘ Grieve  not,  my  child ; chase  all  thy  fears  away !’ 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes — 

Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise, 

The  art  that  baffles  time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it — here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

60 


Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 

Who  bidd’st  me  honour,  with  an  artless  song 
Affectionate,  a mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 

And  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief ; 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A momentary  dream,  that  thou  ai*t  she. 

My  mother  ! when  I learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son, 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unseen,  a kiss ; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! it  answers — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial-day, 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu  ! 

But  was  it  such  ? It  was.  Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown. 

May  I but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  sound  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 

Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  a quick  return  : 

What  ardently  I wished,  I long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived ; 

By  disappointment  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But,  though  I less  deplored  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor ; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 

’Tis  now  become  a history  little  known, 

That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  ! but  the  record  fair, 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a storm,  that  has  effaced 
A thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home, 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed  : 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne’er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes : 

All  this,  still  legible  in  memory’s  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued  flowers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I pricked  them  into  paper  with  a pin — 

And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 

Would  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile — 
Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish  them 
here  ? 

I would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 


POETS. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


That  I should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a gallant  bark  from  Albion’s  coast — 
The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed — 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 

Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  shew 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reached  the 
shore 

* Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar ; ’ * 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since,  has  anchored  at  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 

Me  howling  winds  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 
Sails  ript,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost ; 
And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous  course. 

But  0 the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wished  is  done. 

By  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again  : 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  bis  theft — 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

[ Voltaire  and  the  Lace- worker.] 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 

Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store ; 

Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day, 

J ust  earns  a scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 

She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit, 

Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit ; 

Receives  no  praise ; but  though  her  lot  be  such — 
Toilsome  and  indigent — she  renders  much ; 

Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true — 

A truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew ; 

And  in  that  charter  reads,  with  sparkling  eyes, 

Her  title  to  a treasure  in  the  skies. 

0 happy  peasant ! 0 unhappy  bard  ! 

His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward ; 

He  praised,  perhaps,  for  ages  yet  to  come, 

She  never  heard  of  half  a mile  from  home ; 

He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 

She  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 

To  Mary  (Mrs  Unwin). 

Autumn,  1793. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  our  last ! 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a fainter  flow, 

I see  thee  daily  weaker  grow ; 

’Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary ! 

• Garth.  (See  Yol.  I.  of  this  work,  page  584.) 


Thy  needles,  once  a shining  store, 

For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 

Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play’dst  the  housewife’s  part, 

And  all  thy  threads,  with  magic  art, 

Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a dream ; 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate’er  the  theme, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 

Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary ! 

For,  could  I view  nor  them  nor  thee, 

What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I see  ? 

The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 

Yet  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov’st, 

That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov’st 
Upheld  by  two;  yet  still  thou  lov’st, 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with  ill, 

In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 

With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah  ! by  constant  heed  I know, 

How  oft  the  sadness  that  I shew, 

Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary  ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 

Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 

[ Winter  Evening  in  the  Country.] 

[From  The  Task.} 

Hark ! ’tis  the  twanging  horn  o’er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  un wrinkled  face  reflected  bright ; 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a noisy  world, 

With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen  locks ; 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  behind, 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 

And,  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch  ! 

• Cold  and  yet  cheerful : messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some ; 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 

Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer’s  cheeks 

61 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 

Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 

But  0 the  important  budget ! ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ? have  our  troops  awaked  ? 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  ? 

Is  India  free  ? and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a smile  of  peace, 

Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ? The  grand  debate, 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 

The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 

And  the  loud  laugh — I long  to  know  them  all ; 

I burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 

And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 

And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 

That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

Not  such  his  evening  who,  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides, 
Out- scolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  : 

Nor  his  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 

Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work ! 

Which  not  even  critics  criticise ; that  holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I read, 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break ; 
What  is  it  but  a map  of  busy  life, 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 
That  tempts  ambition.  On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them ! At  his  heels, 
Close  at  his  heels,  a demagogue  ascends, 

And  with  a dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
To  engross  a moment’s  notice,  and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness  ! it  claims  at  least  this  praise, 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense 
That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there, 

With  merry  descants  on  a nation’s  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a wilderness  of  strange 
But  gay  confusion ; roses  for  the  cheeks, 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweets ; 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs, 
iEthereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katterfelto,"  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

’Tis  pleasant  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat 
To  peep  at  such  a world ; to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd ; 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 

* A noted  conjuror  of  the  day. 

62 

Falls  a soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 

Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 

That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all.  * * 

0 Winter ! ruler  of  the  inverted  year,  * * 

I love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem’st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art ! Thou  hold’st  the  sun 
A prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 

Shortening  his  journey  between  mom  and  noon, 

And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  west ; but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 

I crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 

Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness, 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates ; 

No  powdered  pert  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings ; no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake : 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 

Unfolds  its  bosom  : buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers,  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet’s  or  historian’s  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a trembling  chord  shakes  out ; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a keener  edge 
On  female  industry  : the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.  A Roman  meal ; 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 

Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 

And  under  an  old  oak’s  domestic  shade, 

Enjoyed,  spare  feast ! a radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 

Nor  such  as  with  a frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth  : 

Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 

Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 

Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A jarring  note.  Themes  of  a graver  tone, 

Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 

While  we  retrace  with  memory’s  pointing  wand, 

That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 

The  dangers  we  have  ’scaped,  the  broken  snare, 

The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlooked  for,  life  preserved  and  peace  restored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 

0 evenings  worthy  of  the  gods  ! exclaimed 
The  Sabine  bard.  0 evenings,  I reply, 

More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours ! 

As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths, 

That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy.  * * 

Come  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace ; 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long  ! 

Methinks  I see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 

With  matron-step  slow-moving,  while  the  night 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ; one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day : 

Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid, 

Like  homely  featured  night,  of  clustering  gems ; 

A star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 

Suffices  thee ; save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers  : not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 

Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 

Or  make  me  so.  Composure  is  thy  gift ; 

And  whether  I devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet’s  toil ; 

To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 

Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, . 

When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please, 
I slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 

Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  all, 

My  pleasures  too  begin.  But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  a while 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 

Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlour  twilight : such  a gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 

The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  alike  to  all. 

Laugh  ye  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  powers, 
That  never  felt  a stupor,  know  no  pause, 

Nor  need  one ; I am  conscious,  and  confess 
Fearless  a soul  that  does  not  always  think. 

Me  oft  has  fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 

Soothed  with  a waking  dream  of  houses,  towers, 
Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  expressed 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 
I gazed,  myself  creating  what  I saw. 

Nor  less  amused  have  I quiescent  watched 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 

Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger’s  near  approach. 
’Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 
In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 

And  sleeps  and  is  refreshed.  Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  tasked  to  his  full  strength,  absorbed  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  thp  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 
The  recollected  powers ; and  snapping  short 
The  glassy  threads  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 
Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess  ; and  how  the  frost, 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoyed  within  ! 

I saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day, 

A variegated  show  ; the  meadows  green, 

Though  faded  ; and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a mellow  brown, 

Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 

I saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  favourite  herb  ; while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  the  horizon  wore  a sable  hue, 

Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a change,  a total  change  I 


Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed, 

And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 

Fast  falls  a fleecy  shower  : the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 

Assimilate  all  objects.  Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle  ; and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  feared  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a veil. 

In  such  a world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted ; or,  if  found, 

Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side, 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves ; that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 

And  sympathise  with  others  suffering  more. 

Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 

The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogged  wheels  ; and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a moving  hill  of  snow. 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.  He,  formed  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 

With  half-shut  eyes,  and  puckered  cheeks,  and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 

One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

0 happy — and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued — thrice  happy  thou  ! 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 

The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vigorous  pulse ; and  the  unhealthful  east, 

That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 

Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care ; 

Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife ; and  the  poor  beasts 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 

Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly ; rude  as  thou  ap^earest, 

Yet  shew  that  thou  hast  mercy ! which  the  great 
With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  shew. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 

Such  claim  compassion  in  a night  like  this, 

And  have  a friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 

Warmed,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 

111  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 

The  frugal  housewife  trembles  while  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear, 

But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 

The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well ; 

And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cowering  o’er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warmed. 

The  man  feels  least,  as,  more  inured  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil , 

Yet  he,  too,  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 

The  taper  soon  extinguished,  which  I saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger’s  end 
Just  when  the  day  declined,  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  savoury  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still. 

Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  ; for,  alas, 

Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chained, 

And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few ! 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.  All  the  care 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  hut  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed  and  stool, 

Skillet  and  old-carved  chest,  from  public  sale. 

They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands ; but  other  boast  have  none 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg, 

Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love, 

I praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 

For  ye  are  worthy ; choosing  rather  far 
A dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earned, 

And  eaten  with  a sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ; liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags, 

But  ofbtimes  deaf  to  suppliants  who  would  blush 
To  wear  a tattered  garb,  however  coarse, 

Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  : 

These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refused 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire  ! 

But  be  ye  of  good  courage  ! Time  itself 

Shall  much  befriend  you.  Time  shall  give  increase ; 

And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  trained, 

But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands, 

And  labour  too.  Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare, 

Nor  what  a wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 

I mean  the  man  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

[Love  of  Nature .] 

[From  the  same.] 

’Tis  born  with  all : the  love  of  Nature’s  works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 

Infused  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And,  though  the  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 
Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 
And  touches  of  his  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 
Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a beauty  in  his  works, 

And  all  can  taste  them : minds,  that  have  been  formed 
And  tutored  with  a relish,  more  exact, 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 

Where  nothing  feeds  it : neither  business,  crowds, 
Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city-life, 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 

Like  a swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Prove  it.  A breath  of  unadulterate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 
The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame  ! 

Even  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town, 

A garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 
That  soothe  the  rich  possessor ; much  consoled 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 
Of  nightshade  or  valerian,  grace  the  wall 
He  cultivates.  These  serve  him  with  a hint 
That  nature  lives ; that  sight-refreshing  green 
Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear, 

Though  sickly  samples  of  the  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs, 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman’s  darling?  Are  they  not  all  proofs 
That  man,  immured  in  cities,  still  retains 
His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 
Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts  the  best  he  may  ? 

The  most  unfurnished  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds 
64 


To  range  the  fields  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 
Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct;  overhead 
Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick, 

And  watered  duly.  There  the  pitcher  stands 
A fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 
The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 
A peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  thronged  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  ; hail,  rural  life  ! 
Address  himself  who  will  4o  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fame, 

I shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a chase, 

Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 

Some  must  be  great.  Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents.  And  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 

That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill. 

To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land 
He  gives  a tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs ; 

To  monarchs,  dignity  ; to  judges,  sense  ; 

To  artists,  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 
Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I wished. 

[. English  Liberty .] 

We  love 

The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  within  them  ; him  we  serve 
Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free  : 

But  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man, 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.  King  though  he  be, 
And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers, 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant : 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.  He  is  ours 
To  administer,  to  guard,  to  adorn  the  state, 

But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.  We  are  his 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 

True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 

Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  love 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 

We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you ; 

We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth, 

You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes ; 

We  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a king, 

You  chains  and  bondage  for  a tyrant’s  sake  : 

Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 

Yours,  a blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 

And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 
Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a wise  man’s  wish, 

I would  not  be  a king  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,  and  daubed  with  undisceming  praise, 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 
Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

’Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 

And  we  are  weeds  without  it.  All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 

Is  evil ; hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science,  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  discovery,  and  begets 
In  those  that  suffer  it  a sordid  mind, 

Bestial,  a meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man’s  noble  form. 

Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state, 

Thee  I account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 
Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free. 

My  native  nook  of  earth  ! thy  clime  is  rude, 

Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine  : 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 
And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 

And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  nature’s  bounty — that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve, 

Or  flushed  with  fierce  dispute,  a senseless  brawl. 

Yet  being  free,  I love  thee : for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 

Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art, 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But  once  enslaved,  farewell ! I could  endure 
Chains  nowhere  patiently ; and  chains  at  home, 

Where  I am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.  I should  then  with  double  pain 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime ; 

And,  if  I must  bewail  the  blessing  lost, 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

I would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a people  less  austere ; 

In  scenes  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 

Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  lost  I felt. 

Do  I forebode  impossible  events, 

And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ? Heaven  grant  I may ! 
But  the  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past, 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.  He  that  takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Designed  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith, 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 
Where  private  was  not  ? Can  he  love  the  whole 
Who  loves  no  paid;  ? He  be  a nation’s  friend, 

Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ? 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country’s  cause 
Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved  ? 

’Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England’s  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 

Healthful  and  undisturbed  by  factious  fumes, 

Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 

Such  were  they  not  of  old,  whose  tempered  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurped  control, 

And  hewed  them  link  from  link ; then  Albion’s  sons 
Were  sons  indeed ; they  felt  a filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a mother’s  wrongs ; 

And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere, 

Shone  brighter  still,  once  called  to  public  view. 

’Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequestered  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 

Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 

And,  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state, 

That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assailed 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake, 

Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 

All  has  its  date  below ; the  fatal  hour 
Was  registered  in  heaven  ere  time  began. 

We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too  : the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 

$7 


Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a trace  remains. 

We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock  : 

A distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood  : 

And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  searched  in  vain, 

The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin : 

Shewing  how  he  went  further  than  he  intended,  and  came 
safe  home  again. 

John  Gilpin  was  a citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown, 

A train-band  captain  eke  was  he 
Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin’s  spouse  said  to  her  dear  : 

‘ Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

‘ To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a chaise  and  pair. 

‘My  sister,  and  my  sister’s  child, 

Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ; so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we.’ 

He  soon  replied  : ‘ I do  admire 
Of  womankind  but  one, 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear ; 

Therefore,  it  shall  be  done. 

‘ I am  a linen-draper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 

And  my  good  friend  the  calender 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go.’ 

Quoth  Mrs  Gilpin  : ‘ That ’s  well  said ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 

We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear.’ 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife  ; 

O’erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 
Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in ; 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 
Were  never  folk  so  glad ; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse’s  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again ; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 
Three  customers  come  in. 

65 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

So  down  he  came  ; for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around ; 

He  carries  weight ! he  rides  a race ! 
’Tis  for  a thousand  pound ! 

’Twas  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind, 

When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs : 
‘ The  wine  is  left  behind !’ 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
’Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a trice  the  turnpike-men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

‘ Good  lack  ! ’ quoth  he — * yet  bring  it  me, 
My  leathern  belt  likewise, 

In  which  I bear  my  trusty  sword 
When  I do  exercise.’ 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shattered  at  a blow. 

Now  Mrs  Gilpin — careful  soul ! — 
Had  two  stone-bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

t 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 

Which  made  his  horse’s  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  had  basted  been. 

Each  bottle  had  a curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 
And  hung  a bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 
With  leathern  girdle  braced ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

Full  slowly  pacing  o’er  the  stones 
With  caution  and  good  heed. 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way, 

Just  like  unto  a trundling  mop, 

Or  a wild  goose  at  play. 

But  finding  soon  a smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 
Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much  , 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

So,  ‘ Fair  and  softly,’  John  he  cried, 
But  John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 

That  trot  became  a gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

‘Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  ! — Here’s  the  house’ — 
They  all  aloud  did  cry; 

‘ The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  !’ 

Said  Gilpin  : ‘ So  am  I !’ 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 
Who  cannot  sit  upright, 

He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 
And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a whit 
Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 

For  why  ? his  owner  had  a house 
Full  ten  miles  off  at  Ware. 

His  horse,  which  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 

So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 
The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 

He  little  dreamt  when  he  set  out 
Of  running  such  a rig. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 
And  sore  against  his  will, 

Till  at  his  friend  the  calender’s 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The’ wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both,  N 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbour  in  such  trim, 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 
And  thus  accosted  him  : 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 

A bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

‘ What  news  ? what  news  ? your  tidings  tell — 
Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 

Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? ’ 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 
Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 

And  every  soul  cried  out : ‘ Well  done  !’ 
As  loud  as  he  could  bawl 

66 

Now  Gilpin  had  a pleasant  wit, 
And  loved  a timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 
In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


‘ I came  because  your  horse  would  come  ; 

And,  if  I well  forebode, 

My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here — 

They  are  upon  the  road.’ 


WILLIAM  HAYLEY. 


Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 
Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 

With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 
They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : 


The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 
His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a single  word, 
But  to  the  house  went  in. 


‘ Stop  thief ! stop  thief ! a highwayman  ! ’ 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 

And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 


Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig  ; 

A wig  that  flowed  behind, 

A hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 


And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 
Flew  open  in  short  space ; 

The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 
That  Gilpin  rode  a race. 


He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  shewed  his  ready  wit : 

‘ My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  youts, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 


And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 

Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down. 


‘ But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a hungry  case.’ 

Said  John : ‘ It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I should  dine  at  Ware.’ 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said  : 

‘ I am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 

’Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 
You  shall  go  back  for  mine.’ 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast ! 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 

For,  while  he  spake,  a braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 
Had  heard  a lion  roar, 

And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin’s  hat  and  wig  : 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mrs  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half-a-crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell : 

‘This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well.’ 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 
John  coming  back  amain ! 

Whom  in  a trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 


Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king, 
And  Gilpin,  long  live  he ; 

And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 
May  I be  there  to  see  ! 


WILLIAM  HATLEY. 

William  LIayley  (1745-1820),  the  biographer  of 
Cowper,  wrote  various  poetical  works  which  enjoyed 
great  popularity  in  their  day.  His  principal  pro- 
ductions are  the  Triumphs  of  Temper  (1781),  a 
series  of  poetical  epistles  on  history,  addressed  to 
Gibbon,  and  Essays  on  Painting,  on  Epic  Poetry , &c. 
He  produced  several  unsuccessful  tragedies,  a novel,  i 
and  an  Essay  on  Old  Maids.  A gentleman  by 
education  and  fortune,  and  fond  of  literary  com-  i 
munication,  Hayley  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of 
most  of  the  eminent  men  of  his  times.  His  over- 
strained sensibility  and  romantic  tastes  exposed 
him  to  ridicule,  yet  he  was  an  amiable  and 
accomplished  man.  It  was  through  his  personal 
application  to  Pitt  that  Cowper  received  his 
pension.  He  had — what  appears  to  have  been  to 
him  a sort  of  melancholy  pride  and  satisfaction — 
the  task  of  writing  epitaphs  for  most  of  his  friends, 
including  Mrs  Unwin  and  Cowper.  His  life  of 
Cowper  appeared  in  1803,  and  three  years  after- 
wards it  was  enlarged  by  a supplement.  Hayley 
prepared  memoirs  of  his  own  life,  which  he  disposed 
of  to  a publisher  on  condition  of  his  receiving  an 
annuity  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  This  annuity 
he  enjoyed  for  twelve  years.  The  memoirs  appeared 
in  two  fine  quarto  volumes,  but  they  failed  to 
attract  attention.  Hayley  had  outlived  his  popu- 
larity, and  his  smooth  but  often  unmeaning  lines 
had  vanished  like  chaff  before  the  vigorous  and 
natural  outpourings  of  the  modern  muse.  As  a 
specimen  of  this'  once  much-praised  poet,  we  subjoin 
some  lines  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  which  had 
the  merit  of  delighting  Gibbon,  and  with  which  Mr 
Southey  has  remarked  Cowper  would  sympathise 
deeply : 

[Tribute  to  a Mother,  on  her  Death.] 


But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 

The  post-boy’s  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 


[From  the  Essay  on  Epic  Poetry.} 

For  mo  who  feel,  whene’er  I touch  the  lyre, 

My  talents  sink  below  my  proud  desire ; 

Who  often  doubt,  and  sometimes  credit  give, 
When  friends  assure  me  that  my  verse  will  live  ; 
Whom  health,  too  tender  for  the  bustling  throng, 
Led  into  pensive  shade  and  soothing  song ; 
Whatever  fortune  my  unpolished  rhymes 
May  meet  in  present  or  in  future  times, 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


Let  the  blest  art  my  grateful  thoughts  employ, 

Which  soothes  my  sorrow  and  augments  my  joy ; 
Whence  lonely  peace  and  social  pleasure  springs, 

And  friendship  dearer  than  the  smile  of  kings. 

While  keener  poets,  querulously  proud, 

Lament  the  ill  of  poesy  aloud, 

And  magnify  with  irritation’s  zeal, 

Those  common  evils  we  too  strongly  feel, 

The  envious  comment  and  the  subtle  style 
Of  specious  slander,  stabbing  with  a smile ; 

Frankly  I wish  to  make  her  blessings  known, 

And  think  those  blessings  for  her  ills  atone  ; 

Nor  would  my  honest  pride  that  praise  forego, 

Which  makes  Malignity  yet  more  my  foe. 

If  heartfelt  pain  e’er  led  me  to  accuse 
The  dangerous  gift  of  the  alluring  Muse, 

’Twas  in  the  moment  when  my  verse  impressed 
Some  anxious  feelings  on  a mother’s  breast. 

0 thou  fond  spirit,  who  with  pride  hast  smiled, 

And  frowned  with  fear  on  thy  poetic  child, 

Pleased,  yet  alarmed,  when  in  his  boyish  time 
He  sighed  in  numbers  or  he  laughed  in  rhyme ; 

While  thy  kind  cautions  warned  him  to  beware 
Of  Penury,  the  bard’s  perpetual  snare ; 

Marking  the  early  tamper  of  his  soul, 

Careless  of  wealth,  nor  fit  for  base  control ! 

Thou  tender  saint,  to  whom  he  owes  much  more 
Than  ever  child  to  parent  owed  before ; 

In  life’s  first  season,  when  the  fever’s  flame 
Shrunk  to  deformity  his  shrivelled  frame, 

And  turned  each  fairer  image  in  his  brain 
To  blank  confusion  and  her  crazy  train, 

’Twas  thine,  with  con stant  love,  through  lingering  years, 
To  bathe  thy  idiot  orphan  in  thy  tears ; 

Day  after  day,  and  night  succeeding  night, 

To  turn  incessant  to  the  hideous  sight, 

And  frequent  watch,  if  haply  at  thy  view 
Departed  reason  might  not  dawn  anew ; 

Though  medicinal  art,  with  pitying  care, 

Could  lend  no  aid  to  save  thee  from  despair, 

Thy  fond  maternal  heart  adhered  to  hope  and  prayer : 
Nor  prayed  in  vain ; thy  child  from  powers  above 
Received  the  sense  to  feel  and  bless  thy  love. 

0 might  he  thence  receive  the  happy  skill, 

And  force  proportioned  to  his  ardent  will, 

With  truth’s  unfading  radiance  to  emblaze 
Thy  virtues,  worthy  of  immortal  praise  ! 

Nature,  who  decked  thy  form  with  beauty’s  flowers, 
Exhausted  on  thy  soul  her  finer  powers ; 

Taught  it  with  all  her  energy  to  feel 
Love’s  melting  softness,  friendship’s  fervid  zeal, 

The  generous  purpose  and  the  active  thought, 

With  charity’s  diffusive  spirit  fraught. 

There  all  the  best  of  mental  gifts  she  placed, 

Vigour  of  judgment,  purity  of  taste, 

Superior  parts  without  their  spleenful  leaven, 
Kindness  to  earth,  and  confidence  in  heaven. 

While  my  fond  thoughts  o’er  all  thy  merits  roll, 

Thy  praise  thus  gushes  from  my  filial  soul ; 

Nor  will  the  public  with  harsh  rigour  blame 
This  my  just  homage  to  thy  honoured  name ; 

To  please  that  public,  if  to  please  be  mine, 

Thy  virtues  trained  me — let  the  praise  be  thine. 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cowper. 

Ye  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal, 

Here,  to  devotion’s  bard  devoutly  just, 

Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper’ s dust ! 

England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame, 

Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  favourite  name. 
Sense,  fancy,  wit,  suffice  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a title  to  affection’s  praise  : 

His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong ; 

His  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song. 

63 


to  1800. 


On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs  Unwin. 

Trusting  in  God  with  all  her  heart  and  mind, 
This  woman  proved  magnanimously  kind ; 
Endured  affliction’s  desolating  hail, 

And  watched  a poet  through  misfortune’s  vale. 
Her  spotless  dust  angelic  guards  defend ! 

It  is  the  dust  of  Unwin,  Cowper’s  friend. 

That  single  title  in  itself  is  fame, 

For  all  who  read  his  verse  revere  her  name. 


DR  ERASMUS  DARWIN. 

Dr  Erasmus  Darwin,  an  ingenious  philosophical, 
though  fanciful  poet,  was  born  at  Elston,  near 
Newark,  in  1731.  Having  passed  with  credit 
through  a course  of  education  at  St  John’s  College, 


Cambridge,  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  of 
physic,  and  took  his  degree  of  bachelor  in  medicine 
at  Edinburgh  in  1755.  He  then  commenced  prac- 
tice in  Nottingham,  but  meeting  with  little  encour- 
agement, he  removed  to  Lichfield,  where  he  long 
continued  a successful  and  distinguished  physician. 
In  1757  Dr  Darwin  married  an  accomplished  lady 
of  Lichfield,  Miss  Mary  Howard,  by  whom  he  had 
five  children,  two  of  whom  died  in  infancy.  The 
lady  herself  died  in  1770 ; and  after  her  decease, 
Darwin  seems  to  have  commenced  his  botanical 
and  literary  pursuits.  He  was  at  first  afraid  that 
the  reputation  of  a poet  would  injure  him  in  his 
profession,  hut  being  firmly  established  in  the  latter 
capacity,  he  at  length  ventured  on  publication.  At 
this  time  he  lived  in  a picturesque  villa  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Lichfield,  furnished  with  a grotto 
and  fountain,  and  here  he  began  the  formation  of 
a botanic  garden.  The  spot  he  has  described  as 
‘adapted  to  love-scenes,  and  as  being  thence  a 
proper  residence  for  the  modern  goddess  of  botany.’ 
In  1781  appeared  the  first  part  of  Darwin’s  Botanic 
Garden,  a poem  in  glittering  and  polished  heroic 
verse,  designed  to  describe,  adorn,  and  allegorise 
the  Linnman  system  of  botany.  The  Rosicrucian 
doctrine  of  gnomes,  sylphs,  nymphs.,  and  sala- 
manders, was  adopted  by  the  poet,  as  ‘ affording  a 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  ERASMUS  DARWIN. 


proper  machinery  for  a botanic  poem,  as  it  is  prob- 
able they  were  originally  the  names  of  hieroglyphic 
figures  representing  the  elements.’  The  novelty 
and  ingenuity  of  Darwin’s  attempt  attracted  much 
attention,  and  rendered  him  highly  popular.  In 
the  same  year  the  poet  was  called  to  attend  an  aged 
gentleman,  Colonel  Sachevell  Pole  of  Radbourne 
Hall,  near  Derby.  An  intimacy  was  thus  formed 
with  Mrs  Pole ; and  the  colonel  dying,  the  poetical 
physician  in  a few  months  afterwards,  in  1781, 
married  the  fair  widow,  who  possessed  a jointure 
of  £600  per  annum.  Darwin  was  now  released 
from  all  prudential  fears  and  restraints  as  to  the 
cultivation  of  his  poetical  talents,  and  he  went  on 
adding  to  his  floral  gallery.  In  1789  appeared  the 
second  part  of  his  poem,  containing  the  Loves  of  the 
Plants.  Ovid  having,  he  said,  transmuted  men, 
women,  and  even  gods  and  goddesses,  into  trees 
and  flowers,  he  had  undertaken,  by  similar  art,  to 
restore  some  of  them  to  their  original  animality, 
after  having  remained  prisoners  so  long  in  their 
respective  vegetable  mansions : 

From  giant  oaks,  that  wave  their  branches  dark, 

To  the  dwarf  moss  that  clings  upon  their  bark, 

What  beaux  and  beauties  crowd  the  gaudy  groves, 

And  woo  and  win  their  vegetable  loves.* 

How  snow-drops  cold,  and  blue-eyed  harebells  blend 
Their  tender  tears,  as  o’er  the  streams  they  bend  ; 

The  love-sick  violet,  and  the  primrose  pale, 

Bow  their  sweet  heads,  and  whisper  to  the  gale  ; 

With  secret  sighs  the  virgin  lily  droops, 

And  jealous  cowslips  hang  their  tawny  cups. 

How  the  young  rose,  in  beauty’s  damask  pride, 

Drinks  the  warm  blushes  of  his  bashful  bride  ; 

With  honied  lips  enamoured  woodbines  meet, 

Clasp  with  fond  arms,  and  mix  their  kisses  sweet ! 

Stay  thy  soft  murmuring  waters,  gentle  rill ; 

Hush,  whispering  ydnds  ; ye  rustling  leaves,  be  still ; 
Rest,  silver  butterflies,  your  quivering  wings ; 

Alight,  ye  beetles,  from  your  airy  rings  ; 

Ye  painted  moths,  your  gold-eyed  plumage  furl, 

Bow  your  wide  horns,  your  spiral  trunks  uncurl ; 
Glitter,  ye  glow-worms,  on  your  mossy  beds  ; 

Descend,  ye  spiders,  on  your  lengthened  threads ; 

Slide  here,  ye  horned  snails,  with  varnished  shells  ; 

Ye  bee-nymphs,  listen  in  your  waxen  cells  ! 

j This  is  exquisitely  melodious  verse,  and  ingenious 
I subtle  fancy.  A few  passages  have  moral  sentiment 
and  human  interest  united  to  the  same  powers  of 
vivid  painting  and  expression : 

Roll  on,  ye  stars ! exult  in  youthful  prime, 

Mark  with  bright  curves  the  printless  steps  of  Time  ; 
Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cars  approach, 

And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach  ; 

Flowers  of  the  sky  ! ye  too  to  age  must  yield, 

Frail  as  your  silken  sisters  of  the  field  ! 

Star  after  star  from  heaven’s  high  arch  shall  rush, 
Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems,  systems  crush, 
Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  centre  fall, 

And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all ! 

Till  o’er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm, 
Immortal  nature  lifts  her  changeful  form, 

Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre  on  wings  of  flame, 

And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same  ! 

; In  another  part  of  the  poem,  after  describing  the 
cassia  plant,  ‘ cinctured  with  gold,’  and  borne  on  by 
I the  current  to  the  coasts  of  Norway,  with  all  its 

* Linnaeus?,  the  celebrated  Swedish  naturalist,  has  demon- 
strated that  all  flowers  contain  families  of  males  or  females,  or 
both ; and  on  their  marriage,  has  constructed  his  invaluable 
system  of  botany.— Darwin. 


1 infant  loves,’  or  seeds,  the  poet,  in  his  usual  strain 
of  forced  similitude,  digresses  in  the  following  happy 
and  vigorous  lines,  to  Moses  concealed  on  the  Nile , 
and  the  slavery  of  the  Africans : 

So  the  sad  mother  at  the  noon  of  night, 

From  bloody  Memphis  stole  her  silent  flight ; 

Wrapped  her  dear  babe  beneath  her  folded  vest, 

And  clasped  the  treasure  to  her  throbbing  breast ; 
With  soothing  whispers  hushed  its  feeble  cry, 

Pressed  the  soft  kiss,  and  breathed  the  secret  sigh. 
With  dauntless  step  she  seeks  the  winding  shore, 
Hears  unappalled  the  glimmering  torrents  roar ; 

With  paper-flags  a floating  cradle  weaves, 

And  hides  the  smiling  boy  in  lotus  leaves  ; 

Gives  her  white  bosom  to  his  eager  lips, 

The  salt  tears  mingling  with  the  milk  he  sips ; 

Waits  on  the  reed-crowned  brink  with  pious  guile, 
And  trusts  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  Nile. 

Erewhile  majestic  from  his  lone  abode, 

Ambassador  of  heaven,  the  prophet  trod  ; 

Wrenched  the  red  scourge  from  proud  oppression’s 
hands, 

And  broke,  cursed  slavery ! thy  iron  bands. 

Hark ! heard  ye  not  that  piercing  cry, 

Which  shook  the  waves  and  rent  the  sky  ? 

E’en  now,  e’en  now,  on  yonder  western  shores 
Weeps  pale  despair,  and  writhing  anguish  roars  ; 

E’en  now  in  Afric’s  groves  with  hideous  yell, 

Fierce  slavery  stalks,  and  slips  the  dogs  of  hell ; 

From  vale  to  vale  the  gathering  cries  rebound, 

And  sable  nations  tremble  at  the  sound ! 

Ye  bands  of  senators  ! whose  suffrage  sways 
Britannia’s  realms,  whom  either  Ind  obeys  ; 

Who  right  the  injured  and  reward  the  brave, 

Stretch  your  strong  arm,  for  ye  have  power  to  save  ! 
Throned  in  the  vaulted  heart,  his  dread  resort, 
Inexorable  conscience  holds  his  court  ; 

With  still  small  voice  the  plots  of  guilt  alarms, 

Bares  his  masked  brow,  his  lifted  hand  disarms  ; 

But  wrapped  in  night  with  terrors  all  his  own, 

He  speaks  in  thunder  when  the  deed  is  done. 

Hear  him,  ye  senates  ! hear  this  truth  sublime, 

‘ He  who  allows  oppression,  shares  the  crime  ! ’ 

The  material  images  of  Darwin  are  often  less 
happy  than  the  above,  being  both  extravagant  and 
gross,  and  grouped  together  without  any  visible 
connection  or  dependence  one  on  the  other.  lie 
has  such  a throng  of  startling  metaphors  and 
descriptions,  the  latter  drawn  out  to  an  excessive 
length  and  tiresome  minuteness,  that  nothing  is  left 
to  the  reader’s  imagination,  and  the  whole  passes 
like  a glittering  pageant  before  the  eye,  exciting 
wonder,  but  without  touching  the  heart  or  feelings. 
As  the  poet  was  then  past  fifty,  the  exuberance  of 
his  fancy,  and  his  peculiar  choice  of  subjects,  are 
the  more  remarkable.  A third  part  of  the  Botanic 
Garden  was  added  in  1792.  Darwin  next  published 
his  Zoonomia , or  the  Laws  of  Organic  Life , part  of 
which  he  had  written  many  years  previously.  This 
is  a curious  and  original  physiological  treatise, 
evincing  an  inquiring  and  attentive  study  of  natural 
phenomena.  Dr  Thomas  Brown,  Professor  Dugald 
Stewart,  Paley,  and  others,  have,  however,  success- 
fully combated  the  positions  of  Darwin,  particularly 
his  theory  which  refers  instinct  to  sensation.  In  1801 
our  author  came  forward  Avith  another  philosophical 
disquisition,  entitled  Phytologia , or  the  Philosophy  of 
Agriculture  and  Gardening.  He  also  wrote  a short 
treatise  on  Female  Education , intended  for  the 
instruction  and  assistance  of  part  of  his  own  family. 
This  was  Darwin’s  last  publication.  He  had  always 
been  a remarkably  temperate  man.  Indeed,  he 
totally  abstained  from  all  fermented  and  spirituous 
liquors,  and  in  his  Botanic  Garden  ho  compares 

69 


PROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


their  effects  to  that  of  the  Promethean  fire.  He 
was,  however,  subject  to  inflammation  as  well  as 
gout,  and  a sudden  attack  carried  him  off  in  his 
seventy-first  year,  on  the  18th  of  April  1802. 
Shortly  after  his  death,  was  published  a poem,  the 
Temple  of  Nature , which  he  had  ready  for  the  press, 
the  preface  to  the  work  being  dated  only  three 
months  before  his  death.  The  Temple  of  Nature 
aimed,  like  the  Botanic  Garden , to  amuse  by  bring- 
ing distinctly  to  the  imagination  the  beautiful  and 
sublime  images  of  the  operations  of  nature.  It  is 
more  metaphysical  than  its  predecessor,  and  more 
inverted  in  style  and  diction. 

The  poetical  reputation  of  Darwin  was  as  bright 
and  transient  as  the  plants  and  flowers  which  formed 
the  subject  of  his  verse.  Cowper  praised  his  song 
for  its  rich  embellishments,  and  said  it  was  as 
‘ strong  ’ as  it  was  ‘ learned  and  sweet.’  4 There  is  a 
fashion  in  poetry,’  observes  Sir  Walter  Scott, 4 which, 
without  increasing  or  diminishing  the  real  value  of 
the  materials  moulded  upon  it,  does  wonders  in 
facilitating  its  currency  while  it  has  novelty,  and  is 
often  found  to  impede  its  reception  when  the  mode 
has  passed  away.’  This  has  been  the  fate  of  Darwin. 
Besides  his  coterie  at  Lichfield,  the  poet  of  Flora 
had  considerable  influence  on  the  poetical  taste  of  his 
own  day.  He  may  be  traced  in  the  Pleasures  of  Hope 
of  Campbell,  and  in  other  young  poets  of  that  time. 
The  attempt  to  unite  science  with  the  inspirations 
of  the  Muse,  was  in  itself  an  attractive  novelty,  and 
he  supported  it  with  various  and  high  powers.  His 
command  of  fancy,  of  poetical  language,  dazzling 
metaphors,  and  sonorous  versification,  was  well 
seconded  by  his  curious  and  multifarious  knowledge. 

. The  effect  of  the  whole,  however,  was  artificial,  and 
destitute  of  any  strong  or  continuous  interest.  The 
Eosicrucian  machinery  of  Pope  was  united  to  the 
delineation  of  human  passions  and  pursuits,  and 
became  the  auxiliary  of  wit  and  satire ; but  who  can 
sympathise  with  the  loves  and  metamorphoses  of 
the  plants?  Darwin  had  no  sentiment  or  pathos 
except  in  very  brief  episodical  passages,  and  even 
his  eloquent  and  splendid  versification,  for  want 
I of  variety  of  cadence,  becomes  monotonous  and 
| fatiguing.  There  is  no  repose,  no  cessation  from 
j the  glare  of  his  bold  images,  his  compound  epithets, 
j and  high-toned  melody.  He  had  attained  to  rare 
perfection  in  the  mechanism  of  poetry,  but  wanted 
, those  impulses  of  soul  and  sense,  and  that  guiding 
! taste  which  were  required  to  give  it  vitality,  and 
| direct  it  to  its  true  objects. 

[Invocation  to  the  Goddess  of  Botany.'] 

[From  The  Botanic  Garden .] 

‘ Stay  your  rude  steps ! whose  throbbing  breasts  infold 
The  legion-fiends  of  glory  and  of  gold  ! 

Stay,  whose  false  lips  seductive  simpers  part, 

While  cunning  nestles  in  the  harlot  heart  ! 

For  you  no  dryads  dress  the  roseate  bower, 

For  you  no  nymphs  their  sparkling  vases  pour  ; 
Unmarked  by  you,  light  graces  swim  the  green, 

And  hovering  Cupids  aim  their  shafts  unseen. 

4 But  thou  whose  mind  the  well-attempered  ray 
Of  taste  and  virtue  lights  with  purer  day ; 

Whose  finer  sense  with  soft  vibration  owns 
With  sweet  responsive  sympathy  of  tones ; 

So  the  fair  flower  expands  its  lucid  form 
To  meet  the  sun,  and  shuts  it  to  the  storm  ; 

For  thee  my  borders  nurse  the  fragrant  wreath, 

My  fountains  murmur,  and  my  zephyrs  breathe  ; 

• Slow  slides  the  painted  snail,  the  gilded  fly 

Smooths  his  fine  down,  to  charm  thy  curious  eye  ; 

On  twinkling  fins  my  pearly  pinions  play, 

Or  win  with  sinuous  train  their  trackless  wray  ; 

70 


My  plumy  pairs  in  gay  embroidery  dressed, 

Form  with  ingenious  bill  the  pensile  nest, 

To  love’s  sweet  notes  attune  the  listening  dell, 

And  echo  sounds  her  soft  symphonious  shell. 

4 And  if  with  thee  some  hapless  maid  should  stray, 
Disastrous  love  companion  of  her  way, 

Oh,  lead  her  timid  steps  to  yonder  glade, 

Whose  arching  cliffs  depending  alders  shade  ; 

Where,  as  meek  evening  wakes  her  temperate  breeze, 
And  moonbeams  glitter  through  the  trembling  trees, 
The  rills  that  gurgle  round  shall  soothe  her  ear, 

The  weeping  rocks  shall  number  tear  for  tear  ; 

There,  as  sad  Philomel,  alike  forlorn, 

Sings  to  the  night  from  her  accustomed  thorn  ; 

While  at  sweet  intervals  each  falling  note 
Sighs  in  the  gale  and  whispers  round  the  grot* 

The  sister  woe  shall  calm  her  aching  breast, 

And  softer  slumbers  steal  her  cares  to  rest. 

4 Winds  of  the  north  ! restrain  your  icy  gales, 

Nor  chill  the  bosom  of  these  happy  vales  ! 

Hence  in  dark  heaps,  ye  gathering  clouds,  revolve  ! 
Disperse,  ye  lightnings,  and  ye  mists,  dissolve  ! 

Hither,  emerging  from  yon  orient  skies, 

Botanic  goddess,  bend  thy  radiant  eyes ; 

O’er  these  soft  scenes  assume  thy  gentle  reign, 
Pomona,  Ceres,  Flora  in  thy  train  ; 

O’er  the  still  dawn  thy  placid  smile  effuse, 

And  with  thy  silver  sandals  print  the  dews  ; 

In  noon’s  bright  blaze  thy  vermeil  vest  unfold, 

And  wave  thy  emerald  banner  starred  with  gold.’ 

Thus  spoke  the  genius  as  he  stept  along, 

And  bade  these  lawns  to  peace  and  truth  belong  ; 
Down  the  steep  slopes  he  led  with  modest  skill 
The  willing  pathway  and  the  truant  rill, 

Stretched  o’er  the  marshy  vale  yon  willowy  mound, 
Where  shines  the  lake  amid  the  tufted  ground  ; 
Raised  the  young  woodland,  smoothed  the  wavy  green, 
And  gave  to  beauty  all  the  quiet  scene. 

She  comes ! the  goddess ! through  the  whispering  air, 
Bright  as  the  morn  descends  her  blushing  car ; 

Each  circling  wheel  a wreath  of  flowers  entwines, 

And,  gemmed  with  flowers,  the  silken  harness  shines ; 
The  golden  bits  with  flowery  studs  are  decked, 

And  knots  of  flowers  the  crimson  reins  connect. 

And  now  on  earth  the  silver  axle  rings, 

And  the  shell  sinks  upon  its  slender  springs ; 

Light  from  her  airy  seat  the  goddess  bounds, 

And  steps  celestial  press  the  pansied  grounds. 

Fair  Spring  advancing  calls  her  feathered  quire, 

And  tunes  to  softer  notes  her  laughing  lyre ; 

Bids  her  gay  hours  on  purple  pinions  move, 

And  arms  her  zephyrs  with  the  shafts  of  love. 

[Destruction  of  Sennacherib’s  Army  by  a Pestilential 
Wind] 

[From  the  Economy  of  Vegetation .] 

From  Asliur’s  vales  when  proud  Sennacherib  trod, 
Poured  his  swoln  heai't,  defied  the  living  God, 

Urged  with  incessant  shouts  his  glittering  powers, 
And  Judah  shook  through  all  her  massy  towers  ; 
Round  her  sad  altars  press  the  prostrate  crowd, 

Hosts  beat  their  breasts,  and  suppliant  chieftains 
bowed ; 

Loud  shrieks  of  matrons  thrilled  the  troubled  air, 
And  trembling  virgins  rent  their  scattered  hair ; 

High  in  the  midst  the  kneeling  king  adored, 

Spread  the  blaspheming  scroll  before  the  Lord, 

Raised  his  pale  hands,  and  breathed  his  pausing  sighs, 
And  fixed  on  heaven  his  dim  imploring  eyes. 

4 Oh ! mighty  God,  amidst  thy  seraph  throng 
Who  sit’st  sublime,  the  judge  of  right  and  wrong ; 
Thine  the  wide  earth,  bright  sun,  and  starry  zone, 
That  twinkling  journey  round  thy  golden  throne ; 
Thine  is  the  crystal  source  of  life  and  light, 

And  thine  the  realms  of  death’s  eternal  night. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Eft  ERASMUS  EARWIN. 


Oh  ! bend  thine  ear,  thy  gracious  eye  incline, 

Lo  ! Ashur’s  king  blasphemes  thy  holy  shrine, 

Insults  our  offerings,  and  derides  our  vows. 

Oh  ! strike  the  diadem  from  his  impious  brows, 

Tear  from  his  murderous  hand  the  bloody  rod, 

And  teach  the  trembling  nations  “Thou  art  Gfod  !”  ’ 
Sylphs  ! in  what  dread  array  with  pennons  broad, 
Onward  ye  floated  o’er  the  ethereal  road ; 

Called  each  dank  steam  the  reeking  marsh  exhales, 
Contagious  vapours  and  volcanic  gales ; 

Gave  the  soft  south  with  poisonous  breath  to  blow, 
And  rolled  the  vdreadful  whirlwind  on  the  foe  ! 

Hark  ! o’er  the  camp  the  venomed  tempest  sings, 
Man  falls  on  man,  on  buckler,  buckler  rings  ; 

Groan  answers  groan,  to  anguish,  anguish  yields, 

And  death’s  loud  accents  shake  the  tented  fields  ! 
High  rears  the  fiend  his  grinning  jaws,  and  wide 
Spans  the  pale  nations  with  colossal  stride, 

“Waves  his  broad  falchion  with  uplifted  hand, 

And  his  vast  shadow  darkens  all  the  land. 

[The  Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague .] 

[From  the  same.] 

[When  the  plague  raged  in  Holland  in  1636,  a young  girl  was 
seized  with  it,  and  was  removed  to  a garden,  where  her  lover, 
who  was  betrothed  to  her,  attended  her  as  a nurse.  He 
remained  uninfected,  and  she  recovered,  and  was  married  to 
him.] 

Thus  when  the  plague,  upborne  on  Belgian  air, 

Looked  through  the  mist,  and  shook  his  clotted  hair, 
O’er  shrinking  nations  steered  malignant  clouds, 

And  rained  destruction  on  the  gaping  crowds ; 

The  beauteous  iEgle  felt  the  envenomed  dart, 

Slow  rolled  her  eye  and  feebly  throbbed  her  heart ; 
Each  fervid  sigh  seemed  shorter  than  the  last, 

And  starting  friendship  shunned  her  as  she  passed. 
With  weak  unsteady  step  the  fainting  maid 
Seeks  the  cold  garden’s  solitary  shade, 

Sinks  on  the  pillowy  moss  her  drooping  head, 

And  prints  with  lifeless  limbs  her  leafy  bed. 

On  wings  of  love  her  plighted  swain  pursues, 

Shades  her  from  winds  and  shelters  her  from  dews, 
Extends  on  tapering  poles  the  canvas  roof, 

Spreads  o’er  the  straw- wove  mat  the  flaxen  woof ; 
Sweet  buds  and  blossoms  on  her  bolster  strews, 

And  binds  his  kerchief  round  her  aching  brows ; 
Soothes  with  soft  kiss,  with  tender  accents  charms, 
And  clasps  the  bright  infection  in  his  arms. 

With  pale  and  languid  smiles  the  grateful  fair 
Applauds  his  virtues  and  rewards  his  care ; 

Mourns  with  wet  cheek  her  fair  companions  fled, 

On  timorous  step,  or  numbered  with  the  dead ; 

Calls  to  her  bosom  all  its  scattered  rays, 

And  pours  on  Thyrsis  the  collected  blaze ; 

Braves  the  chill  night,  caressing  and  caressed, 

And  folds  her  hero-lover  to  her  breast. 

Less  bold,  Leander,  at  the  dusky  hour, 

Eyed,  as  he  swam,  the  far  love-lighted  tower ; 

Breasted  with  struggling  arms  the  tossing  wave, 

And  sunk  benighted  in  the  watery  grave. 

Less  bold,  Tobias  claimed  the  nuptial-bed, 

Where  seven  fond  lovers  by  a fiend  had  bled ; 

And  drove,  instructed  by  his  angel  guide, 

The  enamoured  demon  from  the  fatal  bride. 

Sylphs  ! while  your  winnowing  pinions  fanned  the  air, 
And  shed  gay  visions  o’er  the  sleeping  pair, 

Love  round  their  couch  effused  his  rosy  breath, 

And  with  his  keener  arrows  conquered  death. 

[Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Minden .] 

[From  the  Loves  of  the  Plants .] 

So  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crowned  height, 

O’er  Minden’s  plain,  spectatress  of  the  fight. 


Sought  with  bold  eye  amid  the  bloody  strife 
Her  dearer  self,  the  partner  of  her  life ; 

From  hill  to  hill  the  rushing  host  pursued, 

And  viewed  his  banner,  or  believed  she  viewed. 
Pleased  with  the  distant  roar,  with  quicker  tread 
Fast  by  his  hand  one  lisping  boy  she  led  ; 

And  one  fair  girl  amid  the  loud  alarm 
Slept  on  her  kerchief,  cradled  by  her  arm  ; 

While  round  her  brows  bright  beams  of  Honour  dart, 
And  Love’s  warm  eddies  circle  round  her  heart. 

Near  and  more  near  the  intrepid  beauty  pressed, 

Saw  through  the  driving  smoke  his  dancing  crest ; 
Saw  on  his  helm,  her  virgin  hands  inwove, 

Bright  stars  of  gold,  and  mystic  knots  of  love  ; 

Heard  the  exulting  shout,  ‘ They  run  ! they  run  ! ’ 

‘ Great  God  !’  she  cried,  ‘ he ’s  safe  ! the  battle’s  won!’ 
A ball  now  hisses  through  the  airy  tides — 

Some  fury  winged  it,  and  some  demon  guides  ! — 

Parts  the  fine  locks  her  graceful  head  that  deck, 
Wounds  her  fair  ear,  and  sinks  into  her  neck ; 

The  red  stream,  issuing  from  her  azure  veins, 

Dyes  her  white  veil,  her  ivory  bosom  stains. 

‘ Ah  me  ! ’ she  cried,  and  sinking  on  the  ground, 
Kissed  her  dear  babes,  regardless  of  the  wound  ; 

‘ 0 cease  not  yet  to  beat,  thou  vital  urn  ! 

Wait,  gushing  life,  0 wait  my  love’s  return  !’ 

Hoarse  barks  the  wolf,  the  vulture  screams  from  far  ! 
The  angel  pity  shuns  the  walks  of  war  ! 

‘ 0 spare,  ye  war-hounds,  spare  their  tender  age ; 

On  me,  on  me,’  she  cried,  ‘ exhaust  your  rage  ! ’ 

Then  with  weak  arms  her  weeping  babes  caressed, 
And,  sighing,  hid  them  in  her  blood-stained  vest. 

From  tent  to  tent  the  impatient  warrior  flies, 

Fear  in  his  heart,  and  frenzy  in  his  eyes  ; 

Eliza’s  name  along  the  camp  he  calls, 

‘Eliza’  echoes  through  the  canvas  walls  ; 

Quick  through  the  murmuring  gloom  his  footsteps 
tread, 

O’er  groaning  heaps,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

Vault  o’er  the  plain,  and  in  the  tangled  wood, 

Lo  ! dead  Eliza  weltering  in  her  blood  ! 

Soon  hears  his  listening  son  the  welcome  sounds, 

With  open  arms  and  sparkling  eye  he  bounds  : 

‘ Speak  low,’  he  cries,  and  gives  his  little  hand, 

‘ Eliza  sleeps  upon  the  dew-cold  sand  ; 

Poor  weeping  babe,  with  bloody  fingers  pressed, 

And  tried  with  pouting  lips  her  milkless  breast ; 

‘ Alas  ! we  both  with  cold  and  hunger  quake — 

Why  do  you  weep  ? — Mamma  will  soon  awake.’ 

‘ She’ll  wake  no  more  !’  the  hapless  mourner  cried, 
Upturned  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his  hands,  and  sighed ; 
Stretched  on  the  ground,  a while  entranced  he  lay, 
And  pressed  warm  kisses  on  the  lifeless  clay ; 

And  then  upsprung  with  wild  convulsive  start, 

And  all  the  father  kindled  in  his  heart ; 

‘ 0 heavens ! ’ he  cried,  ‘ my  first  rash  vow  forgive ; 
These  bind  to  earth,  for  these  I pray  to  live ! ’ 

Round  his  chill  babes  he  wrapped  his  crimson 'vest, 
And  clasped  them  sobbing  to  his  aching  breast.* 

[Philanthropy — Mr  Howard .] 

[From  the  Loves  of  the  Plants.] 

And  now,  philanthropy ! thy  rays  divine 
Dart  round  the  globe  from  Zembla  to  the  line  ; 

* Those  who  have  the  opportunity  may  compare  this  death- 
scene  (much  to  the  advantage  of  the  living  author)  with  that 
of  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  which  may  havo  been  suggested,  very 
remotely  and  quite  unconsciously,  by  Darwin’s  Eliza.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  excels  in  painting  battle-pieces,  as  overseen  by 
some  interested  spectator.  Eliza  at  Minden  is  circumstanced 
so  nearly  like  Clara  at  Flodden,  that  the  mighty  Minstrel  of 
the  North  may  possibly  have  caught  the  idea  of  the  latter  from 
the  Lichfield  botanist;  but  oh,  how  has  he  triumphed! — 
Montgomery's  Lectures  on  Poetry , 1833. 


from  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


O’er  each  dark  prison  plays  the  cheering  light, 

Like  northern  lustres  o’er  the  vault  of  night. 

From  realm  to  realm,  with  cross  or  crescent  crowned, 
Where’er  mankind  and  misery  are  found. 

O’er  burning  sands,  deep  waves,  or  wilds  of  snow, 
Thy  Howard  journeying  seeks  the  house  of  woe. 
Down  many  a winding  step  to  dungeons  dank, 

Where  anguish  wails  aloud,  and  fetters  clank  ; 

To  caves  bestrewed  with  many  a moulderiug  bone, 
And  cells  whose  echoes  only  learn  to  groan ; 

Where  no  kind  bars  a whispering  friend  disclose, 

No  sunbeam  enters,  and  no  zephyr  blows, 

He  treads,  unemulous  of  fame  or  wealth, 

Profuse  of  toil,  and  prodigal  of  health. 

With  soft  assuasive  eloquence  expands 

Power’s  rigid  heart,  and  opes  his  clenching  hands  ; 

Leads  stern-eyed  J ustice  to  the  dark  domains, 

If  not  to  sever,  to  relax  the  chains  ; 

Or  guides  awakened  mercy  through  the  gloom, 

And  shews  the  prison,  sister  to  the  tomb  ! 

Gives  to  her  babes  the  self-devoted  wife, 

To  her  fond  husband  liberty  and  life  ! 

The  spirits  of  the  good,  who  bend  from  high 
Wide  o’er  these  earthly  scenes  their  partial  eye, 
When  first  arrayed  in  Virtue’s  purest  robe, 

They  saw  her  Howard  traversing  the  globe ; 

Saw  round  his  brows  her  sunlike  glory  blaze 
In  arrowy  circles  of  unwearied  rays  ; 

Mistook  a mortal  for  an  angel  guest, 

And  asked  what  seraph  foot  the  earth  impressed. 
Onward  he  moves  ! Disease  and  Death  retire, 

And  murmuring  demons  hate  him  and  admire  ! 


Song  to  May. 

[From  the  same.] 

Born  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky, 

Sweet  May  ! thy  radiant  form  unfold  ; 

Unclose  thy  blue  voluptuous  eye, 

And  wave  thy  shadowy  locks  of  gold. 

For  thee  the  fragrant  zephyrs  blow, 

For  thee  descends  the  sunny  shower ; 

The  rills  in  softer  murmurs  flow, 

And  brighter  blossoms  gem  the  bower. 

Light  graces  decked  in  flowery  wreaths 
And  tiptoe  joys  their  hands  combine  ; 

And  Love  his  sweet  contagion  breathes, 
And,  laughing,  dances  round  thy  shrine. 

Warm  with  new  life,  the  glittering  throng 
On  quivering  fin  and  rustling  wing, 

Delighted  join  their  votive  song, 

And  hail  thee.  Goddess  of  the  Spring  ! 


Song  to  Echo. 

[From  the  same.] 

Sweet  Echo  ! sleeps  thy  vocal  shell, 

Where  this  high  arch  o’erhangs  the  dell ; 
While  Tweed,  with  sun-reflecting  streams. 
Checkers  thy  rocks  with  dancing  beams  ? 

Here  may  no  clamours  harsh  intrude, 

No  brawling  hound  or  clarion  rude  ; 

Here  no  fell  beast  of  midnight  prowl, 

And  teach  thy  tortured  cliffs  to  howl. 

Be  thine  to  pour  these  vales  along 
Some  artless  shepherd’s  evening  song  ; 

While  night’s  sweet  bird  from  yon  high  spray 
Responsive  listens  to  his  lay.  . 


72 


And  if,  like  me,  some  love-lorn  maid 
Should  sing  her  sorrows  to  thy  shade, 
Oh  ! soothe  her  breast,  ye  rocks  around, 
With  softest  sympathy  of  sound. 


THE  ROLLIAD. 

A series  of  political  satires,  commencing  about 
1781,  and  written  by  a few  men  of  wit  and  fashion, 
attracted  much  attention,  and  became  extensively 
popular.  They  appeared  first  in  a London  news- 
paper, the  earliest — from  which  the  name  of  the  | 
collection  was  derived — being  a satire  on  Colonel,  : 
afterwards  Lord  Rolle.  The  Rolliad — consisting  of  ! 
pretended  criticism  on  an  imaginary  epic  poem — 
was  followed  by  Probationary  Odes  for  the  Laureate- 
ship,  and  Political  Eclogues.  The  design  of  the 
Probationary  Odes  was  probably  suggested  by  Pope’s 
ridicule  of  Cibber ; and  the  death  of  Whitehead, 
the  poet-laureate,  in  1785,  was  seized  upon  by  the 
Whig  wits  as  affording  an  opportunity  for  satirising 
some  of  the  political  and  literary  characters  of  the 
da}',  conspicuous  as  members  or  supporters  of  the 
government.  Pitt,  Dundas,  Jenkinson  (Lord  Liver- 
pool), Lord  Thurlow,  Kenyon,  Sir  Cecil  Wray,  Dr 
Prettyman  (afterwards  Bishop  of  Winchester),  and 
others,  were  the  objects  of  these  humorous  sallies 
and  personal  invectives  ; while  among  literary  men, 
Thomas  Warton,  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  Macpher- 
son  (the  translator  of  Ossian),  were  selected  for 
attack.  The  contributors  to  this  gallery  of  bur- 
lesque portraits  and  clever  caricatures  were : 1.  Dr 
Lawrence,  the  friend  of  Burke,  who  was  the  chief 
editor  or  director  of  the  satires : he  died  in  1807. 

2.  General  Richard  Fitzpatrick  (1749-1815),  a 
brother  of  the  last  Earl  of  Upper  Ossory,  who  was 
long  in  parliament,  and  held  successively  the  offices 
of  Secretary-at-war  and  Irish  Secretary.  Fitz- 
patrick was  the  intimate  friend  of  Charles  James 
Fox — a fact  recorded  on  his  tomb — and  his  quatrain 
on  that  eminent  statesman  may  be  quoted  as 
remarkable  for  condensed  and  happy  expression : 

A patriot’s  even  course  he  steered, 

’Mid  faction’s  wildest  storms  unmoved ; 

By  all  who  marked  his  mind  revered, 

By  all  who  knew  his  heart  beloved. 

3.  Richard  Tickell,  the  grandson  of  Addison’s 
friend,  and  the  brother-in-law  of  Sheridan,  besides 
his  contributions  to  the  Rolliad , was  author  of  The 
Wreath  of  Fashion  and  other  poetical  pieces,  and  of 
a lively  political  pamphlet,  entitled  Anticipation , 
1778.  Tickell  was  a commissioner  of  stamps;  he 
was  a great  favourite  in  society ; yet  in  a moment 
of  despondency  he  threw  himself  from  a high 
window  in  Hampton  Court  Palace,  November  4, 
1793,  and  was  killed  on  the  spot.  4.  Joseph 
Richardson  (1758-1803)  was  author  of  a comedy, 
called  The  Fugitive , and  was  partner  with  Sheridan 
in  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Among  the  other  contri- 
butors to  the  Rolliad  were  Lord  J ohn  Townsend  | 
(1757-1837),  Mr  George  Ellis,  the  poetical  anti- 
quary and  friend  of  Scott,  Sir  R.  Adair,  and 
General  Bcrgoyne,  author  of  some  dramatic 
pieces.  All  these  were  gay,  fashionable,  and  some- 
what hard-living  men,  whose  political  satire  and 
malice,  as  Moore  has  remarked,  ‘from  the  fancy 
with  which  it  is  mixed  up,  like  certain  kinds  of 
fireworks,  explodes  in  sparkles.’  Some  of  their 
sallies,  however,  are  coarsely  personal,  and  often 
irreverend  in  style  and  allusion.  The  topics  of 
their  satire  are  now  in  a great  measure  forgotten — 
superseded  by  other  party-men  and  party-measures ; 
and  the  very  qualities  which  gave  it  immediate 


POets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  William  gifford. 


and  splendid  success,  have  sunk  it  sooner  in 
oblivion. 

[Character  of  Mr  Pitt.] 

Pert  without  fire,  without  experience  sage, 

Young,  with  more  art  than  Shelburne  gleaned  from 
age, 

Too  proud  from  pilfered  greatness  to  descend, 

Too  humble  not  to  call  Dundas  his  friend, 

In  solemn  dignity  and  sullen  state, 

This  new  Octavius  rises  to  debate ! 

Mild  and  more  mild  he  sees  each  placid  row 
Of  country  gentlemen  with  rapture  glow ; 

He  sees,  convulsed  with  sympathetic  throbs, 
Apprentice  peers  and  deputy  nabobs. 

Nor  rum-contractors  think  his  speech  too  long, 

While  words,  like  treacle,  trickle  from  his  tongue. 

0 soul  congenial  to  the  souls  of  Holies  ! — 

Whether  you  tax  the  luxury  of  coals, 

Or  vote  some  necessary  millions  more 
To  feed  an  Indian  friend’s  exhausted  store. 

Fain  would  I praise — if  I like  thee  could  praise — 
Thy  matchless  virtue  in  congenial  lays. 

Crit.  on  the  Rolliad,  No.  2. 

WILLIAM  GIFFORD. 

"William  Gifford,  a poet,  translator,  and  critic, 
afforded  a remarkable  example  of  successful  appli- 
cation to  science  and  literature  under  the  most 
unfavourable  circumstances.  He  was  born  at  Ash- 
burton, in  Devonshire,  in  April  1756.  His  father 
had  been  a painter  and  glazier,  but  both  the  parents 
of  the  poet  died  when  he  was  young;  and  after 
some  little  education,  he  was,  at  the  age  of  thirteen, 
placed  on  board  a coasting- vessel  by  his  godfather, 
a man  who  was  supposed  to  have  benefited  himself 
at  the  expense  of  Gifford’s  parents.  ‘It  will  be 
easily  conceived,’  he  says,  ‘ that  my  life  was  a life  of 
hardship.  I was  not  only  “ a ship-boy  on  the  high 
and  giddy  mast,”  but  also  in  the  cabin,  where  every 
menial  office  fell  to  my  lot : yet  if  I was  restless  and 
discontented,  I can  safely  say  it  was  not  so  much 
on  account  of  this,  as  of  my  being  precluded  from 
all  possibility  of  reading;  as  my  master  did  not 
possess,  nor  do  I recollect  seeing,  during  the  whole 
time  of  my  abode  with  him,  a single  book  of  any 
description,  except  the  Coasting  Pilot’  Whilst  thus 
pursuing  his  life  of  a cabin-boy,  Gifford  was  often 
seen  by  the  fishwomen  of  his  native  town  running 
about  the  beach  in  a ragged  jacket  and  trousers. 
They  mentioned  this  to  the  people  of  Ashburton, 
and  never  without  commiserating  his  change  of 
condition.  This  tale,  often  repeated,  awakened  at 
length  the  pity  of  the  auditors,  and  as  the  next  step, 
their  resentment  against  the  man  who  had  reduced 
him  to  such  a state  of  wretchedness.  His  godfather 
was,  on  this  account,  induced  to  recall  him  from  the 
sea,  and  put  him  again  to  school.  He  made  rapid 
progress,  and  even  hoped  to  succeed  his  old  and 
infirm  schoolmaster.  In  his  fifteenth  year,  however, 
his  godfather,  conceiving  that  he  had  got  learning 
enough,  and  that  his  own  duty  towards  him  was 
fairly  discharged,  put  him  apprentice  to  a shoemaker. 
Gifford  hated  his  new  profession  with  a perfect 
hatred.  At  this  time  he  possessed  but  one  book 
in  the  world,  and  that  was  a treatise  on  algebra,  of 
which  he  had  no  knowledge;  but  meeting  with 
Denning’s  Introduction , he  mastered  both  works. 

‘ This  was  not  done,’  he  states,  ‘ without  difficulty. 
I had  not  a farthing  on  earth,  nor  a friend  to  give 
j me  one  : pen,  ink,  and  paper,  therefore — in  despite 
of  the  flippant  remark  of  Lord  Orford — were,  for 
the  most  part,  as  completely  out  of  my  reach  as  a 
crown  and  sceptre.  There  was  indeed  a resource, 


but  the  utmost  caution  and  secrecy  were  necessary 
in  applying  it.  I beat  out  pieces  of  leather  as 
smooth  as  possible,  and  wrought  my  problems  on 
them  with  a blunted  awl : for  the  rest,  my  memory 
was  tenacious,  and  I could  multiply  and  divide  by 
it  to  a great  extent.’  He  next  tried  poetry,  and 
some  of  his  ‘ lamentable  doggerel  ’ falling  into  the 
hands  of  Mr  Cookesley,  a benevolent  surgeon  of 
Ashburton,  that  gentleman  set  about  a subscription 
for  purchasing  the  remainder  of  the  time  of  his 
apprenticeship,  and  enabling  him  to  procure  a better 
education.  The  scheme  was  successful ; and  in 
little  more  than  two  years,  Gifford  had  made  such 
extraordinary  application,  that  he  was  pronounced 
fit  for  the  uniyersity.  The  place  of  Biblical 
Lecturer  was  procured  for  him  at  Exeter  College, 
and  this,  with  such  occasional  assistance  from  the 
country  as  Mr  Cookesley  undertook  to  provide, 
was  thought  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  live,  at 
least,  till  he  had  taken  a degree.  An  accidental 
circumstance  led  to  Gifford’s  advancement.  He  had 
been  accustomed  to  correspond,  on  literary  subjects, 
with  a person  in  London,  his  letters  being  enclosed 
in  covers,  and  sent,  to  save  postage,  to  Lord 
Grosvenor.  One  day  he  inadvertently  omitted  the 
direction,  and  his  lordship,  necessarily  supposing 
the  letter  to  be  meant  for  himself,  opened  and 
read  it.  He  was  struck  with  the  contents;  and 
after  seeing  the  writer,  and  hearing  him  relate 
the  circumstances  of  his  life,  undertook  the  charge 
of  his  present  support  and  future  establishment; 
and,  till  this  last  could  be  effected  to  his  wish, 
invited  him  to  come  and  reside  with  him.  ‘These,’ 
says  the  grateful  scholar,  ‘were  not  words  of 
course : they  were  more  than  fulfilled  in  every 
point.  I did  go  and  reside  with  him,  and  I experi- 
enced a warm  and  cordial  reception,  and  a kind 
and  affectionate  esteem,  that  has  known  neither 
diminution  nor  interruption  from  that  hour  to  this,  a 
period  of  twenty  years.’  Part  of  this  time,  it  may  be 
remarked,  was  spent  in  attending  the  earl’s  eldest 
son,  Lord  Belgrave,  on  a tour  of  Europe,  which 
must  have  tended  greatly  to  inform  and  expand  the 
mind  of  the  scholar.  Gifford  appeared  as  an  author 
in  1794.  His  first  production  was  a satirical  poem, 
entitled  The  Baviad,  which  was  directed  against  a 
class  of  sentimental  poetasters  of  that  day,  usually 
passing  under  the  collective  appellation  of  the 
Della  Crusca  School — Mrs  Piozzi,  Mrs  Robinson, 
Mr  Greathead,  Mr  Merry,  Weston,  Parsons,  &c. — 
conspicuous  for  their  affectation  and  bad  taste, 
and  their  high-flown  compliments  on  one  another. 
‘There  was  a specious  brilliancy  in  these  exotics,’ 
he  remarks,  ‘which  dazzled  the  native  grubs,  who 
had  scarce  ever  ventured  beyond  a sheep,  and  a 
crook,  and  a rose-tree  grove ; with  an  ostentatious 
display  of  “blue  hills,”  and  “crashing  torrents,” 
and  “petrifying  suns.”’  Gifford’s  vigorous  exposure 
completely  demolished  this  set  of  rliymsters,  who 
were  probably  the  spawn  of  Darwin  and  Lichfield. 
Anna  Matilda,  Laura  Maria,  Edwin,  Orlando, 
&c.,  sunk  into  instant  and  irretrievable  contempt; 
and  the  worst  of  the  number — a man  Williams, 
who  assumed  the  name  of  Pasquin  for  his  ‘ ribald 
strains  ’ — was  nonsuited  in  an  action  against 
Gifford’s  publisher.  The  satire  was  universally 
read  and  admired.  In  the  present  day,  it  seems 
unnecessarily  merciless  and  severe,  yet  lines  like 
the  following  still  possess  interest.  The  allusion 
to  Pope  is  peculiarly  appropriate  and  beautiful  : 

0 for  the  good  old  times  ! when  all  was  new, 

And  every  hour  brought  prodigies  to  view, 

Our  sires  in  unaffected  language  told 

Of  streams  of  amber  and  of  rocks  of  gold  : 

73 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Full  of  their  tlieme,  they  spurned  all  idle  art, 

And  the  plain  tale  was  trusted  to  the  heart. 

Now  all  is  changed ! We  fume  and  fret,  poor  elves, 
Less  to  display  our  subject  than  ourselves : 

Whate’er  we  paint — a grot,  a flower,  a bird, 

Heavens,  how  we  sweat ! laboriously  absurd ! 

Words  of  gigantic  bulk  and  uncouth  sound, 

In  rattling  triads  the  long  sentence  bound ; 

While  points  with  points,  with  periods,  periods  jar, 
And  the  whole  work  seems  one  continued  war  ! 

Is  not  this  sad  ? 

F. — ’Tis  pitiful,  heaven  knows ; 

’Tis  wondrous  pitiful.  E’en  take  the  prose  : 

But  for  the  poetry — oh,  that,  my  friend, 

I still  aspire — nay,  smile  not — to  defend. 

You  praise  our  sires,  but,  though  they  wrote  with 
force, 

Their  rhymes  were  vicious,  and  their  diction  coarse  ; 
We  want  their  strength  ; agreed;  but  we  atone 
For  that,  and  more,  by  sweetness  all  our  own. 

For  instance — ‘ Hasten  to  the  lawny  vale, 

Where  yellow  morning  breathes  her  saffron  gale, 

And  bathes  the  landscape  ’ 

P. — Pshaw ; I have  it  here. 

‘ A voice  seraphic  grasps  my  listening  ear : 

Wondering  I gaze : when  lo  ! methought  afar, 

More  bright  than  dauntless  day’s  imperial  star, 

A godlike  form  advances.’ 

F. — You  suppose 

These  lines  perhaps  too  turgid ; what  of  those  ? 

‘ The  mighty  mother  ’ 

P. — Now,  ’tis  plain  you  sneer, 

For  Weston’s  self  could  find  no  semblance  here  : 
Weston ! who  slunk  from  truth’s  imperious  light, 
Swells  like  a filthy  toad  with  secret  spite, 

And,  envying  the  fame  he  cannot  hope, 

Spits  his  black  venom  at  the  dust  of  Pope. 

Eeptile  accursed ! — 0 ‘ memorable  long, 

If  there  be  force  in  virtue  or  in  song,’ 

0 injured  bard  ! accept  the  grateful  strain, 

Which  I,  the  humblest  of  the  tuneful  train, 

With  glowing  heart,  yet  trembling  hand,  repay, 

For  many  a pensive,  many  a sprightly  lay  ! 

So  may  thy  varied  verse,  from  age  to  age, 

Inform  the  simple,  and  delight  the  sage. 

The  contributions  of  Mrs  Piozzi  to  this  fantastic 
garland  of  exotic  verse  are  characterised  in  one 
felicitous  couplet : 

See  Thrale’s  gay  widow  with  a satchel  roam, 

And  bring,  in  pomp,  her  laboured  nothings  home ! 

The  tasteless  bibliomaniac  is  also  finely  sketched : 

Others,  like  Kemble,  on  black-letter  pore, 

And  what  they  do  not  understand,  adore  ; 

Buy  at  vast  sums  the  trash  of  ancient  days, 

And  draw  on  prodigality  for  praise. 

These,  when  some  lucky  hit,  or  lucky  price, 

Has  blessed  them  with  The  Boke  of  Gode  Advice , 

For  ekes  and  algates  only  deign  to  seek, 

And  live  upon  a whilome  for  a week. 

The  Baviad  was  a paraphrase  of  the  first  satire  of 
Persius.  In  the  year  following,  encouraged  by  its 
success,  Gifford  produced  the  Mceviad,  an  imitation 
of  Horace,  levelled  at  the  corruptors  of  dramatic 
poetry.  Here  also  the  Della  Crusca  authors — who 
attempted  dramas  as  well  as  odes  and  elegies — 
are  gibbeted  in  satiric  verse ; but  Gifford  was  more 
critical  than  just  in  including  O’Keefe,  the  amusing 
farce- writer,  among  the  objects  of  his  condemnation. 
The  plays  of  Kotzebue  and  Schiller,  then  first  trans- 
lated and  much  in  vogue,  he  also  characterises  as 
‘heavy,  lumbering,  monotonous  stupidity,’  a sentence 
too  unqualified  and  severe.  In  the  Mceviad  are 
74 


some  touching  and  affectionate  allusions  to  the 
author’s  history  and  friends.  Dr  Ireland,  dean  of 
Westminster,  is  thus  mentioned : 

Chief  thou,  my  friend  ! who  from  my  earliest  years 
Hast  shared  my  joys,  and  more  than  shared  my  cares. 
Sure,  if  our  fates  hang  on  some  hidden  power, 

And  take  their  colour  from  the  natal  hour, 

Then,  Ireland,  the  same  planet  on  us  rose, 

Such  the  strong  sympathies  our  lives  disclose  ! 

Thou  knowest  how  soon  we  felt  this  influence  bland, 
And  sought  the  brook  and  coppice,  hand  in  hand, 

And  shaped  rude  bows,  and  uncouth  whistles  blew, 
And  paper  kites — a last  great  effort — flew ; 

And  when  the  day  was  done,  retired  to  rest, 

Sleep  on  our  eyes,  and  sunshine  in  our  breast. 

In  riper  years,  again  together  thrown, 

Our  studies,  as  our  sports  before,  were  one. 

Together  we  explored  the  stoic  page 

Of  the  Ligurian,  stern  though  beardless  sage  ! 

Or  traced  the  Aquinian  through  the  Latine  road, 

And  trembled  at  the  lashes  he  bestowed. 

Together,  too,  when  Greece  unlocked  her  stores, 

We  roved  in  thought  o’er  Troy’s  devoted  shores, 

Or  followed,  while  he  sought  his  native  soil, 

‘ That  old  man  eloquent  ’ from  toil  to  toil ; 

Lingering,  with  good  Alcinous,  o’er  the  tale, 

Till  the  east  reddened  and  the  stars  grew  pale. 

Gifford  tried  a third  satire,  an  Epistle  to  Peter 
Pindar  (Dr  Wolcot),  which,  being  founded  on  personal 
animosity,  is  more  remarkable  for  its  passionate 
vehemence  and  abuse  than  for  its  felicity  or  correct- 
ness. Wolcot  replied  with  A Cut  at  a Cobbler , 
equally  unworthy  of  his  fame.  These  satirical 
labours  of  our  author  pointed  him  out  as  a fit 
person  to  edit  The  Anti- Jacobin,  a weekly  paper 
set  up  by  Canning  and  others  for  the  purpose  of 
ridiculing  and  exposing  the  political  agitators  of 
the  times.  It  was  established  in  November'  1797, 
and  continued  only  till  the  July  following.  The 
connection  thus  formed  with  politicians  and  men 
of  rank  was  afterwards  serviceable  to  Gifford.  He 
obtained  the  situation  of  paymaster  of  the  gentle- 
men-pensioners,  and  was  made  a commissioner  of 
the  lottery,  the  emoluments  of  the  two  offices  being 
about  £900  per  annum.  In  1802,  he  published  a 
translation  of  Juvenal,  to  which  was  prefixed  his 
sketch  of  his  own  life,  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  unaffected  of  autobiographies.  He  also  trans- 
lated Persius,  and  edited  the  plays  of  Massinger, 
Ford,  and  Shirley,  and  the  works  of  Ben  Jonson. 
In  1808,  when  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  others  resolved 
on  starting  a review,  in  opposition  to  the  celebrated 
one  established  in  Edinburgh,  Mr  Gifford  was 
selected  as  editor.  In  his  hands,  the  Quarterly 
Review  became  a powerful  political  and  literary 
journal,  to  which  leading  statesmen  and  authors 
equally  contributed.  He  continued  to  discharge 
his  duties  as  editor  until  within  two  years  of  his 
death,  which  took  place  on  the  31st  of  December 
1826.  Gifford  claimed  for  himself 

A soul 

That  spurned  the  crowd’s  malign  control — 

A fixed  contempt  of  wrong. 

He  was  high-spirited,  courageous,  and  sincere.  In 
most  of  his  writings,  however,  there  was  a strong 
tinge  of  personal  acerbity,  and  even  virulence.  He 
was  a good  hater,  and  as  he  was  opposed  to  all  poli- 
tical visionaries  and  reformers,  he  had  seldom  time 
to  cool.  His  literary  criticism,  also,  where  no  such 
prejudices  could  interfere,  was  frequently  disfigured 
by  the  same  severity  of  style  or  temper ; and  who- 
ever, dead  or  living,  had  ventured  to  say  aught 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GIFFORD. 


against  Ben  Jonson,  or  write  what  he  deemed  wrong 
comments  on  his  favourite  dramatists,  were  assailed 
with  a vehemence  that  was  ludicrously  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  offence.  His  attacks  on  Hazlitt,  Lamb, 
Hunt,  and  others,  in  the  Quarterly  Review , have 
no  pretensions  to  fair  or  candid  criticism.  His 
object  was  to  crush  such  authors  as  were  opposed 
to  the  government  of  the  day,  or  who  departed  from 
his  canons  of  literary  propriety  and  good  taste. 
Even  the  best  of  his  criticisms,  though  acute  and 
spirited,  want  candour  and  comprehensiveness  of 
design.  As  a politician,  he  looked  with  distrust  and 
suspicion  on  the  growing  importance  of  America, 
and  kept  alive  among  the  English  aristocracy  a 
feeling  of  dislike  or  hostility  towards  that  country, 
which  was  as  unwise  as  it  was  ungenerous.  His 
best  service  to  literature  was  his  edition  of  Ben 
Jonson,  in  which  he  successfully  vindicated  that 
great  English  classic  from  the  unjust  aspersions  of 
his  countrymen.  His  satirical  poetry  is  pungent, 
and  often  happy  in  expression,  but  without  rising 
into  moral  grandeur  or  pathos.  His  small  but 
sinewy  intellect,  as  some  one  has  said,  was  well 
employed  in  bruising  the  butterflies  of  the  Della 
Cruscan  Muse.  Some  of  his  short  copies  of  verses 
possess  a quiet  plaintive  melancholy  and  tenderness ; 
but  his  fame  must  rest  on  his  influence  and  talents 
as  a critic  and  annotator — or  more  properly,  on  the 
story  of  his  life  and  early  struggles — honourable  to 
himself,  and  ultimately  to  his  country — which  will 
be  read  and  remembered  when  his  other  writings 
are  forgotten. 

The  Grave  of  Anna. 

I wish  I was  where  Anna  lies, 

For  I am  sick  of  lingering  here ; 

And  every  hour  affection  cries, 

Go  and  partake  her  humble  bier. 

I wish  I could  ! For  when  she  died, 

I lost  my  all ; and  life  has  proved 

Since  that  sad  hour  a dreary  void ; 

A waste  unlovely  and  unloved. 

But  who,  when  I am  turned  to  clay, 

Shall  duly  to  her  grave  repair, 

And  pluck  the  ragged  moss  away, 

And  weeds  that  have  ‘ no  business  there?’ 

And  who  with  pious  hand  shall  bring 

The  flowers  she  cherished,  snow-drops  cold, 

And  violets  that  unheeded  spring, 

To  scatter  o’er  her  hallowed  mould  ? 

And  who,  while  memory  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  her  name  for  ever  dear, 

Shall  feel  his  heart  with  passion  swell, 

And  pour  the  bitter,  bitter  tear  ? 

I did  it ; and  would  fate  allow, 

Should  visit  still,  should  still  deplore — 

But  health  and  strength  have  left  me  now, 

And  I*  alas  ! can  weep  no  more. 

Take  then,  sweet  maid  ! this  simple  strain, 

The  last  I offer  at  thy  shrine ; 

Thy  grave  must  then  undecked  remain, 

And  all  thy  memory  fade  with  mine. 

And  can  thy  soft  persuasive  look, 

Thy  voice  that  might  with  music  vie, 

Thy  air  that  every  gazer  took, 

Thy  matchless  eloquence  of  eye ; 


Thy  spirits  frolicsome  as  good, 

Thy  courage  by  no  ills  dismayed, 

Thy  patience  by  no  wrongs  subdued, 

Thy  gay  good-humour,  can  they  fade  ? 

Perhaps — but  sorrow  dims  my  eye ; 

Cold  turf  which  I no  more  must  view, 

Dear  name  which  I no  more  must  sigh, 

A long,  a last,  a sad  adieu  ! 

The  above  affecting  elegiac  stanzas  were  written 
by  Gifford  on  a faithful  attendant  who  died  in  his 
service.  He  erected  a tombstone  to  her  memory  in 
the  burying-ground  of  Grosvenor  Chapel,  South 
Audley  Street,  with  the  following  inscription  and 
epitaph : 

‘Here  lies  the  body  of  Ann  Davies,  (for  more  than 
twenty  years)  servant  to  William  Gifford.  She  died 
February  6th,  1815,  in  the  forty-third  year  of  her 
age,  of  a tedious  and  painful  malady,  which  she  bore 
with  exemplary  patience  and  resignation.  Her  deeply 
afflicted  master  erected  this  stone  to  her  memory,  as 
a painful  testimony  of  her  uncommon  worth,  and  of 
his  perpetual  gratitude,  respect,  and  affection  for  her 
long  and  meritorious  services. 

‘ Though  here  unknown,  dear  Ann,  thy  ashes  rest, 

Still  lives  thy  memory  in  one  grateful  breast, 

That  traced  thy  course  through  many  a painful  year, 
And  marked  thy  humble  hope,  thy  pious  fear. 

Oh ! when  this  frame,  which  yet,  while  life  remained, 
Thy  duteous  love,  with  trembling  hand  sustained, 
Dissolves — as  soon  it  must — may  that  blessed  Power 
Who  beamed  on  thine,  illume  my  parting  hour ! 

So  shall  I greet  thee  where  no  ills  annoy, 

And  what  was  sown  in  grief  is  reaped  in  joy : 

Where  worth,  obscured  below,  bursts  into  day, 

And  those  are  paid  whom  earth  could  never  pay.’ 

Greenwich  Hill. 

First  of  May. 

Though  clouds  obscured  the  morning  hour, 

And  keen  and  eager  blew  the  blast, 

And  drizzling  fell  the  cheerless  shower, 

As,  doubtful,  to  the  skiff  we  passed  : 

All  soon,  propitious  to  our  prayer, 

Gave  promise  of  a brighter  day; 

The  clouds  dispersed  in  purer  air, 

The  blasts  in  zephyrs  died  away. 

So  have  we,  love,  a day  enjoyed, 

On  which  we  both — and  yet,  who  knows  ? — 
May  dwell  with  pleasure  unalloyed, 

And  dread  no  thorn  beneath  the  rose. 

How  pleasant,  from  that  dome-crowned  hill, 

To  view  the  varied  scene  below, 

Woods,  ships,  and  spires,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  circling  Thames’  majestic  flow  ! 

How  sweet,  as  indolently  laid, 

We  overhung  that  long-drawn  dale, 

To  watch  the  checkered  light  and  shade 
That  glanced  upon  the  shifting  sail ! 

And  when  the  shadow’s  rapid  growth 
Proclaimed  the  noontide  hour  expired, 

And,  though  unwearied,  ‘nothing  loath,’ 

We  to  our  simple  meal  retired  ; 

The  sportive  wile,  the  blameless  jest, 

The  careless  mind’s  spontaneous  flow, 

Gave  to  that  simple  meal  a zest 
Which  richer  tables  may  not  know. 

75 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


TO  1800, 


76 


The  babe  that  on  the  mother’s  breast 
Has  toyed  and  wantoned  for  a while, 
And  sinking  in  unconscious  rest, 

Looks  up  to  catch  a parting  smile ; 

Feels  less  assured  than  thou,  dear  maid, 
When,  ere  thy  ruby  lips  could  part — 

As  close  to  mine  thy  cheek  was  laid — 
Thine  eyes  had  opened  all  thy  heart. 

Then,  then  I marked  the  chastened  joy 
That  lightly  o’er  thy  features  stole, 
From  vows  repaid — my  sweet  employ — 
From  truth,  from  innocence  of  soul : 

While  every  word  dropt  on  my  ear 
So  soft — and  yet  it  seemed  to  thrill — 
So  sweet  that  ’twas  a heaven  to  hear, 

And  e’en  thy  pause  had  music  still. 

And  oh ! how  like  a fairy  dream 
To  gaze  in  silence  on  the  tide, 

While  soft  and  warm  the  sunny  gleam 
Slept  on  the  glassy  surface  wide  ! 

And  many  a thought  of  fancy  bred, 

Wild,  soothing,  tender,  undefined, 

Played  lightly  round  the  heart,  and  shed 
Delicious  languor  o’er  the  mind. 

So  hours  like  moments  winged  their  flight, 
Till  now  the  boatmen  on  the  shore, 
Impatient  of  the  waning  light, 

Recalled  us  by  the  dashing  oar. 

Well,  Anna,  many  days  like  this 
I cannot,  must  not  hope  to' share; 

For  I have  found  an  hour  of  bliss 
Still  followed  by  an  age  of  care. 

Yet  oft  when  memory  intervenes — 

But  you,  dear  maid,  be  happy  still, 

Nor  e’er  regret,  midst  fairer  scenes, 

The  day  we  passed  on  Greenwich  Hill. 


To  a Tuft  of  Early  Violets. 

Sweet  flowers  ! that  from  your  humble  beds 
Thus  prematurely  dare  to  rise, 

And  trust  your  unprotected  heads 
To  cold  Aquarius’  watery  skies  ; 

Retire,  retire ! these  tepid  airs 
Are  not  the  genial  brood  of  May ; 

That  Sun  with  light  malignant  glares, 

And  flatters  only  to  betray. 

Stern  winter’s  reign  is  not  yet  past — 

Lo ! while  your  buds  prepare  to  blow,  , 

On  icy  pinions  comes  the  blast,  ^ 

And  nips  your  root,  and  lays  you  low. 

V* 

Alas,  for  such  ungentle  doom ! 

But  I will  shield  you,  and  supply 

A kindlier  soil  on  which  to  bloom, 

A nobler  bed  on  which  to  die. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest. 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away ; 

0 come,  and  grace  my  Anna’s  breast. 

Ye  droop,  fond  flowers ! but,  did  ye  know 
What  worth,  what  goodness  there  reside. 

Your  cups  with  liveliest  tints  would  glow. 

And  spread  their  leaves  with  conscious  pride  ; 


For  there  has  liberal  nature  joined 
Her  riches  to  the  stores  of  art, 

And  added  to  the  vigorous  mind 
The  soft,  the  sympathising  heart. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest, 
And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away ; 

0 come,  and  grace  my  Anna’s  breast. 

Oh  ! I should  think — that  fragrant  bed 
Slight  I but  hope  with  you  to  share — 
Years  of  anxiety  repaid 
By  one  short  hour  of  transport  there. 

More  blessed  your  lot,  ye  there  shall  live 
Your  little  day;  and  when  ye  die, 

Sweet  flowers ! the  grateful  Muse  shall  give 
A verse — the  sorrowing  maid  a sigh. 

While  I,  alas ! no  distant  date, 

Mix  with  the  dust  from  whence  I came, 
Without  a friend  to  weep  my  fate, 

Without  a stone  to  tell  my  name. 


THE  ANTI-JACOBIN  POETRY. 

We  have  alluded  to  the  Anti-Jacobin  weekly 
paper,  of  which  Mr  Gifford  was  editor.  In  this 
publication,  various  copies  of  verses  were  inserted, 
chiefly  of  a satirical  nature.  The  poetry,  like  the 
prose,  of  the  Anti-Jacobin  was  designed  to  ridicule 
and  discountenance  the  doctrines  of  the  French 
Revolution ; and  as  party-spirit  ran  high,  those 
effusions  were  marked  occasionally  by  fierce  person- 
ality and  declamatory  violence.  Others,  however, 
written  in  travesty,  or  contempt  of  the  bad  taste 
and  affectation  of  some  of  the  works  of  the  day, 
contained  well-directed  and  witty  satire,  aimed  by 
no  common  hand,  and  pointed  with  irresistible 
keenness.  Among  those  who  mixed  in  this  loyal 
warfare  was  Mr  J.  H.  Frere  (noticed  in  a subse- 
quent section),  and  George  Canning  (1770-1827), 
whose  fame  as  an  orator  and  statesman  fills  so  large 
a space  in  the  modem  history  of  Britain.  Canning 
Avas  then  young  and  ardent,  full  of  hope  and  ambi- 
tion. Without  family  distinction  or  influence,  he 
relied  on  his  talents  for  future  advancement;  and 
from  interest,  no  less  than  feeling  and  principle,  he 
exerted  them  in  support  of  the  existing  administra- 
tion. Previous  to  this,  he  had  distinguished  himself 
at  Eton  School  for  his  classical  acquirements  and 
literary  talents.  Entering  parliament  in  1793,  he 
was,  in  1796,  appointed  under-secretary  of  state, 
and  it  was  at  the  close  of  the  following  year  that 
the  Anti- Jacobin  was  commenced.  The  contribu- 
tions of  Mr  Canning  consist  of  parodies  on  Southey 
and  Darwin,  the  greater  part  of  The  Rovers — a 
burlesque  on  the  sentimental  German  drama — and 
New  Morality , a spirited  and  caustic  satire,  directed 
against  French  principles  and  their  supporters  in 
England.  In  this  poem  of  New  Morality  occur  four 
lines  often  quoted : 

Give  me  the  avowed,  the  erect,  the  manly  foe ; 

Bold  I can  meet — perhaps  may  turn  his  blow ; 

But  of  all  plagues,  good  Heaven,  thy  wrath  can  send, 

Save,  save,  oh  ! save  me  from  the  candid  friend ! 

As  party  effusions,  these  pieces  were  highly  popular 
and  effective ; and  that  they  are  still  read  with 
pleasure  on  account  of  their  wit  and  humour,  and 
also  perhaps  on  account  of  their  slashing  and  fero- 
cious style,  is  instanced  by  the  fact,  that  the  Poetry 
] of  the  Anti-Jacobin , collected  and  published  in  a 


POETS. 


GEORGE  CANNING. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


separate  form,  has  attained  to  a sixth  edition.  The 
genius  of  Canning  found  afterwards  a more  appro- 
priate field  in  parliament.  As  a statesman,  ‘just 
alike  to  freedom  and  the  throne,’  and  as  an  orator, 
eloquent,  witty,  and  of  consummate  taste,  his  repu- 
tation is  established.  He  had,  however,  a strong 
bias  in  favour  of  elegant  literature,  and  would  have 
become  no  mean  poet  and  author,  had  he  not 
embarked  so  early  on  public  life,  and  been  so 
incessantly  occupied  with  its  cares  and  duties. 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-grinder. 

[In  this  piece,  Canning  ridicules  the  youthful  Jacobin 
effusions  of  Southey,  in  which,  he  says,  it  was  sedulously 
inculcated  that  there  was  a natural  and  eternal  warfare 
between  the  poor  and  the  rich.  The  Sapphic  rhymes  of 
Southey  afforded  a tempting  subject  for  ludicrous  parody, 
and  Canning  quotes  the  following  stanza,  lest  he  should  be 
suspected  of  painting  from  fancy,  and  not  from  life  : 

« Cold  was  the  night-wind  : drifting  fast  the  snows  fell ; 
Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked ; 

When  a poor  wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey, 

Weary  and  way-sore.’] 

Friend  of  Humanity. 

Needy  Knife-grinder ! whither  are  you  going  ? 

Rough  is  your  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order ; 

Bleak  blows  the  blast — your  hat  has  got  a hole  in ’t, 

So  have  your  breeches  ! 

Weary  Knife-grinder  ! little  think  the  proud  ones, 

Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  ’tis  crying  all  day,  ‘ Knives  and 
Scissors  t(^  grind  0 !’ 

Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 

Was  it  the  squire,  or  parson  of  the  parish, 

Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ? or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 

Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 

All  in  a lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 

Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 

Knife-grinder. 

Story  ! God  bless  you  ! I have  none  to  tell,  sir  ; 

Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 

This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ; they  took  me  before  the  justice; 

Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish  - 

Stocks  for  a vagrant. 

I should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honour’s  health  in 
A pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence ; 

But  for  my  part,  I never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir. 

Friend  of  Humanity. 

I give  thee  sixpence  ! I will  see  thee  d d first — 

Wretch,  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to 
vengeance — 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast ! 

[ Kicks  the  Knife-grinder , overturns  his  tvheel,  and  exit  in  a 
transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  universal  philan- 
thropy.] 


\ 

[Song  by  Rogero  in  1 The  Rovers .’] 

Whene’er  with  haggard  eyes  I view 
This  dungeon  that  I ’m  rotting  in, 

I think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[ Weeps  and  pulls  out  a blue  kerchief  with  which  he  ivipes  his 
eyes ; gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds :] 

Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heavenly  blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in — 

Alas,  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 

At  least  I thought  so  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[At  the  repetition  of  this  line,  Rogero  clanks  his  chains  in  cadence .1 

Barbs  ! barbs  ! alas  ! how  swift  you  flew 
Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in  ! 

Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view  ; 

Forlorn  I languished  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form  ! this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in, 

My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I entered  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 

Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  Tu- 
tor, law  professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in  : 

Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[ During  thelast  stanza , Rogero  dashes  his  head  repeatedly  against 
the  walls  of  his  prison ; and  finally  so  hard  as  to  produce  a 
visible  contusion.  He  then  throivs  himself  on  the  floor  in  an 
agony.  The  curtain  drops,  the  music  still  continuing  to  play 
till  it  is  wholly  fallen.] 

The  following  lines  by  Canning  shew  that  he 
could  write  in  a tender  and  elegiac  as  well  as 
satirical  strain : 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  his  Eldest  Son. 

Though  short  thy  span,  God’s  unimpeached  decrees, 
Which  made  that  shortened  span  one  long  disease  ; 
Yet,  merciful  in  chastening,  gave  thee  scope 
For  mild  redeeming  virtues,  faith  and  hope, 

Meek  resignation,  pious  charity  ; 

And,  since  this  world  was  not  the  world  for  thee, 

Far  from  thy  path  removed,  with  partial  care, 

Strife,  glory,  gain,  and  pleasure’s  flowery  snare  ; 

Bade  earth’s  temptations  pass  thee  harmless  by, 

And  fixed  on  Heaven  thine  unreverted  eye  ! 

Oh  ! marked  from  birth,  and  nurtured  for  the  skies  ! 
In  youth,  with  more  than  learning’s  wisdom  wise  ! 

As  sainted  martyrs,  patient  to  endure  ! 

Simple  as  unweaned  infancy,  and  pure  ! 

Pure  from  all  stain — save  that  of  human  clay, 

Which  Christ’s  atoning  blood  hath  washed  away  ! — 
By  mortal  sufferings  now  no  more  oppressed, 

Mount,  sinless  spirit,  to  thy  destined  rest  ! 

While  I — reversed  our  nature’s  kindlier  doom — 

Pour  forth  a father’s  sorrows  on  thy  tomb. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


A satirical  poem,  winch  attracted  much  attention 
in  literary  circles  at  the  time  of  its  publication, 
was  the  Pursuits  of  Literature , in  four  parts,  the 
first  of  which  appeared  in  1794.  Though  pub- 
lished anonymously,  this  work  was  written  by  Mr 
Thomas  James  Mathias,  a distinguished  scholar, 
who  died  at  Naples  in  1835.  Mr  Mathias  was 
sometime  treasurer  of  the  household  to  her  majesty 
Queen  Charlotte.  He  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1774.  Besides  the 
Pursuits  of  Literature , Mr  Mathias  was  author  of 
some  Runic  Odes , imitated  from  the  Norse  Tongue , 
The  Imperial  Epistle  from  Kien  Long  to  George  III. 
(1794),  The  Shade  of  Alexander  Pope , a satirical 
poem  (1798),  and  various  other  light  evanescent 
pieces  on  the  topics  of  the  day.  Mr  Mathias  also 
wrote  some  Latin  odes,  and  translated  into  Italian 
several  English  poems.  He  wrote  Italian  with 
elegance  and  purity,  and  it  has  been  said  that  no 
Englishman,  since  the  days  of  Milton,  has  cultivated 
that  language  with  so  much  success.  The  Pursuits 
of  Literature  contains  some  pointed  satire  on  the 
author’s  poetical  contemporaries,  and  is  enriched 
with  a vast  variety  of  notes,  in  which  there  is  a 
great  display  of  learning.  George  Steevens  said  the 
poem  was  merely  ‘a  peg  to  hang  the  notes  on.’ 
The  want  of  true  poetical  genius  to  vivify  this  mass 
of  erudition  has  been  fatal  to  Mr  Mathias.  His 
works  appear  to  be  utterly  forgotten. 


DR  JOHN  WOLCOT. 

Dr  John  Wolcot  was  a coarse  but  lively  satirist, 
who,  under  the  name  of  ‘ Peter  Pindar,’  published 
a variety  of  effusions  on  the  topics  and  public  men 
of  his  times,  which  were  eagerly  read  and  widely 
circulated.  Many  of  them  were  in  ridicule  of  the 
reigning  sovereign,  George  HI.,  who  was  a good 
subject  for  the  poet ; though  the  latter,  as  he  him- 
self acknowledged,  was  a bad  subject  to  the  king. 
Wolcot  was  born  at  Dodbrooke,  a village  in  Devon- 
shire, in  the  year  1738.  His  uncle,  a respectable 
surgeon  and  apothecary  at  Eowey,  took  the  charge 
of  his  education,  intending  that  he  should  become 
his  own  assistant  and  successor  in  business.  Wolcot 
was  instructed  in  medicine,  and  4 walked  the 
hospitals’  in  London,  after  which  he  proceeded  to 
Jamaica  with  Sir  William  Trelawney,  governor  of 
that  island,  who  had  engaged  him  as  liis  medical 
attendant.  The  social  habits  of  the  doctor  rendered 
him  a favourite  in  Jamaica;  but  his  time  being 
only  partly  employed  by  his  professional  avocations, 
he  solicited  and  obtained  from  his  patron  the  gift  of 
a living  in  the  church,  which  happened  to  be  then 
vacant.  The  bishop  of  London  ordained  the  grace- 
less neophyte,  and  Wolcot  entered  upon  his  sacred 
duties.  His  congregation  consisted  mostly  of  negroes, 
and  Sunday  being  their  principal  holiday  and  mar- 
ket, the  attendance  at  the  church  was  very  limited. 
Sometimes  not  a single  person  came,  and  Wolcot 
and  his  clerk — the  latter  being  an  excellent  shot — 
used  at  such  times,  after  waiting  for  ten  minutes,  to 
proceed  to  the  sea- side,  to  enjoy  the  sport  of  shoot- 
ing ring-tailed  pigeons ! The  death  of  Sir  William 
Trelawney  cut  off  all  further  hopes  of  preferment, 
and  every  inducement  to  a longer  residence  in  the 
island.  Bidding  adieu  to  Jamaica  and  the  church, 
Wolcot  accompanied  Lady  Trelawney  to  England, 
and  established  himself  as  a physician  at  Truro,  in 
Cornwall.  He  inherited  about  £2000  by  the  death 
of  his  uncle.  While  resident  at  Truro,  Wolcot 
discovered  the  talents  of  Opie — 

The  Cornish  boy  in  tin-mines  bred — 

78 


whose  genius  as  an  artist  afterwards  became  so  dis- 
tinguished. He  also  materially  assisted  to  form  his 
taste  and  procure  him  patronage ; and  when  Opie’s 
name  was  well  established,  the  poet  and  his  protege', 
forsaking  the  country,  repaired  to  London,  as 
affording  a wider  field  for  the  exertions  of  both. 
Wolcot  had  already  acquired  some  distinction  by 
his  satirical  efforts;  and  he  now  poured  forth  a 
series  of  odes  and  epistles,  commencing  with  the 
royal  academicians,  whom  he  ridiculed  with  great 
success  and  some  justice.  In  1785  he  produced  no 
less  than  twenty-three  odes.  In  1786  he  published 
The  Lousiad,  a Heroi-comic  Poem , in  five  cantos, 
which  had  its  foundation  in  the  fact,  that  an  ob- 
noxious insect — either  of  the  garden  or  the  body — 
had  been  discovered  on  the  king’s  plate  among  some 
green  peas,  which  produced  a solemn  decree  that 
all  the  servants  in  the  royal  kitchen  were  to  have 
their  heads  shaved.  In  the  hands  of  an  unscrupu- 
lous satirist  like  Wolcot,  this  ridiculous  incident 
was  an  admirable  theme.  The  publication  of 
Boswell’s  Journal  of  a Tour  to  the  Hebrides  afforded 
another  tempting  opportunity,  and  he  indited  a 
humorous  poetical  epistle  to  the  biographer, 
commencing : 

O Boswell,  Bozzy,  Bruce,  whate’er  thy  name, 

Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdotp  and  fame ; 

Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  Johnson  forth 
To  eat  Macpherson  ’midst  his  native  north ; 

To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar, 

And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore, 

AU  hail ! 

Triumphant  thou  through  Time’s  vast  gulf  shalt  sail,  j 
The  pilot  of  our  literary  whale ; 

Close  to  the  classic  Rambler  shalt  thou  cling, 

Close  as  a supple  courtier  to  a king ; 

Fate  shall  not  shake  thee  off  with  all  its  power ; 

Stuck  like  a bat  to  some  old  ivied  tower. 

Nay,  though  thy  Johnson  ne’er  had  blessed  thy  eyes, 
Paoli’s  deeds  had  raised  thee  to  the  skies : 

Yes,  his  broad  wing  had  raised  thee — no  bad  hack — 

A tomtit  twittering  on  an  eagle’s  back. 

In  addition  to  this  effusion,  Wolcot  levelled  another 
attack  on  Boswell,  entitled  Bozzy  and  Piozzi,  or  the 
British  Biographers.  The  personal  habits  of  the 
king  were  ridiculed  in  Peeps  at  St  James’s,  Royal 
Visits,  Lyric  Odes,  &c.  Sir  Joseph  Banks  was 
another  subject  of  his  satire : 

A president,  on  butterflies  profound, 

Of  whom  all  insect-mongers  sing  the  praises, 

Went  on  a day  to  catch  the  game  profound 

On  violets,  dunghills,  violet-tops,  and  daisies,  &c. 

He  had  also  Instructions  to  a Celebrated  Laureate; 
Peter’s  Pension;  Peter’s  Prophecy ; Epistle  to  a Fallen 
Minister  ; Epistle  to  James  Bruce,  Esq.,  the  Abyssinian 
Traveller ; Odes  to  Mr  Paine;  Odes  to  Kien  Long, 
Emperor  of  China  ; Ode  to  the  Livery  of  London,  and 
brochures  of  a kindred  description  on  most  of  the 
celebrated  events  of  the  day.  From  1778  to  1808, 
above  sixty  of  these  poetical  pamphlets  were  issued 
by  Wolcot.  So  formidable  was  he  considered,  that 
the  ministry,  as  he  alleged,  endeavoured  to  bribe 
him  to  silence.  He  also  boasted  that  his  writings 
had  been  translated  into  six  different  languages.  In 
1795,  he  obtained  from  his  booksellers  an  annuity  of 
£250,  payable  half-yearly,  for  the  copyright  of  his 
works.  This  handsome  allowance  he  enjoyed,  to 
the  heavy  loss  of  the  other  parties,  for  upwards  of 
twenty  years.  Neither  old  age  nor  blindness  could 
repress  his  witty  vituperative  attacks.  He  had 
recourse  to  an  amanuensis,  in  whose  absence,  how- 
ever, he  continued  to  write  himself,  till  within  a 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


short  period  of  his  death.  ‘ His  method  was  to  tear 
a sheet  of  paper  into  quarters,  on  each  of  which  he 
wrote  a stanza  of  four  or  six  lines,  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  poem : the  paper  he  placed  on  a hook 
held  in  the  left  hand,  and  in  this  manner  not  only 
wrote  legibly,  but  with  great  ease  and  celerity.’  In 
1796,  his  poetical  effusions  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  four  volumes  8vo,  and  subsequent  editions 
have  been  issued ; but  most  of  the  poems  have  sunk 
into  oblivion.  Eew  satirists  can  reckon  on  perma- 
nent popularity,  and  the  poems  of  Wolcot  were  in 
their  nature  of  an  ephemeral  description  ; while  the 
recklessness  of  his  censure  and  ridicule,  and  the 
want  of  decency,  of  principle,  and  moral  feeling,  that 
characterises  nearly  the  whole,  precipitated  their 
downfall.  He  died  at  his  house  in  Somers’  Town  on 
the  14th  January  1819,  and  was  buried  in  a vault  in 
the  churchyard  of  St  Paul’s,  Covent  Garden,  close  to 
the  grave  of  Butler.  Wolcot  was  equal  to  Churchill 
as  a satirist,  as  ready  and  versatile  in  his  powers, 
and  possessed  of  a quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  as 
well  as  a rich  vein  of  fancy  and  humour.  Some 
of  his  songs  and  serious  effusions  are  tender  and 
pleasing ; but  he  could  not  write  long  without  slid- 
ing into  the  ludicrous  and  burlesque.  His  critical 
acuteness  is  evinced  in  his  Odes  to  the  Royal  Acade- 
micians, and  in  various  passages  scattered  through- 
out his  works ; while  his  ease  and  felicity,  both  of 
expression  and  illustration,  are  remarkable.  In  the 
following  terse  and  lively  lines,  we  have  a good 
caricature  portrait  of  Dr  Johnson’s  style : 

I own  I like  not  Johnson’s  turgid  style, 

That  gives  an  inch  the  importance  of  a mile, 

Casts  of  manure  a wagon-load  around, 

To  raise  a simple  daisy  from  the  ground  ; 

Uplifts  the  club  of  Hercules — for  what  ? 

To  crush  a butterfly  or  brain  a gnat ; 

Creates  a whirlwind  from  the  earth,  to  draw 
A goose’s  feather  or  exalt  a straw  ; 

Sets  wheels  on  wheels  in  motion — such  a clatter 
To  force  up  one  poor  nipperkin  of  water ; 

Bids  ocean  labour  with  tremendous  roar, 

To  heave  a cockle-shell  upon  the  shore  ; 

Alike  in  every  theme  his  pompous  art, 

Heaven’s  awful  thunder  or  a rumbling  cart ! 


[ Advice  to  Landscape  Painters .] 

Whate’er  you  wish  in  landscape  to  excel, 
London’s  the  very  place  to  mar  it ; 

Believe  the  oracles  I tell, 

There ’s  very  little  landscape  in  a garret. 
Whate’er  the  flocks  of  fleas  you  keep, 

’Tis  badly  copying  them  for  goats  and  sheep  ; 
And  if  you’ll  take  the  poet’s  honest  word, 

A bug  must  make  a miserable  bird. 

A rushlight  in  a bottle’s  neck,  or  stick, 

111  represents  the  glorious  orb  of  morn ; 

Nay,  though  it  were  a candle  with  a wick, 

’T would  be  a representative  forlorn. 

I think,  too,  that  a man  would  be  a fool, 

For  trees,  to  copy  legs  of  a joint  stool ; 

Or  even  by  them  to  represent  a stump : 

Also  by  broomsticks — which,  though  well  he  rig 
Each  with  an  old  fox-coloured  wig, 

Must  make  a very  poor  autumnal  clump. 

You’ll  say:  ‘ Yet  such  ones  oft  a person  sees 
In  many  an  artist’s  trees ; 

And  in  some  paintings  we  have  all  beheld 
Green  baize  hath  surely  sat  for  a green  field : 


DR  JOHN  WOLCOT. 


Bolsters  for  mountains,  hills,  and  wheaten  mows ; 
Cats  for  ram-goats,  and  curs  for  bulls  and  cows.’ 

All  this,  my  lads,  I freely  grant ; 

But  better  things  from  you  I want. 

As  Shakspeare  says — a bard  I much  approve — 
‘'List,  list ! 0 list ! if  thou  dost  painting  love.’ 

Claude  painted  in  the  open  air ! 

Therefore  to  Wales  at  once  repair, 

Where  scenes  of  true  magnificence  you  ’ll  find ; 
Besides  this  great  advantage — if  in  debt, 

You  ’ll  have  with  creditors  no  tete-a-tete  ; 

So  leave  the  bull-dog  bailiffs  all  behind ; 

Who,  hunt  you  with  what  noise  they  may, 

Must  hunt  for  needles  in  a stack  of  hay. 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas. 

A brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary’s  shrine, 

Who  at  Loretto  dwelt  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 

And  in  a curled  white  wig  looked  wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  these  sad  rogues  to  travel, 

With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than  gravel ; 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse, 

The  priest  had  ordered  peas  into  their  shoes. 

A nostrum  famous  in  old  popish  times 
For  purifying  souls  that  stunk  with  crimes, 

A sort  of  apostolic  salt, 

That  popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt, 

For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet, 

Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 

Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I wot : 

One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on, 

Light  as  a bullet  from  a gun ; 

The  other  limped  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

One  saw  the  Virgin,  soon  peccavi  cried  ; 

Had  his  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever, 

When  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half-way, 

Hobbling  with  outstretched  hams  and  bending  knees, 
Cursing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas ; 

His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in  sweat, 

Deep  sympathising  with  his  groaning  feet. 

‘How  now!’  the  light-toed  whitewashed  pilgrim 
broke, 

‘ You  lazy  lubber ! ’ 

‘ Confound  it !’  cried  the  t’  other,  ‘’tis  no  joke ; 

My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock, 

Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

‘ Excuse  me,  Virgin  Mary,  that  I swear  : 

As  for  Loretto,  I shall  not  get  there ; 

No  ! to  the  devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go, 

For  hang  me  if  I ha’n’t  lost  every  toe ! 

‘ But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  ’tis  that  you  arc  not  in  pain — 

What  power  hath  worked  a wonder  for  your  toes — 
Whilst  I,  just  like  a snail,  am  crawling, 

Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling, 

Whilst  not  a rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 

79 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


‘ How  is ’t  that  you  can  like  a greyhound  go, 
Merry  as  if  nought  had  happened,  burn  ye  ?’ 

1 Why,’  cried  the  other,  grinning,  ‘ you  must  know, 
That  just  before  I ventured  on  my  journey, 

To  walk  a little  more  at  ease, 

I took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas.’ 


The  Apple  Dumplings  and  a King. 

Once  on  a time,  a monarch,  tired  with  whooping, 
Whipping  and  spurring, 

Happy  in  worrying 
A poor  defenceless  harmless  buck — 

The  horse  and  rider  wet  as  muck — 

From  his  high  consequence  and  wisdom  stooping, 
Entered  through  curiosity  a cot, 

Where  sat  a poor  old  woman  and  her  pot. 

The  wrinkled,  blear-eyed,  good  old  granny, 

In  this  same  cot,  illumed  by  many  a cranny, 

Had  finished  apple  dumplings  for  her  pot : 

In  tempting  row  the  naked  dumplings  lay, 

When  lo  ! the  monarch,  in  his  usual  way, 

Like  lightning  spoke  : ‘ What ’s  this  ? what ’s  this  ? 
what,  what?’ 

Then  taking  up  a dumpling  in  his  hand, 

His  eyes  with  admiration  did  expand ; 

And  oft  did  majesty  the  dumpling  grapple:  he 
cried  : 

‘ ’Tis  monstrous,  monstrous  hard,  indeed  ! 

What  makes  it,  pray,  so  hard?’  The  dame  replied, 
Low  curtsying  : ‘ Please  your  majesty,  the  apple.’ 

* Very  astonishing  indeed ! strange  thing !’ — 

Turning  the  dumpling  round — rejoined  the  king. 

‘ ’Tis  most  extraordinary,  then,  all  this  is — 

It  beats  Pinette’s  conjuring  all  to  pieces: 

Strange  I should  never  of  a dumpling  dream  ! 

But,  goody,  tell  me  where,  where,  where’s  the  seam?’ 

4 Sir,  there ’s  no  seam,’  quoth  she ; ‘ I never  knew 
That  folks  did  apple  dumplings  seiv 
‘ No  !’  cried  the  staring  monarch  with  a grin; 

4 How,  how  the  devil  got  the  apple  in?’ 

On  which  the  dame  the  curious  scheme  revealed 
By  which  the  apple  lay  so  sly  concealed, 

Which  made  the  Solomon  of  Britain  start ; 

Who  to  the  palace  with  full  speed  repaired, 

And  queen  and  princesses  so  beauteous  scared 
All  with  the  wonders  of  the  dumpling  art. 

There  did  he  labour  one  whole  week  to  shew 
The  wisdom  of  an  apple-dumpling  maker ; 

And,  lo  ! so  deep  was  majesty  in  dough, 

The  palace  seemed  the  lodging  of  a baker ! 

Whitbread’s  Brewery  visited  by  their  Majesties. 

Full  of  the  art  of  brewing  beer,  - 

The  monarch  heard  of  Whitbread’s  fame ; 

Quoth  he  unto  the  queen : 4 My  dear,  my  dear, 
Whitbread  hath  got  a marvellous  great  name. 
Charly,  we  must,  must,  must  see  Whitbread  brew — 
Rich  as  us,  Charly,  richer  than  a Jew. 

Shame,  shame  we  have  not  yet  his  brew-house  seen  !* 
Thus  sweetly  said  the  king  unto  the  queen. 

Bed-hot  with  novelty’s  delightful  rage, 

To  Mister  Whitbread  forth  he  sent  a page, 

To  say  that  majesty  proposed  to  view, 

With  thirst  of  wondrous  knowledge  deep  inflamed, 
His  vats,  and  tubs,  and  hops,  and  hogsheads  famed, 
And  learn  the  noble  secret  how  to  brew. 

80 


Of  such  undreamt-of  honour  proud, 

Most  rev’rently  the  brewer  bowed ; 

So  Humbly — so  the  humble  story  goes — 

He  touched  e’en  terra  firma  with  his  nose ; 

Then  said  unto  the  page,  hight  Billy  Ramus  : 

4 Happy  are  we  that  our  great  king  should  name  us 
As  worthy  unto  majesty  to  shew 
How  we  poor  Chiswell  people  brew.’ 

Away  sprung  Billy  Ramus  quick  as  thought : 

To  majesty  the  welcome  tidings  brought, 

How  Whitbread,  staring  stood  like  any  stake, 

And  trembled ; then  the  civil  things  he  said  ; 

On  which  the  king  did  smile  and  nod  his  head  ; 

For  monarchs  like  to  see  their  subjects  quake ; 

Such  horrors  unto  kings  most  pleasant  are, 
Proclaiming  reverence  and  humility  : 

High  thoughts,  too,  all  these  shaking  fits  declare, 

Of  kingly  grandeur  and  great  capability ! 

People  of  worship,  wealth,  and  birth, 

Look  on  the  humbler  sons  of  earth, 

Indeed  in  a most  humble  light,  God  knows  ! 

High  stations  are  like  Dover’s  towering  cliffs, 

Where  ships  below  appear  like  little  skiffs, 

The  people  walking  on  the  strand  like  crows. 

Muse,  sing  the  stir  that  happy  Whitbread  made : 

Poor  gentleman  ! most  terribly  afraid 

He  should  not  charm  enough  his  guests  divine, 

He  gave  his  maids  new  aprons,  gowns,  and  smocks ; 
And  lo  ! two  hundred  pounds  were  spent  in  frocks, 

To  make  the  apprentices  and  draymen  fine  : 

Busy  as  horses  in  a field  of  clover, 

Dogs,  cats,  and  chairs,  and  stools  were  tumbled  over, 
Amidst  the  Whitbread  rout  of  preparation, 

To  treat  the  lofty  ruler  of  the  nation. 

Now  moved  king,  queen,  and  princesses  so  grand, 

To  visit  the  first  brewer  in  the  land ; 

Who  sometimes  swills  his  beer  and  grinds  his  meat 
In  a snug  corner,  christened  Chiswell  Street ; 

But  oftener,  charmed  with  fashionable  air, 

Amidst  the  gaudy  great  of  Portman  Square. 

Lord  Aylesbury,  and  Denbigh’s  lord  also, 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Montague  likewise, 

With  Lady  Harcourt  joined  the  raree  show, 

And  fixed  all  Smithfield’s  wond’ring  eyes : 

For  lo  ! a greater  show  ne’er  graced  those  quarters, 
Since  Mary  roasted,  just  like  crabs,  the  martyrs. 

Thus  was  the  brew-house  filled  with  gabbling  noise, 
Whilst  draymen,  and  the  brewer’s  boys, 

Devoured  the  questions  that  the  king  did  ask ; 

In  different  parties  were  they  staring  seen, 

Wond’ring  to  think  they  saw  a king  and  queen  ! 
Behind  a tub  were  some,  and  some  behind  a cask. 

Some  draymen  forced  themselves — a pretty  luncheon — 
Into  the  mouth  of  many  a gaping  puncheon  : 

And  through  the  bung-hole  winked  with  curious  eye, 
To  view  and  be  assured  what  sort  of  things 
Were  princesses,  and  queens,  and  kings, 

For  whose  most  lofty  station  thousands  sigh ! 

And  lo  ! of  all  the  gaping  puncheon  clan, 

Few  were  the  mouths  that  had  not  got  a man ; 

Now  majesty  into  a pump  so  deep 
Did  with  an  opera-glass  so  curious  peep  : 

Examining  with  care  each  wond’rous  matter 
That  brought  up  water  ! 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  jo  hit  wo  loot. 


Thus  have  I seen  a magpie  in  the  street, 

A chattering  bird  we  often  meet, 

A bird  for  curiosity  well  known, 

With  head  awry, 

And  cunning  eye, 

Peep  knowingly  into  a marrow-bone. 

And  now  his  curious  majesty  did  stoop 
To  count  the  nails  on  every  hoop  ; 

• And  lo  ! no  single  thing  came  in  his  way, 

That,  full  of  deep  research,  he  did  not  say : 

* What ’s  this  ? hae  hae  ? What ’s  that  ? What ’s  this  ? 
What’s  that  ?’ 

So  quick  the  words  too,  when  he  deigned  to  speak, 

As  if  each  syllable  would  break  its  neck. 

Thus,  to  the  world  of  great  whilst  others  crawl, 

Our  sov’ reign  peeps  into  the  world  of  small: 

Thus  microscopic  geniuses  explore 
Things  that  too  oft  the  public  scorn ; 

Yet  swell  of  useful  knowledges  the  store, 

By  finding  systems  in  a peppercorn. 

Now  boasting  Whitbread  serious  did  declare, 

To  make  the  majesty  of  England  stare, 

That  he  had  butts  enough,  he  knew, 

Placed  side  by  side,  to  reach  to  Kew  ; 

On  which  the  king  with  wonder  swiftly  cried  : 

■*  What,  if  they  reach  to  Kew,  then,  side  by  side, 

What  would  they  do,  what,  what,  placed  end  to  end  ?’ 
To  whom,  with  knitted  calculating  brow, 

The  man  of  beer  most  solemnly  did  vow, 

Almost  to  Windsor  that  they  would  extend  : 

On  which  the  king,  with  wondering  mien, 

Repeated  it  unto  the  wondering  queen  ; 

On  which,  quick  turning  round  his  haltered  head, 

The  brewer’s  horse,  with  face  astonished,  neighed  ; 
The  brewer’s  dog,  too,  poured  a note  of  thunder, 
Rattled  his  chain,  and  wagged  his  tail  for  wonder. 

Now  did  the  king  for  other  beers  inquire, 

For  Calvert’s,  Jordan’s,  Thrale’s  entire  ; 

And  after  talking  of  these  different  beers, 

Asked  Whitbread  if  his  porter  equalled  theirs. 

This  was  a puzzling  disagreeing  question, 

Grating  like  arsenic  on  his  host’s  digestion ; 

A kind  of  question  to  the  Man  of  Cask 
That  even  Solomon  himself  would  ask. 

Now  majesty,  alive  to  knowledge,  took 
A very  pretty  memorandum -book, 

With  gilded  leaves  of  asses-skin  so  white, 

And  in  it  legibly  began  to  write — 

Memorandum. 

A charming  place  beneath  the  grates 
For  roasting  chestnuts  or  potates. 

Mem. 

’Tis  hops  that  give  a bitterness  to  beer, 

Hops  grow  in  Kent,  says  Whitbread,  and  elsewhere. 

Quaere. 

Is  there  no  cheaper  stuff  ? where  doth  it  dwell  ? 
Would  not  horse-aloes  bitter  it  as  well  ? 

Mem. 

To  try  it  soon  on  our  small-beer — 

’Twill  save  us  several  pounds  a year. 

Mem. 

To  remember  to  forget  to  ask 

Old  Whitbread  to  my  house  one  day. 

Mem. 

Not  to  forget  to  take  of  beer  the  cask, 

The  brewer  offered  me,  away. 

58 


Now,  having  pencilled  his  remarks  so  shrewd, 

Sharp  as  the  point,  indeed,  of  a new  pin, 

His  majesty  his  watch  most  sagely  viewed, 

And  then  put  up  his  asses-skin. 

To  Whitbread  now  deigned  majesty  to  say : 

‘ Whitbread,  are  all  your  horses  fond  of  hay  ?’ 

‘ Yes,  please  your  majesty,’  in  humble  notes 
The  brewer  answered — ‘ Also,  sire,  of  oats  ; 

Another  thing  my  horses,  too,  maintains, 

And  that,  an’t  please  your  majesty,  are  grains.’ 

‘ Grains,  grains !’  said  majesty,  ‘to  fill  their  crops  ? 
Grains,  grains  ! — that  comes  from  hops — yes,  hops, 
hops,  hops  ? ’ 

Here  was  the  king,  like  hounds  sometimes,  at  fault — 
‘ Sfre,’  cried  the  humble  brewer,  ‘give  me  leave 
Your  sacred  majesty  to  undeceive  ; 

Grains,  sire,  are  never  made  from  hops,  but  malt.’ 

‘ True,’  said  the  cautious  monarch  with  a smile, 

‘ From  malt,  malt,  malt — I meant  malt  all  the  while.’ 
‘ Yes,’  with  the  sweetest  bow,  rejoined  the  brewer, 

‘ An’t  please  your  majesty,  you  did,  I ’m  sure.’ 

‘ Yes,’  answered  majesty,  with  quick  reply, 

‘ I did,  I did,  I did,  I,  I,  I,  I.’ 

Now  did  the  king  admire  the  bell  so  fine, 

That  daily  asks  the  draymen  all  to  dine  ; 

On  which  the  bell  rung  out — how  very  proper  ! — 

To  shew  it  was  a bell,  and  had  a clapper. 

And  now  before  their  sovereign’s  curious  eye — 
Parents  and  children,  fine  fat  hopeful  sprigs, 

All  snuffling,  squinting,  grunting  in  their  sty — 
Appeared  the  brewer’s  tribe  of  handsome  pigs  ; 

On  which  the  observant  man  who  fills  a throne, 
Declared  the  pigs  were  vastly  like  his  own  ; 

On  which  the  brewer,  swallowed  up  in  joys, 

Fear  and  astonishment  in  both  his  eyes, 

His  soul  brimful  of  sentiments  so  loyal, 

Exclaimed  : ‘ 0 heavens  ! and  can  my  swine 
Be  deemed  by  majesty  so  fine  ? 

Heavens  ! can  my  pigs  compare,  sire,  with  pigs  royal  ?’ 
To  which  the  king  assented  with  a nod ; 

On  which  the  brewer  bowed,  and  said : ‘ Good  God  ! ’ 
Then  winked  significant  on  Miss, 

Significant  of  wonder  and  of  bliss, 

Who,  bridling  in  her  chin  divine, 

Crossed  her  fair  hands,  a dear  old  maid, 

And  then  her  lowest  curtsy  made 
For  such  high  honour  done  her  father’s  swine. 

Now  did  his  majesty,  so  gracious,  say 
To  Mister  Whitbread  in  his  flying  way  : 

‘ Whitbread,  d’  ye  nick  the  excisemen  now  and  then  ? 
Hae  ? what  ? Miss  Whitbread  ’s  still  a maid,  a maid  ? 
What,  what ’s  the  matter  with  the  men  ? 

‘ D’  ye  hunt  ? — hae,  hunt  ? No  no,  you  are  too  old  ; 

You’ll  be  lord-mayor — lord-mayor  one  day  ; 

Yes,  yes,  I’ve  heard  so  ; yes,  yes,  so  I’m  told  ; 

Don’t,  don’t  the  fine  for  sheriff  pay ; 

I’ll  prick  you  every  year,  man,  I declare  ; 

Yes,  Whitbread,  yes,  yes,  you  shall  be  lord-mayor. 

‘Whitbread,  d’  ye  keep  a coach,'  or  job  one,  pray  ? 

Job,  job,  that’s  cheapest;  yes,  that’s  best,  that’s 
best. 

You  put  your  liveries  on  the  draymen — hae  ? 

Hae,  Whitbread,  you  have  feathered  well  your  nest. 
What,  what ’s  the  price  now,  hae,  of  all  your  stock  ? 
But,  Whitbread,  what’s  o’clock,  pray,  what’s  o’clock?’ 
Now  Whitbread  inward  said  : ‘ May  I be  cursed 
If  I know  what  to  answer  first.’ 

Then  searched  his  brains  with  ruminating  eye  ; 

But  e’er  the  man  of  malt  an  answer  found, 

Quick  on  his  heel,  lo,  majesty  turned  round, 

Skipped  off,  and  balked  the  honour  of  reply. 


PROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

Lord  Gregory. 

[Burns  admired  this  ballad  of  Wolcot’s,  and  wrote  another  on 
the  same  subject.] 

‘ All  ope,  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door, 

A midnight  wanderer  sighs ; 

Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar, 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skies.’ 

‘ "Who  comes  with  woe  at  this  drear  night, 

A pilgrim  of  the  gloom  ? 

If  she  whose  love  did  oqce  delight, 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room.’ 

‘ Alas ! thou  heard’ st  a pilgrim  mourn 
That  once  was  prized  by  thee : 

Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn 
Thou  gav’st  to  love  and  me. 

‘ But  should’ st  thou  not  poor  Marion  know, 

I ’ll  turn  my  feet  and  part ; 

And  think  the  storms  that  round  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart.’ 

May -day. 

The  daisies  peep  from  every  field, 

And  violets  sweet  their  odour  yield ; 

The  purple  blossom  paints  the  thorn, 

And  streams  reflect  the  blush  of  morn. 

Then  lads  and  lasses  all,  be  gay, 

For  this  is  nature’s  holiday. 

Let  lusty  Labour  drop  his  flail, 

Nor  woodman’s  hook  a tree  assail ; 

The  ox  shall  cease  his  neck  to  bow, 

And  Clodden  yield  to  rest  the  plough. 

Then  lads,  &c. 

Behold  the  lark  in  ether  float, 

While  rapture  swells  the  liquid  note ! 

What  warbles  he,  with  merry  cheer  ? 

‘ Let  Love  and  Pleasure  rule  the  year ! ’ 

Then  lads,  &c. 

Lo  ! Sol  looks  down  with  radiant  eye, 

And  throws  a smile  around  his  sky ; 

Embracing  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream, 

And  warming  nature  with  his  beam. 

Then  lads,  &c. 

The  insect  tribes  in  myriads  pour, 

And  kiss  with  zephyr  every  flower; 

Shall  these  our  icy  hearts  reprove, 

And  tell  us  we  are  foes  to  Love  ? 

Then  lads,  &c. 

Epigram  on  Sleep. 

[Thomas  War  ton  wrote  the  following  Latin  epigram  to  he 
placed  under  the  statue  of  Somnus,  in  the  garden  of  Harris,  the 
philologist,  and  Wolcot  translated  it  with  a beauty  and  felicity 
worthy  of  the  original.] 

Somne  levis,  quanquam  certissima  mortis  imago 
Consortem  cupio  te  tamen  esse  tori ; 

Alma  quies,  optata,  veni,  nam  sic  sine  vit& 

Vivere  quam  suave  est ; sic  sine  morte  mori. 

Come,  gentle  sleep  ! attend  thy  votary*  s prayer, 

And,  though  death’s  image,  to  my  couch  repair ; 
How  sweet,  though  lifeless,  yet  with  life  to  lie, 

And,  without  dying,  0 how  sweet  to  die  ! 

82 

POETESSES. 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

Several  ladies  cultivated  poetry  with  success  at 
this  time.  Among  these  was  Mrs  Charlotte 
Smith  (whose  admirable  prose  fictions  will  after- 
wards be  noticed).  She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr 
Turner  of  Stoke  House,  in  Surrey,  and  born  on 
the  4th  of  May  1749.  She  was  remarkable  for 
precocity  of  talents,  and  for  a lively  playful  humour 
that  shewed  itself  in  conversation,  and  in  composi- 
tions both  in  prose  and  verse.  Being  early  deprived 
of  her  mother,  she  was  carelessly  though  expensively- 
educated,  and  introduced  into  society  at  a very  early 
age.  Her  father  having  decided  on  a second  mar- 
riage, the  friends  of  the  young  and  admired  poetess 
endeavoured  to  establish  her  in  life,  and  she  was 
induced  to  accept  the  hand  of  Mr  Smith,  the  son 
and  partner  of  a rich  West  India  merchant.  The 
husband  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  his  wife 
fifteen ! This  rash  union  was  productive  of  mutual 
discontent  and  misery.  Mr  Smith  was  careless  and 
extravagant,  business  was  neglected,  and  his  father 
dying,  left  a will  so  complicated  and  voluminous 
that  no  two  lawyers  understood  it  in  the  same  sense. 
Lawsuits  and  embarrassments  were  therefore  the 
portion  of  this  ill-starred  pair  for  all  their  after-lives. 
Mr  Smith  was  ultimately  forced  to  sell  the  greater 
part  of  his  property,  after  he  had  been  thrown  into 
prison,  and  his  faithful  wife  had  shared  with  him 
the  misery  and  discomfort  of  his  confinement.  A 
numerous  family  also  gathered  around  them,  to  add 
to  their  solicitude  and  difficulties.  In  1782,  Mrs 
Smith  published  a volume  of  sonnets,  irregular  in 
structure,  but  marked  by  poetical  feeling  and 
expression.  They  were  favourably  received  by  the 
public,  and  at  length  passed  through  no  le£s  than 
eleven  editions,  besides  being  translated  into  French 
and  Italian.  After  an  unhappy  union  of  twenty- 
three  years,  Mrs  Smith  separated  from  her  husband, 
and,  taking  a cottage  near  Chichester,  applied 
herself  to  her  literary  occupations  with  cheerful 
assiduity,  supplying  to  her  children  the  duties  of 
both  parents.  In  eight  months  she  completed  her 
novel  of  Emmeline , published  in  1788.  In  the 
following  year  appeared  another  novel  from  her  pen, 
entitled  Ethelinde;  and  in  1791,  a third  under  the 
name  of  Celestina.  She  imbibed  the  opinions  of  the 
French  Revolution,  and  embodied  them  in  a romance 
entitled  Desmond.  This  work  arrayed  against  her 
many  of  her  friends  and  readers,  but  she  regained 
the  public  favour  by  her  tale,  the  Old  Manor  House, 
which  is  the  best  of  her  novels.  Part  of  this  work 
was  written  at  Eartham,  the  residence  of  Hayley, 
during  the  period  of  Cowper’s  visit  to  that  poetical 
retreat.  ‘ It  was  delightful,’  says  Hayley,  ‘ to  hear 
her  read  what  she  had  just  written,  for  she  read,  J 
as  she  wrote,  with  simplicity  and  grace.’  Cowper  | 
was  also  astonished  at  the  rapidity  and  excellence  ! 
of  her  composition.  Mrs  Smith  continued  her  ' 
literary  labours  amidst  private  and  family  distress.  I 
She  wrote  a valuable  little  compendium  for  children,  1 
under  the  title  of  Conversations;  A History  of  \ 
British  Birds ; a descriptive  poem  on  Beachy  Head,  i 
&c.  She  died  at  Tilford,  near  Farnham,  on  the  28  th  ; 
of  October  1806.  The  poetry  of  Mrs  Smith  is  j 
elegant  and  sentimental,  and  generally  of  a pathetic  i 
cast.  Her  sketches  of  English  scenery  are  true 
and  pleasing.  ‘But  while  we  allow,’  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  ‘ high  praise  to  the  sweet  and  sad  effusions  of 
Mrs  Smith’s  muse,  we  cannot  admit  that  by  these 
alone  she  could  ever  have  risen  to  the  height  of 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


eminence  which  we  are  disposed  to  claim  for  her  as 
authoress  of  her  prose  narratives.’ 

Flora's  Horologe. 

In  every  copse  and  sheltered  dell, 

Unveiled  to  the  observant  eye, 

Are  faithful  monitors  who  tell 

How  pass  the  hours  and  seasons  by. 

The  green-robed  children  of  the  spring 
Will  mark  the  periods  as  they  pass, 

Mingle  with  leaves  Time’s  feathered  wing, 

And  bind  with  flowers  his  silent  glass. 

Mark  where  transparent  waters  glide, 

Soft  flowing  o’er  their  tranquil  bed ; 

There,  cradled  on  the  dimpling  tide, 

Nymphaea  rests  her  lovely  head. 

But  conscious  of  the  earliest  beam, 

She  rises  from  her  humid  nest, 

And  sees,  reflected  in  the  stream, 

The  virgin  whiteness  of  her  breast. 

Till  the  bright  day-star  to  the  west 
Declines,  in  ocean’s  surge  to  lave ; 

Then,  folded  in  her  modest  vest, 

She  slumbers  on  the  rocking  wave. 

See  Hieracium’s  various  tribe, 

Of  plumy  seed  and  radiate  flowers, 

The  course  of  Time  their  blooms  describe, 

And  wake  or  sleep  appointed  hours. 

Broad  o’er  its  imbricated  cup 

The  goatsbeard  spreads  its  golden  rays, 

But  shuts  its  cautious  petals  up, 

Retreating  from  the  noontide  blaze. 

Pale  as  a pensive  cloistered  nun, 

The  Bethlem  star  her  face  unveils, 

When  o’er  the  mountain  peers  the  sun, 

But  shades  it  from  the  vesper  gales. 

Among  the  loose  and  arid  sands 
The  humble  arenaria  creeps ; 

Slowly  the  purple  star  expands, 

But  soon  within  its  calyx  sleeps. 

And  those  small  bells  so  lightly  rayed 
With  young  Aurora’s  rosy  hue, 

Are  to  the  noontide  sun  displayed, 

But  shut  their  plaits  against  the  dew. 

On  upland  slopes  the  shepherds  mark 
The  hour  when,  as  the  dial  true, 

Cichorium  to  the  towering  lark 
Lifts  her  soft  eyes  serenely  blue. 

And  thou,  ‘ wee  crimson-tipped  flower,’ 

Gatherest  thy  fringed  mantle  round 
Thy  bosom  at  the  closing  hour, 

When  night-drops  bathe  the  turfy  ground. 

Unlike  silene,  who  declines 

The  garish  noontide’s  blazing  light ; 

But  when  the  evening  crescent  shines, 

Gives  all  het  sweetness  to  the  night. 

Thus  in  each  flower  and  simple  bell, 

That  in  our  path  betrodden  lie, 

Are  sweet  remembrancers  who  tell 
How  fast  their  winged  moments  fly. 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


Sonnets. 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a long  adieu ! 

Farewell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year ! 

Ah  ! ’twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 

And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night’s  dull  ear. 
Whether  on  spring  thy  wandering  flights  await, 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell, 

The  pensive  muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 

With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 
Through  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  nest; 
And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 
The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 

For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 

And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow  and  to  love  ! 

Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove ; 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew. 
Anemones  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 

No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 

Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity ! so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 

Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 
Biel  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away ! 

Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring; 

Ah  ! why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring  ? 

Should  the  lone  wanderer,  fainting  on  his  way, 

Rest  for  a moment  of  the  sultry  hours, 

And,  though  his  path  through  thorns  and  roughness 
Jay, 

Pluck  the  wild  rose  or1  woodbine’s  gadding  flowers ; 
Weaving  gay  wreaths  beneath  some  sheltering  tree, 
The  sense  of  sorrow  he  a while  may  lose ; 

So  have  I sought  thy  flowers,  fair  Poesy ! 

So  charmed  my  way  with  friendship  and  the  Musa 
But  darker  now  grows  life’s  unhappy  day, 

Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come ; 

Her  pencil  sickening  Fancy  throws  away, 

And  weary  Hope  reclines  upon  the  tomb, 

And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore, 
Where'the  pale  spectre  Care  pursues  no  more  ! 

[ Recollections  of  English  Scenery .] 

[From  Beachy  Head,  a Poem.] 

Haunts  of  my  youth ! 

Scenes  of  fond  day-dreams,  I behold  ye  yet ! 

Where  ’twas  so  pleasant  by  thy  northern  slopes, 

To  climb  the  winding  sheep-path,  aided  oft 
By  scattered  thorns,  whose  spiny  branches  bore 
Small  woolly  tufts,  spoils  of  the  vagrant  lamb, 

There  seeking  shelter  from  the  noonday  sun : 

And  pleasant,  seated  on  the  short  soft  turf, 

To  look  beneath  upon  the  hollow  way, 

While  heavily  upward  moved  the  labouring  wain, 

And  stalking  slowly  by,  the  sturdy  hind, 

To  ease  his  panting  team,  stopped  with  a stone 
The  grating  wheel. 

Advancing  higher  still, 

The  prospect  widens,  and  the  village  church 
But  little  o’er  the  lowly  roofs  around 
Rears  its  gray  belfry  and  its  simple  vane ; 

Those  lowly  roofs  of  thatch  are  half  concealed 
By  the  rude  arms  of  trees,  lovely  in  spring ; 

When  on  each  bough  the  rosy  tinctured  bloom 
Sits  thick,  and  promises  autumnal  plenty. 


PROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


For  even  those  orchards  round  the  Norman  farms, 
Which,  as  their  owners  marked  the  promised  fruit, 
Console  them,  for  the  vineyards  of  the  south 
Surpass  not  these. 

Where  woods  of  ash  and  beech, 
And  partial  copses  fringe  the  green  hill-foot, 

The  upland  shepherd  rears  his  modest  home ; 

There  wanders  by  a little  nameless  stream 
That  from  the  hill  wells  forth,  bright  now,  and 
clear, 

Or  after  rain  with  chalky  mixture  gray. 

But  still  refreshing  in  its  shallow  course 
The  cottage  garden ; most  for  use  designed, 

Yet  not  of  beauty  destitute.  The  vine 
Mantles  the  little  casement ; yet  the  brier 
Drops  fragrant  dew  among  the  July  flowers; 

And  pansies  rayed,  and  freaked,  and  mottled 
pinks, 

Grow  among  balm  and  rosemary  and  rue ; 

There  honeysuckles  flaunt,  and  roses  blow 
Almost  uncultured ; some  with  dark-green  leaves 
Contrast  their  flowers  of  pure  unsullied  white ; 

Others  like  velvet  robes  of  regal  state 
Of  richest  crimson  ; while,  in  thorny  moss 
Enshrined  and  cradled,  the  most  lovely  wear 
The  hues  of  youthful  beauty’s  glowing  cheek. 

With  fond  regret  I recollect  e’en  now 
In  spring  and  summer,  what  delight  I felt 
Among  these  cottage  gardens,  and  how  much 
j Such  artless  nosegays,  knotted  with  a rush 
j By  village  housewife  or  her  ruddy  maid, 
j Were  welcome  to  me ; soon  and  simply  pleased. 

An  early  worshipper  at  nature’s  shrine, 

I loved  her  rudest  scenes — warrens,  and  heaths, 

1 And  yellow  commons,  and  birch-shaded  hollows, 

And  hedgerows  bordering  unfrequented  lanes, 
Bowered  with  wild  roses  and  the  clasping  woodbine. 


MISS  BLAMIRE. 

Miss  Susanna  Blamire  (1747-1794),  a Cuuiber- 
i land  lady,  was  distinguished  for  the  excellence  of 
| her  Scottish  poetry,  which  has  all  the  idiomatic 
! ease  and  grace  of  a native  minstrel.  Miss  Blamire 
j was  born  of  a respectable  family  in  Cumberland,  at 
j Cardew  Hall,  near  Carlisle,  where  she  resided  till 
her  twentieth  year,  beloved  by  a circle  of  friends 
and  acquaintances,  with  whom  she  associated  in 
what  were  called  merry  neets,  or  merry  evening- 
| parties,  in  her  native  district.  Her  sister  becoming 
the  wife  of  Colonel  Graham  of  Duchray,  Perthshire, 
Susanna  accompanied  the  pair  to  Scotland,  where 
she  remained  some  years,  and  imbibed  that  taste 
j for  Scottish  melody  and  music  which  prompted  her 
| beautiful  lyrics,  The  Nabob,  The  Siller  Croun,  &c. 
j She  also  wrote  some  pieces  in  the  Cumbrian  dialect, 

‘ and  a descriptive  poem  of  some  length,  entitled 
! Stoclclewath,  or  the  Cumbrian  Village.  Miss  Blamire 
! died  unmarried  at  Carlisle,  in  her  forty-seventh  year, 
j and  her  name  had  almost  faded  from  remembrance, 
j when,  in  1842,  her  poetical  works  were  collected  and 
j published  in  one  volume,  with  a preface,  memoir, 

I and  notes  by  Patrick  Maxwell. 


The  Nabob. 

When  silent  time,  wi’  lightly  foot, 
Had  trod  on  thirty  years, 

I sought  again  my  native  land 
Wi’  iuony  hopes  and  fears. 

Wha  kens  gin  the  dear  friends  I left 
May  still  continue  mine  ? 

Or  gin  I e’er  again  shall  taste 
The  joys  I left  langsyne  ? 


As  I drew  near  my  ancient  pile 
My  heart  beat  a’  the  way ; 

Ilk  place  I passed  seemed  yet  to  speak 
O’  some  dear  former  day ; 

Those  days  that  followed  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o’  mine, 

Whilk  made  me  think  the  present  joys 
A’  naething  to  langsyne  ! 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  my  eye, 

Where  minstrels  used  to  blaw ; 

Nae  friend  stepped  forth  wi’  open  hand, 

Nae  weel-kenned  face  I saw  ; 

Till  Donald  tottered  to  the  door, 

Wham  I left  in  his  prime, 

And  grat  to  see  the  lad  return 
He  bore  about  langsyne. 

I ran  to  ilka  dear  friend’s  room, 

As  if  to  find  them  there, 

I knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit, 

And  hang  o’er  mony  a chair ; 

Till  soft  remembrance  threw  a veil 
Across  these  een  o’  mine, 

I closed  the  door,  and  sobbed  aloud, 

To  think  on  auld  langsyne. 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a new-sprung  race 
Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 

Wha  shuddered  at  my  Gothic  wa’s, 

And  wished  my  groves  away. 

4 Cut,  cut,’  they  cried,  ‘ those  aged  elms ; 

Lay  low  yon  moumfu’  pine.’ 

Na  ! na  ! our  fathers’  names  grow  there, 
Memorials  o’  langsyne. 

To  wean  me  frae  these  waefu’  thoughts, 

They  took  me  to  the  town ; 

But  sair  on  ilka  weel-kenned  face 
I missed  the  youthfu’  bloom. 

At  balls  they  pointed  to  a nymph 
Wham  a’  declared  divine ; 

But  sure  her  mother’s  blushing  cheeks 
Were  fairer  far  langsyne ! 

In  vain  I sought  in  music’s  sound 
To  find  that  magic  art, 

Which  oft  in  Scotland’s  ancient  lays 
Has  thrilled  through  a’  my  heart. 

The  sang  had  mony  an  artfu’  turn ; 

My  ear  confessed  ’twas  fine ; 

But  missed  the  simple  melody 
I listened  to  langsyne. 

Ye  sons  to  comrades  o’  my  youth, 

Forgie  an  auld  man’s  spleen, 

Wha  ’midst  your  gayest  scenes  still  mourns 
The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 

When  time  has  passed  and  seasons  fled, 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine ; 

And  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 
That  minds  ye  o’  langsyne ! 

What  Ails  this  Heart  o’  Mine ? 

[‘This  song  seems  to  have  been  a favourite  with  the 
authoress,  for  I have  met  with  it  in  various  forms  among 
her  papers;  and  the  labour  bestowed  upon  it  has  been  well 
repaid  by  the  popularity  it  has  all  along  enjoyed.’— Maxwell's 
Memoir  of  Miss  Blamire.) 

What  ails  this  heart  o’  mine  ? 

What  ails  this  watery  e’e? 

What  gars  me  a’  turn  pale  as  death 

When  I take  leave  o’  thee  ? 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  BARBAULD, 


When  thou  art  far  awa’. 

Thou  ’It  dearer  grow  to  me ; 

But  change  o’  place  and  change  o’  folk 
May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

When  I gae  out  at  e’en, 

Or  walk  at  morning  air, 

Ilk  rustling  hush  will  seem  to  say 
I used  to  meet  thee  there. 

Then  I ’ll  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree, 

And  when  a leaf  fa’s  i’  my  lap, 

I ’ll  ca ’t  a word  frae  thee. 

I ’ll  hie  me  to  the  bower 
That  thou  wi’  roses  tied, 

And  where  wi’  mony  a blushing  bud 
I strove  myself  to  hide. 

I ’ll  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I ha’e  been  wi’  thee ; 

And  ca’  to  mind  some  kindly  word 
By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 

As  an  example  of  the  Cumberland  dialect : 

Anld  Robin  Forbes. 

And  auld  Robin  Forbes  hes  gien  tern  a dance, 

I pat  on  my  speckets  to  see  them  aw  prance ; 

I thout  o’  the  days  when  I was  but  fifteen, 

And  skipped  wi’  the  best  upon  Forbes’s  green. 

Of  aw  things  that  is  I think  thout  is  meast  queer, 

It  brings  that  that’s  by-past  and  sets  it  down  here ; 

I see  Willy  as  plain  as  I dui  this  bit  leace, 

When  he  tuik  his  cwoat  lappet  and  deeghted  his  feace. 

The  lasses  aw  wondered  what  Willy  cud  see 
In  yen  that  was  dark  and  hard-featured  leyke  me ; 
And  they  wondered  ay  mair  when  they  talked  o’  my 
wit, 

And  slily  telt  Willy  that  cudn’t  be  it. 

But  Willy  he  laughed,  and  he  meade  me  his  weyfe, 
And  whea  was  mair  happy  thro’  aw  his  lang  leyfe  ? 
It’s  e’en  my  great  comfort,  now  Willy  is  geane, 

That  he  offen  said — nea  pleace  was  leyke  his  awn 
heame ! 

I mind  when  I carried  my  wark  to  yon  stevle, 

Where  Willy  was  deyken,  the  time  to  beguile, 

He  wad  fling  me  a daisy  to  put  i’  my  breast, 

And  I hammered  my  noddle  to  mek  out  a jest. 

But  merry  or  grave,  Willy  often  wad  tell 
There  was  nin  o’  the  leave  that  was  leyke  my  awn  sel ; 
And  he  spak  what  he  thout,  for  I ’d  hardly  a plack 
When  we  married,  and  nobbet  ae  gown  to  my  back. 

When  the  clock  had  struck  eight,  I expected  him 
heame, 

And  wheyles  went  to  meet  him  as  far  as  Dumleane ; 
Of  aw  hours  it  telt,  eight  was  dearest  to  me, 

But  now  when  it  streykes  there’s  a tear  i’  my  e’e. 

0 Willy ! dear  Willy ! it  never  can  be 

That  age,  time,  or  death,  can  divide  thee  and  me ! 

For  that  spot  on  earth  that ’s  aye  dearest  to  me, 

Is  the  turf  that  has  covered  my  Willie  frae  me. 


MRS  BARBAULD. 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  the  daughter  of  Dr 
John  Aikin,  was  born  at  Kibworth  Harcourt,  in 
Leicestershire,  in  1743.  Her  father  at  this  time 
kept  a seminary  for  the  education  of  boys,  and  Anna 
received  the  same  instruction,  being  early  initiated 


into  a knowledge  of  classical  literature.  In  1758, 
Dr  Aikin  undertaking  the  office  of  classical  tutor  in 
a dissenting  academy  at  Warrington,  his  daughter 
accompanied  him,  and  resided  there  fifteen  years. 
In  1773,  she  published  a volume  of  miscellaneous 
poems,  of  which  four  editions  were  called  for  in  one 
year,  and  also  a collection  of  pieces  in  prose,  some 
of  which  were  written  by  her  brother.  In  May  1774, 
she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  Rochemont  Barbauld, 
a French  Protestant,  who  was  minister  of  a dissent- 
ing congregation  at  Palgrave,  near  Diss,  and  who 
had  just  opened  a boarding-school  at  the  neigh- 
bouring village  of  Palgrave,  in  Suffolk.  The  poetess 
participated  with  her  husband  in  the  task  of  instruc- 
tion, and  to  her  talents  and  exertions  the  seminary 
was  mainly  indebted  for  its  success.  In  1775,  she 
came  forward  with  a volume  of  devotional  pieces 
compiled  from  the  Psalms,  and  another  volume  of 
Hymns  in  Prose  for  children.  In  1786,  after  a tour 
to  the  continent,  Mr  and  Mrs  Barbauld  established 
themselves  at  Hampstead,  and  there  several  tracts 
proceeded  from  the  pen  of  our  authoress  on  the 
topics  of  the  day,  in  all  which  she  espoused  the 
principles  of  the  Whigs.  She  also  assisted  her  father 
in  preparing  a series  of  tales  for  children,  entitled 
Evenings  at  Home , and  she  wrote  critical  essays  on 
Akenside  and  Collins,  prefixed  to  editions  of  their 
works.  In  1802,  Mr  Barbauld  became  pastor  of  the 
congregation  (formerly  Dr  Price’s)  at  Newington 
Green,  also  in  the  vicinity  of  London ; and  quitting 
Hampstead,  they  took  up  their  abode  in  the  village 
of  Stoke  Newington.  In  1803,  Mrs  Barbauld 
compiled  a selection  of  essays  from  the  Spectator , 
Tatler , and  Guardian , to  which  she  prefixed  a pre- 
liminary essay ; and  in  the  following  year  she  edited 
the  correspondence  of  Richardson,  and  wrote  a 
life  of  the  novelist.  Her  husband  died  in  1808, 
and  Mrs  Barbauld  has  recorded  her  feelings  on  this 
melancholy  event  in  a poetical  dirge  to  his  memory, 
and  also  in  her  poem  of  Eighteen  Hundred  and 
Eleven.  Seeking  relief  in  literary  occupation,  she 
also  edited  a collection  of  the  British  novelists, 
published  in  1810,  with  an  introductory  essay,  and 
biographical  and  critical  notices.  After  a gradual 
decay,  she  died  on  the  9th  of  March  1825.  Some 
of  the  lyrical  pieces  of  Mrs  Barbauld  are  flowing 
and  harmonious,  and  her  Ode  to  Spring  is  a happy 
imitation  of  Collins.  She  wrote  also  several 
poems  in  blank  verse,  characterised  by  a serious 
tenderness  and  elevation  of  thought.  ‘ Her  earliest 
pieces,’  says  her  niece,  Miss  Lucy  Aikin,  ‘ as  well 
as  her  more  recent  ones,  exhibit  in  their  imagery 
and  allusions  the  fruits  of  extensive  and  varied 
reading.  In  youth,  the  power  of  her  imagination 
was  counterbalanced  by  the  activity  of  her  intellect, 
which  exercised  itself  in  rapid  but  not  unprofitable 
excursions  over  almost  every  field  of  knowledge. 
In  age,  when  this  activity  abated,  imagination 
appeared  to  exert  over  her  an  undiminished  sway.’ 
Charles  James  Fox  is  said  to  have  been  a great 
admirer  of  Mrs  Barbauld’s  songs,  but  they  are  by 
no  means  the  best  of  her  compositions,  being 
generally  artificial,  and  unimpassioned  in  their 
character. 

The  following  stanza  in  a poem  entitled  Life , was. 
much  admired  by  Wordsworth  and  Rogers : 

Life  ! we ’ve  been  long  together, 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather  ; 

’Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear  ; 

Perhaps  ’twill  cost  a sigh,  a tear  ; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time, 

Say  not  good-night,  but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  good-morning. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


to  1800. 


Ode  to  Spring. 

Sweet  daughter  of  a rough  and  stormy  sire, 

Hoar  Winter’s  blooming  child,  delightful  Spring  ! 
Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 
And  swelling  buds  are  crowned  ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  youth — 

Crowned  with  fresh  blooms  and  ever-springing  shade — 
Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

0 thou,  whose  powerful  voice 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed 
Or  Lydian  flute,  can  soothe  the  madding  winds, 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 
Breathe  thy  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  beloved  ! the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 
Thy  blooming  wilds  among, 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  untired  feet ; and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 
Of  him,  the  favoured  youth 
That  prompts  their  whispered  sigh. 

Unlock  thy  copious  stores  ; those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds, 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 
The  milky  ear’s  green  stem, 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier’s  early  shoots ; 

And  call  those  winds,  which  through  the  whispering 
boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 
Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn. 

And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o’er  the  dale  ; 
And  watch  with  patient  eye 
Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 

0 nymph,  approach ! while  yet  i^he  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead,  through  the  cool  moist  air 
Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 

And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

The  earth’s  fair  bosom  ; while  the  streaming  veil 
Of  lucid  clouds,  with  kind  and  frequent  shade. 
Protects  thy  modest  blooms 
From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short : the  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower’s  scythe 
Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all, 

Bemorseless  shall  destroy. 

.Reluctant  shall  I bid  thee  then  farewell ; 

For  oh  ! not  all  that  Autumn’s  lap  contains, 

Nor  Summer’s  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone, 

Fair  Spring ! whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 
Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 
With  softest  influence  breathes. 

To  a Lady , with  some  Painted  Flower's. 

Flowers  to  the  fair : to  you  these  flowers  I bring, 

And  strive  to  greet  you  with  an  earlier  spring. 
Flowers  sweet,  and  gay,  and  delicate  like  you ; 
Emblems  of  innocence,  and  beauty  too. 

86 


With  flowers  the  Graces  bind  their  yellow  hair, 
And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 
Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  nature  knew, 

In  Eden’s  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 

To  loftier  forms  are  rougher  tasks  assigned ; 

The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind. 

The  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes, 

And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  : 

But  this  soft  family  to  cares  unknown, 

Were  born  for  pleasure  and  delight  alone. 

Gay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art, 

They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense  and  glad  the  heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these  ; 

Your  best,  your  sweetest  empire  is — to  please. 

Hymn  to  Content. 

Natura  beatos 

Omnibus  esse  dedit,  si  quis  cognoverit  utL — Claudian. 

0 thou,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye  ! 

0 seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 

Receive  my  temperate  vow  : 

Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e’er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul. 

And  smooth  the  unaltered  brow. 

0 come,  in  simple  vest  arrayed. 

With  all  thy  sober  cheer  displayed, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 

Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace, 

Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdued  delight. 

No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 

0 gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 
To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 

Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 

Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye, 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest, 

And  Innocence  with  candid  breast, 

And  clear  undaunted  eye ; 

And  Hope,  who  points'  to  distant  years, 

Fair  opening  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

A vista  to  the  sky. 

There  Health,  through  whose  calm  bosom  glide 
The  temperate  joys  in  even-tide, 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 

And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek, 

Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 
To  meet  the  offered  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A tyrant  master’s  wanton  rage 
With  settled  smiles  to  wait : 

Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 

He  bowed  his  meek  submissive  head, 

And  kissed  thy  sainted  feet 

But  thou,  0 nymph  retired  and  coy ! 

In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 
To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 

The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground. 

Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round, 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

0 say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1 best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power, 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway  ? 

When  autumn,  friendly  to  the  Muse, 

Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse, 

And  shed  thy  milder  day. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALEXANDER  ROSS — JOHN  LOWE. 


0 bonny  are  our  greensward  hows, 

Where  through  the  birks  the  burnie  rows, 
And  the  bee  bums,  and  the  ox  lows, 

And  saft  winds  rustle, 

And  shepherd  lads  on  sunny  knowes 
Blaw  the  blithe  whistle. 


When  eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath, 

Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  every  storm  is  laid  ; 

If  such  an  hour  was  e’er  thy  choice, 

Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  through  the  shade. 


MISS  SEWARD. 

Anna  Seward  (1747-1809)  was  the  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Mr  Seward,  canon-residentiary  of  Lich- 
field, himself  a poet,  and  one  of  the  editors  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  This  lady  was  early 
trained  to  a taste  for  poetry,  and,  before  she  was 
nine  years  of  age,  she  could  repeat  the  three  first 
hooks  of  Paradise  Lost.  Even  at  this  time,  she 
says,  she  was  charmed  with  the  numbers  of  Milton. 
Miss  Seward  wrote  several  elegiac  poems — an  Elegy 
to  the  Memory  of  Captain  Cook,  a Monody  on  the 
Death  of  Major  Andre,  &c. — which,  from  the  popu- 
lar nature  of  the  subjects,  and  the  animated  though 
inflated  style  of  the  composition,  enjoyed  great 
celebrity.  Darwin  complimented  her  as  ‘ the  inven- 
tress  of  epic  elegy;’  and  she  was  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Swan  of  Lichfield.  A poetical  novel, 
entitled  Louisa,  was  published  by  Miss  Seward  in 
1782,  and  passed  through  several  editions.  After 
bandying  compliments  with  the  poets  of  one  genera- 
tion, Miss  Seward  engaged  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  a 
literary  correspondence,  and  bequeathed  to  him 
for  publication  three  volumes  of  her  poetry,  which 
he  pronounced  execrable.  At  the  same  time  she 
left  her  correspondence  to  Constable,  and  that  pub- 
lisher gave  to  the  world  six  volumes  of  her  letters. 
Both  collections  were  unsuccessful.  The  applauses 
of  Miss  Seward’s  early  admirers  were  only  cal- 
culated to  excite  ridicule,  and  the  vanity  and 
affectation  which  were  her  besetting  sins,  destroyed 
equally  her  poetry  and  prose.  Some  of  her  letters, 
however,  are  written  with  spirit  and  discrimination. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 

The  highest  honours  of  the  Scottish  muse  belong 
to  this  period — the  period  of  Burns.  As  usual,  this 
great  original  master  had  a crowd  of  imitators,  but 
he  was  also  preceded  by  native  poets  of  no  ordinary 
degree  of  talent  and  popularity. 


ALEXANDER  ROSS. 

Alexander  Ross,  a schoolmaster  in  Lochlee,  in 
Angus,  when  nearly  seventy  years  of  age,  in  1768, 
published  at  Aberdeen,  by  the  advice  of  Dr  Beattie, 
a volume  entitled  Ilelenore , or  the  Fortunate  Shep- 
herdess, a Pastoral  Tale  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  to 
which  are  added  a few  Songs  by  the  Author.  Ross  was 
a good  descriptive  poet,  and  some  of  his  songs — as 
W odd,  and  Married,  and  a',  The  Rock  and  the  Wee 
Pickle  Tow — are  still  popular  in  Scotland.  Being 
chiefly  written  in  the  Kincardineshire  dialect — which 
differs  in  many  expressions,  and  in  pronunciation, 
from  the  Lowland  Scotch  of  Burns — Ross  is  less 
known  out  of  his  native  district  than  he  ought  to 
be.  Beattie  took  a warm  interest  in  the  ‘good- 
humoured,  social,  happy  old  man  ’ — who  was  inde- 
pendent on  £20  a year — and  to  promote  the  sale 
of  his  volume,  he  addressed  a letter  and  a poetical 
epistle  in  praise  of  it  to  the  Aberdeen  Journal.  The 
epistle  is  remarkable  as  Beattie’s  only  attempt  in 
Aberdeenshire  Scotch;  one  verse  of  it  is  equal  to 
Burns : 


Ross  died  in  1784,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six. 

Woo'd,  and  Married,  and  a ’. 

The  bride  cam’  out  o’  the  byre, 

And,  oh,  as  she  dighted  her  cheeks  : 

4 Sirs,  I’m  to  be  married  the  night, 

And  have  neither  blankets  nor  sheets ; 
Have  neither  blankets  nor  sheets, 

Nor  scarce  a coverlet  too ; 

The  bride  that  has  a’  thing  to  borrow, 

Has  e’en  right  muckle  ado.’ 

Woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’, 

Married,  and  woo’d,  and  a’ ! 

And  was  she  nae  very  weel  off, 

That  was  woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’  ? 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  father, 

As  he  cam’  in  frae  the  pleugh  : 

‘ Oh,  haud  your  tongue,  my  dochter, 

And  ye’se  get  gear  eneugh; 

The  stirk  stands  i’  the  tether, 

And  our  braw  bawsint  yaud, 

Will  carry  ye  hame  your  corn — 

What  wad  ye  be  at,  ye  jaud?’ 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  mither  : 

‘ What  deil  needs  a’  this  pride  ? 

I had  nae  a plack  in  my  pouch 
That  night  I was  a bride ; 

My  gown  was  linsey-woolsey, 

And  ne’er  a sark  ava ; 

And  ye  hae  ribbons  and  buskins, 

Mae  than  ane  or  twa.’ 

* * * 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  brither, 

As  he  cam’  in  wi’  the  kye  : 

* Poor  Willie  wad  ne’er  hae  ta’en  ye, 

Had  he  kent  ye  as  weel  as  I ; 

For  ye’re  baith  proud  and  saucy, 

And  no  for  a poor  man’s  wife ; 

Gin  I canna  get  a better, 

I ’se  ne’er  tak  ane  i’  my  life.’ 

* * * 


JOHN  LOWE. 

John  Lowe  (1750-1798),  a student  of  divinity, 
son  of  the  gardener  at  Kenmore  in  Galloway,  was 
author  of  the  fine  pathetic  lyric,  Mary's  Dream , 
which  he  wrote  on  the  death  of  a gentleman  named 
Miller,  a surgeon  at  sea,  who  was  attached  to  a 
Miss  M‘Ghie,  Airds.  The  poet  was  tutor  in  the 
family  of  the  lady’s  father,  and  was  betrothed  to  her 
sister.  He  emigrated  to  America,  however,  where 
he  married  another  female,  became  dissipated,  and 
died  in  great  misery  near  Fredericksburgh.  Though 
Lowe  wrote  numerous  other  pieces,  prompted  by 
poetical  feeling  and  the  romantic  scenery  of  his 
native  glen,  this  ballad  only  is  worthy  of  preser- 
vation. 

Mary's  Dream. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 
Which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 
Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree ; 

87 


5 

FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 

When,  soft  and  low,  a voice  was  heard, 

Saying  : ‘ Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! * 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  he, 

And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  e’e. 

‘ 0 Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay ; 

It  lies  beneath  a stormy  sea. 

Far,  far  from  thee  I sleep  in  death  ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

‘ Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 
We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main ; 

And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 

Even  then,  when  horror  chilled  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee  : 

The  storm  is  past,  and  I at  rest ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

‘ 0 maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare  ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 

Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I shall  part  no  more  ! ’ 

Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see ; 

But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said : 

‘Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  I* 

LADY  ANNE  BARNARD. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard  was  authoress  of  Auld 
Robin  Gray , one  of  the  most  perfect,  tender,  and 
affecting  of  all  our  ballads  or  tales  of  humble  life. 


Balcarres  House,  Fifeshire,  where  Auld  Robin  Gray 
was  composed. 


About  the  year  1771,  Lady  Anne  composed  the 
ballad  to  an  ancient  air.  It  instantly  became 
popular,  but  the  lady  kept  the  secret  of  its  author- 
ship for  the  long  period  of  fifty  years,  when,  in 
1823,  she  acknowledged  it  in  a letter  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  accompanying  the  disclosure  with  a full 
88 


account  of  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
written.  At  the  same  time,  Lady  Anne  sent  two 
continuations  to  the  ballad,  which,  like  all  other 
continuations — Don  Quixote , perhaps,  excepted — 
are  greatly  inferior  to  the  original.  Indeed,  the 
tale  of  sorrow  is  so  complete  in  all  its  parts,  that 
no  additions  could  be  made  without  marring  its 
simplicity  or  its  pathos.  Lady  Anne  was  daughter 
of  James  Lindsay,  fifth  Earl  of  Balcarres;  she  was 
born  8th  December  1750,  married  in  1793  to  Mr 
Andrew  Barnard,  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Limerick., 
and  afterwards  secretary,  under  Lord  Macartney,  to 
the  colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  She  died,, 
without  issue,  on  the  6th  of  May  1825. 

Auld  Robin  Gray. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  kye’s- 
come  hame, 

And  a’  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 

The  waes  o’  my  heart  fa’  in  showers  frae  my  e’e, 
Unkent  by  my  gudeman,  wha  sleeps  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo’ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his- 
bride, 

But  saving  ae  crown-piece  he  had  naething  beside ; 

To  make  the  crown  a pound  my  J amie  gaed  to  sea, 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound — they  were  baith  for- 
me. 

He  hadna  been  gane  a twelvemonth  and  a day, 

When  my  father  brake  his  arm  and  the  cow  was  stown. 
away; 

My  mither  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea, 

And  Auld  Robin  Gray  came  a courting  me. 

My  father  couldna  wark — my  mither  couldna  spin — 

I toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I couldna  win  •. 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi’  tears  in 
his  e’e, 

Said:  ‘Jeanie,  0 for  their  sakes,  will  ye  no  marry 
me?’ 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I looked  for  Jamie  back, 

But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a wrack, 
His  ship  was  a wrack — why  didna  Jamie  die, 

Or  why  am  I spared  to  cry  wae  is  me  ? 

My  father  urged  me  sair — my  mither  didna  speak, 

But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to* 
break  ; 

They  gied  him  my  band — my  heart  was  in  the  sea — 
And  so  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I hadna  been  his  wife  a week  but  only  four, 

When,  mournfu’  as  I sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 

I saw  my  Jamie’s  ghaist,  for  I couldna  think  it  he 
Till  he  said : ‘I’m  come  hame,  love,  to  marry  thee  !* 

Oh,  sair  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a’, 

I gied  him  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him  gang  awa’ — 

I wish  that  I were  dead,  but  I ’m  na  like  to  die, 

For,  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I ’m  but  young,  wae 
is  me ! 

I gang  like  a ghaist,  and  I carena  much  to  spin, 

I darena  think  o’  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a sin, 

But  I’ll  do  my  best  a gude  wife  to  be, 

For,  oh  ! Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


MISS  JANE  ELLIOT  AND  MRS  COCKBURN. 

Two  versions  of  the  national  ballad,  The  Flowers 
of  the  Forest,  continue  to  divide  the  favour  of  all 
lovers  of  song,  and  both  are  the  composition  of 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BARONESS  NAIRN. 


ladies.  In  minute  observation  of  domestic  life, 
traits  of  character  and  manners,  and  the  softer 
language  of  the  heart,  ladies  have  often  excelled  the 
* lords  of  the  creation,’  and  in  music  their  triumphs 
are  manifold.  The  first  copy  of  verses,  bewailing 
the  losses  sustained  at  Flodden,  was  written  by 
Miss  Jane  Elliot  of  Minto,  sister  to  Sir  Gilbert 
Elliot  of  Minto.  The  second  song,  which  appears 
to  be  on  the  same  subject,  but  was  in  reality  occa- 
sioned by  the  bankruptcy  of  a number  of  gentlemen 
in  Selkirkshire,  is  by  Alicia  Rutherford  of  Fernilie, 
who  was  afterwards  married  to  Mr  Patrick  Cock- 
burn,  advocate,  and  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1794. 
We  agree  with  Mr  Allan  Cunningham  in  preferring 
Miss  Elliot’s  song;  but  both  are  beautiful,  and  in 
singing,  the  second  is  the  most  effective. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest. 

[By  Miss  Jane  Elliot.] 

I ’ve  heard  the  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blithe  lads  are  scorning, 
The  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae ; 

Nae  daffin’,  nae  gabbin’,  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray ; 

At  fair,  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

At  e’en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
’Bout  stacks  wi’  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play  ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border  ! 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day  ; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the  foremost, 
The  prime  o’  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 

\¥e  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest. 

[By  Mrs  Cockburn.] 

I’ve  seen  the  smiling 
Of  Fortune  beguiling ; 

I ’ve  felt  all  its  favours,  and  found  its  decay : 

Sweet  was  its  blessing, 

Kind  its  caressing ; 

But  now  ’tis  fled — fled  far  away. 

I ’ve  seen  the  forest 
Adorned  the  foremost 

With  flowers  of  the  fairest  most  pleasant  and  gay ; 

Sae  bonny  was  their  blooming  ! 

Their  scent  the  air  perfuming  ! 

But  now  they  are  withered  and  weeded  away. 

I’ve  seen  the  morning 
With  gold  the  hills  adorning, 

And  loud  tempest  storming  before  the  mid-day, 

I’ve  seen  Tweed’s  silver  streams, 

Shining  in  the  sunny  beams, 

Grow  drumly  and  dark  as  he  rowed  on  his  way. 


0 fickle  Fortune, 

Why  this  cruel  sporting  ? 

Oh,  why  still  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a day  ? 
Nae  mair  your  smiles  can  cheer  me, 

Nae  mair  your  frowns  can  fear  me  ; 

For  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 


BARONESS  NAIRN. 

Carolina  Olipiiant  (1766-1845),  of  the  family 
of  Oliphant  of  Gask,  and  justly  celebrated  for  her 
beauty,  talents,  and  worth,  wrote  several  lyrical 
pieces,  of  which  two  enjoy  great  popularity.  These 
are  the  Scottish  songs,  The  Land  o’  the  Leal  and  The 
Laird  o’  Cockpen.  Shortly  before  her  death,  this 
excellent  and  accomplished  lady  gave  the  Rev. 
Dr  Chalmers  a sum  of  £800,  to  assist  in  his 
schemes  for  the  amelioration  of  the  poorer  classes, 
in  Edinburgh. 

The  Land  o’  the  Leal. 

I’m  wearin’  awa’,  John, 

Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John; 

I ’m  wearin’  awa’ 

To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

There’s  nae  sorrow  there,  John ; 

There’s  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John  ; 

The  day’s  aye  fair 
I’  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Our  bonny  bairn’s  there,  John ; 

She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  J ohn  ; 

And,  oh ! we  grudged  her  sair 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

But  sorrow’s  sel’  wears  past,  John — 

And  joy’s  a-comin’  fast,  John — 

The  joy  that’s  aye  to  last 
In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Sae  dear’s  that  joy  was  bought,  John> 

Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 

That  sinfu’  man  e’er  brought 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Oh,  dry  your  glistening  e’e,  J ohn  ! 

My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  J ohn ; 

And  angels  beckon  me 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Oh,  haud  ye  leal  and  true,  J ohn  ! 

Your  day  it’s  wearin’  through,  John;, 

And  I’ll  welcome  you 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Now,  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 

This  warld’s  cares  are  vain,  John; 

We’ll  meet,  and  we  ’ll  be  fain, 

In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 


The  Laird  o’  Cockpen. 

The  Laird  o’  Cockpen  he’s  proud  and  he’s  great, 
His  mind  is  ta’en  up  with  the  things  o’  the  state  j; 
He  wanted  a wife  his  braw  house  to  keep, 

But  favour  wi’  wooin’  was  fashious  to  seek. 

Down  by  the  dyke-side  a lady  did  dwell, 

At  his  table-head  he  thought  she ’d  look  well ; 
M'Clish’s  ae  daughter  o’  Claverse-ha’  Lee, 

A penniless  lass  wi’  a lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouthered,  and  as  gude  as  new  ^ 
His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue ; 

He  put  on  a ring,  a sword,  and  cocked  hat, 

And  wha  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi’  a’  that  ? 

S9 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


He  took  tlie  gray  mair,  and  rade  cannily — 

And  rapped  at  the  yett  o’  Cla verse -ha’  Lee  : 

* Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben, 

She ’s  -wanted  to  speak  to  the  Laird  o’  Cockpen.’ 

Mistress  Jean  -was  makin’  the  elder-flower  wine  : 

* And  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a like  time  ?’ 

She  put  aff  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk  gown, 

Her  mutch  wi’  red  ribbons,  and  gaed  awa’  down. 

And  when  she  cam’  ben,  he  bowed  fu’  low, 

And  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know ; 
Amazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said  ‘ ISA 
And  wi’  a laigh  curtsey  she  turned  awa’. 

Dumbfoundered  he  was — nae  sigh  did  he  gie ; 

He  mounted  his  mare — he  rade  cannily ; 

And  aften  he  thought,  as  he  gaed  through  the  glen, 
She ’s  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o’  Cockpen. 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had  made, 

Mistress  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  said  ; 

‘ Oh ! for  ane  I ’ll  get  better,  it ’s  waur  I ’ll  get  ten, 

I was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o’  Cockpen.’ 

Next  time  that  the  Laird  and  the  lady  were  seen, 
They  were  gaun  arm-in-arm  to  the  kirk  on  the  green; 
Now  she  sits  in  the  ha’  like  a weel-tappit  hen — 

But  as  yet  there ’s  nae  chickens  appeared  at  Cockpen. 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 

Robert  Fergusson  was  the  poet  of  Scottish 
city-life,  or  rather  the  laureate  of  Edinburgh.  A 
happy  talent  in  portraying  the  peculiarities  of  local 


Robert  Fergusson. 


manners,  a keen  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  a vein 
I of  original  comic  humour,  and  language  at  once 
| copious  and  expressive,  form  his  chief  merits  as  a 
, poet.  He  had  not  the  invention  or  picturesque 
I fancy  of  Allan  Ramsay,  nor  the  energy  and  passion 
of  Burns.  His  mind  was  a light  warm  soil,  that 
threw  up  early  its  native  products,  sown  by  chance 
or  little  exertion ; but  it  had  not  strength  and 
so 


to  1800. 


tenacity  to  nurture  any  great  or  valuable  produc- 
tion. A few  short  years,  however,  comprised  his 
span  of  literature  and  of  life;  and  criticism  would 
be  ill  employed  in  scrutinising  with  severity  the 
occasional  poems  of  a youth  of  twenty-three,  written 
from  momentary  feelings  and  impulses,  amidst  pro- 
fessional drudgery  or  midnight  dissipation.  That 
compositions  produced  under  such  circumstances 
should  still  exist  and  be  read  with  pleasure,  is 
sufficient  to  shew  that  Fergusson  must  have  had 
the  eye  and  fancy  of  a true  poet.  His  observation, 
too,  for  one  so  young,  is  as  remarkable  as  his  genius : 
he  was  an  accurate  painter  of  scenes  of  real  life,  and 
traits  of  Scottish  character,  and  his  pictures  are 
valuable  for  their  truth,  as  well  as  for  their  liveli- 
ness and  humour.  If  his  habits  had  been  different, 
we  might  have  possessed  more  agreeable  delinea- 
tions, but  none  more  graphic  or  faithful.  Fergusson 
was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the  17th  of  October 
1751.  His  father,  who  was  an  accountant  in  the 
British  Linen  Company’s  bank,  died  early;  but 
the  poet  received  a university  education,  having 
obtained  a bursary  in  St  Andrews,  where  he 
continued  from  his  thirteenth  to  his  seventeenth 
year.  On  quitting  college,  he  seems  to  have  been 
truly  ‘unfitted  with  an  aim,’  and  he  was  glad  to 
take  employment  as  a copying-clerk  in  a lawyer’s 
office.  In  this  mechanical  and  irksome  duty  his 
days  were  spent.  His  evenings  were  devoted  to 
the  tavern,  where,  over  ‘ caller  oysters,’  with  ale  or 
Avhisky,  the  choice  spirits  of  Edinburgh  used  to 
assemble.  Fergusson  had  dangerous  qualifications 
for  such  a life.  His  conversational  powers  were  of 
a very  superior  description,  and  he  could  adapt 
them  at  will  to  humour,  pathos,  or  sarcasm,  as  the 
occasion  might  require.  He  was  well  educated,  had 
a fund  of  youthful  gaiety,  and  sung  Scottish  songs 
with  taste  and  effect.  To  these  qualifications  he 
soon  added  the  reputation  of  a poet.  Ruddiman’s 
Weekly  Magazine  had  been  commenced  in  1768, 
and  was  the  chosen  receptacle  for  the  floating 
literature  of  that  period  in  Scotland,  particularly 
in  Edinburgh.  During  the  last  two  years  of  his 
life,  Fergusson  was  a constant  contributor  to  this 
miscellany,  and  in  1773  he  collected  and  published 
his  pieces  in  one  volume.  Of  the  success  of  the 
publication,  in  a pecuniary  point  of  view,  we  have 
no  information;  but  that  it  was  well  received  by 
the  public,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  from  the  popu- 
larity and  fame  of  its  author.  His  dissipations, 
however,  were  always  on  the  increase.  His  tavern- 
life  and  boon-companions  were  hastening  him  on  to 
a premature  and  painful  death.  His  reason  first 
gave  way,  and  his  widowed  mother  being  unable  to 
maintain  him  at  home,  he  was  sent  to  an  asylum 
for  the  insane.  The  religious  impressions  of  his 
youth  returned  at  times  to  overwhelm  him  with 
dread,  but  his  gentle  and  affectionate  nature  was 
easily  soothed  by  the  attentions  of  his  relatives  and 
friends.  His  recovery  was  anticipated,  but  after 
about  two  months’  confinement,  he  died  in  his  cell 
on  the  16th  of  October  1774.  His  remains  were 
interred  in  the  Canongate  churchyard,  where  they 
lay  unnoticed  for  many  years,  till  Burns  erected  a 
simple  stone  to  mark  the  poet’s  grave.  The  heart- 
lessness of  convivial  friendships  is  well  known:  they 
literally  ‘wither  and  die  in  a day.’  It  is  related, 
however,  that  a youthful  companion  of  Fergusson, 
named  Burnet,  having  gone  to  the  East  Indies,  and 
made  some  money,  invited  over  the  poet,  sending 
at  the  same  time  a draft  for  £100  to  defray  his 
expenses.  This  instance  of  generosity  came  too 
late : the  poor  poet  * had  died  before  the  letter 
arrived. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


Fergusson  may  be  considered  the  poetical  pro- 
genitor of  Burns.  Meeting  with  his  poems  in  his 
youth,  the  latter  ‘ strung  his  lyre  anew,’  and  copied 


Fergusson’s  Tomb. 


the  style  and  subjects  of  his  youthful  prototype. 
The  resemblance,  however,  was  only  temporary  and 
incidental.  Burns  had  a manner  of  his  own,  and 
though  he  sometimes  condescended,  like  Shakspeare, 
to  work  after  inferior  models,  all  that  was  rich 
and  valuable  in  the  composition  was  original  and 
unborrowed.  He  had  an  excessive  admiration  for 
the  writings  of  Fergusson,  and  even  preferred  them 
to  those  of  Ramsay,  an  opinion  in  which  few  will 
concur.  The  forte  of  Fergusson  lay,  as  we  have 
stated,  in  his  representations  of  town-life.  The 
King’s  Birth-day , The  Sitting  of  the  Session,  Leith 
Races , &c.,  are  all  excellent.  Still  better  is  his  feeling 
description  of  the  importance  of  Guid  Braid  Claith, 
and  his  Address  to  the  Tron  Kirk  Bell.  In  these  we 
have  a current  of  humorous  observations,  poetical 
fancy,  and  genuine  idiomatic  Scottish  expression. 
The  Farmer’s  Ingle  suggested  the  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night  of  Burns,  and  it  is  as  faithful  in  its  descrip- 
tions, though  of  a humbler  class.  Burns  added 
passion,  sentiment,  and  patriotism  to  the  subject: 
Fergusson’s  is  a mere  sketch,  an  inventory  of  a 
farmhouse,  unless  we  except  the  concluding  stanza, 
which  speaks  to  the  heart : 

Peace  to  the  husbandman,  and  a’  his  tribe, 

Whase  care  fells  a’  our  wants  frae  year  to  year ! 

Lang  may  his  sock  and  cou’ter  turn  the  glebe, 

And  banks  of  com  bend  down  wi’  laded  ear ! 

May  Scotia’s  simmers  aye  look  gay  and  green  ; 

Her  yellow  hairsts  frae  scowry  blasts  decreed ! 

May  a’  her  tenants  sit  fu’  snug  and  bien, 

Frae  the  hard  grip  o’  ails  and  poortith  freed — 
And  a lang  lasting  train  o’  peacefu’  hours  succeed ! 

In  one  department — lyrical  poetry — whence  Burns 
draws  so  much  of  his  glory — Fergusson  does  not 
seem,  though  a singer,  to  have  made  any  efforts  to 
excel.  In  English  poetry,  he  utterly  failed ; and  if 
we  consider  him  in  reference  to  his  countrymen, 
Falconer  or  Logan — he  received  the  same  education 
as  the  latter — his  inferior  rank  as  a general  poet 
will  be  apparent. 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 


Braid  Claith. 

Ye  wha  are  fain  to  hae  your  name 
Wrote  i’  the  bonny  book  o’  fame, 

Let  merit  nae  pretension  claim 
To  laurelled  wreath, 

But  hap  ye  weel,  baith  back  and  wame, 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

He  that  some  ells  o’  this  may  fa’, 

And  slae-black  hat  on  pow  like  snaw, 

Bids  bauld  to  bear  the  gree  awa’, 

Wi’  a’  this  graith, 

When  beinly  clad  wi’  shell  fu’  braw 
O’  guid  braid  claith. 

Waesucks  for  him  wha  has  nae  feck  o ’t ! 
For  he ’s  a gowk  they  ’re  sure  to  geek  at ; 

A chiel  that  ne’er  will  be  respeckit 
While  he  draws  breath, 

Till  his  four  quarters  are  bedeckit 
Wi’  guid  braid  claith. 

On  Sabbath-days  the  barber  spark, 

When  he  has  done  wi’  scrapin’  wark, 

Wi’  siller  broackie  in  his  sark, 

Gangs  trigly,  faith ! 

Or  to  the  Meadows,  or  the  Park, 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

Weel  might  ye  trow,  to  see  them  there, 

That  they  to  shave  your  haffits  bare, 

Or  curl  and  sleek  a pickle  hair, 

Would  be  right  laith, 

When  pacin’  wi’  a gawsy  air 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

If  ony  mettled  stirrah  grien 
For  favour  frae  a lady’s  een, 

He  maunna  care  for  bein’  seen 
Before  he  sheath 
His  body  in  a scabbard  clean 

O’  guid  braid  claith. 

For,  gin  he  come  wi’  coat  threadbare, 

A fig  for  him  she  winna  care, 

But  crook  her  bonny  mou  fou  sair, 

And  scauld  him  baith  : 

Wooers  should  aye  their  travel  spare, 
Without  braid  claith. 

Braid  claith  lends  fouk  an  unco  heeze  ; 
Maks  mony  kail-worms  butterfiees ; 

Gies  mony  a doctor  his  degrees, 

For  little  skaith : 

In  short,  you  may  be  what  you  please, 

Wi’  guid  braid  claith. 

For  though  ye  had  as  wise  a snout  on, 

As  Shakspeare  or  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 

Your  judgment  fouk  would  hae  a doubt  on, 
I ’ll  tak  my  aith, 

Till  they  could  see  ye  wi’  a suit  on 
O’  guid  braid  claith. 

To  the  Tron  Kirk  Bell. 

Wanwordy,  crazy,  dinsome  thing, 

As  e’er  was  framed  to  jow  or  ring ! 

What  gared  them  sic  in  steeple  hing, 

They  ken  themsel ; 

But  weel  wat  I,  they  couldna  bring 
Waur  sounds  frae  hell. 

* * * 

91 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


Fleece-merchants  may  look  bauld,  I trow, 
Sin’  a’  Auld  Reekie’s  childer  now 
Maun  stap  their  lugs  wi’  teats  o’  woo, 

Thy  sound  to  bang, 

And  keep  it  frae  gaun  through  and  through 
Wi’  jarrin’  twang. 

Your  noisy  tongue,  there’s  nae  abidin’t; 
Like  scauldin’  wife’s  there  is  nae  guidin’t; 
When  I ’m  ’bout  ony  business  eident, 

It ’s  sair  to  thole ; 

To  deave  me,  then,  ye  tak  a pride  in ’t, 

Wi’  senseless  knolL 

Oh ! were  I provost  o’  the  town, 

I swear  by  a’  the  powers  aboon, 

I ’d  bring  ye  wi’  a reesle  down ; 

Nor  should  you  think — 

Sae  sair  I ’d  crack  and  clour  your  crown — 
Again  to  clink. 

For,  when  I ’ve  toomed  the  meikle  cap, 

And  fain  wald  fa’  owre  in  a nap, 

Troth,  I could  doze  as  sound ’s  a tap, 

Were ’t  no  for  thee, 

That  gies  the  tither  weary  chap 
To  wauken  me. 

I dreamt  ae  night  I saw  Auld  Nick : 

Quo’  he : ‘This  bell  o’  mine’s  a trick, 

A wily  piece  o’  politic, 

A cunnin’  snare, 

To  trap  fouk  in  a cloven  stick, 

Ere  they  ’re  aware. 

‘ As  lang ’s  my  dautit  bell  hings  there, 

A’  body  at  the  kirk  will  skair ; 

Quo’  they,  if  he  that  preaches  there 
Like  it  can  wound, 

We  downa  care  a single  hair 
For  joyfu’  sound.’ 

If  magistrates  wi’  me  would  ’gree. 

For  aye  tongue -tackit  should  you  be ; 

Nor  fleg  wi’  anti-melody 

Sic  honest  fouk, 

Whase  lugs  were  never  made  to  dree 
Thy  dolefu’  shock. 

But  far  frae  thee  the  bailies  dwell, 

Or  they  would  scunner  at  your  knell ; 

Gie  the  foul  thief  his  riven  bell, 

And  then,  I trow, 

The  byword  hauds,  ‘ The  deil  himsel 
Has  got  his  due.’ 

Scottish  Scenery  and  Music. 

[From  Hame  Content , a Satire .3 

The  Arno  and  the  Tiber  lang 
Hae  run  fell  clear  in  Roman  sang ; 

But,  save  the  reverence  o’  schools, 

They  ’re  baith  but  lifeless,  dowie  pools. 
Bought  they  compare  wi’  bonny  Tweed, 

As  clear  as  ony  lammer  bead  ? 

Or  are  their  shores  mair  sweet  and  gay 
Than  Fortha’s  haughs  or  banks  o’  Tay  ? 
Though  there  the  herds  can  jink  the  showers 
’Mang  thriving  vines  and  myrtle  bowers, 

And  blaw  the  reed  to  kittle  strains, 

While  echo’s  tongue  commends  their  pains; 
Like  ours,  they  canna  warm  the  heart 
Wi’  simple  saft  bewitching  art. 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow  braes, 
Arcadian  herds  wad  tyne  their  lays, 


To  hear  the  mair  melodious  sounds 
That  live  on  our  poetic  grounds. 

Come,  Fancy  ! come,  and  let  us  tread 
The  simmer’s  flowery  velvet  bed, 

And  a’  your  springs  delightful  lowse 
On  Tweeda’s  bank  or  Cowdenknowes. 

That,  ta’en  wi’  thy  enchanting  sang, 

Our  Scottish  lads  may  round  ye  thrang, 

Sae  pleased  they  ’ll  never  fash  again 
To  court  you  on  Italian  plain ; 

Soon  will  they  guess  ye  only  wear 
The  simple  garb  0’  nature  here ; 

Mair  comely  far,  and  fair  to  sight, 

When  in  her  easy  deedin’  dight, 

Than  in  disguise  ye  was  before 
On  Tiber’s  or  on  Arno’s  shore. 

0 Bangour ! 1 now  the  hills  and  dales 
Nae  mair  gie  back  thy  tender  tales  ! 

The  birks  on  Yarrow  now  deplore, 

Thy  mournfu’  muse  has  left  the  shore. 

Near  what  bright  burn  or  crystal  spring. 
Bid  you  your  winsome  whistle  hing? 

The  Muse  shall  there,  wi’  watery  e’e, 

Gie  the  dunk  swaird  a tear  for  thee ; 

And  Yarrow’s  genius,  dowie  dame ! 

Shall  there  forget  her  bluid-stained  stream, 
On  thy  sad  grave  to  seek  repose, 

Who  mourned  her  fate,  condoled  her  woes. 


Cauler  Water. 

When  father  Adie  first  pat  spade  in 
The  bonny  yard  0’  ancient  Eden, 

His  amry  had  nae  liquor  laid  in 
To  fire  his  mou ; 

Nor  did  he  thole  his  wife’s  upbraidin’, 

For  bein’  fou. 

A cauler  bum  o’  siller  sheen, 

Ban  cannily  out-owre  the  green ; 

And  when  our  gutcher’s  drouth  had  been 
To  bide  right  sair, 

He  loutit  down,  and  drank  bedeen 
A dainty  skair. 

His  bairns  had  a’,  before  the  flood, 

A langer  tack  0’  flesh  and  blood, 

And  on  mair  pithy  shanks  they  stood. 

Than  Noah’s  line, 

Wha  still  hae  been  a feckless  brood, 

Wi’  drinkin’  wine. 

The  fuddlin’  bardies,  now-a-days, 

Bin  maukin-mad  in  Bacchus’  praise ; 

And  limp  and  stoiter  through  their  lays 
Anacreontic, 

While  each  his  sea  of  wine  displays 
As  big ’s  the  Pontic. 

My  Muse  will  no  gang  far  frae  hame, 

Or  scour  a’  airths  to  hound  for  fame  ; 

In  troth,  the  jillet  ye  might  blame 
For  thinkin’  on ’t, 

When  eithly  she  can  find  the  theme 
O’  aquafont. 

This  is  the  name  that  doctors  use, 

Their  patients’  noddles  to  confuse ; 

Wi’  simples  clad  in  terms  abstruse, 

They  labour  still 
In  kittle  words  to  gar  you  roose 
Their  want  0’  skill. 

1 Mr  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  author  of  the  beautiful  ballad 
The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 


View  op  Edinburgh  prom  the  Castle. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


But  we  ’ll  hae  nae  sic  clitter- clatter ; 

And,  briefly  to  expound  the  matter. 

It  shall  be  ca’d  guid  cauler  water ; 

Than  whilk,  I trow, 

Few  drugs  in  doctors’  shops  are  better 
For  me  or  you. 

Though  joints  be  stiff  as  ony  rung, 

Your  pith  wi’  pain  be  sairly  dung, 

Be  you  in  cauler  water  flung 
Out-owre  the  lugs, 

’Twill  mak  you  souple,  swack,  and  young, 
Without en  drugs. 

Though  colic  or  the  heart-scad  tease  us ; 

Or  ony  inward  dwaam  should  seize  us ; 

It  masters  a’  sic  fell  diseases 

That  would  ye  spulzie, 

And  brings  them  to  a canny  crisis 
Wi’  little  tulzie. 

Were ’t  no  for  it,  the  bonny  lasses 
Wad  glower  nae  mair  in  keekin’ -glasses; 

And  soon  tyne  dint  o’  a’  the  graces 
That  aft  conveen 
In  gleefu’  looks,  and  bonny  faces, 

To  catch  our  een. 

The  fairest,  then,  might  die  a maid. 

And  Cupid  quit  his  shootin’  trade ; 

For  wha,  through  clarty  masquerade, 

Could  then  discover 
Whether  the  features  under  shade 
Were  worth  a lover? 

As  simmer  rains  bring  simmer  flowers, 

And  leaves  to  deed  the  birken  bowers, 

Sae  beauty  gets  by  cauler  showers 
Sae  rich  a bloom, 

As  for  estate,  or  heavy  dowers, 

Aft  stands  in  room. 

What  maks  Auld  Reekie’s  dames  sae  fair  ? 

It  canna  be  the  halesome  air ; 

But  cauler  burn,  beyond  compare, 

The  best  o’  ony, 

That  gars  them  a’  sic  graces  skair. 

And  blink  sae  bonny. 

On  May-day,  in  a fairy  ring, 

We’ve  seen  them  round  St  Anthon’s  spring,1 
Frae  grass  the  cauler  dew-draps  wring 
To  weet  their  een, 

And  water,  clear  as  crystal  spring, 

To  synd  them  clean. 

0 may  they  still  pursue  the  way 
To  look  sae  feat,  sae  clean,  sae  gay  ! 

Then  shall  their  beauties  glance  like  May ; 

And,  like  her,  be 
The  goddess  of  the  vocal  spray, 

The  Muse  and  me. 

[A  Sunday  in  Edinburgh .] 

[From  Auld  Reekie.'] 

On  Sunday,  here,  an  altered  scene 
O’  men  and  manners  meets  our  een. 

Ane  wad  maist  trow,  some  people  chose 
To  change  their  faces  wi’  their  clo’es, 

1 St  Anthony’s  Well,  a beautiful  small  spring,  on  Arthur’s 
Seat,  near  Edinburgh.  Thither  it  is  still  the  practice  of  young 
Edinburgh  maidens  to  resort  on  May-day.  Arthur’s  Seat,  a 
hill  sBmewhat  resembling  a lion,  is  represented  in  the  adjoin- 
ing view  of  Edinburgh. 

94 


And  fain  wad  gar  ilk  neibour  think 
They  thirst  for  guidness  as  for  drink ; 

But  there ’s  an  unco  dearth  o’  grace, 

That  has  nae  mansion  but  the  face, 

And  never  can  obtain  a part 
In  benmost  corner  o’  the  heart. 

Why  should  religion  mak  us  sad, 

If  good  frae  virtue ’s  to  be  had  ? 

Na : rather  gleefu’  turn  your  face, 
Forsake  hypocrisy,  grimace ; 

And  never  hae  it  understood 
You  fleg  mankind  frae  being  good. 

In  afternoon,  a’  brawly  buskit, 

The  joes  and  lasses  lo’e  to  frisk  it. 

Some  tak  a great  delight  to  place 
The  modest  bon-grace  owre  the  face ; 
Though  you  may  see,  if  so  inclined, 

The  turning  o’  the  leg  behind. 

Now,  Comely-Garden  and  the  Park 
Refresh  them,  after  forenoon’s  wark : 
Newhaven,  Leith,  or  Canonmills, 

Supply  them  in  their  Sunday’s  gills ; 
Where  writers  aften  spend  their  pence, 

To  stock  their  heads  wi’  drink  and  sense. 

While  danderin  cits  delight  to  stray 
To  Castle-hill  or  public  way, 

Where  they  nae  other  purpose  mean, 

Than  that  fool  cause  o’  being  seen, 

Let  me  to  Arthur’s  Seat  pursue, 

Where  bonny  pastures  meet  the  view, 

And  monv  a wild-lorn  scene  accrues, 
Befitting  Willie  Shakspeare’s  muse. 

If  Fancy  there  would  join  the  thrang, 

The  desert  rocks  and  hills  amang, 

To  echoes  we  should  lilt  and  play, 

And  gie  to  mirth  the  live-lang  day. 

Or  should  some  cankered  biting  shower 
The  day  and  a’  her  sweets  deflower, 

To  Holyroodhouse  let  me  stray, 

And  gie  to  musing  a’  the  day ; 

Lamenting  what  auld  Scotland  knew, 

Bein  days  for  ever  frae  her  view. 

0 Hamilton,  for  shame  ! the  Muse 
Would  pay  to  thee  her  couthy  vows, 

Gin  ye  wad  tent  the  humble  strain, 

And  gie’s  our  dignity  again ! 

For,  oh,  wae ’s  me  ! the  thistle  springs 
In  domicile  o’  ancient  kings, 

Without  a patriot  to  regret 
Our  palace  and  our  ancient  state. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

After  the  publication  of  Fergusson’s  poems,  in  a 
collected  shape,  in  1773,  there  was  an  interval  of 
about  thirteen  years,  during  which  no  writer  of 
eminence  arose  in  Scotland  who  attempted  to  excel 
in  the  native  language  of  the  country.  The  intel- 
lectual taste  of  the  capital  ran  strongly  in  favour 
of  metaphysical  and  critical  studies ; but  the  Doric 
muse  was  still  heard  in  the  rural  districts  linked  to 
some  popular  air,  some  local  occurrence  or  favourite 
spot,  and  was  much  cherished  by  the  lower  and 
middling  classes  of  the  people.  In  the  summer  of 
1786,  Robert  Burns,  the  Shakspeare  of  Scotland, 
issued  his  first  volume  from  the  obscure  press  of 
Kilmarnock,  and  its  influence  was  immediately 
felt,  and  is  still  operating  on  the  whole  imaginative 
literature  of  the  kingdom.*  Burns  was  then  in  his 

* The  edition  consisted  of  600  copies.  A second  was  pub- 
lished in  Edinburgh  in  April  1787,  no  less  than  2800  copies 
being  subscribed  for  by  1500  individuals.  After  his  unexam- 
pled popularity  in  Edinburgh,  Burns  took  the  farm  of  EUis- 
land,  near  Dumfries,  married  his  ‘bonny  Jean,’  and  entered 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


twenty-seventh  year,  having  been  horn  in  the  parish 
of  Alloway,  near  Ayr,  on  the  25th  of  January  1759. 
His  father  was  a poor  farmer,  a man  of  sterling 
worth  and  intelligence,  who  gave  his  son  what 
education  he  could  afford.  The  whole,  however, 


was  but  a small  foundation  on  which  to  erect  the 
miracles  of  genius ! Robert  was  taught  English 
well,  and  ‘ by  the  time  he  was  ten  or  eleven  years 
of  age,  he  was  a critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and 
particles.’  He  was  also  taught  to  write,  had  a 


fortnight’s  Erench,  and  was  one  summer-quarter  at 
land-surveying.  He  had  a few  books,  among  which 

upon  his  new  occupation  at  Whitsunday  1788.  He  had  obtained 
—what  he  anxiously  desired  as  an  addition  to  his  means  as  a 
farmer — an  appointment  in  the  Excise ; but  the  duties  of  this 
office,  and  his  own  convivial  habits,  interfered  with  his 
management  of  the  farm,  and  he  was  glad  to  abandon  it.  In 
1791  he  removed  to  the  town  of  Dumfries,  subsisting  entirely 
on  his  situation  in  the  Excise,  which  yielded  £70  per  annum. 
Here  he  published,  in  1793,  a third  edition  of  his  poems,  with 
the  addition  of  Tam  o’  Shunter , and  other  pieces  composed  at 
Ellisland.  He  died  at  Dumfries  on  the  21st  of  July  I79G,  aged 
thirty-seven  years  and  about  six  months.  The  story  of  his  life 
is  so  well  known,  that  even  this  brief  statement  of  dates  seems 
unnecessary.  In  1798  a fourth  edition  of  his  works  was  pub- 
lished in  Edinburgh.  Two  years  afterwards,  in  1800,  appeared 
the  valuable  and  complete  edition  of  Dr  Currie,  in  four 
volumes,  containing  the  correspondence  of  the  poet,  and  a 
number  of  songs,  contributed  to  Johnson’s  Scots  Musical 
Museum,  and  Thomson’s  Select  Scottish  Melodies.  The 
editions  of  Burns  since  1800  could  with  difficulty  be  ascer- 
tained; they  were  reckoned  a few  years  ago  at  about  a 
hundred.  His  poems  circulate  in  every  shape,  and  have  not 
yet  ‘ gathered  all  their  fame.’ 


were  the  Spectator , Pope’s  works,  Allan  Ramsay, 
and  a collection  of  English  songs.  Subsequently — 
about  his  twenty-third  year — his  reading  was 
enlarged  with  the  important  addition  of  Thomson, 
Slienstone,  Sterne,  and  Mackenzie.  Other  standard 
works  soon  followed.  As  the  advantages  of  a liberal 
education  were  not  within  his  reach,  it  is  scarcely 
to  be  regretted  that  his  library  was  at  first  so  small. 
What  books  he  had,  he  read  and  studied  thoroughly 
— his  attention  was  not  distracted  by  a multitude 
of  volumes — and  his  mind  grew  up  with  original 
and  robust  vigour.  It  is  impossible  to  contemplate 
the  life  of  Burns  at  this  time,  without  a strong  feel- 
ing of  affectionate  admiration  and  respect.  His 
manly  integrity  of  character — which,  as  a peasant, 
he  guarded  with  jealous  dignity — and  his  warm  and 
true  heart,  elevate  him,  in  our  conceptions,  almost 
as  much  as  the  native  force  and  beauty  of  his  poetry. 
We  see  him  in  the  veriest  shades  of  obscurity  toil- 
ing, when  a mere  youth,  ‘like  a galley-slave,’  to 
support  his  virtuous  parents  and  their  household, 
yet  grasping  at  every  opportunity  of  acquiring 
knowledge  from  men  and  books— familiar  with  the 

95 


FB03I  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


history  of  his  country,  and  loving  its  very  soil — wor-  | 
shipping  the  memory  of  Scotland’s  ancient  patriots  ! 
and  defenders,  and  exploring  every  scene  and  memo-  j 
rial  of  departed  greatness — loving  also  the  simple 
peasantry  around  him,  ‘ the  sentiments  and  manners 
he  felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  his  rustic  compeers.’ 
Burning  with  a desire  to  do  something  for  old 
Scotland’s  sake,  with  a heart  beating  with  warm 
and  generous  emotions,  a strong  and  clear  under- 
standing, and  a spirit  abhorring  all  meanness,  insin-  ' 
cerity,  and  oppression,  Burns,  in  his  early  days,  j 
might  have  furnished  the  subject  for  a great  and  | 
instructive  moral  poem.  The  true  elements  of ! 
poetry  were  in  his  life,  as  in  his  writings.  The  wild 
stirrings  of  his  ambition — which  he  so  nobly  com-  J 
pared  to  the  ‘blind  gropings  of  Homer’s  Cyclops 
round  the  walls  of  his  cave  ’ — the  precocious  matu-  ! 
Tity  of  his  passions  and  his  intellect,  his  manly  | 


frame,  that  led  him  to  fear  no  competitor  at  the 
plough,  and  his  exquisite  sensibility  and  tenderness, 
that  made  him  weep  over  even  the  destruction  of  a 
daisy’s  flower,  or  a mouse’s  nest,  these  are  all  moral 
contrasts  or  blendings  that  seem  to  belong  to  the 
spirit  of  romantic  poetry.  His  writings,  as  we  now 
know,  were  but  the  fragments  of  a great  mind — 
the  hasty  outpourings  of  a full  heart  and  intellect. 
After  he  had  become  the  fashionable  wonder  and 
idol  of  his  day — soon  to  be  cast  into  cold  neglect 
and  poverty! — some  errors  and  frailties  threw  a 
shade  on  the  noble  and  affecting  image,  but  its 
higher  lineaments  were  never  destroyed.  The 
column  was  defaced,  not  broken ; and  now  that  the 
mists  of  prejudice  have  cleared  away,  its  just  pro- 
portions and  symmetry  are  recognised  with  pride 
and  gratitude  by  his  admiring  countrymen. 

Burns  came  as  a potent  auxiliary  or  fellow- worker 


Burns’s  Birthplace. 


I with  Cowper,  in  bringing,  poetry  into  the  channels 
j of  truth  and  nature.  There  were  only  two  years 
j between  the  Task  and  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 
No  poetry  was  ever  more  instantaneously  or  univer- 
sally popular  among  a people  than  that  of  Burns  in 
Scotland.  It  seemed  as  if  a new  realm  had  been 
added  to  the  dominions  of  the  British  muse— a new 
and  glorious  creation,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  nature. 
There  was  the  humour  of  Smollett,  the  pathos  and 
tenderness  of  Sterne  or  Bichardson,  the  real  life 
of  Fielding,  and  the  description  of  Thomson — all  | 
united  in  delineations  of  Scottish  manners  and 
scenery  by  an  Ayrshire  ploughman!  The  volume 
contained  matter  for  all  minds — for  the  lively  and 
sarcastic,  the  wild  and  the  thoughtful,  the  poetical 
enthusiast  and  the  man  of  the  world.  So  eagerly 
was  the  book  sought  after,  that,  where  copies  of  it 
could  not  be  obtained,  many  of  the  poems  were 
transcribed  and  sent  round  in  manuscript  among 
admiring  circles.  The  subsequent  productions  of 
the  poet  did  not  materially  affect  the  estimate  of 
his  powers  formed  from  his  first  volume.  His  life 
was  at  once  too  idle  and  too  busy  for  continuous 
study ; and,  alas ! it  was  too  brief  for  the  full  matu- 
rity and  development  of  his  talents.  Where  the 
intellect  predominates  equally  with  the  imagination 
96 


— and  this  was  the  case  with  Bums — increase  of 
years  generally  adds  to  the  strength  and  variety  of 
the  poet’s  powers ; and  we  have  no  doubt  that,  in 
ordinary  circumstances,  Burns,  like  Dryden,  would 
have  improved  with  age,  and  added  greatly  to  his 
fame,  had  he  not  fallen  at  so  early  a period,  before 
his  imagination  could  be  enriched  with  the  riper 
fruits  of  knowledge  and  experience.  He  meditated 
a national  drama ; but  we  might  have  looked  with 
more  confidence  for  a series  of  tales  like  Tam  o’ 
Shanter , which — with  the  elegy  on  Captain  Matthew 
Henderson,  one  of  the  most  highly  finished  and  most 
precious  of  his  works — was  produced  in  his  happy 
residence  at  Ellisland.  Above  two  hundred  songs 
were,  however,  thrown  off*  by  Burns  in  his  latter 
years,  and  they  embraced  poetry  of  all  kinds.  Air 
Moore  became  a writer  of  lyrics,  as  he  informs  his 
readers,  that  he  might  express  what  music  conveyed 
to  himself.  Burns  had  little  or  no  technical  know- 
ledge of  music.  Whatever  pleasure  he  derived 
from  it,  was  the  result  of  personal  associations — the 
words  to  which  airs  were  adapted,  or  the  locality 
with  which  they  were  connected.  His  whole  soul, 
however,  was  full  of  the  finest  harmony.  So  quick 
and  genial  were  his  sympathies,  that  he  was  easily 
stirred  into  lyrical  melody  by  whatever  was.  goad 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


and  beautiful  in  nature.  Not  a bird  sang  in  a bush, 
nor  a burn  glanced  in  the  sun,  but  it  was  eloquence 
and  music  to  his  ear.  He  fell  in  love  with  every 
fine  female  face  he  saw ; and  thus  kindled  up,  his 
feelings  took  the  shape  of  song,  and  the  words  fell 
as  naturally  into  their  places  as  if  prompted  by 
the  most  perfect  knowledge  of  music.  The  inward 
melody  needed  no  artificial  accompaniment.  An 
attempt  at  a longer  poem  would  have  chilled  his 
ardour ; but  a song  embodying  some  one  leading 
idea,  some  burst  of  passion,  love,  patriotism,  or 
humour,  was  exactly  suited  to  the  impulsive  nature 


of  Burns’s  genius,  and  to  his  situation  and  circum- 
stances. His  command  of  language  and  imagery, 
always  the  most  appropriate,  musical,  and  graceful, 
was  a greater  marvel  than  the  creations  of  a Handel 
or  Mozart.  The  Scottish  poet,  however,  knew 
many  old  airs — still  more  old  ballads ; and  a few 
bars  of  the  music,  or  a line  of  the  words,  served  as 
a key-note  to  his  suggestive  fancy.  He  improved 
nearly  all  he  touched.  The  arch  humour,  gaiety, 
simplicity,  and  genuine  feeling  of  his  original  songs, 
will  be  felt  as  long  as  ‘rivers  roll  and  woods  are 
green.’  They  breathe  the  natural  character  and 


spirit  of  the  country,  and  must  be  coeval  with  it 
in  existence.  Wherever  the  words  are  chanted,  a 
picture  is  presented  to  the  mind  ; and  whether  the 
tone  be  plaintive  and  sad,  or  joyous  and  exciting, 
one  overpowering  feeling  takes  possession  of  the 
imagination.  The  susceptibility  of  the  poet  inspired 
him  with  real  emotions  and  passion,  and  his  genius 
reproduced  them  with  the  glowing  warmth  and 
truth  of  nature. 

Tam  o’  Shanter  is  usually  considered  to  be  Burns’s 
master-piece : it  was  so  considered  by  himself,  and 
the  judgment  has  been  confirmed  by  Campbell, 
Wilson,  Montgomery,  and  almost  every  critic.  It 
displays  more  various  powers  than  any  of  his  other 
productions,  beginning  with  low  comic  humour  and 
Bacchanalian  revelry — the  dramatic  scene  at  the 
•commencement  is  unique,  even  in  Burns — and 
ranging  through  the  various  styles  of  the  descrip- 
tive, the  terrible,  the  supernatural,  and  the  ludicrous. 
The  originality  of  some  of  the  phrases  and  senti- 
ments, as 

Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious — 

O’er  a’  the  ills  of  life  victorious ! 

59 


the  felicity  of  some  of  the  similes,  and  the  elastic 
force  and  springiness  of  the  versification,  must  also 
be  considered  as  aiding  in  the  effect.  The  poem 
reads  as  if  it  were  composed  in  one  transport  of 
inspiration,  before  the  bard  had  time  to  cool  or  to 
slacken  in  his  fervour;  and  such  we  know  was 
actually  the  case.  Next  to  this  inimitable  ‘ tale  of 
truth  ’ in  originality,  and  in  happy  grouping  of 
images,  both  familiar  and  awful,  we  should  be 
disposed  to  rank  the  Address  to  the  Deil.  The  poet 
adopted  the  common  superstitions  of  the  peasantry 
as  to  the  attributes  of  Satan;  but  though  his  Address 
is  mainly  ludicrous,  he  intersperses  passages  of  the 
highest  beauty,  and  blends  a feeling  of  tenderness 
and  compunction  with  his  objurgation  of  the  Evil 
One.  The  effect  of  contrast  was  never  more  happily 
displayed  than  in  the  conception  of  such  a being 
straying  in  lonely  glens  and  rustling  among  trees — 
in  the  familiarity  of  sly  humour  with  which  the 
poet  lectures  so  awful  and  mysterious  a personage 
— who  had,  as  he  says,  almost  overturned  the  infant 
world,  and  ruined  all;  and  in  that  strange  and 
inimitable  outbreak  of  sympathy  in  which  a hope 

97 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800, 


is  expressed  for  the  salvation,  and  pity  for  the  fate, 
even  of  Satan  himself — 

But  fare -you- weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 

Oh  ! wad  ye  tak  a thought  and  men’ ! 

Ye  aiblins  might — I dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a stake ; 

I ’m  wae  to  think  upo’  ^on  den, 

Even  for  your  sake  ! • 

The  Jolly  Beggars  is  another  strikingly  original 
production.  It  is  the  most  dramatic  of  his  works, 
and  the  characters  are  all  finely  sustained.  Of  the 
Cotter’s  Saturday  Night , the  Mountain  Daisy , or  the 
Mouse’s  Nest , it  would  be  idle  to  attempt  any 
eulogy.  In  these  Burns  is  seen  in  his  fairest  colours 


— not  with  all  his  strength,  hut  in  his  happiest  and 
most  heart-felt  inspiration — his  brightest  sunshine 
and  his  tenderest  tears.  The  workmanship  of  these 
leading  poems  is  equal  to  the  value  of  the  materials. 
The  peculiar  dialect  of  Burns  being  a composite  of 
Scotch  and  English,  which  he  varied  at  will — the 
Scotch  being  generally  reserved  for  the  comic  and 
tender,  and  the  English  for  the  serious  and  lofty — 
his  diction  is  remarkably  rich  and  copious.  No  poet 
is  more  picturesque  in  expression.  This  was  the 
result  equally  of  accurate  observation,  careful  study, 
and  strong  feeling.  His  energy  and  truth  stamp  the 
highest  value  on  his  writings.  He  is  as  literal  as 
Cowper.  The  banks  of  the  Boon  are  described  as 
faithfully  as  those  of  the  Ouse ; and  his  views  of 


The  Banks  oi'  D<»on,  with  the  old  Bridge  and  Burns’s  Monument. 


human  life  and  manners  are  as  real  and  as  finely 
moralised.  His  range  of  subjects,  however,  was 
infinitely  more  diversified,  including  a varied  and 
romantic  landscape,  the  customs  and  superstitions 
of  his  country,  the  delights  of  good  fellowship  and 
boon  society,  the  aspirations  of  youthful  ambition, 
and,  above  all,  the  emotions  of  love,  which  he 
depicted  with  such  mingled  fervour  and  delicacy. 
This  ecstasy  of  passion  was  unknown  to  the  author 
of  the  Task.  Nor  could  the  latter  have  conceived 
anything  so  truly  poetical  as  the  image  of  Coila, 
the  tutelar  genius  and  inspirer  of  the  peasant  youth 
in  his  clay-built  hut,  where  Ills  heart  and  fancy 
overflowed  with  love  and  poetry.  Cowper  read 
and  appreciated  Burns,  and  we  can  picture  his 
astonishment  and  delight  on  perusing  such  strains 
as  Coila’s  address : 

‘ With  future  hope  I oft  would  gaze 

Fond  on  thy  little  early  ways, 


Thy  rudely  caroled,  chiming  phrase. 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 

Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays, 

Of  other  times. 

‘ I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky,  . 
I saw  grim  nature’s  visage  hoar 

Strike  thy  young  eye. 

‘ Or  when  the  deep  green -mantled  earth 
Warm  cherished  every  flowret’s  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  every  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

‘ When  ripened  fields  and  azure  skies. 
Called  forth  the  reapers'  rustling  noise, 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


Scottish  poets.  ENGLISH  LITER ATURE. 


I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk. 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

‘ When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

The  adored  Name, 

I taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

I I saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way. 

Misled  by  Fancy’s  meteor-ray, 

By  passion  driven ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

‘ I taught  thy  manners-painting  strains. 

The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends  ; 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila’s  plains, 

Become  thy  friends. 

‘ Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I shew, 

To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow ; 

Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Shenstone’s  art ; 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

‘ Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivalled  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Though  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throws 
His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 
Adown  the  glade. 

‘ Then  never  murmur  nor  repine ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine ; 

And  trust  me,  not  Potosi’s  mine, 

Nor  king’s  regard, 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  bard. 

‘ To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect ; 

And  trust,  the  universal  plan 
Will  all  protect. 

* And  wear  thou  this  ’ — she  solemn  said, 

And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head  : 

The  polished  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 

Burns  never  could  have  improved  upon  the  grace 
and  tenderness  of  this  romantic  vision — the  finest 
revelation  ever  made  of  the  hope  and  ambition  of  a 
youthful  poet.  Greater  strength,  however,  he  un- 
doubtedly acquired  with  the  experience  of  manhood. 
His  Tam  o’  Shunter,  and  Bruce’s  Address , are  the 
result  of  matured  powers ; and  his  songs  evince  a 
conscious  mastery  of  the  art  and  materials  of  com- 
position. His  Vision  of  Liberty  at  Lincluden  is  a 
great  and  splendid  fragment.  The  reflective  spirit 
evinced  in  his  early  epistles  is  found,  in  his  Lines 
Written  in  Friars’  Carse  Hermitage,  to  have  settled 
into  a deep  vein  of  moral  philosophy,  clear  and 
true  as  the  lines  of  Swift,  and  informed  with  a 


higher  wisdom.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Burns  abso- 
lutely fails  in  any  kind  of  composition,  except  in  his 
epigrams ; these  are  coarse  without  being  pointed 
or  entertaining.  Nature,  which  had  lavished  on 
him  such  powers  of  humour,  denied  him  wit. 

In  reviewing  the  intellectual  career  of  the  poet, 
his  correspondence  must  not  be  overlooked.  His 
prose  style  was  more  ambitious  than  that  of  his 
poetry.  In  the  latter  he  followed  the  dictates  of 
nature,  warm  from  the  heart,  whereas  in  his  letters 
he  aimed  at  being  sentimental,  peculiar,  and  strik- 
ing; and  simplicity  was  sometimes  sacrificed  for 
effect.  As  Johnson  considered  conversation  to  be 
an  intellectual  arena,  wherein  every  man  was  bound 
to  do  his  best,  Burns  seems  to  have  regarded  letter- 
writing in  much  the  same  light,  and  to  have 
considered  it  necessary  at  times  to  display  all 
his  acquisitions  to  amuse,  gratify,  or  astonish  his 
patronising  correspondents.  Considerable  deduc- 
tions must,  therefore,  be  made  from  his  published 
correspondence,  whether  regarded  as  an  index  to 
his  feelings  and  situation,  or  as  models  of  the 
epistolary  style.  In  subject,  he  adapted  himself  too 
much  to  the  character  and  tastes  of  the  person  he 
was  addressing,  and  in  style,  he  was  led  away  by  a 
love  of  display.  A tinge  of  pedantry  and  assump- 
tion, or  of  reckless  bravado,  was  thus  at  time§ 
superinduced  upon  the  manly  and  thoughtful 
simplicity  of  his  natural  character,  which  sits  as 
awkwardly  upon  it  as  the  intrusion  of  Jove  or 
Danae  into  the  rural  songs  of  Allan  Ramsay.* 

* The  scraps  of  French  in  his  letters  to  Dr  Moore,  Mrs 
Riddel,  &c.,  have  an  unpleasant  effect.  ‘ If  he  had  an  affecta- 
tion in  anything,’  says  Dugald  Stewart,  ‘ it  was  in  introducing 
occasionally  [in  conversation]  a word  or  phrase  from  that 
language.’  Campbell  makes  a similar  statement,  and  relates 
the  following  anecdote  : ‘ One  of  his  friends,  who  carried  him 
into  the  company  of  a French  lady,  remarked,  with  surprise, 
that  he  attempted  to  converse  with  her  in  her  own  tongue. 
Their  French,  however,  was  mutually  unintelligible.  As  far 
as  Burns  could  make  himself  understood,  he  unfortunately 
offended  the  foreign  lady.  He  meant  to  tell  her  that  she  was  a 
charming  person,  and  delightful  in  conversation,  but  expressed 
himself  so  as  to  appear  to  her  to  mean  that  she  was  fond  of 
speaking  : to  which  the  Gallic  dame  indignantly  replied,  that  it 
was  quite  as  common  for  poets  to  be  impertinent  as  for  women 
to  be  loquacious.’  The  friend  who  introduced  Burns  on  this 
occasion  (and  who  herself  related  the  anecdote  to  Mr  Camp- 
bell) was  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers,  afterwards  Mrs  Lewis  Hay, 
who  died  in  1843.  The  wonder  is.  that  the  dissipated  aristo- 
cracy of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  the  ‘ buckish  tradesmen 
of  Edinburgh,’  left  any  part  of  the  original  plainness  and 
simplicity  of  his  manners.  Yet  his  learned  friends  saw  no 
change  in  the  proud  self-sustained  and  self-measuring  poet. 
He  kept  his  ground,  and  he  asked  no  more.  ‘ A somewhat 
clearer  knowledge  of  men’s  affairs,  scarcely  of  their  charac- 
ters,’ says  the  quaint  but  true  and  searching  Thomas  Carlyle, 
‘ this  winter  in  Edinburgh  did  afford  him ; but  a sharper  feel- 
ing of  Fortune’s  unequal  arrangements  in  their  social  destiny 
it  also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay  and  gorgeous 
arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born  to  play  their  parts; 
nay,  had  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of  it;  and  he  felt  more 
bitterly  than  ever  that  here  he  was  but  a looker-on,  and  had 
no  part  or  lot  in  that  splendid  game.  From  this  time  a jealous 
indignant  fear  of  social  degradation  takes  possession  of  him; 
and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught  could  pervert,  his  private  con- 
tentment, and  his  feelings  towards  his  richer  fellows.  It  was 
clear  to  Burns  that  he  had  talent  enough  to  make  a fortune, 
or  a hundred  fortunes,  could  he  but  have  rightly  willed  this. 
It  was  clear  also  that  he  willed  something  far  different,  and 
therefore  could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he  had 
not  power  to  choose  the  one,  and  reject  the  other,  but  must 
halt  for  ever  between  two  opinions,  two  objects;  making 
hampered  advancement  towards  either.  But  so  it  is  with  many 
men:  “we  long  for  the  merchandise,  yet  would  fain  keep 
the  price ; ” and  so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate,  in  vexatious 
altercation,  till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is  over !’ 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  xo  1800. 


Burns’s  letters,  however,  are  valuable  as  memorials 
of  his  temperament  and  genius.  He  was  often  dis- 
tinct, forcible,  and  happy  in  expression — rich  in 
sallies  of  imagination  and  poetical  feeling — at  times 
deeply  pathetic  and  impressive.  He  lifts  the  veil 
from  the  miseries  of  his  latter  days  with  a hand 
struggling  betwixt  pride  and  a broken  spirit.  His 
autobiography,  addressed  to  Dr  Moore,  written 
when  his  mind  was  salient  and  vigorous,  is  as 
remarkable  for  its  literary  talent  as  for  its  modest 
independence  and  clear  judgment ; and  the  letters 
to  Mrs  Dunlop — in  whom  he  had  entire  confidence, 
and  whose  ladylike  manners  and  high  principle 
rebuked  his  wilder  spirit — are  all  characterised  by 
sincerity  and  elegance.  One  beautiful  letter  to  this 
lady  we  are  tempted  to  copy ; it  is  poetical  in  the 
highest  degree,  and  touches  with  exquisite  taste  on 
the  mysterious  union  between  external  nature  and 
the  sympathies  and  emotions  of  the  human  frame : 

‘ Ellisland,  Neiv-y  ear-day  Morning,  1789. 

‘This,  dear  madam,  is  a morning  of  wishes,  and 
would  to  God  that  I came  under  the  apostle  James’s 
description  ! — the  prayer  of  a righteous  man  availeth 
much.  In  that  case,  madam,  you  should  welcome  in 
a year  full  of  blessings : everything  that  obstructs 
or  disturbs  tranquillity  and  self- enjoyment  should 
be  removed,  and  every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity 
can  taste  should  be  jmurs.  I own  myself  so  little  a 
Presbyterian,  that  I approve  of  set  times  and  sea- 
sons of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion,  for 
breaking  in  on  that  habituated  routine  of  life  and 
thought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  existence  to 
a kind  of  instinct,  or  even  sometimes,  and  with 
some  minds,  to  a state  very  little  better  than  mere 
■machinery. 

‘This  day,  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a breezy, 
blue-skied  noon  some  time  about  the  beginning,  and 
a hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day  about  the 
end  of  autumn ; these,  time  out  of  mind,  have  been 
with  me  a kind  of  holiday. 

‘ I believe  I owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in  the 
Spectator — the  Vision  of  Mirza — a piece  that  struck 
my  young  fancy  before  I was  capable  of  fixing  an 
idea  to  a word  of  three  syllables : “ On  the  5tli  day 
of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  my 
forefathers,  I always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I 
■ascended  the  high  hill  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.” 

‘We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that 
'-one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing, 
or  struck  with  that,  which  on  minds  of  a different 
cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I have 
some  favourite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are 
the  mountain  daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the 
wild-brier  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary 
hawthorn,  that  I view  and  hang  over  with  parti- 
cular delight.  I never  hear  the  loud,  solitary 
whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a summer  noon,  or  the  wild 
mixing  cadence  of  a troop  of  gray  plovers  in  an 
autumnal  morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of 
soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell 
me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing? 
Are  we  a piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  AEolian 
harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing 
accident  ? Or  do  these  workings  argue  something 
within  us  above  the  trodden  clod?  I own  myself 
partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and  important 
realities— a God  that  made  all  things — man’s  imma- 
terial and  immortal  nature,  and  a world  of  weal  or 
woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave.’ 

100 


To  the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul, 
Burns  seems  to  have  clung  with  fond  tenacity: 
it  survived  the  wreck  or  confusion  of  his  early 
impressions,  and  formed  the  strongest  and  most 
soothing  of  his  beliefs.  In  other  respects,  his  creed 
was  chiefly  practical.  ‘Whatever  mitigates  the  woes, 
or  increases  the  happiness  of  others,’  he  says,  ‘ this 
is  my  criterion  of  goodness;  and  whatever  injures 
society  at  large,  or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my 
reason  of  iniquity.’  The  same  feeling  he  had 
expressed  in  one  of  his  early  poems-r- 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind, 
Through  all  his  works  abroad, 

The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God. 

Conjectures  have  been  idly  formed  as  to  the  probable 
effect  which  education  would  have  had  on  the  mind 
of  Burns.  We  may  as  well  speculate  on  the  change 
which  might  be  wrought  by  the  engineer,  the 
planter,  and  agriculturist,  in  assimilating  the  wild 
scenery  of  Scotland  to  that  of  England.  Who  would 
wish — if  it  were  possible — by  successive  graftings, 
to  make  the  birch  or  the  pine  approximate  to  the 
oak  or  the  elm  ? Nature  is  various  in  all  her  works, 
and  has  diversified  genius  as  much  as  she  has  done 
her  plants  and  trees.  In  Burns  we  have  a genuine 
Scottish  poet:  why  should  we  wish  to  mar  the 
beautiful  order  and  variety  of  nature  by  making 
him  a Dryden  or  a Gray?  Education  could  not 
have  improved  Burns’s  songs,  his  Tam  o’  Shanter, 
or  any  other  of  his  great  poems.  He  would  never 
have  written  them  but  for  his  situation  and  feelings 
as  a peasant — and  could  he  have  written  anything 
better?  The  whole  of  that  world  of  passion  and 
beauty  which  he  has  laid  open  to  us  might  have 
been  hid  for  ever ; and  the  genius  which  was  so  well 
and  worthily  employed  in  embellishing  rustic  life, 
and  adding  new  interest  and  glory  to  his  country, 
would  only  have  placed  him  in  the  long  procession 
of  English  poets,  stripped  of  his  originality,  and 
bearing,  though  proudly,  the  ensign  of  conquest 
and  submission. 

[From  Burns's  Epistles .] 

We’ll  sing  auld  Coila’s  plains  and  fells, 

Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather  bells, 

Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace’  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a spring-tide  flood  ! 

Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
By  Wallace’  side, 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  died ! 

O sweet  are  Coila’s  haughs  and  woods, 

When  lint  whites  chant  amang  the  buds, 

And  jinkin’  hares  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 

While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 
With  wailfu’  cry ! 

Even  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked  tree ; 

Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 
Are  hoary  gray  : 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee, 

Darkening  the  day ! 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


0 nature  ! a’  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi’  life  and  light, 

Or  winter  howls  in  gusty  storms 
The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel  he  learned  to  wander, 

Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander, 

And  no  think  lang ; 

0 sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 

A heart-felt  sang ! 

Then  farewell  hopes  o’  laurel-houghs, 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows ! 

Henceforth  I ’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang, 

And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 

1 ’ll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed, 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread ; 

Then,  all  unknown, 

I ’ll  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead 
Forgot  and  gone  ! 

But  why  o’  death  begin  a tale  ? 

Just  now  we’re  living  sound  and  hale, 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o’er  side  ! 

And  large  before  enjoyment’s  gale, 

Let ’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far ’s  I understand, 

Is  a’  enchanted  fairy  land, 

Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That,  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield ; 

For,  ance  that  five- and-forty ’s  speeled, 

See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi’  wrinkled  face, 

Comes  hostin’,  hirplin’  owre  the  field, 

Wi’  creepin’  pace. 

When  ance  life’s  day  draws  near  the  gloamin’, 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin’ ; 

And  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin’, 

And  social  noise  ; 

And  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman  ! 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

0 Life  ! how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 

Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  caution’s  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 

Like  school-hoys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves ! 

And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

To  a Mountain  Daisy , 

On  turning  one  down  with  the  plough  in  April  178C. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 

Thou ’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 


For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem  : 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas ! it ’s  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 

The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi’  spreckled  breast, 

When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east ! 

Cauld  blew  the  hitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 

High  sheltering  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield : 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  flow’ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starred ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink, 

Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn’st  the  daisy’s  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom. 


On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson , 

A gentleman  who  held  the  patent  for  his  honours  immediately 
from  Almighty  God. 

• Should  the  poor  be  flattered  V—Slialsspeare. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright; 

Ill's  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A matchless  heavenly  light! 

0 Death  ! thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 

The  meikle  devil  wi’  a woodie 

101 


FROil  17  GO 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 
O’er  hui’cheon  hides, 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides  ! 

He ’s  gane  ! he ’s  gane  ! he ’s  frae  ns  torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  bom ! 

Thee,  Alatthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  mourn 
By  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled ! 

Ye  hills,  near  neibors  o’  the  stams, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns,1 
Where  echo  slumbers  ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 
lily  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 

Ye  hazelly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 

Ye  burnies,  wimpling  down  your  glens 
Wi’  toddlin’  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lea ; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 

Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie 

In  scented  bowers ; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flowers. 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a diamond  at  its  head, 

At  even,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 
F the  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins,  whiddin  through  the  glade, 
Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 

Ye  curlews  calling  through  a clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood ! 

He ’s  gane  for  ever  ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals, 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  ; 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
Circling  the  lake ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Bair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clamering  craiks  at  close  o’  day, 
’Mang  fields  o’  flowering  clover  gay ; 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

Tell  thae  far  worlds  wha  lies  in  clay 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bower, 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tower, 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glower 
Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  through  the  dreary  midnight  hour 
Till  waukrife  mom ! 

0 rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  woe  ? 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 


102 


Eagles. 


Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year, 

Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a tear  : 

Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head. 

Thy  gay,  green,  flowery  tresses  shear 
For  him  that ’s  dead. 

Thou,  autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 

Thou,  winter,  hurling  through  the  air 
The  roaring  blast, 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 

Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  stamies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

For  through  your  orb  he ’s  ta’en  his  flight* 
Ne’er  to  return. 

0 Henderson  ! the  man — the  brother  ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 

And  hast  thou  crossed  that  unknown  river, 
Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 

Like  thee,  where  shall  we  find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I ’ll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth. 


[Sbftyw.] 

Macpherson' s Farewell. 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch’s  destinie  ! 

Macpherson’ s time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

Sae  rantinglv,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 

He  played  a spring,  and  danced  it  round, 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ! 

On  many  a bloody  plain 
I ’ve  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword ; 

And  there ’s  no  a man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I ’ll  brave  him  at  a word. 

I ’ve  lived  a life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I die  by  treacherie  ; 

It  bums  my  heart  I must  depart 
And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light — thou  sunshine  bright, 
And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  ! 


Menie. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steeped  in  morning  dews. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw. 

In  vain  to  me  the  violets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  plough-boy  cheers  his  team, 

"Wi’  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks ; 

But  life  to  me ’s  a weary  dream, 

A dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 

And  everything  is  blessed  but  L 

The  shepherd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 

I meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark, 
Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 

A woe-worn  ghaist  I hameward  glide. 

Come,  "Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree : 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 

When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 

Ae  Fond  Kiss. 

£*  These  exquisitely  affecting  stanzas  contain  the  essence  of  a 
thousand  love-tales.’— Scott.] 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas ! for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I ’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I ’ll  wage  thee. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him, 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 

Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me  ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I ’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas  ! for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I ’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee  ! 

My  Bonny  Mary. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine, 

And  fill  it  in  a silver  tassie ; 

That  I may  drink,  before  I go, 

A service  to  my  bonny  lassie ; 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith, 

Fu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry ; 

The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I maun  leave  my  bonny  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready ; 

The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody ; 


But  it ’s  not  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore 
Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry  ; 
Nor  shouts  o’  war  that ’s  heard  afar — 
It ’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonny  Mary. 


Mary  Morison. 

[‘One  of  my  juvenile  works.’ — Burns.  ‘Of  all  the  produc- 
tions of  Burns,  the  pathetic  and  serious  love-songs  which  he 
has  left  behind  him  in  the  manner  of  old  ballads,  are  perhaps 
those  which  take  the  deepest  and  most  lasting  hold  of  the  mind. 
Such  are  the  lines  of  Mary  Morison , &c .’—Hazlitt.] 

0 Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour ! 

Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor  : 

How  blithely  wad  I bide  the  stoure, 

A weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 

Could  I the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha’, 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

1 sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a’, 

4 Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.’ 

0 Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shewn ; 

A thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 


Bruce's  Address. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victory ! 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now ’s  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power — 
Chains  and  slavery ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’, 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains  ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

103 


from  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


Lincluden  Abbey. 


A Vision* 

As  I stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa’ -flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 

Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care ; 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

And  the  distant  echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 

Was  rushing  by  the  ruined  was, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 

Whose  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa’s. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi’  hissing  eerie  din  ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 

Like  fortune’s  favours,  tint  as  win. 

* A favourite  walk  of  Burns  during  his  residence  in  Dumfries 
was  one  along  the  right  bank  of  the  river  above  the  town, 
terminating  at  the  ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey  and  Church, 
which  occupy  a romantic  situation  on  a piece  of  rising  ground 
in  the  angle  at  the  junction  of  the  Cluden  Water  with  the  Nith. 
These  ruins  include  many  fine  fragments  of  ancient  decorative 
architecture,  and  are  enshrined  in  a natural  scene  of  the 
utmost  beauty.  Burns,  according  to  his  eldest  son,  often 
mused  amidst  the  Lincluden  ruins.  There  is  one  position  on 
a little  mount,  to  the  south  of  the  church,  where  a couple 
of  landscapes  of  witching  loveliness  are  obtained,  set,  as  it 
were,  in  two  of  the  windows  of  the  ancient  building.  It  was 
probably  the  * Calvary  ’ of  the  ancient  church  precinct.  This 
the  younger  Burns  remembered  to  have  been  a favourite 
resting-place  of  the  poet. 

Such  is  the  locality  of  the  grand  and  thrilling  ode,  entitled 
A Vision,  in  which  he  hints— for  more  than  a hint  could  not 
be  ventured  upon— his  sense  of  the  degradation  of  the  ancient 
manly  spirit  of  his  country  under  the  conservative  terrors  of 
the  passing  era. — Chambers's  Burns. 

104 


By  heedless  chance  I turned  mine  eyes, 

And,  by  the  moonbeam,  shook  to  see 

A stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 

Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I a statue  been  o’  stane, 

His  dariu’  look  had  daunted  me ; 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain. 

The  sacred  posy — ‘ Libertie ! ’ 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 

Might  roused  the  slumb’ring  dead  to  hear ; 

But  oh  ! it  was  a tale  of  woe, 

As  ever  met  a Briton’s  ear. 

He  sang  wi’  joy  the  former  day, 

He  weeping  wailed  his  latter  times ; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play — 

I winna  ventur ’t  in  my  rhymes. 


Man  was  Made  to  Mourn — a Dirge. 

"When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  evening,  as  I wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I spied  a man  whose  aged  step 
Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care ; 

His  face  was  furrowed  o’er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

‘ Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  ?* 
Began  the  reverend  sage : 

‘ Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 
Or  youthful  pleasure’s  rage  ! 

Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


4 The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 

Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 
A haughty  lordling’s  pride : 

I ’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 
Twice  forty  times  return, 

And  eveiy  time  has  added  proofs 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

4 0 man  ! while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ; 

Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway ; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature’s  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

4 Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood’s  active  might ; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right : 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn ; 

Then  age  and  want — 0 ill-matched  pair  ! — 
Shew  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

4 A few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure’s  lap  carest ; 

Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  oh  ! what  crowds  in  every  land, 

All  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 

Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

‘ Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ; 


And  man,  whose  heaven- erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

4 See  yonder  poor,  o’erlaboured  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

Who  begs  a brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful  though  a weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

4 If  I ’m  designed  yon  lordling’s  slave — 

By  Nature’s  law  designed — 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 

If  not,  why  am  I subject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 

4 Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last  ? 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

4 0 Death  ! the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend- 
The  kindest  and  the  best ! 

Welcome  the  hour,  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 
From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ! 

But,  oh  ! a blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn  ! ’ 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


ALEXANDER  WILSON. 

Alexander  Wilson,  a distinguished  naturalist, 
was  also  a good  Scottish  poet.  He  was  a native  of 
Paisley,  and  born  July  6,  1766.  He  was  brought 
up  to  the  trade  of  a weaver,  but  afterwards  preferred 


Alexander  Wilson. 


that  of  a pedler,  selling  muslin  and  other  , wares.  In 
1789,  he  added  to  his  other  commodities  a prospectus 
of  a volume  of  poems,  trusting,  as  he  said, 

If  the  pedler  should  fail  to  be  favoured  with  sale, 

Then  I hope  you  ’ll  encourage  the  poet. 

He  did  not  succeed  in  either  character;  and  after 
publishing  his  poems,  he  returned  to  the  loom.  In 
1792,  he  issued  anonymously  his  best  poem,  Watty 
and  Meg , which  was  at  first  attributed  to  Burns.* 
A foolish  personal  satire,  and  a not  very  wise  admir- 
ation of  the  principles  of  equality  disseminated  at 
the  time  of  the  French  Devolution,  drove  Wilson 
to  America  in  the  year  1794.  There  he  was  once 
more  a weaver  and  a pedler,  and  afterwards  a 
schoolmaster.  A love  of  ornithology  gained  upon 
him,  and  he  wandered  over  America,  collecting 
specimens  of  birds.  In  1808,  appeared  his  first 
volume  of  the  American  Ornithology , and  he  con- 
tinued collecting  and  publishing,  traversing  swamps 
and  forests  in  quest  of  rare  birds,  and  undergoing 
the  greatest  privations  and  fatigues,  till  he  had 
committed  an  eighth  volume  to  the  press.  He 
sank  under  his  severe  labours  on  the  23d  of  August 
1813,  and  was  interred  with  public  honours  at 
Philadelphia.  In  the  Ornithology  of  Wilson  we 
see  the  fancy  and  descriptive  powers  of  the  poet. 
The  following  extract  is  part  of  his  account  of  the 
bald  eagle,  and  is  extremely  vivid  and  striking : 

* As  Burns  was  one  day  sitting  at  his  desk  by  the  side  of  the 
window,  a well-known  hawker,  Andrew  Bishop,  went  past 
crying : * Watty  and  Meg , a new  ballad,  by  Robert  Burns.’ 
The  poet  looked  out  and  said  : ‘That’s  a lee,  Andrew,  but  I 
would  make  your  plack  a bawbee  if  it  were  mine.’  This  we 
heard  Mrs  Burns,  the  poet’s  widow,  relate. 

106 


[The  Bald  Eaglet] 

The  celebrated  cataract  of  Niagara  is  a noted  place 
of  resort  for  the  bald  eagle,  as  well  on  account  of  the 
fish  procured  there,  as  for  the  numerous  carcasses  of 
squirrels,  deer,  bears,  and  various  other  animals  that, 
in  their  attempts  to  cross  the  river  above  the  falls,  have 
been  dragged  into  the  current,  and  precipitated  down 
that  tremendous  gulf,  where,  among  the  rocks  that 
bound  the  rapids  below,  they  furnish  a rich  repast  for 
the  vulture,  the  raven,  and  the  bald  eagle,  the  subject 
of  the  present  account.  He  has  been  long  known  to 
naturalists,  being  common  to  both  continents,  and 
occasionally  met  with  from  a very  high  northern  lati- 
tude to  the  borders  of  the  torrid  zone,  but  chiefly  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  sea,  and  along  the  shores  and  cliffs 
of  our  lakes  and  large  rivers.  Formed  by  nature  for 
braving  the  severest  cold,  feeding  equally  on  the  produce 
of  the  sea  and  of  the  land,  possessing  powers  of  flight 
capable  of  outstripping  even  the  tempests  themselves, 
unawed  by  anything  but  man,  and,  from  the  ethereal 
heights  to  which  he  soars,  looking  abroad  at  one  glance 
on  an  immeasurable  expanse  of  forests,  fields,  lakes, 
and  ocean  deep  below  him,  he  appears  indifferent  to 
the  little  localities  of  change  of  seasons,  as  in  a few 
minutes  he  can  pass  from  summer  to  winter,  from  the 
lower  to  the  higher  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  the 
abode  of  eternal  cold,  and  from  thence  descend  at  will 
to  the  torrid  or  the  arctic  regions  of  the  earth. 

In  procuring  these,  he  displays,  in  a very  singular 
manner,  the  genius  and  energy  of  his  character,  which 
is  fierce,  contemplative,  daring,  and  tyrannical;  attri- 
butes not  exerted  but  on  particular  occasions,  but  when 
put  forth,  overpowering  all  opposition.  Elevated  on  the 
high  dead  limb  of  some  gigantic  tree  that  commands  a 
wide  view  of  the  neighbouring  shore  and  ocean,  he  seems 
calmly  to  contemplate  the  motions  of  the  various  feathered 
tribes  that  pursue  their  busy  avocations  below ; the  snow- 
white  gulls  slowly  winnowing  the  air ; the  busy  tringse 
coursing  along  the  sands ; trains  of  ducks  streaming 
over  the  surface ; silent  and  watchful  cranes  intent  and 
wading ; clamorous  crows ; and  all  the  winged  multitudes 
that  subsist  by  the  bounty  of  this  vast  liquid  magazine 
of  nature.  High  over  all  these,  hovers  one  whose  action 
instantly  arrests  his  whole  attention.  By  his  wide  curv- 
ature of  wing,  and  sudden  suspension  in  air,  he  knows 
him  to  be  the  fish-hawk,  settling  over  some  devoted 
victim  of  the  deep.  His  eye  kindles  at  the  sight,  and 
balancing  himself  with  half-opened  wings  on  the  branch, 
he  watches  the  result.  Down,  rapid  as  an  arrow  from 
heaven,  descends  the  distant  object  of  his  attention, 
the  roar  of  its  wings  reaching  the  ear  as  it  disappears 
in  the  deep,  making  the  surges  foam  around.  At  this 
moment  the  eager  looks  of  the  eagle  are  all  ardour; 
and,  levelling  his  neck  for  flight,  he  sees  the  fish-hawk 
once  more  emerge,  struggling  with  his  prey,  and  mount- 
ing in  the  air  with  screams  of  exultation.  These  are 
the  signal  for  our  hero,  who,  launching  into  the  air, 
instantly  gives  chase,  and  soon  gains  on  the  fish-hawk  ; 
each  exerts  his  utmost  to  mount  above  the  other,  dis- 
playing in  these  rencontres  the  most  elegant  and  sublime 
aerial  evolutions.  The  unencumbered  eagle  rapidly 
advances,  and  is  just  on  the  point  of  reaching  his 
opponent,  when,  with  a sudden  scream,  probably  of 
despair  and  honest  execration,  the  latter  drops  his 
fish  : the  eagle,  poising  himself  for  a moment,  as  if  to 
take  a more  certain  aim,  descends  like  a whirlwind, 
snatches  it  in  his  grasp  ere  it  reaches  the  water,  and 
bears  his  ill-gotten  booty  silently  away  to  the  woods. 

By  way  of  preface,  ‘to  invoke  the  clemency  of 
the  reader,’  Wilson  relates  the  following  exquisite 
trait  of  simplicity  and  nature : 

‘ In  one  of  my  late  visits  to  a friend  in  the 
country,  I found  their  youngest  son,  a fine  boy  of 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALEXANDER  WILSON. 


eight  or  nine  years  of  age,  who  usually  resides  in 
town  for  his  education,  just  returning  from  a ramble 
through  the  neighbouring  woods  and  fields,  where 
he  had  collected  a large  and  very  handsome  bunch 
of  wild-flowers,  of  a great  many  different  colours ; 
and,  presenting  them  to  his  mother,  said : “ Look, 
my  dear  mamma,  what  beautiful  flowers  I have 
found  growing  on  our  place ! Why,  all  the  woods 
are  full  of  them!  red,  orange,  and  blue,  and  ’most 
every  colour.  Oh ! I can  gather  you  a whole  parcel 
of  them,  much  handsomer  than  these,  all  growing 
in  our  own  woods ! Shall  I,  mamma  ? Shall  I go 
and  bring  you  more  ? ” The  good  woman  received 
the  bunch  of  flowers  with  a smile  of  affectionate 
complacency;  and,  after  admiring  for  some  time 
the  beautiful  simplicity  of  nature,  gave  her  willing 
consent,  and  the  little  fellow  went  off  on  the  wings 
of  ecstasy  to  execute  his  delightful  commission. 

‘ The  similarity  of  this  little  boy’s  enthusiasm  to 
my  own  struck  me,  and  the  reader  will  need  no 
explanations  of  mine  to  make  the  application. 
Should  my  country  receive  with  the  same  gracious 
indulgence  the  specimens  which  I here  humbly 
present  her ; should  she  express  a desire  for  me  to 
go  and  bring  her  more,  the  highest  wishes  of  my 
ambition  will  be  gratified ; for,  in  the  language  of 
my  little  friend,  our  whole  woods  are  full  of  them, 
and  I can  collect  hundreds  more,  much  handsomer 
than  these.’ 

The  ambition  of  the  poet-naturalist  was  amply 
gratified. 

[A  Village  Scold.] 

Y the  thrang  o’  stories  tellin, 

Shakin  hands  and  jokin  queer, 

Swifch  ! a chap  comes  on  the  hallan — 

‘Mungo  ! is  our  Watty  here  V 

Maggy’s  weel-kent  tongue  and  hurry 
Darted  through  him  like  a knife  : 

Up  the  door  flew — like  a fury 
In  came  Watty’s  scoldin  wife. 

‘Nasty,  gude-for-naething  being ! 

0 ye  snuffy  drucken  sow  ! 

Bringin  wife  and  weans  to  ruin, 

Drinkin  here  wi’  sic  a crew ! 

‘ Rise  ! ye  drucken  beast  o’  Bethel ! 

Drink’s  your  night  and  day’s  desire; 

Rise,  this  precious  hour  ! or  faith  I ’ll 
Fling  your  whisky  i’  the  fire !’ 

Watty  heard  her  tongue  unhallowed, 

Paid  his  groat  wi’  little  din, 

Left  the  house,  while  Maggy  followed, 

Flyting  a’  the  road  bellin’. 

Folk  frae  every  door  came  lampin, 

Maggy  curst  them  ane  and  a’, 

Clapped  wi’  her  hands,  and  stampin, 

Lost  her  bauchels1  i’  the  snaw. 

Hame,  at  length,  she  turned  the  gavel, 

Wi’  a face  as  white ’s  a clout, 

Ragin  like  a very  devil, 

Kickin  stools  and  chairs  about. 

‘Ye’ll  sit  wi’  your  limmers  round  ye — 

Hang  you,  sir,  I ’ll  be  your  death  ! 

Little  hauds  my  hands,  confound  you, 

But  I cleave  you  to  the  teeth ! ’ 

1 Old  shoes. 


Watty,  wha,  ’midst  this  oration, 

Eyed  her  whiles,  but  durst  na  speak, 

Sat,  like  patient  Resignation, 
Trembling  by  the  ingle-cheek. 

Sad  his  wee  drap  brose  he  sippet — 
Maggy’s  tongue  gaed  like  a bell — 

Quietly  to  his  bed  he  slippet, 

Sighin  aften  to  himsel — 

‘ Nane  are  free  frae  some  vexation, 

Ilk  ane  has  his  ills  to  dree  ; 

But  through  a’  the  hale  creation 
Is  nae  mortal  vexed  like  me.’ 


[A  Pedler’s  Story .] 

I wha  stand  here,  in  this  bare  scowry  coat, 

Was  ance  a packman,  worth  mony  a groat ; 

I ’ve  carried  packs  as  big ’s  your  meikle  table  ; 

I ’ve  scarted  pats,  and  sleepit  in  a stable  : 

Sax  pounds  I wadna  for  my  pack  ance  ta’en, 

And  I could  bauldly  brag  ’twas  a’  mine  ain. 

Ay ! thae  were  days  indeed,  that  gared  me  hope, 
Aiblins,  through  time  to  warsle  up  a shop  ; 

And  as  a wife  aye  in  my  noddle  ran, 

I kenned  my  Kate  wad  grapple  at  me  than. 

Oh,  Kate  was  past  compare  ! sic  cheeks  ! sic  een  ! 

Sic  smiling  looks  ! were  never,  never  seen. 

Dear,  dear  I lo’ed  her,  and  whene’er  we  met, 

Pleaded  to  have  the  bridal-day  but  set ; 

Stapped  her  pouches  fu’  o’  preens  and  laces, 

And  thought  mysel  weel  paid  wi’  twa  three  kisses  : 
Yet  still  she  put  it  aff  frae  day  to  day, 

And  aften  kindly  in  my  lug  would  say : 

‘ Ae  half-year  langer ’s  no  nae  unco  stop, 

We’ll  marry  then,  and  syne  set  up  a shop.’ 

Oh,  sir,  but  lasses’  words  are  saft  and  fair, 

They  soothe  our  griefs  and  banish  ilka  care  : 

Wha  wadna  toil  to  please  the  lass  he  lo’es  ? 

A lover  true  minds  this  in  all  he  does. 

Finding  her  mind  was  thus  sae  firmly  bent, 

And  that  I couldna  get  her  to  relent, 

There  was  nought  left  but  quietly  to  resign, 

To  heeze  my  pack  for  ae  lang  hard  campaign  ; 

And  as  the  Highlands  was  the  place  for  meat, 

I ventured  there  in  spite  o’  wind  and  weet. 

Cauld  now  the  winter  blew,  and  deep  the  snaw 
For  three  hale  days  incessantly  did  fa’  ; 

Far  in  a muir,  amang  the  whirling  drift, 

Where  nought  was  seen  but  mountains  and  the  lift, 

I lost  my  road,  and  wrandered  mony  a mile, 

Maist  dead  wi’  hunger,  cauld,  and  fright,  and  toil. 
Thus  wandering,  east  or  west,  I kenned  na  where, 

My  mind  o’ercome  wi’  gloom  and  black  despair, 

Wi’  a fell  ringe  I plunged  at  ance,  forsooth, 

Down  through  a wreath  o’  snaw  up  to  my  mouth — • 
Clean  owre  my  head  my  precious  wallet  flew, 

But  whar  it  gaed,  Lord  kens — I never  knew ! 

What  great  misfortunes  are  poured  down  on  some ! 
I thought  my  fearfu’  hinder-end  was  come  ! 

Wi’  grief  and  sorrow  was  my  saul  owercast, 

Ilk  breath  I drew  was  like  to  be  my  last ; 

For  aye  the  mair  I warsled  roun’  and  roun’, 

I fand  mysel  aye  stick  the  deeper  down  ; 

Till  ance,  at  length,  wi’  a prodigious  pull, 

I drew  my  puir  cauld  carcass  frae  the  hole. 

Lang,  lang  I sought  and  graped  for  my  pack, 

Till  night  and  hunger  forced  me  to  come  back. 

For  three  lang  hours  I wandered  up  and  down, 

Till  chance  at  last  conveyed  me  to  a town  ; 

There,  wi’  a trembling  hand,  I wrote  my  Kate 
A sad  account  of  a’  my  luckless  fate, 

But  bade  her  aye  be  kind,  and  no  despair, 

Since  life  was  left,  I soon  would  gather  mair, 

107 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


from  1760 


Wi’  whilk  I hoped,  within  a towmont’s  date, 

To  he  at  hame,  and  share  it  a’  wi’  Kate. 

Fool  that  I was ! how  little  did  I think 
That  love  would  soon  he  lost  for  faut  o’  clink  ! 

The  loss  o’  fair-won  wealth,  though  hard  to  hear, 
Afore  this — ne’er  had  power  to  force  a tear. 

I trusted  time  would  bring  things  round  again, 

And  Kate,  dear  Kate  ! would  then  he  a’  mine  ain  : 
Consoled  my  mind  in  hopes  o’  better  luck — 

But,  oh  ! what  sad  reverse  ! how  thunderstruck  ! 
"When  ae  black  day  brought  word  frae  Rab  my  brither, 
That — Kate  was  cried  and  married  on  anither! 

Though  a’  my  friends,  and  ilka  comrade  sweet, 

At  ance  had  drapped  cauld  dead  at  my  feet ; 

Or  though  I ’d  heard  the  last  day’s  dreadful  ca’, 

Nae  deeper  horror  owre  my  heart  could  fa’ : 

I cursed  mysel,  I cursed  my  luckless  fate, 

And  grat — and  sabbing  cried,  ‘0  Kate  ! 0 Kate  !’ 
Frae  that  day  forth  I never  mair  did  weel, 

But  drank,  and  ran  headforemost  to  the  deil ! 

My  siller  vanished,  far  frae  hame  I pined, 

But  Kate  for  ever  ran  across  my  mind ; 

In  her  were  a’  my  hopes — these  hopes  were  vain, 

And  now  I’ll  never  see  her  like  again. 


HECTOR  31 ACNEILL. 

Hector  Macneill  (1746-1818)  was  brought  up 
to  a mercantile  life,  but  was  unsuccessful  in  most  of 
his  business  affairs.  He  cultivated  in  secret  an 
attachment  to  the  muses,  which  at  length  brought 
him  fame,  though  not  wealth.  In  1789,  he  published 
a legendary  poem,  The  Harp , and  in  1795,  his  moral 
tale,  Scotland’s  Sfcaith,  or  the  History  o’  Will  and 
Jean . The  object  of  this  production  was  to  depict 
the  evil  effects  of  intemperance.  A happy  rural 
pair  are  reduced  to  ruin,  descending  by  gradual 
steps  till  the  husband  is  obliged  to  enlist  as  a soldier, 
and  the  wife  to  beg  with  her  children  through  the 
country.  The  situation  of  the  little  ale-house  where 
Will  begins  his  unlucky  potations  is  finely  described. 

In  a howm  whose  bonny  burnie 

Whimpering  rowed  its  crystal  food, 

Near  the  road  where  travellers  turn  aye, 

Neat  and  beild  a cot-house  stood  : 

White  the  wa’s  wi’  roof  new  theekit, 

Window  broads  just  painted  red  ; 

Lown  ’mang  trees  and  braes  it  reekit, 

Haflins  seen  and  haflins  hid. 

Up  the  gavel-end  thick  spreading 
Crap  the  clasping  ivy  green, 

Back  owre  firs  the  high  craigs  cleadin, 

Raised  a’  round  a cosey  screen. 

Down  below  a flowery  meadow 
Joined  the  burnie’s  rambling  line ; 

Here  it  was  that  Howe  the  widow 
That  same  day  set  up  her  sign. 

Brattling  down  the  brae,  and  near  its 
Bottom,  Will  first  marvelling  sees 

* Porter,  Ale,  and  British  Spirits,’ 

Painted  bright  between  twa  trees. 

‘Godsake,  Tam  ! here’s  walth  for  drinking  ! 

Wha  can  this  new-comer  be  ?’ 

‘Hout,’  quo’  Tam,  ‘there’s  drouth  in  thinking — 
Let ’s  in,  Will,  and  syne  we  ’ll  see.’ 

The  rustic  friends  have  a jolly  meeting,  and  do  not 
separate  till  ‘’tween  twa  and  three’  next  morning. 

108 


A weekly  club  is  set  up  at  Maggy  Howe’s,  a news- 
paper is  procured,  and  poor  Will,  the  hero  of  the 
tale,  becomes  a pot-house  politician,  and  soon  goes 
to  ruin.  His  wife  also  takes  to  drinking. 

Wha  was  ance  like  Willie  Gairlace  ? 

Wha  in  neebouring  town  or  farm  ? 

Beauty’s  bloom  shone  in  his  fair  face, 

Deadly  strength  was  in  his  arm. 

Whan  he  first  saw  Jeanie  Miller, 

Wha  wi’  Jeanie  could  compare? 

Thousands  had  mair  braws  and  siller, 

But  war  ony  half  sae  fair  ? 

See  them  now! — how  changed  wi’  drinking ! 

A’  their  youthfu’  beauty  gane  ! 

Davered,  doited,  daized,  and  blinking — 

Worn  to  perfect  skin  and  bane  ! 

In  the  cauld  month  o’  November — 

Claise  and  cash  and  credit  out — 

Cowering  o’er  a dying  ember, 

Wi’  ilk  face  as  white ’s  a clout ! 

Bond  and  bill  and  debts  a’  stoppit, 

Ilka  sheaf  selt  on  the  bent ; 

Cattle,  beds,  and  blankets  roupit 
Now  to  pay  the  laird  his  rent. 

No  anither  night  to  lodge  here — 

No  a friend  their  cause  to  plead ! 

He ’s  ta’en  on  to  be  a sodger, 

She  wi’  weans  to  beg  her  bread  ! 

The  little  domestic  drama  is  happily  wound  up:  j 
Jeanie  obtains  a cottage  and  protection  from  the  j 
Duchess  of  Buccleuch ; and  Will,  after  losing  a leg  j 
in  battle,  returns,  ‘ placed  on  Chelsea’s  bounty,’  and 
finds  his  wife  and  family. 

Sometimes  briskly,  sometimes  flagging 
Sometimes  helpit,  Will  gat  forth ; 

On  a cart,  or  in  a wagon, 

Hirpling  aye  towards  the  north. 

Tired  ae  e’ening,  stepping  hooly, 

Pondering  on  his  thraward  fate, 

In  the  bonny  month  o’  July, 

Willie,  heedless,  tint  his  gate. 

Saft  the  southland  breeze  was  blawing, 

Sweetly  sughed  the  green  aik  wood ; 

Loud  the  din  o’  streams  fast  fa’ing, 

Strack  the  ear  wi’  thundering  thud  : 

Ewes  and  lambs  on  braes  ran  bleating ; 

Linties  chirped  on  ilka  tree ; 

Frae  the  west  the  sun,  near  setting, 

Flamed  on  Roslin’s  towers  sae  hie. 

Roslin’s  towers  and  braes  sae  bonny  ! 

Craigs  and  water,  woods  and  glen  ! 

Roslin’s  banks  unpeered  by  ony, 

Save  the  Muses’  Hawthomden  ! 

Ilka  sound  and  charm  delighting, 

Will — though  haruly  fit  to  gang — 

Wandered  on  through  scenes  inviting. 

Listening  to  the  mavis’  sang. 

Faint  at  length,  the  day  fast  closing, 

On  a fragrant  strawberry  steep, 

Esk’s  sweet  dream  to  rest  composing, 

Wearied  nature  drapt  asleep. 


SCOTTISn  POETS. 


RICHARD  GALL. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


‘ Soldier,  rise  ! — the  dews  o’  e’ening 
Gathering,  fa’  wi’  deadly  skaith  ! — 

Wounded  soldier ! if  complaining, 

Sleep  na  here,  and  catch  your  death.’ 

* * * 

Silent  stept  he  on,  poor  fellow  ! 

Listening  to  his  guide  before, 

O’er  green  knowe  and  flowery  hollow, 

Till  they  reached  the  cot-house  door. 

Laigh  it  was,  yet  sweet  and  humble ; 

Decked  wi’  honeysuckle  round ; 

Clear  below  Esk’s  waters  rumble, 

Deep  glens  murmuring  back  the  sound. 

Melville’s  towers  sae  white  and  stately, 

Dim  by  gloaming  glint  to  view ; 

Through  Lasswade’s  dark  woods  keek  sweetly, 
Skies  sae  red  and  lift  sae  blue. 

Entering  now,  in  transport  mingle 
Mother  fond  and  happy  wean, 

Smiling  round  a canty  ingle 
Bleezing  on  a clean  hearth  stane. 

‘ Soldier,  welcome ! come,  be  cheerie — 

Here  ye  ’se  rest  and  tak’  your  bed — 

Faint,  w'ae’s  me  ! ye  seem,  and  weary, 

Pale ’s  your  cheek  sae  lately  red  !’ 

‘ Changed  I am,’  sighed  Willie  till  her ; 

‘ Changed,  nae  doubt,  as  changed  can  be  ! 

Yet,  alas  ! does  Jeanie  Miller 
Nought  o’  Willie  Gairlace  see?’ 

Hae  ye  marked  the  dews  o’  morning 
Glittering  in  the  sunny  ray, 

Quickly  fa’,  when,  without  warning, 

Rough  blasts  came  and  shook  the  spray  ? 

Hae  ye  seen  the  bird  fast  fleeing, 

Drap  when  pierced  by  death  mair  fleet  ? 

Then  see  Jean  wi’  colour  deeing, 

Senseless  drap  at  Willie’s  feet. 

After  three  lang  years’  affliction — 

A’  their  waes  now  hushed  to  rest — 

Jean  ance  mair,  in  fond  affection, 

Clasps  her  Willie  to  her  breast. 

The  simple  truth  and  pathos  of  descriptions  like 
these  appealed  to  the  heart,  and  soon  rendered 
Macneill’s  poem  universally  popular  in  Scotland. 
Its  moral  tendency  was  also  a strong  recommend- 
ation, and  the  same  causes  still  operate  in  procuring 
readers  for  the  tale,  especially  in  that  class  best 
fitted  to  appreciate  its  rural  beauties  and  homely 
pictures,  and  to  receive  benefit  from  the  lessons  it 
inculcates.  Macneill  -wrote  several  Scottish  lyrics, 
but  he  wanted  the  true  genius  for  song-writing — the 
pathos,  artlessness,  and  simple  gaiety  which  should 
accompany  the  flow  of  the  music.  lie  published  a 
descriptive  poem,  entitled  The  Links  of  Forth , or  a 
Parting  Peep  at  the  Carse  of  Stirling ; and  some  prose 
tales,  in  which  he  laments  the  effect  of  modern 
change  and  improvement.  The  latter  years  of  the 
poet  were  spent  in  comparative  comfort  at  Edin- 
burgh, where  he  enjoyed  the  refined  and  literary 
society  of  the  Scottish  capital  till  an  advanced  age. 

Mary  of  Castle- Cary. 

1 Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  ain  thing, 

Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea — 

Crossed  she  the  meadow  yestreen  at  the  gloaming, 
Sought  she  the  burnie  where  flowers  the  haw-tree ; 


Her  hair  it  is  lint-white,  her  skin  it  is  milk-white, 
Dark  is  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  e’e  ; 

Red,  red  are  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses, 
Where  could  my  wee  thing  wander  frae  me  ? ’ 

‘ I saw  nae  your  wee  thing,  I saw  nae  your  ain  thing, 
Nor  saw  I your  true  love  down  by  yon  lea  ; 

But  I met  my  bonny  thing  late  in  the  gloaming, 
Down  by  the  burnie  where  flowers  the  haw-tree  : 
Her  hair  it  was  lint-white,  her  skin  it  was  milk-white, 
Dark  was  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  e’e ; 

Red  were  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses — 
Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me.’ 

‘ It  was  nae  my  wee  thing,  it  was  nae  my  ain  thing, 

It  was  nae  my  true  lov|  ye  met  by  the  tree  : 

Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  and  modest  her  nature, 

She  never  loved  ony  till  ance  she  lo’ed  me. 

Her  name  it  is  Mary,  she’s  frae  Castle-Cary, 

Aft  has  she  sat  when  a bairn  on  my  knee  : 

Fair  as  your  face  is,  wert  fifty  times  fairer, 

Young  bragger,  she  ne’er  wad  gie  kisses  to  thee.’ 

‘ It  was  then  your  Mary  ; she ’s  frae  Castle-Cary, 

It  was  then  your  true  love  I met  by  the  tree ; 
Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature, 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me.’ 

Sair  gloomed  his  dark  brow,  blood-red  his  cheek  grew, 
Wild  flashed  the  fire  frae  his  red  rolling  e’e : 

‘Ye’se  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasts  and  your 
scorning ; 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor ; fu’  loudly  ye  lie.’ 

‘ Away  wi’  beguiling,’  cried  the  youth  smiling — 

Off  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint-white  locks  flee, 

The  belted  plaid  fa’ing,  her  white  bosom  shawing, 
Fair  stood  the  loved  maid  wi’  the  dark  rolling  e’e. 

‘ Is  it  my  wee  thing,  is  it  my  ain  thing, 

Is  it  nly  true  love  here  that  I see  ? ’ 

( 0 Jamie,  forgie  me ; your  heart’s  constant  to  me ; 

I ’ll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee.’ 


RICHARD  GALL. 

Richard  Gall  (1776-1801),  whilst  employed  as 
a printer  in  Edinburgh,  threw  off*  some  Scottish 
songs  that  became  favourites.  My  only  Jo  and 
Dearie  0 , for  pleasing  fancy  and  musical  expression, 
is  not  unworthy  Tannahill.  ‘I  remember,’  says 
Allan  Cunningham,  ‘ when  this  song  was  exceedingly 
popular:  its  s-weetness  and  ease,  rather  than  its 
originality  and  vigour,  might  be  the  cause  of  its 
success.  The  third  verse  contains  a very  beautiful 
picture  of  early  attachment — a sunny  bank,  and 
some  sweet  soft  school-girl,  will  appear  to  many  a 
fancy  when  these  lines  are  sung.’ 

My  Only  Jo  and  Dearie  0. 

Thy  cheek  is  o’  the  rose’s  hue, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0 ; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  siller-dew 
Upon  the  banks  sae  briery  0 ; 

Thy  teeth  are  o’  the  ivory, 

0 sweet’s  the  twinkle  o’  thine  e’e  ! 

Nae  joy,  nae  pleasure,  blinks  on  me, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

The  birdie  sings  upon  the  thorn 
Its  sang  o’  joy,  fu’  cheerie  0, 

Rejoicing  in  the  summer  morn, 

Nae  care  to  mak  it  eerie  0 ; 

But  little  kens  the  sangster  sweet 
Aught  o’  the  cares  I hae  to  meet, 

That  gar  my  restless  bosom  beat, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


"Whan  we  were  bairnies  on  yon  brae, 

And  youtb  was  blinking  bonny  0, 

Aft  we  wad  daff  the  lee-lang  day, 

Our  joys  fu’  sweet  and  mony  0 ; 

Aft  I wad  cbase  thee  o’er  the  lea, 

And  round  about  the  thorny  tree, 

Or  pu’  the  wild-flowers  a’  for  thee, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

I hae  a wish  I canna  tine, 

’Mang  a’  the  cares  that  grieve  me  0 ; 

I wish  thou  wert  for  ever  mine, 

And  never  mair  to  leave  me  0 : 

Then  I wad  daut  thee  night  and  day, 

Nor  ither  warldly  care  wad  hae, 

Till  life’s  warm  stream  forgot  to  play. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  O. 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire. 

[This  song  of  Gall’s  has  been  often  printed— in  consequence 
of  its  locality — as  the  composition  of  Burns.] 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew ; 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a sad  and  last  adieu  ! 

Bonny  Boon,  sae  sweet  at  gloaming, 
Fare-thee-weel  before  I gang — 

Bonny  Boon,  where,  early  roaming, 

First  I weaved  the  rustic  sang  ! 

Bowers,  adieu  ! where  love  decoying, 

First  enthralled  this  heart  o’  mine  ; 

There  the  saftest  sweets  enjoying, 

Sweets  that  memory  ne’er  shall  tine ! 
Friends  so  dear  my  bosom  ever, 

Ye  hae  rendered  moments  dear ; . 

But,  alas  ! when  forced  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  oh  ! how  severe  ! 

Friends,  that  parting  tear  reserve  it, 

Though  ’tis  doubly  dear  to  me ; 

Could  I think  I did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I be  ! 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew; 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a sad  and  last  adieu  ! 


DRAMATISTS. 

The  popular  dramatic  art  or  talent  is  a rare  gift. 
Some  of  the  most  eminent  poets  have  failed  in 
attempting  to  portray  actual  life  and  passion  in 
interesting  situations  on  the  stage ; and  as  Fielding 
and  Smollett  proved  unsuccessful  in  comedy — 
though  the  former  wrote  a number  of  pieces — so 
Byron  and  Scott  were  found  wanting  in  the  qualities 
requisite  for  the  tragic  drama.  ‘ It  is  evident,’  says 
Campbell,  ‘ that  Melpomene  demands  on  the  stage 
something,  and  a good  deal  more,  than  even  poetical 
talent,  rare  as  that  is.  She  requires  a potent  and 
peculiar  faculty  for  the  invention  of  incident  adapted 
to  theatric  effect ; a faculty  which  may  often  exist 
in  those  who  have  been  bred  to  the  stage,  but  which, 
generally  speaking,  has  seldom  been  shewn  by  any 
poets  who  were  not  professional  players.  There  are 
exceptions  to  the  remark,  but  there  are  not  many. 
If  Shakspeare  had  not  been  a player,  he  would 
not  have  been  the  dramatist  that  he  is.’  Dryden, 
Addison,  and  Congreve,  are  conspicuous  exceptions 
to  this  rule ; also  Goldsmith  in  comedy,  and,  in  our 
own  day,  Sir  Edward  Ly  tton  Bulwer  in  the  romantic 
no 


drama.  The  Colmans,  Sheridan,  Morton,  and 
Reynolds,  never,  we  believe,  wore  the  sock  or 
buskin ; but  they  were  either  managers,  or  closely 
connected  with  the  theatre. 

One  of  the  most  popular  tragedies  at*  the  com- 
mencement of  this  period  was  Murphy’s  Grecian 
Daughter , produced  in  1772.  This  was  a classic 
subject  treated  in  the  French  style,  but  not  desti- 
tute of  tenderness.  Robert  Jephson  (1736-1803) 
produced  his  tragedy  of  The  Count  of  Narhonne7 
copied  from  Walpole’s  Castle  of  Otranto,  and  it  was 
highly  attractive  on  the  stage.  In  1785,  Jephson 
brought  out  another  tragedy,  The  Duke  of  Braganza , 
which  was  equally  successful.  He  wrote  three  other  [ 
tragedies,  some  farces,  and  operas ; but  the  whole 
are  now  utterly  neglected.  Jephson  was  no  great 
dramatic  writer ; but  a poetical  critic  has  recorded  j 
to  his  honour,  that,  ‘ at  a time  when  the  native  ! 
genius  of  tragedy  seemed  to  be  extinct,  he  came  I 
boldly  forward  as  a tragic  poet,  and  certainly  with  ! 
a spark  of  talent ; for  if  he  has  not  the  full  flame  of  , 
genius,  he  has  at  least  its  scintillating  light.’  The  j 
dramatist  was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  a captain  in  I 
the  army,  and  afterwards  a member  of  the  Irish  ; 
House  of  Commons. 

Horace  Walpole  was  author  of  a tragedy,  The  j 
Mysterious  Mother  (1768),  which,  though  of  a ! 
painful  and  revolting  nature  as  to  plot  and  inci-  j 
dent,  abounds  in  vigorous  description  and  striking  i 
imagery.  As  Walpole  had  a strong  predilection  for  j 
Gothic  romance,  and  had  a dramatic  turn  of  mind, 
it  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  did  not  devote  himself 
more  to  the  service  of  the  stage,  in  which  he  would 
have  anticipated  and  rivalled  the  style  of  the 
German  drama.  The  Mysterious  Mother  has  never 
been  ventured  on  the  stage. 

The  stage  was  aroused  from  a state  of  insipidity  j 
or  degeneracy  by  the  introduction  of  plays  from  the  | 
German,  which,  amidst  much  false  and  exaggerated  j 
sentiment,  appealed  to  the  stronger  sympathies  of  j 
our  nature,  and  drew  crowded  audiences  to  the  j 
theatres.  One  of  the  first  of  these  was  The  Stranger , j 
said  to  be  translated  by  Benjamin  Thompson ; but  | 
the  greater  part  of  it,  as  it  was  acted,  was  the 
production  of  Sheridan.  It  is  a drama  of  domestic 
life,  not  very  moral  or  beneficial  in  its  tendencies 
— for  it  is  calculated  to  palliate  our  detestation  of  | 
adultery — yet  abounding  in  scenes  of  tenderness 
and  surprise,  well  adapted  to  produce  effect  on  the 
stage.  The  principal  characters  were  acted  by 
Kemble  and  Mrs  Siddons,  and  when  it  was  brought 
out  in  the  season  of  1797-8,  it  was  received  with 
immense  applause.  In  1799,  Sheridan  adapted 
another  of  Kotzebue’s  plays,  Pizarro,  which  expe- 
rienced still  greater  success.  In  the  former  drama, 
the  German  author  had  violated  the  proprieties  of 
our  moral  code,  by  making  an  injured  husband 
take  back  his  guilty  though  penitent  wife;  and 
in  Pizarro  he  has  invested  a fallen  female  with 
tenderness,  compassion,  and  heroism.  The  obtrusion 
of  such  a character  as  a prominent  figure  in  the 
scene  was  at  least  indelicate ; but,  in  the  hands  of 
Mrs  Siddons,  the  taint  was  scarcely  perceived,  and 
Sheridan  had  softened  down  the  most  objectionable 
parts.  The  play  was  produced  with  all  the  aids  of 
splendid  scenery,  music,  and  fine  acting,  and  these, 
together  with  its  displays  of  generous  and  heroic 
feeling  on  the  part  of  Rolla,  and  of  parental  affection 
in  Alonzo  and  Cora,  were  calculated  to  lead  captive 
a general  audience.  ‘ Its  subject  was  also  new,  and 
peculiarly  fortunate.  It  brought  the  adventures  of 
the  most  romantic  kingdom  of  Christendom — Spain 
— into  picturesque  combination  with  the  simplicity 
and  superstitions  of  the  transatlantic  world;  and 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


DRAMATISTS. 


gave  the  imagination  a new  and  fresh  empire  of 
paganism,  with  its  temples,  and  rites,  and  altars, 
without  the  stale  associations  of  pedantry.’  Some 
of  the  sentiments  and  descriptions  in  Pizarro  are 
said  to  have  originally  formed  part  of  Sheridan’s 
famous  speech  on  the  impeachment  of  Warren 
Hastings ! They  are  often  inflated  and  bombastic, 
and  full  of  rhetorical  glitter.  Thus  Rolla  soliloquises 
in  Alonzo’s  dungeon:  ‘O  holy  Nature!  thou  dost 
never  plead  in  vain.  There  is  not  of  our  earth 
a creature,  hearing  form  and  life,  human  or  savage, 
native  of  the  forest  wild  or  giddy  air,  around  whose 
parent  bosom  thou  hast  not  a cord  entwined  of 
power  to  tie  them  to  their  offspring’s  claims,  and 
at  thy  will  to  draw  them  back  to  thee.  On  iron 
pinions  borne,  the  blood-stained  vulture  cleaves  the 
storm,  yet  is  the  plumage  closest  to  her  heart  soft 
as  the  cygnet’s  down ; and  o’er  her  unshelled  brood 
the  murmuring  ring-dove  sits  not  more  gently.’ 

Or  the  speech  of  Rolla  to  the  Peruvian  army  at 
the  consecration  of  the  banners : 

[ Rolla' s Address  to  the  Peruvian  Army .] 

My  brave  associates  ! partners  of  my  toil,  my  feelings, 
and  my  fame ! Can  Rolla’ s words  add  vigour  to  the 
virtuous  energies  which  inspire  your  hearts?  No  ! you 
have  judged,  as  I have,  the  foulness  of  the  crafty  plea 
by  which  these  bold  invaders  would  delude  you.  Your 
generous  spirit  has  compared,  as  mine  has,  the  motives 
which,  in  a war  like  this,  can  animate  their  minds  and 
ours.  They , by  a strange  frenzy  driven,  fight  for  power, 
for  plunder,  and  extended  rule.  We,  for  our  country, 
our  altars,  and  our  homes.  They  follow  an  adventurer 
whom  they  fear,  and  a power  which  they  hate.  We 
serve  a monarch  whom  we  love — a God  whom  we  adore  ! 
Where’er  they  move  in  anger,  desolation  tracks  their 
progress ; where’er  they  pause  in  amity,  affliction  mourns 
their  friendship.  They  boast  they  come  but  to  improve 
our  state,  enlarge  our  thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the 
yoke  of  error.  Yes,  they  will  give  enlightened  freedom 
to  our  minds,  who  are  themselves  the  slaves  of  passion, 
avarice,  and  pride  ! They  offer  us  their  protection ; yes, 
such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs — covering  and 
devouring  them  ! They  call  on  us  to  barter  all  of  good 
we  have  inherited  and  proved,  for  the  desperate  chance 
of  something  better  which  they  promise.  Be  our  plain 
answer  this : The  throne  we  honour  is  the  people’s  choice ; 
the  laws  we  reverence  are  our  brave  fathers’  legacy ; the 
faith  we  follow  teaches  us  to  live  in  bonds  of  charity 
with  all  mankind,  and  die  with  hopes  of  bliss  beyond 
the  grave.  Tell  your  invaders  this,  and  tell  them,  too, 
we  seek  no  change,  and  least  of  all  such  change  as  they 
would  bring  us. 

Animated  apostrophes  like  these,  rolled  from  the 
lips  of  Kemble,  and  applied,  in  those  days  of  war, 
to  British  valour  and  patriotism  arrayed  against 
France,  could  hardly  fail  of  an  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion. A third  drama  by  Kotzebue  was  some  years 
afterwards  adapted  for  the  English  stage  by  Mrs 
Inchbald,  and  performed  under  the  title  of  Lovers' 
Vows.  ‘The  grand  moral  of  the  play  is  to  set 
forth  the  miserable  consequences  which  arise  from 
the  neglect,  and  to  enforce  the  watchful  care  of 
illegitimate  offspring ; and  surely  as  the  pulpit  has 
not  had  eloquence  to  eradicate  the  crime  of  seduc- 
tion, the  stage  may  be  allowed  a humble  endeavour 
to  prevent  its  most  fatal  effects.’  Lovers'  Vows 
also  became  a popular  acting  play,  for  stage-effect 
was  carefully  studied,  and  the  scenes  and  situa- 
tions skilfully  arranged.  While  filling  the  theatres, 
Kotzebue’s  plays  were  generally  condemned  by  the 
critics.  They  cannot  be  said  to  have  produced  any 
permanent  bad  effect  on  our  national  morals,  but 


they  presented  many  false  and  pernicious  pictures 
to  the  mind.  ‘There  is  an  affectation,’  as  Scott 
remarks,  ‘ of  attributing  noble  and  virtuous  senti- 
ments to  the  persons  least  qualified  by  habit  or 
education  to  entertain  them ; and  of  describing  the 
higher  and  better  educated  classes  as  uniformly 
deficient  in  those  feelings  of  liberality,  generosity, 
and  honour,  which  may  be  considered  as  proper  to 
their  situation  in  life.  This  contrast  may  be  true 
in  particular  instances,  and  being  used  sparingly, 
might  afford  a good  moral  lesson ; but  in  spite  of 
truth  and  probability,  it  has  been  assumed,  upon  all 
occasions,  by  those  authors  as  the  groundwork  of  a 
sort  of  intellectual  Jacobinism.’  Scott  himself,  it 
will  be  recollected,  was  fascinated  by  the  German 
drama,  and  translated  a play  of  Goethe.  The 
excesses  of  Kotzebue  were  happily  ridiculed  by 
Canning  and  Ellis  in  their  amusing  satire,  The 
Rovers.  At  length,  after  a run  of  unexampled  suc- 
cess, these  plays  ceased  to  attract  attention,  though 
one  or  two  are  still  occasionally  performed.  With 
all  their  absurdities,  we  cannot  but  believe  that 
they  exercised  an  inspiring  influence  on  the  rising 
genius  of  that  age.  They  dealt  with  passions,  not 
with  manners,  and  awoke  the  higher  feelings  and 
sensibilities  of  the  people.  Good  plays  were  also 
mingled  with  the  bad : if  Kotzebue  was  acted, 
Goethe  and  Schiller  were  studied.  The  Wallenstein 
was  translated  by  Coleridge,  and  the  influence  of 
the  German  drama  was  felt  by  most  of  the  young 
poets. 

One  of  those  who  imbibed  a taste  for  the 
marvellous  and  the  romantic  from  this  source 
was  Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  whose  drama,  The 
Castle  Spectre , was  produced  in  1797,  and  was  per- 
formed about  sixty  successive  nights.  It  is  full  of 
supernatural  horrors,  deadly  revenge,  and  assassina- 
tion, with  touches  of  poetical  feeling,  and  some  well- 
managed  scenes.  In  the  same  year,  Lewis  adapted 
a tragedy  from  Schiller,  entitled  The  Minister ; and 
this  was  followed  by  a succession  of  dramatic  pieces 
— Rolla , a tragedy,  1799  ; The  East  Indian , a 
comedy,  1800;  Adelmorn , or  the  Outlaw,  & drama, 
1801 ; Rugantio,  a melodrama,  1805  ; Adelgitha,  a 
play,  1806;  Venoni,  a drama,  1809;  One  o’ Clock, 
or  the  Knight  and  Wood-demon , 1811  ; Timour  the 
Tartar,  a melodrama,  1812 ; and  Rich  and  Poor,  a 
comic  opera,  1812.  The  Castle  Spectre  is  still  occa- 
sionally performed ; but  the  diffusion  of  a more 
sound  and  healthy  taste  in  literature  has  banished 
the  other  dramas  of  Lewis  equally  from  the  stage 
and  the  press.  To  the  present  generation,  they  are 
unknown.  They  were  fit  companions  for  the  ogres, 
giants,  and  Blue-beards  of  the  nursery  tales,  and 
they  have  shared  the  same  oblivion. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

The  most  important  addition  to  the  written 
drama  at  this  time  was  the  first  volume  of  Joanna 
Baillie’s  plays  on  the  passions,  published  in  1798 
under  the  title  of  A Series  of  Plays : in  which  it  is 
attempted  to  Delineate  the  Stronger  Passions  of  the 
Mind,  each  Passion  being  the  Subject  of  a Tragedy  and 
a Comedy.  To  the  volume  was  prefixed  a long  and 
interesting  introductory  discourse,  in  which  the 
authoress  discusses  the  subject  of  the  drama  in  all 
its  bearings,  and  asserts  the  supremacy  of  simple 
nature  over 'all  decoration  and  refinement.  ‘Let 
one  simple  trait  of  the  human  heart,  one  expression 
of  passion,  genuine  and  true  to  nature,  be  intro- 
duced, and  it  will  stand  forth  alone  in  the  boldness 
of  reality,  whilst  the  false  and  unnatural  around 
it  fades  away  upon  every  side,  like  the  rising 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


exhalations  of  the  morning.’  This  theory — which 
anticipated  the  dissertations  and  most  of  the  poetry 
of  Wordsworth — the  accomplished  dramatist  illus- 
trated in  her  plays,  the  merits  of  which  were 
instantly  recognised,  and  a second  edition  called  for 
in  a few  months.  Miss  Baillie  was  then  in  the 
thirty -fourth  year  of  her  age.  In  1802  she  pub- 
lished a second  volume,  and  in  1812  a third.  In 
the  interval,  she  had  produced  a volume  of  miscel- 
laneous dramas  (1804),  and  The  Family  Legend 
(1810),  a tragedy  founded  on  a Highland  tradition, 
and  brought  out  with  success  at  the  Edinburgh 
theatre.  In  1836  this  authoress  published  three 
more  volumes  of  plays,  her  career  as  a dramatic 
writer  thus  extending  over  the  long  period  of  thirty- 
eight  years.  Only  one  of  her  dramas  has  ever  been 
performed  on  the  stage ; De  Montfort  was  brought 
out  by  Kemble  shortly  after  its  appearance,  and 
was  acted  eleven  nights.  It  was  again  introduced 
in  1821,  to  exhibit  the  talents  of  Kean  in  the  char- 
acter of  De  Montfort ; but  this  actor  remarked  that, 
though  a fine  poem,  it  would  never  be  an  acting 
play.  The  author  who  mentions  this  circumstance, 
remarks:  ‘If  Joanna  Baillie  had  known  the  stage 
practically,  she  would  never  have  attached  the 
importance  which  she  does  to  the  development  of 
single  passions  in  single  tragedies ; and  she  would 
have  invented  more  stirring  incidents  to  justify  the 
passion  of  her  characters,  and  to  give  them  that  air 
of  fatality  which,  though  peculiarly  predominant  in 
the  Greek  drama,  will  also  be  found,  to  a certain 
extent,  in  all  successful  tragedies.  Instead  of  this, 
she  contrives  to  make  all  the  passions  of  her  main 
■characters  proceed  from  the  wilful  natures  of  the 
beings  themselves.  Their  feelings  are  not  precipi- 
tated by  circumstances,  like  * a stream  down  a 
declivity,  that  leaps  from  rock  to  rock;  but,  for 
want  of  incident,  they  seem  often  like  water  on  a 
level,  without  a propelling  impulse.’*  The  design 
of  Miss  Baillie  in  restricting  her  dramas  each  to  the 
elucidation  of  one  passion,  appears  certainly  to 
have  been  an  unnecessary  and  unwise  restraint,  as 
tending  to  circumscribe  the  business  of  the  piece, 
■and  exclude  the  interest  arising  from  varied  emo- 
tions and  conflicting  passions.  It  cannot  be  said  to 
have  been  successful  in  her  own  case,  and  it  has 
never  been  copied  by  any  other  author.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  has  eulogised  ‘ Basil’s  love  and  Montfort’s 
hate’  as  something  like  a revival  of  the  inspired 
strain  of  Shakspeare.  The  tragedies  of  Count  Basil 
and  De  Montfort  are  among  the  best  of  Miss 
Baillie’s  plays ; but  they  are  more  like  the  works  of 
Shirley,  or  the  serious  parts  of  Massinger,  than  the 
glorious  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  so  full  of  life,  of 
incident,  and  imagery.  Miss  Baillie’s  style  is  smooth 
and  regular,  and  her  plots  are  both  original  and 
carefully  constructed ; but  she  has  no  poetical  luxu- 
riance, and  few  commanding  situations.  Her  tragic 
scenes  are  too  much  connected  with  the  crime  of 
murder,  one  of  the  easiest  resources  of  a tragedian ; 
and  partly  from  the  delicacy  of  her  sex,  as  well  as 
from  the  restrictions  imposed  by  her  theory  of  com- 
position, she  is  deficient  in  that  variety  and  fulness 
of  passion,  the  ‘form  and  pressure’  of  real  life,  which 
are  so  essential  on  the  stage.  The  design  and  plot 
of  her  dramas  are  obvious  almost  from  the  first  act 
— a circumstance  that  would  be  fatal  to  their  suc- 
cess in  representation.  The  unity  and  intellectual 
•completeness  of  Miss  Baillie’s  plays  are  their  most 
striking  characteristics.  Her  simple  masculine  style, 
so  unlike  the  florid  or  insipid  sentimentalism  then 
prevalent,  was  a bold  innovation  at  the  time  of  her 

* Campbell’s  Life  of  Mrs  Siddons. 

112 


TO  1800. 

two  first  volumes ; but  the  public  had  fortunately 
taste  enough  to  appreciate  its  excellence. 

Miss  Baillie  was  the  daughter  of  a Scottish 
minister,  and  was  born  in  the  manse  of  Bothwell, 
county  of  Lanark,  in  1762.  Her  latter  years  were 
spent  in  comparative  retirement  at  Hampstead, 
where  she  died  in  1851.  Besides  her  dramas,  Miss 
Baillie  wrote  some  admirable  Scottish  songs  and 
other  poetical  pieces,  which  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  Fugitive  Verses.  In  society, 
as  in  literature,  this  lady  was  regarded  with  affec- 
tionate respect  and  veneration,  enjoying  the  friend- 
ship of  most  of  her  distinguished  contemporaries. 
Lockhart,  in  his  Life  of  Scott,  states  that  Miss  Baillie 
and  her  brother,  I)r  Matthew  Baillie,  were  among 
the  friends  to  whose  intercourse  Sir  Walter  looked 
forward  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  when  about  to 
visit  the  metropolis. 

[Scene  from  De  Montfort .] 

[De  Montfort  explains  to  his  sister  Jane  his  hatred  of  Rezen- 
velt,  which  at  last  hurries  him  into  the  crime  of  murder.  The 
gradual  deepening  of  this  malignant  passion,  and  its  frightful 
catastrophe,  are  powerfully  depicted.  "We  may  remark,  that 
the  character  of  De  Montfort,  his  altered  habits  and  appear- 
ance after  his  travels,  his  settled  gloom,  and  the  violence  of  his 
passions,  seem  to  have  been  the  prototype  of  Byron’s  Manfred 
and  Lara.] 

De  Montfort.  No  more,  my  sister;  urge  me  not 
again ; 

My  secret  troubles  cannot  be  revealed. 

From  all  participation  of  its  thoughts 
My  heart  recoils : I pray  thee,  be  contented. 

Jane.  What ! must  I,  like  a distant  humble  friend. 
Observe  thy  restless  eye  and  gait  disturbed 
In  timid  silence,  whilst  with  yearning  heart 
I turn  aside  to  weep  ? O no,  De  Montfort ! 

A nobler  task  thy  nobler  mind  will  give ; 

Thy  true  intrusted  friend  I still  shall  be. 

De  Mon.  Ah,  Jane,  forbear  ! I cannot  e’en  to  thee. 

Jane.  Then  fie  upon  it ! fie  upon  it,  Montfort ! 
There  was  a time  when  e’en  with  murder  stained, 
Had  it  been  possible  that  such  dire  deed 
Could  e’er  have  been  the  crime  of  one  so  piteous, 

Thou  wouldst  have  told  it  me. 

De  Mon.  So  would  I now — but  ask  of  this  no  more. 
All  other  troubles  but  the  one  I feel 
I have  disclosed  to  thee.  I pray  thee,  spare  me. 

It  is  the  secret  weakness  of  my  nature. 

Jane.  Then  secret  let  it  be  : I urge  no  further. 

The  eldest  of  our  valiant  father’s  hopes, 

So  sadly  orphaned : side  by  side  we  stood, 

Like  two  young  trees,  whose  boughs  in  early  strength 
Screen  the  weak  saplings  of  the  rising  grove, 

And  brave  the  storm  together. 

I have  so  long,  as  if  by  nature’s  right, 

Thy  bosom’s  inmate  and  adviser  been, 

I thought  through  life  I should  have  so  remained, 

Nor  ever  known  a change.  Forgive  me,  Montfort; 

A humbler  station  will  I take  by  thee ; 

The  close  attendant  of  thy  wandering  steps, 

The  cheerer  of  this  home,  with  strangers  sought, 

The  soother  of  those  griefs  I must  not  know. 

This  is  mine  office  now : I ask  no  more. 

De  Mon.  Oh,  Jane,  thou  dost  constrain  me  with  thy 
love — 

Would  I could  tell  it  thee  ! 

Jane.  Thou  shalt  not  tell  me.  Nay,  I’ll  stop  mine 
ears, 

Nor  from  the  yearnings  of  affection  wring 
What  shrinks  from  utterance.  Let  it  pass,  my  brother. 
I ’ll  stay  by  thee ; I ’ll  cheer  thee,  comfort  thee ; 
Pursue  with  thee  the  study  of  some  art, 

Or  nobler  science,  that  compels  the  mind 


DEAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOANNA  BAILLTE. 


To  steady  thought  progressive,  driving  forth 
All  floating,  wild,  unhappy  fantasies, 

Till  thou,  with  brow  unclouded,  smilest  again ; 

Like  one  who,  from  dark  visions  of  the  night, 

When  the  active  soul  within  its  lifeless  cell 
Holds  its  own  world,  with  dreadful  fancy  pressed 
Of  some  dire,  terrible,  or  murderous  deed, 

Wakes  to  the  dawning  morn,  and  blesses  heaven. 

Be  Mon.  It  will  not  pass  away ; ’twill  haunt  me 
still. 

Jane.  Ah  ! say  not  so,  for  I will  haunt  thee  too, 
And  be  to  it  so  close  an  adversary, 

That,  though  I wrestle  darkling  with  the  fiend, 

I shall  o’ercome  it. 

Be  Mon.  Thou  most  generous  woman  ! 

Why  do  I treat  thee  thus  ? It  should  not  be — 

And  yet  I cannot — 0 that  cursed  villain  ! 

He  will  not  let  me  be  the  man  I would. 

Jane.  What  sayst  thou,  Montfort  ? Oh ! what  words 
are  these  ! 

They  have  awaked  my  soul  to  dreadful  thoughts. 

I do  beseech  thee,  speak  ! 

By  the  affection  thou  didst  ever  bear  me ; 

By  the  dear  memory  of  our  infant  days ; 

By  kindred  living  ties — ay,  and  by  those 
Who  sleep  in  the  tomb,  and  cannot  call  to  thee, 

I do  conjure  thee,  speak  ! 

Ha  ! wilt  thou  not  ? 

Then,  if  affection,  most  unwearied  love, 

Tried  early,  long,  and  never  wahting  found, 

O’er  generous  man  hath  more  authority, 

More  rightful  power  than  crown  or  sceptre  give, 

I do  command  thee  ! 

Be  Montfort,  do  not  thus  resist  my  love. 

Here  I entreat  thee  on  my  bended  knees. 

Alas  ! my  brother  ! 

Be  Mon.  [ Raising  her , and  'kneeling.'] 

Thus  let  him  kneel  who  should  the  abased  be, 

And  at  thine  honoured  feet  confession  make. 

I’ll  tell  thee  all — but,  oh  ! thou  wilt  despise  me. 

For  in  my  breast  a raging  passion  burns, 

To  which  thy  soul  no  sympathy  will  own — 

A passion  which  hath  made  my  nightly  couch 
A place  of  torment,  and  the  light  of  day, 

With  the  gay  intercourse  of  social  man, 

Feel  like  the  oppressive,  airless  pestilence. 

0 Jane  ! thou  wilt  despise  me. 

Jane.  Say  not  so  : 

1 never  can  despise  thee,  gentle  brother. 

A lover’s  jealousy  and  hopeless  pangs 
No  kindly  heart  contemns. 

Be  Mon.  A lover’s,  sayst  thou  ? 

No,  it  is  hate  ! black,  lasting,  deadly  hate  ! 

Which  thus  hath  driven  me  forth  from  kindred  peace, 
From  social  pleasure,  from  my  native  home, 

To  be  a sullen  wanderer  on  the  earth, 

Avoiding  all  men,  cursing  and  accursed. 

Jane.  Be  Montfort,  this  is  fiend-like,  terrible  ! 
What  being,  by  the  Almighty  Father  formed 
Of  flesh  and  blood,  created  even  as  thou, 

Could  in  thy  breast  such  horrid  tempest  wake, 

Who  art  thyself  his  fellow  ? 

Unknit  thy  brows,  and  spread  those  wrath-clenched 
hands. 

Some  sprite  accursed  within  thy  bosom  mates 
To  work  thy  ruin.  Strive  with  it,  my  brother  ! 

Strive  bravely  with  it ; drive  it  from  thy  heart ; 

’Tis  the  degrader  of  a noble  heart. 

Curse  it,  and  bid  it  part. 

Be  Mon.  It  will  not  part.  I ’ve  lodged  it  here  too 
long. 

With  my  first  cares,  I felt  its  rankling  touch. 

I loathed  him  when  a boy. 

Jane.  Whom  didst  thou  say? 

Be  Mon.  Betested  Rezenvelt  ! 

E’en  in  our  early  sports,  like  two  young  whelps 


Of  hostile  breed,  instinctively  averse, 

Each  ’gainst  the  other  pitched  his  ready  pledge, 

And  frowned  defiance.  As  we  onward  passed 
From  youth  to  man’s  estate,  his  narrow  art 
And  envious  gibing  malice,  poorly  veiled 
In  the  affected  carelessness  of  mirth, 

Still  more  detestable  and  odious  grew. 

There  is  no  living  being  on  this  earth 
Who  can  conceive  the  malice  of  his  soul, 

With  all  his  gay  and  damned  merriment, 

To  those  by  fortune  or  by  merit  placed 
Above  his  paltry  self.  When,  low  in  fortune, 

He  looked  upon  the  state  of  prosperous  men, 

As  nightly  birds,  roused  from  their  murky  holes, 

Bo  scowl  and  chatter  at  the  light  of  day, 

I could  endure  it ; even  as  we  bear 

The  impotent  bite  of  some  half-trodden  worm, 

I could  endure  it.  But  when  honours  came, 

And  wealth  and  new-got  titles  fed  his  pride ; 

Whilst  flattering  knaves  did  trumpet  forth  his  praise, 
And  grovelling  idiots  grinned  applauses  on  him ; 

Oh  ! then  I could  no  longer  suffer  it ! 

It  drove  me  frantic.  What,  what  would  I give — 
What  would  I give  to  crush  the  bloated  toad, 

So  rankly  do  I loathe  him  ! 

Jane.  And  would  thy  hatred  crush  the  very  man 
Who  gave  to  thee  that  life  he  might  have  taken  ? 

That  life  which  thou  so  rashly  didst  expose 
To  aim  at  his  ? Oh,  this  is  horrible  ! 

Be  Mon.  Ha ! thou  hast  heard  it,  then  ! From  all 
the  world, 

But  most  of  all  from  thee,  I thought  it  hid. 

Jane.  I heard  a secret  whisper,  and  resolved 
Upon  the  instant  to  return  to  thee. 

Bidst  thou  receive  my  letter  ? 

Be  Mon.  I did  ! I did  ! ’Twas  that  which  drove 
me  hither. 

I could  not  bear  to  meet  thine  eye  again. 

Jane.  Alas  ! that,  tempted  by  a sister’s  tears, 

I ever  left  thy  house  ! These  few  past  months, 

These  absent  months,  have  brought  us  all  this  woe. 
Had  I remained  with  thee,  it  had  not  been. 

And  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not  move  you  thus. 

You  dared  him  to  the  field;  both  bravely  fought; 

He,  more  adroit,  disarmed  you  ; courteously 
Returned  the  forfeit  sword,  which,  so  returned, 

You  did  refuse  to  use  against  him  more; 

And  then,  as  says  report,  you  parted  friends. 

Be  Mon.  When  he  disarmed  this  cursed,  this  worth- 
less hand 

Of  its  most  worthless  weapon,  he  but  spared 
From  devilish  pride,  which  now  derives  a bliss 
In  seeing  me  thus  fettered,  shamed,  subjected 
With  the  vile  favour  of  his  poor  forbearance ; 

Whilst  he  securely  sits  with  gibing  brow, 

And  basely  baits  me  like  a muzzled  cur, 

Who  cannot  turn  again. 

Until  that  day,  till  that  accursed  day, 

I knew  not  half  the  torment  of  this  hell 
Which  burns  within  my  breast.  Heaven’s  lightnings 
blast  him  ! 

Jane.  Oh,  this  is  horrible  ! Forbear,  forbear  ! 

Lest  Heaven’s  vengeance  light  upon  thy  head 
For  this  most  impious  wish. 

Be  Mon.  Then  let  it  light. 

Torments  more  fell  than  I have  known  already 
It  cannot  send.  To  be  annihilated, 

What  all  men  shrink  from  ; to  be  dust,  be  nothing, 
Were  bliss  to  me,  compared  to  what  I am  ! 

Jane.  Oh  ! wouldst  thou  kill  me  with  these  dread- 
ful words  ? 

Be  Mon.  Let  me  but  once  upon  his  ruin  look, 

Then  close  mine  eyes  for  ever  ! 

Ha ! how  is  this  ? Thou  ’rt  ill ; thou  ’rt  very  pale ; 
What  have  I done  to  thee  ? Alas  ! alas  ! 

I meant  not  to  distress  thee — 0 my  sister ! 

113 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Jane.  I cannot  now  speak  to  thee. 

Be  Mon.  I have  killed  thee. 

Turn,  turn  thee  not  away ! Look  on  me  still ! 

Oh  ! droop  not  thus,  my  life,  my  pride,  my  sister ! 
Look  on  me  yet  again. 

Jane.  Thou,  too,  De  Montfort, 

In  better  days  was  wont  to  be  my  pride. 

De  Mon.  I am  a wretch,  most  wretched  in  myself, 
And  still  more  wretched  in  the  pain  I give. 

0 curse  that  villain,  that  detested  villain  ! 

He  has  spread  misery  o’er  my  fated  life ; 

He  will  undo  us  all. 

Jane.  I ’ve  held  my  warfare  through  a troubled 
world, 

And  borne  with  steady  mind  my  share  of  ill ; 

For  then  the  helpmate  of  my  toil  wast  thou 
But  now  the  wane  of  life  comes  darkly  on, 

And  hideous  passion  tears  thee  from  my  heart, 
Blasting  thy  worth.  I cannot  strive  with  this. 

De  Mon.  What  shall  I do  ? 

Female  Picture  of  a Country  Life.] 

Even  now  methinks 
Each  little  cottage  of  my  native  vale 
Swells  out  its  earthen  sides,  upheaves  its  roof, 

Like  to  a hillock  moved  by  labouring  mole, 

And  with  green  trail-weeds  clambering  up  its  walls, 
Boses  and  every  gay  and  fragrant  plant 
Before  my  fancy  stands,  a fairy  bower, 

Ay,  and  within  it  too  do  fairies  dwell. 

Peep  through  its  wreathed  window,  if  indeed 
i The  flowers  grow  not  too  close ; and  there  within 
Thou  ’It  see  some  half-a-dozen  rosy  brats, 

Eating  from  wooden  bowls  their  dainty  milk — 

Those  are  my  mountain  elves.  Seest  thou  not 
Their  very  forms  distinctly  ? 

I ’ll  gather  round  my  board 
All  that  Heaven  sends  to  me  of  way-worn  folks, 

And  noble  travellers,  and  neighbouring  friends, 

Both  young  and  old.  Within  my  ample  hall, 

The  worn-out  man  of  arms  shall  o’  tiptoe  tread, 
Tossing  his  gray  locks  from  his  wrinkled  brow 
With  cheerful  freedom,  as  he  boasts  his  feats 
Of  days  gone  by.  Music  we  ’ll  have ; and  oft 
The  bickering  dance  upon  our  oaken  floors 
Shall,  thundering  loud,  strike  on  the  distant  ear 
Of  ’nighted  travellers,  who  shall  gladly  bend 
■Their  doubtful  footsteps  towards  the  cheering  dim 
Solemn,  and  grave,  and  cloistered,  and  demure 
We  shall  not  be.  Will  this  content  ye,  damsels  ? 

Every  season 

Shall  have  its  suited  pastime : even  winter 
In  its  deep  noon,  when  mountains  piled  with  snow, 
And  choked  up  valleys  from  our  mansion  bar 
All  entrance,  and  nor  guest  nor  traveller 
Sounds  at  our  gate ; the  empty  hall  forsaken, 

In  some  warm  chamber,  by  the  crackling  fire, 

We  ’ll  hold  our  little,  snug,  domestic  court, 

Plying  our  work  with  song  and  tale  between. 

[Fears  of  Imagination.] 

Didst  thou  ne’er  see  the  swallow’s  veering  breast, 
Winging  the  air  beneath  some  murky  cloud 
In  the  sunned  glimpses  of  a stormy  day, 

Shiver  in  silvery  brightness  ? 

Or  boatmen’s  oar,  as  vivid  lightning  flash 
In  the  faint  gleam,  that  like  a spirit’s  path 
Tracks  the  still  waters  of  some  sullen  lake  ? 

Or  lonely  tower,  from  its  brown  mass  of  woods, 

Give  to  the  parting  of  a wintry  sun 
One  hasty  glance  in  mockery  of  the  night 
Closing  in  darkness  round  it  ? Gentle  friend  ! 

Chide  not  her  mirth  who  was  sad  yesterday, 

And  may  be  so  to-morrow.  . 

114 


[Speech  of  Prince  Edward  in  his  Dungeon .] 

Doth  the  bright  sun  from  the  high  arch  of  heaven, 
In  all  his  beauteous  robes  of  fleckered  clouds, 

And  ruddy  vapours,  and  deep-glowing  flames, 

And  softly  varied  shades,  look  gloriously  ? 

Do  the  green  woods  dance  to  the  wind  ? the  lakes 
Cast  up  their  sparkling  waters  to  the  light  ? 

Do  the  sweet  hamlets  in  their  bushy  dells 
Send  winding  up  to  heaven  their  curling  smoke 
On  the  soft  morning  air? 

Do  the  flocks  bleat,  and  the  wild  creatures  bound 

In  antic  happiness  ? and  mazy  birds 

Wing  the  mid  air  in  lightly  skimming  bands  ? 

Ay,  all  this  is — men  do  behold  all  this — 

The  poorest  man.  Even  in  this  lonely  vault, 

My  dark  and  narrow  world,  oft  do  I hear 
The  crowing  of  the  cock  so  near  my  walls, 

And  sadly  think  how  small  a space  divides  me 
From  all  this  fair  creation. 


[Description  of  Jane  de  Montfort.] 

[The  following  has  been  pronounced  to  be  a perfect  picture 
of  Mrs  Siddons,  the  tragic  actress.] 

Page.  Madam,  there  is  a lady  in  your  hall 
Who  begs  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 

Lady.  Is  it  not  one  of  our  invited  friends  ? 

Page.  No ; far  unlike  to  them.  It  is  a stranger. 
Lady.  How  looks  her  countenance  ? 

Page.  So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 

I shrunk  at  first  in  awe ; but  when  she  smiled, 
Methought  I could  have  compassed  sea  and  land 
To  do  her  bidding. 

Lady.  Is  she  young  or  old? 

Page.  Neither,  if  right  I guess ; but  she  is  fair, 

For  Time  hath  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her, 

As  he,  too,  had  been  awed. 

Lady.  The  foolish  stripling ! 

She  has  bewitched  thee.  Is  she  large  in  stature  ? 

Page.  So  stately  and  so  graceful  is  her  form, 

I thought  at  first  her  stature  was  gigantic ; 

But  on  a near  approach,  I found,  in  truth, 

She  scarcely  does  surpass  the  middle  size. 

Lady.  What  is  her  garb  ? 

Page.  I cannot  well  describe  the  fashion  of  it : 

She  is  not  decked  in  any  gallant  trim, 

But  seems  to  me  clad  in  her  usual  weeds 
Of  high  habitual  state ; for  as  she  moves, 

Wide  flows  her  robe  in  many  a waving  fold, 

As  I have  seen  unfurled  banners  play 
With  the  soft  breeze. 

Lady.  Thine  eyes  deceive  thee,  boy ; 

It  is  an  apparition  thou  hast  seen. 

Freberg.  [Starting  from  his  seat,  where  he  has  been 
sitting  during  the  conversation  between 
the  Lady  and  the  Page.] 

It  is  an  apparition  he  has  seen, 

Or  it  is  Jane  de  Montfort. 

This  is  a powerful  delineation.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
conceived  that  Fear  was  the  most  dramatic  passion 
touched  by  Miss  Baillie,  because  capable  of  being 
drawn  to  the  most  extreme  paroxysm  on  the  stage. 

George  Colman,  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  was  an  excellent  comic  writer,  and  produced 
above  thirty  pieces,  a few  of  which  deservedly  keep 
possession  of  the  stage.  His  Jealous  Wife,  founded 
on  Fielding’s  Tom  Jones , has  some  highly  effective 
scenes  and  well-drawn  characters.  It  was  produced 
in  1761 ; five  years  afterwards,  Colman  joined  with 
Garrick  and  brought  out  The  Clandestine  Marriage, 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MURPHY — GOLDSMITH. 


I 


in  which  the  character  of  an  aged  beau,  affecting 
gaiety  and  youth,  is  strikingly  personified  in  Lord 


Ogleby. — Arthur  Murphy:  (1727-1805),  a volu- 
minous and  miscellaneous  writer,  added  comedies 
as  well  as  tragedies  to  the  stage,  and  his  Way  to 
Keep  Him  is  still  occasionally  performed. — Hugh 
Kelly,  a scurrilous  newspaper  writer,  surprised  the 
public  by  producing  a comedy,  False  Delicacy,  which 
had  remarkable  success  both  on  the  fortunes  and 
character  of  the  author : the  profits  of  his  first  third 
night  realised  <£150 — the  largest  sum  of  money  he 
had  ever  before  seen — ‘and  from  a low,  petulant, 
absurd,  and  ill-bred  censurer,’  says  Davies,  ‘ Kelly 
was  transformed  to  the  humane,  affable,  good- 
natured,  well-bred  man.’ — The  marked  success  of 
Kelly’s  sentimental  style  gave  the  tone  to  a much 
more  able  dramatist,  Richard  Cumberland  (1732- 
1811),  who,  after  two  or  three  unsuccessful  pieces, 
in  1771  brought  out  The  West  Indian,  one  of  the 
best  stage-plays  which  English  comedy  can  yet 
boast.  The  plot,  incidents,  and  characters — includ- 
ing the  first  draught  of  an  Irish  gentleman  which 
the  theatre  had  witnessed — are  all  well  sustained. 
Other  dramas  of  Cumberland,  as  The  Wheel  of 
Fortune,  The  Fashionable  Lover,  &c.,  were  also  acted 
with  applause,  though  now  too  stiff  and  sentimental 
for  our  audiences. — Goldsmith  thought  that  Cum- 
berland had  carried  the  refinement  of  comedy  to 
excess,  and  he  set  himself  to  correct  the  fault.  His 
first  dramatic  perfoimance,  The  Good-natured  Man, 
presents  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  delineations  in 
the  character  of  Croaker ; but  as  a whole,  the  play 
wants  point  and  sprightliness.  His  second  drama, 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer , performed  in  1773,  has  all 
the  requisites  for  interesting  and  amusing  an  audi- 
ence ; and  Johnson  said,  ‘ he  knew  of  no  comedy  for 
many  years  that  had  answered  so  much  the  great 
end  of  comedy — making  an  audience  merry.’  The 
plot  turns  on  what  may  be  termed  a farcical 
incident — two  parties  mistaking  a gentleman’s 
house  for  an  inn.  Such  an  adventure,  however,  is 
said  to  have  occurred  to  Goldsmith  himself.  lie 
was  returning  to  school  after  the  holidays  on  a 


borrowed  hack,  and  being  overtaken  by  night  in 
the  streets  of  Ardagh,  he  inquired  with  a lofty 
confident  air — having  a guinea  in  his  pocket — for 
the  best  house  of  entertainment  in  the  town.  A 
wag  pointed  to  the  house  of  the  squire,  a Mr 
Eeatherston,  and  Goldsmith  entering,  ordered  supper 
and  a bottle  of  wine,  with  a hot  cake  for  breakfast 
in  the  morning  ! ‘ It  was  not  till  he  had  despatched 
this  latter  meal,  and  was  looking  at  his  guinea  with 
pathetic  aspect  of  farewell,  that  the  truth  was  told 
him  by  the  good-natured  squire.’ — (Forster’s  Life.) 
This  was  a good  foundation  for  a series  of  comic 
mistakes.  But  the  excellent  discrimination  of 
character,  and  the  humour  and  vivacity  of  the 
dialogue  throughout  the  play,  render  this  piece  one 
of  the  richest  contributions  which  has  been  made 
to  modern  comedy.  The  native  pleasantry  and 
originality  of  Goldsmith  were  never  more  happily 
displayed,  and  his  success,  as  Davies  records, 
‘revived  fancy,  wit,  gaiety,  humour,  incident,  and 
character,  in  the  place  of  sentiment  and  moral 
preachment.’ 

[A  Deception .] 

[From  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.'] 

Landlord  and  Tony  Lumpkin. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a post-chaise  at 
the  door.  They  ’ve  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest,  and 
they  .are  talking  something  about  Mr  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that ’s  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Land.  I believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily  like 
Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I’ll 
set  them  right  in  a twinkling.  [Exit  Landlord .] 
Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn’t  be  good  enough  company 
for  you,  step  down  for  a moment,  and  I ’ll  be  with  you 
in  the  squeezing  of  a lemon.  [. Exeunt  Mob.]  Father- 
in-law  has  been  calling  me  a whelp  and  hound  this 
half-year.  Now,  if  I pleased,  I could  be  so  revenged 
upon  the  old  grumbletonian.  But  then  I am  afraid 
— afraid  of  what?  I shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen 
hundred  a year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that 
if  he  can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we 
had  of  it ! We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across 
the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore. 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable 
reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more 
frequently  on  the  way. 

Mar.  I own,  Hastings,  I am  unwilling  to  lay  myself 
under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I meet;  and  often 
stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hast.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to 
receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen ; but  I am  told  you 
have  been  inquiring  for  one  Mr  Hardcastle  in  these 
parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you  are 
in  ? 

Hast.  Not  in  the  least,  sir;  but  should  thank  you 
for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hast.  No,  sir ; but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road 
you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you 
came,  the  first  thing  I have  to  inform  you  is  that — you 
have  lost  your  way. 

Mar.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

115 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Mar.  That’s  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence;  but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  hot  this  same 
Hardcastle  a cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical 
fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a daughter,  and  a pretty  son  ? 

Hast.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman  ; but  he  has 
the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  may-pole ; the  son,  a pretty,  well-bred,  agree- 
able youth,  that  everybody  is  fond  of. 

Mar.  Our  information  differs  in  this : the  daughter 
is  said  to  be  well-bred  and  beautiful ; the  son,  an 
awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother’s 
apron -string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem.  Then,  gentlemen,  all  I have  to 
tell  you  is,  that  you  won’t  reach  Mr  Hardcastle’s  house 
this  night,  I believe. 

Hast.  Unfortunate ! 

Tony.  It’s  a long,  dark,  boggy,  dangerous  way. 
Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr  Hardcastle’s 
[winking  at  the  Landlord ] — Mr  Hardcastle’s  of  Quag- 
mire-marsh. You  understand  me? 

Land.  Master  Hardcastle’s  ? Lack-a-daisy  ! my 
masters,  you’re  come  a deadly  deal  wrong.  When 
you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have 
crossed  down  Squash-lane. 

Mar.  Cross  down  Squash-lane  ? 

Land.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward  till 
you  came  to  four  roads. 

Mar.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet  ? 

Tony.  Ay ; but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one. 

Mar.  0 sir ! you  ’re  facetious. 

Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  side- 
ways till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common;  there 
you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and 
go  forward  till  you  come  to  Farmer  Murrain’s  barn. 
Coming  to  the  farmer’s  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right  about 
again,  till  you  find  out  the  old  mill 

Mar.  Zounds ! man,  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the 
longitude  ! 

Hast.  What ’s  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Mar.  This  house  promises  but  a poor  reception ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Land.  Alack,  master ! we  have  but  one  spare  bed  in 
the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that’s  taken  up  by 
three  lodgers  already.  [After  a pause,  in  which  the 
rest  seem  disconcerted .]  I have  hit  it:  don’t  you 

think,  Stingo,  our  landlady  would  accommodate  the 
gentlemen  by  the  fireside  with  three  chairs  and  a 
bolster  ? 

Hast.  I hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Mar.  And  I detest  your  three  chairs  and  a bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you?  Then  let  me  see — what  if 
you  go  on  a mile  further  to  the  Buck’s  Head,  the  old 
Buck’s  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the 
whole  county. 

Hast.  0 ho ! so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for 
this  night,  however. 

Land.  [Apart  to  Tony .]  Sure  you  bean’t  sending 
them  to  your  father’s  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum  ! you  fool,  you ; let  them  find  that  out. 
[To  them!]  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward 
till  you  come  to  a large  house  on  the  roadside  : you  ’ll 
see  a pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door ; that ’s  the 
sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hast.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants 
can’t  miss  the  way. 

Tony.  No,  no  : but  I tell  you  though,  the  landlord 
is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business ; so  he  wants  to 
be  thought  a gentleman,  saving  your,  presence,  he,  he, 
he  ! He  ’ll  be  for  giving  you  his  company ; and,  ecod  ! 
if  you  mind  him,  he’ll  persuade  you  that  his  mother 
was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a justice  of  the  peace. 

116 


Land.  A troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure  ; but  a 
keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
county. 

Mar.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall 
want  no  further  connection.  We  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no,  straight  forward.  I’ll  just  step  myself 
and  shew  you  a piece  of  the  way.  [To  the  Landlord.] 
Mum ! [Exeunt. 

[Arrival  at  the  Supposed  Inn!] 

Enter  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Hast.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  welcome 
once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a clean  room  and 
a good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a very  well-looking  house  ; 
antique,  but  creditable. 

Mar.  The  usual  fate  of  a large  mansion.  Having 
first  ruined  the  master  by  good  housekeeping,  it  has 
at  last  come  to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hast.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to 
pay  all  these  fineries.  I have  often  seen  a good  side- 
board, or  a marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually 
put  in  the  bill,  inflame  the  bill  confoundedly. 

Mar.  Travellers  must  pay  in  all  places  ; the  only 
difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly  for 
luxuries ; in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr  Marlow  ? [Mar.  advances.]  Sir, 
you’re  heartily  welcome.  It’s  not  my  way,  you  see, 
to  receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire  ! I like 
to  give  them  a hearty  reception,  in  the  old  style,  at 
my  gate ; I like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken 
care  of. 

Mar.  [Aside.]  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  servants 
already.  [To  Hard.]  We  approve  your  caution  and 
hospitality,  sir.  [To  Hast.]  I have  been  thinking, 
George,  of  changing  our  travelling-dresses  in  the 
morning ; I am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hard.  I beg,  Mr  Marlow,  you  ’ll  use  no  ceremony  in 
this  house. 

Hast.  I fancy,  you’re  right : the  first  blow  is  half  the 
battle.  We  must,  however,  open  the  campaign. 

Hard.  Mr  Marlow— Mr  Hastings — gentlemen — pray 
be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is  Liberty- 
hall,  gentlemen  ; you  may  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Mar.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too 
fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is 
over.  We  must  shew  our  generalship  by  securing,  if 
necessary,  a retreat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a retreat,  Mr  Marlow,  puts 
me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  when  he 
went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  summoned  the 
garrison 

Mar.  Ay,  and  we  ’ll  summon  your  garrison,  old  boy. 

Hard.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might 
consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Hast.  Marlow,  what’s  o’clock? 

Hard.  I say,  gentlemen,  as  I was  telling  you,  he 
summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about 
five  thousand  men 

Mar.  Five  minutes  to  seven. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand 
men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and  other 
implements  of  war.  Now,  says  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him — you  must 
have  heard  of  George  Brooks — I ’ll  pawn  my  dukedom, 
says  he,  but  I take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a drop 
of  blood.  So 

Mar.  What  ? My  good  friend,  if  you  give  us  a glass 
of  punch  in  the  meantine,  it  would  help  us  to  carry  on 
the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hard.  Punch,  sir! — This  is  the  most  unaccountable 
kind  of  modesty  I ever  met  with.  [Aside. 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GOLDSMITH — SHERIDAN. 


Mar.  Yes,  sir,  punch.  A glass  of  warm  punch  after 
our  journey  will  be  comfortable. 

Enter  Servant  with  a tankard. 

This  is  Liberty-hall,  you  know. 

Hard.  Here ’s  a cup,  sir. 

Mar.  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty-hall,  will  only  let 
us  have  just  what  he  pleases.  [Aside  to  Hast. 

Hard.  [Taking  the  cup.]  I hope  you’ll  find  it  to 
your  mind.  I have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands, 
and  I believe  you’ll  own  the  ingredients  are  tolerable. 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir?  Here,  Mr 
Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance. 

[Drinks,  and  gives  the  cup  to  Marlow. 

Mar.  A very  impudent  fellow  this;  but  he’s  a 
character,  and  I ’ll  humour  him  a little.  [Aside]  Sir, 
my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  I see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his  company, 
and  forgets  that  he’s  an  innkeeper  before  he  has  learned 
to  be  a gentleman.  [Aside. 

Mar.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  I suppose  you  have  a good  deal  of  business  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  Warm  work  now  and  then 
at  elections,  I suppose. 

[Gives  the  tankard  to  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  No,  sir;  I have  long  given  that  work  over. 
Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  elect- 
ing each  other,  there ’s  no  business  for  us  that  sell  ale. 

[Gives  the  tankard  to  Hastings. 

Hast.  So,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a time  indeed, 
I fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government,  like 
other  people;  but  finding  myself  every  day  grow  more 
angry,  and  the  government  growing  no  better,  I left  it 
to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I no  more  trouble  my  head 
about  who’s  in  or  who’s  out  than  I do  about  JohnNokes 
or  Tom  Stiles.  So  my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  So  that,  with  eating  above  stairs  and  drinking 
below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within  and  amusing 
them  without,  you  lead  a good,  pleasant,  bustling  life 
of  it. 

Hard.  I do  stir  about  a good  deal,  that’s  certain. 
Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this 
very  parlour. 

Mar.  [After  drinking .]  And  you  have  an  argument 
in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in 
Westminster  Hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a little 
philosophy. 

Mar.  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I ever  heard  of  an 
innkeeper’s  philosophy.  [Aside. 

Hast.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  attack 
them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason  manage- 
able, you  attack  them  with  your  philosophy ; if  you  find 
they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with  this.  Here’s 
your  health,  my  philosopher.  [Drinks. 

Hard.  Good,  very  good ; thank  you ; ha ! ha  ! Your 
generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene  when  he 
fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You  shall 
hear. 

Mar.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I think  it ’s 
almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your 
philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  ? 

Hard.  For  supper,  sir  ? Was  ever  such  a request  to 
a man  in  his  own  house  ? [Aside. 

Mar.  Yes,  sir;  supper,  sir;  I begin  to  feel  an  appe- 
tite. I shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  larder, 
I promise  you. 

Hard.  Such  a brazen  dog  sure  never  my  eyes  beheld. 
[Aside]  Why  really,  sir,  as  for  supper,  I can’t  well 
tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the  cookmaid  settle  these  things 
between  them.  I leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely  to 
them. 

Mar.  You  do,  do  you? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I believe  they  are  in 


actual  consultation  upon  what ’s  for  supper  this  moment 
in  the  kitchen. 

Mar.  Then  I beg  they’ll  admit  me  as  one  of  their 
privy-council.  It ’s  a way  I have  got.  When  I travel, 
I always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the 
cook  be  called.  No  offence,  I hope,  sir. 

Hard.  0 no,  sir,  none  in  the  least : yet,  I don’t  know 
how,  our  Bridget,  the  cookmaid,  is  not  very  communi- 
cative upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she 
might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Hast.  Let ’s  see  the  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I always 
match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  [To  Hardcastle,  who  looks  at  them  with  su/rpnse] 
Sir,  he ’s  very  right,  and  it ’s  my  way  too. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a right  to  command  here.  Here, 
Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night’s  supper  : I 
believe  it’s  drawn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr  Hastings, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Wallop.  It  was 
a saying  of  his  that  no  man  was  sure  of  his  supper  till 
he  had  eaten  it. 

[Servant  brings  in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  exit. 

Hast.  All  upon  the  high  ropes ! His  uncle  a colonel ! 
We  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a justice  of  peace. 
[Aside]  But  let’s  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  [Perusing]  What’s  here?  For  the  first 
course  ; for  the  second  course ; for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir ! Do  you  think  we  have  brought  down  the 
whole  Joiners’  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bedford, 
to  eat  up  such  a supper?  Two  or  three  little  things, 
clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hast.  But  let’s  hear  it. 

Mar.  [Reading]  For  the  first  course : at  the  top,  a 
pig  and  prune-sauce.  * * 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry, 
pig,  with  prune-sauce,  is  very  good  eating.  Their 
impudence  confounds  me.  [Aside]  Gentlemen,  you 
are  my  guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please.  Is 
there  anything  else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter, 
gentlemen  ? 

Mar.  Item : a pork-pie,  a boiled  rabbit  and  sausages, 
a florentine,  a shaking-pudding,  and  a dish  of  tiff — taff 
— taffety  cream. 

Hast.  Confound  your  made  dislies ! I shall  be  as 
much  at  a loss  in  this  house  as  at  a green  and  yellow 
dinner  at  the  French  ambassador’s  table.  I ’m  for  plain 
eating. 

Hard.  I ’m  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I have  nothing  you 
like;  but  if  there  be  anything  you  have  a particular 
fancy  to 

Mar.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  exquisite, 
that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another.  Send 
us  what  you  please.  So  much  for  supper  : and  now  to 
see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and  properly  taken  care  of. 

Hard.  I entreat  you’ll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You 
shall  not  stir  a step. 

Mar.  Leave  that  to  you!  I protest,  sir,  you  must 
excuse  me ; I always  look  to  these  things  myself. 

Hard.  I must  insist,  sir,  you  ’ll  make  yourself  easy  on 
that  head. 

Mar.  You  see  I’m  resolved  on  it.  A very  trouble- 
some fellow,  as  ever  I met  with.  [Aside. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I ’m  resolved  at  least  to  attend  you. 
This  may  be  modern  modesty,  but  I never  saw  anything 
look  so  like  old-fashioned  impudence.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  Mar.  and  Hard. 

Hast.  So,  I find  this  fellow’s  civilities  begin  to  grow 
troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  with  those  assidui- 
ties which  are  meant  to  please  him?  Ha!  what  do  I 
see  ? Miss  Neville,  by  all  that ’s  happy  ! 

Two  years  after  Goldsmith’s  dramatic  triumph,  a 
still  greater  in  legitimate  comedy  arose  in  the  person 
of  that  remarkable  man,  who  survived  down  to  our 
own  day,  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  On  the 
17th  of  January  1775,  his  play  of  The  Rivals  was 
brought  out  at  Covent  Garden.  In  this  first  effort 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


of  Sheridan — who  was  then  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year — there  is  more  humour  than  wit.  He  had 
copied  some  of  his  characters  from  Humphry 
Clinker , as  the  testy  but  generous  Captain  Absolute, 
evidently  borrowed  from  Matthew  Bramble,  and 
Mrs  Malaprop,  whose  mistakes  in  words  are  the 
echoes  of  Mrs  Winifred  Jenkins’s  blunders.  Some 
of  these  are  farcical  enough ; but  as  Mr  Moore 
observes — and  no  man  has  made  more  use  of  similes 
than  himself— the  luckiness  of  Mrs  Malaprop’s 
simile — ‘as  headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nile  ’ — will  be  acknowledged  as  long  as  there 
are  writers  to  be  run  away  with  by  the  wilfulness  of 
this  truly  headstrong  species  of  composition.  In 
the  same  year,  St  Patrick's  Day  and  The  Duenna 
were  produced ; the  latter  had  a run  of  seventy-five 
nights!  It  certainly  is  greatly  superior  to  The 
Beggar's  Opera , though  not  so  general  in  its  satire. 
In  1777,  Sheridan  had  other  two  plays,  The  Trip  to 
Scarborough  and  The  School  for  Scandal.  In  plot, 
character,  and  incident,  dialogue,  humour,  and  wit, 
The  School  for  Scandal  is  acknowledged  to  surpass 
any  comedy  of  modern  times.  It  was  carefully 
prepared  by  the  author,  who  selected,  arranged,  and 
moulded  his  language  with  consummate  taste,  so  as 
to  form  it  into  a transparent  channel  of  his  thoughts. 
Mr  Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan , gives  some 
amusing  instances  of  the  various  forms  which  a 
witticism  or  pointed  remark  assumed  before  its  final 
adoption.  As,  in  his  first  comedy,  Sheridan  had 
taken  hints  from  Smollett,  in  this,  his  last,  he  had 
recourse  to  Smollett’s  rival,  or  rather  twin  novelist, 
Fielding.  The  characters  of  Charles  and  Joseph 
Surface  are  evidently  copies  from  those  of  Tom 
Jones  and  Blifil.  Nor  is  the  moral  of  the  play  an 
improvement  on  that  of  the  novel.  The  careless 
extravagant  rake  is  generous,  warm-hearted,  and 
fascinating;  seriousness  and  gravity  are  rendered 
odious  by  being  united  to  meanness  and  hypocrisy. 

I The  dramatic  art  of  Sheridan  is  evinced  in  the 
ludicrous  incidents  and  situations  with  which  The 
j School  for  Scandal  abounds : his  genius  shines  forth 
! in  its  witty  dialogues.  ‘The  entire  comedy,’  says 
j Moore,  ‘ is  an  El  Dorado  of  wit,  where  the  precious 
! metal  is  thrown  about  by  all  classes  as  carelessly 
as  if  they  had  not  the  least  idea  of  its  value.’  This 
j fault  is  one  not  likely  to  be  often  committed ! Some 
shorter  pieces  were  afterwards  written  by  Sheridan : 
The  Camp , a musical  opera,  and  The  Critic , a witty 
I after-piece,  in  the  manner  of  The  Rehearsal.  The 
character  of  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  intended,  it  is 
; said,  for  Cumberland  the  dramatist,  is  one  of  the 
author’s  happiest  efforts;  and  the  schemes  and 
contrivances  of  Puff  the  manager — such  as  making 
his  theatrical-clock  strike  four  in  a morning  scene, 

‘ to  beget  an  awful  attention  ’ in  the  audience,  and 
to  ‘ save  a description  of  the  rising  sun,  and  a great 
deal  about  gilding  the  eastern  hemisphere’ — are  a 
felicitous  combination  of  humour  and  satire.  The 
scene  in  which  Sneer  mortifies  the  vanity  of  Sir 
Fretful,  and  Puff’s  description  of  his  own  mode  of 
life  by  his  proficiency  in  the  art  of  puffing,  are 
perhaps  the  best  that  Sheridan  ever  wrote. 

[A  Sensitive  Author .] 

[From  The  Critic .] 

Enter  Servant  to  Dangle  and  Sneer. 

Servant.  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  sir. 

Dangle.  Beg  him  to  walk  up.  [ Exit  Servant.]  Now, 
Mrs  Dangle,  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary  is  an  author  to  your 
; own  taste. 

Mrs  Dangle.  I confess  he  is  a favourite  of  mine, 
because  everybody  else  abuses  him. 

118 


Sneer.  Very  much  to  the  credit  of  your  charity, 
madam,  if  not  of  your  judgment. 

Dan.  But,  egad!  he  allows  no  merit  to  any  author 
but  himself;  that’s  the  truth  on’t,  though  he’s  my 
friend. 

Sneer.  Never.  He  is  as  envious  as  an  old  maid 
verging  on  the  desperation  of  six-and-thirty ; and  then 
the  insidious  humility  with  which  he  seduces  you  to 
give  a free  opinion  on  any  of  his  works,  can  be  exceeded 
only  by  the  petulant  arrogance  with  which  he  is  sure  to 
reject  your  observations. 

Dan.  Very  true,  egad  ! though  he’s  my  friend. 

Sneer.  Then  his  affected  contempt  of  all  newspaper 
strictures ; though,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  the  sorest 
man  alive,  and  shrinks  like  scorched  parchment  from 
the  fiery  ordeal  of  true  criticism : yet  is  he  so  covetous 
of  popularity,  that  he  had  rather  be  abused  than  not 
mentioned  at  all. 

Dan.  There ’s  no  denying  it ; though  he ’s  my  friend. 

Sneer.  You  have  read  the  tragedy  he  has  just 
finished,  haven’t  you  ? 

Dan.  0 yes ; he  sent  it  to  me  yesterday. 

Sneer.  Well,  and  you  think  it  execrable,  don’t  you? 

Dan.  Why,  between  ourselves,  egad ! I must  own — 
though  he ’s  my  friend — that  it  is  one  of  the  most — 
he’s  here! — [Aside] — finished  and  most  admirable 
perform 

Sir  F.  [ Without]  Mr  Sneer  with  him,  did  you  say  ? 

Enter  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary. 

Dan. , Ah,  my  dear  friend ! Egad  ! we  were  just 
speaking  of  your  tragedy.  Admirable,  Sir  Fretful, 
admirable ! 

Sneer.  You  never  did  anything  beyond  it,  Sir  Fretful  ^ 
never  in  your  life. 

Sir  F.  You  make  me  extremely  happy;  for,  without 
a compliment,  my  dear  Sneer,  there  isn’t  a man  in  the 
world  whose  judgment  I value  as  I do  yours ; and  Mr 
Dangle’s. 

Mrs  D.  They  are  only  laughing  at  you,  Sir  Fretful ; 
for  it  was  but  just  now  that 

Dan.  Mrs  Dangle  ! — Ah  ! Sir  Fretful,  you  know  Mrs 
Dangle.  My  friend  Sneer  was  rallying  just  now.  He 
knows  how  she  admires  you,  and 

Sir  F.  0 Lord ! I am  sure  Mr  Sneer  has  more  taste 
and  sincerity  than  to A double-faced  fellow ! 

[Aside. 

Dan.  Yes,  yes;  Sneer  will  jest,  but  a better- 
humoured — 

Sir  F.  Oh  ! I know. 

Dan.  He  has  a ready  turn  for  ridicule ; his  wit  costs 
him  nothing. 

Sir  F.  No,  egad ! or  I should  wonder  how  he  came 
by  it.  [Aside. 

Mrs  D.  Because  his  jest  is  always  at  the  expense  of 
his  friend. 

Dan.  But,  Sir  Fretful,  have  you  sent  your  play  to  the 
managers  yet  ? or  can  I be  of  any  service  to  you  ? 

Sir  F.  No,  no,  I thank  you ; I believe  the  piece  had 
sufficient  recommendation  with  it.  I thank  you  though. 
I sent  it  to  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  this 
morning. 

Sneer.  I should  have  thought  now,  that  it  might 
have  been  cast  (as  the  actors  call  it)  better  at  Drury 
Lane. 

Sir  F.  0 lud  ! no — never  send  a play  there  while  I 
live.  Hark  ye  ! [ Whispers  Sneer. 

Sneer.  Writes  himself!  I know  he  does. 

Sir  F.  I say  nothing — I take  away  from  no  man’s 
merit — am  hurt  at  no  man’s  good-fortune.  I say 
nothing ; but  this  I will  say ; through  all  my  knowledge 
of  life,  1 have  observed  that  there  is  not  a passion  so 
strongly  rooted  in  the  human  heart  as  envy! 

Sneer.  I believe  you  have  reason  for  what  you  say, 
indeed. 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SHERIDAN. 


Sir  F.  Besides,  I can  tell  you,  it  is  not  always  so 
safe  to  leave  a play  in  the  hands  of  those  who  write 
themselves. 

Sneer.  What ! they  may  steal  from  them  ? eh,  my 
dear  Plagiary  ? 

Sir  F.  Steal ! to  he  sure  they  may ; and,  egad ! 
serve  your  best  thoughts  as  gipsies  do  stolen  children — 
disfigure  them  to  make  ’em  pass  for  their  own. 

Sneei\  But  your  present  work  is  a sacrifice  to 
Melpomene  ; and  he,  you  know,  never 

Sir  F.  That ’s  no  security.  A dexterous  plagiarist 
may  do  anything.  Why,  sir,  for  aught  I know,  he  might 
take  out  some  of  the  best  things  in  my  tragedy  and  put 
them  into  his  own  comedy. 

Sneer.  That  might  be  done,  I dare  be  sworn. 

Sir  F.  And,  then,  if  such  a person  gives  you  the  least 
hint  or  assistance,  he  is  devilish  apt  to  take  the  merit 
of  the  whole. 

Dan.  If  it  succeeds. 

Sir  F.  Ay ! but  with  regard  to  this  piece,  I think  I 
can  hit  that  gentleman,  for  I can  safely  swear  he  never 
read  it. 

Sneer.  I ’ll  tell  you  how  you  may  hurt  him  more. 

Sir  F.  How  ? 

Sneer.  Swear  he  wrote  it. 

Sir  F.  Plague  on ’t  now,  Sneer ; I shall  take  it  ill. 
I believe  you  want  to  take  away  my  character  as  an 
author ! 

Sneer.  Then  I am  sure  you  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  me. 

Sir  F.  Eh  ? sir  ! 

Dan.  Oh  ! you  know  he  never  means  what  he  says. 

Sir  F.  Sincerely,  then,  you  do  like  the  piece  ? 

Sneer.  Wonderfully! 

Sir  F.  But,  come,  now,  there  must  be  something  that 
you  think  might  be  mended,  eh?  Mr  Dangle,  has 
nothing  struck  you  ? 

Dan.  Why,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungracious  thing  for 
the  most  part  to 

Sir  F.  With  most  authors  it  is  just  so,  indeed ; they 
are  in  general  strangely  tenacious ; but,  for  my  part,  I 
am  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  a judicious  critic 
points  out  any  defect  to  me ; for  what  is  the  purpose  of 
shewing  a work  to  a friend  if  you  don’t  mean  to  profit 
by  his  opinion  ? 

Sneer.  Veiy  true.  Why,  then,  though  I seriously 
admire  the  piece  upon  the  whole,  yet  there  is  one  small 
objection  which,  if  you  ’ll  give  me  leave,  I ’ll  mention. 

Sir  F.  Sir,  you  can’t  oblige  me  more. 

Sneer.  I think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  F.  Good  God ! you  surprise  me  ! wants  incident  ? 

Sneer.  Yes ; I own  I think  the  incidents  are  too  few. 

Sir  F.  Good  God ! Believe  me,  Mr  Sneer,  there  is 
no  person  for  whose  judgment  I have  a more  implicit 
deference ; but  I protest  to  you,  Mr  Sneer,  I am  only 
apprehensive  that  the  incidents  are  too  crowded.  My 
dear  Dangle,  how  does  it  strike  you  ? 

Dan.  Really,  I can’t  agree  with  my  friend  Sneer.  I 
think  the  plot  quite  sufficient ; and  the  four  first  acts 
by  many  degrees  the  best  I ever  read  or  saw  in  my  life. 
If  I might  venture  to  suggest  anything,  it  is  that  the 
interest  rather  falls  off  in  the  fifth. 

Sir  F.  Rises,  I believe  you  mean,  sir. 

Dan.  No ; I don’t,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  yes,  you  do,  upon  my  soul ; it  certainly 
don’t  fall  off,  I assure  you ; no,  no,  it  don’t  fall  off. 

Dan.  Now,  Mrs  Dangle,  didn’t  you  say  it  struck  you 
in  the  same  light  ? 

Mrs  D.  No,  indeed,  I did  not.  I did  not  see  a fault 
in  any  part  of  the  play  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 

Sir  F.  Upon  my  soul,  the  women  are  the  best  judges 
after  all ! 

Mrs  D.  Or  if  I made  any  objection,  I am  sure  it  was 
to  nothing  in  the  piece ; but  that  I was  afraid  it  was, 
on  the  whole,  a little  too  long. 

Sir  F.  Pray,  madam,  do  you  speak  as  to  duration  of 


time  ; or  do  you  mean  that  the  story  is  tediously  spun 
out  ? 

Mrs  D.  0 lud ! no.  I speak  only  with  reference  to 
the  usual  length  of  acting  plays. 

Sir  F.  Then  I am  very  happy — very  happy  indeed ; 
because  the  play  is  a short  play,  a remarkably  short 
play.  I should  not  venture  to  differ  with  a lady  on  a 
point  of  taste ; but  on  these  occasions  the  watch,  you 
know,  is  the  critic. 

Mrs  D.  Then,  I suppose,  it  must  have  been  Mr 
Dangle’ s drawling  manner  of  reading  it  to  me. 

Sir  F.  0 ! if  Mr  Dangle  read  it,  that ’s  quite  another 
affair ; but  I assure  you,  Mrs  Dangle,  the  first  evening 
you  can  spare  me  three  hours  and  a half,  I ’ll  undertake 
to  read  you  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the 
prologue  and  epilogue,  and  allow  time  for  the  music 
between  the  acts. 

Mrs  D.  I hope  to  see  it  on  the  stage  next.  {Exit. 

Dan.  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I wish  you  may  be  able  to 
get  rid  as  easily  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  as  you  do 
of  ours. 

Sir  F.  The  newspapers ! sir,  they  are  the  most 
villainous,  licentious,  abominable,  infernal— not  that  I 
ever  read  them ; no,  I make  it  a rule  never  to  look  into 
a newspaper. 

Dan.  You  are  quite  right ; for  it  certainly  must  hurt 
an  author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see  the  liberties  they 
take. 

Sir  F.  No ; quite  the  contrary ; their  abuse  is,  in 
fact,  the  best  panegyric ; I like  it  of  all  things.  An 
author’s  reputation  is  only  in  danger  from  their  support. 

Sneer.  Why,  that ’s  true ; and  that  attack,  now,  on 
you  the  other  day 

Sir  F.  What  ? where  ? 

Dan.  Ay ! you  mean  in  a paper  of  Thursday ; it  was 
completely  ill-natured  to  be  sure. 

Sir  F.  Oh  ! so  much  the  better ; ha,  ha,  ha ! I 
wouldn’t  have  it  otherwise. 

Dan.  Certainly,  it  is  only  to  be  laughed  at,  for 

Sir  F.  You  don’t  happen  to  recollect  what  the  fellow 
said,  do  you  ? 

Sneer.  Pray,  Dangle ; Sir  Fretful  seems  a little 
anxious 

Sir  F.  0 lud,  no  ! anxious,  not  I,  not  the  least — I — - 
but  one  may  as  well  hear,  you  know. 

Dan.  Sneer,  do  you  recollect  ? Make  out  something. 

[Aside. 

Sneer.  I will.  [To  Dangle .]  Yes,  yes,  I remember 
perfectly. 

Sir  F.  Well,  and  pray  now — not  that  it  signifies — 
what  might  the  gentleman  say  ? 

Sneer.  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you  have  not  the 
slightest  invention  or  original  genius  whatever,  though 
you  are  the  greatest  traducer  of  all  other  authors  living. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! very  good  1 

Sneer.  That  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one  idea  of 
your  own,  he  believes,  even  in  your  commonplace-book, 
where  stray  jokes  and  pilfered  witticisms  are  kept  with 
as  much  method  as  the  ledger  of  the  lost  and  stolen 
office. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! very  pleasant. 

Sneer.  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  have 
the  skill  even  to  steal  with  taste ; but  that  you  glean 
from  the  refuse  of  obscure  volumes,  where  more  judicious 
plagiarists  have  been  before  you ; so  that  the  body  of 
your  work  is  a composition  of  dregs  and  sediments,  like 
a bad  tavern’s  worst  wine. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha ! 

Sneer.  In  your  more  serious  efforts,  he  says,  your 
bombast  would  be  less  intolerable  if  the  thoughts  were 
ever  suited  to  the  expressions ; but  the  homeliness  of 
the  sentiment  stares  through  the  fantastic  incumbrance 
of  its  fine  language,  like  a clown  in  one  of  the  new 
uniforms. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha ! 

Sneer.  That  your  occasional  tropes  and  flowers  suit 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


the  general  coarseness  of  your  style,  as  tambour  sprigs 
would  a ground  of  linsey-woolsey  ; while  your  imita- 
tions of  Shakspeare  resemble  the  mimicry  of  FalstafFs 
page,  and  are  about  as  near  the  standard  of  the 
original. 

Sir  F.  Ha  ! 

Sneer.  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages  you 
steal  are  of  no  service  to  you ; for  the  poverty  of  your 
own  language  prevents  their  assimilating,  so  that  they 
lie  on  the  surface  like  lumps  of  marl  on  a barren  moor, 
encumbering  what  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  fertilise. 

Sir  F.  [After  great  agitation .]  Now,  another  person 
would  be  vexed  at  this. 

Sneer.  Oh!  but  I wouldn’t  have  told  you,  only  to 
divert  you. 

Sir  F.  I know  it.  I am  diverted — ha,  ha,  ha  ! not 
the  least  invention  ! ha,  ha,  ha ! — very  good,  very 
good  ! 

Sneer.  Yes ; no  genius  ! ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Dan.  A severe  rogue,  ha,  ha,  ha ! — but  you  are  quite 
right,  Sir  Fretful,  never  to  read  such  nonsense. 

Sir  F.  To  be  sure ; for  if  there  is  anything  to  one’s 
praise,  it  is  a foolish  vanity  to  be  gratified  at  it ; and  if 
it  is  abuse,  why,  one  is  always  sure  to  hear  of  it  from 
some  good-natured  friend  or  other  ! 

[The  Anatomy  of  Character  performed  by 
Uncharitableness.] 

[From  The  School  for  Scandal.] 

Maria  enters  to  Ladt  Sneerwell  and  Joseph  Surface. 

Lady  Sneerwdl.  Maria,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do  ? 
What ’s  the  matter  ? 

Maria.  Oh  ! there  is  that  disagreeable  lover  of  mine, 
Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  has  just  called  at  my  guardian’s 
with  his  odious  uncle,  Crabtree ; so  I slipt  out,  and  ran 
hither  to  avoid  them. 

Lady  S.  Is  that  all  ? 

Joseph  Surface.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of 
the  party,  madam,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  been  so 
much  alarmed. 

Lady  S.  Nay,  now  you  are  severe ; for  I dare  swear 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Maria  heard  you  were  here. 
But,  my  dear,  what  has  Sir  Benjamin  done  that  you 
should  avoid  him  so  ? 

Maria.  Oh,  he  has  done  nothing — but  ’tis  for  what 
he  has  said : his  conversation  is  a perpetual  libel  on  all 
his  acquaintance. 

Josephs.  Ay,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  is  no 
advantage  in  not  knowing  him — for  he’ll  abuse  a 
stranger  just  as  soon  as  his  best  friend;  and  his  uncle 
Crabtree  ’s  as  bad. 

Lady  S.  Nay,  but  we  should  make  allowance.  Sir 
Benjamin  is  a wit  and  a poet. 

Maria.  For  my  part,  I own,  madam,  wit  loses  its 
respect  with  me  when  I see  it  in  company  with  malice. 
What  do  you  think,  Mr  Surface? 

Josephs.  Certainly,  madam;  to  smile  at  the  jest 
which  plants  a thorn  in  another’s  breast  is  to  become  a 
principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  S.  Pshaw ! — there ’s  no  possibility  of  being 
witty  without  a little  ill-nature : the  malice  of  a good 
thing  is  the  barb  that  makes  it  stick.  What’s  your 
opinion,  Mr  Surface  ? 

J oseph  S.  To  be  sure,  madam ; that  conversation 
where  the  spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed,  will  ever 
appear  tedious  and  insipid. 

Maria.  Well,  I ’ll  not  debate  how  far  scandal  may  be 
allowable;  but  in  a man,  I am  sure,  it  is  always 
contemptible.  We  have  pride,  envy,  rivalship,  and  a 
thousand  little'motives  to  depreciate  each  other ; but  the 
male  slanderer  must  have  the  cowardice  of  a woman 
before  he  can  traduce  one. 

12© 


Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Madam,  Mrs  Candour  is  below,  and  if  your 
ladyship’s  at  leisure,  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Lady  S.  Beg  her  to  walk  in.  [Exit  Servant.']  Now, 
Maria,  however,  here  is  a character  to  your  taste ; for 
though  Mrs  Candour  is  a little  talkative,  everybody 
allows  her  to  be  the  best  natured  and  best  sort  of 
woman. 

Maria.  Yes — with  a very  gross  affectation  of  good- 
nature and  benevolence,  she  does  more  mischief  than 
the  direct  malice  of  old  Crabtree. 

Joseph  S.  I’ faith,  that’s  true,  Lady  Sneerwell; 
whenever  I hear  the  current  running  against  the 
characters  of  my  friends,  I never  think  them  in  such 
danger  as  when  Candour  undertakes  their  defence. 

Lady  S.  Hush  ! — here  she  is ! 

Enter  Mrs  Candour. 

Mrs  Candour.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  have  you 
been  this  century?  Mr  Surface,  what  news  do  you 
hear  ? — though  indeed  it  is  no  matter,  for  I think  one 
hears  nothing  else  but  scandal 

Joseph  S.  Just  so,  indeed,  ma’am. 

Mrs  C.  Oh,  Maria ! child — what ! is  the  whole  affair 
off  between  you  and  Charles?  His  extravagance,  I 
presume — the  town  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Maria.  I am  very  sorry,  ma’am,  the  town  has  so 
little  to  do. 

Mrs  C.  True,  true,  child : but  there’s  no  stopping 
people’s  tongues.  I own  I was  hurt  to  hear  it,  as  I 
indeed  was  to  learn,  from  the  same  quarter,  that  your 
guardian,  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle,  have  not  agreed 
lately  as  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Maria.  ’Tis  strangely  impertinent  for  people  to  busy 
themselves  so. 

Mrs  C.  Very  true,  child : but  what ’s  to  be  done  ? 
People  will  talk — there ’s  no  preventing  it.  Why,  it 
was  but  yesterday  I was  told  that  Miss  Gadabout  had 
eloped  with  Sir  Filligree  Flirt.  But  there ’s  no  minding 
what  one  hears;  though,  to  be  sure,  I had  this  from 
very  good  authority. 

Maria.  Such  reports  are  highly  scandalous. 

Mrs  C.  So  they  are,  child — shameful,  shameful ! 
But  the  world  is  so  censorious,  no  character  escapes. 
Well,  now,  who  would  have  suspected  your  friend,  Miss 
Prim,  of  an  indiscretion?  Yet  such  is  the  ill-nature  of 
people  that  they  say  her  uncle  stopt  her  last  week,  just 
as  she  was  stepping  into  the  York  mail  with  her 
dancing-master. 

Maria.  I ’ll  answer  for ’t  there  are  no  grounds  for 
that  report. 

Mrs  C.  Ah,  no  foundation  in  the  world,  I dare 
swear ; no  more,  probably,  than  for  the  story  circulated 
last  month  of  Mrs  Festino’s  affair  with  Colonel*Cassino ; 
though,  to  be  sure,  that  matter  was  never  rightly 
cleared  up. 

Joseph  S.  The  license  of  invention  some  people  take 
is  monstrous  indeed. 

Maria.  ’Tis  so — but,  in  my  opinion,  those  who  report 
such  things  are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs  C.  To  be  sure  they  are ; tale-bearers  are  as  bad 
as  the  tale-makers — ’tis  an  old  observation,  and  a very 
true  one : but  what ’s  to  be  done,  as  I said  before  ? how 
will  you  prevent  people  from  talking?  To-day,  Mrs 
Clackitt  assured  me  Mr  and  Mrs  Honeymoon  were  at 
last  become  mere  man  and  wife,  like  the  rest  of  their 
acquaintance.  * * No,  no ! tale-bearers,  as  I said 
before,  are  just  as  bad  as  the  tale-makers. 

Joseph  S.  Ah  ! Mrs  Candour,  if  everybody  had  your 
forbearance  and  good-nature ! 

Mrs  C.  I confess,  Mr  Surface,  I cannot  bear  to  hear 
people  attacked  behind  their  backs;  and  when  ugly 
circumstances  come  out  against  our  acquaintance,  I own 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SHERIDAN. 


I always  love  to  think  the  best.  By  the  by,  I hope  ’tis 
not  true  that  your  brother  is  absolutely  ruined  ? 

Joseph  S.  I am  afraid  his  circumstances  are  very  bad 
indeed,  ma’am. 

Mrs  C.  Ah ! I heard  so — but  you  must  tell  him  to 
keep  up  his  spirits;  everybody  almost  is  in  the  same 
way — Lord  Spindle,  Sir  Thomas  Splint,  and  Mr  Nickit 
— all  up,  I hear,  within  this  week;  so,  if  Charles  is 
undone,  he  ’ll  find  half  his  acquaintance  ruined  too ; and 
that,  you  know,  is  a consolation. 

Joseph  S.  Doubtless,  ma’am — a very  great  one. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Mr  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Lady  S.  So,  Maria,  you  see  your  lover  pursues  you ; 
positively  you  shan’t  escape. 

Enter  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

Crabtree.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I kiss  your  hand.  Mrs 
Candour,  I don’t  believe  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
nephew,  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  ? Egad  ! ma’am,  he  has 
a pretty  wit,  and  is  a pretty  poet  too ; isn’t  he,  Lady 
, Sneerwell  ? 

Sir  Benjamin.  0 fie,  uncle  ! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad,  it ’s  time ; I back  him  at  a rebus  or 
a charade  against  the  best  rhymer  in  the  kingdom.  Has 
your  ladyship  heard  the  epigram  he  wrote  last  week  on 
Lady  Frizzle’s  feather  catching  fire?  Do,  Benjamin, 
repeat  it,  or  the  charade  you  made  last  night  extempore 
at  Mrs  Drowzie’s  conversazione.  Come  -now;  your 
first  is  the  name  of  a fish,  your  second,  a great  naval 
commander,  and 

Sir  B.  Uncle,  now — prithee 

Crab.  I’ faith,  ma’am,  ’twould  surprise  you  to  hear 
how  ready  he  is  at  these  things. 

Lady  S.  I wonder,  Sir  Benjamin,  you  never  publish 
anything. 

Sir  B.  To  say  truth,  ma’am,  ’tis  very  vulgar  to  print ; 
and  as  my  little  productions  are  mostly  satires  and 
lampoons  on  particular  people,  I find  they  circulate 
more  by  giving  copies  in  confidence  to  the  friends  of  the 
parties.  However,  I have  some  love  elegies,  which, 
when  favoured  with  this  lady’s  smiles,  I mean  to  give 
the  public. 

Crab.  ’Fore  heaven,  ma’am,  they’ll  immortalise  you  ! 
You  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  like  Petrarch’s 
Laura,  or  Waller’s  Sacharissa. 

Sir  B.  Yes,  madam,  I think  you  will  like  them,  when 
you  shall  see  them  on  a beautiful  quarto  page,  where  a 
neat  rivulet  of  text  shall  murmur  through  a meadow  of 
margin.  ’Fore  gad,  they  will  be  the  most  elegant  things 
of  their  kind ! 

Crab.  But,  ladies,  that’s  true — have  you  heard  the 
news? 

Mrs  C.  What,  sir,  do  you  mean  the  report  of 

Crab.  No,  ma’am,  that’s  not  it — Miss  Nicely  is  going 
to  be  married  to  her  own  footman. 

Mrs  C.  Impossible ! 

Crab.  Ask  Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  B.  ’Tis  very  true,  ma’am ; everything  is  fixed,  and 
the  wedding  liveries  bespoke. 

Crab.  Yes;  and  they  do  say  there  were  very  pressing 
reasons  for  it. 

Jjady  S.  Why,  I have  heard  something  of  this  before. 

Mrs  C.  It  can’t  be ; and  I wonder  any  one  should 
believe  such  a story  of  so  prudent  a lady  as  Miss  Nicely. 

Sir  B.  0 lud ! ma’am,  that’s  the  very  reason  ’twas 
believed  at  once.  She  has  always  been  so  cautious  and 
so  reserved,  that  everybody  was  sure  there  was  some 
reason  for  it  at  bottom. 

Mrs  C.  Why,  to  be  sure,  a tale  of  scandal  is  as  fatal 
to  the  credit  of  a prudent  lady  of  her  stamp  as  a fever 
is  generally  to  those  of  the  strongest  constitutions.  But 
there  is  a sort  of  puny  sickly  reputation  that  is  always 


ailing,  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster  characters  of  a 
hundred  prudes. 

Sir  B.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudinarians  in 
reputation  as  well  as  constitution ; who,  being  conscious 
of  their  weak  part,  avoid  the  least  breath  of  air,  and 
supply  their  want  of  stamina  by  care  and  circumspection. 

Mrs  C.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  a mistake.  You 
know,  Sir  Benjamin,  very  trifling  circumstances  often 
give  rise  to  the  most  injurious  tales. 

Crab.  That  they  do,  I’ll  be  sworn,  ma’am.  0 lud! 
Mr  Surface,  pray,  is  it  true  that  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver, 
is  coming  home  ? 

Joseph  S.  Not  that  I know  of,  indeed,  sir. 

Crab.  He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a long  time. 
You  can  scarcely  remember  him,  I believe  ? Sad  comfort 
whenever  he  returns,  to  hear  how  your  brother  has 
gone  on.  < 

Joseph  S.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir,  to  be  sure; 
but  I hope  no  busy  people  have  already  prejudiced  Sir 
Oliver  against  him.  He  may  reform. 

Sir  B.  To  be  sure  he  may ; for  my  part,  I never 
believed  him  to  be  so  utterly  void  of  principle  as  people 
say ; and  though  he  has  lost  all  his  friends,  I am  told 
nobody  is  better  spoken  of  by  the  Jews. 

Crab.  That’s  true,  egad,  nephew.  If  the  Old  Jewry 
was  a ward,  I believe  Charles  would  be  an  alderman : 
no  man  more  popular  there  ! I hear  he  pays  as  many 
annuities  as  the  Irish  tontine ; and  that,  whenever  he 
is  sick,  they  have  prayers  for  the  recovery  of  his  health 
in  all  the  synagogues. 

Sir  B.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater  splendour.  They 
tell  me,  when  he  entertains  his  friends,  he  will  sit  down 
to  dinner  with  a dozen  of  his  own  securities ; have  a 
score  of  tradesmen  waiting  in  the  antechamber,  and  an 
officer  behind  every  guest’s  chair. 

Joseph  S.  This  may  be  entertainment  to  you,  gentle- 
men ; but  you  pay  very  little  regard  to  the  feelings  of  a 
brother. 

Maria.  Their  malice  is  intolerable.  Lady  Sneerwell, 
I must  wish  you  a good-morning  : I ’m  not  very  well. 

[Exit  Maria. 

Mrs  C.  0 dear  ! she  changes  colour  very  much. 

Lady  S.  Do,  Mrs  Candour,  follow  her  : she  may  want 
your  assistance. 

Mrs  C.  That  I will,  with  all  my  soul,  ma’am.  Poor 
dear  girl,  who  knows  what  her  situation  may  be  ! 

[Exit  Mrs  Candour. 

Lady  S.  ’Twas  nothing  but  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  hear  Charles  reflected  on,  notwithstanding  their 
difference. 

Sir  B.  The  young  lady’s  penchant  is  obvious. 

Crab.  But,  Benjamin,  you  must  not  give  up  the 
pursuit  for  that : follow  her,  and  put  her  into  good- 
humour.  Repeat  her  some  of  your  own  verses.  Come, 
I’ll  assist  you. 

Sir  B.  Mr  Surface,  I did  not  mean  to  hurt  you  ; but, 
depend  on ’t,  your  brother  is  utterly  undone. 

Crab.  0 lud,  ay  ! undone  as  ever  man  was.  Can’t 
raise  a guinea ! 

Sir  B.  And  everything  sold,  I’m  told,  that  was 
movable. 

Crab.  I have  seen  one  that  was  at  his  house.  Not 
a thing  left  but  some  empty  bottles  that  were  over- 
looked, and  the  family  pictures,  which  I believe  are 
framed  in  the  wainscots. 

Sir  B.  And  I ’m  very  sorry,  also,  to  hear  some  bad 
stories  against  him. 

Crab.  Oh  ! he  has  done  many  mean  things,  that ’s 
certain. 

Sir  B.  But,  however,  as  he  is  your  brother 

Crab.  We  ’ll  tell  you  all  another  opportunity. 

[Exeunt  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin. 

Jjady  S.  Ha,  ha ! ’tis  very  hard  for  them  to  leave  a 
subject  they  have  not  quite  run  down. 

Joseph  S.  And  I believe  the  abuse  was  no  more 
acceptable  to  your  ladyship  than  Maria. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


Lady  S.  I doubt  her  affections  are  further  engaged 
than  we  imagine.  But  the  family  are  to  be  here  this 
evening,  so  you  may  as  well  dine  where  you  are,  and 
we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  observing  further ; in 
the  meantime,  I ’ll  go  and  plot  mischief,  and  you  shall 
study  sentiment.  [ Exeunt . 

In  1780,  Mrs  Cowley  (1743-1809),  produced 
her  lively  comedy,  The  Belle's  Stratagem , which  is 
still  popular  on  the  stage.  Mrs  Cowley  wrote  other 
dramatic  pieces,  but  they  have  sunk  into  neglect. 
She  was  also  the  authoress  of  some  poetical  works — 
The  Scottish  Village , The  Siege  of  Acre , &c.  Her 
works  were  collected  in  1813,  and  published  in  three 
volumes. 


GEORGE  COLMAN,  THE  YOUNGER. 

The  most  able  and  successful  comic  dramatist  of 
his  day  was  George  Colman,  the  younger,*  who 
was  born  on  the  21st  of  October  1762.  The  son 


George  Colman,  the  younger. 


of  the  author  of  the  Jealous  Wife  and  Clandestine 
Marriage , Colman  had  a hereditary  attachment  to 
the  drama.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster 
School,  and  afterwards  entered  of  Christ’s  Church 
College,  Oxford;  but  his  idleness  and  dissipation 
at  the  university  led  his  father  to  withdraw  him 
from  Oxford,  and  banish  him  to  Aberdeen.  Here 
he  was  distinguished  for  his  eccentric  dress  and 
folly,  but  he  also  applied  himself  to  his  classical 
and  other  studies.  At  Aberdeen  he  published  a 
poem  on  Charles  James  Fox,  entitled  The  Man  of 
the  People , and  wrote  a musical  farce,  The  Female 
Dramatist , which  his  father  brought  out  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  but  it  was  condemned.  A second 
dramatic  attempt,  entitled  Two  to  One , brought 
out  in  1784,  enjoyed  considerable  success.  This 

* Colman  added  ‘ the  younger  ’ to  his  name  after  the  con- 
demnation of  his  play,  The  Iron  Chest.  * Lest  my  father’s 
memory,’  he  says,  ‘ may  be  injured  by  mistakes,  and  in  the 
confusion  of  after-time  the  translator  of  Terence,  and  the 
author  of  the  Jealous  Wife , should  be  supposed  guilty  of  The 
Iron  Chest,  I shall,  were  I to  reach  the  patriarchal  longevity 
of  Methuselah,  continue  (in  all  my  dramatic  publications)  to 
subscribe  myself  George  Colman,  the  younger 
122 


seems  to  have  fixed  his  literary  taste  and  inclina- 
tions ; for  though  his  father  intended  him  for  the 
bar,  and  entered  him  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  the  drama 
engrossed  his  attention.  In  1784,  he  contracted  a 
thoughtless  marriage  with  a Miss  Catherine  Morris, 
with  whom  he  eloped  to  Gretna  Green,  and  next 
year  brought  out  a second  musical  comedy,  Turk 
and  no  Turk.  His  father  becoming  incapacitated 
from  attacks  of  paralysis,  the  younger  Colman 
undertook  the  management  of  the  theatre  in  Hay- 
market,  and  was  thus  fairly  united  to  the  stage 
and  the  drama.  Various  pieces  proceeded  from 
his  pen : Inkle  and  Yarico , a musical  opera,  brought 
out  with  success  in  1787 ; Ways  and  Means , a 
comedy,  1788 ; The  Battle  of  Hexham,  1789 ; The 
Surrender  of  Calais , 1791;  The  Mountaineers,  1793; 
The  Iron  Chest — founded  on  Godwin’s  novel  of  Caleb 
Williams — 1796;  The  Heir  at  Law,  1797;  Blue  Beard 
— a mere  piece  of  scenic  display  and  music — 1798 ; 
The  Review,  or  the  Wags  of  Windsor,  an  excellent 
farce,  1798 ; The  Poor  Gentleman,  a comedy,  1802 ; 
Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths,  a farce,  1803 ; Gay 
Deceivers,  a farce,  1804 ; John  Bull,  a comedy,  1805  ; 
Who  Wants  a Guinea  ? 1805  ; We  Fly  by  Night,  a 
farce,  1806 ; The  Africans,  a play,  1808  ; X.  Y.  Z., 
a farce,  1810 ; The  Law  of  Java,  a musical  drama, 
1822,  &c.  No  modern  dramatist  has  added  so 
many  stock-pieces  to  the  theatre  as  Colman,  or 
imparted  so  much  genuine  mirth  and  humour  to 
all  playgoers.  His  society  was  also  much  courted ; 
he  was  a favourite  with  George  IV.,  and,  in  con- 
junction with  Sheridan,  was  wont  to  set  the  royal 
table  in  a roar.  His  gaiety,  however,  was  not 
always  allied  to  prudence,  and  theatrical  property 
is  a very  precarious  possession.  As  a manager, 
Colman  got  entangled  in  lawsuits,  and  was  forced 
to  reside  in  the  King’s  Bench.  The  king  stepped 
forward  to  relieve  him,  by  appointing  him  ,to  the 
situation  of  licenser  and  examiner  of  plays,  an 
office  worth  from  £300  to  £400  a year.  In  this 
situation  Colman  incurred  the  enmity  of  several 
dramatic  authors  by  the  rigour  with  which  he 
scrutinised  their  productions.  His  own  plays  are 
far  from  being  strictly  correct  or  moral,  but  not 
an  oath  or  double-entendre  was  suffered  to  escape 
his  expurgatorial  pen  as  licenser,  and  he  was 
peculiarly  keen-scented  in  detecting  all  political 
allusions.  Besides  his  numerous  plays,  Colman 
wrote  some  poetical  travesties  and  pieces  of  levity, 
published  under  the  title  of  My  Nightgovm  and 
Slippers  (1797),  which  were  afterwards  republished 
(1802)  with  additions,  and  named  Broad  Grins; 
also  Poetical  Vagaries , Vagaries  Vindicated,  and 
Eccentricities  for  Edinburgh.  In  these,  delicacy  and 
decorum  are  often  sacrificed  to  broad  mirth  and 
humour.  The  last  work  of  the  lively  author  was 
memoirs  of  his  own  early  life  and  times,  entitled 
Random  Records,  and  published  in  1830.  He  died 
in  London  on  the  26th  October  1836.  The  comedies 
of  Colman  abound  in  witty  and  ludicrous  delinea- 
tions of  character,  interspersed  with  bursts  of  ten- 
derness and  feeling,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Sterne, 
whom,  indeed,  he  has  closely  copied  in  his  Poor 
Gentleman.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  praised  his  John 
Bull  as  by  far  the  best  effort  of  our  late  comic  drama. 
‘The  scenes  of  broad  humour  are  executed  in  the 
best  possible  taste;  and  the  whimsical,  yet  native 
characters,  reflect  the  manners  of  real  life.  The 
sentimental  parts,  although  one  of  them  includes  a 
finely  wrought-up  scene  of  paternal  distress,  par- 
take of  the  falsetto  of  German  pathos.  But  the 
piece  is  both  humorous  and  affecting;  and  we  readily 
excuse  its  obvious  imperfections  in  consideration 
of  its  exciting  our  laughter  and  our  tears.’  The 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  COLMAK. 


whimsical  character  of  Ollapod  in  the  Poor  Gentle- 
man is  one  of  Colman’s  most  original  and  laughable 
conceptions ; Pangloss,  in  the  Heir  at  Law , is  also 
an  excellent  satirical  portrait  of  a pedant — proud 
of  being  an  LL.D.,  and,  moreover,  an  A.  double  S. 
— and  his  Irishmen,  Yorkshiremen,  and  country- 
rustics — all  admirably  performed  at  the  time — are 
highly  entertaining,  though  overcharged  portraits. 
A tendency  to  farce  is  indeed  the  besetting  sin  of 
Colman’s  comedies ; and  in  his  more  serious  plays, 
there  is  a curious  mixture  of  prose  and  verse,  high- 
toned  sentiment  and  low  humour.  Their  effect  on 
the  stage  is,  however,  irresistible.  We  have  quoted 
Joanna  Baillie’s  description  of  Jane  de  Montfort  as 
a portrait  of  Mrs  Siddons ; and  Colman’s  Octavian 
in  The  Mountaineers  is  an  equally  faithful  likeness 
of  John  Kemble : 

Lovely  as  day  he  was — but  envious  clouds 
Have  dimmed  his  lustre.  He  is  as  a rock 
Opposed  to  the  rude  sea  that  beats  against  it ; 

Worn  by  the  waves,  yet  still  o’ertopping  them 
In  sullen  majesty.  Rugged  now  his  look — 

For  out,  alas  ! calamity  has  blurred 
The  fairest  pile  of  manly  comeliness 
That  ever  reared  its  lofty  head  to  heaven ! 

’Tis  not  of  late  that  I have  heard  his  voice ; 

But  if  it  be  not  changed — I think  it  cannot — 

There  is  a melody  in  every  tone 

Would  charm  the  towering  eagle  in  her  flight, 

And  tame  a hungry  lion. 

[Scene  from  the  ‘ Heir  at  Law .’] 

[Daniel  Dowlas,  an  old  Gosport  shopkeeper, from  the  supposed 
loss  of  the  son  of  Lord  Duberly,  succeeds  to  the  peerage  and  an 
estate  worth  £15,000  per  annum.  He  engages  Dr  Pangloss— 
a poor  pedant  just  created  by  the  Society  of  Arts  Artium 
Societatis  Socius— as  tutor  to  his  son,  with  a salary  of  £300  a 
year.] 

A Room  in  the  Blue  Boar  Inn. 

Enter  Dr  Pangloss  and  Waiter. 

Pangloss.  Let  the  chariot  turn  about.  Dr  Pangloss 
in  a lord’s  chariot  ! ‘ Curru  portatur  eodem.’ — Juvenal 

— Hem  ! Waiter  ! 

Waiter.  Sir. 

Pang.  Have  you  any  gentleman  here  who  arrived  this 
morning  ? 

Waiter.  There’s  one  in  the  house  now,  sir. 

Pang.  Is  he  juvenile  ? 

Waiter.  No,  sir ; he ’s  Derbyshire. 

Pang.  He,  he,  he!  Of  what  appearance  is  the 
gentleman  ? 

Waiter.  Why,  plaguy  poor,  sir. 

Pang.  ‘I  hold  him  rich,  al  had  he  not  a sherte.’ — 
Chaucer — Hem ! Denominated  the  Honourable  Mr 

Dowlas  ? 

Waiter.  Honourable ! He  left  his  name  plain  Dowlas 
at  the  bar,  sir. 

Pang.  Plain  Dowlas,  did  he  ? that  will  do.  * For  all 
the  rest  is  leather’ 

Waiter.  Leather,  sir ! 

Pang.  ‘ And  prunello.’ — Pope  — Hem  ! Tell  Mr 
Dowlas  a gentleman  requests  the  honour  of  an  inter- 
view. 

Waiter.  This  is  his  room,  sir.  He  is  but  just  stept 
into  our  parcel  warehouse — he  ’ll  be  with  you  directly. 

[Exit. 

Pang.  Never  before  did  honour  and  affluence  let  fall 
such  a shower  on  the  head  of  Doctor  Pangloss ! Fortune, 
I thank  thee  ! Propitious  goddess,  I am  grateful!  I, 
thy  favoured  child,  who  commenced  his  career  in  the 
loftiest  apartment  of  a muffin-maker  in  Milk-alley. 
Little  did  I think — ‘ good  easy  man  ’ — Shakspeare — 
Hem! — of -the  riches  and  literary  dignities  which 
now 


Enter  Dick  Dowlas. 

My  pupil  ! 

Dick.  [Speaking  while  entering .]  Well,  where  is  the 
man  that  wants — oh!  you  are  he,  I suppose 

Pang.  I am  the  man,  young  gentleman ! ‘ Homo  sum.’ 
— Terence — Hem  ! Sir,  the  person  who  now  presumes 
to  address  you  is  Peter  Pangloss ; to  whose  name,  in 
the  college  of  Aberdeen,  is  subjoined  LL.D.,  signifying 
Doctor  of  Laws ; to  which  has  been  recently  added  the 
distinction  of  A.  double  S. — the  Roman  initials  for  a 
Fellow  of  the  Society  of  Arts. 

Dick.  Sir,  I am  your  most  obedient,  Richard  Dowlas  ; 
to  whose  name,  in  his  tailor’s  bill,  is  subjoined  DR., 
signifying  Debtor;  to  which  are  added  L.S.D. — the 
Roman  initials  for  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence. 

Pang.  Ha!  this  youth  was  doubtless  designed  by 
destiny  to  move  in  the  circles  of  fashion ; for  he ’s  dipt 
in  debt,  and  makes  a merit  of  telling  it.  [Aside. 

Dick.  But  what  are  your  commands  with  me,  doctor  ? 

Pang.  I have  the  honour,  young  gentleman,  of  being 
deputed  an  ambassador  to  you  from  your  father. 

Dick.  Then  you  have  the  honour  to  be  ambassador  of 
as  good-natured  an  old  fellow  as  ever  sold  a ha’porth  of 
cheese  in  a chandler’s  shop. 

Pang.  Pardon  me,  if,  on  the  subject  of  your  father’s 
cheese,  I advise  you  to  be  as  mute  as  a mouse  in  one  for 
the  future.  ’Twere  better  to  keep  that  ‘ alta  mente 
repostum.’ — Virgil — Hem ! 

Dick.  Why,  what ’s  the  matter  ? Any  misfortune  ? — 
Broke,  I fear  ? 

Pang.  No,  not  broke ; but  his  name,  as  ’tis  customary 
in  these  cases,  has  appeared  in  the  Gazette. 

Dick.  Not  broke,  but  gazetted  ! Why,  zounds  and  the 
devil ! 

Pang.  Check  your  passions — learn  philosophy.  When 
the  wife  of  the  great  Socrates  threw  a — hum ! — threw  a 
tea-pot  at  his  erudite  head,  he  was  as  cool  as  a cucumber. 
When  Plato 

Dick.  Damn  Plato ! What  of  my  father  ? 

Pang.  Don’t  damn  Plato.  The  bees  swarmed  round 
his  mellifluous  mouth  as  soon  as  he  was  swaddled. 
‘ Cum  in  cunis  apes  in  labellis  consedissent.’ — Cicero — 
Hem ! 

Diclc.  I wish  you  had  a swarm  round  yours,  with  all 
my  heart.  Come  to  the  point. 

Pang.  In  due  time.  But  calm  your  choler.  ‘Ira 
furor  brevis  est.’ — Horace — Hem  ! Read  this. 

[Gives  a letter. 

Dick.  [Snatches  the  letter,  breaks  it  open,  and  reads.] 
‘Dear  Dick — 'This  comes  to  inform  you  I am  in  a 
perfect  state  of  health,  hoping  you  are  the  same’ — 
ay,  that’s  the  old  beginning — ‘It  was  my  lot,  last 
week,  to  be  made  ’ — ay,  a bankrupt,  I suppose  ? — ‘ to  be 
made  a’ — what? — ‘to  be  made  a P,  E,  A,  R;’ — a pear  ! 
— to  be  made  a pear!  What  the  devil  does  he  mean  by 
that  ? t 

Pang.  A peer! — a peer  of  the  realm.  His  lordship’s 
orthography  is  a little  loose,  but  several  of  his  equals 
countenance  the  custom.  Lord  Loggerhead  always  spells 
physician  with  an  F. 

Dick.  A peer! — what,  my  father? — I’m  electrified! 
Old  Daniel  Dowlas  made  a peer!  But  let  me  see; 
[Reads  on] — ‘ A pear  of  the  realm.  Lawyer  Ferret  got 
me  my  tittle  ’ — titt — oh,  title ! — ‘ and  an  estate  of  fifteen 
thousand  per  ann. — by  making  me  out  next  of  kin  to 
old  Lord  Duberly,  because  he  died  without — without 
hair’ — ’Tis  an  odd  reason,  by  the  by,  to  be  next  of  kin 
to  a nobleman  because  he  died  bald. 

Pang.  His  lordship  means  heir — heir  to  his  estate. 
We  shall  meliorate  his  style  speedily.  ‘Reform  it 
altogether.’ — Shakspeare — Hem ! 

Dick.  ‘ I send  my  carrot.’ — Carrot ! 

Pang.  He,  he,  he ! Chariot,  his  lordship  means/ 

Dick.  ‘ With  Dr  Pangloss  in  it.’ 

Pang.  That ’s  me. 

123 


prom  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Dick.  ‘ Respect  him,  for  he ’s  an  LL.  D.,  and,  moreover, 
an  A.  double  S.’  [ They  bow. 

Pang.  His  lordship  kindly  condescended  to  insert  that 
at  my  request. 

Dick.  ‘ And  I have  made  him  your  tutorer,  to  mend 
your  cakelology. 

Pang.  Cacology;  from  Kakos,  ‘malus,’  and  Logos , 
‘ verbum.’ — Yide  Lexicon — Hem! 

Dick.  ‘ Come  with  the  doctor  to  my  house  in  Hanover 
Square.’ — Hanover  Square! — ‘I  remain  your  affectionate 
father,  to  command. — Duberly.’ 

Pang.  That ’s  his  lordship’s  title. 

Dick.  It  is  ? 

Pang.  It  is. 

Dick.  Say  sir  to  a lord’s  son.  You  have  no  more 
manners  than  a bear ! 

Pang.  Bear ! — under  favour,  young  gentleman,  I am 
the  bear-leader ; being  appointed  your  tutor. 

Dick.  And  what  can  you  teach  me  ? 

Pang.  Prudence.  Don’t  forget  yourself  in  sudden 
success.  ‘ Tecum  habita.’ — Persius — Hem  ! 

Dick.  Prudence  to  a nobleman’s  son  with  fifteen 
thousand  a year  ! 

Pang.  Don’t  give  way  to  your  passions. 

Dick.  Give  way!  Zounds! — I’m  wild — mad!  You 
teach  me ! — Pooh ! — I have  been  in  London  before,  and 
know  it  requires  no  teaching  to  be  a modern  fine  gentle- 
man. Why,  it  all  lies  in  a nutshell : sport  a curricle — 
walk  Bond  Street — play  at  faro — get  drunk — dance 
reels — go  to  the  opera — cut  off  your  tail — pull  on  your 
pantaloons — and  there’s  a buck  of  the  first  fashion  in 
town  for  you.  D ’ye  think  I don’t  know  what ’s  going? 

Pang.  Mercy  on  me ! I shall  have  a very  refractory 
pupil ! 

Dick.  Not  at  all.  We  ’ll  be  hand  and  glove  together, 
my  little  doctor.  I ’ll  drive  you  down  to  all  the 
races,  with  my  little  terrier  between  your  legs,  in  a 
tandem. 

Pang.  Doctor  Pangloss,  the  philosopher,  with  a 
terrier  between  his  legs,  in  a tandem  ? 

Dick.  I ’ll  tell  you  what,  doctor.  I ’ll  make  you  my 
long-stop  at  cricket — you  shall  draw  corks  when  I’m 
president — laugh  at  my  jokes  before  company — squeeze 
lemons  for  punch — cast  up  the  reckoning — and  woe 
betide  you  if  you  don’t  keep  sober  enough  to  see  me  safe 
home  after  a jollification ! 

Pang.  Make  meva  long-stop,  and  a squeezer  of  lemons  ! 
Zounds ! this  is  more  fatiguing  than  walking  out  with 
the  lap-dogs ! And  are  these  the  qualifications  for  a 
tutor,  young  gentleman  ? 

Dick.  To  be  sure  they  are.  ’Tis  the  way  that  half 
the  prig  parsons,  who  educate  us  honourables,  jump  into 
fat  livings. 

Pang.  ’Tis  well  they  jump  into  something  fat  at  last, 
for  they  must  wear  all  the  flesh  off  their  bones  in  the 
process. 

Dick.  Come  now,  tutor,  go  you  and  call  the  waiter. 

Pang.  Go  and  call ! Sir — sir ! I ’d  have  you  to 
understand,  Mr  Dowlas 

Dick.  Ay,  let  us  understand  one  another,  doctor.  My 
father,  I take  it,  comes  down  handsomely  to  you  for 
your  management  of  me  ? 

Pang.  My  lord  has  been  liberal. 

Dick.  But  ’tis  I must  manage  you,  doctor.  Acknow- 
ledge this,  and,  between  ourselves,  I’ll  find  means  to 
double  your  pay. 

Pang.  Double  my 

Dick.  Do  you  hesitate?  Why,  man,  you  have  set  up 
for  a modern  tutor  without  knowing  your  trade  ! 

Pang.  Double  my  pay  ! Say  no  more — done.  ‘ Actum 
est.’ — Terence — Hem.  Waiter ! [Bawling.]  Gad,  I ’ve 
reached  the  right  reading  at  last ! 

‘ I ’ve  often  wished  that  I had,  clear, 

For  life,  six  hundred  pounds  a year.’ 

Swift — Hem.  Waiter ! 

124 


Dick.  That ’s  right ; tell  him  to  pop  my  clothes  and 
linen  into  the  carriage ; they  are  in  that  bundle. 

Enter  "Waiter. 

Pang.  Waiter!  Here,  put  all  the  Honourable  Mr 
Dowlas’s  clothes  and  linen  into  his  father’s,  Lord 
Duberly’ s,  chariot. 

Waiter.  Where  are  they  all,  sir  ? 

Pang.  All  wrapt  up  in  the  Honourable  Mr  Dowlas’s 
pocket  handkerchief.  [Exit  waiter  with  bundle. 

Dick.  See  ’em  safe  in,  doctor,  and  I ’ll  be  with  you 
directly. 

Pang.  I go,  most  worthy  pupil.  Six  hundred  pounds 
a year  ! However  deficient  in  the  classics,  his  knowledge 
of  arithmetic  is  admirable ! 

‘ I ’ve  often  wished  that  I had,  clear, 

For  life’ 

Dick.  Nay,  nay,  don’t  be  so  slow. 

Pang.  Swift — Hem.  I ’m  gone.  [Exit. 

Dick.  What  am  I to  do  with  Zekiel  and  Cis  ? When 
a poor  man  has  grown  great,  his  old  acquaintance 
generally  begin  to  be  troublesome. 

Enter  Zekiel. 

> Zekiel.  Well,  I han’t  been  long. 

Dick.  No,  you  are  come  time  enough,  in  all  con- 
science. [Coolly. 

Zek.  Cicely  ha’  gotten  the  place.  I be  e’en  almost 
stark  wild  wi’  joy.  Such  a good-natured  young  madam. 
Why,  you  don’t  seem  pleased,  man ; sure,  and  sure,  you 
be  glad  of  our  good -fortune,  Dick? 

Dick.  Dick ! Why,  what  do  you — oh ! but  he  doesn’t 
know  yet  that  I am  a lord’s  son.  I rejoice  to  hear  of 
your  success,  friend  Zekiel. 

Zek.  Why,  now,  that ’s  hearty.  But,  eh  ! Why,  you 
look  mortal  heavy  and  lumpish,  Dick.  No  bad,  tidings 
since  we  ha’  been  out,  I hope  ? 

Dick.  0 no. 

Zek.  Eh?  Let’s  ha’  a squint  at  you.  Od  rabbit  it, 
but  summut  have  happened.  You  have  seen  your 
father,  and  things  ha’  gone  crossish.  Who  have  been 
here,  Dick? 

Dick.  Only  a gentleman,  who  had  the  honour  of  being 
deputed  ambassador  from  my  father. 

Zek.  What  a dickens — an  ambassador!  Pish,  now 
you  be  a queering  a body.  An  ambassador  sent  from 
an  old  chandler  to  Dick  Dowlas,  Lawyer  Latitat’s  clerk? 
Come,  that  be  a good  one,  fegs ! 

Dick.  Dick  Dowlas ! and  lawyer’s  clerk ! Sir,  the 
gentleman  came  to  inform  me  that  my  father,  by 
being  proved  next  of  kin  to  the  late  lord,  is  now  Lord 
Duberly;  by  which  means  I am  now  the  Honourable 
Mr  Dowlas. 

Zek.  Ods  flesh ! gi’e  us  your  fist,  Dick ! I ne’er 
shook  the  fist  of  an  honourable  afore  in  all  my  born 
days.  Old  Daniel  made  a lord  ! I be  main  glad  to  hear 
it.  This  be  news  indeed.  But,  Dick,  I hope  he  ha’ 
gotten  some  ready  along  wi’  his  title ; for  a lord  without 
money  be  but  a foolish  wishy-washy  kind  of  a thing 
a’ ter  all. 

Dick.  My  father’s  estate  is  fifteen  thousand  a year. 

Zek.  Mercy  on  us ! — you  ha’  ta’en  away  my  breath! 

Dick.  Well,  Zekiel,  Cis  and  you  shall  hear  from  me 
soon. 

Zek.  Why,  you  ben’t  a going,  Dick? 

Dick.  I must  pay  my  duty  to  his  lordship;  his 
chariot  waits  for  me  below.  We  have  been  some  time 
acquainted,  Zekiel,  and  you  may  depend  upon  my  good 
offices. 

Zek.  You  do  seem  a little  flustrated  with  these 
tidings,  Dick.  I — I should  be  loath  to  think  our  kind- 
ness was  a cooling. 

Dick.  0 no.  Rely  on  my  protection. 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  COLMAN. 


Zek.  Why,  lookye,  Dick  Dowlas;  as  to  protection, 
and  all  that,  we  ha’  been  old  friends ; and  if  I should 
need  it  from  you,  it  be  no  more  nor  my  right  to  expect 
it,  and  your  business  to  give  it  me  : but  Cicely  ha’  gotten 
a place,  and  I ha’  hands  and  health  to  get  a livelihood. 
Fortune,  good  or  bad,  tries  the  man,  they  do  say ; and 
if  I should  hap  to  be  made  a lord  to-morrow  (as  who 
can  say  what  may  betide,  since  they  ha’  made  one  out 
of  an  old  chandler) 

Dick.  Well,  sir,  and  what  then  ? 

Zek.  Why,  then,  the  finest  feather  in  my  lordship’s 
cap  would  be,  to  shew  that  there  would  be  as  much 
shame  in  slighting  an  old  friend  because  he  be  poor,  as 
there  be  pleasure  in  owning  him  when  it  be  in  our 
power  to  do  him  service. 

Dick.  You  mistake  me,  Zekiel.  I — I — s’death  ! I ’m 
quite  confounded ! I ’m  trying  to  be  as  fashionable 
here  as  my  neighbours,  but  nature  comes  in,  and  knocks 
it  all  on  the  head.  [Aside.]  Zekiel,  give  me  your 
hand. 

Zek.  Then  there  be  a hearty  Castleton  slap  for  you. 
The  grasp  of  an  honest  man  can’t  disgrace  the  hand  of  a 
duke,  Dick. 

Dick.  You’re  a kind  soul,  Zekiel.  I regard  you 
sincerely;  I love  Cicely,  and — hang  it,  I’m  going  too 
far  now  for  a lord’s  son.  Pride  and  old  friendship  are 
now  fighting  in  me  till  I ’m  almost  bewildered.  [Aside.] 
You  shall  hear  from  me  in  a few  hours.  Good-bye, 
Zekiel;  good-bye.  [Exit. 

Zek.  I don’t  know  what  ails  me,  but  I be  almost 
ready  to  cry.  Dick  be  a high-mettled  youth,  and  this 
news  ha’  put  him  a little  beside  himself.  I should  make 
a bit  of  allowance.  His  heart,  I do  think,  be  in  the  right 
road ; and  when  that  be  the  case,  he  be  a hard  judge 
that  wont  pardon  an  old  friend’s  spirits  when  they  do 
carry  him  a little  way  out  on ’t.  [Exit. 

[From,  ‘ The  Poor  Gentleman .’] 

Sir  Charles  Cropland  at  breakfast;  his  Valet  de  Chambre 
adjusting  his  hair. 

Sir  Charles.  Has  old  Warner,  the  steward,  been  told 
that  I arrived  last  night  ? 

Valet.  Yes,  Sir  Charles;  with  orders  to  attend  you 
this  morning. 

Sir  Cha.  [Yawning  and  stretching .]  What  can  a 
man  of  fashion  do  with  himself  in  the  country  at  this 
wretchedly  dull  time  of  the  year  ! 

Valet.  It  is  very  pleasant  to-day  out  in  the  park,  Sir 
Charles. 

Sir  Cha.  Pleasant,  you  booby  ! How  can  the  country 
be  pleasant  in  the  middle  of  spring  ? All  the  world ’s 
in  London. 

Valet.  I think,  somehow,  it  looks  so  lively,  Sir 
Charles,  when  the  corn  is  coming  up. 

Sir  Cha.  Blockhead  ! Vegetation  makes  the  face  of 
a country  look  frightful.  It  spoils  hunting.  Yet  as 
my  business  on  my  estate  here  is  to  raise  supplies  for 
my  pleasures  elsewhere,  my  journey  is  a wise  one. 
What  day  of  the  month  was  it  yesterday  when  I left 
town  on  this  wise  expedition  ? 

Valet.  The  first  of  April,  Sir  Charles. 

Sir  Cha.  Umph  ! When  Mr  Warner  comes,  shew  him 

in. 

Valet.  I shall,  Sir  Charles.  [Exit. 

Sir  Cha.  This  same  lumbering  timber  upon  my  ground 
has  its  merits.  Trees  are  notes,  issued  from  the  bank 
of  nature,  and  as  current  as  those  payable  to  Abraham 
Newland.  I must  get  change  for  a few  oaks,  for  I want 
cash  consumedly.  So,  Mr  Warner  ! 

Enter  Warner. 

Warner.  Your  honour  is  right  welcome  into  Kent. 
I am  proud  to  see  Sir  Charles  Cropland  on  his  estate 


again.  I hope  you  mean  to  stay  on  the  spot  for  some 
time,  Sir  Charles  ? 

Sir  Cha.  A very  tedious  time.  Three  days,  Mr 
Warner. 

Warner.  Ah,  good  sir  ! things  would  prosper  better 
if  you  honoured  us  with  your  presence  a little  more.  I 
wish  you  lived  entirely  upon  the  estate,  Sir  Charles. 

Sir  Cha.  Thank  you,  Warner;  but  modern  men  of 
fashion  find  it  difficult  to  live  upon  their  estates. 

Warner.  The  country  about  you  so  charming  ! 

Sir  Cha.  Look  ye,  Warner — I must  hunt  in  Leices- 
tershire— for  that’s  the  thing.  In  the  frosts  and  the 
spring  months,  I must  be  in  town  at  the  clubs — for 
that ’s  the  thing.  In  summer  I must  be  at  the  water- 
ing-places— for  that’s  the  thing.  Now,  Warner,  under 
these  circumstances,  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  reside 
upon  my  estate  ? For  my  estate  being  in  Kent 

Warner.  The  most  beautiful  part  of  the  county. 

Sir  Cha.  Pshaw,  beauty ! we  don’t  mind  that  in 
Leicestershire.  My  estate,  I say,  being  in  Kent 

Warner.  A land  of  milk  and  honey  ! 

Sir  Cha.  I hate  milk  and  honey. 

Warner.  A land  of  fat ! 

Sir  Cha.  Hang  your  fat ! Listen  to  me.  My  estate 
being  in  Kent 

Warner.  So  woody  ! 

Sir  Cha.  Curse  the  wood  ! No — that ’s  wrong ; for 
it ’s  convenient.  I am  come  on  purpose  to  cut  it. 

Warner.  Ah  ! I was  afraid  so  ! Dice  on  the  table, 
and  then  the  axe  to  the  root ! Money  lost  at  play,  and 
then,  good  lack  ! the  forest  groans  for  it. 

Sir  Cha.  But  you  are  not  the  forest,  and  why  do  you 
groan  for  it  ? 

Warner.  I heartily  wish,  Sir  Charles,  you  may  not 
encumber  the  goodly  estate.  Your  worthy  ancestors 
had  views  for  their  posterity. 

Sir  Cha.  And  I shall  have  views  for  my  posterity — 
I shall  take  special  care  the  trees  shan’t  intercept  their 
prospect. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr  Ollapod,  the  apothecary,  is  in  the  hall, 
Sir  Charles,  to  inquire  after  your  health. 

Sir  Cha.  Shew  him  in.  [Exit  servant.]  The  fellow ’s 
a character,  and  treats  time  as  he  does  his  patients. 
He  shall  kill  a quarter  of  an  hour  for  me  this  morning. 
In  short,  Mr  Warner,  I must  have  three  thousand 
pounds  in  three  days.  Fell  timber  to  that  amount 
immediately.  ’Tis  my  peremptory  order,  sir. 

Warner.  I shall  obey  you,  Sir  Charles ; but  ’tis  with 
a heavy  heart ! Forgive  an  old  servant  of  the  family 
if  he  grieves  to  see  you  forget  some  of  the  duties  for 
which  society  has  a claim  upon  you. 

Sir  Cha.  What  do  you  mean  by  duties  ? 

Warner.  Duties,  Sir  Charles,  which  the  extravagant 
man  of  property  can  never  fulfil — such  as  to  support 
the  dignity  of  an  English  landholder  for  the  honour  of 
old  England;  to  promote  the  welfare  of  his  honest 
tenants ; and  to  succour  the  industrious  poor,  who 
naturally  look  up  to  -him  for  assistance.  But  I shall 
obey  you,  Sir  Charles.  [Exit. 

Sir  Cha.  A tiresome  old  blockhead  ! But  where  is 
this  Ollapod?  His  jumble  of  physic  and  shooting 
may  enliven  me ; and,  to  a man  of  gallantry  in  the 
country,  his  intelligence  is  by  no  means  uninteresting, 
nor  his  services  inconvenient.  Ha,  Ollapod  ! 

Enter  Ollapod. 

Ollapod.  Sir  Charles,  I have  the  honour  to  be  your 
slave.  Hope  your  health  is  good.  Been  a hard  winter 
here.  Sore  throats  were  plenty;  so  were  wood-cocks. 
Flushed  four  couple  one  morning  in  a half-mile  walk 
from  our  town  to  cure  Mrs  Quarles  of  a quinsy.  May 
coming  on  soon,  Sir  Charles — season  of  delight,  love 
and  campaigning ! Hope  you  come  to  sojourn,  Sir 


PROM  1760  ' CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Charles.  Shouldn’t  be  always  on  the  wing — that’s 
being  too  flighty.  He,  he,  he  ! Do  you  take,  good  sir 
— do  you  take  ? 

Sir  Cha.  0 yes,  I take.  But  by  the  cockade  in 
your  hat,  Ollapod,  you  have  added  lately,  it  seems,  to 
your  avocations. 

Olla.  He,  he  ! yes,  Sir  Charles.  I have  now  the 
honour  to  be  cornet  in  the  Volunteer  Association  corps 
of  our  town.  It  fell  out  unexpected — pop,  on  a sudden ; 
like  the  going  off  of  a field-piece,  or  an  alderman  in  an 
apoplexy. 

Sir  Cha.  Explain. 

Olla.  Happening  to  be  at  home — rainy  day — no 
going  out  to  sport,  blister,  shoot,  nor  bleed — was  busy 
behind  the  counter.  You  know  my  shop,  Sir  Charles — 
Galen’s  head  over  the  door — new  gilt  him  last  week,  by 
the  by — looks  as  fresh  as  a pill. 

Sir  Cha.  Well,  no  more  on  that  head  now.  Proceed. 

Olla.  On  that  head  ! he,  he,  he  ! That ’s  very  well 
— very  well,  indeed  ! Thank  you,  good  sir ; I owe  you 
one.  Churchwarden  Posh,  of  our  town,  being  ill  of  an 
indigestion  from  eating  three  pounds  of  measly  pork  at 
a vestry  dinner,  I was  making  up  a cathartic  for  the 
patient,  when  who  should  strut  into  the  shop  but 
Lieutenant  Grains,  the  brewer — sleek  as  a dray-horse — 
in  a smart  scarlet  jacket,  tastily  turned  up  with  a 
rhubarb-coloured  lapel.  I confess  his  figure  struck  me. 
I looked  at  him  as  I was  thumping  the  mortar,  and 
felt  instantly  inoculated  with  a military  ardour. 

Sir  Cha.  Inoculated  ! I hope  your  ardour  was  of  a 
favourable  sort  ? 

Olla.  Ha,  ha ! That ’s  very  well — very  well,  indeed  ! 
Thank  you,  good  sir ; I owe  you  one.  We  first  talked 
of  shooting.  He  knew  my  celebrity  that  way,  Sir 
Charles.  I told  him  the  day  before  I had  killed  six 
brace  of  birds.  I thumpt  on  at  the  mortar.  We  then 
talked  of  physic.  I told  him  the  day  before  I had 
killed — lost,  I mean — six  brace  of  patients.  I thumpt 
on  at  the  mortar,  eyeing  him  all  the  while;  for  he 
looked  very  flashy,  to  be  sure ; and  I felt  an  itching  to 
belong  to  the  corps.  The  medical  and  military  both 
deal  in  death,  you  know ; so  ’twas  natural.  He,  he  ! 
Do  you  take,  good  sir — do  you  take  ? 

Sir  Cha.  Take  ? Oh,  nobody  can  miss. 

Olla.  He  then  talked  of  the  corps  itself ; said  it  was 
sickly ; and  if  a professional  person  would  administer 
to  the  health  of  the  Association — dose  the  men,  and 
drench  the  horse — he  could  perhaps  procure  him  a 
cornetcy. 

Sir  Cha.  Well,  you  jumped  at  the  offer. 

Olla.  Jumped!  I jumped  over  the  counter,  kicked 
down  Churchwarden  Posh’s  cathartic  into  the  pocket  of 
Lieutenant  Grains’s  small  scarlet  jacket,  tastily  turned 
up  with  a rhubarb-coloured  lapel ; embraced  him  and 
his  offer ; and  I am  now  Comet  Ollapod,  apothecary  at 
the  Galen’s  Head,  of  the  Association  Corps  of  Cavalry, 
at  your  service. 

Sir  Cha.  I wish  you  joy  of  your  appointment.  You 
may  now  distil  water  for  the  shop  from  the  laurels  you 
gather  in  the  field. 

Olla.  Water  for — oh ! laurel- water — he,  he ! Come, 
that ’s  very  well — very  well  indeed ! Thank  you,  good 
sir;  I owe  you  one.  Why,  I fancy  fame  will  follow 
when  the  poison  of  a small  mistake  I made  has  ceased 
to  operate. 

Sir  Cha.  A mistake? 

Olla.  Having  to  attend  Lady  Kitty  Carbuncle  on  a 
grand  field-day,  I clapt  a pint  bottle  of  her  ladyship’s 
diet-drink  into  one  of  my  holsters,  intending  to  proceed 
to  the  patient  after  the  exercise  was  over.  I reached 
the  martial  ground,  and  jalloped — galloped,  I mean — 
wheeled,  and  flourished,  with  great  eclat : but  when  the 
word ‘Fire’  was  given,  meaning  to" pull  out  my  pistol 
in  a terrible  hurry,  I presented,  neck  foremost,  the 
hanged  diet-drink  of  Lady  Kitty  Carbuncle;  and  the 
medicine  being  unfortunately  fermented  by  the  jolting 


of  my  horse,  it  forced  out  the  cork  with  a prodigious 
pop  full  in  the  face  of  my  gallant  commander. 

[Ollapod  visits  Miss  Lucretia  Mactab,  a « stiff  maiden  aunt,’ 
sister  of  one  of  the  oldest  barons  in  Scotland.] 

Enter  Foss. 

Foss.  There  is  one  Mr  Ollapod  at  the  gate,  an’  please 
your  ladyship’s  honour,  come  to  pay  a visit  to  the 
family. 

Lucretia.  Ollapod  ? What  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Foss.  He  says  he’s  a cornet  in  the  Galen’s  Head. 
’Tis  the  first  time  I ever  heard  of  the  corps. 

Lucretia.  Ha ! some  new-raised  regiment.  Shew  the 
gentleman  in.  [ Exit  Foss.]  The  country,  then,  has 
heard  of  my  arrival  at  last.  A woman  of  condition,  in 
a family,  can  never  long  conceal  her  retreat.  Ollapod ! 
that  sounds  like  an  ancient  name.  If  I am  not  mistaken, 
he  is  nobly  descended. 

Enter  Ollapod. 

Olla.  Madam,  I have  the  honour  of  paying  my 
respects.  Sweet  spot,  here,  among  the  cows ; good  for 
consumptions — charming  woods  hereabouts — pheasants 
flourish — so  do  agues — sorry  not  to  see  the  good 
lieutenant — admire  his  room — hope  soon  to  have  his 
company.  Do  you  take,  good  madam — do  you  take  ? 

Luc.  I beg,  sir,  you  will  be  seated. 

Olla.  Oh,  dear  madam  ! [ Sitting  down]  A charming 
chair  to  bleed  in ! [Aside. 

Luc.  I am  sorry  Mr  Worthington  is  not  at  home  to 
receive  you,  sir. 

Olla.  You  are  a relation  of  the  lieutenant,  madam  ? 

Luc.  I ! only  by  his  marriage,  I assure  you,  sir.  Aunt 
to  his  deceased  wife.  But  I am  not  surprised  at  your 
question.  My  friends  in  town  would  wonder  to  see  the 
Honourable  Miss  Lucretia  Mactab,  sister  to  the  late 
Lord  Lofty,  cooped  up  in  a farmhouse. 

Olla.  [Aside.]  The  honourable ! humph ! a bit  of 
quality  tumbled  into  decay.  The  sister  of  a dead  peer 
in  a pigsty ! 

Luc.  You  are  of  the  military,  I am  informed,  sir? 

Olla.  He,  he  ! Yes,  madam.  Cornet  Ollapod,  of  our 
volunteers — a fine  healthy  troop — ready  to  give  the 
enemy  a dose  whenever  they  dare  to  attack  us. 

Luc.  I was  always  prodigiously  partial  to  the  military. 
My  great  grandfather,  Marmaduke  Baron  Lofty,  com- 
manded a troop  of  horse  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
that  famous  general  of  his  age. 

Olla.  Marlborough  was  a hero  of  a man,  madam ; 
and  lived  at  Woodstock — a sweet  sporting  country; 
where  Rosamond  perished  by  poison — arsenic  as  likely 
as  anything. 

Luc.  And  have  you  served  much,  Mr  Ollapod  ? 

Olla.  He,  he  ! Yes,  madam ; served  all  the  nobility 
and  gentry  for  five  miles  round. 

Luc.  Sir ! 

Olla.  And  shall  be  happy  to  serve  the  good  lieutenant 
and  his  family.  [Bowing. 

Luc.  We  shall  be  proud  of  your  acquaintance,  sir. 
A gentleman  of  the  army  is  always  an  acquisition 
among  the  Goths  and  Vandals  of  the  country,  where 
every  sheepish  squire  has  the  air  of  an  apothecary. 

Olla.  Madam  ! An  apothe Zounds  ! — hum  ! — 

He,  he  ! I — You  must  know,  I — I deal  a little  in 
Galenicals  myself  [Sheepishly]. 

Luc.  Galenicals  ! Oh,  they  are  for  operations,  I sup- 
pose, among  the  military  ? 

Olla.  Operations ! he,  he ! Come,  that ’s  very  well — 
very  well  indeed  ! Thank  you,  good  madam ; I owe  you 
one.  Galenicals,  madam,  are  medicines. 

Luc.  Medicines ! 

Olla.  Yes,  physic  : buckthorn,  senna,  and  so  forth. 

Luc.  [Rising]  Why,  then,  you  are  an  apothecary  ? 

Olla.  [Rising  toot  and  boiving]  And  man-midwife 
at  your  service,  madam. 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  COLMAN. 


Luc.  At  my  service,  indeed ! 

Olla.  Yes,  madam ! Cornet  Ollapod  at  the  gilt 
Galen’s  Head,  of  the  Volunteer  Association  Corps  of 
Cavalry — as  ready  for  the  foe  as  a customer;  always 
willing  to  charge  them  both.  Do  you  take,  good  madam 
— do  you  take  ? 

Luc.  And  has  the  Honourable  Miss  Lucretia  Mactab 
been  talking  all  this  while  to  a petty  dealer  in  drugs  ? 

Olla.  Drugs  ! Why,  she  turns  up  her  honourable  nose 
as  if  she  was  going  to  swallow  them ! [Aside.]  No  man 
more  respected  than  myself,  madam.  Courted  by  the 
corps,  idolised  by  invalids ; and  for  a shot — ask  my 
friend  Sir  Charles  Cropland. 

Luc.  Is  Sir  Charles  Cropland  a friend  of  yours,  sir  ? 

Olla.  Intimate.  He  doesn’t  make  wry  faces  at  physic, 
whatever  others  may  do,  madam.  This  village  flanks 
the  intrenchments  of  his  park — full  of  fine  fat  venison ; 
which  is  as  light  a food  for  digestion  as 

Luc.  But  he  is  never  on  his  estate  here,  I am  told. 

Olla.  He  quarters  there  at  this  moment. 

Luc.  Bless  me  ! has  Sir  Charles  then 

Olla.  Told  me  all — your  accidental  meeting  in  the 
metropolis,  and  his  visits  when  the  lieutenant  was  out. 

Luc.  Oh,  shocking  ! I declare  I shall  faint. 

Olla.  Faint ! never  mind  that,  with  a medical  man  in 
the  room.  I can  bring  you  about  in  a twinkling. 

Luc.  And  what  has  Sir  Charles  Cropland  presumed 
to  advance  about  me  ? 

Olla.  Oh,  nothing  derogatory.  Respectful  as  a duck- 
legged  drummer  to  a commander-in-chief. 

Luc.  I have  only  proceeded  in  this  affair  from  the 
purest  motives,  and  in  a mode  becoming  a Mactab. 

Olla.  None  dare  to  doubt  it. 

Luc.  And  if  Sir  Charles  has  dropt  in  to  a dish  of  tea 
with  myself  and  Emily  in  London,  when  the  lieutenant 
was  out,  I see  no  harm  in  it. 

Olla.  Nor  I neither : except  that  tea  shakes  the 
nervous  system  to  shatters.  But  to  the  point:  the 
baronet’s  my  bosom-friend.  Having  heard  you  were 
here,  ‘Ollapod,’  says  he,  squeezing  my  hand  in  his 
own,  which  had  strong  symptoms  of  fever — ‘Ollapod,’ 
says  he,  ‘ you  are  a military  man,  and  may  be  trusted.’ 

‘ I ’m  a cornet,’  says  I,  ‘ and  close  as  a pill-box.’  ‘ Fly, 
then,  to  Miss  Lucretia  Mactab,  that  honourable  picture 
of  prudence’ 

Luc.  He,  he  ! Did  Sir  Charles  say  that  ? 

Olla.  [Aside.]  How  these  tabbies  love  to  be  toaded  ! 

Luc.  In  short,  Sir  Charles,  I perceive,  has  appointed 
you  his  emissary,  to  consult  with  me  when  he  may  have 
an  interview. 

Olla.  Madam,  you  are  the  sharpest  shot  at  the  truth 
I ever  met  in  my  life.  And  now  we  are  in  consulta- 
tion, what  think  you  of  a walk  with  Miss  Emily  by  the 
old  elms  at  the  back  of  the  village  this  evening  ? 

Luc.  Why,  I am  willing  to  take  any  steps  which  may 
promote  Emily’s  future  welfare. 

Olla.  Take  steps  ! what,  in  a walk  ? He,  he  ! Come, 
that’s  very  well — very  well  indeed  ! Thank  you,  good 
madam ; I owe  you  one.  I shall  communicate  to  my 
friend  with  due  dispatch.  Command  Cornet  Ollapod 
on  all  occasions ; and  whatever  the  gilt  Galen’s  Head 
can  produce 

Luc.  [ Curtsying .]  Oh,  sir  ! 

Olla.  By  the  by,  I have  some  double-distilled  lavender 
water,  much  admired  in  our  corps.  Permit  me  to  send 
a pint  bottle  by  way  of  present. 

Luc.  Dear  sir,  I shall  rob  you. 

Olla.  Quite  the  contrary ; for  I ’ll  set  it  down  to 
Sir  Charles  as  a quart.  [Aside.]  Madam,  your  slave. 
You  have  prescribed  for  our  patient  like  an  able 
physician.  Not  a step. 

Luc.  Nay,  I insist 

Olla.  Then  I must  follow  in  the  rear — the  physician 
always  before  the  apothecary. 

Luc.  Apothecary  ! Sir,  in  this  business  I look  upon 
you  as  a general  officer. 


Olla.  Do  you?  Thank  you,  good  ma’am;  I owe  you 
one.  [Exeunt. 

The  humorous  poetry  of  Colman  has  been  as 
popular  as  his  plays.  Of  his  Broad  Grins,  the 
eighth  edition  (London,  1839)  is  now  before  us. 
Some  of  the  pieces  are  tinged  with  indelicacy,  but 
others  display  his  lively  sparkling  powers  of  wit 
and  observation  in  a very  agreeable  light.  We 
subjoin  two  of  these  pleasant  levities. 

The  Newcastle  Apothecary. 

A man  in  many  a country  town,  we  know, 

Professes  openly  with  death  to  wrestle ; 

Entering  the  field  against  the  grimly  foe, 

Armed  with  a mortar  and  a pestle. 

Yet  some  affirm,  no  enemies  they  are ; 

But  meet  just  like  prize-fighters  in  a fair, 

Who  first  shake  hands  before  they  box, 

Then  give  each  other  plaguy  knocks, 

With  all  the  love  and  kindness  of  a brother : 

So — many  a suffering  patient  saith — 

Though  the  apothecary  fights  with  Death, 

Still  they’re  sworn  friends  to  one  another. 

A member  of  this  iEsculapian  line, 

Lived  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne : 

No  man  could  better  gild  a pill, 

Or  make  a bill ; 

Or  mix  a draught,  or  bleed,  or  blister ; 

Or  draw  a tooth  out  of  your  head ; 

Or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed ; 

Or  give  a clyster. 

Of  occupations  these  were  quantum  suff.  : 

Yet  still  he  thought  the  list  not  long  enough ; 

And  therefore  midwifery  he  chose  to  pin  to ’t. 

This  balanced  things ; for  if  he  hurled 
A few  score  mortals  from  the  world, 

He  made  amends  by  bringing  others  into ’t. 

His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country  ran ; 

In  short,  in  reputation  he  was  solus  : 

All  the  old  women  called  him  ‘ a fine  man ! ’ 

His  name  was  Bolus. 

Benjamin  Bolus,  though  in  trade — 

Which  oftentimes  will  genius  fetter — 

Read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said, 

And  cultivated  the  belles-lettres. 

And  why  should  this  be  thought  so  odd  ? 

Can’t  men  have  taste  who  cure  a phthisic  ? 

Of  poetry,  though  patron  god, 

Apollo  patronises  physic. 

Bolus  loved  verse,  and  took  so  much  delight  in ’t, 
That  his  prescriptions  he  resolved  to  write  in ’t. 

No  opportunity  he  e’er  let  pass 

Of  writing  the  directions  on  his  labels 
In  dapper  couplets,  like  Gay’s  Fables, 

Or  rather  like  the  lines  in  Hudibras. 

Apothecary’s  verse  ! and  where’s  the  treason? 

’Tis  simply  honest  dealing  ; not  a crime ; 

When  patients  swallow  physic  without  reason, 

It  is  but  fair  to  give  a little  rhyme. 

He  had  a patient  lying  at  death’s  door, 

Some  three  miles  from  the  town,  it  might  be  four; 

To  whom,  one  evening,  Bolus  sent  an  article 
In  pharmacy  that ’s  called  cathartical. 

127 


« 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


from  1760 


And  on  the  label  of  the  stuff 

He  wrote  this  verse, 

Which  one  would  think  was  clear  enough, 

And  torse : 

When  taken , 

To  be  well  shaken. 

Next  morning  early,  Bolus  rose, 

And  to  the  patient’s  house  he  goes 
Upon  his  pad, 

Who  a vile  trick  of  stumbling  had  : 

It  was,  indeed,  a very  sorry  hack  ; 

But  that ’s  of  course  ; 

For  what ’s  expected  from  a horse, 

With  an  apothecary  on  his  back  ? 

Bolus  arrived,  and  gave  a doubtful  tap, 

Between  a single  and  a double  rap. 

Knocks  of  this  kind 

Are  given  by  gentlemen  who  teach  to  dance  ; 

By  fiddlers,  and  by  opera-singers ; 

One  loud,  and  then  a little  one  behind, 

As  if  the  knocker  fell  by  chance 
Out  of  their  fingers. 

The  servant  lets  him  in  with  dismal  face, 

Long  as  a courtier  s out  of  place — 

Portending  some  disaster ; 

John’s  countenance  as  rueful  looked  and  grim, 

As  if  the  apothecary  had  physicked  him, 

And  not  his  master. 

* Well,  how’s  the  patient  ? ’ Bolus  said ; 

John  shook  his  head. 

‘ Indeed  ! — hum  ! — ha  ! — that ’s  very  odd  ! 

He  took  the  draught  ?’  John  gave  a nod. 

‘ Well,  how  ? what  then  ? speak  out,  you  dunce  ! ’ 
‘Why,  then,’  says  John,  ‘we  shook  him  once.’ 

‘ Shook  him  ! — how?’  Bolus  stammered  out. 

‘ We  jolted  him  about.’ 

‘ Zounds ! shake  a patient,  man  ! — a shake  won’t  do.’ 

* No,  sir,  and  so  we  gave  him  two.’ 

1 Two  shakes  ! od's  curse  ! 

’T would  make  the  patient  worse.’ 

‘ It  did  so,  sir,  and  so  a third  we  tried.’ 

‘ Well,  and  what  then  ? ’ ‘ Then,  sir,  my  master  died.’ 

Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen. 

Who  has  e'er  been  in  London,  that  overgrown  place, 
Has  seen  ‘ Lodgings  to  Let  ’ stare  him  full  in  the  face ; 
Some  are  good,  and  let  dearly ; while  some,  ’tis  well 
known, 

Are  so  dear,  and  so  bad,  they  are  best  let  alone. 

Will  Waddle,  whose  temper  was  studious  and  lonely, 
Hired  loggings  that  took  single  gentlemen  only  ; 

But  Will  was  so  fat,  he  appeared  like  a ton, 

Or  like  two  single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one. 

He  entered  his  rooms,  and  to  bed  he  retreated. 

But  all  the  night  long  he  felt  fevered  and  heated  ; 
And  though  heavy  to  weigh,  as  a score  of  fat  sheep, 
He  was  not  by  any  means  heavy  to  sleep. 

Next  night  ’twas  the  same ; and  the  next,  and  the 
next; 

He  perspired  like  an  ox  ; he  was  nervous  and  vexed ; 
Week  passed  after  week,  till,  by  weekly  succession. 
His  weakly  condition  was  past  all  expression. 

In  six  months  his  acquaintance  began  much  to  doubt 
him  ; 

For  his  skin,  ‘like  a lady’s  loose  gown,’  hung  about 
him. 

123 


He  sent  for  a doctor,  and  cried  like  a ninny : 

‘ I have  lost  many  pounds — make  me  well — there ’s  a 
guinea.’ 

The  doctor  looked  wise : ‘A  slow  fever,’  he  said: 
Prescribed  sudorifics  and  going  to  bed. 

‘ Sudorifics  in  bed,’  exclaimed  Will,  ‘ are  humbugs ! 

I ’ve  enough  of  them  there  without  paying  for  drugs  !* 

Will  kicked  out  the  doctor ; but  when  ill  indeed. 

E'en  dismissing  the  doctor  don’t  always  succeed ; 

So,  calling  his  host,  he  said : ‘ Sir,  do  you  know, 

I ’m  the  fat  single  gentleman  six  months  ago  ? 

‘ Look  ’e,  landlord,  I think,’  argued  Will  with  a grin, 

‘ That  with  honest  intentions  you  first  took  me  in: 

But  from  the  first  night — and  to  say  it  I ’m  bold — 

I ’ve  been  so  hanged  hot,  that  I ’m  sure  I caught  cold.’ 

Quoth  the  landlord : ‘ Till  now  I ne’er  had  a dispute ; 
‘ I ’ve  let  lodgings  ten  years ; I ’m  a baker  to  boot ; 

In  airing  your  sheets,  sir,  my  wife  is  no  sloven ; 

And  your  bed  is  immediately  over  my  oven.’ 

‘The  oven!’  says  Will  Says  the  host:  ‘Why  this 

passion? 

In  that  excellent  bed  died  three  people  of  fashion. 
Why  so  crusty,  good  sir?’  ‘ Zounds  !’  cries  Will,  in 
a taking, 

‘ Who  wouldn’t  be  crusty  with  half  a year’s  baking?’ 

Will  paid  for  his  rooms ; cried  the  host,  with  a sneer, 
‘ Well,  I see  you ’ve  been  going  away  half  a year.’ 

‘ Friend,  we  can’t  well  agree ; yet  no  quarrel,’  Will 
said ; 

‘But  I’d  rather  not  perish  while  you  make  your 
bread' 

MRS  ELIZABETH  ISCHBALD. 

Mrs  Elizabeth  Ixchbald,  an  actress,  dramatist, 
and  novelist,  produced  a number  of  popular  plays. 
Her  two  tales,  The  Simple  Story,  and  Nature  and  Art , 
are  the  principal  sources  of  her  fame ; but  her  light 
dramatic  pieces  are  marked  by  various  talent.  Her 
first  production  was  a.farce,  entitled  The  Mogul  Tale , 
brought  out  in  1784,  and  from  this  time,  down  to 
1805,  she  wrote  nine  other  plays  and  farces.  By 
some  of  these  pieces — as  appears  from  her  memoirs 
— she  received  considerable  sums  of  money.  Her 
first  production  realised  £100 ; her  comedy  of  Such 
Things  Are — her  greatest  dramatic  performance — 
brought  her  in  £410,  12s. ; The  Married  Man, 
£100 ; The  Wedding  Day,  £200 ; The  Midnight 
Hour,  £130 ; Every  One  has  his  Fault,  £700 ; Wives 
as  they  Were , and  Maids  as  they  Are,  £427,  10s. ; 
Lovers'  Vows,  £150 ; &c.  The  personal  history  of 
this  lady  is  as  singular  as  any  of  her  dramatic  plots. 
She  was  bom  of  Roman  Catholic  parents  residing 
at  Standyfield,  near  Bury  St  Edmund’s,  in  the 
year  1753.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  full  of  giddy 
romance,  she  ran  off  to  London,  having  with  her 
a small  sum  of  money,  and  some  wearing- apparel  in 
a band-box.  After  various  adventures,  she  obtained 
an  engagement  for  a country  theatre,  but  suffering 
some  personal  indignities  in  her  unprotected  state, 
she  applied  to  Mr  Inchbald,  an  actor  whom  she 
had  previously  known.  The  gentleman  counselled 
marriage.  ‘ But  who  would  marry  me  ? ’ cried  the 
lady.  ‘I  would,’  replied  her  friend,  ‘if  you  would 
have  me.’  ‘Yes,  sir,  and  would  for  ever  be  grateful’ 
— and  married  they  were  in  a few  days.  The  union 
thus  singularly  brought  about  seems  to  have  been 
happy  enough ; but  Mr  Inchbald  died  a few 
years  afterwards.  Mrs  Inchbald  performed  the 


dramatists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVELISTS. 


first  parts  in  the  Edinburgh  theatre  for  four  years, 
and  continued  on  the  stage,  acting  in  London, 
Dublin,  &c.,  till  1789,  when  she  quitted  it  for  ever. 
Her  exemplary  prudence,  and  the  profits  of  her 
works,  enabled  her  not  only  to  live,  but  to  save 
money.  The  applause  and  distinction  with  which 
she  was  greeted  never  led  her  to  deviate  from  her 
simple  and  somewhat  parsimonious  habits.  ‘Last 
Thursday,’  she  writes,  ‘ I finished  scouring  my  bed- 
room, while  a coach  with  a coronet  and  two  footmen 
waited  at  my  door  to  take  me  an  airing.’  She 
allowed  a sister  who  was  in  ill  health  £100  a 
year.  ‘Many  a time  this  winter,’  she  records  in 
her  diary,  ‘ when  I cried  for  cold,  I said  to  myself : 
“But,  thank  God!  my  sister  has  not  to  stir  from 
her  room ; she  has  her  fire  lighted  every  morning ; 
all  her  provisions  bought  and  brought  ready  cooked ; 
she  is  now  the  less  able  to  bear  what  I bear ; and 
how  much  more  should  I suffer  but  for  this  reflec- 
tion.’” This  was  noble  and  generous  self-denial. 
The  income  of  Mrs  Inchbald  was  now  £172  per 
annum,  and,  after  the  death  of  her  sister,  she 
went  to  reside  in  a boarding-house,  where  she 
enjoyed  more  of  the  comforts  of  life.  Traces  of 
female  weakness  break  out  in  her  private  memor- 
anda amidst  the  sterner  records  of  her  struggle  for 
independence.  The  following  entry  is  amusing: 
‘1798.  London.  Rehearsing  Lovers'  Vows;  happy, 
but  for  a suspicion,  amounting  to  a certainty,  of  a 
rapid  appearance  of  age  in  my  face.’  Her  last 
literary  labour  was  writing  biographical  and  critical 
prefaces  to  a collection  of  plays,  in  twenty-five 
volumes ; a collection  of  farces,  in  seven  volumes ; 
and  the  Modern  Theatre,  in  ten  volumes.  Phillips, 
the  publisher,  offered  her  £1000  for  her  memoirs, 
but  she  declined  the  tempting  offer.  This  autobio- 
graphy was,  by  her  own  orders,  destroyed  after  her 
decease;  but  in  1833,  her  Memoirs  were  published 
by  Mr  Boaden,  compiled  from  an  autograph  journal 
which  she  kept  for  above  fifty  years,  and  from  her 
letters  written  to  her  friends.  Mrs  Inchbald  died 
in  a boarding-house  at  Kensington  on  the  1st  of 
August  1821.  By  her  will,  dated  four  months 
before  her  decease,  she  left  about  £6000,  judiciously 
divided  amongst  hgr  relatives..  One  of  her  legacies 
marks  the  eccentricity  of  thought  and  conduct 
which  was  mingled  with  the  talents  an5  virtues 
of  this  original-minded  woman : she  left  £20  each 
to  her  late  laundress  and  hair-dresser,  provided, 
they  should  inquire  of  her  executors  concerning  her 
decease. 


THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 

Thomas  Holcroft,  author  of  the  admired  comedy, 
The  Road  to  Ruin , and  the  first  to  introduce  the 
melodrama  into  England,  was  born  in  London  on 
the  10th  of  December  1745.  ‘Till  I was  six  years 
old,’  says  Holcroft,  ‘my  father  kept  a shoemaker’s 
shop  in  Orange  Court;  and  I have  a faint  recol- 
lection that  my  mother  dealt  in  greens  and  oysters.’ 
Humble  as  this  condition  was,  it  seems  to  have 
been  succeeded  by  greater  poverty,  and  the  future 
dramatist  and  comedian  was  employed  in  the 
country  by  his  parents  to  hawk  goods  as  a pedler. 
He  was  afterwards  engaged  as  a stable-boy  at 
Newmarket,  and  was  proud  of  his  new  livery.  A 
charitable  person,  who  kept  a school  at  Newmarket, 
taught  him  to  read.  He  was  afterwards  a rider  on 
the  turf ; and  when  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  worked 
for  some  time  with  his  father  as  a shoemaker. 
A passion  for  books  was  at  this  time  predominant, 
and  the  confinement  of  the  shoemaker’s  stall  not 
agreeing  with  him,  he  attempted  to  raise  a school 
61 


in  the  country.  He  afterwards  became  a provincial 
actor,  and  spent  seven  years  in  strolling  about 
England,  in  every  variety  of  wretchedness,  with 
different  companies.  In  1780,  Holcroft  appeared 
as  an  author,  his  first  work  being  a novel, 
entitled  Alwyn , or  the  Gentleman  Comedian.  In  the 
following  3'ear  his  comedy  of  Duplicity  was  acted 
with  great  success  at  Covent  Garden.  - Another 
comedy,  the  Deserted  Daughter , experienced  a very 
favourable  reception;  but  The  Road  to  Ruin  is 
universally  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  of  his 
dramatic  works.  ‘This  comedy,’  says  Mrs  Inch- 
bald, ‘ ranks  amongst  the  most  successful  of  modern 
plays.  There  is  merit  in  the  writing,  but  much 
more  in  that  dramatic  science  which  disposes 
character,  scenes,  and  dialogue  with  minute  atten- 
tion to  theatric  exhibition.’  Holcroft  wrote  a 
great  number  of  dramatic  pieces — more  than  thirty 
between  the  years  1778  and  1806;  three  other 
novels  (Anna  St  Ives,  Hugh  Trevor,  and  Dry  an 
Perdue );  besides  A Tour  in  Germany  and  France , 
and  numerous  translations  from  the  German,  and 
French,  and  Italian.  During  the  period  of  the 
French  Revolution,  he  was  a zealous  reformer,  and 
on  hearing  that  his  name  was  included  in  the  same 
bill  of  indictment  with  Tooke  and  Hardy,  he  surren- 
dered himself  in  open  court,  but  no  proof  of  guilt 
was  ever  adduced  against  him.  His  busy  and 
remarkable  life  was  terminated  on  the  23d  of  March 
1809. 

NOVELISTS. 

It  was  natural  that  the  genius  and  the  success 
of  the  great  masters  of  the  modern  English  novel 
should  have  led  to  imitation.  Mediocrity  is  seldom 
deterred  from  attempting  to  rival  excellence,  especi- 
ally in  any  department  that  is  popular,  and  may 
be  profitable ; and  there  is,  besides,  in  romance, 
as  in  the  drama,  a wide  and  legitimate  field  for 
native  talent  and  exertion.  The  highly  wrought 
tenderness  and  pathos  of  Richardson,  and  the  models 
of  real  life,  wit,  and  humour  in  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  were  succeeded  by  those  of  Sterne,  while 
the  fictions  of  Mackenzie,  Dr  Moore,  Miss  Burney, 
and  Cumberland,  are  all  greatly  superior  to  the 
ordinary  run  of  novels,  and  stand  at  the  head  of 
the  second  class.  These  writers,  however,  exercised 
but  little  influence  on  the  national  taste : they  sup- 
ported the  dignity  and  respectability  of  the  novel, 
but  did  not  extend  its  dominion;  and  accordingly 
we  find  that  there  was  a long  dull  period  in  which 
this  delightful  species  of  composition  had  sunk 
into  general  contempt.  There  was  no  lack  of 
novels,  but  they  were  of  a very  inferior  and  even 
debased  description.  In  place  of  natural  incident, 
character,  and  dialogue,  we  had  affected  and 
ridiculous  sentimentalism — plots  utterly  absurd 
or  pernicious — and  stories  of  love  and  honour  so 
maudlin  in  conception  and  drivelling  in  execution, 
that  it  is  surprising  they  could  ever  have  been 
tolerated  even  by  the  most  defective  moral  sense  or 
taste.  The  circulating  libraries  in  town  and  country 
swarmed  with  these  worthless  productions — known 
from  their  place  of  publication  by  the  misnomer 
of  the  ‘Minerva  Press’  novels — but  their  perusal 
was  in  a great  measure  confined  to  young  people 
of  both  sexes  of  imperfect  education,  or  to  half- idle 
inquisitive  persons,  whose  avidity  for  excitement 
was  not  restrained  by  delicacy  or  judgment.  In 
many  cases,  even  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life, 
this  love  of  novel-reading  amounted  to  a passion  as 
strong  and  uncontrollable  as  that  of  dram-drinking  ; 
and,  fed  upon  such  garbage  as  we  have  described, 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


it  was  scarcely  less  injurious ; for  it  dwarfed  the 
intellectual  faculties,  and  unfitted  its  votaries 
equally  for  the  study  or  relish  of  sound  literature, 
and  for  the  proper  performance  and  enjoyment  of 
the  actual  duties  of  the  world.  The  enthusiastic 
novel-reader  got  bewildered  and  entangled  among 
love-plots  and  high-flown  adventures,  in  which 
success  was  often  awarded  to  profligacy,  and,  among 
scenes  of  pretended  existence,  exhibited  in  the 
masquerade  attire  of  a distempered  fancy.  Instead, 
therefore,  of 

Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  dressed, 

we  had  Falsehood  decked  out  in  frippery  and 
nonsense,  and  courting  applause  from  its  very 
extravagance. 

The  first  successful  inroad  on  this  accumulating 
mass  of  absurdity  was  made  by  Charlotte  Smith, 
whose  works  may  be  said  to  hold  a middle  station 
between  the  true  and  the  sentimental  in  fictitious 
composition.  Shortly  afterwards  succeeded  the 
political  tales  of  Holcroft  and  Godwin,  the  latter 
i animated  by  the  fire  of  genius,  and  possessing  great 
intellectual  power  and  energy.  The  romantic  fables 
of  Mrs  Radcliffe  were  also,  as  literary  productions, 
a vast  improvement  on  the  old  novels  ; and  in  their 
moral  effects  they  were  less  mischievous,  for  the 
j extraordinary  machinery  employed  by  the  authoress 
i was  so  far  removed  from  the  common  course  of 
human  affairs  and  experience,  that  no  one  could 
think  of  drawing  it  into  a precedent  in  ordinary 
circumstances. 

ROBERT  PULTOCK. 

Mr  Southey  has  acknowledged  that  he  took  the 
idea  of  his  Glendoveers,  those  winged  celestial  agents 
j in  the  Curse  of  Kehama — 

The  loveliest  race  of  all  of  heavenly  birth, 
Hovering  with  gentle  motion  o’er  the  earth — 

from  the  neglected  story  of  Peter  Wilkins.  The 
I author  of  this  story  was  long  unknown;  but  im 
1835,  at  a sale  by  auction  of  books  and  manuscripts 
which  had  belonged  to  Dodsley  the  publisher,  the 
| original  agreement  for  the  copyright  of  the  work 
was  found.  The  writer,  it  appears,  was  ‘Robert 
: Pultock  of  Clement’s  Inn,  Gentleman;’  and  he 
had  disposed  of  his  tale  for  a sum  of  £20,  with 
twelve  copies  of  the  work,  and  a set  of  the  first 
impressions  of  the  engravings  that  were  to  accom- 
pany it.  The  tale  is  dedicated  to  Elizabeth  Countess 
of  Northumberland — an  amiable  and  accomplished 
lady,  to  whom  Percy  inscribed  his  Reliques , and 
Goldsmith  the  first  printed  copy  of  his  Edwin  and 
Angelina  * To  the  countess,  Pultock  had  been 
I indebted  for  some  personal  favour — ‘ a late  instance 
of  benignity,’  and  it  was  after  the  pattern  of  her 
j virtues,  he  says,  that  he  drew  the  mind  of  his 
heroine  Youwarkee.  Nothing  more  is  known  of 
j Pultock.  He  was  most  probably  a bachelor — a 
| solitary  bencher — for  had  he  left  descendants,  some 
I one  of  the  number  would  have  been  proud  to  claim 
J the  relationship.  Having  delivered  his  ‘wild  and 
j wondrous  tale 5 to  the  world,  he  retired  into  modest 
J and  unbroken  obscurity.  The  title  of  Pultock’s 
j story  may  serve  for  an  index  to  its  nature  and 
incidents:  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Peter  Wilkins, 

* The  first  edition  of  Peter  Wilkins  is  without  the  dedication. 
We  were  not  aware  of  the  exact  date  of  this  novel,  else  it  would 
have  been  included  in  the  previous  section.  The  dates  of  the 
different  editions  are  1750,  1751,  1783,  1784,  and  several  cheap 
reprints  have  since  been  issued. 

130 


a Cornish  Man : relating  particularly  his  Shipwreck 
near  the  South  Pole ; his  wonderful  Passage  through  a 
subteiraneous  Cavern  into  a kind  of  New  World;  his 
there  meeting  with  a Gawrey , or  Flying  Woman,  whose 
Life  he  preserved,  and  afterwards  manned  her ; his 
extraordinary  Conveyance  to  the  Country  of  Glumms 
and  Gawreys,  or  Men  and  Women  that  fly : likewise  a 
Description  of  this  strange  Country,  with  the  Law , 
Customs,  and  Manners  of  its  Inhabitants,  and  the 
Author’s  remarkable  Transactions  among  them:  taken 
from  his  own  Mouth  on  his  Passage  to  England  from  off 
Cape  Horn  in  America,  in  the  Ship  Hector ; with  an 
Introduction  giving  an  Account  of  the  surprising  Manner 
of  his  coming  on  Board  that  Vessel,  and  his  Death  on 
his  landing  at  Plymouth,  in  the  year  1739 ; by  R.  S., 
a Passenger  in  the  Hector.  The  initials  ‘ R.  S.’  may 
either  have  been  designed  to  remind  the  reader  of 
Gulliver’s  cousin,  Richard  Sympson — who  stands 
sponsor  for  the  redoubted  Captain  Lemuel — or 
inserted  by  an  oversight  of  the  author,  who  signs 
his  proper  initials,  R.  P.,  to  the  dedication  and 
introduction.  The  name  of  the  hero,  and  the  first 
conception  of  the  story,  would  seem  to  have  been 
suggested  by  Bishop  Wilkins’s  Discovery  of  a New 
World,  in  which  there  are  speculations  on  the  possi- 
bility of  a man  being  able  to  fly  by  the  application 
of  wings  to  his  body.  (See  vol.  I.  of  this  work, 
p.  467.)  Having  taken  up  this  idea  of  a flying 
human  race,  Pultock  modelled  his  story  on  that 
of  Robinson  Crusoe,  making  his  hero  a shipwrecked 
voyager,  cast  upon  a solitary  shore,  of  which  he  was 
for  a time  the  sole  inhabitant.  The  same  virtues 
of  fortitude,  resignation,  and  patient  ingenuity  are 
assigned  to  both,  with  a depth  and  purity  of 
religious  feeling  in  the  case  of  Peter  Wilkins  which 
was  rare  at  that  time  in  works  of  fiction.  The 
literal,  minute,  matter-of-fact  style  of  Defoe  is 
copied  with  success ; but  except  in  his  description 
of  the  flying  heroine,  Pultock  is  inferior  to  the  old 
master.  At  least  one  half  of  the  tale  is  felt  to  be 
tedious  and  uninteresting.  Its  principal  charm 
consists  in  the  lonely  situation  and  adventures  of 
the  hero,  struggling  with  misfortunes  and  cut  off 
from  society,  and  in  the  original  and  beautiful 
conception  of  the  flying  woman,  who  comes,  endowed 
with  all  feminine  graces  and  tenderness,  to  share 
his  solitude  and  affection.  When  Wilkins  describes 
the  flying  nation,  their  family  alliances,  laws, 
customs,  and  mechanical  works,  the  romance  dis- 
appears, and  we  see  only  a poor  imitation  of  the 
style  or  manner  of  Swift.  The  language  of  this  j 
new  race  is  also  singularly  inharmonious.  The 
name  of  the  country,  Nosmnbdsgrsutt,  is  unpro-  j 
nounceable,  and  glumm  and  gawrey,  man  and  woman, 
have  nothing  to  recommend  their  adoption.  The  | 
flying  apparatus  is  termed  a graundee , and  a flight 
is  a swangean.  The  locale  of  Wilkins’s  romance 
is  a grassy  plain  by  the  side  of  a lake,  surrounded 
by  a woody  amphitheatre,  behind  which  rises  a ! 
huge  naked  rock,  that  towers  up  to  a great  height.  | 
In  this  retreat  he  constructs  a grotto,  and  with 
fruits  and  fish,  subsists  pleasantly  during  the  ! 
summer.  Winter  approaches,  and  strange  voices  j 
are  heard.  He  sallies  out  one  evening,  and  finds  a 
beautiful  woman  near  his  door.  This  is  Youwarkee, 
the  heroine#-  She  had  been  engaged  with  a party 
of  young  people  of  the  flying  nation,  resident  on 
the  other  side  of  the  great  rock,  chasing  and 
pursuing  one  another,  when  falling  among  the  j 
branches  of  a tree,  her  graundee  became  useless,  and 
she  sank  to  the  ground  stunned  and  senseless.  The 
graundee,  with  its  variety  of  ribs,  drapery,  and  mem- 
brane, is  described  at  length;  but  we  may  take 
the  more  poetical  miniature  sketch  of  it  given  by 


NOVELISTS. 


EOBEET  PULTOCK. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Mr  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  work  The  Seer : 1 A peacock, 
with  his  plumage  displayed,  full  of  “rainbows  and 
starry  eyes,”  is  a fine  object,  but  think  of  a lovely 
woman,  set  in  front  of  an  ethereal  shell,  and  wafted 
about  like  a Venus.  This  is  perhaps  the  best  general 
idea  that  can  be  given  of  Peter  Wilkins’s  bride. 
In  the  first  edition  of  the  work,  there  is  an  engraved 
explanation  of  the  wings,  or.  rather  drapery,  for  such 
it  was  when  at  rest.  It  might  be  called  a natural 
webbed  silk.  We  are  to  picture  to  ourselves  a 
nymph  in  a vest  of  the  finest  texture,  and  most 
delicate  carnation.  On  a sudden,  this  drapery  parts 
in  two,  and  flies  back,  stretched  from  head  to  foot 
behind  the  figure  like  an  oval  fan  or  umbrella; 
and  the  lady  is  in  front  of  it,  preparing  to  sweep 
blushing  away  from  us,  and  “winnow  the  buxom 
air.”  ’ The  picture  is  poetical  and  suggestive,  though 
in  working  it  up,  the  author  of  the  story  introduces 
homely  enough  materials. 


[Peter  Wilkins  and  his  Flying  Bride .] 

I passed  the  summer — though  I had  never  yet  seen 
the  sun’s  body — very  much  to  my  satisfaction,  partly 
in  the  work  I have  been  describing — for  I had  taken 
two  more  of  the  beast-fish,  and  had  a great  quantity  of 
oil  from  them — partly  in  building  me  a chimney  in  my 
ante-chamber,  of  mud  and  earth  burnt  on  my  own 
hearth  into  a sort  of  brick ; in  making  a window  at  one 
end  of  the  above-said  chamber,  to  let  in  what  little 
light  would  come  through  the  trees,  when  I did  not 
choose  to  open  my  door ; in  moulding  an  earthen  lamp 
for  my  oil ; and,  finally,  in  providing  and  laying  in 
stores,  fresh  and  salt — for  I had  now  cured  and  dried 
many  more  fish — against  winter.  These,  I say,  were  my 
summer  employments  at  home,  intermixed  with  many 
agreeable  excursions.  But  now  the  winter  coming  on, 
and  the  days  growing  very  short,  or  indeed,  there  being 
no  day,  properly  speaking,  but  a kind  of  twilight,  I 
kept  mostly  in  my  habitation. 

An  indifferent  person  would  now  be  apt  to  ask,  what 
would  this  man  desire  more  than  he  had?  To  this  I 
answer,  that  I was  contented,  while  my  condition  was 
such  as  I have  been  describing ; but  a little  while  after 
the  darkness  or  twilight  came  on,  I frequently  heard 
voices,  sometimes  a few  only  at  a time,  as  it  seemed, 
and  then  again  in  great  numbers. 

In  the  height  of  my  distress,  I had  recourse  to  prayer, 
with  no  small  benefit ; begging  that  if  it  pleased  not 
the  Almighty  Power  to  remove  the  object  of  my  fears, 
at  least  to  resolve  my  doubts  about  them,  and  to  render 
them  rather  helpful  than  hurtful  to  me.  I hereupon, 
as  I always  did  on  such  occasions,  found  myself  much 
more  placid  and  easy,  and  began  to  hope  the  best,  till 
I had  almost  persuaded  myself  that  I was  out  of 
danger ; and  then  laying  myself  down,  I rested  very 
sweetly  till  I was  awakened  by  the  impulse  of  the 
following  dream. 

Methought  I was  in  Cornwall,  at  my  wife’s  aunt’s ; 
and  inquiring  after  her  and  my  children,  the  old 
gentlewoman  informed  me  both  my  wife  and  children 
had  been  dead  some  time,  and  that  my  wife,  before  her 
departure,  desired  her — that  is,  her  aunt — immediately 
upon  my  arrival  to  tell  me  she  was  only  gone  to  the 
lake,  where  I should  be  sure  to  see  her,  and  be  happy 
with  her  ever  after.  I then,  as  I fancied,  ran  to  the 
lake  to  find  her.  In  my  passage  she  stopped  me,  crying : 
‘ Whither  so  fast,  Peter  ? Iam  your  wife,  your  Patty.’ 
Methought  I did  not  know  her,  she  was  so  altered ; but 
observing  her  voice,  and  looking  more  wistfully  at  her, 
she  appeared  to  me  as  the  most  beautiful  creature  I 
ever  beheld.  I then  went  to  seize  her  in  my  arms,  but 
the  hurry  of  my  spirits  awakened  me.  * * 

I then  heard  a sort  of  shriek,  and  a rustle  near  the 
door  of  my  apartment,  all  which  together  seemed  very 


terrible.  But  I,  having  before  determined  to  see  what 
and  who  it  was,  resolutely  opened  my  door  and  leaped 
out.  I saw  nobody ; all  was  quite  silent,  and  nothing 
that  I could  perceive  but  my  own  fears  a moving.  I 
went  then  softly  to  the  corner  of  the  building,  and 
there,  looking  down  by  the  glimmer  of  my  lamp,  which 
stood  in  the  window,  I saw  something  in  human  shape 
lying  at  my  feet.  I gave  the  word:  ‘Who’s  there?’ 
Still  no  one  answered.  My  heart  was  ready  to  force  a 
way  through  my  side.  I was  for  a while  fixed  to  the 
earth  like  a statue.  At  length  recovering,  I stepped  in, 
fetched  my  lamp,  and  returning,  saw  the  very  beautiful 
face  my  Patty  appeared  under  in  my  dream  ; and  not 
considering  that  it  was  only  a dream,  I verily  thought 
I had  my  Patty  before  me,  but  she  seemed  to  be  stone 
dead.  Upon  viewing  her  other  parts,  for  I had  never 
yet  removed  my  eyes  from  her  face,  I found  she  had  a 
sort  of  brown  chaplet,  like  lace,  round  her  head,  under 
and  about  which  her  hair  was  tucked  up  and  twined ; 
and  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  clothed  in  a thin  hair- 
coloured  silk  garment,  which,  upon  trying  to  raise  her, 
I found  to  be  quite  warm,  and  therefore  hoped  there 
was  life  in  the  body  it  cqntained.  I then  took  her.  into 
my  arms,  and  treading  a step  backwards  with  her,  I 
put  out  my  lamp ; however,  having  her  in  my  arms,  I 
conveyed  her  through  the  doorway,  in  the  dark,  into  my 
grotto.  * * 

I thought  I saw  her  eyes  stir  a little.  I then  set  the 
lamp  further  off,  for  fear  of  offending  them  if  she  should 
look  up ; and  warming  the  last  glass  I had  reserved  of 
my  Madeira,  I carried  it  to  her,  but  she  never  stirred. 

I now  supposed  the  fall  had  absolutely  killed  her,  and 
was  prodigiously  grieved,  when  laying  my  hand  on  her 
breast,  I perceived  the  fountain  of  life  had  some 
motion.  This  gave  me  infinite  pleasure ; so,  not 
despairing,  I dipped  my  finger  in  the  wine,  and 
moistened  her  lips  with  it  two  or  three  times,  and  I 
imagined  they  opened  a little.  Upon  this  I bethought 
me,  and  taking  a tea-spoon,  I gently  poured  a few  drops 
of  the  wine  by  that  means  into  her  mouth.  Finding 
she  swallowed  it,  I poured  in  another  spoonful,  and 
another,  till  I brought  her  to  herself  so  well  as  to  be 
able  to  sit'  up. 

I then  spoke  to  her,  and  asked  divers  questions,  as 
if  she  had  really  been  Patty,  and  understood  me  ; in 
return  of  which,  she  uttered  a language  I had  no  idea 
of,  though,  in  the  most  musical  tone,  and  with  the 
sweetest  accent  I ever  heard.  It  grieved  me  I could 
not  understand  her.  However,  thinking  she  might  like 
to  be  upon  her  feet,  I went  to  lift  her  off  the  bed,  when 
she  felt  to  my  touch  in  the  oddest  manner  imaginable  ; 
for  while  in  one  respect  it  was  as  though  she  had  been 
cased  in  whalebone,  it  was  at  the  same  time  as  soft  and 
warm  as  if  she  had  been  naked.  * * 

You  may  imagine  we  stared  heartily  at  each  other, 
and  I doubted  not  but  she  wondered  as  much  as  I by 
what  means  we  came  so  near  each  other.  I offered  her 
everything  in  my  grotto  which  I thought  might  please 
her,  some  of  which  she  gratefully  received,  as  appeared 
by  her  looks  and  behaviour.  But  she  avoided  my  lamp, 
and  always  placed  her  back  toward  it.  I observing 
that,  and  ascribing  it  to  her  modesty,  in  my  company, 
let  her  have  her  will,  and  took  care  to  set  it  in  such 
a position  myself  as  seemed  agreeable  to  her,  though  it 
deprived  me  of  a prospect  I very  much  admired. 

After  we  had  sat  a good  while,  now  and  then,  I may 
say,  chattering  to  one  another,  she  got  up  and  took  a 
turn  or  two  about  the  room.  When  I saw  her  in  that 
attitude,  her  grace  and  motion  perfectly  charmed  me, 
and  her  shape  was  incomparable. 

Well,  we  supped  together,  and  I set  the  best  of 
everything  I had  before  her,  nor  could  either  of  us 
forbear  speaking  in  our  own  tongue,  though  we  were 
sensible  neither  of  us  understood  the  other.  After 
supper,  I gave  her  some  of  my  cordials,  for  which  she 
shewed  great  tokens  of  thankfulness,  and  often,  in  her 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

way,  by  signs  and  gestures,  which  were  very  far  from 
being  insignificant,  expressed  her  gratitude  for  my 
kindness.  When  supper  had  been  some  time  over,  I 
shewed  her  my  bed,  and  made  signs  for  her  to  go  to  it ; 
but  she  seemed  very  shy  of  that,  till  I shewed  her  where 
I meant  to  He  myself,  by  pointing  to  myself,  then  to 
that,  and  again  pointing  to  her  and  to  my  bed.  When 
at  length  I had  made  this  matter  intelligible  to  her,  she 
lay  down  very  composedly  ; and  after  I had  taken  care 
of  my  fire,  and  set  the  things  I had  been  using  for 
supper  in  their  places,  I laid  myself  down  too ; for  I 
could  have  no  suspicious  thoughts,  or  fear  of  danger, 
from  a form  so  excellent. 

I treated  her  for  some  time  with  all  the  respect 
imaginable,  and  never  suffered  her  to  do  the  least  part 
of  my  work.  It  was  very  inconvenient  to  both  of  us 
only  to  know  each  other’s  meaning  by  signs  ; but  I 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  pleased  to  see  that  she 
endeavoured  all  in  her  power  to  learn  to  talk  like  me. 
Indeed  I was  not  behind-hand  with  her  in  that  respect, 
striving  all  I could  to  imitate  her.  What  I all  the  while 
wondered  at  was,  she  never  shewed  the  least  disquiet  at 
her  confinement ; for  I kept  my  door  shut  at  first, 
through  fear  of  losing  her,  thinking  she  would  have 
taken  an  opportunity  to  run  away  from  me,  for  Httle 
did  I then  think  she  could  fly. 

After  my  new  love  had  been  with  me  a fortnight, 
finding  my  water  run  low,  I was  greatly  troubled  at  the 
thought  of  quitting  her  any  time  to  go  for  more ; and 
having  hinted  it  to  her,  with  seeming  uneasiness,  she 
could  not  for  a while  fathom  my  meaning;  but  when 
she  saw  me  much  confused,  she  came  at  length,  by  the 
many  signs  I made,  to  imagine  it  was  my  concern  for 
her  which  made  me  so;  whereupon  she  expressively 
i enough  signified  I might  be  easy,  for  she  did  not  fear 
anything  happening  to  her  in  my  absence.  On  this,  as 
! well  as  I could  declare  my  meaning,  I entreated  her  not 
j to  go  away  before  my  return.  As  soon  as  she  under- 
stood what  I signified  to  her  by  actions,  she  sat  down, 
with  her  arms  aqross,  leaning  her  head  against  the  wall, 
to  assure  me  she  would  not  stir. 

I took  my  boat,  net,  and  water-cask  as  usual,  desirous 
of  bringing  her  home  a fresh  fish-dinner,  and  succeeded 
so  well  as  to  catch  enough  for  several  good  meals,  and  to 
spare.  What  remained  I salted,  and  found  she  liked 
that  better  than  the  fresh,  after  a few  days’  salting. 
As  my  salt  grew  very  low,  though  I had  been  as  sparing 
j of  it  as  possible,  I now  resolved  to  try  making  some ; 
and  the  next  summer  I effected  it. 

Thus  we  spent  the  remainder  of  the  winter  together, 
till  the  days  began  to  be  light  enough  for  me  to  walk 
abroad  a little  in  the  middle  of  them  ; for  I was  now 
| under  no  apprehensions  of  her  leaving  me,  as  she  had 
before  this  time  had  so  many  opportunities  of  doing  so, 

■ but  never  once  attempted  it.  I did  not  even  then  know 
i that  the  covering  she  wore  was  not  the  work  of  art  tut 
j the  work  of  nature,  for  I really  took  it  for  silk,  though 
it  must  be  premised,  that  I had  never  seen  it  by  any 
j other  light  than  of  my  lamp.  Indeed,  the  modesty  of 
her  carriage,  and  sweetness  of  her  behaviour  to  me,  had 
struck  into  me  a dread  of  offending  her. 

When  the  weather  cleared  up  a little,  by  the  lengthen- 
ing  of  daylight,  I took  courage  one  afternoon  to  invite 
i her  to  walk  with  me  to  the  lake;  but  she  sweetly 
excused  herself  from  it,  whilst  there  was  such  a fright- 
ful glare  of  light  as  she  said  ; * but,  looking  out  at  the 
; door,  told  me  if  I would  not  go  out  of  the  wood,  she 
would  accompany  me,  so  we  agreed  to  take  a turn  only 
j there.  I first  went  myself  over  the  style  of  the  door, 
and  thinking  it  rather  too  high  for  her,  I took  her  in 
my  arms,  and  lifted  her  over.  But  even  when  I had 
her  in  this  manner,  I knew  not  what  to  make  of  her 
clothing,  it  sat  so  true  and  close ; but  seeing  her  by 
a steadier  and  truer  light  in  the  grove,  though  a heavy 

* In  the  regions  of  the  flying  people,  it  is  always  twilight. 

gloomy  one,  than  my  lamp  had  afforded,  I begged  she 
would  let  me  know  of  what  silk  or  other  composition 
her  garment  was  made.  She  smiled,  and  asked  me  if 
mine  was  not  the  same  under  my  jacket.  ‘ No,  lady,’ 
says  I,  ‘ I have  nothing  but  my  skin  under  my  clothes.’ 
‘Why,  what  do  you  mean?’  replies  she,  somewhat 
tartly ; ‘ but,  indeed,  I was  afraid  something  was  the 
matter,  by  that  nasty  covering  you  wear,  that  you  might 
not  be  seen.  Are  you  not  a glumm  ?’  (a  man).  ‘Yes,’ 
says  I,  ‘fair  creature.’  (Here,  though  you  may  conceive 
she  spoke  part  English,  part  her  own  tongue,  and  I the 
same,  as  we  best  understood  each  other,  yet  I shall  give 
you  our  discourse,  word  for  word,  in  plain  English.) 
‘ Then,’  says  she,  ‘ I am  afraid  you  must  have  been  a 
very  bad  man,  and  have  been  crashee,*  which  I should 
be  very  sorry  to  hear.’  I told  her  I believed  we  were 
none  of  us  so  good  as  we  might  be,  but  I hoped  my 
faults  had  not  at  most  exceeded  other  men’s ; but  I 
had  suffered  abundance  of  hardships  in  my  time,  and 
that  at  last  Providence  having  settled  me  in  this  spot, 
from  whence  I had  no  prospect  of  ever  departing,  it 
was  none  of  the  least  of  its  mercies  to  bring  to  my 
knowledge  and  company  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  all 
his  works  in  her,  which  I should  acknowledge  as  long 
as  I lived.  She  was  surprised  at  this  discourse,  and 
asked  me — if  I did  not  mean  to  impose  upon  her,  and 
was  indeed  an  ingcrashee  (unslit)  glumm — why  I should 
tell  her  I had  no  prospect  of  departing  from  hence. 
‘ Have  not  you,’  says  she,  ‘ the  same  prospect  that  I or 
any  other  person  has  of  departing?  Sir,’  added  she, 

‘ you  don’t  do  well,  and  really  I fear  you  are  slit,  or  you 
would  not  wear  this  nasty  cumbersome  coat — taking 
hold  of  my  jacket  sleeve — if  you  were  not  afraid  of 
shewing  the  signs  of  a bad  life  upon  your  natural 
clothing.’ 

I could  not  for  my  heart  imagine  what  way  there  was 
to  get  out  of  my  dominions ; but  certainly,  thought  I, 
there  must  be  some  or  other,  or  she  would  not  be  so 
peremptory.  And  as  to  my  jacket,  and  shewing  myself 
in  my  natural  clothing,  I profess  she  made  me  blush; 
and,  but  for  shame,  I would  have  stripped  to  my  skin, 
to  have  satisfied  her.  ‘ But,  madam,’  says  I,  ‘ pray 
pardon  me,  for  you  are  really  mistaken  ; I have 
examined  every  nook  and  corner  of  this  new  world 
in  which  we  now  are,  and  can  find  no  possible  outlet.’ 

‘ Why,’  says  she,  ‘ what  outlets  have  you  searched  for,  or 
what  way  can  you  expect  out  but  the  way  you  came  in  ? 
And  why  is  that  impossible  to  return  by  again  ? If  you 
are  not  slit,  is  not  the  air  open  to  you?  Will  not  the 
sky  admit  you  to  patrol  in  it,  as  well  as  other  people? 
I tell  you,  sir,  I fear  you  have  been  slit  for  your  crimes ; 
and  though  you  have  been  so  good  to  me  that  I cannot 
help  loving  of  you  heartily  for  it,  yet,  if  I thought  you 
had  been  slit,  I would  not,  nay,  could  not,  stay  a moment 
longer  with  you  ; no,  though  it  should  break  my  heart 
to  leave  you ! ’ 

I found  myself  now  in  a strange  quandary.  But 
seeing  her  look  a little  angrily  upon  me,  ‘ Pray,  madam,’ 
says  I,  ‘ do  not  be  offended  if  I take  the  liberty  to  ask 
you  what  you  mean  by  the  word  crashee,  so  often 
repeated  by  you,  for  I am  an  utter  stranger  to  what 
you  mean  by  it?’  ‘Sir,’  says  she,  ‘pray,  answer  me 
first  how  you  came  here?’  ‘Madam,’  replied  I,  ‘will 
you  please  to  take  a walk  to  the  verge  of  the  wood,  and 
I will  shew  you  the  very  passage  ? ’ ‘ Sir,’  says  she,  ‘ I 

perfectly  know  the  range  of  the  rocks  all  round,  and  by 
the  least  description,  without  going  to  see  them,  can  tell 
from  which  you  descended.’  ‘ In  truth,’  said  I,  ‘ most 
charming  lady,  I descended  from  no  rock  at  all  : nor 
would  I,  for  a thousand  worlds,  attempt  what  could  not 
be  accomplished  but  by  my  destruction.’  ‘Sir,’  says 
she,  in  some  anger,  ‘ it  is  false,  and  you  impose  upon 
me.’  ‘I  declare  to  you,’  says  I,  ‘madam,  what  I tell 

* Slit.  Criminals,  in  the  flying  regions,  are  punished  by 
having  their  wings  slit,  thus  rendering  them  unable  to  fly. 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LAURENCE  STERNE. 


NOVELISTS. 


you  is  strictly  true;  I never  was  near  the  summit  of 
any  of  the  surrounding  rocks,  or  anything  like  it ; hut 
as  you  are  not  far  from  the  verge  of  the  wood,  be  so 
good  as  to  step  a little  further,  and  I will  shew  you 
my  entrance  in  hither.’  ‘Well,’  says  she,  ‘now  this 
odious  dazzle  of  light  is  lessened,  I do  not  care  if  I do 
go  with  you.’ 

When  we  came  far  enough  to  see  the  bridge,  ‘ There, 
madam,’  says  I,  ‘ there  is  my  entrance,  where  the  sea 
pours  into  this  lake  from  yonder  cavern.’  ‘ It  is  not 
possible,’  says  she  ; ‘ this  is  another  untruth  ; and  as  I 
see  you  would  deceive  me,  and  are  not  to  be  believed, 
farewell,  I must  be  gone.  But  hold,’  says  she,  ‘ let  me 
ask  you  one  thing  more,  that  is,  by  what  means  did  you 
come  through  that  cavern?  You  could  not  have  used 
to  have  come  over  the  rock.’  ‘ Bless  me,  madam,’  says 
I,  ‘ do  you  think  I and  my  boat  could  fly  ? Come  over 
the  rock,  did  you  say  ? No,  madam,  I sailed  from  the 
great  sea,  the  main  ocean,  in  my  boat,  through  that 
cavern  into  this  very  lake  here.’  ‘ What  do  you  mean 
by  your  boat?’  says  she.  ‘You  seem  to  make  two 
things  of  your  boat  you  say  you  sailed  with,  and  your- 
self.’ ‘ I do  so,’  replied  I ; ‘ for,  madam,  I take  myself 
to  be  good  flesh  and  blood,  but  my  boat  is  made  of 
wood  and  other  materials.’  ‘ Is  it  so?’  says  she  ; ‘and 
pray,  where  is  this  boat  that  is  made  of  wood  and  other 
materials,  under  your  jacket  ? ’ ‘ Lord ! madam,’  says 

I,  ‘ you  put  me  in  fear  that  you  was  angry,  but  now  I 
hope  you  only  joke  with  me  ; what,  put  a boat  under 
my  jacket ! No,  madam,  my  boat  is  in  the  lake.’ 
‘What!  more  untruths?’  says  she.  ‘No,  madam,’  I 
replied,  ‘ if  you  would  be  satisfied  of  what  I say,  every 
word  of  which  is  as  true  as  that  my  boat  now  is  in  the 
lake,  pray  walk  with  me  thither,  and  make  your  own 
eyes  judges  what  sincerity  I speak  with.’  To  this  she 
agreed,  it  growing  dusky ; but  assured  me,  if  I did  not 
give  her  good  satisfaction,  I should  see  her  no  more. 

We  arrived  at  the  lake,  and  going  to  my  wet-dock, 
‘Now,  madam,’  says  I,  ‘pray,  satisfy  yourself  whether  I 
spake  true  or  no.’  She  looked  at  my  boat,  but  could 
not  yet  frame  a proper  notion  of  it.  Says  I : ‘ Madam, 
in  this  very  boat  I sailed  from  the  main  ocean  through 
that  cavern  into  this  lake;  and  shall  at  last  think 
myself  the  happiest  of  all  men,  if  you  continue  with 
me,  love  me,  and  credit  me ; and  I promise  you  I will 
never  deceive  you,  but  think  my  life  happily  spent  in 
your  service.’  I found  she  was  hardly  content  yet  to 
believe  what  I told  her  of  my  boat  to  be  true,  until  I 
stepped  into  it,  and  pushing  from  the  shore,  took  my 
oars  in  my  hand,  and  sailed  along  the  lake  by  her  as 
she  walked  on  the  shore.  At  last,  she  seemed  so  well 
reconciled  to  me  and  my  boat,  that  she  desired  I would 
take  her  in.  I immediately  did  so,  and  we  sailed  a 
good  way,  and  as  we  returned  to  my  dock,  I described  to 
her  how  I procured  the  water  we  drank,  and  brought  it 
to  shore  in  that  vessel. 

‘Well,’  says  she,  ‘I  have  sailed,  as  you  call  it,  many  a 
mile  in  my  lifetime,  but  never  in  such  a thing  as  this. 

I own  it  w'ill  serve  very  well  where  one  has  a great 
many  things  to  carry  from  place  to  place;  but  to  be 
labouring  thus  at  an  oar,  when  one  intends  pleasure  in 
sailing,  is,  in  my  mind,  a most  ridiculous  piece  of 
slavery.’  ‘Why,  pray,  madam,  how  would  you  have  me 
sail  ? for  getting  into  the  boat  only  will  not  carry  us 
this  way  or  that,  without  using  some  force.’  ‘But,’ 
says  she,  ‘ pray,  where  did  you  get  this  boat,  as  you  call 
it?’  ‘0  madam,’  says  I,  ‘that  is  too  long  and  fatal  a 
story  to  begin  upon  now;  this  boat  was  made  many 
thousand  miles  from  hence,  among  a people  coal-black, 
a quite  different  sort  from  us ; and  when  I first  had 
it,  I little  thought  of  seeing  this  country ; but  I will 
make  a faithful  relation  of  all  to  you  when  we  come 
home.’  * * 

As  we  talked,  and  walked  by  the  lake,  she  made  a 
little  run  before  me,  and  sprang  into  it.  Perceiving 
this,  I cried  out ; whereupon  she  merrily  called  on  me 


to  follow  her.  The  light  was  then  so  dim  as  prevented 
my  having  more  than  a confused  sight  of  her,  when  she 
jumped  in;  and  looking  earnestly  after  her,  I could 
discern  nothing  more  than  a small  boat  on  the  water, 
which  skimmed  along  at  so  great  a rate  that  I almost 
lost  sight  of  it  presently : but  running  along  the  shore, 
for  fear  of  losing  her,  I met  her  gravely  walking  to 
meet  me,  and  then  had  entirely  lost  sight  of  the  boat 
upon  the  lake.  ‘This,’  says  she,  accosting  me  with  a 
smile,  ‘is  my  way  of  sailing,  which,  I perceive,  by  the 
fright  you  were  in,  you  are  altogether  unacquainted 
with ; and  as  you  tell  me  you  came  from  so  many 
thousand  miles  off,  it  is  possible  you  may  be  made 
differently  from  me ; but  surely  we  are  the  part  of  the 
creation  which  has  had  most  care  bestowed  upon  it; 
and  I suspect  from  all  your  discourse,  to  which  I have 
been  very  attentive,  it  is  possible  you  may  no  more  j 
be  able  to  fly  than  to  sail  as  I do.’  ‘No,  charming  ^ 
creature,’  says  I,  ‘ that  I cannot,  I will  assure  you.’  She  j 
then,  stepping  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  for  the  advant-  j 
age  of  a descent  before  her,  sprang  up  into  the  air,  and 
away  she  went,  further  than  my  eyes  could  follow  her. 

I was  quite  astonished.  So,  says  I,  then  all  is  over,  ! 
all  a delusion  which  I have  so  long  been  in,  a mere  phan-  ; 
tom  ! better  had  it  been  for  me  never  to  have  seen  her,  i 
than  thus  to  lose  her  again  ! I had  but  very  little  time  | 
for  reflection ; for  in  about  ten  minutes  after  she  had  ! 
left  me  in  this  mixture  of  grief  and  amazement,  she 
alighted  just  by  me  on  her  feet. 

Her  return,  as  she  plainly  saw,  filled  me  with  a trans- 
port not  to  be  concealed,  and  which,  as  she  afterwards 
told  me,  was  very  agreeable  to  her.  Indeed,  I was 
some  moments  in  such  an  agitation  of  mind,  from  these 
unparalleled  incidents,  that  I was  like  one  thunder- 
struck; but  coming  presently  to  myself,  and  clasping 
her  in  my  arms,  with  as  much  love  and  passion  as  I 
was  capable  of  expressing,  ‘Are  you  returned  again, 
kind  angel,’  said  I,  ‘ to  bless  a wretch  who  can  only  be 
happy  in  adoring  you  ? Can  it  be  that  you,  who  have 
so  many  advantages  over  me,  should  quit  all  the 
pleasures  that  nature  has  formed  you  for,  and  all  your 
friends  and  relations,  to  take  an  asylum  in  my  anus  ? 
But  I here  make  you  a tender  of  all  I am  able  to 
bestow,  my  love  and  constancy.’  ‘Come,  come,’  says 
she,  ‘ no  more  raptures ; I find  you  are  a worthier  man 
than  I thought  I had  reason  to  take  you  for ; and  I beg 
your  pardon  for  my  distrust,  whilst  I was  ignorant  of 
your  imperfections;  but  now,  I verily  believe  all  you 
have  said  is  true ; and  I promise  you,  as  you  have 
seemed  so  much  to  delight  in  me,  I will  never  quit  you  j 
till  death  or  other  as  fatal  accident  shall  part  us.  But  j 
we  will  now,  if  you  choose,  go  home,  for  I know  you 
have  been  some  time  uneasy  in  this  gloom,  though 
agreeable  to  me.  For,  giving  my  eyes  the  pleasure  of 
looking  eagerly  on  you,  it  conceals  my  blushes  from 
your  sight.’ 

In  this  manner,  exchanging  mutual  endearments  and 
soft  speeches,  hand  in  hand,  we  arrived  at  the  grotto. 


LAURENCE  STERNE. 

Next  in  order  of  time  and  genius  to  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  and  not  inferior  in  conception  of  rich 
eccentric  comic  character,  was  the  witty,  pathetic, 
and  sentimental  author  of  Tristram  Shandy.  Sterne 
was  an  original  writer,  though  a plagiarist  of 
thoughts  and  illustrations.  Brother  Shandy,  my 
Uncle  Toby,  Trim,  the  Widow  Wadman,  and  Ur 
Slop,  will  go  down  to  posterity  with  the  kindred 
creations  of  Cervantes.  This  idol  of  his  own  day 
is  now,  however,  but  little  read,  except  in  passages 
of  pure  sentiment.  Ilis  broad  humour  is  not 
relished ; his  oddities  have  not  the  gloss  of  novelty ; 
his  indecencies  startle  the  prudish  and  correct. 
The  readers  of  this  busy  age  will  not  hunt  for  his 


prom  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


beauties  amidst  the  blank  and  marbled  leaves — the 
pages  of  no-meaning — the  quaint  erudition  stolen 
from  forgotten  folios — the  abrupt  transitions  and 
discursive  flights  in  which  his  Shakspearean  touches 
of  character,  and  his  gems  of  fancy,  judgment, 
and  feeling,  lie  hid  and  imbedded.  His  sparkling 


Laurence  Sterne. 


polished  diction  has  even  an  air  of  false  glitter,  yet 
it  is  the  weapon  of  a master — of  one  who  can  stir 
the  heart  to  tears  as  well  as  laughter.  The  want 
of  simplicity  and  decency  is  his  greatest  fault. 
His  whim  and  caprice,  which  he  partly  imitated 
from  Eabelais,  and  partly  assumed  for  effect,  come 
in  sometimes  with  intrusive  awkwardness  to  mar 
the  touches  of  true  genius,  and  the  kindlings  of 
enthusiasm.  He  took  as  much  pains  to  spoil  his 
own  natural  powers  by  affectation,  as  Lady  Mary 
says  Pielding  did  to  destroy  his  fine  constitution. 

The  life  of  Laurence  Sterne  was  as  little  in 
keeping  as  his  writings.  A clergyman,  he  was  dis- 
solute and  licentious  ; a sentimentalist,  who  had, 
with  his  pen,  tears  for  all  animate  and  inanimate 
nature,  he  was  hardhearted  and  selfish  in  his  con- 
duct. Had  he  kept  to  his  living  in  the  country, 
going  his  daily  round  of  pastoral  duties,  he  would 
have  been  a better  and  wiser  man.  ‘He  degenerated 
in  London,’  says  David  Garrick,  ‘ like  an  ill-trans- 
planted shrub:  the  incense  of  the  great  spoiled 
his  head,  and  their  ragouts  his  stomach.  He  grew 
sickly  and  proud — an  invalid  in  body  and  mind.’ 
Hard  is  the  life  of  a wit  when  united  to  a suscep- 
tible temperament,  and  the  cares  and  sensibilities 
of  an  author!  Sterne  was  the  son  of  an  Irish 
lieutenant,  and  was  born  at  Clonmel,  November  24, 
1713.  He  was  educated  by  a relation,  a cousin,  and 
took  his  degree  of  M.A.  at  Cambridge  in  1740. 
Having  entered  into  orders,  his  uncle,  Dr  Sterne, 
a rich  pluralist,  presented  him  with  the  living  of 
Sutton,  to  which  was  afterwards  added  a prebend  of 
York.  He  married  a York  lady,  and  derived  from 
the  connection  another  living  in  that  county,  the 
rectory  of  Stillington.  He  lived  nearly  twenty  years 
at  Sutton,  reading,  painting,  fiddling,  and  shooting, 
with  occasional  quarrels  with  his  brethren  of  the 
cloth,  with  whom  he  was  no  favourite.  He  left 


Yorkshire  for  London  in  1759,  to  publish  the  two 
first  volumes  of  Tristram  Shandy.  Two  others  were 
published  in  1761,  and  the  same  number  in  1762. 
He  now  took  a tour  to  France,  which  enriched 
some  of  his  subsequent  volumes  of  Tristram  with 
his  exquisite  sketches  of  peasants  and  vine-dressers, 
the  muleteer,  the  abbess  and  Margarita,  Maria  at 
Moulines — not  forgetting  the  poor  ass  with  his 
heavy  panniers  at  Lyon.  In  1765  he  took  another 
continental  tour,  and  penetrated  into  Italy,  to 
which  we  are  indebted  for  his  Sentimental  Journey. 
The  latter  work  he  composed  on  his  return  to 
Coxwould,  the  living  of  which  had  been  presented 
to  him,  on  the  first  publication  of  Tristram , by  Lord 
Falconbridge.  Having  completed  the  first  part  of 
his  Journey , Sterne  went  to  London  to  see  it  pub- 
lished, and  died  in  lodgings  in  Bond  Street,  March 
18,  1768.  There  was  nobody  but  a hired  nurse 
by  his  death-bed.  He  had  wished  to  die  in  an 
inn,  where  the  few  cold  offices  he  wanted  would 
be  purchased  with  a few  guineas,  and  paid  to  him 
with  an  undisturbed  but  punctual  attention.  His 
wish  was  realised  almost  to  the  letter. 

In  Yorkshire,  before  he  had  attained  celebrity, 
much  of  Sterne’s  time  was  spent  at  Skelton  Hall, 
the  residence  of  John  Hall  Stevenson  (1718-1785), 
a writer  of  satirical  and  humorous  poetry,  possessed 
of  lively  talents,  but  over-convivial  in  his  habits, 
and  licentious  in  his  writings  and  conversation. 
Stevenson  wrote  Crazy  Tales , Fables  for  Grown 
Gentlemen , Jjyric  Epistles , &c.,  but  his  chief  claim  to 
remembrance  is  that  he  was  the  original  of  Sterne’s 
Eugenius  in  Tristram  Shandy , and  the  chosen  friend 
and  associate  of  the  witty  novelist.  In  the  library 
at  Skelton  Hall,  there  was  a collection  of  old  French 
authors,  from  whom  Sterne  derived  part  of  the 
quaint  lore  that  figures  in  his  works.  His  chief 
plagiarisms,  however,  were  derived  from  Burton’s 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy , which  he  plundered  with  an 
audacity  almost  without  a parallel.  Even  when 
condemning  such  literary  dishonesty,  Sterne  was 
eminently  dishonest.  Burton  has  the  following 
figurative  passage : ‘ As  apothecaries,  we  make  new 
mixtures,  every  day  pour  out  of  one  vessel  into 
another;  and  as  the  Romans  robbed  all  the  cities 
in  the  world  to  set  out  their  bad-sited  Rome,  we 
skim  the  cream  of  other  men’s  wits,  pick  the  choice 
flowers  of  their  tilled  gardens  to  set  out  our  own 
sterile  plots.  We  weave  the  same  web,  still  twist 
the  same  rope  again  and  again.’  Sterne  follows: 

4 Shall  we  for  ever  make  new  books,  as  apothecaries 
make  new  medicines,  by  pouring  only  out  of  one 
vessel  into  another  ? Are  we  for  ever  to  be  twisting 
and  untwisting  the  same  rope— for  ever  in  the  same 
track — for  ever  at  the  same  pace?’  Scores  of 
such  thefts  from  Burton  might  be  cited,  with  others 
from  Bishop  Hall,  Donne,  &c.  Luckily  for  Sterne, 
his  wholesale  plagiarisms  were  not  detected  until 
after  his  death.*  He  died  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame, 
as  an  original  eccentric  author — the  wittiest  and 
most,  popular  of  boon-companions  and  novelists. 
His  influence  on  the  literature  of  his  age  was  also 
considerable. 

No  one  reads  Sterne  for  the  story : his  great  work 
is  but  a bundle  of  episodes  and  digressions,  strung 
together  without  any  attempt  at  order.  The  reader 
must  4 give  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into  his 
author’s  hand — be  pleased  he  knows  not  why,  and 
cares  not  wherefore.’  Through  the  whole  novel, 
however,  over  its  mists  and  absurdities*  shines  his 

* The  detection  was  first  made  by  a Manchester  physician, 
Dr  John  Ferriab  (1764-1S15),  who,  in  1798,  published  his 
Illustrations  of  Sterne.  Dr  Ferriar  was  also  the  author  of  an 
Essay  on  Apparitions,  and  some  medical  treatises. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LAURENCE  STERNE. 


little  family  band  of  friends  and  relatives — that 
inimitable  group  of  originals  and  humorists— which 
stand  out  from  the  canvas  with  the  force  and  dis- 
tinctness of  reality.  This  distinctness  and  separate 
identity  is  a proof  of  what  Coleridge  has  termed 
the  peculiar  power  of  Sterne,  of  seizing  on  and 
bringing  forward  those  points  on  which  every  man 
is  a humorist,  and  of  the  masterly  manner  in  which 
he  has  brought  out  the  characteristics  of  two  beings 
of  the  most  opposite  natures — the  elder  Shandy 
and  Toby — and  surrounded  them  with  a group  of 
followers,  sketched  with  equal  life  and  individuality; 
in  the  Corporal,  the  obstetric  Dr  Slop ; Yorick,  the 
lively  and  careless  parson ; the  Widow  Wadman  and 
Susannah.  During  the  intervals  of  the  publication 
of  Tristram , Sterne  ventured  before  the  public  some 
volumes  of  Sermons , with  his  own  comic  figure,  from 
a painting  by  Reynolds,  at  the  head  of  them.  The 
Sermons,  according  to  the  just  opinion  of  Gray  the 
poet,  shew  a strong  imagination  and  a sensible 
heart ; ‘ but,’  he  adds,  ‘ you  see  the  author  often 
tottering  on  the  verge  of  laughter,  and  ready  to 
throw  his  periwig  in  the  face  of  the  audience.’  The 
affected  pauses  and  abrupt  transitions  which  dis- 
figure Tristram , are  not  banished  from  the  Sermons , 
but  there  is,  of  course,  more  conne'ction  and  coher- 
ency in  the  subject.  The  Sentimental  Journey  is  also 
more  regular  than  Tristram  in  its  plan  and  details ; 
but,  beautiful  as  some  of  its  descriptions  are,  we 
want  the  oddities  of  Shandy,  and  the  ever-pleasing 
good-nature  and  simplicity  of  Uncle  Toby.  Sterne 
himself  is  the  only  character.  The  pathetic  passages 
are  rather  overstrained,  but  still  finely  conceived, 
and  often  expressed  in  his  most  felicitous  manner. 
That  ‘gentle  spirit  of  sweetest  humour,  who  erst 
didst  sit  upon  the  easy  pen  of  his  beloved  Cervantes, 
turning  the  twilight  of  his  prison  into  noonday 
brightness,’  was  seldom  absent  long  from  the  invo- 
cations of  his  English  imitator,  even  when  he 
mounted  his  wildest  hobby,  and  dabbled  in  the 
mire  of  sensuality. 

Of  the  sentimental  style  of  Sterne— his  humour  is 
at  once  too  subtle  and  too  broad  to  be  compressed 
into  our  limits — a few  specimens  are  added. 

The  Story  of  Le  Fevre. 

[From  Tristram  Shandy.] 

It  was  some  time  in  the  summer  of  that  year  in 
which  Dendermond  was  taken  by  the  allies,  which  was 
about  seven  years  before  my  father  came  into  the 
| country,  and  about  as  many  after  the  time  that  my 
uncle  Toby  and  Trim  had  privately  decamped  from  my 
i father’s  house  in  town,  in  order  to  lay  some  of  the  finest 
sieges  to  some  of  the  finest  fortified  cities  in  Europe, 
when  my  uncle  Toby  was  one  evening  getting  his  supper, 
with  Trim  sitting  behind  him  at  a small  sideboard.  I 
say  sitting,  for  in  consideration  of  the  corporal’s  lame 
knee,  which  sometimes  gave  him  exquisite  pain,  when 
my  uncle  Toby  dined  or  supped  alone,  he  would  never 
suffer  the  corporal  to  stand;  and  the  poor  fellow’s 
veneration  for  his  master  was  such,  that,  with  a proper 
artillery,  my  uncle  Toby  could  have  taken  Dendermond 
itself  with  less  trouble  than  he  was  able  to  gain  this 
point  over  him ; for  many  a time,  when  my  uncle  Toby 
supposed  the  corporal’s  leg  was  at  rest,  he  would  look 
back  and  detect  him  standing  behind  him  with  the  most 
dutiful  respect.  This  bred  more  little  squabbles  betwixt 
them  than  all  other  causes  for  five-and-twenty  years 
together;  but  this  is  neither  here  nor  there — why  do 
I mention  it?  Ask  my  pen — it  governs  me — I govern 
not  it. 

He  was  one  evening  sitting  thus  at  his  supper,  when 
the  landlord  of  a little  inn  in  the  village  came  into  the 


parlour  with  an  empty  phial  in  his  hand,  to  beg  a glass 
or  two  of  sack.  ‘’Tis  for  a poor  gentleman — I think  of 
the  army,’  said  the  landlord,  ‘ who  has  been  taken  ill 
at  my  house  four  days  ago,  and  has  never  held  up  his 
head  since,  or  had  a desire  to  taste  anything,  till  just 
now,  that  he  has  a fancy  for  a glass  of  sack  and  a thin 
toast.  “ I think,”  says  he,  taking  his  hand  from  his  fore- 
head, “ it  would  comfort  me.”  If  I could  neither  beg, 
borrow,  nor  buy  such  a thing,’  added  the  landlord,  ‘ I 
would  almost  steal  it  for  the  poor  gentleman,  he  is  so 
ill.  I hope  in  God  he  will  still  mend,’  continued  he ; 

‘ we  are  all  of  us  concerned  for  him.’ 

‘ Thou  art  a good-natured  soul,  I will  answer  for 
thee,’  cried  my  uncle  Toby ; ‘ and  thou  shalt  drink  the 
poor  gentleman’s  health  in  a glass  of  sack  thyself ; and 
take  a couple  of  bottles  with  my  service,  and  tell  him 
he  is  heartily  welcome  to  them,  and  to  a dozen  more  if 
they  will  do  him  good.’ 

‘ Though  I am  persuaded,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  as  the 
landlord  shut  the  door,  ‘ he  is  a very  compassionate 
fellow,  Trim,  yet  I cannot  help  entertaining  a high 
opinion  of  his  guest  too  : there  must  be  something  more 
than  common  in  him  that  in  so  short  a time  should  win 
so  much  upon  the  affections  of  his  host.’  ‘ And  of  his 
whole  family,’  added  the  corporal;  ‘for  they  are  all 
concerned  for  him.’  ‘Step  after  him,’  said  my  uncle 
Toby ; ‘ do,  Trim ; and  ask  if  he  knows  his  name.’ 

‘I  -have  quite  forgot  it,  truly,’  said  the  landlord, 
coming  back  into  the  parlour  with  the  corporal ; ‘ but  I 
can  ask  his  son  again.’  ‘ Has  he  a son  with  him,  then  ?’ 
said  my  uncle  Toby.  ‘ A boy,’  replied  the  landlord,  ‘ of 
about  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age;  but  the  poor 
creature  has  tasted  almost  as  little  as  his  father;  he 
does  nothing  but  mourn  and  lament  for  him  night  and 
day.  He  has  not  stirred  from  the  bedside  these  two 
days.’ 

My  uncle  Toby  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
thrust  his  plate  from  before  him,  as  the  landlord  gave 
him  the  account;  and  Trim,  without  being  ordered, 
took  it  away,  without  saying  one  word,  and  in  a few 
minutes  after  brought  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco. 

‘Stay  in  the  room  a little,’  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

‘ Trim  ! ’ said  my  uncle  Toby,  after  he  lighted  his  pipe, 
and  smoked  about  a dozen  whiffs.  Trim  came  in  front 
of  his  master,  and  made  his  bow.  My  uncle  Toby 
smoked  on,  and  said  no  more.  ‘ Corporal ! ’ said  my 
uncle  Toby.  The  corporal  made  his  bow.  My  uncle 
Toby  proceeded  no  further,  but  finished  his  pipe. 

‘ Trim,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  ‘ I have  a project  in  my 
head,  as  it  is  a bad  night,  of  wrapping  myself  up  warm 
in  my  roquelaure,  and  paying  a visit  to  this  poor  gentle- 
man.’ ‘Your  honour’s  roquelaure,’  replied  the  corporal, 
‘has  not  once  been  had  on  since  the  night  before  your 
honour  received  your  wound,  when  we  mounted  guard 
in  the  trenches  before  the  gate  of  St  Nicholas.  And 
besides,  it  is  so  cold  and  rainy  a night,  that  what  with 
the  roquelaure,  and  what  with  the  weather,  ’twill  be 
enough  to  give  your  honour  your  death,  and  bring  on 
your  honour’s  torment  in  your  groin.’  ‘ I fear  so,’  replied 
my  uncle  Toby;  ‘but  I am  not  at  rest  in  my  mind, 
Trim,  since  the  account  the  landlord  has  given  me.  I 
wish  I had  not  known  so  much  of  this  affair,’  added  my 
uncle  Toby,  ‘or  that  I had  known  more  of  it.  How  shall 
we  manage  it  ?’  ‘ Leave  it,  an ’t  please  your  honour,  to 

me,’  quoth  the  corporal.  ‘I’ll  take  my  hat  and  stick, 
and  go  to  the  house  and  reconnoitre,  and  act  accord- 
ingly ; and  I will  bring  your  honour  a full  account  in  an 
hour.’  ‘Thou  shalt  go,  Trim,’  said  my  uncle  Toby; 
‘and  here’s  a shilling  for  thee  to  drink  with  his  servant.’ 
‘ I shall  get  it  all  out  of  him,’  said  the  corporal,  shutting 
the  door. 

My  uncle  Toby  filled  his  second  pipe ; and  had  it  not 
been  that  he  now  and  then  wandered  from  the  point, 
with  considering  whether  it  was  riot  full  as  well  to  have 
the  curtain  of  the  tenaille  a straight  line  as  a crooked 
one,  he  might  be  said  to  have  thought  of  nothing  else 

135 


fko-m  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


but  poor  Le  Fevre  and  his  boy  the  whole  time  he 
smoked  it. 

It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  his  third  pipe  that  Corporal  Trim  returned  from 
the  inn,  and  gave  him  the  following  account.  ‘I 
despaired  at  first,’  said  the  corporal,  ‘ of  being  able  to 
bring  back  your  honour  any  kind  of  intelligence  con- 
cerning the  poor  sick  lieutenant.’  ‘ Is  he  in  the  army, 
then ?’  said  my  uncle  Toby.  ‘He  is,’  said  the  corporal. 
‘And  in  what  regiment?’  said  my  uncle  Toby.  ‘I’ll 
tell  your  honour,’  replied  the  corporal,  ‘everything 
straightforwards  as  I learned  it.’  ‘Then,  Trim,  I’ll  fill 
1 another  pipe,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  ‘and  not  interrupt 
thee  till  thou  hast  done;  so  sit  down  at  thy  ease, 
! Trim,  in  the  window-seat,  and  begin  thy  story  again.’ 

I The  corporal  made  his  old  bow,  which  generally  spoke 
as  plain  as  a bow  could  speak  it — Your  honour  is  good. 
And  having  done  that,  he  sat  down,  as  he  was  ordered ; 
and  begun  the  story  to  my  uncle  Toby  over  again  in 
pretty  near  the  same  words. 

‘ I despaired  at  first,’  said  the  corporal,  ‘ of  being  able 
to  bring  back  any  intelligence  to  your  honour  about  the 
lieutenant  and  his  son ; for  when  I asked  where  his 
servant  was,  from  whom  I made  myself  sure  of  knowing 
everything  which  was  proper  to  be  asked  ’ — (‘  That ’s  a 
right  distinction,  Trim,’  said  my  uncle  Toby) — ‘I  was 
answered,  an’  please  your  honour,  that  he  had  no 
servant  with  him ; that  he  had  come  to  the  inn  with 
hired  horses,  which,  upon  finding  himself  unable  to 
proceed — to  join,  I suppose,  the  regiment — he  had 
dismissed  the  morning  after  he  came.  “ If  I get  better, 
my  dear,”  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  purse  to  his  son  to 
pay  the  man,  “ we  can  hire  horses  from  hence.”  “ But, 
alas  ! the  poor  gentleman  will  never  get  from  hence,” 
said  the  landlady  to  me  ; “ for  I heard  the  death-watch 
all  night  long : and  when  he  dies,  the  youth  his  son 
will  certainly  die  with  him;  for  he  is  broken-hearted 
already.” 

‘I  was  hearing  this  account,’  continued  the  corporal, 

‘ when  the  youth  came  into  the  kitchen,  to  order  the 
thin  toast  the  landlord  spoke  of.  “But  I will  do  it 
for  my  father  myself,”  said  the  youth.  “ Pray,  let  me 
save  you  the  trouble,  young  gentleman,”  said  I,  taking 
up  a fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him  my  chair  to 
sit  down  upon  by  the  fire  whilst  I did  it.  “ I believe, 
sir,”  said  he,  very  modestly,  “I  can  please  him  best 
J myself.”  “I  am  sure,”  said  I,  “his  honour  will  not 
I like  the  toast  the  worse  for  being  toasted  by  an  old 
| soldier.”  The  youth  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and 
j instantly  burst  into  tears.’  ‘ Poor  youth  ! ’ said  my 
; uncle  Toby ; ‘ he  has  been  bred  up  from  an  infant  in 
| the  army,  and  the  name  of  a soldier,  Trim,  sounded  in 
! his  ears  like  the  name  of  a friend ; I wish  I had  him 
I here.’ 

‘I  never,  in  the  longest  march,’  said  the  corporal, 
j ‘had  so  great  a mind  to  my  dinner,  as  I had  to  cry 
with  him  for  company.  What  could  be  the  matter  with 
me,  an’  please  your  honour?’  ‘^Nothing  in  the  world, 

I Trim,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  blowing  his  nose,  ‘ but  that 
thou  art  a good-natured  fellow.’ 

‘ When  I gave  him  the  toast,’  continued  the  corporal, 
j ‘I  thought  it  was  proper  to  tell  him  I was  Captain 
! Shandy’s  servant,  and  that  your  honour,  though  a 
* stranger,  was  extremely  concerned  for  his  father;  and 
that,  if  there  was  anything  in  your  house  or  cellar’ — 
j (‘  And  thou  mightst  have  added  my  purse  too,’  said  my 
uncle  Toby) — ‘he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it.  He 
; made  a very  low  bow,  which  was  meant  to  your  honour ; 
j but  no  answer,  for  his  heart  was  full ; so  he  went  up 
stairs  with  the  toast.  “ I warrant  you,  my  dear,”  said 
I/as  I opened  the  kitchen  door,  “your  father  trill  be  well 
again.”  Mr  Yorick’s  curate  was  smoking  a pipe  by 
, the  kitchen  fire,  but  said  not  a word,  good  or  bad,  to 
j comfort  the  youth.  I thought  it  wrong,’  added  the 
! corporal.  ‘ I think  so  too,’  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

‘ When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack 
136 


and  toast,  he  felt  himself  a little  revived,  and  sent 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  let  me  know  that  in  about 
ten  minutes  he  should  be  glad  if  I would  step  up 
stairs.  “ I believe,”  said  the  landlord,  “ he  is  going  to 
say  his  prayers,  for  there  was  a book  laid  upon  the 
chair  by  his  bedside,  and  as  I shut  the  door,  I saw  his 
son  take  up  a cushion.” 

“‘I  thought,”  said  the  curate,  “that  you  gentlemen 
of  the  army,  Mr  Trim,  never  said  your  prayer's  at  all.” 
“I  heard  the  poor  gentleman  say  his  prayers  last  night,” 
said  the  landlady,  “very  devoutly,  and  with  my  own 
ears,  or  I could  not  have  believed  it.”  “Are  you  sure  of 
it  ? ” replied  the  curate.  “ A soldier,  an’  please  your 
reverence,”  said  I,  “ prays  as  often  of  liis  own  accord  as 
a parson ; and  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  king,  and  for 
his  own  life,  and  for  his  honour  too,  he  has  the  most 
reason  to  pray  to  God  of  any  one  in  the  whole  world.”  * 
‘’Twas  well  said  of  thee,  Trim,’  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
‘ “ But  when  a soldier,”  said  I,  “ an’  please  your  rever- 
ence, has  been  standing  for  twelve  hours  together  in  the 
trenches  up  to  his  knees  in  cold  water,  or  engaged,”  said 
I,  “for  months  together,  in  long  and  dangerous  marches ; 
harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day ; harassing  others 
to-morrow ; detached  here ; countermanded  there ; rest- 
ing this  night  out  upon  his  arms ; beat  up  in  his  shirt 
the  next ; benumbed  in  his  joints ; perhaps  without 
straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on  ; must  say  his  prayers 
how  and  when  he  can.  I believe,”  said  I — for  I was 
piqued,’  quoth  the  corporal,  ‘ for  the  reputation  of  the 
army — “I  believe,  an’  please  your  reverence,”  said  I, 
“that  when  a soldier  gets  time  to  pray,  he  prays  as 
heartily  as  a parson,  though  not  with  all  his  fuss  and 
hypocrisy.”  ’ ‘ Thou  shouldst  not  have  said  that,  Trim,’ 
said  my  uncle  Toby;  ‘for  God  only  knows  who  is  a 
hypocrite  and  who  is  not.  At  the  great  and  general 
review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at  the  day  of  judgment,  and 
not  till  then,  it  will  be  seen  who  has  done  their  duties 
in  this  world  and  who  has  not;  and  we  shall  be 
advanced,  Trim,  accordingly.’  ‘ I hope  we  shall,’  said 
Trim.  ‘ It  is  in  the  Scripture,’  said  my  uncle  Toby ; 
‘ and  I will  shew  it  thee  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime, 
we  may  depend  upon  it,  Trim,  for  our  comfort,’  said 
my  uncle  Toby,  ‘ that  God  Almighty  is  so  good  and  just 
a governor  of  the  world,  that  if  we  have  but  done  our 
duties  in  it,  it  will  never  be  inquired  into  whether  we 
have  done  them  in  a red  coat  or  a black  one.’  ‘ I hope 
not,’  said  the  corporal.  ‘ But  go  on,  Trim,’  said  my 
uncle  Toby,  ‘ with  thy  story.’ 

‘ When  I went  up,’  continued  the  corporal,  ‘ into  the 
lieutenant’s  room,  which  I did  not  do  till  the  expira- 
tion of  the  ten  minutes,  he  was  lying  in  his  bed  with 
his  head  raised  upon  his  hand,  with  his  elbow  upon  the 
pillow,  and  a clean  white  cambric  handkerchief  beside 
it.  The  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to  take  up  the 
cushion,  upon  which  I supposed  he  had  been  kneeling; 
the  book  was  laid  upon  the  bed ; and  as  he  rose,  in 
taking  up  the  cushion  with  one  hand,  he  reached  out 
his  other  to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time.  “ Let  it 
remain  there,  my  dear,”  said  the  lieutenant. 

‘ He  did  not  offer  to  speak  to  me  till  I had  walked  up 
close  to  his  bedside.  “If  you  are  Captain  Shandy’s 
servant,”  said  he,  “ you  must  present  my  thanks  to  your 
master,  with  my  little  boy’s  thanks  along  with  them, 
for  his  courtesy  to  me.”  If  he  was  of  Levens’s,  said  the 
lieutenant.  I told  him  your  honour  was.  “ Then,”  said 
he,  “I  served  three  campaigns  with  him  in  Flanders, 
and  remember  him ; but  ’tis  most  likely,  as  I had  not 
the  honour  of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he 
knows  nothing  of  me.  You  will  tell  him,  however,  that 
the  person  his  good-nature  has  laid  under  obligations 
to  him  is  one  Le  Fevre,  a lieutenant  in  Angus’s. 
But  he  knows  me  not,”  said  he,  a second  time,  musing. 
“ Possibly  he  may  my  story,”  added  he.  “ Pray,  tell 
the  captain,  I was  the  ensign  at  Breda  whose  wife  was 
most  unfortunately  killed  with  a musket-shot  as  she 
lay  in  my  aims  in  my  tent.”  “ I remember  the  story, 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LAURENCE  STERNE. 


an’t  please  your  honour,”  said  I,  “very  well.”  “Do 
you  so?”  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  handker- 
chief ; “ then  well  may  I.”  In  saying  this,  he  drew  a 
little  ring  out  of  his  bosom,  which  seemed  tied  with 
a black  ribbon  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  it  twice. 
“ Here,  Billy,”  said  he.  The  boy  flew  across  the  room 
to  the  bedside,  and  falling  down  upon  his  knee,  took 
the  ring  in  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  too ; then  kissed 
his  father,  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and  wept.’ 

‘ I wish,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a deep  sigh — ‘ I 
wish,  Trim,  I was  asleep.’  ‘ Your  honour,’  replied  the 
corporal,  ‘is  too  much  concerned.  Shall  I pour  your 
honour  out  a glass  of  sack  to  your  pipe  ? ’ ‘ Do,  Trim,’ 

said  my  uncle  Toby. 

‘I remember,’  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  ‘the 
story  of  the  ensign  and  his  wife,  with  a circumstance 
his  modesty  omitted;  and  particularly  well  that  he, 
as  well  as  she,  upon  some  account  or  other,  I forget 
v/hat,  was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regiment; 
but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon.’  ‘’Tis  finished 
already,’  said  the  corporal,  ‘for  I could  stay  no  longer; 
so  wished  his  honour  a good  night.  Young  Le  Fevre 
rose  from  off  the  bed,  and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs;  and* as  we  went  down  together,  told  me 
they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and  were  on  their  route 
to  join  the  regiment  in  Flanders.  But,  alas  ! ’ said  the 
corporal,  ‘the  lieutenant’s  last  day’s  march  is  over.’ 
‘ Then  what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy  ? ’ cried  my 
uncle  Toby. 

It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby’s  eternal  honour — though 
I tell  it  only  for  the  sake  of  those  who,  when  cooped 
in  betwixt  a natural  and  a positive  law,  know  not  for 
their  souls  which  way  in  the  world  to  turn  themselves 
— that,  notwithstanding  my  uncle  Toby  was  warmly 
engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  the  siege  of  Den- 
dermond,  parallel  with  the  allies,  who  pressed  theirs 
on  so  vigorously  that  they  scarce  allowed  him  time  to 
get  his  dinner — that  nevertheless  he  gave  up  Dender- 
mond,  though  he  had  already  made  a lodgment  upon 
the  counterscarp — and  bent  his  whole  thoughts  towards 
the  private  distresses  at  the  inn  ; and  except  that  he 
ordered  the  garden  gate  to  be  bolted  up,  by  which  he 
might  be  said  to  have  turned  the  siege  of  Dendermond 
into  a blockade,  he  left  Dendermond  to  itself,  to  be 
relieved  or  not  by  the  French  king  as  the  French  king 
thought  good,  and  only  considered  how  he  himself  should 
relieve  the  poor  lieutenant  and  his  son.  That  kind 
Being,  who  is  a friend  to  the  friendless,  shall  recompense 
thee  for  this. 

‘Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,’  said  my  uncle 
Toby  to  the  corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed ; 

‘ and  I will  tell  thee  in  what,  Trim.  In  the  first  place, 
when  thou  mad’st  an  offer  of  my  services  to  Le  Fevre 
— as  sickness  and  travelling  are  both  expensive,  and 
thou  knowest  he  was  but  a poor  lieutenant,  with  a 
son  to  subsist  as  well  as  himself  out  of  his  pay — that 
thou  didst  not  make  an  offer  to  him  of  my  purse ; 
because,  had  he  stood  in  need,  thou  knowest,  Trim, 
he  had  been  as  welcome  to  it  as  myself.’  ‘ Your  honour 
knows,’  said  the  corporal,  ‘I  had  no  orders.’  ‘True,’ 
quoth  my  uncle  Toby;  ‘thou  didst  very  right,  Trim,  as 
a soldier,  but  certainly  very  wrong  as  a man. 

‘ In  the  second  place,  for  which,  indeed,  thou  hast  the 
same  excuse,’  continued  my  uncle  Toby,  ‘ when  thou 
offeredst  him  whatever  was  in  my  house,  thou  shouldst 
have  offered  him  my  house  too.  A sick  brother-officer 
should  have  the  best  quarters,  Trim  ; and  if  we  had 
him  with  us,  we  could  tend  and  look  to  him.  Thou 
art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself,  Trim  ; and  what  with 
thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old  woman’s,  and  his  boy’s, 
and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him  again  at  once, 
and  set  him  upon  his  legs.  In  a fortnight  or  three 
weeks,’  added  my  uncle  Toby  smiling,  ‘ he  might  march.’ 
‘ He  will  never  march,  an’  please  your  honour,  in  this 
world,’  said  the  corporal.  * He  will  march,’  said  my 
uncle  Toby,  rising  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed  with 


one  shoe  off.  ‘ An’  please  your  honour,’  said  the  cor- 
poral, ‘ he  will  never  march,  but  to  his  grave.’  ‘ He 
shall  march,’  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching  the  foot 
which  had  a shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch 
— ‘ he  shall  march  to  his  regiment.’  ‘ He  cannot  stand 
it,’  said  the  corporal.  ‘ He  shall  be  supported,’  said  my 
uncle  Toby.  ‘ He  ’ll  drop  at  last,’  said  the  corporal ; 
‘and  what  will  become  of  his  boy?’  ‘He  shall  not 
drop,’  said  my  uncle  Toby  firmly.  ‘ A-well-o’-day,  do 
what  we  can  for  him,’  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point, 
‘ the  poor  soul  will  die.  ’ ‘ He  shall  not  die,  by  Gr — ,’ 

cried  my  uncle  Toby.  The  Accusing  Spirit,  which  flew 
up  to  heaven’s  chancery  with  the  oath,  blushed  as  he 
gave  it  in  ; and  the  Recording  Angel,  as  he  wrote  it 
down,  dropped  a tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it 
out  for  ever. 

My  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau ; put  his  purse 
into  his  breeches  pocket ; and  having  ordered  the  cor- 
poral to  go  early  in  the  morning  for  a physician,  he  went 
to  bed  and  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after  to  every  eye 
in  the  village  but  Le  Fevre’s  and  his  afflicted  son’s. 
The  hand  of  death  pressed  heavy  upon  his  eyelids,  and 
hardly  could  the  wheel  at  the  cistern  turn  round  its 
circle,  when  my  uncle  Toby,  who  had  rose  up  an  hour 
before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the  lieutenant’s  room, 
and  without  preface  or  apology,  sat  himself  down  upon 
the  chair  by  the  bedside  ; and  independently  of  all 
modes  and  customs,  opened  the  curtain  in  the  manner 
an  old  friend  and  brother-officer  would  have  done  it, 
and  asked  him  how  he  did — how  he  had  rested  in  the 
night — what  was  his  complaint — where  was  his  pain — 
and  what  he  could  do  to  help  him.  And  without  giving 
him  time  to  answer  any  one  of  the  inquiries,  went  on 
and  told  him  of  the  little  plan  which  he  had  been 
concerting  with  the  corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

‘ You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre,’  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  ‘ to  my  house,  and  we  ’ll  send  for  a doctor  to  see 
what ’s  the  matter ; and  we  ’ll  have  an  apothecary, 
and  the  corporal  shall  be  your  nurse,  and  I ’ll  be  your 
servant,  Le  Fevre.’ 

There  was  a frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby — not  the 
effect  of  familiarity,  but  the  cause  of  it — which  let  you 
at  once  into  his  soul,  and  shewed  you  the  goodness  of 
his  nature  ; to  this  there  was  something  in  his  looks, 
and  voice,  and  manner  superadded,  which  eternally 
beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and  take  shelter 
under  him  ; so  that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half 
finished  the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  the  father, 
had  the  son  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his  knees, 
and  had  taken  hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  was 
pulling  it  towards  him.  The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le 
Fevre,  which  were  waxing  cold  and  slow  within  him, 
and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the  heart, 
rallied  back ; the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a moment ; 
he  looked  up  wishfully  in  my  uncle  Toby’s  face,  then 
cast  a look  upon  his  boy ; and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it 
was,  was  never  broken.  Nature  instantly  ebbed  again ; 
the  film  returned  to  its  place ; the  pulse  fluttered — 
stopped — went  on — throbbed — stopped  again — moved — 
stopped.  Shall  I go  on  ? No. 

[The  Starling — Captivity.'] 

[From  the  Sentimental  Journey .] 

And  as  for  the  Bastile,  the  terror  is  in  the  word. 
Make  the  most  of  it  you  can,  said  I to  myself,  the 
Bastile  is  but  another  word  for  a tower,  and  a tower  is 
but  another  word  for  a house  you  can’t  get  out  of. 
Mercy  on  the  gouty  ! for  they  are  in  it  twice  a year ; 
but  with  nine  livres  a day,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  paper, 
and  patience,  albeit  a man  can’t  get  out,  he  may  do 
very  well  within,  at  least  for  a month  or  six  weeks ; at 
the  end  of  which,  if  he  is  a harmless  fellow,  his  inno- 
cence appears,  and  he  comes  out  a better  and  wiser  man 
than  he  went  in. 

137 


pkom:  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


I had  some  occasion — I forget  what — to  step  into  the 
court-yard  as  I settled  this  account ; and  remember  I 
walked  down  stairs  in  no  small  triumph  with  the  con- 
ceit of  my  reasoning.  Beshrew  the  sombre  pencil ! 
said  I vauntingly,  for  I enyy  not  its  powers  which 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a colour- 
ing. The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has 
magnified  herself  and  blackened  : reduce  them  to  their 
proper  size  and  hue,  she  overlooks  them.  ‘ ’Tis  true,’ 
said  I,  correcting  the  proposition,  ‘ the  Bastile  is  not  an 
evil  to  be  despised ; but  strip  it  of  its  towers,  fill  up  the 
fosse,  unbarricade  the  doors,  call  it  simply  a confinement, 
and  suppose  ’tis  some  tyrant  of  a distemper  and  not  of 
a man  which  holds  you  in  it,  the  evil  vanishes,  and  you 
bear  the  other  half  without  complaint.’  I was  inter- 
rupted in  the  heyday  of  this  soliloquy  with  a voice  which 
I took  to  be  of  a child,  which  complained  ‘ it  could  not 
get  out.’  I looked  up  and  down  the  passage,  and  seeing 
neither  man,  woman,  nor  child,  I went  out  without 
further  attention.  In  my  return  back  through  the 
passage,  I heard  the  same  words  repeated  twice  over; 
and  looking  up,  I saw  it  was  a starling  hung  in  a little 
cage ; ‘ I can’t  get  out,  I can’t  get  out,’  said  the  starling. 
I stood  looking  at  the  bird ; and  to  every  person  who 
came  through  the  passage,  it  ran  fluttering  to  the  side 
towards  which  they  approached  it,  with  the  same 
lamentation  of  its  captivity : ‘ I can’t  get  out,’  said  the 
starling.  ‘God  help  thee!’  said  I,  ‘but  I’ll  let  thee 
out,  cost  what  it  will ; ’ so  I turned  about  the  cage  to 
get  the  door.  It  was  twisted  and  double-twisted  so  fast 
with  wire,  there  was  no  getting  it  open  without  pulling 
the  cage  to  pieces.  I took  both  hands  to  it.  The  bird 
flew  to  the  place  where  I was  attempting  his  deliver- 
ance, and  thrusting  his  head  through  the  trellis,  pressed 
his  breast  against  it  as  if  impatient.  ‘ I fear,  poor  crea- 
ture,’ said  I,  ‘ I cannot  set  thee  at  liberty.’  ‘ No,’  said 
the  starling,  ‘ I can’t  get  out ; I can’t  get  out,’  said  the 
starling.  I vow  I never  had  my  affections  more  tenderly 
awakened;  or  do  I remember  an  incident  in  my  life 
where  the  dissipated  spirits,  to  which  my  reason  had 
been  a bubble,  were  so  suddenly  called  home.  Mechani- 
cal as  the  notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  tune  to  nature 
were  they  chanted,  that  in  one  moment  they  overthrew 
all  my  systematic  reasonings  upon  the  Bastile ; and  I 
heavily  walked  up  stairs,  unsaying  every  word  I had 
said  in  going  down  them. 

‘ Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery,’  said  I, 

‘ still  thou  art  a bitter  draught ; and  though  thousands 
in  all  ages  have  been  made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no 
less  bitter  on  that  account.  ’Tis  thou,  thrice  sweet  and 
gracious  goddess,’  addressing  myself  to  Liberty,  ‘ whom 
all  in  public  or  in  private  worship,  whose  taste  is 
grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so,  till  nature  herself  shall 
change ; no  tint  of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy  mantle, 
or  chemic  power  turn  thy  sceptre  into  iron  ; with  thee 
to  smile  upon  him  as  he  eats  his  crust,  the  swain  is 
happier  than  his  monarch,  from  whose  court  thou  art 
exiled.  Gracious  Heaven  !’  cried  I,  kneeling  down  upon 
the  last  step  but  one  in  my  ascent,  ‘ grant  me  but  health, 
thou  great  bestower  of  it,  and  give  me  but  this  fair 
goddess  as  my  companion,  and  shower  down  thy  mitres, 
if  it  seem  good  unto  thy  divine  providence,  upon  those 
heads  which  are  aching  for  them.’ 

The  bird  in  his  cage  pursued  me  into  my  room.  I 
sat  down  close  to  my  table,  and  leaning  my  head  upon 
my  hand,  I began  to  figure  to  myself  the  miseries  of 
confinement.  I was  in  a right  frame  for  it,  and  so  I 
gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination.  I was  going  to 
begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  born  to 
no  inheritance  but  slavery ; but  finding,  however  affect- 
ing the  picture  was,  that  I could  not  bring  it  near  me, 
and  that  the  multitude  of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but 
distract  me,  I took  a single  captive,  and  having  first 
shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I then  looked  through  the 
twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his  picture.  I beheld 
his  body  half  wasted  away  with  long  expectation  and 


confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness  of  the  heart 
it  was  which  arises  from  hope  deferred.  Upon  looking 
nearer,  I saw  him  pale  and  feverish ; in  thii-ty  years  the 
western  breeze  had  not  once  fanned  his  blood;  he  had 
seen  no  sun,  no  moon,  in  all  that  time,  nor  had  the 
voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed  through  his  lattice ; 
his  children — but  here  my  heart  began  to  bleed,  and  I 
was  forced  to  go  on  with  another  part  of  the  portrait. 
He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground  upon  a little  straw,  in 
the  furthest  corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  alternately 
his  chair  and  bed : a little  calendar  of  small  sticks  lay 
at  the  head,  notched  all  over  with  the  dismal  days  and 
nights  he  had  passed  there ; he  had  one  of  these  little 
sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a rusty  nail  he  was  etching 
another  day  of  misery  to  add  to  the  heap.  As  I 
darkened  the  little  light  he  had,  he  lifted  up  a hopeless 
eye  towards  the  door,  then  cast  it  down,  shook  his  head, 
and  went  on  with  his  work  of  affliction.  I heard  his 
chains  upon  his  legs,  as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay  his 
little  stick  upon  the  bundle.  He  gave  a deep  sigh : I 
saw  the  iron  enter  into  his  soul.  I burst  into  tears : I 
could  not  sustain  the  picture  of  confinement  which  my 
fancy  had  drawn. 

[A  French  Peasant's  Supper.] 

A shoe  coming  loose  from  the  fore-foot  of  the  thill- 
horse,  at  the  beginning  of  the  ascent  of  Mount  Taurira, 
the  postilion  dismounted,  twisted  the  shoe  off,  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  As  the  ascent  was  of  five  or  six  miles, 
and  that  horse  our  main  dependence,  I made  a point  of 
having  the  shoe  fastened  on  again  as  well  as  we  could ; 
but  the  postilion  had  thrown  away  the  nails,  and  the 
hammer  in  the  chaise-box  being  of  no  great  use  without 
them,  I submitted  to  go  on.  He  had  not  mounted  half 
a mile  higher,  when,  coming  to  a flinty  piece  of  road, 
the  poor  devil  lost  a second  shoe,  and  from  off  his  other 
fore-foot.  I then  got  out  of  the  chaise  in  good  earnest ; 
and  seeing  a house  about  a quarter  of  a mile  to  the  left 
hand,  with  a great  deal  to  do,  I prevailed  upon  the 
postilion  to  turn  up  to  it.  The  look  of  the  house,  and 
of  everything  about  it,  as  we  drew  nearer,  soon  recon- 
ciled me  to  the  disaster.  It  was  a little  farmhouse, 
surrounded  with  about  twenty  acres  of  vineyard,  about 
as  much  corn ; and  close  to  the  house  on  one  side  was  a 
potagerie  of  an  acre  and  a half,  full  of  everything  which 
could  make  plenty  in  a French  peasant’s  house ; and  on 
the  other  side  was  a little  wood,  which  furnished  where- 
withal to  dress  it.  It  was  about  eight  in  the  evening 
when  I got  to  the  house;  so  I left  the  postilion  to 
manage  his  point  as  he  could,  and  for  mine,  I walked 
directly  into  the  house. 

The  family  consisted  of  an  old  grayheaded  man  and 
his  wife,  with  five  or  six  sons  and  sons-in-law  and  their 
several  wives,  and  a joyous  genealogy  out  of  them. 
They  were  all  sitting  down  together  to  their  lentil-soup ; 
a large  wheaten  loaf  was  in  the  middle  of  the  table ; 
and  a flagon  of  wine  at  each  end  of  it  promised  joy 
through  the  stages  of  the  repast ; ’twas  a feast  of  love. 
The  old  man  rose  up  to  meet  me,  and  with  a respectful 
cordiality  would  have  me  sit  down  at  the  table;  my 
heart  was  set  down  the  moment  I entered  the  room,  so 
I sat  down  at  once  like  a son  of  the  family;  and  to 
invest  myself  in  the  character  as  speedily  as  I could,  I 
instantly  borrowed  the  old  man’s  knife,  and  taking  up 
the  loaf,  cut  myself  a hearty  luncheon ; and  as  I did  it, 
I saw  a testimony  in  every  eye,  not  only  of  an  honest 
welcome,  but  of  a welcome  mixed  with  thanks  that  I 
had  not  seemed  to  doubt  it.  Was  it  this,  or  tell  me 
Nature  what  else  it  was,  that  made  this  morsel  so 
sweet ; and  to  what  magic  I owe  it,  that  the  draught  I 
took  of  their  flagon  was  so  delicious  with  it,  that  they 
remain  upon  my  palate  to  this  hour  ? If  the  supper 
was  to  my  taste,  the  grace  which  followed  it  was  much 
more  so. 

When  supper  was  over,  the  old  man  gave  a knock 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WALPOLE — GOLDSMITH. 


upon  the  table  with  the  haft  of  his  knife,  to  bid  them 
prepare  for  the  dance.  The  moment  the  signal  was 
given,  the  women  and  girls  ran  altogether  into  a back- 
apartment  to  tie  up  their  hair,  and  the  young  men  to 
the  door  to  wash  their  faces  and  change  their  sabots ; 
and  in  three  minutes  every  soul  was  ready,  upon  a little 
esplanade  before  the  house,  to  begin.  The  old  man  and 
his  wife  came  out  last,  and  placing  me  betwixt  them,  sat 
down  upon  a sofa  of  turf  by  the  door.  The  old  man  had 
some  fifty  years  ago  been  no  mean  performer  upon  the 
vielle ; and  at  the  age  he  was  then  off,  touched  it  well 
enough  for  the  purpose.  His  wife  sung  now  and  then  a 
little  to  the  tune,  then  intermitted,  and  joined  her  old 
man  again  as  their  children  and  grandchildren  danced 
before  them. 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  the  second  dance,  when, 
for  some  pauses  in  the  movement,  wherein  they  all 
seemed  to  look  up,  I fancied  I could  distinguish  an 
elevation  of  spirit  different  from  that  which  is  the  cause 
or  the  effect  of  simple  jollity.  In  a word,  I thought  I 
beheld  Religion  mixing  in  the  dance;  but  as  I had 
never  seen  her  so  engaged,  I should  have  looked  upon 
it  now  as  one  of  the  illusions  of  an  imagination  which 
is  eternally  misleading  me,  had  not  the  old  man,  as 
soon  as  the  dance  ended,  said  that  this  was  their  con- 
stant way;  and  that  all  his  life  long  he  had  made  it  a 
rule,  after  supper  was  over,  to  call  out  his  family  to 
dance  and  rejoice ; believing,  he  said,  that  a cheerful  and 
contented  mind  was  the  best  sort  of  thanks  to  Heaven 
that  an  illiterate  peasant  could  pay.  Or  a learned 
prelate  either,  said  I. 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 

In  1764,  Horace  Walpole  revived  tlie  Gothic 
romance  in  his  interesting  little  story,  The  Castle  of 
Otranto , which  he  at  first  published  anonymously,  as 
a work  found  in  the  library  of  an  ancient  Catholic 


family  in  the  north  of  England,  and  printed  at 
Naples  in  the  black-letter  in  1529.  ‘I  wished  it  to 
be  believed  ancient,’  he  said,  ‘ and  almost  everybody 
was  imposed  upon.’  The  tale  was  so  well  received 
by  the  public,  that  a second  edition  was  soon  called 
for,  to  which  the  author  prefixed  his  name.  Though 
designed  to  blend  the  two  kinds  of  romance — the 
ancient,  in  which  all  was  imagination  and  improb- 
ability, and  the  modern,  in  which  nature  is  copied, 
the  peculiar  taste  of  Walpole,  who  loved  to  ‘gaze  on 
Gothic  toys  through  Gothic  glass,’  and  the  nature 
of  his  subject,  led  him  to  give  the  preponderance  to 
the  antique.  The  ancient  romances  have  nothing 
more  incredible  than  a sword  which  required  a 
hundred  men  to  lift  it ; a helmet,  that  by  its  own 
weight  forces  a passage  through  a court-yard  into  an 
arched  vault,  big  enough  for  a man  to  go  through; 
a picture  that  walks  out  of  its  frame,  or  a skeleton’s 
ghost  in  a hermit’s  cowl.  Where  Walpole  has 
improved  on  the  incredible  and  mysterious,  is  in  his 
dialogues  and  style,  which  arc  pure  and  dramatic 
in  effect,  and  in  the  more  delicate  and  picturesque 
tone  which  he  has  given  to  chivalrous  manners. 
Walpole  was  the  third  son  of  the  Whig  minister, 
Sir  Robert  Walpole;  was  born  in  1717,  became 
fourth  Earl  of  Orford  1791,  and  died  in  1797; 


having  not  only  outlived  most  of  his  illustrious 
contemporaries,  but  recorded  their  weaknesses  and 


Strawberry  Hill,  near  Twickenham ; the  residence 
of  Horace  Walpole. 


failings,  their  private  history  and  peculiarities,  in 
his  unrivalled  correspondence. 


CLARA  REEVE. 

An  early  admiration  of  Horace  Walpole’s  romance, 
The  Castle  of  Otranto , induced  Miss  Clara  Reeve 
(1725-1803)  to  imitate  it  in  a Gothic  story,  entitled 
The  Old  English  Baron , which  was  published  in 
1777.  In  some  respects,  the  lady  has  the  advantage 
of  Walpole ; her  supernatural  machinery  is  better 
managed,  so  as  to  produce  mysteriousness  and  effect; 
but  her  style  has  not  the  point  or  elegance  of  that 
of  her  prototype.  Miss  Reeve  wrote  several  other 
novels,  ‘all  marked,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘by 
excellent  good  sense,  pure  morality,  and  a compe- 
tent command  of  those  qualities  which  constitute  a 
good  romance.’  They  have  failed,  however,  to  keep 
possession  of  public  favour,  and  the  fame  of  the 
author  rests  on  her  Old  English  Baron , which  is  now 
generally  printed  along  with  the  story  of  Walpole. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

In  the  spring  of  17GG  came  out  a tale  of  about 
equal  dimensions  with  Walpole’s  Gothic  story,  but 
as  different  in  its  nature  as  an  English  cottage  or 
villa,  witli  its  lioneysuckle-hedge,  wall-roses,  neat 
garden,  and  general  air  of  beauty  and  comfort,  is 
from  a gloomy  feudal  tower,  With  its  dark  walls, 
moat,  and  drawbridge.  We  allude  to  Goldsmith’s 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Though  written  two  years 
before,  and  sold  for  sixty  guineas,  the  bookseller  had 
kept  it  back,  doubtful  of  success,  till  the  publication 
of  The  Traveller  had  given  Goldsmith  a name.  Its 
reception  by  the  public  must  have  been  an  agreeable 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


i surprise.  The  first  edition  was  published  on  the 
27th  of  March,  a second  was  called  for  in  June,  and 
i a third  in  August  of  the  same  year.  What  reader 
I could  he  insensible  to  the  charms  of  a work  so  full 
[ of  kindliness,  benevolence,  taste,  and  genius?  By 
r that  species  of  mental  chemistry  which  he  under- 
| stood  as  well  as  Sterne,  Goldsmith  extracted  the 
j essence  of  character,  separating  from  it  what  was 
! trite  and  worthless,  and  presenting  in  incredibly 
I small  space  a finished  representation,  bland,  humor- 
| ous,  simple,  absurd,  or  elevated,  as  the  story  might 
j require.  The  passions  were  equally  at  his  bidding, 
j within  that  confined  sphere  to  which  he  limited 
1 their  range ; and  a life  of  observation  and  reading 
— though  foolish  in  action — supplied  him  with  a 
1 pregnancy  of  thought  and  illustration,  the  full  value 
; of  which  is  scarcely  appreciated  on  account  of  the 
extreme  simplicity  of  the  language.  Among  the 
! incidental  remarks  in  the  volume,  for  example,  are 
) some  on  the  state  of  the  criminal  law  of  England, 
j which  shew  how  completely  Goldsmith  had  antici- 
! pated  and  directed — in  better  language  than  any 
j senator  has  since  employed  on  the  subject — all  that 
I parliament  has  effected  in  the  reformation  of  our 
; criminal  code.  These  short,  philosophical,  and  criti- 
cal dissertations,  always  arise  naturally  out  of  the 
progress  of  the  tale.  The  character  of  the  vicar 
gives  the  chief  interest  to  the  family  group,  though 
the  peculiarities  of  Mrs  Primrose,  as  her  boasted 
j skill  in  housewifery,  her  motherly  vanity  and  desire 
; to  appear  genteel , are  finely  brought  out,  and  repro- 
duced in  her  daughters.  The  vicar’s  support  of 
| the  Whistonian  theory  as  to  marriage,  that  it  was 
i unlawful  for  a priest  of  the  Church  of  England,  after 
the  death  of  his  first  wife,  to  take  a second,  to 
illustrate  which  he  had  his  wife’s  epitaph  written 
and  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  is  a touch  of 
humour  and  individuality  that  ha3  never  been 
excelled.  Another  weakness  of  the  worthy  vicar 
was  the  literary  vanity  which,  notwithstanding 
his  real  learning,  led  him  to  be  imposed  upon  by 
Jenkinson  in  the  affair  of  the  cosmogony  ; hut  these 
drawbacks  only  serve  to  endear  him  more  closely 
to  his  readers ; and  when  distress  falls  upon  the 
virtuous  household,  the  noble  fortitude  and  resigna- 
tion of  the  principal  sufferer,  and  the  efficacy  of  his 
example,  form  one  of  the  most  affecting  and  even 
sublime  moral  pictures.  The  numberless  little  traits 
of  character,  pathetic  and  lively  incidents,  and 
sketches  of  manners— as  the  family  of  the  Elam- 
horoughs,  the  quiet  pedantry  and  simplicity  of 
Moses,  with  his  bargain  of  the  shagreen  spectacles  ; 
the  family  picture,  in  which  Mrs  Primrose  was 
painted  as  Yenus,  and  the  vicar,  in  gown  and  hand, 
presenting  to  her  his  books  on  the  Whistonian  con- 
troversy, and  which  picture,  when  completed,  was 
too  large  for  the  house,  and  like  Robinson  Crusoe’s 
longboat,  could  not  be  removed — all  mark  the  per- 
fect art  as  well  as  nature  of  this  domestic  novel. 
That  Goldsmith  derived  many  of  his  incidents  from 
actual  occurrences  which  he  had  witnessed,  is  gene- 
rally admitted.  The  story  of  George  Primrose, 
particularly  his  going  to  Amsterdam  to  teach  the 
Dutchmen  English,  without  recollecting  that  he 
should  first  know  something  of  Dutch  himself, 
seems  an  exact  transcript  of  the  author’s  early 
adventures  and  blundering  simplicity.  Though 
Goldsmith  carefuHy  corrected  the  language  of  his 
miniature  romance  in  the  different  editions,  he  did 
not  meddle  with  the  incidents,  so  that  some  improb- 
abilities remain.  These,  however,  have  no  effect 
on  the  reader,  in  diminishing  for  a moment  the 
interest  of  the  work,  which  must  always  be 
considered  one  of  the  most  chaste  and  beautiful 


offerings  which  the  genius  of  fiction  ever  presented 
at  the  shrine  of  virtue. 


HENRY  BROOKE. 

In  the  same  year  with  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  the 
first  two  volumes  of  a domestic  novel,  ultimately 
extended  to  five  volumes,  The  Fool  of  Quality , 
were  published  by  a countryman  of  Goldsmith, 
Henry  Brooke  (1706-1783),  who  was  the  author  of 
several  dramatic  pieces,  and  of  a poem  on  Universal 
Beauty , which  anticipated  the  style  of  Darwin’s 
Botanic  Garden.  The  poetry  and  prose  of  Brooke 
have  both  fallen  into  obscurity,  but  his  novel  was 
popular  in  its  day,  and  contains  several  pleasing  and 
instructive  sketches,  chiefly  designed  for  the  young,  j 
Several  social  questions  of  importance  are  discussed  i 
by  Brooke  with  great  ability,  and  in  an  enlightened 
spirit.  He  was  an  extensive  miscellaneous  writer  ’ 
— a man  of  public  spirit  and  benevolent  character,  i 
In  the  early  part  of  his  career,  he  had  been  the 
friend  of  Swift,  Pope,  Chesterfield,  and  other 
eminent  contemporaries.  His  daughter,  Charlotte  1 
Brooke,  published  in  1789  a volume  of  Reliques  of 
Irish  Poetry,  and  a collection  of  her  father’s  works, 
four  volumes,  1792. 


HENRY  MACKENZIE. 

The  most  successful  imitator  of  Sterne  in  senti- 
ment, pathos,  and  style ; his  superior  in  taste  and 
delicacy,  but  greatly  inferior  to  him  in  originality, 
force,  and  humour,  was  Henry  Mackenzie,  long 
the  ornament  of  the  literary  circle?  of  Edinburgh. 

If  Mackenzie  was  inferior  to  his  prototype  in  the 
essentials  of  genius,  he  enjoyed  an  exemption  from  ! 
its  follies  and  sufferings,  and  passed  a tranquil  and  i 
prosperous  life,  which  was  prolonged  to  far  beyond  j 
the  Psalmist’s  cycle  of  threescore  and  ten.  * Mr  i 
Mackenzie  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  August  1745, 
and  was  the  son  of  Dr  Joshua  Mackenzie,  a respect-  | 
able  physician.  He  was  educated  at  the  High  School 
and  university  of  Edinburgh,  and  afterwards  studied 
the  law  in  his  native  city.  The  legal  department 
selected  by  Mackenzie  was  the  business  of  the  ; 
Exchequer  Court,  and  to  improve  himself  in  this  he 
went  to  London  in  1765,  and  studied  the  English  J 
Exchequer  practice.  Returning  to  Edinburgh,  he  i 
mixed  in  its  literary  circles,  which  then  numbered 
the  great  names  of  Hume,  Robertson,  Adam  Smith, 
Blair,  &c.  In  1771  appeared  his  novel,  The  Man 
of  Feeling , which  was  afterwards  followed  by  The 
Man  of  the  World,  and  Jidia  de  Roubignt.  He  was, 
as  we  have  previously  stated,  the  principal  contri- 
butor to  the  Mirror  and  Lounger,  and  he  wrote 
some  dramatic  pieces,  which  were  brought  out  at  j 
Edinburgh  with  but  indifferent  success.  The  style  ; 
and  diction  of  Mackenzie  are  always  choice,  elegant,  j 
and  expressive,  but  he  wanted  power.  It  may  seem  : 
strange  that  a novelist  so  eminently  sentimental  and  j 
refined  should  have  ventured  to  write  on  political  ; 
subjects,  but  Mackenzie  supported  the  government 
of  Mr  Pitt  with  some  pamphlets  written  with  great 
acuteness  and  discrimination.  In  real  life,  the  1 
novelist  was  shrewd  and  practical:  he  had  early 
exhausted  his  vein  of  romance,  and  was  an  active  ' 
man  of  business.  In  1804  the  government  appointed 
him  to  the  office  of  comptroller  of  taxes  for  Scot- 
land, which  entailed  upon  him  considerable  labour 
and  drudgery,  but  was  highly  lucrative.  In  this  , 
situation,  with  a numerous  family — Mr  Mackenzie 
had  married  Miss  Penuel  Grant,  daughter  of  Sir  i 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  henry  Mackenzie. 


Ludovic  Grant,  of  Grant — enjoying  the  society 
of  his  friends  and  his  favourite  sports  of  the  field, 
writing  occasionally  on  subjects  of  taste  and  litera- 
ture—for  he  said,  ‘ the  old  stump  would  still  occa- 
sionally send  forth  a few  green  shoots  ’ — the  Man 
of  Feeling  lived  to  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six, 
and  died  on  the  14th  of  January  1831. 

The  first  novel  of  Mackenzie  is  the  best  of  his 
works,  unless  we  except  some  of  his  short  contribu- 
tions to  the  Mirror  and  Lounger  (as  the  tale  of  La 
Roche),  which  fully  supported  his  fame.  There  is 
no  regular  story  in  The  Man  of  Feeling ; but  the 


character  ol  Harley,  his  purity  of  mind,  and  his 
bashfulness,  caused  by  excessive  delicacy,  interest 
the  reader,  though  it  is  very  unlike  real  life.  His 
adventures  in  London,  the  talk  of  club  and  park 
frequenters,  his  visit  to  bedlam,  and  his  relief  of  the 
old  soldier,  Atkins,  and  his  daughter,  are  partly 
formed  on  the  affected  sentimental  style  of  the 
inferior  romances,  but  evince  a facility  in  moral  and 
pathetic  painting  that  was  then  only  surpassed  by 
Richardson.  His  humour  is  chaste  and  natural. 
Harley  fails,  as  might  be  expected  from  his  diffident 
and  retiring  character,  in  securing  the  patronage  of 
the  great  in  London,  and  he  returns  to  the  country, 
meeting  with  some  adventures  by  the  way  that 
illustrate  his  sensibility  and  benevolence.  Though 
bashful,  Harley  is  not  effeminate,  and  there  are 
bursts  of  manly  feeling  and  generous  sentiment 
throughout  the  work,  which  at  once  elevate  the 
character  of  the  hero,  and  relieve  the  prevailing 
tone  of  pathos  in  the  novel.  2 'he  Man  of  the  World 
has  less  of  the  discursive  manner  of  Sterne,  but  the 
character  of  Sir  Thomas  Sindall — the  Lovelace  of 
the  novel — seems  forced  and  unnatural.  His  plots 
against  the  family  of  Annesly,  and  his  attempted 
seduction  of  Lucy — after  an  interval  of  some 
eighteen  or  twenty  years — shew  a deliberate  villainy 
and  disregard  of  public  opinion,  which,  considering 
his  rank  and  position  in  the  world,  appears  improb- 
able. His  death-bed  sensibility  and  penitence  are 
undoubtedly  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  his 
character.  The  adventures  of  young  Annesly  among 


the  Indians  are  interesting  and  romantic,  and  are 
described  with  much  spirit : his  narrative,  indeed,  is 
one  of  the  freest  and  boldest  of  Mackenzie’s  sketches. 
Julia  de  Rouhigne  is  still  more  melancholy  than  The 
Man  of  the  World.  It  has  no  gorgeous  descriptions 
or  imaginative  splendour  to  relieve  the  misery  and 
desolation  which  overtake  a group  of  innocent 
beings,  whom  for  their  virtues  the  reader  would 
wish  to  see  happy.  It  is  a domestic  tragedy  of 
the  deepest  kind,  without  much  discrimination  of 
character  or  skill  in  the  plot,  and  oppressive  from 
its  scenes  of  unmerited  and  unmitigated  distress. 
We  wake  from  the  perusal  of  the  tale  as  from  a 
painful  dream,  conscious  that  it  has  no  reality,  and 
thankful  that  its  morbid  excitement  is  over.  It 
is  worthy  of  remark  that  in  this  novel  Mackenzie 
was  one  of  the  first  to  denounce  the  system  of 
slave-labour  in  the  West  Indies. 

[ Negro  Servitude .] 

I have  often  been  tempted  to  doubt,  says  one  of  the 
characters  in  Julia  de  Roubigne,  whether  there  is  not 
an  error  in  the  whole  plan  of  negro  servitude ; and 
whether  whites  or  creoles  born  in  the  West  Indies, 
or  perhaps  cattle,  after  the  manner  of  European  hus- 
bandry, would  not  do  the  business  better  and  cheaper 
than  the  slaves  do.  The  money  which  the  latter  cost 
at  first,  the  sickness — often  owing  to  despondency  of 
mind — to  which  they  are  liable  after  their  arrival,  and 
the  proportion  that  die  in  consequence  of  it,  make 
the  machine,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  of  a plantation 
extremely  expensive  in  its  operations.  In  the  list 
of  slaves  belonging  to  a wealthy  planter,  it  would 
astonish  you  to  see  the  number  unfit  for  service, 
pining  under  disease,  a burden  on  their  master.  I am 
only  talking  as  a merchant ; but  as  a man — good 
heavens ! when  I think  of  the  many  thousands  of  my 
fellow-creatures  groaning  under  servitude  and  misery ! 
— great  God  ! hast  thou  peopled  those  regions  of  thy 
world  for  the  purpose  of  casting  out  their  inhabitants 
to  chains  and  torture?  No;  thou  gavest  them  a land 
teeming  with  good  things,  and  lightedst  up  thy  sun  to 
bring  forth  spontaneous  plenty;  but  the  refinements 
of  man,  ever  at  war  with  thy  works,  have  changed 
this  scene  of  profusion  and  luxuriance  into  a theatre  of 
rapine,  of  slavery,  and  of  murder ! 

Forgive  the  warmth  of  this  apostrophe ! Here  it 
would  not  be  understood ; even  my  uncle,  whose  heart 
is  far  from  a hard  one,  would  smile  at  my  romance,  and 
tell  me  that  things  must  be  so.  Habit,  the  tyrant  of 
nature  and  of  reason,  is  deaf  to  the  voice  of  either; 
here  she  stifles  humanity  and  debases  the  species — for 
the  master  of  slaves  has  seldom  the  soul  of  a man. 

We  add  a specimen  of  the  humorous  and  the 
pathetic  manner  of  Mackenzie  from  The  Man  of 
Feeling. 

[. Harley  Sets  Out  on  his  Journey — The  Beggar  and 
his  Dog.'] 

He  had  taken  leave  of  his  aunt  on  the  eve  of  his 
intended  departure ; but  the  good  lady’s  affection  for 
her  nephew  interrupted  her  sleep,  and  early  as  it  was, 
next  morning  when  Harley  came  down  stairs  to  set  out, 
he  found  her  in  the  parlour  with  a tear  on  her  cheek, 
and  her  caudle-cup  in  her  hand.  She  knew  enough  of 
physic  to  prescribe  against  going  abroad  of  a morning 
with  an  empty  stomach.  She  gave  her  blessing  with  the 
draught;  her  instructions  she  had  delivered  the  night 
before.  They  consisted  mostly  of  negatives ; for  London,  j 
in  her  idea,  was  so  replete  with  temptations,  that  it 
needed  the  whole  armour  of  her  friendly  cautions  to 
repel  their  attacks. 

141 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Peter  stood  at  the  door.  We  have  mentioned  this 
faithful  fellow  formerly.  Harley’s  father  had  taken 
him  up  an  orphan,  and  saved  him  from  being  cast  on 
the  parish;  and  he  had  ever  since  remained  in  the 
service  of  him  and  of  his  son.  Harley  shook  him  by 
the  hand  as  he  passed,  smiling,  as  if  he  had  said : ‘ I 
will  not  weep.’  He  sprung  hastily  into  the  chaise  that 
waited  for  him ; Peter  folded  up  the  step.  ‘ My  dear 
master,’  said  he,  shaking  the  solitary  lock  that  hung 
on  either  side  of  his  head,  ‘I  have  been  told  as  how 
London  is  a sad  place.’  He  was  choked  with  the 
thought,  and  his  benediction  could  not  be  heard.  But 
it  shall  be  heard,  honest  Peter ! where  these  tears  will 
add  to  its  energy. 

In  a few  hours  Harley  reached  the  inn  where  he 
proposed  breakfasting;  but  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
would  not  suffer  him  to  eat  a morsel.  He  walked  out 
on  the  road,  and  gaining  a little  height,  stood  gazing 
on  the  quarter  he  had  left.  He  looked  for  his  wonted 
prospect,  his  fields,  his  woods,  and  his  hills ; they  were 
lost  in  the  distant  clouds ! He  pencilled  them  on  the 
clouds,  and  bade  them  farewell  with  a sigh ! 

He  sat  down  on  a large  stone  to  take  out  a little 
pebble  from  his  shoe,  when  he  saw,  at  some  distance, 
a beggar  approaching  him.  He  had  on  a loose  sort  of 
coat,  mended  with  different-coloured  rags,  amongst 
which  the  blue  and  the  russet  were  the  predominant. 
He  had  a short  knotty  stick  in  his  hand,  and  on  the 
top  of  it  was  stuck  a ram’s  horn;  his  knees — though 
he  was  no  pilgrim — had  worn  the  stuff  of  his  breeches ; 
he  wore  no  shoes,  and  his  stockings  had  entirely  lost 
that  part  of  them  which  should  have  covered  his  feet 
and  ankles.  In  his  face,  however,  was  the  plump 
appearance  of  good-humour : he  walked  a good  round 
pace,  and  a crooked-legged  dog  trotted  at  his  heels. 

‘ Our  delicacies,’  said  Harley  to  himself,  ‘ are  fan- 
tastic : they  are  not  in  nature  ! that  beggar  walks  over 
the  sharpest  of  these  stones  barefooted,  while  I have 
lost  the  most  delightful  dream  in  the  world  from  the 
smallest  of  them  happening  to  get  into  my  shoe.’  The 
beggar  had  by  this  time  come  up,  and,  pulling  off  a 
piece  of  hat,  asked  charity  of  Harley ; the  dog  began 
to  beg  too.  It  was  impossible  to  resist  both ; and,  in 
truth,  the  want  of  shoes  and  stockings  had  made  both 
unnecessary,  for  Harley  had  destined  sixpence  for  him 
before.  The  beggar,  on  receiving  it,  poured  forth  bless- 
ings without  number ; and,  with  a sort  of  smile  on 
his  countenance,  said  to  Harley,  ‘that  if  he  wanted 

his  fortune  told’ Harley  turned  his  eye  briskly 

on  the  beggar : it  was  an  unpromising  look  for  the 
subject  of  a prediction,  and  silenced  the  prophet  imme- 
diately. ‘I  would  much  rather  learn,’  said  Harley, 
‘ what  it  is  in  your  power  to  tell  me  : your  trade  must 
be  an  entertaining  one  : sit  down  on  this  stone,  and 
let  me  know . something  of  your  profession ; I have 
often  thought  of  turning  fortune-teller  for  a week  or 
two  myself.’ 

‘ Master,’  replied  the  beggar,  ‘ I like  your  frankness 
much;  God  knows  I had  the  humour  of  plain-dealing 
in  me  from  a child ; but  there  is  no  doing  with  it  in 
this  world ; we  must  live  as  we  can,  and  lying  is,  as 
you  call  it,  my  profession  : but  I was  in  some  sort 
forced  to  the  trade,  for  I dealt  once  in  telling  truth. 
I was  a labourer,  sir,  and  gained  as  much  as  to  make 
me  live  : I never  laid  by  indeed ; for  I was  reckoned  a 
piece  of  a wag,  and  your  wags,  I take  it,  are  seldom 
rich,  Mr  Harley.’  ‘ So,’  said  Harley,  ‘ you  seem  to 
know  me.’  ‘Ay,  there  are  few  folks  in  the  country 
that  I don’t  know  something  of;  how  should  I tell 
fortunes  else  ? ’ ‘ True ; but  to  go  on  with  your  story : 

you  were  a labourer,  you  say,  and  a wag ; your  industry, 
I suppose,  you  left  with  your  old  trade ; but  your 
humour  you  preserve  to  be  of  use  to  you  in  your 
new.’ 

‘ What  signifies  sadness,  sir  ? a man  grows  lean  on ’t : 
but  I was  brought  to  my  idleness  by  degrees;  first  I 
142 


could  not  work,  and  it  went  against  my  stomach  to 
work  ever  after.  I was  seized  with  a jail-fever  at  the 
time  of  the  assizes  being  in  the  county  where  I lived ; 
for  I was  always  curious  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
felons,  because  they  are  commonly  fellows  of  much 
mirth  and  little  thought,  qualities  I had  ever  an  esteem 
for.  In  the  height  of  this  fever,  Mr  Harley,  the  house 
where  I lay  took  fire,  and  burnt  to  the  ground ; I was 
carried  out  in  that  condition,  and  lay  all  the  rest  of  my 
illness  in  a barn.  I gqt  the  better  of  my  disease,  how- 
ever, but  I was  so  weak  that  I spat  blood  whenever  I 
attempted  to  work.  I had  no  relation  living  that  I 
knew  of,  and  I never  kept  a friend  above  a week  when 
I was  able  to  joke ; I seldom  remained  above  six  months 
in  a parish,  so  that  I might  have  died  before  I had 
found  a settlement  in  any : thus  I was  forced  to  beg  my 
bread,  and  a sorry  trade  I found  it,  Mr  Harley.  I told 
all  my  misfortunes  truly,  but  they  were  seldom  believed ; 
and  the  few  who  gave  me  a half-penny  as  they  passed, 
did  it  with  a shake  of  the  head,  and  an  injunction  not 
to  trouble  them  with  a long  story.  In  short,  I found 
that  people  do  not  care  to  give  alms  without  some 
security  for  their  money ; a wooden  leg  or  a withered 
arm  is  a sort  of  draught  upon  Heaven  for  those  who 
choose  to  have  their  money  placed  to  account  there ; so 
I changed  my  plan,  and,  instead  of  telling  my  own 
misfortunes,  began  to  prophesy  happiness  to  others. 
This  I found  by  much  the  better  way : folks  will  always 
listen  when  the  tale  is  their  own ; and  of  many  who  say 
they  do  not  believe  in  fortune-telling,  I have  known  few 
on  whom  it  had  not  a very  sensible  effect.  I pick  up 
the  names  of  their  acquaintance ; amours  and  little 
squabbles  are  easily  gleaned  among  servants  and  neigh- 
bours ; and  indeed  people  themselves  are  the  best  intel- 
ligencers in  the  Vorld  for  our  purpose ; they  dare  not 
puzzle  us  for  their  own  sakes,  for  every  one  is  anxious 
to  hear  what  they  wish  to  believe ; and  they  who  repeat 
it,  to  laugh  at  it  when  they  have  done,  are  generally 
more  serious  than  their  hearers  are  apt  to  imagine. 
With  a tolerable  good  memory  and  some  share  of 
cunning,  with  the  help  of  walking  a-nights  over  heaths 
and  churchyards,  with  this,  and  shewing  the  tricks  of 
that  there  dog,  whom  I stole  from  the  sergeant  of  a 
marching  regiment — and,  by  the  way,  he  can  steal  too 
upon  occasion — I make  shift  to  pick  up  a livelihood. 
My  trade,  indeed,  is  none  of  the  honestest;  yet  people 
are  not  much  cheated  neither,  who  give  a few  halfpence 
for  a prospect  of  happiness,  which  I have  heard  some 
persons  say  is  all  a man  can  arrive  at  in  this  world.  But 
I must  bid  you  good-day,  sir ; for  I have  three  miles  to 
walk  before  noon,  to  inform  some  boarding-school  young 
ladies  whether  their  husbands  are  to  be  peers  of  the 
realm  or  captains  in  the  army;  a question  which  I 
promised  to  answer  them  by  that  time.’ 

Harley  had  drawn  a shilling  from  his  pocket ; but 
Virtue  bade  him  consider  on  whf>m  he  was  going  to 
bestow  it.  Virtue  held  back  his  arm  ; but  a milder 
form,  a younger  sister  of  Virtue’s,  not  so  severe  as 
Virtue,  nor  so  serious  as  Pity,  smilecl  upon  him  ; his 
fingers  lost  their  compression  ; nor  did  Virtue  offer  to 
catch  the  money  as  it  fell.  It  had  no  sooner  reached 
the  ground,  than  the  watchful  cur— ^a  trick  he  had 
been  taught — snapped  it  up ; and,  contrary  to  the 
most  approved  method  of  stewardship,  delivered  it 
immediately  into  the  hands  of  his  master. 

[The  Death  of  Earley .] 

Harley  was  one  of  those  few  friends  whom  the 
malevolence  of  fortune  had  yet  left  me  ; I could  not, 
therefore,  but  be  sensibly  concerned  for  his  present 
indisposition ; there  seldom  passed  a day  on  which  I 
did  not  make  inquiry  about  him. 

The  physician  who  attended  him  had  informed  me 
the  evening  before,  that  he  thought  him  considerably 
better  than  he  had  been  for  some  time  past.  I called 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  MACKENZIE. 


next  morning  to  be  confirmed  in  a piece  of  intelligence 
bo  welcome  to  me. 

When  I entered  his  apartment,  I found  him  sitting 
on  a couch,  leaning  on  his  hand,  with  his  eye  turned 
upwards  in  the  attitude  of  thoughtful  inspiration.  His 
look  had  always  an  open  benignity,  which  commanded 
esteem  ; there  was  now  something  more — a gentle 
triumph  in  it. 

He  rose,  and  met  me  with  his  usual  kindness.  When 
I gave  him  the  good  accounts  I had  had  from  his  physi- 
cian, ‘ I am  foolish  enough,’  said  he,  ‘ to  rely  but  little 
in  this  instance  to  physic.  My  presentiment  may  be 
false  ; but  I think  I feel  myself  approaching  to  my  end 
by  steps  so  easy  that  they  woo  me  to  approach  it. 
There  is  a certain  dignity  in  retiring  from  life  at  a time 
when  the  infirmities  of  age  have  not  sapped  our  faculties. 
This  world,  my  dear  Charles,  was  a scene  in  which  I 
never  much  delighted.  I was  not  formed  for  the  bustle 
of  the  busy  nor  the  dissipation  of  the  gay ; a thousand 
things  occurred  where  I blushed  for  the  impropriety  of 
my  conduct  when  I thought  on  the  world,  though  my 
reason  told  me  I should  have  blushed  to  have  done 
otherwise.  It  was  a scene  of  dissimulation,  of  restraint, 
of  disappointment.  I leave  it  to  enter  on  that  state 
which  I have  learned  to  believe  is  replete  with  the 
genuine  happiness  attendant  upon  virtue.  I look  back 
on  the  tenor  of  my  life  with  the  consciousness  of  few 
great  offences  to  account  for.  There  are  blemishes,  I 
confess,  which  deform  in  some  degree  the  picture ; but  I 
know  the  benignity  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  rejoice 
at  the  thoughts  of  its  exertion  in  my  favour.  My  mind 
expands  at  the  thought  I shall  enter  into  the  society 
of  the  blessed,  wise  as  angels,  with  the  simplicity  of 
children.’ 

He  had  by  this  time  clasped  my  hand,  and  found  it 
wet  by  a tear  which  had  just  fallen  upon  it.  His  eye 
began  to  moisten  too — we  sat  for  some  time  silent.  At 
last,  with  an  attempt  at  a look  of  more  composure, 
‘ There  are  some  remembrances,’  said  Harley,  ‘ which 
rise  involuntarily  on  my  heart,  and  make  me  almost 
wish  to  live.  I have  been  blessed  with  a few  friends 
who  redeem  my  opinion  of  mankind.  I recollect  with 
the  tenderest  emotion  the  scenes  of  pleasure  I have 
passed  among  them  ; but  we  shall  meet  again,  my 
friend,  never  to  be  separated.  There  are  some  feelings 
which  perhaps  are  too  tender  to  be  suffered  by  the 
world.  The  world  is  in  general  selfish,  interested,  and 
unthinking,  and  throws  the  imputation  of  romance  or 
melancholy  on  every  temper  more  susceptible  than  its 
own.  I cannot  think  but  in  those  regions  which  I 
contemplate,  if  there  is  anything  of  mortality  left  about 
us,  that  these  feelings  will  subsist:  they  are  called — 
perhaps  they  are — weaknesses  here ; but  there  may  be 
some  better  modifications  of  them  in  heaven,  which 
may  deserve  the  name  of  virtues.’  He  sighed  as  he 
spoke  these  last  urords.  He  had  scarcely  finished  them 
when  the  door  opened,  and  his  aunt  appeared  leading 
in  Miss  Walton.  ‘ My  dear,’  says  she,  ‘ here  is  Miss 
Walton,  who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  and  inquire 
for  you  herself.’  I could  observe  a transient  glow  upon 
his  face.  He  rose  from  his  seat.  * If  to  know  Miss 
Walton’s  goodness,’  said  he,  ‘ be  a title  to  deserve  it,  I 
have  some  claim.’  She  begged  him  to  resume  his  seat, 
and  placed  herself  on  the  sofa  beside  him.  I took  my 
leave.  Mrs  Margery  accompanied  me  to  the  door. 
He  was  left  with  Miss  Walton  alone.  She  inquired 
anxiously  about  his  health.  ‘ I believe,’  said  he,  ‘ from 
the  accounts  which  my  physicians  unwillingly  give  me, 
that  they  have  no  great  hopes  of  my  recovery.’  She 
started  as  he  spoke ; but  recollecting  herself  immedi- 
ately, endeavoured  to  flatter  him  into  a belief  that  his 
apprehensions  were  groundless.  ‘ I know,’  said  he, 
‘ that  it  is  usual  with  persons  at  my  time  of  life  to  have 
these  hopes  which  your  kindness  suggests,  but  I would 
not  wish  to  be  deceived.  To  meet  death  as  becomes  a 
man  is  a privilege  bestowed  on  few.  I would  endeavour 


to  make  it  mine ; nor  do  I think  that  I can  ever 
be  better  prepared  for  it  than  now ; it  is  that  chiefly 
which  determines  the  fitness  of  its  approach.’  ‘ Those 
sentiments,’  answered  Miss  Walton,  ‘ are  just ; but  your 
good  sense,  Mr  Harley,  will  own  that  life  has  its  proper 
value.  As  the  province  of  virtue,  life  is  ennobled ; as 
such,  it  is  to  be  desired.  To  virtue  has  the  Supreme 
Director  of  all  things  assigned  rewards  enough  even 
here  to  fix  its  attachment.’ 

The  subject  began  to  overpower  her.  Harley  lifted 
his  eyes  from  the  ground,  ‘There  are,’  said  he,  in  a 
very  low  voice,  ‘there  are  attachments,  Miss  Walton.’ 
His  glance  met  hers.  They  both  betrayed  a confusion, 
and  were  both  instantly  withdrawn.  He  paused  some 
moments : ‘ I am  in  such  a state  as  calls  for  sincerity, 
let  that  also  excuse  it — it  is  perhaps  the  last  time  we 
shall  ever  meet.  I feel  something  particularly  solemn  in 
the  acknowledgment,  yet  my  heart  swells  to  make  it, 
awed  as  it  is  by  a sense  of  my  presumption,  by  a sense 
of  your  perfections.’  He  paused  again.  ‘ Let  it  not  offend 
you  to  know  their  power  over  one  so  unworthy.  It 
will,  I believe,  soon  cease  to  beat,  even  with  that  feel- 
ing which  it  shall  lose  the  latest.  To  love  Miss  Walton 
could  not  be  a crime ; if  to  declare  it  is  one,  the  expia- 
tion will  be  made.’  Her  tears  were  now  flowing  without 
control.  ‘ Let  me  entreat  you,’  said  she,  ‘ to  have  better 
hopes.  Let  not  life  be  so  indifferent  to  you,  if  my 
wishes  can  put  any  value  on  it.  I will  not  pretend  to 
misunderstand  you — I know  your  worth — I have  known 
it  long — I have  esteemed  it.  What  would  you  have  me 
say?  I have  loved  it  as  it  deserved.’  He  seized  her 
hand,  a languid  colour  reddened  his  cheek,  a smile 
brightened  faintly  in  his  eye.  As  he  gazed  on  her  it 
grew  dim,  it  fixed,  it  closed.  He  sighed,  and  fell  back 
on  his  seat.  Miss  Walton  screamed  at  the  sight.  His 
aunt  and  the  servants  rushed  into  the  room.  They 
found  them  lying  motionless  together.  His  physician 
happened  to  call  at  that  instant.  Every  art  was  tried 
to  recover  them.  With  Miss  Walton  they  succeeded, 
but  Harley  was  gone  for  ever  ! 

I entered  the  room  where  his  body  lay ; I approached 
it  with  reverence,  not  fear.  I looked ; the  recollection 
of  the  past  crowded  upon  me.  I saw  that  form,  which, 
but  a little  before,  was  animated  with  a soul  which  did 
honour  to  humanity,  stretched  without  sense  or  feeling 
before  me.  ’Tis  a connection  we  cannot  easily  forget.  I 
took  his  hand  in  mine ; I repeated  his  name  involun- 
tarily. I felt  a pulse  in  every  vein  at  the  sound.  I looked 
earnestly  in  his  face ; his  eye  was  closed,  his  lip  pale 
and  motionless.  There  is  an  enthusiasm  in  sorrow  that 
forgets  impossibility ; I wondered  that  it  was  so.  The 
sight  drew  a prayer  from  my  heart ; it  was  the  voice  of 
frailty  and  of  man  ! The  confusion  of  my  mind  began 
to  subside  into  thought ; I had  time  to  weep  ! 

I turned  with  the  last  farewell  upon  my  lips,  when 
I observed  old  Edwards  standing  behind  me.  I looked 
him  full  in  the  face,  but  his  eye  was  fixed  on  another 
object.  He  pressed  between  me  and  the  bed,  and  stood 
gazing  on  the  breathless  remains  of  his  benefactor.  I 
spoke  to  him  I know  not  what;  but  he  took  no  notice 
of  what  I said,  and  remained  in  the  same  attitude  as 
before.  He  stood  some  minutes  in  that  posture,  then 
turned  and  walked  towards  the  door.  He  paused  as  he 
went ; he  returned  a second  time ; I could  observe  his 
lips  move  as  he  looked ; but  the  voice  they  would  have 
uttered  was  lost.  He  attempted  going  again;  and  a 
third  time  he  returned  as  before.  I saw  him  wipe  his 
cheek;  then,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  his 
breast  heaving  with  the  most  convulsive  throbs,  he  flung 
out  of  the  room. 

He  had  hinted  that  he  should  like  to  be  buried  in  a 
certain  spot  near  the  grave  of  his  mother.  This  is  a 
weakness,  but  it  is  universally  incident  to  humanity ; it 
is  at  least  a memorial  for  those  who  survive.  For 
some,  indeed,  a slender  memorial  will  serve;  and  the 
soft  affections,  when  they  are  busy  that  way,  will  build 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


their  structures  were  it  but  on  the  paring  of  a J 
nail. 

He  was  buried  in  the  place  he  had  desired.  It  was 
shaded  by  an  old  tree,  the  only  one  in  the  churchyard, 
in  which  was  a cavity  worn  by  time.  I have  sat  with 
him  in  it,  and  counted  the  tombs.  The  last  time  we 
passed  there,  me  thought  he  looked  wistfully  on  the 
tree;  there  was  a branch  of  it  that  bent  towards  us, 
waving  in  the  wind;  he  waved  his  hand,  as  if  he 
mimicked  its  motion.  There  was  something  predic- 
tive in  his  look  ! perhaps  it  is  foolish  to  remark  it, 
but  there  are  times  and  places  when  I am  a child  at 
those  things. 

I sometimes  visit  his  grave ; I sit  in  the  hollow  of  the 
tree.  It  is  worth  a thousand  homilies;  every  noble 
feeling  rises  within  me  ! Every  beat  of  my  heart 
awakens  a virtue ; but  it  will  make  you  hate  the  world. 
No ; there  is  such  an  air  of  gentleness  around  that  I 
can  hate  nothing ; but  as  to  the  world,  I pity  the  men 
of  it. 

FRANCES  BURNEY  (MADAME  D5ARBLAy). 

Frances  Burney,  authoress  of  Evelina  and  Cecilia , 
was  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the  generation  of 
novel-readers  succeeding  that  of  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  and  she  has  maintained  her  popularity 


Frances  Burney. 


better  than  most  secondary  writers  of  fiction.  Her 
name  has  been  lately  revived  by  the  publication  of 
her  Diary  and  Letters , containing  some  clever 
sketches  of  society  and  manners,  notices  of  the 
court  of  George  III.,  and  anecdotes  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  Reynolds,  &c.  Miss  Burney  was  the  second 
daughter  of  Dr  Burney,  author  of  the  History  of 
Music.  She  was  born  at  Lynn-Regis,  in  the  county 
of  Norfolk,  on  the  13th  of  June  1752.  Her  father 
was  organist  in  Lynn*  but  in  1760  he  removed  to 
London — where  he  had  previously  resided — and 
numbered  among  his  familiar  friends  and  visitors 
David  Garrick,  Sir  Robert  Strange  the  engraver, 
the  poets  Mason  and  Armstrong,  Barry  the  painter, 
and  other  persons  distinguished  in  art  and  literature. 
Such  society  must  have  had  a highly  beneficial 
effect  on  his  family,  and  accordingly  we  find  they 
144 


! all  made  themselves  distinguished : one  son  rose  to 
be  an  admiral;  the  second  son,  Charles  Burney, 
became  a celebrated  Greek  scholar ; both  the 
daughters  were  novelists.*  Fanny  was  long  held 
to  be  a sort  of  prodigy.  At  eight  years  of  age 
she  did  not  even  know  her  letters,  but  she  was 
shrewd  and  observant.  At  fifteen  she  had  written 
several  tales,  was  a great  reader,  and  even  a critic. 
Her  authorship  was  continued  in  secret,  her  sister 
only  being  aware  of  the  circumstance.  In  this  way, 
it  is  said,  she  composed  Evelina , but  it  was  not 
published  till  January  177S,  when  ‘little  Fanny5 
was  in  her  twenty-sixth  year;  and  the  wonderful 
precocity  of  ‘ Miss  in  her  teens  ’ may  be  dismissed 
as  somewhat  more  than  doubtful.  The  work  was 
offered  to  Dodsley  the  publisher,  but  rejected,  as  the 
worthy  bibliopole  ‘declined  looking  at  anything 
anonymous.5  Another  bookseller,  named  Lowndes, 
agreed  to  publish  it,  and  gave  £20  for  the  manu- 
script. Evelina , or  a Young  Lady’s  Entrance  into  the 
World , soon  became  the  talk  of  the  town.  Dr 
Burney,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  told  Mrs  Thrale 
that  ‘our  Fanny5  was  the  author,  and  Dr  Johnson 
protested  to  Mrs  Thrale  that  there  were  passages  in 
it  which  might  do  honour  to  Richardson!  Miss 
Burney  was  invited  to  Streatham,  the  country 
residence  of  the  Thrales,  and  there  she  met  Johnson 
and  his  illustrious  band  of  friends,  of  whom  we  have 
ample  notices  in  the  Diary.  Wherever  she  went, 
to  London,  Bath,  or  Tunbridge,  Evelina  was  the 
theme  of  praise,  and  Miss  Burney  the  happiest  of 
authors.  In  1782  appeared  her  second  work,  Cecilia , 
which  is  more  highly  finished  than  Evelina , but  less 
rich  in  comic  characters  and  dialogue.  Miss  Burney 
having  gone  to  reside  for  a short  time  with  Mrs 
Delany,  a venerable  lady,  the  friend  of  Swift,  once 
connected  with  the  court,  and  who  now  lived  on  a 
pension  from  their  majesties  at  Windsor,  was  intro- 
duced to  the  king  and  queen,  and  speedily  became 
a favourite.  The  result  was,  that  in  1786  our 
authoress  was  appointed  second  keeper  of  the  robes 
to  Queen  Charlotte,  with  a salary  of  £200  a year,  a 
footman,  apartments  in  the  palace,  and  a coach 
between  her  and  her  colleague.  The  situation  was 
only  a sort  of  splendid  slavery.  ‘I  was  averse  to 
the  union,5  said  Miss  Burney,  ‘and  I endeavoured 
to  escape  it ; but  my  friends  interfered — they 
prevailed — and  the  knot  is  tied.5  The  queen  appears 
to  have  been  a kind  and  considerate  mistress ; but 
the  stiff  etiquette  and  formality  of  the  court,  and 
the  unremitting  attention  which  its  irksome  duties 
required,  rendered  the  situation  peculiarly  disagree- 
able to  one  who  had  been  so  long  flattered  and 
courted  by  the  brilliant  society  of  her  day.  Her 
colleague,  Mrs  Schwellenberg,  a coarse-minded, 
jealous,  disagreeable  German  favourite,  was  also  a 
perpetual  source  of  annoyance  to  her;  and  poor 
Fanny  at  court  was  worse  off  than  her  heroine 
Cecilia  was  in  choosing  among  her  guardians.  Her 
first  official  duty  was  to  mix  the  queen’s  snuff,  and 
keep  her  box  always  replenished;  after  which  she 
was  promoted  to  the  great  business  of  the  toilet, 
helping  her  majesty  off  and  on  with  her  dresses, 
and  being  in  strict  attendance  from  six  or  seven 
in  the  morning  till  twelve  at  night ! From  this 
grinding  and  intolerable  destiny,  Miss  Burney  Avas 

• Rear-admiral  James  Burney  accompanied  Captain  Cook 
in  two  of  his  voyages,  and  was  author  of  a History  of  Voyages 
of  Discovery,  5 vols.  quarto,  and  an  Account  of  the  Russian 
Eastern  Voyages.  He  died  in  1820.  Dr  Charles  Burney  wrote 
several  critical  works  on  the  Greek  classics,  was  a prebendary 
of  Lincoln,  and  one  of  the  king’s  chaplains.  After  his  death, 
in  1817,  the  valuable  library  of  this  great  scholar  was  purchased 
by  government  for  the  British  Museum. 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Frances  burney. 

emancipated  by  her  marriage,  in  1793,  with  a Trench 
refugee  officer,  the  Count  d’Arblay.  She  then 
resumed  her  pen,  and  in  1795  produced  a tragedy, 
entitled  Edwin  and  Elgitha,  which  was  brought  out 
at  Drury  Lane,  and  possessed  at  least  one  novelty — 
there  were  three  bishops  among  the  dramatis  personae. 
Mrs  Siddons  personated  the  heroine,  but  in  the 
dying  scene,  where  the  lady  is  brought  from  behind 
a hedge  to  expire  before  the  audience,  and  is  after- 
wards carried  once  more  to  the  back  of  the  hedge, 
the  house  was  convulsed  with  laughter ! Her  next 
effort  was  her  novel  of  Camilla , which  she  published 
by  subscription,  and  realised  by  it  no  less  than  three 
thousand  guineas.  In  1802,  Madame  d’Arblay 
accompanied  her  husband  to  Paris.  The  count 
joined  the  army  of  Napoleon,  and  his  wife  was 
forced  to  remain  in  Prance  till  1812,  when  she 
returned  and  purchased,  from  the  proceeds  of  her 
novel,  a small  but  handsome  villa,  named  Camilla 
Cottage.  Her  success  in  prose  fiction  urged  her 
to  another  trial,  and  in  1814  she  produced  The 
Wanderer , a tedious  tale  in  five  volumes,  which  had 
no  other  merit  than  that  of  bringing  the  authoress 
the  large  sum  of  £1500.  The  only  other  literary 
labour  of  Madame  d’Arblay  was  a memoir  of  her 
father,  Dr  Burney,  published  in  1832.  Her  husband 
and  her  son — the  Rev.  A.  d’Arblay  of  Camden  Town 
Chapel,  near  London— both  predeceased  her — the 
former  in  1818,  and  the  latter  in  1837.  Three  years 
after  this  last  melancholy  bereavement,  Madame 
d’Arblay  herself  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  dying  at 
Bath  in  January  1840,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty- 
eight.  Her  Diary  and  Letters , edited  by  her  niece, 
were  published  in  1842  in  five  volumes.  If  judi- 
ciously condensed,  this  work  would  have  been  both 
entertaining  and  valuable ; but  at  least  one  half  of 
it  is  filled  with  small  unimportant  details  and 
private  gossip,  and  the  self-admiring  weakness  of 
the  authoress  shines  out  in  almost  every  page.  The 
early  novels  of  Miss  Burney  form  the  most  pleasing 
memorials  of  her  name  and  history.  In  them  we 
see  her  quick  in  discernment,  lively  in  invention, 
and  inimitable,  in  her  own  way,  in  portraying  the 
humours  and  oddities  of  English  society.  Her  good 
sense  and  correct  feeling  are  more  remarkable  than 
her  passion.  Her  love-scenes  are  prosaic  enough; 
but  in  ‘ shewing  up  ’ a party  of  ‘ vulgarly  genteel  ’ 
persons,  painting  the  characters  in  a drawing-room, 
or  catching  the  follies  and  absurdities  that  float 
on  the  surface  of  fashionable  society,  she  had  then 
rarely  been  equalled.  She  deals  with  the  palpable 
and  familiar ; and  though  society  has  changed  since 
the  time  of  Evelina , and  the  glory  of  Ranelagh  and 
Mary-le-bone  Gardens  has  departed,  there  is  enough 
of  real  life  in  her  personages,  and  real  morality  in 
her  lessons,  to  interest,  amuse,  and  instruct.  Her 
sarcasm,  drollery,  and  broad  humour,  must  always 
be  relished. 

[A  Game  of  Highway  Robbery .] 

[From  Evelina.'] 

When  we  had  been  out  near  two  hours,  and  expected 
every  moment  to  stop  at  the  place  of  our  destination, 

I observed  that  Lacly  Howard’s  servant,  who  attended 
us  on  horseback,  rode  on  forward  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  soon  after  returning,  came  up  to  the  chariot 
window,  and  delivering  a note  to  Madame  Duval,  said 
he  had  met  a boy  who  was  just  coming  with  it  to 
Howard  Grove,  from  the  clerk  of  Mr  Tyrell. 

While  she  was  reading  it,  he  rode  round  to  the  other 
window,  and,  making  a sign  for  secrecy,  put  into  my 
hand  a slip  of  paper  on  which  was  -written,  ‘ Whatever 
happens,  be  not  alarmed,  for  you  are  safe,  though  you 
endanger  all  mankind  1* 

62 

I readily  imagined  that  Sir  Clement  must  be  the 
author  of  this  note,  which  prepared  me  to  expect  some 
disagreeable  adventure : but  I had  no  time  to  ponder 
upon  it,  £pr  Madame  Duval  had  no  sooner  read  her  own 
letter,  than,  in  an  angry  tone  of  voice,  she  exclaimed : 
‘ Why,  now,  what  a thing  is  this ; here  we  ’re  come  all 
this  way  for  nothing  ! ’ 

She  then  gave  me  the  note,  which  informed  her  that 
she  need  not  trouble  herself  to  go  to  Mr  Tyrell’ s,  as  the 
prisoner  had  had  the  address  to  escape.  I congratulated 
her  upon  this  fortunate  incident ; but  she  was  so  much 
concerned  at  having  rode  so  far  in  vain,  that  she  seemed 
less  pleased  than  provoked.  However,  she  ordered  the 
man  to  make  what  haste  he  could  home,  as  she  hoped 
at  least  to  return  before  the  captain  should  suspect  what 
had  passed. 

The  carriage  turned  about,  and  we  journeyed  so 
quietly  for  near  an  hour  that  I began  to  flatter  myself 
we  should  be  suffered  to  proceed  to  Howard  Grove  with- 
out further  molestation,  when,  suddenly,  the  footman 
called  out : ‘John,  are  we  going  right?’ 

‘ Why,  I ain’t  sure,’  said  the  coachman ; ‘ but  I ’m 
afraid  we  turned  wrong.’ 

‘ What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sirrah  ? ’ said  Madame 
Duval.  ‘ Why,  if  you  lose  your  way,  we  shall  be  all  in 
the  dark.’ 

‘I  think  we  should  turn  to  the  left,’  said  the  foot- 
man. 

‘To  the  left!’  answered  the  other.  ‘No,  no;  I’m 
pretty  sure  we  should  turn  to  the  right.* 

‘ You  had  better  make  some  inquiry,’  said  I. 

* Ma  foiy  cried  Madame  Duval,  ‘ we  ’re  in  a fine  hole 
here ; they  neither  of  them  know  no  more  than  the  post. 
However,  I’ll  tell  my  lady  as  sure  as  you’re  born,  so 
you ’d  better  find  the  way.’ 

‘ Let ’s  try  this  road,’  said  the  footman. 

‘No,’  said  the  coachman,  ‘that’s  the  road  to 
Canterbury ; we  had  best  go  straight  on.’ 

‘Why,  that’s  the  direct  London  road,’  returned  the 
footman,  ‘ and  will  lead  us  twenty  miles  about.’ 

‘ Par  die?  cried  Madame  Duval ; ‘ why,  they  won’t  go 
one  way  nor  t’other ; and,  now  we  ’re  come  all  this 
jaunt  for  nothing,  I suppose  we  shan’t  get  home 
to-night.’ 

‘ Let ’s  go  back  to  the  public-house,’  said  the  footman, 

‘ and  ask  for  a guide.’ 

‘No,  no,’  said  the  other;  ‘if., we  stay  here  a few 
minutes,  somebody  or  other  will  pass  by ; and  the  horses 
are  almost  knocked  up  already.’ 

‘ Well,  I protest,’  cried  Madame  Duval,  ‘ I ’d  give  a 
guinea  to  see  them  sots  horsewhipped.  As  sure  as  I ’m 
alive,  they’re  drunk.  Ten  to  one  but  they’ll  overturn 
us  next.’ 

After  much  debating,  they  at  length  agreed  to  go 
on  till  we  came  to  some  inn,  or  met  with  a passenger 
who  could  direct  us.  We  soon  arrived  at  a small  farm- 
house, and  the  footman  alighted  and  went  into  it. 

In  a few  minutes  he  returned,  and  told  us  we  might 
proceed,  for  that  he  had  procured  a direction.  ‘ But,’ 
added  he,  ‘ it  seems  there  are  some  thieves  hereabouts, 
and  so  the  best  way  will  be  for  you  to  leave  your 
watches  and  purses  with  the  farmer,  whom  I know  very 
well,  and  who  is  an  honest  man,  and  a tenant  of  my 
lady’s.’ 

‘ Thieves !’  cried  Madame  Duval,  looking  aghast ; 
‘the  Lord  help  us ! I ’ve  no  doubt  but  we  shall  be  all 
murdered !’ 

The  farmer  came  to  us,  and  we  gave  him  all  we  were 
worth,  and  the  servants  followed  our  example.  We  then 
proceeded,  and  Madame  Duval’s  anger  so  entirely  sub- 
sided, that,  in  the  mildest  manner  imaginable,  she 
entreated  them  to  make  haste,  and  promised  to  tell 
their  lady  how  diligent  and  obliging  they  had  been. 
She  perpetually  stopped  them  to  ask  if  they  appre- 
hended any  danger,  and  was  at  length  so  much  over- 
powered by  her  fears,  that  she  made  the  footman  fasten 

145 

from:  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


his  horse  to  the  hack  of  the  carriage,  and  then  come  and 
seat  himself  within  it.  My  endeavours  to  encourage 
her  were  fruitless ; she  sat  in  the  middle,  held  the  man 
; by  the  arm,  and  protested  that  if  he  did  hut  save  her 
life,  she  would  make  his  fortune.  Her  uneasiness  gave 
me  much  concern,  and  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
I forbore  to  acquaint  her  that  she  was  imposed  upon ; 
but  the  mutual  fear  of  the  captain’s  resentment  to  me, 
and  of  her  own  to  him,  neither  of  which  would  have  any 
moderation,  deterred  me.  As  to  the  footman,  he  was 
evidently  in  torture  from  restraining  his  laughter,  and 
I observed  that  he  was  frequently  obliged  to  make  most 
horrid  grimaces  from  pretended  fear,  in  order  to  conceal 
his  risibility. 

Very  soon  after,  ‘ The  robbers  are  coming ! 3 cried  the 
coachman. 

The  footman  opened  the  door,  and  jumped  out  of  the 
chariot. 

Madame  Duval  gave  a loud  scream. 

I could  no  longer  preserve  my  silence.  * For  Heaven’s 
sake,  my  dear  madam,’  said  I,  ‘don’t  be  alarmed;  you 
are  in  no  danger ; you  are  quite  safe ; there  is  nothing 
; but’ 

Here  the  chariot  was  stopped  by  two  men  in  masks, 

■ who  at  each  side  put  in  their  hands,  as  if  for  our 
j purses.  Madame  Duval  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the 
! chariot,  and  implored  their  mercy.  I shrieked  involun- 
| tarily,  although  prepared  for  the  attack : one  of  them 
1 held  me  fast,  while  the  other  tore  poor  Madame  Duval 
1 out  of  the  carriage,  in  spite  of  her  cries,  threats,  and 
1 resistance. 

I was  really  frightened,  and  trembled  exceedingly. 

I ‘My  angel!’  cried  the  man  who  held  me,  ‘you  cannot 
I surely  be  alarmed.  Do  you  not  know  me?  I shall 
I hold  myself  in  eternal  abhorrence  if  I have  really  terrified 
I J011*’ 

* Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  have,’  cried  I ; ‘ but,  for 
j Heaven’s  sake,  where  is  Madame  Duval? — why  is  she 
forced  away?’ 

‘ She  is  perfectly  safe ; the  captain  has  her  in  charge ; 

| but  suffer  me  now,  my  adored  Miss  Anville,  to  take 
the  only  opportunity'  that  is  allowed  me  to  speak  upon 
another,  a much  dearer,  much  sweeter  subject.’ 

And  then  he  hastily  came  into  the  chariot,  and  seated 
himself  next  to  me.  I would  fain  have  disengaged 
myself  from  him,  but  he  would  not  let  me.  ‘Deny 
me  not,  most  charming  of  women,’  cried  he — ‘deny  me 
j not  this  only  moment  lent  me  to  pour  forth  my  soul 
j into  your  gentle  ears,  to  tell  you  how  much  I suffer  from 
j your  absence,  how  much  I dread  your  displeasure,  and 
| how  cruelly  I am  affected  by  your  coldness  !’ 

‘ 0 sir,  this  is  no  time  for  such  language ; pray, 

I leave  me  ; pray,  go  to  the  relief  of  Madame  Duval ; 

I I cannot  bear  that  she  should  be  treated  with  such 
| indignity.’ 

‘And  will  you — can  you  command  my  absence? 

I When  may  I speak  to  you,  if  not  now  ? — does  the  captain 
' suffer  me  to  breathe  a moment  out  of  his  sight  ? — and 
| are  not  a thousand  impertinent  people  for  ever  at  your 
I elbow  ? ’ 

‘ Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  must  change  your  style, 

! or  I will  not  hear  you.  The  impertinent  people  you 
j mean  are  among  my  best  friends,  and  you  would  not,  if 
| you  really  wished  me  well,  speak  of  them  so  disrespect- 
fully.’ 

‘ Wish  you  well ! 0 Miss  Anville,  point  but  out  to 
me  how  in  what  manner  I may  convince  you  of  the 
fervour  of  my  passion — tell  me  but  what  services  you 
will  accept  from  me,  and  you  shall  find  my  life,  my 
fortune,  my  whole  soul  at  your  devotion.’ 

‘ I want  nothing,  sir,  that  you  can  offer.  I beg  you 
not  to  talk  to  me  so — so  strangely.  Pray,  leave  me; 
and  pray,  assure  yourself  you  cannot  take  any  method 
so  successless  to  shew  any  regard  for  me  as  entering 
into  schemes  so  frightful  to  Madame  Duval,  and  so 
disagreeable  to  myself.’ 

146 


‘The  scheme  was  the  captain’s;  I even  opposed  it; 
though  I own  I could  not  refuse  myself  the  so  long 
wished-for  happiness  of  speaking  to  you  once  more 
without  so  many  of — your  friends  to  watch  me.  And 
I had  flattered  myself  that  the  note  I charged  the  foot- 
man to  give  you  would  have  prevented  the  alarm  you 
have  received.’ 

‘ Well,  sir,  you  have  now,  I hope,  said  enough ; and 
if  you  will  not  go  yourself  to  seek  for  Madame  Duval, 
at  least  suffer  me  to  inquire  what  is  become  of  her.’ 

‘ And  when  may  I speak  to  you  again  ?’ 

‘ No  matter  when ; I don’t  know ; perhaps  ’ • 

‘ Perhaps  what,  my  angel  ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps  never,  sir,  if  you  torment  me  thus.’ 

‘ Never  ! 0 Miss  Anville,  how  cruel,  how  piercing  to 
my  soul  is  that  icy  word  ! Indeed,  I cannot  endure  such 
displeasure.’ 

‘ Then,  sir,  you  must  not  provoke  it.  Pray,  leave  me 
directly.’ 

‘ I will,  madam  ; but  let  me  at  least  make  a merit  of 
my  obedience — allow  me  to  hope  that  you  will  in  future 
be  less  averse  to  trusting  yourself  for  a few  moments 
alone  with  me.’ 

I was  surprised  at  the  freedom  of  this  request ; but 
while  I hesitated  how  to  answer  it,  the  other  mask  came 
up  to  the  chariot  door,  and  in  a voice  almost  stifled 
with  laughter,  said  : ‘I’ve  done  for  her  ! The  old  buck 
is  safe ; but  we  must  sheer  off  directly,  or  we  shall  he 
all  aground.’ 

Sir  Clement  instantly  left  me,  mounted  his  horse,  and 
rode  off  The  captain  having  given  some  directions  to 
his  servants,  followed  him. 

I was  both  uneasy  and  impatient  to  know  the  fate  of 
Madame  Duval,  and  immediately  got  out  of  the  chariot 
to  seek  her.  I desired  the  footman  to  shew  me  which 
way  she  was  gone;  he  pointed  with  his  finger,  by  way 
of  answer,  and  I saw  that  he  dared  not  trust  his  voice 
to  make  any  other.  I walked  on  at  a very  quick  pace, 
and  soon,  to  my  great  consternation,  perceived  the  poor 
lady  seated  upright  in  a ditch.  I flew  to  her,  with 
unfeigned  concern  at  her  situation.  She  was  sobbing, 
nay,  almost  roaring,  and  in  the  utmost  agony  of  rage 
and  terror.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  redoubled  her 
cries,  but  her  voice  was  so  broken,  I could  not  under- 
stand a word  she  said.  I was  so  much  shocked,  that  it 
was  with  difficulty  I forbore  exclaiming  against  the 
cruelty  of  the  captain  for  thus  wantonly  ill-treating  her, 
and  I could  not  forgive  myself  for  having  passively 
suffered  the  deception.  I used  my  utmost  endeavours 
to  comfort  her,  assuring  her  of  our  present  safety,  and 
begging  her  to  rise  and  return  to  the  chariot. 

Almost  bursting  with  passion,  she  pointed  to  her  feet, 
and  with  frightful  violence  she  actually  beat  the  ground 
with  her  hands. 

I then  saw  that  her  feet  were  tied  together  with  a 
strong  rope,  which  was  fastened  to  the  upper  branch  of 
a tree,  even  with  a hedge  which  ran  along  the  ditch 
where  she  sat  I endeavoured  to  untie  the  knot,  but 
soon  found  it  was  infinitely  beyond  my  strength.  I was 
therefore  obliged  to  apply  to  the  footman ; hut  being 
very  unwilling  to  add  to  his  mirth  by  the  sight  of 
Madame  Duval’s  situation,  I desired  him  to  lend  me  a 
knife.  I returned  with  it,  and  cut  the  rope.  Her  feet 
were  soon  disentangled,  and  then,  though  with  great 
difficulty,  I assisted  her  to  rise.  But  what  was  my 
astonishment  when,  the  moment  she  was  up,  she  hit  me 
a violent  slap  on  the  face  ! I retreated  from  her  with 
precipitation  and  dread,  and  she  then  loaded  me  with 
reproaches  which,  though  almost  unintelligible,  con- 
vinced me  that  she  imagined  I had  voluntarily  deserted 
her  ; but  she  seemed  not  to  have  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  she  had  not  been  attacked  by  real  robbers. 

I was  so  much  surprised  and  confounded  at  the 
blow,  that  for  some  time  I suffered  her  to  rave  without 
making  any  answer ; but  her  extreme  agitation  and  real 
suffering  soon  dispelled  my  anger,  which  all  turned  into 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FRANCES  BURNET. 


compassion.  I then  told  her  that  I had  been  forcibly 
detained  from  following  her,  and  assured  her  of  my 
real  sorrow  at  her  ill-usage. 

She  began  to  be  somewhat  appeased,  and  I again 
entreated  her  to  return  to  the  carriage,  or  give  me  leave 
to  order  that  it  should  draw  up  to  the  place  where  we 
stood.  She  made  no  answer,  till  I told  her  that  the 
longer  we  remained  still,  the  greater  would  be  the 
danger  of  our  ride  home.  Struck  with  this  hint,  she 
suddenly,  and  with  hasty  steps,  moved  forward. 

Her  dress  was  in  such  disorder,  that  I was  quite 
sorry  to  have  her  figure  exposed  to  the  servants,  who 
all  of  them,  in  imitation  of  their  master,  hold  her  in 
derision ; however,  the  disgrace  was  unavoidable. 

The  ditch,  happily,  was  almost  dry,  or  she  must  have 
suffered  still  more  seriously ; yet  so  forlorn,  so  miserable 
a figure,  I never  before  saw.  Her  head-dress  had  fallen 
off;  her  linen  was  tom;  her  negligee  had  not  a pin 
left  in  it ; her  petticoats  she  was  obliged  to  hold  on ; 
and  her  shoes  were  perpetually  slipping  off.  She  was 
covered  with  dirt,  weeds,  and  filth,  and  her  face  was 
really  horrible,  for  the  pomatum  and  powder  from  her 
head,  and  the  dust  from  the  road,  were  quite  pasted  on 
her  skin  by  her  tears,  which,  with  her  rouge,  made  so 
frightful  a mixture  that  she  hardly  looked  human. 

The  servants  were  ready  to  die  with  laughter  the 
moment  they  saw  her;  but  not  all  my  remonstrances 
could  prevail  on  her  to  get  into  the  carriage  till  she  had 
most  vehemently  reproached  them  both  for  not  rescuing 
her.  The  footman,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  as  if 
fearful  of  again  trusting  himself  to  look  at  her,  protested 
that  the  robbers  avowed  they  would  shoot  him  if  he 
moved  an  inch,  and  that  one  of  them  had  stayed  to 
watch  the  chariot,  while  the  other  carried  her  off ; add- 
ing, that  the  reason  of  their  behaving  so  barbarously, 
was  to  revenge  our  having  secured  our  purses.  Not- 
withstanding her  anger,  she  gave  immediate  credit  to 
what  he  said,  and  really  imagined  that  her  want  of 
money  had  irritated  the  pretended  robbers  to  treat  her 
with  such  cruelty.  I determined  therefore  to  be  care- 
fully on  my  guard,  not  to  betray  the  imposition,  which 
could  now  answer  no  other  purpose  than  occasioning  an 
irreparable  breach  between  her  and  the  captain. 

Just  as  we  were  seated  in  the  chariot,  she  discovered 
the  loss  which  her  head  had  sustained,  and  called  out : 

‘ My  God ! what  is  become  of  my  hair  ? Why,  the 
villain  has  stole  all  my  curls  !’ 

She  then  ordered  the  man  to  run  and  see  if  he  could 
find  any  of  them  in  the  ditch.  He  went,  and  presently 
returning,  produced  a great  quantity  of  hair  in  such  a 
nasty  condition,  that  I was  amazed  she  would  take  it ; 
and  the  man,  as  he  delivered  it  to  her,  found  it  impos- 
sible to  keep  his  countenance;  which  she  no  sooner 
observed,  than  all  her  stormy  passions  were  again  raised. 
She  flung  the  battered  curls  in  his  face,  saying  : ‘ Sirrah, 
what  do  you  grin  for  ? I wish  you ’d  been  served  so 
yourself,  and  you  wouldn’t  have  found  it  no  such  joke ; 
you  are  the  impudentest  fellow  ever  I see,  and  if  I find 
you  dare  grin  at  me  any  more,  I shall  make  no  ceremony 
of  boxing  your  ears.’ 

Satisfied  with  the  threat,  the  man  hastily  retired,  and 
we  drove  on. 

[Miss  Brnney  explains  to  King  George  III.  the  circum- 
stances attending  the  composition  of  ‘ Evelina?] 

The  king  went  up  to  the  table,  and  looked  at  a book 
of  prints,  from  Claude  Lorraine,  which  had  been  brought 
down  for  Miss  Dewes;  but  Mrs  Delany,  by  mistake, 
told  him  they  were  for  me.  He  turned  over  a leaf  or 
two,  and  then  said  : 

‘ Pray,  does  Miss  Burney  draw  too  V 

The  too  was  pronounced  very  civilly. 

* I believe  not,  sir,’  answered  Mrs  Delany ; 1 at  least 
she  does  not  tell.’ 

‘ Oh,’  cried  he  laughing,  ‘ that ’s  nothing  ; she  is  not 


apt  to  tell ; she  never  does  tell,  you  know.  Her  father 
told  me  that  himself.  He  told  me  the  whole  history  of 
her  Evelina.  And  I shall  never  forget  his  face  when 
he  spoke  of  his  feelings  at  first  taking  up  the  book ; he 
looked  quite  frightened,  just  as  if  he  was  doing  it  that 
moment.  I never  can  forget  his  face  while  I live.’ 

Then  coming  up  close  to  me,  he  said : ‘ But  what ! 
what ! how  was  it  V 

1 Sir,’  cried  I,  not  well  understanding  him. 

‘ How  came  you — how  happened  it — what — what  ?’ 

‘ I — I only  wrote,  sir,  for  my  own  amusement — only 
in  some  odd  idle  hours.’ 

‘ But  your  publishing — your  printing — how  was  that  V 

1 That  was  only,  sir — only  because’ 

I hesitated  most  abominably,  not  knowing  how  to  tell 
him  a long  story,  and  growing  terribly  confused  at  these 
questions;  besides,  to  say  the  truth,  his  own,  ‘what! 
what  V so  reminded  me  of  those  vile  Probationary  Odes, 
that,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  flutter,  I was  really  hardly 
able  to  keep  my  countenance. 

The  what  I was  then  repeated,  with  so  earnest  a 
look,  that,  forced  to  say  something,  I stammeringly 
answered : ‘ I thought,  sir,  it  would  look  very  well  in 
print.’ 

I do  really  flatter  myself  this  is  the  silliest  speech  I 
ever  made.  I am  quite  provoked  with  myself  for  it; 
but  a fear  of  laughing  made  me  eager  to  utter  anything, 
and  by  no  means  conscious,  till  I had  spoken,  of  what  I 
was  saying. 

He  laughed  very  heartily  himself — well  he  might — 
and  walked  away  to  enjoy  it,  crying  out : ‘ Very  fair 
indeed ; that ’s  being  very  fair  and  honest.’ 

Then  returning  to  me  again,  he  said : ‘ But  your 
father — how  came  you  not  to  shew  him  what  you  wrote  ?’ 

‘ I was  too  much  ashamed  of  it,  sir,  seriously.’ 

Literal  truth  that,  I am  sure. 

‘ And  how  did  he  find  it  out  ? ’ 

‘ I don’t  know  myself,  sir.  He  never  would  tell  me.’ 
Literal  truth  again,  my  dear  father,  as  you  can 
testify. 

‘ But  how  did  you  get  it  printed  ? ’ 

‘I  sent  it,  sir,  to  a bookseller  my  father  never 
employed,  and  that  I never  had  seen  myself,  Mr  Lowndes, 
in  full  hope  that  by  that  means  he  never  would  hear 
of  it.’ 

‘ But  how  could  you  manage  that  ? ’ 

‘ By  means  of  a brother,  sir.’ 

‘ Oh,  you  confided  in  a brother,  then  ? ’ 

‘ Yes,  sir — that  is,  for  the  publication.’ 

‘ What  entertainment  you  must  have  had  from  hear- 
ing people’s  conjectures  before  you  were  known!  Do 
you  remember  any  of  them  ? ’ 

‘ Yes,  sir,  many.’ 

‘ And  what  ? ’ 

‘ I heard  that  Mr  Baretti  laid  a wager  it  was  written 
by  a man ; for  no  woman,  he  said,  could  have  kept  her 
own  counsel.’ 

This  diverted  him  extremely. 

‘ But  how  was  it,’  he  continued,  ‘ you  thought  most 
likely  for  your  father  to  discover  you  ? ’ 

‘Sometimes,  sir,  I have  supposed  I must  have  dropt 
some  of  the  manuscript;  sometimes,  that  one  of  my 
sisters  betrayed  me.’ 

‘ Oh,  your  sister  ? what ! not  your  brother  ? ’ 

‘ No,  sir,  he  could  not,  for’ 

I was  going  on,  but  he  laughed  so  much  I could  not 
be  heard,  exclaiming:  ‘Vastly  well!  I see  you  are  of 
Mr  Baretti’s  mind,  and  think  your  brother  could  keep 
your  secret,  and  not  your  sister.  Well,  but,’  cried  he 
presently,  ‘how  was  it  first  known  to  you,  you  were 
betrayed  ? ’ 

‘By  a letter,  sir,  from  another  sister.  I was  very 
ill,  and  in  the  country ; and  she  wrote  me  word  that 
my  father  had  taken  up  a review,  in  which  the  book 
was  mentioned,  and  had  put  his  finger  upon  its  name, 
and  said  : “ Contrive  to  get  that  book  for  me.”  ’ 

147 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


‘And  when  he  got  it,’  cried  the  king,  ‘he  told  me 
he  was  afraid  of  looking  at  it,  and  never  can  I forget 
his  face  when  he  mentioned  his  first  opening  it.  But 
you  have  not  kept  your  pen  unemployed  all  this 
time  ? ’ 

‘ Indeed  I have,  sir.’ 

‘ But  why  ? ’ 

‘ I — I believe  I have  exhausted  myself,  sir.* 

He  laughed  aloud  at  this,  and  went  and  told  it  to 
Mrs  Delany,  civilly  treating  a plain  fact  as  a mere 
bon  mot. 

Then  returning  to  me  again,  he  said  more  seriously : 
‘But  you  have  not  determined  against  writing  any 
more  ?’ 

‘N — o,  sir.’ 

‘ You  have  made  no  vow — no  real  resolution  of  that 
sort?’ 

‘ No,  sir.’ 

‘ You  only  wait  for  inclination  ? ’ 

How  admirably  Mr  Cambridge’s  speech  might  have 
come  in  here. 

‘No,  sir.’ 

A very  civil  little  bow  spoke  him  pleased  with  this 
answer,  and  he  went  again  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  he  chiefly  stood,  and,  addressing  us  in  general, 
talked  upon  the  different  motives  of  writing,  concluding 
with : ‘ I believe  there  is  no  constraint  to  be  put  upon 
real  genius ; nothing  but  inclination  can  set  it  to  work. 
Miss  Burney,  however,  knows  best.’  And  then  hastily 
returning  to  me,  he  cried  : ‘ What ! what  ? ’ 

‘No,  sir,  I — I — believe  not,  certainly,’  quoth  I very 
awkwardly,  for  I seemed  taking  a violent  compliment 
only  as  my  due ; but  I knew  not  how  to  put  him  off 
as  I would  another  person. 

Sarah  Harriet  Burney,  half-sister  to  Madame 
d’Arblav,  is  authoress  of  several  novels,  Geraldine, 
Fauconberg , Country  Neighbours,  &c.  This  lady  has 
copied  the  style  of  her  relative,  but  has  not  her 
raciness  of  humour,  or  power  of  painting. 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 

In  1784:  there  appeared,  in  French,  the  rich 
oriental  story  entitled  Vathek : an  Arabian  Tale. 
A translation  into  English,  with  notes  critical  and 
explanatory,  was  published  in  1786,  and  the  tale, 
revised  and  corrected,  has  since  passed  through 
many  editions.  Byron  praises  the  work  for  its 
correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and 
power  of  imagination.  ‘As  an  Eastern  tale,’  he 
says,  ‘ even  Basselas  must  bow  before  it : his 
Happy  Valley  will  not  bear  a comparison  with 
the  Hall  of  Eblis.’  It  would  be  difficult  to  institute 
a comparison  between  scenes  so  very  dissimilar — 
almost  as  different  as  the  garden  of  Eden  from 
Pandemonium;  but  Vathek  seems  to  have  power- 
fully impressed  the  youthful  fancy  of  Byron.  It 
contains  some  minute  Eastern  painting  and  charac- 
ters— a Giaour  being  of  the  number — uniting  energy 
and  fire  with  voluptuousness,  such  as  Byron  loved 
to  draw.  The  Caliph  Vathek,  who  had  ‘ sullied 
himself  with  a thousand  crimes,’  like  the  Corsair, 
is  a magnificent  Childe  Harold,  and  may  have 
suggested  the  character. 

William  Beckford,  the  author  of  this  remark- 
able work,  was  bom  in  1759.  He  had  as  great  a 
passion  for  building  towers  as  the  caliph  himself, 
and  both  his  fortune  and  his  genius  have  some- 
thing of  oriental  splendour  about  them.  His  father, 
Alderman  Beckford  of  Fonthill,  was  leader  of  the 
city  of  London  opposition  in  the  stormy  times  of 
Wilkes,  Chatham,  and  the  American  discontents. 
(See  notice  of  Horne  Tookc  in  a subsequent  part 
143 


of  this  volume.)  The  father  died  in  1770,  and  when 
the  young  heir  came  of  age,  he  succeeded  to  a 
fortune  of  a million  of  money,  and  £100,000  a year. 
His  education  had  been  desultory  and  irregular — 
partly  under  tutors  at  Geneva — but  a literary  taste 
was  soon  manifested.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he 
wrote  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters  (published 
in  1780),  being  a burlesque  guide-book  to  the 
gallery  of  pictures  at  Fonthill,  designed  to  mislead 
the  old  housekeeper  and  ignorant  visitors.  Shortly 
afterwards,  he  wrote  some  account  of  his  early 
travels,  under  the  title  of  Dreams,  Waking  Thoughts, 
and  Incidents,  but  though  printed,  this  work  was 
never  published.  In  1780,  he  made  a tour  to  the 
continent,  which  formed  the  subject  of  a series  of 
letters,  picturesque  and  poetical,  which  he  published 
(though  not  until  1835)  under  the  title  of  Italy, 
with  Sketches  of  Spain  and  Portugal.  The  high-bred 
ease,  voluptuousness,  and  classic  taste  of  some 
of  these  descriptions  and  personal  adventures  have 
a striking  and  unique  effect.  In  1782,  he  wrote 
Vathek.  ‘It  took  me  three  days  and  two  nights 
of  hard  labour,’  he  said,  ‘ and  I never  took  off  my 
clothes  the  whole  time.’  The  description  of  the 
hall  of  Eblis  was  copied  from  the  hall  of  old  Fonthill, 
and  the  female  characters  were  portraits  of  the 
Fonthill  domestics  idealised.  The  work,  however, 
was  partly  taken  from  a French  romance,  Abdallah ; 
ou,  les  Aventures  du  Fils  de  Hanifi  Paris,  1723.  In 
1783,  Beckford  married  a daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Aboyne,  who  died  three  years  afterwards,  leaving 
two  daughters,  one  of  whom  became  Duchess  of 
Hamilton.  He  sat  for  some  time  in  parliament 
for  the  borougli  of  Hindon,  but  his  love  of  magni- 
ficence and  his  voluptuary  tastes  were  ill  suited  to 
English  society.  In  1794,  he  set  off  for  Portugal 
with  a retinue  of  thirty  servants,  and  was  absent 
about  two  years.  He  is  said  to  have  built  a palace 
at  Cintra — that  ‘ glorious  Eden  of  the  south,’  and 
Byron  has  referred  to  it  in  the  first  canto  of  Childe 
Harold: 

There  thou,  too,  Vathek  ! England’s  wealthiest  son, 

Once  formed  thy  paradise. 

The  poet,  however,  had  been  misled  by  inaccurate 
information:  Beckford  built  no  ‘paradise’  at  Cintra. 
But  he  has  left  a literary  memorial  of  his  resi- 
dence in  Portugal  in  his  Recollections  of  an  Excursion 
to  the  Monasteries  of  Alcobaga  and  Batalha,  published 
in  1835.  The  excursion  was  made  in  June  1794,  at 
the  desire  of  the  prince-regent  of  Portugal.  The 
monastery  of  Alcoba9a  was  the  grandest  ecclesias- 
tical edifice  in  that  country,  with  paintings,  antique 
tombs,  and  fountains ; the  noblest  architecture,  in 
the  finest  situation,  and  inhabited  by  monks  who 
lived  like  princes.  The  whole  of  these  sketches 
are  interesting,  and  present  a gorgeous  picture  of 
ecclesiastical  pomp  and  wealth.  Mr  Beckford  and 
his  friends  were  conducted  to  the  kitchen  by  the 
abbot,  in  his  costume  of  High  Almoner  of  Portugal, 
that  they  might  see  what  preparations  had  been 
made  to  regale  them.  The  kitchen  was  worthy  of 
a Vathek!  ‘Through  the  centre  of  the  immense 
and  nobly  groined  hall,  not  less  than  sixty  feet  in 
diameter,  ran  a brisk  rivulet  of  the  clearest  water, 
containing  every  sort  and  size  of  the  finest  river-fish. 
On  one  side,  loads  of  game  and  venison  were  heaped 
up ; on  the  other,  vegetables  and  fruits  in  endless 
variety.  Beyond  a long  line  of  stores,  extended  a 
row  of  ovens,  and  close  to  them  hillocks  of  wheaten 
flour,  whiter  than  snow,  rocks  of  sugar,  jars  of  the 
purest  oil,  and  pastry  in  vast  abundance,  which  a 
numerous  tribe  of  lay-brothers  and  their  attendants 
were  rolling  out,  and  puffing  up  into  a hundred 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  BECKFOM). 


different  shapes,  singing  all  the  while  as  blithely  as 
larks  in  a cornfield.’  Alas ! this  regal  splendour  is 
all  gone.  The  magnificent  monastery  of  Alcoba^a 
was  plundered  and  given  to  the  flames  by  the 
French  troops  under  Massena  in  1811. 

In  the  year  1796,  Mr  Beckford  returned  to  Eng- 
land, and  took  up  his  residence  permanently  on  his 
Wiltshire  estate.  Two  burlesque  novels  from  his 
pen  belong  to  this  period — Modern  Novel  Writing , 
or  the  Elegant  Enthusiast , two  volumes,  1796 ; and 
Azemia , two  volumes,  1797.  They  are  extravagant 
and  worthless  productions.  At  Fonthill,  Beckford 
lived  in  a style  of  oriental  luxury  and  vice.  He 
built  a wall  of  nine  miles  round  his  property  to 
shut  out  visitors ; but  in  1800  his  gates  were 
thrown  open  to  receive  Lord  Nelson  and  Sir  William 
and  Lady  Hamilton,  in  honour  of  whom  he  gave  a 
series  of  splendid  fetes.  Next  year  he  sold  the 
furniture  and  pictures  of  Fonthill,  pulled  down  the 
old  paternal  mansion,  with  its  great  hall,  and  for 
years  employed  himself  in  rearing  the  magnificent 
but  unsubstantial  Gothic  structure  known  as  Fonthill 
Abbey,  and  in  embellishing  the  surrounding  grounds. 
The  latter  were  laid  out  in  the  most  exquisite  style 
of  landscape-gardening,  aided  by  the  natural  in- 
equality and  beauty  of  the  ground,  and  enriched  by 
a lake  and  fine  silvan  scenery.  The  grand  tower 
of  the  abbey  was  260  feet  high,  and  occupied  the 
owner's  care  and  anxiety  for  years.  The  structure 
was  like  a romance.  ‘ On  one  occasion,  when  this 
lofty  tower  wras  pushing  its  crest  towards  heaven,  an 
elevated  part  of  it  caught  fire,  and  was  destroyed. 
The  sight  was  sublime;  and  we  have  heard  that 
it  was  a spectacle  which  the  owner  of  the  mansion 
enjoyed  with  as  much  composure  as  if  the  flames 
had  not  been  devouring  what  it  would  cost  a fortune 
to  repair.  The  building  was  carried  on  by  him  with 
an  energy  and  enthusiasm  of  which  duller  minds 
can  hardly  form  a conception.  At  one  period,  every 
cart  and  wagon  in  the  district  were  pressed  into  the 
service,  though  all  the  agricultural  labour  of  the 
county  stood  still.  At  another,  even  the  royal 
works  of  St  George’s  Chapel,  Windsor,  were  aban- 
doned, that  460  men  might  be  employed  night  and 
day  on  Fonthill  Abbey.  These  men  were  made 
to  relieve  each  other  by  regular  watches ; and 
during  the  longest  and  darkest  nights  of  winter, 
the  astonished  traveller  might  see  the  tower  rising 
under  their  hands,  the  trowel  and  torch  being  asso- 
ciated for  that  purpose.  This  must  have  had  a very 
extraordinary  appearance ; and  we  are  told  that  it 
was  another  of  those  exhibitions  which  Mr  Beckford 
was  fond  of  contemplating.  He  is  represented  as . 
surveying  the  work  thus  expedited,  the  busy  levy 
of  masons,  the  high  and  giddy  dancing  of  the  lights, 
and  the  strange  effects  produced  upon  the  architec- 
ture and  woods  below,  from  one  of  the  eminences 
in  the  walks,  and  wasting  the  coldest  hours  of 
December  darkness  in  feasting  his  sense  with  this 
display  of  almost  superhuman  power.’  * These 

* Literary  Gazelle,  1822.— Hazlitt,  who  visited  the  spot  at 
the  same  time,  says : ‘ Fonthill  Abbey,  after  being  enveloped 
in  impenetrable  mystery  for  a length  of  years,  has  been  un- 
expectedly thrown  open  to  the  vulgar  gaze,  and  has  lost  none 
of  its  reputation  for  magnificence— though  perhaps  its  vision- 
ary glory,  its  classic  renown,  have  vanished  from  the  public 
mind  for  ever.  It  is,  in  a word,  a desert  of  magnificence,  a 
glittering  waste  of  laborious  idleness,  a cathedral  turned  into 
a toy-shop,  an  immense  museum  of  all  that  is  most  curious 
and  costly,  and,  at  the  same  time,  most  worthless,  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  art  and  nature.  Ships  of  pearl  and  seas  of  atnber 
are  scarce  a fable  here— a nautilus’s  shell,  surmounted  with  a 
gilt  triumph  of  Neptune — tables  of  agate,  cabinets  of  ebony,  and 
precious  stones,  painted  windows  shedding  a gaudy  crimson 


details  are  characteristic  of  the  author  of  Vathelc , 
and  form  an  interesting  illustration  of  his  peculiar 
taste  and  genius.  In  1822,  Mr  Beckford  sold 
Fonthill,  and  went  to  live  at  Bath.  There  he 
erected  another  costly  building,  Lansdowne  House, 
which  had  a tower  a hundred  feet  high,  crowned 
with  a model  of  the  temple  of  Lysicrates  at 
Athens,  made  of  cast-iron.  He  had  a magnificent 
gallery  built  over  a junction  archway;  the  grounds 
were  decorated  with  temples,  vases,  and  statues ; 
and  the  interior  of  the  house  was  filled  with 
rare  paintings,  sculptures,  old  china,  and  other 
articles  of  vertu.  His  old  porter,  a dwarf,  con- 
tinued to  attend  his  master  as  at  Fonthill,  and  the 
same  course  of  voluptuous  solitude  was  pursued, 

‘ though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh.’  Looking 
from  his  new  tower  one  morning,  Beckford  found 
the  Fonthill  tower  gone!  He  was  not  unprepared 
for  the  catastrophe.  The  master  of  the  works  at 
Fonthill  on  his  death-bed  confessed  that  he  had  not 
built  the  tower  on  an  arched  foundation ; it  was 
built  on  the  sand,  he  said,  and  would  some  day  fall 
down.  Beckford  communicated  this  to  the  pur- 
chaser, Mr  Farquhar ; but  the  new  proprietor,  with 
a philosophic  coolness  that  Beckford  must  have 
admired,  observed  he  was  quite  satisfied  it  would 
last  his  time.  It  fell,  however,  shortly  afterwards, 
filling  the  marble  court  with  the  ruins.  Of  the 
great  Abbey  only  one  turret-gallery  now  remains, 
and  the  princely  estate,  with  its  green  drive  of 
nine  miles,  has  been  broken  up  and  sold  as  three 
separate  properties.  Mr  Beckford  died  in  his 
house  at  Bath  on  the  2d  of  May  1844.  His 
body  was  enclosed  in  a sarcophagus  of  red  granite, 
inscribed  with  a passage  fromVathek:  ‘Enjoying 
humbly  the  most  precious  gift  of  heaven,  Hope.’ 
More  appropriately  might  have  been  engraved  on 
it  the  old  truth,  Vanitas  vanitatum , omnia  vanitas. 
Of  all  the  glories  and  prodigalities  of  the  English 
Sardanapalus,  his  slender  romance,  the  work  of 
three  days,  is  the  only  durable  memorial. 

The  outline  or  plot  of  Vathelc  possesses  all  the 
wildness  of  Arabian  fiction.  The  hero  is  the  grand- 
son of  Haroun  al  Raschid  ( Aaron  the  Just),  whose 
dominions  stretched  from  Africa  to  India.  He  is 
fearless,  proud,  inquisitive,  a gourmand,  fond  of  theo- 
logical controversy,  cruel  and  magnificent  in  his 
power  as  a caliph ; in  short,  an  Eastern  Henry  VIII. 
He  dabbles,  moreover,  in  the  occult  sciences,  and 
interprets  the  stars  and  planetary  influences  from 
the  top  of  his  high  tower.  In  these  mysterious  arts 
the  caliph  is  assisted  by  his  mother,  Carathis,  a 
Greek,  a woman  of  superior  genius.  Their  ambi- 
tion and  guilt  render  them  a prey  to  a Giaour — a 
supernatural  personage,  who  plays  an  important 
part  in  the  drama,  and  hurries  the  caliph  to 
destruction.  But  the  character  of  Vathek,  and  the 
splendour  of  his  palaces,  is  described  with  such 
picturesque  distinctness,  that  we  shall  extract  some 
of  the  opening  sentences. 

light,  satin  borders,  marble  floors,  and  lamps  of  solid  gold 
—Chinese  pagodas  and  Persian  tapestry— all  the  splendour  of 
Solomon’s  temple  is  displayed  to  the  view  in  miniature— what- 
ever is  far-fetched  and  dear-bought,  rich  in  the  materials, 
or  rare  and  difficult  in  the  workmanship — but  scarce  one 
genuine  work  of  art,  one  solid  proof  of  taste,  ono  lofty  relic 
of  sentiment  or  imagination.’  The  collection  of  bijouterie  and 
articles  of  vertu  was  allowed  to  be  almost  unprecedented  in 
extent  and  value.  Mr  Beckford  disposed  of  Fonthill,  in  1822, 
to  Mr  Farquhar,  a gentleman  who  had  amassed  a fortune  in 
India,  for  £330,000  or  £350,000,  the  late  proprietor  retaining 
only  his  family  pictures,  and  a few  books. — Gentleman's 
Magazine,  Oct.  1822.  Mr  Beckford  is  said  to  havo  spent 
£273,000  on  Fonthill. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


[Description  of  the  Caliph  Vathek  and  his  Magnificent 
Palaces .] 

Vathek,  ninth  caliph  of  the  race  of  the  Abassides, 
was  the  son  of  Motassem,  and  the  grandson  of  Haroun 
al  Easchid.  From  an  early  accession  to  the  throne, 
and  the  talents  he  possessed  to  adorn  it,  his  subjects 
were  induced  to  expect  that  his  reign  would  be  long 
and  happy.  His  figure  was  pleasing  and  majestic ; but 
when  he  was  angry,  one  of  his  eyes  became  so  terrible 
that  no  person  could  bear  to  behold  it ; and  the  wretch 
upon  whom  it  was  fixed  instantly  fell  backward,  and 
sometimes  expired.  For  fear,  however,  of  depopulating 
his  dominions,  and  making  his  palace  desolate,  he  but 
rarely  gave  way  to  his  anger. 

Being  much  addicted  to  women,  and  the  pleasures 
of  the  table,  he  sought  by  his  affability  to  procure 
agreeable  companions ; and  he  succeeded  the  better 
as  his  generosity  was  unbounded  and  his  indulgences 
unrestrained ; for  he  did  not  think,  with  the  caliph 
Omar  Ben  Abdalaziz,  that  it  was  necessary  to  make  a 
hell  of  this  world  to  enjoy  paradise  in  the  next. 

He  surpassed  in  magnificence  all  his  predecessors. 
The  palace  of  Alkoremi,  which  his  father,  Motassem, 
had  erected  on  the  hill  of  Pied  Horses,  and  which 
commanded  the  whole  city  of  Samarah,  was  in  his  idea 
far  too  scanty ; he  added,  therefore,  five  wings,  or  rather 
other  palaces,  which  he  destined  for  the  particular 
gratification  of  each  of  the  senses.  In  the  first  of  these 
were  tables  continually  covered  with  the  most  exquisite 
dainties,  which  were  supplied  both  by  night  and  by 
day,  according  to  their  constant  consumption ; whilst 
j the  most  delicious  wines,  and  the  choicest  cordials, 

I flowed  forth  from  a hundred  fountains  that  were  never 
exhausted.  This  palace  was  called  The  Eternal,  or 
Unsatiating  Banquet.  The  second  was  styled  The 
Temple  of  Melody,  or  The  Nectar  of  the  SouL  It  was 
inhabited  by  the  most  skilful  musicians  and  admired 
; poets  of  the  time,  who  not  only  displayed  their  talents 
j within,  but,  dispersing  in  bands  without,  caused  every 
I surrounding  scene  to  reverberate  their  songs,  which  were 
j continually  varied  in  the  most  delightful  succession. 

The  palace  named  The  Delight  of  the  Eyes,  or  The 
| Support  of  Memory,  was  one  entire  enchantment. 
Rarities,  collected  from  every  corner  of  the  earth,  were 
there  found  in  such  profusion  as  to  dazzle  and  confound, 
but  for  the  order  in  which  they  were  arranged.  One 
gallery  exhibited  the  pictures  of  the  celebrated  Mani, 
and  statues  that  seemed  to  be  alive.  Here  a well- 
' managed  perspective  attracted  the  sight;  there  the 
magic  of  optics  agreeably  deceived  it ; whilst  the  natur- 
alist, on  his  part,  exhibited  in  their  several  classes  the 
various  gifts  that  Heaven  had  bestowed  on  our  globe. 
In  a word,  Vathek  omitted  nothing  in  this  palace  that 
might  gratify  the  curiosity  of  those  who  resorted  to  it, 
, although  he  was  not  able  to  satisfy  his  own,  for  of  all 
i men  he  was  the  most  curious. 

The  Palace  of  Perfumes,  which  was  termed  likewise 
j The  Incentive  to  Pleasure,  consisted  of  various  halls, 
where  the  different  perfumes  which  the  earth  produces 
j were  kept  perpetually  burning  in  censers  of  gold, 
i Flambeaux  and  aromatic  lamps  were  here  lighted  in 
| open  day.  But  the  too  powerful  effects  of  this  agree- 
I able  delirium  might  be  alleviated  by  descending  into 
I an  immense  garden,  where  an  assemblage  of  every 
I fragrant  flower  diffused  through  the  air  the  purest 
j odours. 

The  fifth  place,  denominated  The  Retreat  of  Mirth, 
i or  the  Dangerous,  was  frequented  by  troops  of  young 
; females,  beautiful  as  the  Houris,  and  not  less  seducing, 
who  never  failed  to  receive  with  caresses  all  whom 
the  caliph  allowed  to  approach  them,  and  enjoy  a few 
hours  of  their  company. 

Notwithstanding  the  sensuality  in  which  Vathek 
indulged,  he  experienced  no  abatement  in  the  love  of 
150 


his  people,  who  thought  that  a sovereign  giving  him- 
self up  to  pleasure  was  as  able  to  govern  as  one  who 
declared  himself  an  enemy  to  it.  But  the  unquiet  and 
impetuous  disposition  of  the  caliph  would  not  allow  him 
to  rest  there.  He  had  studied  so  much  for  his  amuse- 
ment in  the  lifetime  of  his  father  as  to  acquire  a great 
deal  of  knowledge,  though  not  a sufficiency  to  satisfy 
himself ; for  he  wished  to  know  everything,  even 
sciences  that  did  not  exist.  He  was  fond  of  engaging 
in  disputes  with  the  learned,  but  did  not  allow  them 
to  push  their  opposition  with  warmth.  He  stopped 
with  presents  the  mouths  of  those  whose  mouths  could 
be  stopped;  whilst  others,  whom  his  liberality  was 
unable  to  subdue,  he  sent  to  prison  to  cool  their  blood 
— a remedy  that  often  succeeded. 

Vathek  discovered  also  a predilection  for  theological 
controversy ; but  it  was  not  with  the  orthodox  that  he 
usually  held.  By  this  means  he  induced  the  zealots  to 
oppose  him,  and  then  persecuted  them  in  return ; for 
he  resolved,  at  any  rate,  to  have  reason  on  his  side. 

The  great  prophet,  Mohammed,  whose  vicars  the 
caliphs  are,  beheld  with  indignation  from  his  abode  in 
the  seventh  heaven  the  irreligious  conduct  of  such  a 
vicegerent.  ‘Let  us  leave  him  to  himself,’  said  he  to 
the  genii,  who  are  always  ready  to  receive  his  com- 
mands ; ‘ let  us  see  to  what  lengths  his  folly  and  impiety 
will  carry  him ; if  he  run  into  excess,  we  shall  know 
how  to  chastise  him.  Assist  him,  therefore,  to  com- 
plete the  tower,  which,  in  imitation  of  Nimrod,  he 
hath  begun;  not,  like  that  great  warrior,  to  escape 
being  drowned,  but  from  the  insolent  curiosity  of  I 
penetrating  the  secrets  of  Heaven : he  will  not  divine 
the  fate  that  awaits  him.’ 

The  genii  obeyed;  and,  when  the  workmen  had 
raised  their  structure  a cubit  in  the  daytime,  two 
cubits  more  were  added  in  the  night.-  The  expedition 
with  which  the  fabric  arose  was  not  a little  flattering 
to  the  vanity  of  Vathek : he  fancied  that  even  insen- 
sible matter  shewed  a forwardness  to  subserve  his 
designs,  not  considering  that  the  successes  of  the  foolish 
and  wicked  form  the  first  rod  of  their  chastisement. 

His  pride  arrived  at  its  height  when,  having  as- 
cended for  the  first  time  the  fifteen  hundred  stairs  of 
his  tower,  he  cast  his  eyes  below,  and  beheld  men  not 
larger  than  pismires,  mountains  than  shells,  and  cities 
than  bee-hives.  The  idea  which  such  an  elevation 
inspired  of  his  own  grandeur  completely  bewildered 
him ; he  was  almost  ready  to  adore  himself,  till,  lifting 
his  eyes  upward,  he  saw  the  stars  as  high  above  him  as 
they  appeared  when  he  stood  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  He  consoled  himself,  however,  for  this  intrud- 
ing and  unwelcome  perception  of  his  littleness,  with 
the  thought  of  being  great  in  the  eyes  of  others;  and 
flattered  himself  that  the  light  of  his  mind  would 
extend  beyond  the  reach  of  his  sight,  and  extort  from 
the  stars  the  decrees  of  his  destiny. 

After  some  horrible  sacrifices,  related  with  great 
power,  Carathis  reads  from  a roll  of  parchment  an 
injunction  that  Vathek  should  depart  from  his 
palace  surrounded  by  all  the  pageants  of  majesty, 
and  set  forward  on  his  way  to  Istakar.  ‘There,’ 
added  the  writing  of  the  mysterious  Giaour,  ‘I 
await  thy  coming:  that  is  the  region  of  wonders: 
there  shalt  thou  receive  the  diadem  of  Gian  Ben 
Gian,  the  talismans  of  Soliman,  and  the  treasures 
of  the  pre-adamite  sultans : there  shalt  thou  be 
solaced  with  all  kinds  of  delight.  But  beware  how 
thou  enterest  any  dwelling  on  thy  route,  or  thou 
shalt  feel  the  effects  of  my  anger.’  The  degenerate 
commander  of  the  true  believers  sets  off*  on  his 
journey  with  much  pomp.  Carathis  remains,  but 
gives  the  caliph  a series  of  tablets,  fraught  with 
supernatural  qualities,  which  he  is  to  consult  on  all 
emergencies.  Vathek,  to  conciliate  the  spirits  of 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 


the  subterranean  palace,  resolved  that  his  expe- 
dition should  be  uncommonly  splendid.  ‘ The  great 
standard  of  the  caliphat  was  displayed ; twenty  thou- 
sand lances  shone  round  it ; and  the  caliph,  treading 
on  the  cloth  of  gold  which  had  been  spread  for  his 
feet,  ascended  his  litter  amidst  the  general  accla- 
mations of  his  subjects.’  The  impious  enterprise 
is  interrupted  by  various  portentous  omens — by 
darkness,  fire,  and  tempest— and  at  length  the 
party  get  bewildered  among  the  mountains.  The 
good  Emir  Eakreddin,  hearing  of  their  perplexity, 
sends  two  dwarfs  laden  with  fruit  to  regale  the 
commander  of  the  faithful,  and  invites  the  expe- 
dition to  repose  in  his  ‘happy  valley.’  Vathek 
consults  his  tablets,  which  forbid  such  a visit ; but 
rather  than  perish  in  the  deserts  with  thirst,  he 
resolves  to  go  and  refresh  himself  in  the  delicious 
valley  of  melons  and  cucumbers.  Here  the  caliph 
becomes  enamoured  of  the  emir’s  daughter,  the 
lovely  Nouronihar,  who  is  betrothed  to  her  young 
cousin,  Gulchenrouz.  His  passion  is  returned,  and, 
while  luxuriating  in  the  valley,  screened  from  the 
eyes  of  intruders,  listening  to  the  voice  and  lute  of 
Nouronihar,  drinking  the  fragrant  and  delicious 
wine  of  Shiraz,  ‘which  had  been  hoarded  up  in 
bottles  prior  to  the  birth  of  Mohammed,’  or  eating 
manchets  prepared  by  the  hands  of  Nouronihar, 
Vathek  entirely  forgot  the  object  of  his  expedition, 
and  his  desire  to  visit  the  palace  of  fire.  Carathis 
being  informed  of  the  fascination  which  detained 
him,  ordered  her  camel  and  attendants,  and  set  off 
for  Eakreddin.  There  she  encountered  her  sensual 
son,  and  prevailed  upon  him  to  continue  his  journey 
and  complete  his  adventure.  Nouronihar  accom- 
panies the  caliph  in  his  litter.  In  four  days  they 
reached  the  spacious  valley  of  Rocknabad,  and, 
having  devoted  two  days  to  its  pleasures,  proceeded 
towards  a large  plain,  from  whence  were  discern- 
ible, on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  the  dark  summits 
of  the  mountains  of  Istakar.  One  of  the  beneficent 
genii,  in  the  guise  of  a shepherd,  endeavours  to 
arrest  Vathek  in  his  mad  career,  and  warns  him 
that  beyond  the  mountains  Eblis  and  his  accursed 
dives  hold  their  infernal  empire.  That  moment,  he 
said,  was  the  last  of  grace  allowed  him,  and  as  soon 
as  the  sun,  then  obscured  by  clouds,  recovered  his 
splendour,  if  his  heart  was  not  changed,  the  time 
of  mercy  assigned  to  him  would  be  past  for  ever. 
Vathek  audaciously  spurned  from  him  the  warning 
and  the  counsel.  ‘Let  the  sun  appear,’  he  said; 
‘ let  him  illume  my  career ! it  matters  not  where  it 
may  end.’  At  the  approach  of  night,  most  of  his 
attendants  escaped;  but  Nouronihar,  whose  impa- 
tience, if  possible,  exceeded  his  own,  importuned 
him  to  hasten  his  march,  and  lavished  on  him  a 
thousand  caresses  to  beguile  all  reflection. 


[The  Hall  of  Eblis.] 

In  this  manner  they  advanced  by  moonlight  till  they 
came  within  view  of  the  two  towering  rocks  that  form  a 
kind  of  portal  to  the  valley,  at  the  extremity  of  which 
rose  the  vast  ruins  of  Istakar.  Aloft,  on  the  mountain, 
glimmered  the  fronts  of  various  royal  mausoleums,  the 
horror  of  which  was  deepened  by  the  shadows  of  night. 
They  passed  through  two  villages,  almost  deserted ; the 
only  inhabitants  remaining  being  a few  feeble  old  men, 
who,  at  the  sight  of  horses  and  litters,  fell  upon  their 
knees  and  cried  out : ‘ 0 heaven  ! is  it  then  by  these 
phantoms  that  we  have  been  for  six  months  tormented  ! 
Alas  ! it  was  from  the  terror  of  these  spectres,  and 
the  noise  beneath  the  mountains,  that  our  people  have 
fled  and  left  us  at  the  mercy  of  the  maleficent  spirits  !’ 
The  caliph,  to  whom  these  complaints  were  but  unpro- 


mising auguries,  drove  over  the  bodies  of  these  wretched 
old  men,  and  at  length  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace 
of  black  marble.  There  he  descended  from  his  litter, 
handing  down  Nouronihar;  both,  with  beating  hearts, 
stared  wildly  around  them,  and  expected,  with  an 
apprehensive  shudder,  the  approach  of  the  Giaour. 
But  nothing  as  yet  announced  his  appearance. 

A deathlike  stillness  reigned  over  the  mountain  and 
through  the  air.  The  moon  dilated  on  a vast  platform 
the  shades  of  the  lofty  columns  which  reached  from  the 
terrace  almost  to  the  clouds.  The  gloomy  watch-towers, 
whose  number  could  not  be  counted,  were  covered  by 
no  roof;  and  their  capitals,  of  an  architecture  unknown 
in  the  records  of  the  earth,  served  as  an  asylum  for  the 
birds  of  night,  which,  alarmed  at  the  approach  of  such 
visitants,  fled  away  croaking. 

The  chief  of  the  eunuchs,  trembling  with  fear, 
besought  Vathek  that  a fire  might  be  kindled.  ‘No,’ 
replied  he,  ‘there  is  no  time  left  to  think  of  such  trifles ; 
abide  where  thou  art,  and  expect  my  commands.’ 
Having  thus  spoken,  he  presented  his  hand  to  Nou- 
ronihar, and,  ascending  the  steps  of  a vast  staircase, 
reached  the  terrace,  which  was  flagged  with  squares  of 
marble,  and  resembled  a smooth  expanse  of  water, 
upon  whose  surface  not  a blade  of  grass  ever  dared  to 
vegetate.  On  the  right  rose  the  watch-towers,  ranged 
before  the  ruins  of  an  immense  palace,  whose  walls 
were  embossed  with  various  figures.  In  front  stood 
forth  the  colossal  forms  of  four  creatures,  composed  of 
the  leopard  and  the  griffin,  and  though  but  of  stone, 
inspired  emotions  of  terror.  Near  these  were  distin-  * 
guished,  by  the  splendour  of  the  moon,  which  streamed 
full  on  the  place,  characters  like  those  on  the  sabres  of 
the  Giaour,  and  which  possessed  the  same  virtue  of 
changing  every  moment.  These,  after  vacillating  for 
some  time,  fixed  at  last  in  Arabic  letters,  and  prescribed 
to  the  caliph  the  following  words : ‘ Vathek  ! thou  hast 
violated  the  conditions  of  my  parchment,  and  deserveth 
to  be  sent  back ; but  in  favour  to  thy  companion,  and, 
as  the  meed  for  what  thou  hast  done  to  obtain  it,  Eblis 
permitteth  that  the  portal  of  his  palace  shall  be  opened, 
and  the  subterranean  fire  will  receive  thee  into  the 
number  of  its  adorers.’ 

He  scarcely  had  read  these  words  before  the  moun- 
tain against  which  the  terrace  was  reared  trembled, 
and  the  watch-towers  were  ready  to  topple  headlong 
upon  them.  The  rock  yawned,  and  disclosed  within  it 
a staircase  of  polished  marble  that  seemed  to  approach 
the  abyss.  Upon  each  stair  were  planted  two  large 
torches,  like  those  Nouronihar  had  seen  in  her  vision ; 
the  camphorated  vapour  of  which  ascended  and  gathered 
itself  into  a cloud  under  the  hollow  of  the  vault.  * . * 

The  caliph  and  Nouronihar  beheld  each  other  with 
amazement  at  finding  themselves  in  a place  which, 
though  roofed  with  a vaulted  ceiling,  was  so  spacious 
and  lofty  that  at  first  they  took  it  for  an  immeasurable 
plain.  But  their  eyes  at  length  growing  familiar  to  the 
grandeur  of  the  surrounding  objects,  they  extended 
their  view  to  those  at  a distance,  and  discovered  rows 
of  columns  and  arcades  which  gradually  diminished  till 
they  terminated  in  a point  radiant  as  the  sun  when  he 
darts  his  last  beams  athwart  the  ocean.  The  pavement, 
strewed  over  with  gold-dust  and  saffron,  exhaled  so 
subtle  an  odour  as  almost  overpowered  them.  They, 
however,  went  on,  and  observed  an  infinity  of  censers, 
in  which  ambergris  and  the  wood  of  aloes  were  continu- 
ally burning.  Between  the  several  columns  were  placed 
tables,  each  spread  with  a profusion  of  viands,  and 
wines  of  every  species  sparkling  in  vases  of  crystal.  A 
throng  of  genii  and  other  fantastic  spirits  of  either  sex 
danced  lasciviously  at  the  sound  of  music  which  issued 
from  beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  this  immense  hall  a vast  multitude 
was  incessantly  passing,  who  severally  kept  their  right 
hands  on  their  hearts,  without  once  regarding  anything 
around  them.  They  had  all  the  livid  paleness  of  death. 


from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Their  eyes,  deep  sunk  in  their  sockets,  resembled  those 
phosphoric  meteors  that  glimmer  by  night  in  places  of 
interment.  Some  stalked  slowly  on,  absorbed  in  pro- 
found reverie ; some,  shrieking  with  agony,  ran  furiously 
about  like  tigers  wounded  with  poisoned  arrows;  whilst 
others,  grinding  their  teeth  in  rage,  foamed  along  more 
frantic  than  the  wildest  maniac.  They  all  avoided  each 
other ; and  though  surrounded  by  a multitude  that  no 
one  could  number,  each  wandered  at  random,  unheedful 
of  the  rest,  as  if  alone  on  a desert  where  no  foot  had 
trodden. 

Yathek  and  Nouronihar,  frozen  with  terror  at  a sight 
so  baleful,  demanded  of  the  Giaour  what  these  appear- 
ances might  mean,  and  why  these  ambulating  spectres 
never  withdrew  their  hands  from  their  hearts.  ‘ Perplex 
not  yourselves  with  so  much  at  once,’  replied  he  bluntly; 
‘ you  will  soon  be  acquainted  with  all ; let  us  haste  and 
present  you  to  Eblis.’  They  continued  their  way  through 
the  multitude,  but  notwithstanding  their  confidence  at 
first,  they  were  not  sufficiently  composed  to  examine 
with  attention  the  various  perspective  of  halls  and  of 
galleries  that  opened  on  the  right  hand  and  left,  which 
were  all  illuminated  by  torches  and  brasiers,  whose 
flames  rose  in  pyramids  to  the  centre  of  the  vault.  At 
length  they  came  to  a place  where  long  curtains, 
brocaded  with  crimson  and  gold,  fell  from  all  parts  in 
solemn  confusion.  Here  the  choirs  and  dances  were 

heard  no  longer.  The  light  which  glimmered  came 

from  afar. 

After  some  time,  Yathek  and  Nouronihar  perceived 
a gleam  brightening  through  the  drapery,  and  entered  a 
vast  tabernacle  hung  round  with  the  skins  of  leopards. 
An  infinity  of  elders,  with  streaming  beards,  and  afrits 
in  complete  armour,  had  prostrated  themselves  before 
I the  ascent  of  a lofty  eminence,  on  the  top  of  which, 

I upon  a globe  of  fire,  sat  the  formidable  Eblis.  His 
person  was  that  of  a young  man,  whose  noble  and 
regular  features  seemed  to  have  been  tarnished  by 
I malignant  vapours.  In  his  large  eyes  appeared  both 
pride  and  despair ; his  flowing  hair  retained  some 
resemblance  to  that  of  an  angel  of  light.  In  his  hand, 
which  thunder  had  blasted,  he  swayed  the  iron  sceptre 
that  causes  the  monster  Ouranbad,  the  afrits,  and  all 
the  powers  of  the  abyss,  to  tremble.  At  his  presence, 
the  heart  of  the  caliph  sunk  within  him,  and  he  fell 
I prostrate  on  his  face.  Nouronihar,  however,  though 
| greatly  dismayed,  could  not  help  admiring  the  person  of 
Eblis,  for  she  expected  to  have  seen  some  stupendous 
j giant.  Eblis,  with  a voice  more  mild  than  might  be 
imagined,  but  such  as  penetrated  the  soul  and  filled  it 
I with  the  deepest  melancholy,  said : ‘ Creatures  of  clay, 
j I receive  you  into  mine  empire ; ye  are  numbered 
! amongst  my  adorers ; enjoy  whatever  this  palace  affords ; 

; the  treasures  of  the  pre-adamite  sultans ; their  fulmin- 
| ating  sabres ; and  those  talismans  that  compel  the  dives 
I to  open  the  subterranean  expanses  of  the  mountain  of 
! Kaf,  which  communicate  with  these.  There,  insatiable 
as  your  curiosity  may  be,  shall  you  find  sufficient  objects 
to  gratify  it.  You  shall  possess  the  exclusive  privilege 
of  entering  the  fortresses  of  Aherman,  and  the  halls  of 
Argenk,  where  are  portrayed  all  creatures  endowed  with 
intelligence,  and  the  various  animals  that  inhabited  the 
earth  prior  to  the  creation  of  that  contemptible  being 
whom  ye  denominate  the  father  of  mankind.’ 

Vathek  and  Nouronihar,  feeling  themselves  revived 
and  encouraged  by  this  harangue,  eagerly  said  to  the 
Giaour : ‘ Bring  us  instantly  to  the  place  which  contains 
these  precious  talismans.’  ‘ Come,’  answered  this  wicked 
dive,  with,  his  malignant  grin,  ‘come  and  possess  all 
that  my  sovereign  hath  promised,  and  more.’  He  then 
conducted  them  into  a long  aisle  adjoining  the  taber- 
nacle, preceding  them  with  hasty  steps,  and  followed  by 
his  disciples  with  the  utmost  alacrity.  They  reached 
at  length  a hall  of  great  extent,  and  covered  with  a 
lofty  dome,  around  which  appeared  fifty  portals  of 
bronze,  secured  with  as  many  fastenings  of  iron.  A 
152 


funereal  gloom  prevailed  over  the  whole  scene.  Here, 
upon  two  beds  of  incorruptible  cedar,  lay  recumbent 
the  fleshless  forms  of  the  pre-adamite  kings,'  who  had 
been  monarchs  of  the  whole  earth.  They  still  possessed 
enough  of  life  to  be  conscious  of  their  deplorable  con- 
dition. Their  eyes  retained  a melancholy  motion ; they 
regarded  one  another  with  looks  of  the  deepest  dejection, 
each  holding  his  right  hand  motionless  on  his  heart. 
At  their  feet  were  inscribed  the  events  of  their  several 
reigns,  their  power,  their  pride,  and  their  crimes  ; Soli- 
man  Daki,  and  Soliman,  called  Gian  Ben  Gian,  who, 
after  having  chained  up  the  dives  in  the  dark  caverns 
of  Kaf,  became  so  presumptuous  as  to  doubt  of  the 
Supreme  Power.  All  these  maintained  great  state, 
though  not  to  be  compared  with  the  eminence  of 
Soliman  Ben  Daoud. 

This  king,  so  renowned  for  his  wisdom,  was  on  the 
loftiest  elevation,  and  placed  immediately  under  the 
dome.  He  appeared  to  possess  more  animation  than 
the  rest.  Though,  from  time  to  time,  he  laboured  with 
profound  sighs,  and,  like  his  companions,  kept  his  right 
hand  on  his  heart,  yet  his  countenance  was  more  com- 
posed, and  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  sullen  roar 
of  a cataract,  visible  in  part  through  one  of  the  grated 
portals.  This  was  the  only  sound  that  intruded  on  the 
silence  of  these  doleful  mansions.  A range  of  brazen 
vases  surrounded  the  elevation.  ‘Remove  the  covers 
from  these  cabalistic  depositories,’  said  the  Giaour  to 
Yathek,  ‘ and  avail  thyself  of  the  talismans  which  will 
break  asunder  all  these  gates  of  bronze,  and  not  only 
render  thee  master  of  the  treasures  contained  within 
them,  but  also  of  the  spirits  by  which  they  are 
guarded.’ 

The  caliph,  whom  this  ominous  preliminary  had 
entirely  disconcerted,  approached  the  vases  with  falter- 
ing footsteps,  and  was  ready  to  sink  with  terror  when 
he  heard  the  groans  of  Soliman.  As  he  proceeded,  a 
voice  from  the  livid  lips  of  the  prophet  articulated  these 
words : ‘ In  my  lifetime,  I filled  a magnificent  throne, 
having  on  my  right  hand  twelve  thousand  seats  of  gold, 
where  the  patriarchs  and  the  prophets  heard  my  doc- 
trines ; on  my  left,  the  sages  and  doctors,  upon  as  many 
thrones  of  silver,  were  present  at  all  my  decisions. 
Whilst  I thus  administered  justice  to  innumerable 
multitudes,  the  birds  of  the  air,  hovering  over  me, 
served  as  a canopy  against  the  rays  of  the  sun.  My 
people  flourished,  and  my  palace  rose  to  the  clouds.  I 
erected  a temple  to  the  Most  High,  which  was  the 
wonder  of  the  universe;  but  I basely  suffered  myself 
to  be  seduced  by  the  love  of  women,  and  a curiosity 
that  could  not  be  restrained  by  sublunary,  things.  I 
listened  to  the  counsels  of  Aherman,  and  the  daughter 
of  Pharaoh  ; and  adored  fire,  and  the  hosts  of  heaven. 
I forsook  the  holy  city,  and  commanded  the  genii  to 
rear  the  stupendous  palace  of  Istakar,  and  the  terrace 
of  the  watch-towers,  each  of  which  was  consecrated  to  a 
star.  There  for  a while  I enjoyed  myself  in  the  zenith 
of  glory  and  pleasure.  Not  only  men,  but  supernatural 
beings,  were  subject  also  to  my  will.  I began  to  think, 
as  these  unhappy  monarchs  around  had  already  thought, 
that  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  was  asleep,  when  at  once 
the  thunder  burst  my  structures  asunder,  and  preci- 
pitated me  hither,  where,  however,  I do  not  remain,  like 
the  other  inhabitants,  totally  destitute  of  hope  ; for  an 
angel  of  light  hath  revealed  that,  in  consideration  of  the 
piety  of  my  early  youth,  my  woes  shall  come  to  an  end 
when  this  cataract  shall  for  ever  cease  to  flow.  Till  then, 
I am  in  torments — ineffable  torments  ! an  unrelenting 
fire  preys  on  my  heart.’ 

Having  uttered  this  exclamation,  Soliman  raised  his 
hands  towards  Heaven  in  token  of  supplication  ; and  the 
caliph  discerned  through  his  bosom,  which  was  trans- 
parent as  crystal,  his  heart  enveloped  in  flames.  At  a 
sight  so  full  of  horror,  Nouronihar  fell  back,  like  one 
petrified,  into  the  arms  of  Yathek,  who  cried  out  with  a 
convulsive  sob : ‘ 0 Giaour  ! whither  hast  thou  brought 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  beckford. 

us  ! Allow  us  to  depart,  and  I will  relinquish  all  thou 
hast  promised.  0 Mohammed  ! remains  there  no  more 
mercy!’  ‘ ‘None,  none!’  replied  the  malicious  dive. 
‘ Know,  miserable  prince ! thou  art  now  in  the  abode 
of  vengeance  and  despair.  Thy  heart,  also,  will  be 
kindled  like  those  of  the  other  votaries  of  Eblis.  A few 
days  are  allotted  thee  previous  to  this  fatal  period  ; 
employ  them  as  thou  wilt ; recline  on  these  heaps  of 
gold  ; command  the  infernal  potentates ; range  at  thy 
pleasure  through  these  immense  subterranean  domains, 
no  barrier  shall  be  shut  against  thee.  As  for  me,  I 
have  fulfilled  my  mission  ; I now  leave  thee  to  thyself.’ 
At  these  words  he  vanished. 

The  caliph  and  Nouronihar  remained  in  the  most 
abject  affliction.  Their  tears  were  unable  to  flow,  and 
scarcely  could  they  support  themselves.  At  length, 
taking  each  other  despond  ingly  by  the  hand,  they  went 
falteringly  from  this  fatal  hall,  indifferent  which  way 
they  turned  their  steps.  Every  portal  opened  at  their 
approach.  The  dives  fell  prostrate  before  them.  Every 
reservoir  of  riches  was  disclosed  to  their  view,  but  they 
no  longer  felt  the  incentives  of  curiosity,  of  pride,  or 
avarice.  With  like  apathy  they  heard  the  chorus  of 
genii,  and  saw  the  stately  banquets  prepared  to  regale 
them.  They  went  wandering  on,  from  chamber  to 
chamber,  hall  to  hall,  and  gallery  to  gallery,  all  without 
bounds  or  limit ; all  distinguishable  by  the  same  lower- 
idg  gloom,  all  adorned  with  the  same  awful  grandeur,  all 
traversed  by  persons  in  search  of  repose  and  consolation, 
but  who  sought  them  in  vain  ; for  eveiy  one  carried 
within  him  a heart  tormented  in  flames.  Shunnect*  by 
these  various  sufferers,  who  seemed  by  their  looks  to  be 
upbraiding  the  partners  of  their  guilt,  they  withdrew 
from  them  to  wait,  in  direful  suspense,  the  moment 
which  should  render  them  to  each  other  the  like  objects 
of  terror. 

‘What!*  exclaimed  Nouronihar,  ‘will  the  time  come 
when  I shall  snatch  my  hand  from  thine  !’  ‘ Ah  !’  said 
Vathek,  ‘and  shall  my  eyes  ever  cease  to  drink  from 
thine  long  draughts  of  enjoyment ! Shall  the  moments 
of  our  reciprocal  ecstasies  be  reflected  on  with  horror ! 
It  was  not  thou  that  broughtst  me  hither ; the  prin- 
ciples by  which  Carathis  perverted  my  youth  have  been 
the  sole  cause  of  my  perdition ! It  is  but  right  she 
should  have  her  share  of  it.’  Having  given  vent  to 
| these  painful  expressions,  he  called  to  an  afrit,  who 
was  stirring  up  one  of  the  brasiers,  and  bade  him  fetch 
the  Princess  Carathis  from  the  palace  of  Samarah. 

After  issuing  these  orders,  the  caliph  and  Nouronihar 
continued  walking  amidst  the  silent  crowd,  till  they  heard 
voices  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Presuming  them  to 
proceed  from  some  unhappy  beings  who,  like  themselves, 
were  awaiting  their  final  doom,  they  followed  the  sound, 
and  found  it  to  come  from  a small  square  chamber, 
where  they  discovered,  sitting  on  sofas,  four  young  men 
of  goodly  figure,  and  a lovely  female,  who  were  holding  a 
melancholy  conversation  by  the  glimmering  of  a lonely 
lamp.  Each  had  a gloomy  and  forlorn  air,  and  two  of 
them  were  embracing  each  other  with  great  tenderness. 
On  seeing  the  caliph  and  the  daughter  of  Fakreddin 
enter,  they  arose,  saluted,  and  made  room  for  them. 
Then  he  who  appeared  the  most  considerable  of  the 
group  addressed  himself  thus  to  Yathek : ‘Strangers,  who 
doubtless  are  in  the  same  state  of  suspense  with  our- 
selves, as  you  do  not  yet  bear  your  hand  on  your  heart, 
if  you  are  come  hither  to  pass  the  interval  allotted, 
previous  to  the  infliction  of  our  common  punishment, 
condescend  to  relate  the  adventures  that  have  brought 
you  to  this  fatal  place,  and  we,  in  return,  will  acquaint 
you  with  ours,  which  deserve  but  too  well  to  be  heard. 
To  trace  back  our  crimes  to  their  source,  though  we  are 
not  permitted  to  repent,  is  the  only  employment  suited 
to  wretches  like  us.’ 

The  caliph  and  Nouronihar  assented  to  the  proposal, 
and  Vathek  began,  not  without  tears  and  lamentations,  a 
sincere  recital  of  every  circumstance  that  had  passed. 

"When  the  afflicting  narrative  was  closed,  the  young  man 
entered  on  his  own.  Each  person  proceeded  in  order, 
and  when  the  third  prince  had  reached  the  midst  of  his 
adventures,  a sudden  noise  interrupted  him,  which 
caused  the  vault  to  tremble  and  to  open. 

Immediately  a cloud  descended,  which,  gradually 
dissipating,  discovered  Carathis  on  the  back  of  an  afrit, 
who  grievously  complained  of  his  burden.  She,  instantly 
springing  to  the  ground,  advanced  towards  her  son, 
and  said  : ‘ What  dost  thou  here  in  this  little  square 
chamber  ? As  the  dives  are  become  subject  to  thy  beck, 

I expected  to  have  found  thee  on  the  throne  of  the 
preadamite  kings.’ 

‘ Execrable  woman  !’  answered  the  caliph,  ‘cursed  be 
the  day  thou  gavest  me  birth  ! Go,  follow  this  afrit ; 
let  him  conduct  thee  to  the  hall  of  the  prophet  Soliman : 
there  thou  wilt  learn  to  what  these  palaces  are  destined, 
and  how  much  I ought  to  abhor  the  impious  knowledge 
thou  hast  taught  me.’  * * 

Carathis,  however,  eagerly  entered  the  dome  of  Soli- 
man, and  without  regarding  in  the  least  the  groans  of 
the  prophet,  undauntedly  removed  the  covers  of  the 
vases,  and  violently  seized  on  the  talismans.  Then, 
with  a voice  more  loud  than  had  hitherto  been  heard, 
within  these  mansions,  she  compelled  the  dives  to  dis- 
close to  her  the  most  secret  treasures,  the  most  profound 
stores,  which  the  afrit  himself  had  not  seen.  She 
passed,  by  rapid  descents,  known  only  to  Eblis  and  his 
most  favoured  potentates ; and  thus  penetrated  the  very 
entrails  of  the  earth,  where  breathes  the  sansar,  or  the 
icy  wind  of  death.  Nothing  appalled  her  dauntless 
soul.  She  perceived,  however,  in  all  the  inmates  who 
bore  their  hands  on  their  heart,  a little  singularity,  not 
much  to  her  taste. 

As  she  was  emerging  from  one  of  the  abysses,  Eblis 
stood  forth  to  her  view;  but  notwithstanding  he  dis- 
played the  full  effulgence  of  his  infernal  majesty,  she 
preserved  her  countenance  unaltered,  and  even  paid  her 
compliments  with  considerable  firmness. 

This  superb  monarch  thus  answered  : ‘ Princess, 
whose  knowledge  and  whose  crimes  have  merited  a 
conspicuous  rank  in  my  empire,  thou  dost  well  to  avail 
thyself  of  the  leisure  that  remains ; for  the  flames  and 
torments  which  are  ready  to  seize  on  thy  heart  will  not 
fail  to  provide  thee  soon  with  full  employment.’  He 
said,  and  was  lost  in  the  curtains  of  his  tabernacle. 

Carathis  paused  for  a moment  with  surprise ; but 
resolved  to  follow  the  advice  of  Eblis,  she  assembled  qll 
the  choirs  of  genii,  and  all  the  dives  to  pay  her  homage. 
Thus  marched  she  in  triumph,  through  a vapour  of 
perfumes,  amidst  the  acclamations  of  all  the  malignant 
spirits,  with  most  of  whom  she  had  formed  a previous 
acquaintance.  She  even  attempted  to  dethrone  one  of 
the  Soliman  s,  for  the  purpose  of  usurping  his  place ; 
when  a voice,,  proceeding  from  the  abyss  of  death,  pro- 
claimed : ‘All  is  accomplished!’  Instantaneously  the 
haughty  forehead  of  the  intrepid  princess  became  cor- 
rugated with  agony  : she  uttered  a tremendous  yell ; 
and  fixed,  no  more  to  be  withdrawn,  her  right  hand 
upon  her  heart,  which  was  become  a receptacle  of 
eternal  fire.  * * 

Such  was,  and  such  should  be,  the  punishment  of 
unrestrained  passions  and  atrocious  deeds  ! Such  shall 
be  the  chastisement  of  that  blind  curiosity  which  would 
transgress  those  bounds  the  wisdom  of  the  Creator  has 
prescribed  to  human  knowledge  ; and  such  the  dreadful 
disappointment  of  that  restless  ambition  which,  aiming 
at  discoveries  reserved  for  beings  of  a supernatural 
order,  perceives  not,  through  its  infatuated  pride,  that 
the  condition  of  man  upon  earth  is  to  be — humble  and 
ignorant. 

Thus  the  Caliph  Vathek,  who,  for  the  sake  of  empty 
pomp  and  forbidden  power,  had  sullied  himself  with  a 
thousand  crimes,  became  a prey  to  grief  without  end, 
and  remorse  without  mitigation  ; whilst  the  humble, 
the  despised  Gulchenrouz,  passed  whole  ages  in  undis-  ) 

153  f 

FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


turbed  tranquillity,  and  in  the  pure  happiness  of 
childhood. 

There  is  astonishing  force  and  grandeur  in  some 
of  these  conceptions.  The  catastrophe  possesses  a 
sort  of  epic  sublimity,  and  the  spectacle  of  the  vast 
multitude  incessantly  pacing  those  halls,  from  which 
all  hope  has  fled,  is  worthy  the  genius  of  Milton. 
The  numberless  graces  of  description,  the  piquant 
allusions,  the  humour  and  satire,  and  the  wild  yet 
witty  spirit  of  mockery  and  derision — like  the  genius 
of  Voltaire — which  is  spread  over  the  work,  we 
must  leave  to  the  reader.  The  romance  altogether 
places  Beckford  among  the  first  of  our  imagina- 
tive writers,  independently  of  the  surprise  which 
it  is  calculated  to  excite  as  the  work  of  a youth 
of  twenty-two,  who  had  never  been  in  the 
countries  he  describes  with  so  much  animation  and 
accuracy. 

RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 

Bichard  Cumberland,  the  dramatist,  was  author 
of  three  novels,  Arundel , Henry , and  John  de  Lan- 
caster. The  learning,  knowledge  of  society — includ- 
ing foreign  manners — and  the  dramatic  talents  of 
this  author,  would  seem  to  have  qualified-  him 
in  an  eminent  degree  for  novel- writing ; but  this 
is  by  no  means  the  case.  His  fame  must  rest 
on  his  comedies  of  The  West  Indian , The  Wheel  of 
Fortune , and  The  Jew.  Mr  Cumberland  was  son 
of  Mr  Denison  Cumberland,  bishop  of  Clonfort,  and 
afterwards  of  Kilmore.  His  mother  was  Joanna, 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  Dr  Bentley,  and  said 
to  be  the  Phoebe  of  Byrom’s  fine  pastoral,  My  time , 
0 ye  Muses , was  happily  spent.  (See  vol.  i.  of  this 
work,  p.  731.)  Cumberland  was  born  in  1732. 
He  was  designed* for  the  church;  but  in  return 
for  some  services  rendered  by  his  father,  the 
youngr  student  was  appointed  private  secretary  to 
the  Marquis  of  Halifax,  whom  he  accompanied  to 
Ireland.  Through  the  influence  of  his  patron,  he 
was  made  crown-agent  for  the  province  of  Nova 
Scotia ; and  he  was  afterwards  appointed,  by  Lord 
George  Germain,  secretary  to  the  Board  of  Trade. 
The  dramatic  performances  of  Cumberland  written 
about  this  time  were  highly  successful,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  all  the  literary  and  distinguished 
society  of  his  day.  The  character  of  him  by  Gold- 
smith in  his  Retaliation,  where  he  is  praised  as 

The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts, 

is  one  of  the  finest  compliments  ever  paid  by  one 
author  to  another.  In  the  year  1780,  Cumberland 
was  employed  on  a secret  mission  to  Spain,  in  order 
to  endeavour  to  detach  that  country  from  the  hostile 
confederacy  against  England.  He  seems  to  have 
been  misled  by  the  Abbe  Hussey,  chaplain  to  the 
king  of  Spain ; and  after  residing  a twelvemonth  at 
Madrid,  he  was  recalled,  and  payment  of  his  drafts 
refused.  A sum  of  £5000  was  due  him;  but  as 
Cumberland  had  failed  in  the  negotiation,  and  had 
exceeded  his  commission  through  excess  of  zeal, 
the  minister  harshly  refused  to  remunerate  him. 
Thus  situated,  the  unfortunate  dramatist  was  com- 
pelled to  sell  his  paternal  estate,  and  retire  into 
private  life.  He  took  up  his  abode  at  Tunbridge, 
and  there  poured  forth  a variety  of  dramas,  essays, 
and  other  works,  among  which  were  two  epic 
poems,  Calvary , and  The  Exodiad , the  latter  written 
in  conjunction  with  Sir  James  Bland  Burgess. 
None  of  these  efforts  can  be  said  to  have  overstepped 
the  line  of  mediocrity ; for  though  Cumberland  had 

151 


erudition,  taste,  and  accomplishments,  he  wanted, 
in  all  but  two  or  three  of  his  plays,  the  vivifying 
power  of  genius.  His  Memoirs  of  his  Own  Life — 
for  which  he  obtained  £500 — are  graphic  and 
entertaining,  but  too  many  of  his  anecdotes  of  his 
contemporaries -will  not  bear  a rigid  scrutiny.  Mr 
Cumberland  died  on  the  7th  of  May  1*811.  His 
first  novel  Arundel  (1789),  was  hurriedly  composed ; 
but  the  scene  being  partly  in  college  and  at  court, 
and  treating  of  scenes  and  characters  in  high  life, 
the  author  drew  upon  his  recollections,  and  painted 
vigorously  what  he  had  felt  and  witnessed.  His 
second  work,  Henry  (1795),  which  he  polished  with 
great  care,  to  imitate  the  elaborate  style  of  Fielding, 
was  less  happy;  for  in  low  life  Cumberland  was 
not  so  much  at  home,  and  his  portraits  are  grossly- 
overcharged.  The  character  of  Ezekiel  Dow,  a 
Methodist  preacher,  is  praised  by  Sir  Walter  Scott 
as  not  only  an  exquisite  but  a just  portrait.  The 
resemblance  to  Fielding’s  Parson  Adams  is,  how- 
ever, too  marked,  while  the  Methodistic  traits  intro- 
duced are,  however  faithful,  less  pleasing  than  the 
learned  simplicity  and  bonhomie  of  the  worthy  parson. 
Another  peculiarity  of  the  author  is  thus  touched 
upon  by  Scott:  ‘He  had  a peculiar  taste  in  love 
affairs,  which  induced  him  to  reverse  the  natural  and 
usual  practice  of  courtship,  and  to  throw  upon  the 
softer  sex  the  task  of  wooing,  which  is  more  grace- 
fully, as  well  as  naturally,  the  province  of  the  man.’ 
In  these  wooing  scenes,  too,  there  is  a great  want  of 
delicacy  and  propriety:  Cumberland  was  not  here 
a ‘ mender  of  hearts.’  The  third  novel  of  our  author 
was  the.  work  of  his  advanced  years,  and  is  of  a 
very  inferior  description.  It  would  be  unjust  not 
to  add,  that  the  prose  style  of  Cumberland  in  his 
memoirs  and  ordinary  narratives,  where  humour  is 
not  attempted,  is  easy  and  flowing — the  style  of  a 
scholar  and  gentleman. 


MRS  FRANCES  SHERIDAN. 

Mrs  Frances  Sheridan  (1724-1766)  was  the 
authoress  of  two  novels,  Sidney  Biddulph  and  Nour- 
jahad , and  two  comedies,  The  Discovery  and  The  Dupe. 
The  latter  are  common-place  productions,  but  the 
novels  evince  fine  imaginative  powers  and  correct 
moral  taste.  Sidney  Biddulph  is  a pathetic  story: 
the  heroine  goes  to  her  grave  ‘unrelieved  but 
resigned,’  as  Boswell  has  said,  and  Johnson  doubted 
whether  the  accomplished  authoress  had  a right  to 
make  her  readers  suffer  so  much.  Nourjahad  is  an 
eastern  romance,  also  with  a moral  tendency,  but 
containing  some  animated  incidents  and  description. 
Mrs  Sheridan  was  the  wife  of  Thomas  Sheridan, 
popular  as  an  actor  and  elocutionist,  and  author  of 
an  Orthoepical  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language. 
Dr  Parr,  with  characteristic  enthusiasm,  pronounced 
Mrs  Sheridan  to  be  ‘quite  celestial,’  and  Charles 
James  Eox  considered  Sidney  Biddulph  to  be  the 
best  of  all  modern  novels.  Yet,  perhaps,  this  ami- 
able and  gifted  woman  is  now  best  known  from 
being  the  mother  of  Bichard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 

Thomas  Holcroft,  whose  singular  history  and 
dramatic  performances  we  have  already  notieed,  was 
author  of  several  once  popular  novels.  The  first 
was  published  in  1780,  under  the  title  of  Alwyn,  or 
the  Gentleman  Comedian.  This  had,  and  deserved  to 
have,  but  little  success.  His  second,  Anna  St  Ives , 
in  seven  volumes  (1792),  was  well  received,  and 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  bage — sophia  and  Harriet  lee. 


attracted  attention  from  its  political  bearings  no  less 
than  the  force  of  its  style  and  characters.  The  prin- 
cipal characters  are,  as  Hazlitt  remarks,  merely  the 
vehicles  of  certain  general  sentiments,  or  machines, 
put  into  action,  as  an  experiment  to  shew  how 
these  general  principles  would  operate  in  particular 
situations.  The  same  intention  is  manifested  in  his 
third  novel,  Hugh  Trevor , the  first  part  of  which 
appeared  in  1794,  and  the  remainder  in  1797.  In 
Hugh  Trevor,  Holcroft,  like  Godwin,  depicted  the 
vices  and  distresses  which  he  conceived  to  be 
generated  by  the  existing  institutions  of  society. 
There  are  some  good  sketches,  and  many  eloquent 
and  just  observations  in  the  work,  and  those  who 
have  read  it  in  youth  will  remember  the  vivid 
impression  that  some  parts  are  calculated  to  convey. 
The  political  doctrines  inculcated  by  the  author  are 
captivating  to  young  minds,  and  were  enforced  by 
Holcroft  in  the  form  of  well-contrasted  characters, 
lively  dialogue,  and  pointed  satire.  He  was  himself 
a true  believer  in  the  practicability  of  such  a 
Utopian  or  ideal  state  of  society.  The  song  of 
Gaffer  Gray  in  Hugh  Trevor , which  glances  ironi- 
cally at  the  inhumanity  of  the  rich,  has  a forcible 
simplicity  and  truth  in  particular  cases  which  made 
it  a favourite  with  the  public. 

Gaffer  Gray. 

Ho  ! why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 

Gaffer  Gray  ? 

And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ? 

‘ ’Tis  the  weather  that ’s  cold, 

’Tis  I ’m  grown  very  old, 

And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 

Well-a-day ! ’ 

Then  line  thy  worn  doublet  with  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a glass. 

‘Nay,  but  credit  I’ve  none, 

And  my  money ’s  all  gone  ; 

Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? 

Well-a-day ! ’ 

Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest’s  door. 

‘ The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 

But  ne’er  gives  a mite  to  the  poor, 

Well-a-day ! ’ 

The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front. 

‘ He  will  fasten  his  locks, 

And  will  threaten  the  stocks 

Should  he  ever  more  find  me  in  want, 

Well-a-day !’ 

The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there. 

‘ His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer, 

And  his  merry  new  year, 

Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 

Well-a-day !’ 

My  keg  is  but  low,  I confess, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

What  then  ? While  it  lasts,  man,  we  ’ll  live. 

‘ The  poor  man  alone, 

When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 

Of  his  morsel  a morsel  will  give, 

Well-a-day  1* 


Holcroft  wrote  another  novel,  Brian  Perdue , but  it 
is  greatly  inferior  to  his  former  productions.  His 
whole  works,  indeed,  were  eclipsed  by  those  of 
Godwin,  and  have  now  fallen  out  of  notice. 


ROBERT  BAGE. 

Another  novelist  of  a similar  stamp  was  Robert 
Bage,  a Quaker,  who,  like  Holcroft,  imbibed  the 
principles  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  infused 
them  into  various  works  of  fiction.  Bage  was  born 
at  Darley,  in  Derbyshire,  on  the  29th  of  February 
1728.  His  father  was  a paper-maker,  and  his  son 
continued  in  the  same  occupation  through  life.  His 
manufactory  was  at  Elford,  near  Tamworth,  where 
he  realised  a decent  competence.  During  the  last 
eight  years  of  his  life,  Bage  resided  at  Tamworth, 
where  he  died  on  the  1st  of  September  1801.  The 
works  of  this  author  are,  Mount  Kenneth,  1781 ; 
Barham  Doivns,  1784 ; The  Fair  Syrian , 1787 ; 
James  Wallace , 1788  ; Man  as  He  Is,  1792  ; Herms- 
prong,  or  Man  as  He  is  Not,  1796.  Bage’s  novels 
are  decidedly  inferior  to  those  of  Holcroft,  and  it 
is  surprising  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  should  have 
admitted  them  into  his  novelists’  library,  and  at 
the  same  time  excluded  so  many  superior  works. 
Barham  Downs  and  Hermsprong  are  the  most  inter- 
esting of  the  series,  and  contain  some  good  satirical 
portraits,  though  the  plots  of  both  are  crude  and 
defective. 

SOPHIA  AND  HARRIET  LEE. 

These  ladies,  authoresses  of  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
a series  of  striking  and  romantic  fictions,  were  the 
daughters  of  Mr  Lee,  a gentleman  who  had  been 
articled  to  a solicitor,  but  who  adopted  the  stage  as 
a profession.  Sophia  was  born  in  London  in  1750. 
She  was  the  eldest  of  the  sisters,  and  the  early 
death  of  her  mother  devolved  upon  her  the  cares  of 
the  household.  She  secretly  cultivated,  however,  a 
strong  attachment  to  literature.  Her  first  appear- 
ance as  an  author  was  not  made  till  her  thirtieth 
year,  when  she  produced  her  comedy,  The  Chapter 
of  Accidents,  which  was  brought  out  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre  by  the  elder  Colman,  and  received 
with  great  applause.  The  profits  of  this  piece  were 
devoted  by  Miss  Lee  towards  establishing  a semi- 
nary for  young  ladies  at  Bath,  which  was  rendered 
the  more  necessary  by  the  death  of  her  father  in 
1781.  Thither,  accordingly,  the  sisters  repaired, 
and  their  talents  and  prudence  were  rewarded  by 
rapid  and  permanent  success.  In  1784,  she  published 
the  first  volume  of  The  Recess,  or  a Tale  of  Other 
Times ; which  was  soon  followed  by  the  remainder 
of  the  tale,  the  work  having  instantly  become 
popular.  The  time  selected  by  Miss  Lee  as  the 
subject  of  her  story  was  that  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  her  production  may  be  considered  one  of  the 
earliest  of  our  historical  romances.  It  is  tinged 
with  a melancholy  and  contemplative  spirit ; and 
the  same  feeling  is  displayed  in  her  next  production, 
a tragedy  entitled  Almeyda , Queen  of  Grenada,  pro- 
duced in  1796.  In  the  succeeding  year,  Harriet 
Lee  published  the  first  volume  of  The  Canterbury 
Tales,  which  ultimately  extended  to  five  volumes. 
Two  only  of  the  stories  were  the  production  of 
Sophia  Lee,  namely,  The  Young  Lady's  Tale,  or  the 
Two  Emilys,  and  The  Clergyman's  Tale.  They  are 
characterised  by  great  tenderness  and  feeling ; but 
the  more  striking  features  of  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
and  the  great  merit  of  the  collection,  belong  to. 
Harriet  Lee.  Kruitzner , or  the  German's  Tale,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  Byron  when  he  was  about  fourteen. 


5R03I  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


‘ It  made  a deep  impression  upon  me,’  he  says,  ‘ and 
may  indeed  be  said  to  contain  the  germ  of  much 
that  I have  since  written.’  "While  residing  at  Pisa 
in  1821,  Byron  dramatised  Miss  Lee’s  romantic 
story,  and  published  his  version  of  it  under  the  title 
of  Werner,  or  the  Inheritance.  The  incidents,  and 
much  of  the  language  of  the  play,  are  directly  copied 
from  the  novel,  and  the  public  were  unanimous  in 
considering  Harriet  Lee  as  more  interesting,  pas- 
sionate, and  even  more  poetical,  than  her  illustrious 
imitator.  ‘ The  story,’  says  one  of  the  critics  whom 
Byron’s  play  recalled  to  the  merits  of  Harriet  Lee, 
‘ is  one  of  the  most  powerfully  conceived,  one  of  the 
most  picturesque,  and  at  the  same  time  instructive 
stories,  that  we  are  acquainted  with.  Indeed,  thus 
led  as  we  are  to  name  Harriet  Lee,  we  cannot  allow 
the  opportunity  to  pass  without  saying  that  we  have 
always  considered  her  works  as  standing  upon  the 
verge  of  the  very  first  rank  of  excellence ; that  is 
! to  say,  as  inferior  to  no  English  novels  whatever, 
excepting  those  of  Fielding,  Sterne,  Smollett, 
Richardson,  Defoe,  Radcliffe,  Godwin,  Edgeworth, 
and  the  author  of  Waver  ley.  It  would  not,  perhaps, 
be  going  too  far  to  say,  that  The  Canterbury  Tales 
exhibit  more  of  that  species  of  invention,  which,  as 
we  have  already  remarked,  was  never  common  in 
English  literature,  than  any  of  the  works  even  of 
those  first-rate  novelists  we  have  named,  with  the 
single  exception  of  Fielding.  Kruitzner,  or  the 
German’s  Tale , possesses  mystery,  and  yet  clearness, 
as  to  its  structure,  strength  of  characters,  and, 
above  all,  the  most  lively  interest,  blended  with, 

| and  subservient  to,  the  most  affecting  of  moral 
lessons.  The  main  idea  which  lies  at  the  root  of  it 
is  the  horror  of  an  erring  father,  who,  having  been 
detected  in  vice  by  his  son,  has  dared  to  defend  his 
own  sin,  and  so  to  perplex  the  son’s  notions  of  moral 
rectitude,  on  finding  that  the  son  in  his  turn  has 
pushed  the  false  principles  thus  instilled  to  the  last 
and  worst  extreme — on  hearing  his  own  sophistries 
flung  in  his  face  by  a murderer.’  * The  short  and 
spirited  style  of  these  tales,  and  the  frequent  dia- 
logues they  contain,  impart  to  them  something  of  a 
dramatic  force  and  interest,  and  prevent  their  tiring 
the  patience  of  the  reader,  like  too  many  of  the 
three- volume  novels.  In  1803,  Miss  Sophia  Lee 
retired  from  the  duties  of  her  scholastic  establish- 
ment, having  earned  an  independent  provision  for 
the  remainder  of  her  life.  Shortly  afterwards  she 
published  The  Life  of  a Lover , a tale  which 
she  had  -written  early  in  life,  and  which  is  marked 
by  juvenility  of  thought  and  expression,  though 
with  her  usual  wrarmtk  and  richness  of  description. 
In  1807,  a comedy  from  her  pen,  called  The  Assig- 
nation, was  performed  at  Drury  Lane ; but  played 
only  once,  the  audience  conceiving  that  some 
of  the  satirical  portraits  were  aimed  at  popular 
individuals. 

Miss  Harriet  Lee,  besides  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
wrote  two  dramas,  The  New  Peerage,  and  The  Three 
Strangers.  The  plot  of  the  latter  is  chiefly  taken 
from  her  German  tale.  The  play  was  brought  out 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  December  1835,  but 
was  barely  tolerated  for  one  night. 

A tablet  is  erected  to  the  memory  of  these  accom- 
plished sisters  in  Clifton  Church— where  they  are 
buried — from  which  it  appears  that  Sophia  Lee 
was  born  in  May  1750,  and  died  March  13, 
1824.  . Her  sister,  Harriet  Lee — who  long  resided 
in  ,the  neighbourhood  of  Bristol,  a valued  and 
respepted  lady — was  born  April  11,  1766,  and  died 
August  1,  1851. 

* Blackwood's  Magazine,  vol.  xii 
156 


[Introduction  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.'] 

There  are  people  in  the  world  who  think  their  lives 
well  employed  in  collecting  shells;  there  are  others 
not  less  satisfied  to  spend  theirs  in  classing  butterflies. 
For  my  own  part,  I always  preferred  animate  to  inani- 
mate nature ; and  would  rather  post  to  the  antipodes  to 
mark  a new  character,  or  develop  a singular  incident, 
than  become  a fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  by  enriching  j 
museums  with  nondescripts.  From  this  account  you, 
my  gentle  reader,  may,  without  any  extraordinary  pene- 
tration, have  discovered  that  I am  among  the  eccentric 
part  of  mankind,  by  the  courtesy  of  each  other,  and 
themselves,  yeleped  poets — a title  which,  however  mean 
or  contemptible  it  may  sound  to  those  not  honoured 
wfith  it,  never  yet  was  rejected  by  a single  mortal  on 
whom  the  suffrage  of  mankind  conferred  it ; no,  though 
the  laurel-leaf  of  Apollo,  barren  in  its  nature,  was 
twined  by  the  frozen  fingers  of  Poverty,  and  shed  upon 
the  brow  it  crowned  her  chilling  influence.  But  when 
did  it  so?  Too  often  destined  to  deprive  its  graced 
owner  of  every  real  good  by  an  enchantment  which  we 
know  not  how  to  define,  it  comprehends  in  itself  such 
a variety  of  pleasures  and  possessions,  that  well  may 
one  of  us  cry — 

Thy  lavish  charter,  taste,  appropriates  all  we  see  ! 

Happily,  too,  we  are  not  like  virtuosi  in  general,  encum- 
bered with  the  treasures  gathered  in  our  peregrinations.  , 
Compact  in  their  nature,  they  lie  all  in  the  small  cavi- 
ties of  our  brain,  which  are,  indeed,  often  so  small,  as 
to  render  it  doubtful  whether  we  have  any  at  alL  The 
few  discoveries  I have  made  in  that  richest  of  mines, 
the  human  soul,  I have  not  been  churl  enough  to  keep 
to  myself ; nor,  to  say  truth,  unless  I can  find  out  some 
other  means  of  supporting  my  corporeal  existence  than 
animal  food,  do  I think  I shall  ever  be  able  to  afford 
that  sullen  affectation  of  superiority. 

Travelling,  I have  already  said,  is  my  taste;  and, 
to  make  my  journeys  pay  for  themselves,  my  object. 
Much  against  my  good  liking,  some  troublesome  fellows, 
a few  months  ago,  took  the  liberty  of  making  a little 
home  of  mine  their  own ; nor,  till  I had  coined  a small  i 
portion  of  my  brain  in  the  mint  of  my  worthy  friend 
George  Robinson,  could  I induce  them  to  depart.  I 
gave  a proof  of  my  politeness,  however,  in  leaving  my 
house  to  them,  and  retired  to  the  coast  of  Kent,  where 
I fell  to  work  very  busily.  Gay  with  the  hope  of  shut-  I 
ting  my  door  on  these  unwelcome  visitants,  I walked 
in  a severe  frost  from  Deal  to  Dover,  to  secure  a seat  j 
in  the  stage-coach  to  London.  One  only  was  vacant ; 
and  having  engaged  it,  ‘ maugre  the  freezing  of  the 
bitter  sky,’  I wandered  forth  to  note  the  memorabilia  of 
Dover,  and  was  soon  lost  in  one  of  my  fits  of  exquisite 
abstraction. 

'With  reverence  I looked  up  to  the  cliff  which  our 
immortal  bard  has,  with  more  fancy  than  truth, 
described ; with  toil  mounted,  by  an  almost  endless 
staircase,  to  the  top  of  a castle,  which  added  nothing 
to  my  poor  stock  of  ideas  but  the  length  of  our  virgin 
queen’s  pocket-pistol — that  truly  Dutch  present : cold 
and  weary,  I was  pacing  towards  the  inn,  when  a sharp- 
visaged  barber  popped  his  head  over  his  shop-door  to  j 
reconnoitre  the  inquisitive  stranger.  A brisk  fire,  j 
which  I suddenly  cast  my  eye  on,  invited  my  frozen  j 
hands  and  feet  to  its  precincts.  A civil  question  to  1 
the  honest  man  produced  on  his  part  a civil  invitation ; i 
and  having  placed  me  in  a snug  seat,  he  readily  gave  ; 
me  the  benefit  of  all  his  oral  tradition. 

‘Sir,’  he  said,  ‘it  is  mighty  lucky  you  came  across 
me.  The  vulgar  people  of  this  town  have  no  genius, 
sir — no  taste;  they  never  shew  the  greatest  curiosity 
in  the  place.  Six*,  we  have  here  the  tomb  of  a poet ! ’ 

‘ The  tomb  of  a poet ! ’ cried  I,  with  a spring  that 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


electrified  my  informant  no  less  than  myself.  ‘What 
poet  lies  here  ? and  where  is  he  buried  ? ’ 

‘ Ay,  that  is  the  curiosity,’  returned  he  exultingly. 
I smiled  ; his  distinction  was  so  like  a barber.  While 
he  had  been  speaking,  I recollected  he  must  allude  to 
the  grave  of  Churchill — that  vigorous  genius  who,  well 
calculated  to  stand  forth  the  champion  of  freedom,  has 
recorded  himself  the  slave  of  party,  and  the  victim  of 
spleen  ! So,  however,  thought  not  the  barber,  who 
considered  him  as  the  first  of  human  beings. 

‘ This  great  man,  sir,’  continued  he,  ‘ who  lived  and 
died  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  is  interred  in  a very 
remarkable  spot,  sir;  if  you  were  not  so  cold  and  so 
tired,  sir,  I could  shew  it  you  in  a moment.’  Curiosity 
is  an  excellent  greatcoat : I forgot  I had  no  other,  and 
strode  after  the  barber  to  a spot  surrounded  by  ruined 
walls,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  the  white  marble 
tablet  marked  with  Churchill’s  name — to  appearance 
its  only  distinction. 

‘ Cast  your  eyes  on  the  walls,’  said  the  important 
barber ; ‘ they  once  enclosed  a church,  as  you  may 
see!  ’ 

On  inspecting  the  crumbling  ruins  more  narrowly,  I 
did  indeed  discern  the  traces  of  Gothic  architecture. 

‘ Yes,  sir,’  cried  my  friend  the  barber,  with  the  con- 
scious pride  of  an  Englishman,  throwing  out  a gaunt 
leg  and  arm,  ‘ Churchill,  the  champion  of  liberty,  is 
interred  here  ! Here,  sir,  in  the  very  ground  where 
King  John  did  homage  for  the  crown  he  disgraced.’ 

The  idea  was  grand.  In  the  eye  of  fancy,  the  slender 
pillars  again  lifted  high  the  vaulted  roof  that  rang  with 
solemn  chantings.  I saw  the  insolent  legate  seated  in 
scarlet  pride ; I saw  the  sneers  of  many  a mitred  abbot ; 
I saw,  bareheaded,  the  mean,  the  prostrate  king;  I 
saw,  in  short,  everything  but  the  barber,  whom,  in  my 
flight  and  swell  of  soul,  I had  outwalked  and  lost. 
Some  more  curious  traveller  may,  again  pick  him  up, 
perhaps,  and  learn  more  minutely  the  fact. 

Waking  from  my  reverie,  I found  myself  on  the  pier. 
The  pale  beams  of  a powerless  sun  gilt  the  fluctuating 
waves  and  the  distant  spires  of  Calais,  which  I now 
clearly  surveyed.  What  a new  train  of  images  here  sprung 
up  in  my  mind,  borne  away  by  succeeding  impressions 
with  no  less  rapidity!  From  the  monk  of  Sterne  I 
travelled  up  in  five  minutes  to  the  inflexible  Edward 
III.  sentencing  the  noble  burghers;  and  having  seen 
them  saved  by  the  eloquence  of  Philippa,  I wanted  no 
better  seasoning  for  my  mutton-chop,  and  pitied  the 
empty-headed  peer  who  was  stamping  over  my  little 
parlour  in  fury  at  the  cook  for  having  over-roasted  his 
pheasant. 

The  coachman  now  shewed  his  ruby  face  at  the  door, 
and  I jumped  into  the  stage,  where  were  already  seated 
two  passengers  of  my  own  sex,  and  one  of — would 
I could  say  the  fairer!  But,  though  truth  may  not 
be  spoken  at  all  times,  even  upon  paper,  one  now  and 
then  may  do  her  justice.  Half  a glance  discovered 
that  the  good  lady  opposite  to  me  had  never  been 
handsome,  and  now  added  the  injuries  of  time  to  the 
severity  of  nature.  Civil  but  cold  compliments  having 
passed,  I closed  my  eyes  to  expand  my  soul;  and, 
while  fabricating  a brief  poetical  history  of  England, 
to  help  short  memories,  was  something  astonished  to 
find  myself  tugged  violently  by  the  sleeve;  and  not 
less  so  to  see  the  coach  empty,  and  hear  an  obstinate 
waiter  insist  upon  it  that  we  were  at  Canterbury,  and 
the  supper  ready  to  be  put  on  the  table.  It  had 
snowed,  I found,  for  some  time  ; in  consideration  of 
which  mine  host  had  prudently  suffered  the  fire  nearly 
to  go  out.  A dim  candle  was  on  the  table,  without 
snuffers,  and  a bell-string  hanging  over  it,  at  which 
we  pulled,  but  it  had  long  ceased  to  operate  on  that 
noisy  convenience.  Alas,  poor  Shenstone ! how  often, 
during  these  excursions,  do  I think  of  thee.  Cold, 
indeed,  must  have  been  thy  acceptation  in  society,  if 
thou  couldst  seriously  say : 


SOPHIA  AND  HARRIET  LEE. 


Whoe’er  has  travelled  life’s  dull  round, 
Where’er  his  various  course  has  been, 

Must  sigh  to  think  how  oft  he  found 
His  warmest-  welcome  at  an  inn. 

Had  the  gentle  bard  told  us  that,  in  this  sad  sub- 
stitute for  home,  despite  of  all  our  impatience  to  be 
gone,  we  must  stay  not  only  till  wind  and  weather, 
but  landlords,  postilions,  and  hostlers  choose  to  permit, 
I should  have  thought  he  knew  more  of  travelling ; and 
stirring  the  fire,  snuffing  the  candles,  reconnoitring  the 
company,  and  modifying  my  own  humour,  should  at 
once  have  tried  to  make  the  best  of  my  situation. 
After  all,  he  is  a wise  man  who  does  at  first  what  he 
must  do  at  last ; and  I was  just  breaking  thq  ice  on 
finding  that  I had  nursed  the  fire  to  the  general  satis- 
faction, when  the  coach  from  London  added  three  to 
our  party ; and  common  civility  obliged  those  who  came 
first  to  make  way  for  the  yet  more  frozen  travellers. 
We  supped  together;  and  I was  something  surprised 
to  find  our  two  coachmen  allowed  us  such  ample  time 
to  enjoy  our  little  bowl  of  punch ; when  lo ! with  dolor- 
ous countenances,  they  came  to  give  us  notice  that  the 
snow  was  so  heavy,  and  already  so  deep,  as  to  make 
our  proceeding  by  either  .road  dangerous,  if  not  utterly 
impracticable. 

‘If  that  is  really  the  case,’  cried  I mentally,  ‘ let  us 
see  what  we  may  hope  from  the  construction  of  the 
seven  heads  that  constitute  our  company.’  Observe, 
gentle  reader,  that  I do  not  mean  the  outward  and 
visible  form  of  those  heads ; for  I am  not  amongst  the 
new  race  of  physiognomists  who  exhaust  invention  only 
to  ally  their  own  species  to  the  animal  creation,  and 
would  rather  prove  the  skull  of  a man  resembled  an  ass, 
than,  looking  within,  find  in  the  intellect  a glorious 
similitude  of  the  Deity.  An  elegant  author  more  justly 
conveys  my  idea  of  physiognomy,  when  he  says,  that 
‘different  sensibilities  gather  into  the  countenance  and 
become  beauty  there,  as  colours  mount  in  a tulip  and 
enrich  it.’  It  was  my  interest  to  be  as  happy  as  I 
could,  and  that  can  only  be  when  we  look  around  with 
a wish  to  be  pleased : nor  could  I ever  find  a way  of 
unlocking  the  human  heart  but  by  frankly  inviting 
others  to  peep  into  my  own.  And  now  for  my  survey. 

In  the  chimney-corner  sat  my  old  gentlewoman,  a 
little  alarmed  at  a coffin  that  had  popped  from  the  fire, 
instead  of  a purse ; ergo , superstition  was  her  weak 
side.  In  sad  conformity  to  declining  years,  she  had 
put  on  her  spectacles, .taken  out  her  knitting,  and  thus 
humbly  retired  from  attention,  which  she  had  long, 
perhaps,  been  hopeless  of  attracting.  Close  by  her  was 
placed  a young  lady  from  London,  in  the  bloom  of  nine- 
teen : a cross  on  her  bosom  shewed  her  to  be  a Catholic, 
and  a peculiar  accent  an  Irishwoman;  her  face,  espe- 
cially her  eyes,  might  be  termed  handsome;  of  those, 
archness  would  have  been  the  expression,  had  not  the 
absence  of  her  air  proved  that  their  sense  was  turned 
inward,  to  contemplate  in  her  heart  some  chosen 
cherished  image.  Love  and  romance  reigned  in  every 
lineament. 

A French  abbc  had,  as  is  usual  with  gentlemen  of 
that  country,  edged  himself  into  the  seat  by  the  belle, 
to  whom  he  continually  addressed  himself  with  all 
sorts  of  petits  soins,  though  fatigue  was  obvious  in  his 
air ; and  the  impression  of  some  danger  escaped  gave  a 
wild  sharpness  to  every  feature.  ‘ Thou  hast  comprised,’ 
thought  I,  ‘the  knowledge  of  a whole  life  in  perhaps 
the  last  month;  and  then,  perhaps,  didst  thou  first 
study  the  art  of  thinking,  or  learn  the  misery  of 
feeling  !’  Neither  of  these  seemed,  however,  to  have 
troubled  his  neighbour,  a portly  English manWP-»J*ep~' 
though  with  a sort  of  surly  good- nature 
up  his  place  at  the  fire,  yet  contrived^f^rM^^i^uwalJ 
candles,  by  holding  before  them  a n ew^prf^iCT^Nvli 
dwelt  upon  the  article  of  stocks,  till  a broody  di 
Ireland  induced  communication,  and  enaU 


[oouy  «. 

TMJP{ 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


discover  that,  in  spite  of  the  importance  of  his  air, 
credulity  might  he  reckoned  amongst  his  characteristics. 

The  opposite  corner  of  the  fire  had  been,  by  general 
consent,  given  up  to  one  of  the  London  travellers, 
whose  age  and  infirmities  challenged  regard,  while  his 
aspect  awakened  the  most  melting  benevolence.  Suppose 
an  anchorite,  sublimed  by  devotion  and  temperance 
from  all  human  frailty,  and  you  will  see  this  inter- 
esting aged  clergyman:  so  pale,  so  pure  was  his  com- 
plexion, so  slight  his  figure,  though  tall,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  his  soul  was  gradually  divesting  itself  of  the  cover- 
ing of  mortality,  that  when  the  hour  of  separating  it 
from  the  body  came,  hardly  should  the  greedy  grave 
claim  aught  of  a being  so  ethereal ! ‘ Oh,  what  lessons 

of  patience  and  sanctity  couldst  thou  give,’  thought  I, 
‘ were  it  my  fortune  to  find  the  key  of  thy  heart ! ’ 

An  officer  in  the  middle  of  life  occupied  the  next 
seat.  Martial  and  athletic  in  his  person,  of  a coun- 
tenance open  and  sensible,  tanned,  as  it  seemed,  by 
severe  service,  his  forehead  only  retained  its  whiteness ; 
yet  that,  with  assimilating  graceful  manners,  rendered 
him  very  prepossessing. 

That  seven  sensible  people,  for  I include  myself  in 
that  description,  should  tumble  out  of  two  stage-coaches, 
and  be  thrown  together  so  oddly,  was,  in  my  opinion, 
an  incident ; and  why  not  make  it  really  one  ? I 
hastily  advanced,  and,  turning  my  back  to  the  fire,  fixed 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  company — not  on  my  person,  for 
that  was  noway  singular — not,  I would  fain  hope,  upon 
my  coat,  which  I had  forgotten  till  that  moment  was 
threadbare : I had  rather  of  the  three  imagine  my 
assurance  the  object  of  general  attention.  However,  no 
one  spoke,  and  I was  obliged  to  second  my  own  motion. 

‘ Sir,’  cried  I to  the  Englishman,  who,  by  the  time  he 
had  kept  the  paper,  had  certainly  spelt  its  contents, 

‘ do  you  find  anything  entertaining  in  that  newspaper  ? ’ 

‘No,  sir,’  returned  he  most  laconically. 

‘ Then  you  might  perhaps  find  something  entertaining 
out  of  it,’  added  I. 

‘ Perhaps  I might,’  retorted  he  in  a provoking  accent, 
and  surveying  me  from  top  to  toe.  The  Frenchman 
laughed — so  did  I — it  is  the  only  way  when  one  has 
been  more  witty  than  wise.  I returned  presently, 
however,  to  the  attack. 

‘How  charmingly  might  we  fill  a long  evening,’ 
resumed  I,  with,  as  I thought,  a most  ingratiating 
smile,  ‘if  each  of  the  company  would  relate  the  most 
remarkable  story  he  or  she  ever  knew  or  heard  of  !’ 

‘Truly,  we  might  make  a long  evening  that  way,’ 
again  retorted  my  torment,  the  Englishman.  ‘ However, 
if  you  please,  we  will  waive  your  plan,  sir,  till  to-mor- 
row ; and  then  we  shall  have  the  additional  resort  of 
our  dreams,  if  our  memories  fail  us.’  He  now,  with  a 
negligent  yawn,  rang,  and  ordered  the  chambermaid. 
The  two  females  rose  of  course,  and  in  one  moment  an 
overbearing  clown  cut  short  ‘ the  feast  of  reason  and  the 
flow  of  soul.’  I forgot  it  snowed,  and  went  to  bed  in  a 
fever  of  rage.  A charming  tale  ready  for  the  press  in 
my  travelling-desk — the  harvest  I might  make  could  I 
prevail  on  each  of  the  company  to  tell  me  another ! 
Reader,  if  you  ever  had  an  empty  purse,  and  an  unread 
performance  of  your  own  burning  in  your  pocket  and 
your  heart,  I need  not  ask  you  to  pity  me. 

Fortune,  however,  more  kindly  than  usual,  took  my 
case  into  consideration ; for  the  morning  shewed  me  a 
snow  so  deep,  that  had  Thomas  a Becket  condescended 
to  attend  at  his  own  shrine  to  greet  those  who  inquired 
for  it,  not  a soul  could  have  got  at  the  cathedral  to  pay 
their  devoirs  to  the  complaisant  archbishop. 

On  entering  the  breakfast-room,  I found  mine  host 
had,  at  the  desire  of  some  one  or  other  of  the  company, 
already  produced  his  very  small  stock  of  books,  consist- 
ing of  the  Army  List,  the  Whole  Art  of  Farriery,  and 
a volume  of  imperfect  magazines;  a small  supply  of 
mental  food  for  seven  hungry  people.  Vanity  never 
deserts  itself : I thought  I was  greeted  with  more  than 


common  civility ; and  having  satisfied  my  grosser  appe- 
tite with  tea  and  toast,  resumed  the  idea  of  the  night 
before — assuring  the  young  lady  that  ‘I  was  certain, 
from  her  fine  eyes,  she  could  melt  us  with  a tender 
story;  while  the  sober  matron  could  improve  us  by  a l 
wise  one;’  a circular  bow  shewed  similar  hopes  from  j 
the  gentlemen.  The  plan  was  adopted,  and  the 
exultation  of  conscious  superiority  flushed  my  cheek. 


DR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Dr  John  Moore,  author  of  Zeluco  and  other 
works,  was  born  at  Stirling  in  the  year  1729.  His 
father  was  one  of  the  clergymen  of  that  town, 
but  died  in  1737,  leaving  seven  children  to  the  care 
of  his  excellent  widow.  Mrs  Moore  removed  to 
Glasgow,  where  her  relations  resided,  possessed  of 
considerable  property.  After  the  usual  education 
at  the  university  of  Glasgow,  John  was  put  appren- 
tice to  Mr  Gordon,  a surgeon  of  extensive  practice, 
with  whom  Smollett  had  been  apprenticed  a few 
years  before.  In  his  nineteenth  year,  Moore 
accompanied  the  Duke  of  Argyle’s  regiment  abroad, 
and  attended  the  military  hospitals  at  Maestricht 
in  the  capacity  of  surgeon’s  mate.  From  thence 
he  went  to  Flushing  and  Breda;  and  on  the 
termination  of  hostilities,  he  accompanied  General 
Braddock  to  England.  Soon  afterwards,  he  became 
household  surgeon  to  the  Earl  of  Albemarle,  the 
British  ambassador  at  the  court  of  Versailles.  His 
old  master,  Mr  Gordon,  now  invited  him  to  become 
a partner  in  his  business  in  Glasgow,  and,  after 
two  years’  residence  in  Paris,  Moore  accepted  the 
invitation.  He  practised  for  many  years  in  Glasgow 
with  great  success.  In  1772,  he  was  induced  to 
accompany  the  young  Duke  of  Hamilton  to  the 
continent,  where  they  resided  five  years,  in  France, 
Switzerland,  Germany,  and  Italy.  Returning  in 
1778,  Moore  removed  his  family  to  London,  and 
commenced  physician  in  the  metropolis.  In  1779, 
he  published  A View  of  Society  and  Manners  in 
France , Switzerland,  and  Germany , in  two  volumes, 
which  was  received  with  general  approbation.  In 
1781,  appeared  his  View  of  Society  and  Manners  in 
Italy ; in  1785,  Medical  Sketches;  and  in  1786,  his 
Zeluco:  Various  Views  of  Human  Nature , taken 
from  Life  and  Manners,  Foreign  and  Domestic.  The 
object  of  this  novel  was  to  prove  that,  in  spite  of 
the  gayest  and  most  prosperous  appearances,  inward 
misery  always  accompanies  vice.  The  hero  of  the 
tale  was  the  only  son  of  a noble  family  in  Sicily, 
spoiled  by  maternal  indulgence,  and  at  length 
rioting  in  every  prodigality  and  vice.  The  idea 
of  such  a character  was  probably  suggested  by 
Smollett’s  Count  Fathom,  but  Moore  took  a wider 
range  of  character  and  incident.  He  made  his 
hero  accomplished  and  fascinating,  thus  avoiding 
the  feeling  of  contempt  with  which  the  abject 
villainy  of  Fathom  is  unavoidably  regarded;  and 
he  traced,  step  by  step,  through  a succession  of 
scenes  and  adventures,  the  progress  of  depravity, 
and  the  effects  of  uncontrolled  passion.  The 
incident  of  the  favourite  sparrow,  which  Zeluco 
squeezed  to  death  when  a boy,  because  it  did  not 
perform  certain  tricks  which  he  had  taught  it, 
lets  us  at  once  into  the  pampered  selfishness  and 
passionate  cruelty  of  his  disposition.  The  scene 
of  the  novel  is  laid  chiefly  in  Italy;  and  the 
author’s  familiarity  with  foreign  manners  enabled 
him  to  impart  to  his  narrative  numerous  new  and 
graphic  sketches.  Zeluco  also  serves  in  the  Spanish 
army;  and  at  another  time  is  a slave-owner  in 
the  West  Indies.  The  latter  circumstance  gives 
the  author  an  opportunity  of  condemning  the 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  JOHN  MOORE. 


system  of  slavery  with  eloquence  and  humanity, 
and  presenting  some  affecting  pictures  of  suffering 
and  attachment  in  the  negro  race.  The  death  of 
Hanno,  the  humane  and  generous  slave,  is  one  of 
Moore’s  most  masterly  delineations.  The  various 
scenes  and  episodes  in  the  novel  relieve  the  dis- 
agreeable shades  of  a character  constantly  deepen- 
ing in  vice ; for  Zeluco  has  no  redeeming  trait  to 
link  him  to  our  sympathy  or  forgiveness.  Moore 
visited  Scotland  in  the  summer  of  1786,  and  in 
the  commencement  of  the  following  year,  took  a 
warm  interest  in  the  genius  and  fortunes  of  Burns. 
It  is  to  him  that  we  owe  the  precious  autobio- 
graphy of  the  poet,  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
powerful  sketches  that  ever  was  written.  In  their 
correspondence  we  see  the  colossal  strength  and 
lofty  mind  of  the  peasant-bard,  even  when  placed 
by  the  side  of  the  accomplished  and  learned  traveller 
and  man  of  taste.  In  August  1792,  Dr  Moore 
accompanied  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  to  Paris,  and 
witnessed  some  of  the  early  excesses  of  the  French 
revolution.  Of  this  tour  he  published  an  account, 
entitled  A Journal  during  a Residence  in  France , 
from  the  beginning  of  August  to  the  middle  of  December 
1792,  &c.  The  first  volume  of  this  work  was 
published  in  1793,  and  a second  in  1794.  In  1795, 
Dr  Moore,  wishing  to  give  a retrospective  detail 
of  the  circumstances  which  tended  to  hasten  the 
revolution,  drew  up  a carefully  digested  narrative, 
entitled  A View  of  the  Causes  and  Progress  of  the 
French  Revolution , in  two  volumes.  This  is  a 
valuable  work,  and  it  has  been  pretty  closely  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  animated  and 
picturesque  survey  of  the  events  preceding  the 
career  of  Napoleon.  In  1796,  Dr  Moore  produced 
a second  novel,  Edward:  Various  Views  of  Human 
Nature , taken  from  Life  and  Manners , chiefly  in 
England.  As  Zeluco  was  a model  of  villainy, 
Edward  is  a model  of  virtue.  The  work,  altogether, 
displays  great  knowledge  of  the  world,  a lively 
rather  than  a correct  style,  and  some  amusing 
portraits  of  English  character ; among  these,  that 
of  Barnet  the  epicure — who  falls  in  love,  and 
marries  a lady  for  her  skill  in  dressing  a dish  of 
stewed  carp,  and  who  is  made  a good  husband 
chiefly  by  his  wife’s  cookery  and  attention  to  his 
comforts— is  undoubtedly  the  best.  In  the  follow- 
ing year,  Moore  furnished  a life  of  his  friend 
Smollett  for  a collective  edition  of  his  works.  In 
1800,  appeared  his  last  production,  Mordaunt: 
Sketches  of  Life , Character , and  Manners , in  Various 
Countries , including  the  Memoirs  of  a French  Lady  of 
Quality.  In  this  novel  our  author,  following  the 
example  of  Richardson,  and  Smollett’s  Humphry 
Clinker , threw  his  narrative  into  the  form  of  letters, 
part  being  dated  from  the  continent,  and  part  from 
England.  A tone  of  languor  and  insipidity  pervades 
the  story,  and  there  is  little  of  plot  or  incident  to 
keep  alive  attention.  Dr  Moore  died  at  Richmond 
on  the  21st  of  January  1802.  A complete  edition 
of  his  works  has  been  published  in  seven  volumes, 
with  memoirs  of  his  life  and  writings  by  Dr  Robert 
Anderson.  Of  all  the  writings  of  Dr  Moore,  his 
novel  of  Zeluco  is  the  most  popular.  Mr  Dunlop 
has  given  the  preference  to  Edward.  The  latter 
may  boast  of  more  variety  of  character,  and  is 
distinguished  by  judicious  observation  and  witty 
remark,  but  it  is  deficient  in  the  strong  interest  and 
forcible  painting  of  the  first  novel.  Zeluco’s  murder 
of  his  child  in  a fit  of  frantic  jealousy,  and  the 
discovery  of  the  circumstance  by  means  of  the 
picture,  is  conceived  with  great  originality,  and 
has  a striking  effect.  It  is  the  poetry  of  romance. 
The  attachment  between  Laura  and  Carlostein 


is  also  described  with  tenderness  and  delicacy, 
without  degenerating  into  German  sentimentalism 
or  immorality.  Of  the  lighter  sketches,  the  scenes 
between  the  two  Scotchmen,  Targe  and  Buchanan, 
are  perhaps  the  best ; and  their  duel  about  Queen 
Mary  is  an  inimitable  piece  of  national  caricature. 
On  English  ground,  Dr  Moore  is  a careful  observer 
of  men  and  manners.  The  conventional  forms  of 
society,  the  smartness  of  dialogue,  the  oddities 
and  humours  of  particular  individuals,  the  charla- 
tanry of  quacks  and  pretenders,  are  well  portrayed. 
He  fails  chiefly  in  depth  of  passion  and  situations 
of  strong  interest.  In  constructing  a plot,  he  is 
greatly  inferior  to  Smollett  or  Fielding.  Edward, 
like  Tom  Jones,  is  a foundling ; but  ‘ the  winding- 
up  of  the  story  by  the  trite  contrivance  of  recog- 
nising a lost  child  from  a mark  on  the  shoulder,  a 
locket,  and  a miniature  picture,’  forms  a humbling 
contrast  to  the  series  of  incidents  and  events,  so 
natural,  dramatic,  and  interesting,  by  which  the 
birth  of  Fielding’s  hero  is  established.  There  is 
no  great  aiming  at  moral  effect  in  Moore’s  novels, 
unless  it  be  in  depicting  the  wretchedness  of  vice, 
and  its  tragic  termination  in  the  character  of 
Zeluco.  He  was  an  observer  rather  than  an  inven- 
tor ; he  noted  more  than  he  felt.  The  same  powers 
of  observation  displayed  in  his  novels,  and  his 
extensive  acquaintance  with  mankind,  rendered 
him  an  admirable  chronicler  of  the  striking  scenes 
of  the  French  Revolution.  Numerous  as  are  the 
works  since  published  on  this  great  event,  the 
journals  and  remarks  of  Dr  Moore  may  still  be 
read  with  pleasure  and  instruction.  It  may  here 
be  mentioned,  that  the  distinguished  Sir  John 
Moore,  who  fell  at  Corunna,  was  the  eldest  son  of 
the  novelist. 

[Dispute  and  Duel  between  the  Two  Scotch  Servants  in 
Italy.'] 

[From  Zeluco .] 

[Duncan  Targe,  a hot  Highlander,  who  had  been  out  in  the 
Forty-five,  and  George  Buchanan,  born  and  educated  among 
the  Whigs  of  the  west  of  Scotland,  both  serving-men  in  Italy, 
meet  and  dine  together  during  the  absence  of  their  masters. 
After  dinner,  and  the  bottle  having  circulated  freely,  they 
disagree  as  to  politics,  Targe  being  a keen  Jacobite,  and  the 
other  a stanch  Whig.] 

Buchanan  filled  a bumper,  and  gave,  for  the  toast, 

‘ The  Land  of  Cakes ! ’ 

This  immediately  dispersed  the  cloud  which  began  to 
gather  on  the  other’s  brow. 

Targe  drank  the  toast  with  enthusiasm,  saying : ‘ May 
the  Almighty  pour  his  blessings  on  every  hill  and  valley 
in  it ! that  is  the  worst  wish,  Mr  Buchanan,  that  I shall 
ever  wish  to  that  land.’ 

‘ It  would  delight  your  heart  to  behold  the  flourishing 
condition  it  is  now  in,’  replied  Buchanan ; ‘ it  was  fast 
improving  when  I left  it,  and  I have  been  credibly 
informed  since  that  it  is  now  a perfect  garden.’ 

‘ I am  very  happy  to  hear  it,’  said  Targe. 

‘ Indeed,’  added  Buchanan,  ‘ it  has  been  in  a state  of 
rapid  improvement  ever  since  the  Union.’ 

‘ Confound  the  Union  !’  cried  Targe;  ‘ it  would  have 
improved  much  faster  without  it.’ 

‘ I am  not  quite  clear  on  that  point,  Mr  Targe,’  said 
Buchanan. 

‘ Depend  upon  it,’  replied  Targe,  ‘ the  Union  was  the 
worst  treaty  that  Scotland  ever  made.’ 

‘ I shall  admit,’  said  Buchanan,  ‘ that  she  might  have 
made  a better ; but,  bad  as  it  is,  our  country  reaps  some 
advantage  from  it.’ 

‘ All  the  advantages  are  on  the  side  of  England.’ 

‘ What  do  you  think,  Mr  Targe,’  said  Buchanan,  ‘ of 

159 


from  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


tlie  increase  of  trade  since  the  Union,  and  the  riches 
which  have  flowed  into  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland  from 
that  quarter  ?’ 

‘ Think,’  cried  Targe  ; * why,  I think  they  have  done 
a great  deal  of  mischief  to  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland.’ 

‘ How  so,  my  good  friend  ?’  said  Buchanan. 

‘By  spreading  luxury  among  the  inhabitants,  the 
never-failing  forerunner  of  effeminacy  of  manners. 
Why,  I was  assured,’  continued  Targe,  ‘by  Sergeant 
Lewis  Macneil,  a Highland  gentleman  in  the  Prussian 
service,  that  the  Lowlanders,  in  some  parts  of  Scotland, 
are  now  very  little  better  than  so  many  English.’ 

‘0  fie!’  cried  Buchanan;  ‘things  are  not  come  to 
that  pass  as  yet,  Mr  Targe  : your  friend,  the  sergeant, 
assuredly  exaggerates.’ 

‘ I hope  he  does,’  replied  Targe ; ‘ but  you  must 
acknowledge,’  continued  he,  ‘that  by  the  Union,  Scot- 
land has  lost  her  existence  as  an  independent  state  ; her 
name  is  swallowed  up  in  that  of  England.  Only  read 
the  English  newspapers  ; they  mention  England,  as  if  it 
were  the  name  of  the  whole  island.  They  talk  of  the 
English  army,  the  English  fleet,  the  English  everything. 
They  never  mention  Scotland,  except  when  one  of  our 
countrymen  happens  to  get  an  office  under  government ; 
we  are  then  told,  with  some  stale  gibe,  that  the  person 
is  a Scotchman  : or,  which  happens  still  more  rarely, 
when  any  of  them  are  condemned  to  die  at  Tyburn, 
particular  care  is  taken  to  inform  the  public  that  the 
criminal  is  originally  from  Scotland  ! But  if  fifty 
Englishmen  get  places,  or  are  hanged,  in  one  year,  no 
remarks  are  made.’ 

‘ No,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘ in  that  case  it  is  passed  over 
as  a thing  of  course.’ 

The  conversation  then  taking  another  turn,  Targe, 
who  was  a great  genealogist,  descanted  on  the  antiquity 
of  certain  gentlemen’s  families  in  the  Highlands ; which, 
he  asserted,  were  far  more  honourable  than  most  of  the 
noble  families  either  in  Scotland  or  England.  ‘ Is  it 
not  shameful,’  added  he,  ‘that  a parcel  of  mushroom 
lords,  mere  sprouts  from  the  dunghills  of  law  or  com- 
merce, the  grandsons  of  grocers  and  attorneys,  should 
take  the  pass  of  gentlemen  of  the  oldest  families  in 
Europe  ?’ 

‘Why,  as  for  that  matter,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘pro- 
vided the  grandsons  of  grocers  or  attorneys  are  deserving 
citizens,  I do  not  perceive  why  they  should  be  excluded 
from  the  king’s  favour  more  than  other  men.’ 

‘ But  some  of  them  never  drew  a sword  in  defence  of 
either  their  king  or  country,’  rejoined  Targe. 

‘ Assuredly,’  said  Buchanan,  ‘ men  may  deserve 
honour  and  pre-eminence  by  other  means  than  by 
drawing  their  swords.’ 

[He  then  instances  his  celebrated  namesake  George 
Buchanan,  whom  he  praises  warmly  as  having  been  the 
best  Latin  scholar  in  Europe;  while  Targe  upbraids  him 
for  want  of  honesty.] 

‘ In  what  did  he  ever  shew  any  want  of  honesty  ?’ 
said  Buchanan. 

‘ In  calumniating  and  endeavouring  to  blacken  the 
reputation  of  his  rightful  sovereign,  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,’  replied  Targe,  ‘the  most  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished princess  that  ever  sat  on  a throne.’ 

‘ I have  nothing  to  say  either  against  her  beauty  or 
her  accomplishments,’  resumed  Buchanan  ; * but  surely, 

Mr  Targe,  you  must  acknowledge  that  she  was  a V 

‘ Have  a care  what  you  say,  sir !’  interrupted  Targe  ; 

‘ I ’ll  permit  no  man  that  ever  wore  breeches  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  that  unfortunate  queen  !’ 

‘ No  man  that  ever  wore  either  breeches  or  a philabeg,’ 
replied  Buchanan,  ‘ shall  prevent  me  from  speaking  the 
truth  when  I see  occasion  ! ’ 

‘Speak  as  much  truth  as  you  please,  sir,’  rejoined 
Targe ; ‘ but  I declare  that  no  man  shall  calumniate  the 
memory  of  that  beautiful  and  unfortunate  princess  in 
my  presence  while  I can  wield  a claymore.’ 

160 


‘ If  you  should  wield  fifty  claymores,  you  cannot  deny 
that  she  was  a Papist !’  said  Buchanan. 

‘ Well,  sir,’  cried  Targe,  ‘ what  then  ? She  was,  like 
other  people,  of  the  religion  in  which  she  was  bred.’ 

‘ I do  not  know  where  you  may  have  been  bred,  Mr 
Targe,’  said  Buchanan ; ‘ for  aught  I know,  you  may  be 
an  adherent  to  the  worship  of  the  scarlet  lady  yourself. 
Unless  that  is  the  case,  you  ought  not  to  interest  yourself 
in  the  reputation  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.’ 

‘I  fear  you  are  too  nearly  related  to  the  false 
slanderer  whose  name  you  bear  ! ’ said  Targe. 

‘ I glory  in  the  name ; and  should  think  myself  greatly 
obliged  to  any  man  who  could  prove  my  relation  to  the 
great  George  Buchanan!’  cried  the  other. 

‘ He  was  nothing  but  a disloyal  calumniator,’  cried 
Targe ; ‘ who  attempted  to  support  falsehoods  by  forgeries, 
which,  I thank  Heaven,  are  now  fully  detected  !’ 

‘ You  are  thankful  for  a very  small  mercy,’  resumed 
Buchanan ; ‘ but  since  you  provoke  me  to  it,  I will  tell 
you,  in  plain  English,  that  your  bonny  Queen  Mary 
was  the  strumpet  of  Bothwell  and  the  murderer  of  her 
husband ! ’ 

No  sooner  had  he  uttered  the  last  sentence,  than 
Targe  flew  at  him  like  a tiger,  and  they  were  separated 

with  difficulty  by  Mr  N ’s  groom,  who  was  in  the 

adjoining  chamber,  and  had  heard  the  altercation. 

‘ I insist  on  your  giving  me  satisfaction,  or  retracting 
what  you  have  said  against  the  beautiful  Queen  of 
Scotland !’  cried  Targe. 

‘ As  for  retracting  what  I have  said,’  replied  Buchanan, 

‘ that  is  no  habit  of  mine ; but  with  regard  to  giving 
you  satisfaction,  I am  ready  for  that  to  the  best  of  my 
ability;  for  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  though  I am  not  a 
Highlandman,  I am  a Scotchman  as  well  as  yourself, 
and  not  entirely  ignorant  of  the  use  of  the  claymore ; 
so  name  your  hour,  and  I will  meet  you  to-morrow 
morning.’ 

‘Why  not  directly?’  cried  Targe;  ‘there  is  nobody 
in  the  garden  to  interrupt  us.’ 

‘I  should  have  chosen  to  have  settled  some  things 
first ; but  since  you  are  in  such  a hurry,  I will  not  balk 
you.  I will  step  home  for  my  sword  and  be  with  you 
directly,’  said  Buchanan. 

The  groom  interposed,  and  endeavoured  to  reconcile 
the  two  enraged  Scots,  but  without  success.  Buchanan 
soon  arrived  with  his  sword,  and  they  retired  to  a 
private  spot  in  the  garden.  The  groom  next  tried  to 
persuade  them  to  decide  their  difference  by  fair  boxing. 
This  was  rejected  by  both  the  champions  as  a mode  of 
fighting  unbecoming  gentlemen.  The  groom  asserted 
that  the  best  gentlemen  in  England  sometimes  fought  in 
that  manner,  and  gave,  as  an  instance,  a boxing-match, 
of  which  he  himself  had  been  a witness,  between  Lord 
Gr.’s  gentleman  and  a gentleman-farmer  at  York  races 
about  the  price  of  a mare. 

‘ But  our  quarrel,’  said  Targe,  ‘ is  about  the  reputation 
of  a queen.’ 

‘ That,  for  certain,’  replied  the  groom,  ‘ makes  a 
difference.’ 

Buchanan  unsheathed  his  sword. 

‘ Are  you  ready,  sir  V cried  Targe. 

‘ That  I am.  Come  on,  sir,’  said  Buchanan ; ‘ and 
the  Lord  be  with  the  righteous.’ 

‘ Amen  !’  cried  Targe  ; and  the  conflict  began. 

Both  the  combatants  understood  the  weapon  they 
fought  with ; and  each  parried  his  adversary’s  blows 
with  such  dexterity,  that  no  blood  was  shed  for  some 
time.  At  length  Targe,  making  a feint  at  Buchanan’s 
head,  gave  him  suddenly  a severe  wound  in  the  thigh. 

‘ I hope  you  are  now  sensible  of  your  error  ?’  said 
Targe,  dropping  his  point. 

‘I  am  of  the  same  opinion  I was!’  cried  Buchanan; 

‘ so  keep  your  guard.’  So  saying,  he  advanced  more 
briskly  than  ever  upon  Targe,  who,  after  warding  off 
several  strokes,  wounded  his  antagonist  a second  time. 
Buchanan,  however,  shewed  no  disposition  to  relinquish 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  INCHBALD. 


I the  combat.  But  this  second  wound  being  in  the  fore- 
head, and  the  blood  flowing  with  profusion  into  his  eyes, 
he  could  no  longer  see  distinctly,  but  was  obliged  to 
flourish  his  sword  at  random,  without  being  able  to 
perceive  the  movements  of  his  adversary,  who,  closing 
with  him,  became  master  of  his  sword,  and  with  the 
same  effort  threw  him  to  the  ground;  and,  standing 
over  him,  he  said  : ‘ This  may  convince  you,  Mr  Buchanan, 
that  yours  is  not  the  righteous  cause  ! You  are  in  my 
power;  but  I will  act  as  the  queen  whose  character  I 
defend  would  order  were  she  alive.  I hope  you  will 
live  to  repent  of  the  injustice  you  have  done  to  that 
amiable  and  unfortunate  princess.’  He  then  assisted 
Buchanan  to  rise.  Buchanan  made  no  immediate 
answer  : but  when  he  saw  Targe  assisting  the  groom  to 
stop  the  blood  which  flowed  from  his  wounds,  he  said : 

* I must  acknowledge,  Mr  Targe,  that  you  behave  like  a 
gentleman.’ 

After  the  bleeding  was  in  some  degree  diminished  by 
the  dry  lint  which  the  groom,  who  was  an  excellent 
farrier,  applied  to  the  wounds,  they  assisted  him  to  his 
chamber,  and  then  the  groom  rode  away  to  inform  Mr 

N of  what  had  happened.  But  the  wound  becoming 

more  painful,  Targe  proposed  sending  for  a surgeon. 
Buchanan  then  said  that  the  surgeon’s  mate,  belonging 
to  one  of  the  ships  of  the  British  squadron  then  in 
the  bay  was,  he  believed,  on  shore,  and  as  he  was  a 
Scotchman,  he  would  like  to  employ  him  rather  than  a 
foreigner.  Having  mentioned  where  he  lodged,  one  of 

Mr  N ’s  footmen  went  immediately  for  him.  He 

returned  soon  after,  saying  that  the  surgeon’s  mate  was 
not  at  his  lodging,  nor  expected  for  some  hours.  ‘ But 
I will  go  and  bring  the  French  surgeon,’  continued  the 
footman. 

‘ I thank  you,  Mr  Thomas,’  said  Buchanan ; ‘ but  I 
will  have  patience  till  my  own  countryman  returns.’ 

‘ He  may  not  return  for  a long  time,’  said  Thomas. 

* You  had  best  let  me  run  for  the  French  surgeon,  who, 
they  say,  has  a great  deal  of  skill.’ 

‘ I am  obliged  to  you,  Mr  Thomas,’  added  Buchanan  ; 
‘but  neither  Frenchman  nor  Spanishman  shall  dress 
my  wounds  when  a Scottishman  is  to  be  found  for  love 
or  money.’ 

‘ They  are  to  be  found,  for  the  one  or  the  other,  as 
I am  credibly  informed,  in  most  parts  of  the  world,’ 

| said  Thomas. 

‘ As  my  countrymen,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘ are  dis- 
tinguished for  letting  slip  no  means  of  improvement, 
it  would  be  very  strange  if  many  of  them  did  not  use 
that  of  travelling,  Mr  Thomas.’ 

‘ It  would  be  very  strange  indeed,  I own  it,’  said  the 
footman. 

‘ But  are  you  certain  of  this  young  man’s  skill  in  his 
business  when  he  does  come?  ’ said  Targe. 

‘ I confess  I have  had  no  opportunity  to  know  any- 
thing of  his  skill,’  answered  Buchanan ; ‘ but  I know, 
for  certain,  that  he  is  sprung  from  very  respectable 
people.  His  father  is  a minister  of  the  gospel,  and  it 
is  not  likely  that  his  fathers  son  will  be  deficient  in 
the  profession  to  which  he  was  bred.’ 

‘ It  would  be  still  less  likely  had  the  son  been  bred 
to  preaching ! ’ said  Targe. 

‘ That  is  true,’  replied  Buchanan ; ‘ but  I have  no 
doubt  of  the  young  man’s  skill : he  seems  to  be  a very 
douce  [discreet]  lad.  It  will  be  an  encouragement  to 
him  to  see  that  I prefer  him  to  another,  and  also  a 
comfort  to  me  to  be  attended  by  my  countryman.’ 

‘ Countryman  or  not  countryman,’  said  Thomas, 
‘he  will  expect  to  be  paid  for  his  trouble  as  well  as 
another.’ 

‘ Assuredly,’  said  Buchanan ; ‘ but  it  was  always  a 
maxim  with  me,  and  shall  be  to  my  dying  day,  that  we 
should  give  our  own  fish-guts  to  our  own  sea-mews.’ 

‘ Since  you  are  so  fond  of  your  own  sea-mews,’  said 
Thomas,  4 1 am  surprised  you  were  so  eager  to  destroy 
Mr  Targe  there.’ 

63 


‘That  proceeded  from  a difference  in  politics,  Mr 
Thomas,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘in  which  the  best  of 
friends  are  apt  to  have  a misunderstanding  ; but  though 
I am  a Whig,  and  he  is  a Tory,  I hope  we  are  both 
honest  men  ; and  as  he  behaved  generously  when  my 
life  was  in  his  power,  I have  no  scruple  in  saying  that 
I am  sorry  for  having  spoken  disrespectfully  of  any 
person,  dead  or  alive,  for  whom  he  has  an  esteem.’ 
‘Mary  Queen  of  Scots  acquired  the  esteem  of  her 
very  enemies,’  resumed  Targe.  ‘The  elegance  and 
engaging  sweetness  of  her  manners  were  irresistible 
to  every  heart  that  was  not  steeled  by  prejudice  or 
jealousy.’ 

‘ She  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a Judge,’  said  Buchanan, 
‘ who  can  neither  be  seduced  by  fair  appearances,  nor 
imposed  on  by  forgeries  and  fraud.’ 

‘ She  is  so,  Mr  Buchanan,’  replied  Targe ; ‘ and  her 
rival  and  accusers  are  in  the  hands  of  the  same  Judge.’ 
‘We  had  best  leave  them  all  to  His  justice  and 
mercy  then,  and  say  no  more  on  the  subject,’  added 
Buchanan  ; ‘for  if  Queen  Mary’s  conduct  on  earth  was 
what  you  believe  it  was,  she  will  receive  her  reward  in 
heaven,  where  her  actions  and  sufferings  are  recorded.’ 

‘ One  thing  more  I will  say,’  rejoined  Targe,  ‘ and 
that  is  only  to  ask  of  you  whether  it  is  probable  that 
a woman  whose  conscience  was  loaded  with  the  crimes 
imputed  to  her,  could  have  closed  the  varied  scene  of 
her  life,  and  have  met  death  with  such  serene  and 
dignified  courage  as  Mary  did  ? ’ 

‘ I always  admired  that  last  awful  scene,’  replied 
Buchanan,  who  was  melted  by  the  recollection  of 
Mary’s  behaviour  on  the  scaffold ; ‘ and  I will  freely 
acknowledge  that  the  most  innocent  person  that  ever 
lived,  or  the  greatest  hero  recorded  in  history,  could 
not  face  death  with  greater  composure  than  the  queen 
of  Scotland : she  supported  the  dignity  of  a queen 
while  she  displayed  the  meekness  of  a Christian.’ 

‘ I am  exceedingly  sorry,  my  dear  friend,  for  the 
misunderstanding  that  happened  between  us ! ’ said 
Targe  affectionately,  and  holding  forth  his  hand  in 
token  of  reconciliation : ‘ and  I am  now  willing  to 
believe  that  your  friend,  Mr  George  Buchanan,  was  a 
very  great  poet,  and  understood  Latin  as  well  as  any 
man  alive ! ’ Here  the  two  friends  shook  hands  with 
the  utmost  cordiality. 


MRS  INCHBALD. 

Mrs  Inchbald,  the  dramatist,  attained  deserved 
celebrity  by  her  novels,  A Simple  Story , in  four 
volumes,  published  in  1791,  and  Nature  and  Art , 
two  volumes,  1796.  As  this  lady  affected  plain- 
ness and  precision  in  style,  and  aimed  at  drawing 
sketches  from  nature,  she  probably  designated  her 
first  novel  simple , without  duly  considering  that  the 
plot  is  intricate  and  involved,  and  that  some  of  her 
characters — as  Lord  and  Lady  Elmwood — belong 
to  the  ranks  of  the  aristocracy.  There  are  many 
striking  and  passionate  scenes  in  the  novel,  and  not- 
withstanding the  disadvantage  attending  a double 
plot,  the  interest  is  well  sustained.  The  authoress’s 
knowledge  of  dramatic  rules  and  effect  may  be  seen 
in  the  skilful  grouping  of  her  personages,  and  in 
the  liveliness  of  the  dialogue.  Her  second  work  is 
much  simpler  and  coarser  in  texture.  Its  object 
may  be  gathered  from  the  concluding  maxim — ‘Let 
the  poor  no  more  be  their  own  persecutors — no 
longer  pay  homage  to  wealth — instantaneously  the 
whole  idolatrous  worship  will  cease — the  idol  will 
be  broken.’  Mrs  Inchbald  illustrated  this  by  her 
own  practice ; yet  few  of  her  readers  can  feel  aught 
but  mortification  and  disappointment  at  the  denoue- 
ment of  the  tale,  wherein  the  pure  and  noble-minded 
Henry,  after  the  rich  promise  of  his  youth  and  his 
intellectual  culture,  finally  settles  down  with  his 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


father  to  ‘ cheerful  labour  in  fishing,  or  the  tending 
of  a garden,  the  produce  of  which  they  carry  to  the 
next  market-town.’  The  following  is  a brief  but 
striking  allusion  to  the  miseries  of  low  London 
sendee : 

[Service  in  London .] 

In  romances,  and  in  some  plays,  there  are  scenes  of 
dark  and  unwholesome  mines,  wherein  the  labourer 
works  during  the  brightest  day  by  the  aid  of  artificial 
light.  There  are,  in  London,  kitchens  equally  dismal, 
though  not  quite  so  much  exposed  to  damp  and  noxious 
vapours.  In  one  of  these  under  ground,  hidden  from 
the  cheerful  light  of  the  sun,  poor  Agnes  was  doomed 
to  toil  from  morning  till  night,  subjected  to  the  com- 
mand of  a dissatisfied  mistress,  who,  not  estimating 
as  she  ought  the  misery  incurred  by  serving  her, 
constantly  threatened  her  servants  with  a dismission, 
at  which  the  unthinking  wretches  would  tremble  merely 
from  the  sound  of  the  words;  for  to  have  reflected — 
to  have  considered  what  their  purport  was — to  be 
released  from  a dungeon,  relieved  from  continual 
upbraidings  and  vile  drudgery,  must  have  been  a sub- 
ject of  rejoicing;  and  yet,  because  these  good  tidings 
were  delivered  as  a menace,  custom  had  made  the 
hearer  fearful  of  the  consequence.  So,  death  being 
described  to  children  as  a disaster,  even  poverty  and 
shame  will  start  from  it  with  affright;  whereas,  had 
it  been  pictured  with  its  benign  aspect,  it  would  have 
been  feared  but  by  few,  and  many,  many  would 
welcome  it  with  gladness. 

Mr  Rogers,  in  the  notes  to  his  poem  of  Human 
Life , quotes,  as  from  ‘an  excellent  writer,’  the 
following  sentence  from  Mrs  Inchbald’s  Nature  and 
Art: 

[. Estimates  of  Happiness .] 

Some  persons,  I know,  estimate  happiness  by  fine 
houses,  gardens,  and  parks — others  by  pictures,  horses, 
money,  and  various  things  wholly  remote  from  their  own 
species ; but  when  I wish  to  ascertain  the  real  felicity 
of  any  rational  man,  I always  inquire  whom,  he  has  to 
love.  If  I find  he  has  nobody,  or  does  not  love  those 
he  has — even  in  the  midst  of  all  his  profusion  of  finery 
and  grandeur,  I pronounce  him  a being  deep  in 
adversity. 

[ The  Judge  and  the  Victim .] 

[From  Nature  and  Art.] 

The  day  at  length  is  come  on  which  Agnes  shall  have 
a sight  of  her  beloved  William  ! She  who  has  watched 
for  hours  near  his  door,  to  procure  a glimpse  of  him 
going  out  or  returning  home ; who  has  walked  miles  to 
see  his  chariot  pass ; she  now  will  behold  him,  and  he 
will  see  her,  by  command  of  the  laws  of  his  country. 
Those  laws,  which  will  deal  with  rigour  towards  her, 
are  in  this  one  instance  still  indulgent. 

The  time  of  the  assizes  at  the  county  town  in  which 
she  is  imprisoned,  is  arrived — the  prisoners  are  demanded 
at  the  shire-hall — the  jail-doors  are  opened — they  go  in 
sad  procession.  The  trumpet  sounds — it  speaks  the 
arrival  of  the  judge,  and  that  judge  is  William. 

The  day  previous  to  her  trial,  Agnes  had  read,  in  the 
printed  calendar  of  the  prisoners,  his  name  as  the  learned 
judge  before  whom  she  was  to  appear.  For  a moment 
she  forgot  her  perilous  state  in  the  excess  of  joy  which 
the  still  unconquerable  love  she  bore  to  him  permitted 
her  to  taste,  even  on  the  brink  of  the  grave ! After- 
reflection  made  her  check  those  worldly  transports,  as 
unfit  for  the  present  solemn  occasion.  But,  alas ! to 
her,  earth  and  William  were  so  closely  united,  that,  till 
she  forsook  the  one,  she  could  never  cease  to  think, 
without  the  contending  passions  of  hope,  of  fear,  of  love, 
of  shame,  and  of  despair,  on  the  other. 

162 


Now  fear  took  place  of  her  first  immoderate  joy;  she 
feared  that,  although  much  changed  in  person  since  he 
had  seen  her,  and  her  real  name  now  added  to  many  an 
alias — yet  she  feared  that  some  well-known  glance  of 
the  eye,  turn  of  the  action,  or  accent  of  speech,  might 
recall  her  to  his  remembrance ; and  at  that  idea,  shame 
overcame  all  her  other  sensations — for  still  she  retained 
pride,  in  respect  to  his  opinion,  to  wish  him  not  to  know 
Agnes  was  that  wretch  she  felt  she  was ! Once  a ray  of 
hope  beamed  on  her,  that  if  he  knew  her — if  he  recog- 
nised her — he  might  possibly  befriend  her  cause ; and 
life,  bestowed  through  William’s  friendship,  seemed  a 
precious  object ! But,  again,  that  rigorous  honour  she 
had  often  heard  him  boast,  that  firmness  to  his  word,  of 
which  she  had  fatal  experience,  taught  her  to  know  he 
would  not,  for  any  improper  compassion,  any  unmanly 
weakness,  forfeit  his  oath  of  impartial  justice. 

In  meditations  such  as  these  she  passed  the  sleepless 
night. 

When,  in  the  morning,  she  was  brought  to  the  bar, 
and  her  guilty  hand  held  up  before  the  righteous  judg- 
ment-seat of  William,  imagination  could  not  form  two 
figures,  or  two  situations  more  incompatible  with  the 
existence  of  former  familiarity  than  the  judge  and  the 
culprit ; and  yet,  these  very  persons  had  passed  together 
the  most  blissful  moments  that'  either  ever  tasted! 
Those  hours  of  tender  dalliance  were  now  present  to 
her  mind — his  thoughts  were  more  nobly  employed  in 
his  high  office ; nor  could  the  haggard  face,  hollow  eye, 
desponding  countenance,  and  meagre  person  of  the  poor 
prisoner,  once  call  to  his  memory,  though  her  name  was 
uttered  among  a list  of  others  which  she  had  assumed, 
his  former  youthful,  lovely  Agnes  ! 

She  heard  herself  arraigned,  with  trembling  limbs 
and  downcast  looks,  and  many  witnesses  had  appeared  i 
against  her,  before  she  ventured  to  lift  her  eyes  up  to  j 
her  awful  judge  ; she  then  gave  one  fearful  glance,  and  i 
discovered  William,  unpitying  but  beloved  William,  in  \ 
every  feature  ! It  was  a face  she  had  been  used  to  look  | 
on  with  delight,  and  a kind  of  absent  smile  of  gladness  j 
now  beamed  on  her  poor  wan  visage. 

When  every  witness  on  the  part  of  the  prosecutor 
had  been  examined,  the  judge  addressed  himself  to  her : 
‘What  defence  have  you  to  make?’  It  was  William 
spoke  to  Agnes ! The  sound  was  £weet ; the  voice  was 
mild,  was  soft,  compassionate,  encouraging.  It  almost 
charmed  her  to  a love  of  life  ! Not  such  a voice  as 
when  William  last  addressed  her;  when  he  left  her 
undone  and  pregnant,  vowing  never  to  see  or  speak  to 
her  more.  She  would  have  hung  upon  the  present  j 
word  for  ever.  She  did  not  call  to  mind  that  this 
gentleness  was  the  effect  of  practice,  the  art  of  his  occu- 
pation ; which,  at  times,  is  but  a copy,  by  the  unfeeling, 
of  the  benevolent  brethren  of  the  bench.  In  the  present 
judge,  tenderness  was  not  designed  for  consolation  of 
the  culprit,  but  for  the  approbation  of  the  auditors. 

There  were  no  spectators,  Agnes,  by  your  side  when 
last  he  parted  from  you — if  there  had,  the  awful 
William  would  have  been  awed  to  marks  of  pity. 

Stunned  with  the  enchantment  of  that  well-known 
tongue  directed  to  her,  she  stood  like  one  just  petrified 
— all  vital  power  seemed  suspended.  Again  he  put  the 
question,  and  with  these  additional  sentences,  tenderly 
and  emphatically  delivered  : ‘ Recollect  yourself ; have 
you  no  witnesses?  no  proof  on  your  behalf?’  A dead  J 
silence  followed  these  questions.  He  then  mildly  but 
forcibly  added : ‘What  have  you  to  say?’  Here  a flood 
of  tears  burst  from  her  eyes,  which  she  fixed  earnestly 
upon  him,  as  if  pleading  for  mercy,  while  she  faintly 
articulated:  ‘Nothing,  my  lord.’  After  a short  pause, 
he  asked  her  in  the  same  forcible  but  benevolent  tone  : 
‘Have  you  no  one  to  speak  to  your  character?’  The 
prisoner  answered : ‘ No.’  A second  gush  of  tears 
followed  this  reply,  for  she  called  to  mind  by  whom  her 
character  had  first  been  blasted. 

He  summed  up  the  evidence,  and  every  time  he  was 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


obliged  to  press  bard  upon  the  proofs  against  her,  she 
shrunk,  and  seemed  to  stagger  with  the  deadly  blow — 
writhed  under  the  weight  of  his  minute  justice,  more 
than  from  the  prospect  of  a shameful  death.  The  jury 
consulted  but  a few  minutes ; the  verdict  was,  ‘ Guilty.’ 
She  heard  it  with  composure.  But  when  William 
placed  the  fatal  velvet  on  his  head,  and  rose  to  pro- 
nounce the  fatal  sentence,  she  started  with  a kind  of 
convulsive  motion,  retreated  a step  or  two  back,  and 
lifting  up  her  hands,  with  a scream  exclaimed : ‘ Oh, 
not  from  you  !’  The  piercing  shriek  which  accom- 
panied these  words,  prevented  their  being  heard  by 
part  of  the  audience ; and  those  who  heard  them  thought 
little  of  their  meaning,  more  than  that  they  expressed 
her  fear  of  dying.  Serene  and  dignified,  as  if  no  such 
exclamation  had  been  uttered,  William  delivered  the 
final  speech  ending  with  ‘Dead,  dead,  dead.’  She 
fainted  as  he  closed  the  period,  and  was  carried  back  to 
prison  in  a swoon ; while  he  adjourned  the  court  to  go 
to  dinner. 

If,  unaffected  by  the  scene  he  had  witnessed,  William 
sat  down  to  dinner  with  an  appetite,  let  not  the  reader 
conceive  that  the  most  distant  suspicion  had  struck  his 
mind  of  his  ever  having  seen,  much  less  familiarly 
known,  the  poor  offender  whom  he  had  just  condemned. 
Still,  this  forgetfulness  did  not  proceed  from  the  want 
of  memory  for  Agnes.  In  every  peevish  or  heavy  hour 
passed  with  his  wife,  he  was  sure  to  think  of  her;  yet 
it  was  self-love,  rather  than  love  of  her,  that  gave  rise 
to  these  thoughts.  He  felt  the  lack  of  female  sympathy 
and  tenderness  to  soften  the  fatigue  of  studious  labour, 
to  soothe  a sullen,  a morose  disposition — he  felt  he 
wanted  comfort  for  himself,  but  never  once  considered 
what  were  the  wants  of  Agnes. 

In  the  chagrin  of  a barren  bed,  he  sometimes  thought, 
too,  even  on  the  child  that  Agnes  bore  him;  but 
whether  it  were  male  or  female,  whether  a beggar  in 
the  streets  or  dead,  various  and  important  public  occu- 
pation forbade  him  to  inquire.  Yet  the  poor,  the  widow, 
and  the  orphan  frequently  shared  William’s  ostenta- 
tious bounty.  He  was  the  president  of  many  excellent 
charities,  gave  largely,  and  sometimes  instituted  benevo- 
lent societies  for  the  unhappy ; for  he  delighted  to  load 
the  poor  with  obligation,  and  the  rich  with  praise. 

There  are  persons  like  him  who  love  to  do  everything 
good  but  that  which  their  immediate  duty  requires. 
There  are  servants  that  will  serve  every  one  more  cheer- 
fully than  their  masters ; there  are  men  who  will  distri- 
bute money  liberally  to  all  except  their  creditors ; and 
there  are  wives  who  will  love  all  mankind  better  than 
their  own  husbands.  Duty  is  a familiar  word  which 
has  little  effect  upon  an  ordinary  mind;  and  as  ordi- 
nary minds  make  a vast  majority,  we  have  acts  of 
generosity,  self-denial,  and  honesty,  where  smaller  pains 
would  constitute  greater  virtues.  Had  William  followed 
the  common  dictates  of  charity,  had  he  adopted  private 
pity  instead  of  public  munificence,  had  he  cast  an  eye  at 
home  before  he  sought  abroad  for  objects  of  compassion, 
Agnes  had  been  preserved  from  an  ignominious  death, 
and  he  had  been  preserved  from — remorse , the  tortures 
of  which  he  for  the  first  time  proved  on  reading  a 
printed  sheet  of  paper,  accidentally  thrown  in  his  way  a 
few  days  after  he  had  left  the  town  in  which  he  had 
condemned  her  to  die. 

‘ March  10,  179-. 

‘The  last  dying  words,  speech,  and  confession,  birth, 
parentage,  and  education,  life,  character,  and  behaviour, 
of  Agnes  Primrose,  who  was  executed  this  morning 
between  the  hours  of  ten  and  twelve,  pursuant  to  the 
sentence  passed  upon  her  by  the  Honourable  Justice 
Nor  wynne. 

‘Agnes  Primrose  was  bom  of  honest  parents,  in  the 

village  of  Anfield,  in  the  county  of  •’  (William 

started  at  the  name  of  the  village  and  county) ; ‘ but 
being  led  astray  by  the  arts  and  flattery  of  seducing 


man,  she  fell  from  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  took  to  bad 
company,  which  instilled  into  her  young  heart  all  their 
evil  ways,  and  at  length  brought  her  to  this  untimely 
end.  So  she  hopes  her  death  will  be  a warning  to  all 
young  persons  of  her  own  sex,  how  they  listen  to  the 
praises  and  courtship  of  young  men,  especially  of  those 
who  are  their  betters ; for  they  only  'court  to  deceive. 
But  the  said  Agnes  freely  forgives  all  persons  who  have 
done  her  injury  or  given  her  sorrow,  from  the  young 
man  who  first  won  her  heart,  to  the  jury  who  found 
her  guilty,  and  the  judge  who  condemned  her  to  death. 

‘And  she  acknowledges  the  justice  of  her  sentence, 
not  only  in  respect  of  her  crime  for  which  she  suffers, 
but  in  regard  to  many  other  heinous  sins  of  which  she 
has  been  guilty,  more  especially  that  of  once  attempt- 
ing to  commit  a murder  upon  her  own  helpless  child ; 
for  which  guilt  she  now  considers  the  vengeance  of  God 
has  overtaken  her,  to  which  she  is  patiently  resigned, 
and  departs  in  peace  and  charity  with  all  the  world, 
praying  the  Lord  to  have  mercy  on  her  parting  soul.’ 

POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  CONFESSION. 

‘ So  great  was  this  unhappy  woman’s  terror  of  death 
and  the  awful  judgment  that  was  to  follow,  that  when 
sentence  was  pronounced  upon  her  she  fell  into  a 
swoon,  from  that  into  convulsions,  from  which  she 
never  entirely  recovered,  but  was  delirious  to  the  time 
of  her  execution,  except  that  short  interval  in  which 
she  made  her  confession  to  the  clergyman  who  attended 
her.  She  has  left  one  child,  a youth  almost  sixteen, 
who  has  never  forsaken  his  mother  during  all  the  time 
of  her  imprisonment,  but  waited  on  her  with  true  filial 
duty ; and  no  sooner  was  her  final  sentence  passed 
than  he  began  to  droop,  and  now  lies  dangerously  ill 
near  the  prison  from  which  she  is  released  by  death. 
During  the  loss  of  her  senses,  the  said  Agnes  Primrose 
raved  continually  of  her  child ; and,  asking  for  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  wrote  an  incoherent  petition  to  the 
judge,  recommending  the  youth  to  his  protection  and 
mercy.  But  notwithstanding  this  insanity,  she  behaved 
with  composure  and  resignation  when  the  fatal  morning 
arrived  in  which  she  was  to  be  launched  into  eternity. 
She  prayed  devoutly  during  the  last  hour,  and  seemed 
to  have  her  whole  mind  fixed  on  the  world  to  which  she 
was  going.  A crowd  of  spectators  followed  her  to  the 
fatal  spot,  most  of  whom  returned  weeping  at  the  recol- 
lection of  the  fervency  with  which  she  prayed,  and  the 
impression  which  her  dreadful  state  seemed  to  make 
upon  her.’  * * 

No  sooner  had  the  name  of  ‘Anfield’  struck  William, 
than  a thousand  reflections  and  remembrances  flashed 
on  his  mind  to  give  him  full  conviction  who  it  was  he 
had  judged  and  sentenced.  He  recollected  the  sad 
remains  of  Agnes,  such  as  he  once  had  known  her ; and 
now  he  wondered  how  his  thoughts  could  have  been 
absent  from  an  object  so  pitiable,  so  worthy  of  his 
attention,  as  not  to  give  him  even  suspicion  who  she 
was,  either  from  her  name  or  from  her  person,  during 
the  whole  trial.  But  wonder,  astonishment,  horror, 
and  every  other  .sensation  was  absorbed  by — remorse. 
It  wounded,  it  stabbed,  it  rent  his  hard  heart  as  it 
would  do  a tender  one : it  havocked  on  his  firm  inflex- 
ible mind  as  it  would  on  a weak  and  pliant  brain  ! 
Spirit  of  Agnes ! look  down,  and  behold  all  your 
wrongs  revenged  ! William  feels — remorse. 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

The  novels  of  Mrs  Charlotte  Smith  aimed 
more  at  delineating  affections  than  manners, 
and  they  all  evinced  superior  merit.  The  first, 
Emmeline , published  in  1788,  had  an  extensive  sale. 
Ethelinde  (1789),  and  Celestina  (1791),  were  also 
received  with  favour  and  approbation.  These  were 
followed  by  Desmond  (1792),  The  Old  English 


from  1700  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Manor-house  (1793),  The  Wanderings  of  Warwick , 
The  Banished  Man , Montalbert,  Marchmont , The 
Young  Philosopher  (1798),  &c.  She  wrote  also 
Rural  Walks , and  other  works.  Her  best  is  the 
Old  English  Manor-house , in  which  her  descrip- 
tive powers  are  found  united  to  an  interesting  plot 
and  well-sustained  dramatis  personae.  She  took  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  caricaturing  lawyers,  having 
herself  suffered  deeply  from  the  ‘ law’s  delay ; ’ and 
as  her  husband  had  ruined  himself  and  family  by 
foolish  schemes  and  projects,  she  is  supposed  to  have 
drawn  him  in  the  projector  who  hoped  to  make  a 
fortune  by  manuring  his  estate  with  old  wigs  ! Sir 
Walter  Scott,  ‘in  acknowledgment  of  many  pleasant 
hours  derived  from  the  perusal  of  Mrs  Smith’s 
works,’  included  her  in  his  British  Novelists,  and 
prefixed  an  interesting  criticism  and  memoir.  He 
alludes  to  her  defective  narratives  or  plots,  but 
considers  her  characters  to  be  conceived  with  truth 
and  force,  though  none  bear  the  stamp  of  actual 
novelty.  He  adds,  ‘she  is  uniformly  happy  in 
supplying  them  with  language  fitted  to  their  station 
in  life ; nor  are  there  many  dialogues  to  be  found 
which  are  at  once  so  entertaining,  and  approach  so 
nearly  to  truth  and  reality.’ 


ANN  RADCLIFFE. 

Mrs  Ann  Radcliffe — who  may  be  denominated 
the  Salvator  Rosa  of  British  novelists — was  born  in 
London,  of  respectable  parents,  on  the  9th  of  July 
1764.  Her  maiden  name  was  Waifi.  In  her  twenty- 
third  year  she  married  Mr  William  Radcliffe,  a 
student  of  law,  but  who  afterwards  became  the 
editor  and  proprietor  of  a weekly  paper,  the  English 
Chronicle.  Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in  1789, 
Mrs  Radcliffe  published  her  first  novel,  The  Castles 
of  Athlin  and  Dunbayne,  the  scene  of  which  she  laid 
in  Scotland  during  the  remote  and  warlike  times  of 
the  feudal  barons.  This  work  gave  but  little  indi- 
cation of  the  power  and  fascination  which  the 
authoress  afterwards  evinced.  She  had  made  no 
attempt  to  portray  national  manners  or  historical 
events — in  which,  indeed,  she  never  excelled — and 
the  plot  was  wild  and  unnatural.  Her  next  effort, 
made  in  the  following  year,  was  more  successful. 
The  Sicilian  Romance  attracted  attention  by  its 
romantic  and  numerous  adventures,  and  the  copious 
descriptions  of  scenery  it  contained.  These  were 
depicted  with  the  glow  and  richness  of  a poetical 
fancy.  ‘Fielding,  Richardson,  Smollett,  and  even 
Walpole,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘though  writing 
upon  an  imaginative  subject,  are  decidedly  prose 
authors.  Mrs  Radcliffe  has  a title  to  be  considered 
as  the  first  poetess  of  romantic  fiction ; that  is,  if 
actual  rhythm  shall  not  be  deemed  essential  to 
poetry.’  * Actual  rhythm  was  also  at  the  command 
of  the  accomplished  authoress.  She  has  interspersed 
various  copies  of  verses  throughout  her  works,  but 
they  are  less  truly  poetical  than  her  prose.  They 
have  great  sameness  of  style  and  diction,  and  are 
often  tedious,  because  introduced  in  scenes  already 
too  protracted  with  description  or  sentiment.  In 
1791  appeared  The  Romance  of  the  Forest , exhibiting 
the  powers  of  the  novelist  in  full  maturity.  To  her 

* This  honour  more  properly  belongs  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney ; 
and  does  not  even  John  Bunyan  demand  a share  of  it?  In 
Smollett’s  novels  there  are  many  poetical  conceptions  and 
descriptions.  Indeed,  on  this  point  Sir  Walter  partly  contra- 
dicts himself,  for  he  elsewhere  states  that  Smollett  expended 
in  his  novels  many  of  the  ingredients  both  of  grave  and  humor- 
ous poetry.  Mrs  Radcliffe  gave  a greater  prominence  to 
poetical  description  than  any  of  her  predecessors. 

164 


wonderful  talent  in  producing  scenes  of  mystery 
and  surprise,  aided  by  external  phenomena  and 
striking  description,  she  now  added  the  powerful 
delineation  of  passion.  Her  painting  of  the  character 
of  La  Motte,  hurried  on  by  an  evil  counsellor, 
amidst  broken  resolutions  and  efforts  at  recall,  to 
the  most  dark  and  deliberate  guilt  and  cruelty, 
approaches  in  some  respects  to  the  genius  of 
Godwin.  Variety  of  character,  however,  was  not 
the  forte  of  Mrs  Radcliffe.  Her  strength  lay  in  the 
invention  and  interest  of  her  narrative.  Like  the 
great  painter  with  whom  she  has  been  compared, 
she  loved  to  sport  with  the  romantic  and  the  terrible 
— with  the  striking  imagery  of  the  mountain-forest 
and  the  lake — the  obscure  solitude — the  cloud  and 
the  storm — wild  banditti — ruined  castles — and  with 
those  half-discovered  glimpses  or  visionary  shadows 
of  the  invisible  world  which  seem  at  times  to  cross 
our  path,  and  which  still  haunt  and  thrill  the  imagi- 
nation. This  peculiar  faculty  was  more  strongly 
evinced  in  Mrs  Radcliffe’s  next  romance,  The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  published  in  1794,  which  was 
the  most  popular  of  her  performances,  and  is  justly 
considered  her  best.  Mrs  Barbauld  seems  to  prefer 
The  Romance  of  the  Forest  as  more  complete  in  char- 
acter and  story;  but  in  this  opinion  few  will  concur: 
it  wants  the  sublimity  and  boldness  of  the  later 
work.  The  interest,  as  Scott  remarks,  ‘ is  of  a more 
agitating  and  tremendous  nature,  the  scenery  of  a 
wilder  and  more  terrific  description,  the  characters 
distinguished  by  fiercer  and  more  gigantic  features. 
Montoni,  a lofty-souled  desperado  and  captain  of 
condottieri,  stands  beside  La  Motte  and  his  marquis, 
like  one  of  Milton’s  fiends  beside  a witch’s  familiar. 
Adeline  is  confined  within  a ruined  manor-house, 
but  her  sister-heroine,  Emily,  is  imprisoned  in  a 
huge  castle  like  those  of  feudal  times;  the  one  is 
attacked  and  defended  by  bands  of  armed  banditti, 
the  other  only  threatened  by  constables  and  thief- 
takers.  The  scale  of  the  landscape  is  equally  differ- 
ent ; the  quiet  and  limited  woodland  scenery  of  the 
one  work  forming  a contrast  with  the  splendid  and 
high- wrought  descriptions  of  Italian  mountain  gran- 
deur which  occur  in  the  other.’  This  parallel  applies 
very  strikingly  to  the  critic’s  own  poems,  the  Lay 
and  Marmion.  The  latter,  like  Mrs  Radcliffe’s 
second  novel,  has  blemishes  of  construction  and  style 
from  which  the  first  is  free ; but  it  has  the  breadth 
and  magnificence,  and  the  careless  freedom  of  a 
master’s  hand,  in  a greater  degree  than  can  be  found 
in  the  first  production.  About  this  time  Mrs 
Radcliffe  made  a journey  through  Holland  and  the 
western  frontier  of  Germany,  returning  down  the 
Rhine,  of  which  she  published  an  account  in  1795, 
adding  to  it  some  observations  during  a tour  to  the 
lakes  of  Lancashire,  Westmoreland,  and  Cumber- 
land. The  picturesque  fancy  of  the  novelist  is  seen 
in  these  sketches,  with  her  usual  luxuriance  and 
copiousness  of  style.  In  1797,  Mrs  Radcliffe  made 
her  last  appearance  in  fiction.  The  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho  had  been  purchased  by  her  publisher  for 
what  was  then  considered  an  enormous  sum,  £500 ; 
but  her  new  work  brought  her  £800.  It  was 
entitled  The  Italian , and  displayed  her  powers  in 
undiminished  strength  and  brilliancy.  Having 
exhausted  the  characteristics  of  feudal  pomp  and 
tyranny  in  her  former  productions,  she  adopted  a 
new  machinery  in  The  Italian , having  selected  a 
period  when  the  Church  of  Rome  was  triumphant 
and  unchecked.  The  grand  Inquisition,  the  confes- 
sional, the  cowled  monk,  the  dungeon,  and  the  rack, 
were  agents  as  terrible  and  impressive  as  ever  shone 
in  romance.  Mrs  Radcliffe  took  up  the  popular 
notions  on  this  subject  without  adhering  to  historical 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ANN  RADCLIFFE. 


accuracy,  and  produced  a work  which,  though  very 
unequal  in  its  execution,  contains  the  most  vivid 
and  appalling  of  all  her  scenes  and  paintings.  The 
opening  of  the  story  has  been  praised  by  all  critics 
for  the  exquisite  art  with  which  the  authoress  con- 
trives to  excite  and  prepare  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
It  is  as  follows  : 


[ English  Travellers  Visit  a Neapolitan  Church .] 

Within  the  shade  of  the  portico,  a person  with  folded 
arms,  and  eyes  directed  towards  the  ground,  was  pacing 
behind  the  pillars  the  whole  extent  of  the  pavement, 
and  was  apparently  so  engaged  by  his  own  thoughts 
as  not  to  observe  that  strangers  were  approaching. 
He  turned,  however,  suddenly,  as  if  startled  by  the 
sound  of  steps,  and  then,  without  further  pausing, 
glided  to  a door  that  opened  into  the  church,  and 
disappeared. 

There  was  something  too  extraordinary  in  the  figure 
of  this  man,  and  too  singular  in  his  conduct,  to  pass 
unnoticed  by  the  visitors.  He  was  of  a tall  thin  figure, 
bending  forward  from  the  shoulders ; of  a sallow  com- 
plexion and  harsh  features,  and  had  an  eye  which,  as 
it  looked  up  from  the  cloak  that  muffled  the  lower 
part  of  his  countenance,  was  expressive  of  uncommon 
ferocity. 

The  travellers,  on  entering  the  church,  looked  round 
for  the  stranger  who  had  passed  thither  before  them, 
but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  ; and  through  all  the 
shade  of  the  long  aisles  only  one  other  person  appeared. 
This  was  a friar  of  the  adjoining  convent,  who  some- 
times pointed  out  to  strangers  the  objects  in  the  church 
which  were  most  worthy  of  attention,  and  who  now, 
with  this  design,  approached  the  party  that  had  just 
entered. 

When  the  party  had  viewed  the  different  shrines,  and 
whatever  had  been  judged  worthy  of  observation,  and 
were  returning  through  an  obscure  aisle  towards  the 
portico,  they  perceived  the  person  who  had  appeared 
upon  the  steps  passing  towards  a confessional  on  the 
left,  and  as  he  entered  it,  one  of  the  party  pointed  him 
out  to  the  friar,  and  inquired  who  he  was.  The  friar, 
turning  to  look  after  him,  did  not  immediately  reply ; 
but  on  the  question  being  repeated,  he  inclined  his 
head  as  in  a kind  of  obeisance,  and  calmly  replied  : 

‘ He  is  an  assassin.’ 

‘ An  assassin  ! ’ exclaimed  one  of  the  Englishmen ; 

4 an  assassin,  and  at  liberty?’ 

An  Italian  gentleman  who  was  of  the  party  smiled 
at  the  astonishment  of  his  friend. 

‘He  has  sought  sanctuary  here,’  replied  the  friar; 

‘ within  these  walls  he  may  not  be  hurt.’ 

‘ Do  your  altars,  then,  protect  a murderer  ? ’ said  the 
Englishman. 

‘He  could  find  shelter  nowhere  else,’  answered  the 
friar  meekly. 

* * * * 

‘ But  observe  yonder  confessional,’  added  the  Italian, 

‘ that  beyond  the  pillars  on  the  left  of  the  aisle,  below 
a painted  window.  Have  you  discovered  it  ? The 
colours  of  the  glass  throw,  instead  of  a light,  a shade 
over  that  part  of  the  church,  which  perhaps  prevents 
your  distinguishing  what  I mean.’ 

The  Englishman  looked  whither  his  friend  pointed, 
and  observed  a confessional  of  oak,  or  some  very  dark 
wood,  adjoining  the  wall,  and  remarked  also  that  it  was 
the  same  which  the  assassin  had  just  entered.  It  con- 
sisted of  three  compartments,  covered  with  a black 
canopy.  In  the  central  division  was  the  chair  of  the 
confessor,  elevated  by  several  steps  above  the  pavement 
of  the  church ; and  on  either  hand  was  a small  closet 
or  box,  with  steps  leading  up  to  a grated  partition,  at 
which  the  penitent  might  kneel,  and,  concealed  from 


observation,  pour  into  the  ear  of  the  confessor  the 
consciousness  of  crimes  that  lay  heavy  at  his  heart. 

‘ You  observe  it  ?’  said  the  Italian. 

‘ I do,’  replied  the  Englishman ; ‘ it  is  the  same  which 
the  assassin  had  passed  into,  and  I think  it  one  of  the 
most  gloomy  spots  I ever  beheld : the  view  of  it  is 
enough  to  strike  a criminal  with  despair.’ 

‘We  in  Italy  are  not  so  apt  to  despair,’  replied  the 
Italian  smilingly. 

‘Well,  but  what  of  this  confessional?’  inquired  the 
Englishman.  * The  assassin  entered  it.’ 

‘He  has  no  relation  with  what  I am  about  to  men- 
tion,’ said  the  Italian;  ‘but  I wish  you  to  mark  the 
place,  because  some  very  extraordinary  circumstances 
belong  to  it.’ 

‘What  are  they  ?’  said  the  Englishman. 

‘ It  is  now  several  years  since  the  confession  which  is 
connected  with  them  was  made  at  that  very  confes- 
sional,’ added  the  Italian ; ‘ the  view  of  it,  and  the 
sight  of  the  assassin,  with  your  surprise  at  the  liberty 
which  is  allowed  him,  led  me  to  a recollection  of  the 
story.  When  you  return  to  the  hotel  I will  communicate 
it  to  you,  if  you  have  no  pleasanter  mode  of  engaging 
your  time.’ 

‘After  I have  taken  another  view  of  this  solemn 
edifice,’  replied  the  Englishman,  ‘and  particularly  of 
the  confessional  you  have  pointed  to  my  notice.’ 

While  the  Englishman  glanced  his  eye  over  the  high 
roofs  and  along  the  solemn  perspectives  of  the  Santa  del 
Pianto,  he  perceived  the  figure  of  the  assassin  stealing, 
from  the  confessional  across  the  choir,  and,  shocked  on 
again  beholding  him,  he  turned  his  eyes,  and  hastily 
quitted  the  church. 

The  friends  then  separated,  and  the  Englishman  soon 
after  returning  to  his  hotel,  received  the  volume.  He 
read  as  follows. 

After  such  an  introduction,  who  could  fail  to  con- 
tinue the  perusal  of  the  story  ? Scott  has  said  that 
one  of  the  fine  scenes  in  The  Italian  where  Schedoni 
the  monk — an  admirably  drawn  character — is  4 in  the 
act  of  raising  his  arm  to  murder  his  sleeping  victim, 
and  discovers  her  to  be  his  own  child,  is  of  a new, 
grand,  and  powerful  character ; and  the  horrors  of 
the  wretch  who,  on  the  brink  of  murder,  has  just 
escaped  from  committing  a crime  of  yet  more 
exaggerated  horror,  constitute  the  strongest  painting 
which  has  been  produced  by  Mrs  Radcliffe’s  pencil, 
and  form  a crisis  well  fitted  to  be  actually  embodied 
on  canvas  by  some  great  master.’  Most  of  this 
lady’s  novels  abound  in  pictures  and  situations  as 
striking  and  as  well  grouped  as  those  of  the  artist 
and  melodramatist.  The  latter  years  of  Mrs 
Radcliffe  were  spent  in  retirement,  partly  induced 
by  ill  health.  She  had  for  a long  period  been 
afflicted  with  spasmodic  asthma,  and  an  attack 
proved  fatal  to  her  on  the  7th  of  Eebruary  1823. 
She  died  in  London,  and  was  interred  in  a vault  of 
the  chapel-of  ease  at  Bayswater,  belonging  to  St 
George’s,  Hanover  Square.  A posthumous  romance 
by  Mrs  Radcliffe,  entitled  Gaston  de  Blondeville,  was 
published  under  the  editorial  superintendence  of 
Serjeant  Talfourd,  arid  her  poems  were  collected 
and  published  in  1834. 

The  success  which  crowned  Mrs  Radcliffe’s 
romances  led  several  writers  to  copy  her  peculiar 
manner,  but  none  approached  to  the  original  either 
in  art  or  genius.  She  eclipsed  all  her  imitators 
and  contemporaries  in  exciting  emotions  of  surprise, 
awe,  and  terror,  and  in  constructing  a story  which 
should  carry  the  reader  forward  with  undiminished 
anxiety  to  its  close.  Ijjhe  dwelt  always  in  the 
regions  of  romance.  She  does  not  seem  ever  to  have 
attempted  humour  or  familiar  narrative,  and  there 
is  little  of  real  character  or  natural  incident  in  her 

165 


fsom  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


works.  The  style  of  which  she  may  be  considered 
the  founder  is  powerfully  attractive,  and  few  are 
able  to  resist  the  fascinations  of  her  narrative, 
but  that  style  is  obviously  a secondary  one.  To 
delineate  character  in  the  many-coloured  changes 
of  life,  to  invent  natural,  lively,  and  witty  dialogues 
and  situations,  and  to  combine  the  whole,  as  in  Tom 
Jones , in  a regular  progressive  story,  complete  in  all 
its  parts,  is  a greater  intellectual  effort  than  to 
construct  a romantic  plot  where  the  author  is  not 
confined  to  probability  or  to  the  manners  and  insti- 
tutions of  any  particular  time  or  country.  When 
Scott  transports  us  back  to  the  days  of  chivalry  and 
the  crusades,  we  feel  that  he  is  embodying  history, 
animating  its  records  with  his  powerful  imagination, 
and  introducing  us  to  actual  scenes  and  persons 
such  as  once  existed.  His  portraits  are  not  of  one, 
but  of  various  classes.  There  is  none  of  this  reality 
about  Mrs  Radcliffe’s  creations.  Her  scenes  of 
mystery  and  gloom  will  not  bear  the  light  of  sober 
investigation.  Deeply  as  they  affect  the  imagination 
at  the  time,  after  they  have  been  once  unfolded 
before  the  reader,  they  break  up  like  dreams  in  his 
recollection.  The  remembrance  of  them  is  confused, 
though  pleasant,  and  we  have  no  desire  to  return  to 
what  enchanted  us,  unless  it  be  for  some  passages 
of  pure  description.  The  want  of  moral  interest 
and  of  character  and  dialogue,  natural  and  truthful, 
is  the  cause  of  this  evanescence  of  feeling.  "When 
the  story  is  unravelled,  the  great  charm  is  over — 
the  talisman  ceases  to  operate  when  we  know  the 
materials  of  which  it  is  composed. 

Mrs  Radcliffe  restricted  her  genius  by  an  arbi- 
trary rule  of  composition.  She  made  the  whole  of 
her  mysterious  circumstances  resolve  into  natural 
causes.  The  seemingly  supernatural  agencies  are 
explained  to  be  palpable  and  real : every  mystery  is 
cleared  up,  and  often  by  means  very  trifling  or  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  end.  ‘ In  order  to  raise  strong 
emotions  of  fear  and  horror  in  the  body  of  the  work, 
the  author  is  tempted  to  go  lengths,  to  account  for 
which  the  subsequent  explanations  seem  utterly 
inadequate.  Thus,  for  example,  after  all  the  wonder 
and  dismay,  and  terror  and  expectation  excited  by 
the  mysterious  chamber  in  the  castle  of  Udolpho, 
how  much  are  we  disappointed  and  disgusted  to  find 
that  all  this  pother  has  been  raised  by  a waxen 
statue  ! 5 * In  one  sense,  this  restriction  increases 
our  admiration  of  the  writer,  as  evincing,  in  general, 
the  marvellous  ingenuity  with  which  she  prepares, 
invents,  and  arranges  the  incidents  for  immediate 
effect  as  well  as  subsequent  explanation.  Every 
feature  in  the  surrounding  landscape  or  objects 
described — every  subordinate  circumstance  in  the 
scene,  however  minute,  is  so  disposed  as  to  deepen 
the  impression  and  keep  alive  curiosity.  This  pre- 
lude, as  Mrs  Barbauld  has  remarked,  ‘like  the 
tuning  of  an  instrument  by  a skilful  hand,  has  the 
effect  of  producing  at  once  in  the  mind  a tone  of 
feeling  correspondent  to  the  future  story.’  No 
writer  has  excelled,  and  few  have  approached,  Mrs 
Radcliffe  in  this  peculiar  province.  A higher 
genius,  however,  would  have  boldly  seized  upon 
supernatural  agency  as  a proper  element  of  romance. 
There  are  feelings  and  superstitions  lurking  in  every 
breast  which  would  have  responded  to  such  an 
appeal ; and  while  we  have  the  weird  sisters  of 
Macbeth,  and  the  unburied  majesty  of  Denmark, 
all  must  acknowledge  the  adaptation  of  such 
machinery  to  produce  the  greatest  effects  of  which 
human  genius  is  capable.  The  ultimate  explana- 
tions of  Mrs  Radcliffe  certainly  give  a littleness  to 

^ * Dunlop’s  History  of  Fiction. 


the  preliminary  incidents  which  affected  us  so 
powerfully  while  they  were  dim  and  obscure  and 
full  of  mystery.  It  is  as  if  some  theatrical  artist 
were  to  display  to  his  audience  the  coarse  and  mean 
materials  by  which  his  brilliant  stage-effects  were 
produced,  instead  of  leaving  undisturbed  the  strong 
impressions  they  have  produced  on  the  imagination. 
Apart,  however,  from  this  defect — which  applies 
only  to  the  interest  of  the  plot  or  narrative — the 
situations  and  descriptions  of  Mrs  Radcliffe  are  in 
the  highest  degree  striking  and  perfect.  She  had 
never  been  in  Italy  when  she  wrote  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho , yet  her  paintings  of  Italian  scenery,  and 
of  the  mountains  of  Switzerland,  are  conceived  with 
equal  truth  and  richness  of  colouring.  And  what 
poet  or  painter  has  ever  surpassed — Byron  has 
imitated — her  account  of  the  first  view  of  Venice, 
as  seen  by  her  heroine  Emily,  ‘ with  its  islets, 
palaces,  and  terraces  rising  out  of  the  sea ; and  as 
they  glided  on,  the  grander  features  of  the  city 
appearing  more  distinctly — its  terraces  crowned 
with  airy  yet  majestic  fabrics,  touched  with  the 
splendour  of  the  setting  sun,  appearing  as  if  they 
had  been  called  up  from  the  ocean  by  the  wand  of 
an  enchanter  rather  than  reared  by  human  hands.’ 
Her  pictures  are  innumerable,  and  they  are  always 
introduced  with  striking  effect.  The  romantic 
colouring  which  Mrs  Radcliffe  could  throw  over 
actual  objects,  at  the  same  time  preserving  their 
symmetry  and  appearance  entire,  is  finely  displayed 
in  her  English  descriptions,  one  of  which  (Hardwick) 
is  included  among  our  extracts. 

[Description  of  the  Castle  of  Udolpho.'] 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  the  road  wound  into 
a deep  valley.  Mountains,  whose  shaggy  steeps  appeared 
to  be  inaccessible,  almost  surrounded  it.  To  the  east, 
a vista  opened,  and  exhibited  the  Apennines  in  their 
darkest  horrors;  and  the  long  perspective  of  retiring 
summits  rising  over  each  other,  their  ridges  clothed  with 
pines,  exhibited  a stronger  image  of  grandeur  than  any 
that  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just  sunk  below 
the  top  of  the  mountains  she  was  descending,  whose  long 
shadow  stretched  athwart  the  valley;  but  his  sloping 
rays,  shooting  through  an  opening  of  the  cliffe,  touched 
with  a yellow  gleam  the  summits  of  the  forest  that  hung 
upon  the  opposite  steeps,  and  streamed  in  full  splendour 
upon  the  towers  and  battlements  of  a castle  that  spread 
its  extensive  ramparts  along  the  brow  of  a precipice 
above.  The  splendour  of  these  illumined  objects  was 
heightened  by  the  contrasted  shade  which  involved  the 
valley  below. 

‘ There,’  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in 
several  hours,  ‘ is  Udolpho.’ 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the  castle, 
which  she  understood  to  be  Montoni’s;  for,  though  it 
was  now  lighted  up  by  the  setting  sun,  the  Gothic  great- 
ness of  its  features,  and  its  mouldering  walls  of  dark 
gray  stone,  rendered  it  a gloomy  and  sublime  object.  As 
she  gazed,  the  light  died  away  on  its  walls,  leaving  a 
melancholy  purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper  and  deeper 
as  the  thin  vapour  crept  up  the  mountain,  while  the 
battlements  above  were  still  tipped  with  splendour. 
From  these,  too,  the  rays  soon  faded,  and  the  whole 
edifice  was  invested  with  the  solemn  duskiness  of 
evening.  Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it  seemed  to  stand 
the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and  to  frown  defiance  on  all 
who  dared  to  invade  its  solitary  reign.  As  the  twilight 
deepened,  its  features  became  more  awful  in  obscurity, 
and  Emily  continued  to  gaze  till  its  clustering  towers 
were  alone  seen  rising  over  the  tops  of  the  woods, 
beneath  whose  thick  shade  the  carriages  soon  after 
began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  of  these  tall  woods  awakened 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 


terrific  images  in  her  mind,  and  she  almost  expected 
to  see  banditti  start  up  from  under  the  trees.  At  length 
the  carriages  emerged  upon  a heathy  rock,  and  soon 
after  reached  the  castle  gates,  where  the  deep  tone  of 
the  portal  hell,  which  was  struck  upon  to  give  notice  of 
their  arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions  that  had 
assailed  Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the  servant 
within  should  come  to  open  the  gates,  she  anxiously 
surveyed  the  edifice ; hut  the  gloom  that  overspread  it 
allowed  her  to  distinguish  little  more  than  a part  of  its 
outline,  with  the  massy  walls  of  the  ramparts,  and  to 
know  that  it  was  vast,  ancient,  and  dreary.  From  the 
parts  she  saw,  she  judged  of  the  heavy  strength  and 
■extent  of  the  whole.  The  gateway  before  her,  leading 
into  the  courts,  was  of  gigantic  size,  and  was  defended 
by  two  round  towers,  crowned  by  overhanging  turrets 
embattled,  where,  instead  of  banners,  now  waved  long 
grass  and  wild  plants  that  had  taken  root  among  the 
mouldering  stones,  and  which  seemed  to  sigh,  as  the 
breeze  rolled  past,  over  the  desolation  around  them. 
The  towers  were  united  by  a curtain,  pierced  and 
embattled  also,  below  which  appeared  the  pointed  arch 
of  a huge  portcullis  surmounting  the  gates ; from  these 
the  walls  of  the  ramparts  extended  to  other  towers,  over- 
looking the  precipice,  whose  shattered  outline,  appearing 
on  a gleam  that  lingered  in  the  west,  told  of  the  ravages 
of  war.  Beyond  these  all  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of 
evening. 

[. Hardwick , in  Derbyshire .] 

Northward,  beyond  London,  we  may  make  one  stop, 
after  a country  not  otherwise  necessary  to  be  noticed,  to 
mention  Hardwick,  in  Derbyshire,  a seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  once  the  residence  of  the  Earl  of  Shrews- 
bury, to  whom  Elizabeth  deputed  the  custody  of  the 
unfortunate  Mary.  It  stands  on  an  easy  height,  a few 
miles  to  the  left  of  the  road  from  Mansfield  to  Chester- 
field, and  is  approached  through  shady  lanes,  which  con- 
ceal the  view  of  it  till  you  are  on  the  confines  of  the 
park.  Three  towers  of  hoary  gray  then  rise  with  great 
majesty  among  old  woods,  and  their  summits  appear  to 
be  covered  with  the  lightly  shivered  fragments  of 
battlements,  which,  however,  are  soon  discovered  to  be 
perfectly  carved  open  work,  in  which  the  letters  E.  S. 
frequently  occur  under  a coronet,  the  initials  and  the 
memorials  of  the  vanity  of  Elizabeth,  Countess  of 
Shrewsbury,  who  built  the  present  edifice.  Its  tall 
features,  of  a most  picturesque  tint,  were  finely  disclosed 
between  the  luxuriant  woods  and  over  the  lawns  of  the 
park,  which  every  now  and  then  let  in  a glimpse  of  the 
Derbyshire  hills. 

In  front  of  the  great  gates  of  the  castle  court,  the 
ground,  adorned  by  old  oaks,  suddenly  sinks  to  a darkly 
shadowed  glade,  and  the  view  opens  over  the  vale  of 
Scarsdale,  hounded  by  the  wild  mountains  of  the  Peak. 
Immediately  to  the  left  of  the  present  residence,  some 
ruined  features  of  the  ancient  one,  enwreathed  with  the 
rich  drapery  of  ivy,  give  an  interest  to  the  scene,  which 
the  later  but  more  historical  structure  heightens  and 
prolongs.  We  followed,  not  without  emotion,  the  walk 
which  Mary  had  so  often  trodden,  to  the  folding-doors 
of  the  great  hall,  whose  lofty  grandeur,  aided  by  silence, 
and  seen  under  the  influence  of  a lowering  sky,  suited 
the  temper  of  the  whole  scene.  The  tall  windows,  which 
half  subdue  the  light  they  admit,  just  allowed  us  to 
distinguish  the  large  figures  in  the  tapestry  above  the 
oak  wainscoting,  and  shewed  a colonnade  of  oak  support- 
ing a gallery  along  the  bottom  of  the  hall,  with  a pair 
of  gigantic  elk’s  horns  flourishing  between  the  windows 
opposite  to  the  entrance.  The  scene  of  Mary’s  arrival, 
and  her  feelings  upon  entering  this  solemn  shade,  came 
involuntarily  to  the  mind ; the  noise  of  horses’  feet,  and 
many  voices  from  the  court ; her  proud,  yet  gentle  and 
melancholy  look,  as,  led  by  my  lord-keeper,  she  passed 
slowly  up  the  hall ; his  somewhat  obsequious,  yet  jealous 
and  vigilant  air,  while,  awed  by  her  dignity  and  beauty, 


he  remembers  the  terrors  of  his  own  queen ; the  silence 
and  anxiety  of  her  maids,  and  the  bustle  of  the 
surrounding  attendants. 

From  the  hall,  a staircase  ascends  to  the  gallery  of  a 
small  chapel,  in  which  the  chairs  and  cushions  used  by 
Mary  still  remain,  and  proceeds  to  the  first  story, 
where  only  one  apartment  bears  memorials  of  her 
imprisonment — the  bed,  tapestry,  and  chairs,  having 
been  worked  by  herself.  This  tapestry  is  richly 
embossed  with  emblematic  figures,  each  with  its  title 
worked  above  it,  and  having  been  scrupulously  pre- 
served, is  still  entire  and  fresh. 

Over  the  chimney  of  an  adjoining  dining-room,  to 
which,  as  well  as  to  other  apartments  on  this  floor,  some 
modern  furniture  has  been  added,  is  this  motto,  carved 
in  oak : 

‘ There  is  only  this  : To  fear  God,  and  keep  his  com- 
mandments.’ So  much  less  valuable  was  timber  than 
workmanship  when  this  mansion  was  constructed,  that 
where  the  staircases  are  not  of  stone,  they  are  formed  of 
solid  oaken  steps,  instead  of  planks ; such  is  that  from 
the  second  or  state  story  to  the  roof,  whence,  on  clear 
days,  York  and  Lincoln  cathedrals  are  said  to  be 
included  in  the  extensive  prospect.  This  second  floor  is 
that  which  gives  its  chief  interest  to  the  edifice.  Nearly 
all  the  apartments  of  it  were  allotted  to  Mary ; some  of 
them  for  state  purposes  ; and  the  furniture  is  known,  by 
other  proof  than  its  appearance,  to  remain  as  she  left  it. 
The  chief  room,  or  that  of  audience,  is  of  uncommon 
loftiness,  and  strikes  by  its  grandeur,  before  the  venera- 
tion and  tenderness  arise  which  its  antiquities  and  the 
plainly  told  tale  of  the  sufferings  they  witnessed 
excite. 

[An  Italian  Landscape .] 

These  excursions  sometimes  led  to  Puzzuoli,  Baia,  or 
the  woody  cliffs  of  Pausilippo ; and  as,  on  their  return, 
they  glided  along  the  moonlight  bay,  the  melodies  of 
Italian  strains  seemed  to  give  enchantment  to  the 
scenery  of  its  shore.  At  this  cool  hour  the  voices  of  the 
vine-dressers  were  frequently  heard  in  trio,  as  they 
reposed  after  the  labour  of  the  day  on  some  pleasant 
promontory  under  the  shade  of  poplars ; or  the  brisk 
music  of  the  dance  from  fishermen  on  the  margin  of  the 
waves  below.  The  boatmen  rested  on  their  oars,  while 
their  company  listened  to  voices  modulated  by  sensi- 
bility to  finer  eloquence  than  it  is  in  the  power  of  art 
alone  to  display ; and  at  others,  while  they  observed  the 
airy  natural  grace  which  distinguishes  the  dance  of  the 
fishermen  and  peasant-girls  of  Naples.  Frequently,  as 
they  glided  round  a promontory,  whose  shaggy  masses 
impended  far  over  the  sea,  such  magic  scenes  of  beauty 
unfolded,  adorned  by  these  dancing  groups  on  the  bay 
beyond,  as  no  pencil  could  do  justice  to.  The  deep 
clear  waters  reflected  every  image  of  the  landscape ; the 
cliffs,  branching  into  wild  forms,  crowned  with  groves 
whose  rough  foliage  often  spread  down  their  steeps  in 
picturesque  luxuriance ; the  ruined  villa  on  some  bold 
point  peeping  through  the  trees ; peasants’  cabins  hang- 
ing on  the  precipices,  and  the  dancing  figures  on  the 
strand — all  touched  with  the  silvery  tint  and  soft 
shadows  of  moonlight.  On  the  other  hand,  the  sea, 
trembling  with  a long  line  of  radiance,  and  shewing  in 
the  clear  distance  the  sails  of  vessels  stealing  in  every 
direction  along  its  surface,  presented  a prospect  as 
grand  as  the  landscape  was  beautiful. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

Among  the  most  successful  imitators  of  Mrs 
Radcliffe’s  peculiar  manner  and  class  of  subjects,  was 
Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  whose  wild  romance, 
The  Manic,  published  in  179G,  was  received  with 
mingled  astonishment,  censure,  and  applause.  The 
first  edition  was  soon  disposed  of,  and  in  preparing 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


a second,  Lewis  threw  out  some  indelicate  passages 
which  had  given  much  offence.  He  might  have 
carried  his  retrenchments  further  with  benefit  both 
to  the  story  and  its  readers.  The  Monk  was  a youth- 
ful production,  written,  as  the  author  states  in  his 
rhyming  preface,  when  he  ‘scarce  had  seen  his 
twentieth  year.’  It  has  all  the  marks  of  youth, 
except  modesty.  Lewis  was  the  boldest  of  hobgoblin 


Matthew  Gregory  Lewis. 


writers,  and  dashed  away  fearlessly  among  scenes  of 
monks  and  nuns,  church  processions,  Spanish  cava- 
liers, maidens  and  duennas,  sorcerers  and  enchant- 
ments, the  Inquisition,  the  wandering  Jew,  and 
even  Satan  himself,  whom  he  brings  in  to  execute 
justice  visibly  and  without  compunction.  The  hero, 
Ambrosio,  is  abbot  of  the  Capuchins  at  Madrid,  and 
from  his  reputed  sanctity  and  humility,  and  his 
eloquent  preaching,  he  is  surnamed  the  Man  of 
Holiness.  Ambrosio  conceives  himself  to  be  ex- 
empted from  the  failings  of  humanity,  and  is  severe 
in  his  saintly  judgments.  He  is  full  of  religious 
enthusiasm  and  pride,  and  thinks  himself  proof 
against  all  temptation.  The  hint  of  this  character 
was  taken  from  a paper  in  the  Guardian , and  Lewis 
filled  up  the  outline  with  considerable  energy  and 
skilful  delineation.  The  imposing  presence,  strong 
passions,  and  wretched  downfall  of  Ambrosio,  are 
not  easily  forgotten  by  the  readers  of  the  novel. 
The  haughty  and  susceptible  monk  is  tempted  by 
an  infernal  spirit — the  Mephistopliiles  of  the  tale — 
who  assumes  the  form  of  a young  and  beautiful 
woman,  and,  after  various  efforts,  completely 
triumphs  over  the  virtue  and  the  resolutions  of 
Ambrosio.  He  proceeds  from  crime  to  crime,  till  he 
is  stained  with  the  most  atrocious  deeds,  his  evil 
genius,  Matilda,  being  still  his  prompter  and  asso- 
ciate, and  aiding  him  by  her  powers  of  conjuration 
and  sorcery.  He  is  at  length  caught  in  the  toils, 
detected  in  a deed  of  murder,  and  is  tried,  tortured, 
and  convicted  by  the  Inquisition.  While  trembling 
at  the  approaching  auto  da  fe,  at  which  he  is 
sentenced  to  perish,  Ambrosio  is  again  visited  by 
Matilda,  who  gives  him  a certain  mysterious  book, 
by  reading  which  he  is  able  to  summon  Lucifer  to 
168 


his  presence.  Ambrosio  ventures  on  this  desperate 
expedient.  The  Evil  One  appears — appropriately 
preceded  by  thunder  and  earthquake — and  the 
wretched  monk,  having  sold  his  hope  of  salvation  to 
recover  his  liberty,  is  borne  aloft  far  from  his 
dungeon,  but  only  to  be  dashed  to  pieces  on  a rock. 
Such  is  the  outline  of  the  monk’s  story,  in  which 
there  is  certainly  no  shrinking  from  the  super- 
natural machinery  that  Mrs  Radcliffe  adopted  only 
in  semblance,  without  attempting  to  make  it  real. 
Lewis  relieved  his  narrative  by  episodes  and  love- 
scenes,  one  of  which — the  bleeding  nun — is  told 
with  great  animation.  He  introduces  us  also  to  a 
robber’s  hut  in  a forest,  in  which  a striking  scene 
occurs,  evidently  suggested  by  a similar  one  in 
Smollett’s  Count  Fathom.  Besides  his  excessive  use 
of  conjurations  and  spirits  to  carry  on  his  story, 
Lewis  resorted  to  another  class  of  horrors,  which  is 
simply  disgusting;  namely,  loathsome  images  of 
mortal  corruption  and  decay,  the  festering  relics  of 
death  and  the  grave.  The  account  of  the  confine- 
ment of  Agnes  in  the  dungeon  below  the  shrine  of 
St  Clare,  and  of  her  dead  child,  which  she  persisted 
in  keeping  constantly  in  her  arms,  is  a repulsive 
description  of  this  kind,  puerile  and  offensive,  though 
preceded  by  the  masterly  narrative  of  the  ruin 
and  conflagration  of  the  convent  by  the  exasperated 
populace. 

The  only  other  tale  by  Lewis  which  has  been 
reprinted  is  the  Bravo  of  Venice , a short  production, 
in  which  there  is  enough  of  banditti,  disguises, 
plots,  and  mysterious  adventures — the  dagger  and 
the  bowl— but  nothing  equal  to  the  best  parts  of 
The  Monk.  The  style  is  more  chaste  and  uniform, 
and  some  Venetian  scenes  are  picturesquely  de- 
scribed. The  hero,  Abellino,  is  at  one  time  a 
beggar,  at  another  a bandit,  and  ends  by  marrying 
the  lovely  niece  of  the  Doge  of  Venice — a genuine 
character  for  the  mock-heroic  of  romance.  In 
none  of  his  works  does  Lewis  evince  a talent  for 
humour. 

[Scene  of  Conjuration  by  the  Wandering 'Jew.] 

[Raymond,  in  The  Monk,  is  pursued  by  a spectre  repre- 
senting a bleeding  nun,  which  appears  at  one  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  repeating  a certain  chant,  and  pressing  her  lips  to 
his.  Every  succeeding  visit  inspires  him  with  greater  horror, 
and  he  becomes  melancholy  and  deranged  in  health.  His 
servant,  Theodore,  meets  with  a stranger,  who  tells  him  to  bid 
his  master  wish  for  him  when  the  clock  strikes  one,  and  the 
tale,  as  related  by  Raymond,  proceeds.  The  ingenuity  with 
which  Lewis  avails  himself  of  the  ancient  legend  of  the 
Wandering  Jew,  and  the  fine  description  of  the  conjuration, 
are  worthy  of  note.] 

He  was  a man  of  majestic  presence;  his  counte- 
nance was  strongly  marked,  and  his  eyes  were  large, 
black,  and  sparkling;  yet  there  was  a something  in 
his  look  which,  the  moment  that  I saw  him,  inspired 
me  with  a secret  awe,  not  to  say  horror.  He  was 
dressed  plainly,  his  hair  was  unpowdered,  and  a band 
of  black  velvet,  which  encircled  his  forehead,  spread 
over  his  features  an  additional  gloom.  His  countenance 
wore  the  marks  of  profound  melancholy,  his  step  was 
slow,  and  his  manner  grave,  stately,  and  solemn.  He 
saluted  me  with  politeness,  and  having*  replied  to  the 
usual  compliments  of  introduction,  he  motioned  to 
Theodore  to  quit  the  chamber.  The  page  instantly 
withdrew.  ‘I  know  your  business,’  said  he,  without 
giving  me  time  to  speak.  ‘ I have  the  power  of  releasing 
you  from  your  nightly  visitor ; but  this  cannot  be  done 
before  Sunday.  On  the  hour  when  the  Sabbath  morn- 
ing breaks,  spirits  of  darkness  have  least  influence  over 
mortals.  After  Saturday,  the  nun  shall  visit  you  no 
more.’  ‘ May  I not  inquire,’  said  I,  4 by  what  means 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DAVID  HUME. 


you  are  in  possession  of  a secret  which  I have  carefully 
concealed  from  the  knowledge  of  every  one  ? ’ ‘ How 

can  I he  ignorant  of  your  distresses,  when  their  cause 
at  this  moment  stands  before  you  ?’  I started.  The 
stranger  continued  : * Though  to  you  only  visible  for  one 
hour  in  the  twenty-four,  neither  day  nor  night  does  she 
ever  quit  you ; nor  will  she  ever  quit  you  till  you  have 
granted  her  request.’  ‘And  what  is  that  request?’ 
‘ That  she  must  herself  explain  ; it  lies  not  in  my  know- 
ledge. Wait  with  patience  for  the  night  of  Saturday ; 
all  shall  be  then  cleared  up.’  I dared  not  press  him 
further.  He  soon  after  changed  the  conversation,  and 
talked  of  various  matters.  He  named  people  who  had 
ceased  to  exist  for  many  centuries,  and  yet  with  whom 
he  appeared  to  have  been  personally  acquainted.  I 
could  not  mention  a country,  however  distant,  which  he 
had  not  visited ; nor  could  I sufficiently  admire  the 
extent  and  variety  of  his  information.  I remarked  to 
him,  that  having  travelled,  seen,  and  known  so  much, 
must  have  given  him  infinite  pleasure.  He  shook  his 
head  mournfully.  ‘No  one,’  he  replied,  ‘is  adequate  to 
comprehending  the  misery  of  my  lot ! Fate  obliges  me 
to  be  constantly  in  movement ; I am  not  permitted  to 
pass  more  than  a fortnight  in  the  same  place.  I have 
no  friend  in  the  world,  and,  from  the  restlessness  of 
my  destiny,  I never  can  acquire  one.  Fain  would  I 
lay  down  my  miserable  life,  for  I envy  those  who  enjoy 
the  quiet  of  the  grave ; but  death  eludes  me,  and  flies 
from  my  embrace.  In  vain  do  I throw  myself  in  the 
way  of  danger.  I plunge  into  the  ocean — the  waves 
throw  me  back  with  abhorrence  upon  the  shore ; I rush 
into  fire — the  flames  recoil  at  my  approach ; I oppose 
myself  to  the  fury  of  banditti — their  swords  become 
blunted,  and  break  against  my  breast.  The  hungry 
tiger  shudders  at  my  approach,  and  the  alligator  flies 
from  a monster  more  horrible  than  itself.  God  has  set 
his  seal  upon  me,  and  all  his  creatures  respect  this 
fatal  mark.’  He  put  his  hand  to  the  velvet  which  was 
bound  round  his  forehead.  There  was  in  his  eyes  an 
expression  of  fury,  despair,  and  malevolence,  that  struck 
horror  to  my  very  soul.  An  involuntary  convulsion 
made  me  shudder.  The  stranger  perceived  it.  ‘Such 
is  the  curse  imposed  on  me,’  he  continued ; ‘ I am 
doomed  to  inspire  all  who  look  on  me  with  terror 
and  detestation.  You  already  feel  the  influence  of  the 
charm,  and  with  every  succeeding  moment  will  feel  it 
more.  I will  not  add  to  your  sufferings  by  my  presence. 
Farewell  till  Saturday.  As  soon  as  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  expect  me  at  your  chamber.’ 

Having  said  this,  he  departed,  leaving  me  in  aston- 
ishment at  the  mysterious  turn  of  his  manner  and 
conversation.  His  assurances  that  I should  soon  be 
relieved  from  the  apparition’s  visits  produced  a good 
effect  upon  my  constitution.  Theodore,  whom  I rather 
treated  as  an  adopted  child  than  a domestic,  was  sur- 
prised, at  his  return,  to  observe  the  amendment  in  my 
looks.  He  congratulated  me  on  this  symptom  of  return- 
ing health,  and  declared  himself  delighted  at  my  having 
received  so  much  benefit  from  my  conference  with  the 
Great  Mogul.  Upon  inquiry  I found  that  the  stranger 
had  already  passed  eight  days  in  Ratisbon.  According 
to  his  own  account,  therefore,  he  was  only  to  remain 
there  six  days  longer.  Saturday  was  still  at  a distance 
of  three.  Oh  ! with  what  impatience  did  I expect  its 
arrival ! In  the  interim,  the  bleeding  nun  continued 
her  nocturnal  visits ; but  hoping  soon  to  be  released 
from  them  altogether,  the  effects  which  they  produced 
on  me  became  less  violent  than  before. 

The  wished-for  night  arrived.  To  avoid  creating 
suspicion,  I retired  to  bed  at  my  usual  hour;  but  as 
soon  as  my  attendants  had  left  me,  I dressed  myself 
again,  and  prepared  for  the  stranger’s  reception.  He 
entered  my  room  upon  the  turn  of  midnight.  A small 
chest  was  in  his  hand,  which  he  placed  near  the  stove. 
He  saluted  me  without  speaking ; I returned  the  com- 
pliment, observing  an  equal  silence.  He  then  opened 


the  chest.  The  first  thing  which  he  produced  was  a 
small  wooden  crucifix ; he  sunk  upon  his  knees,  gazed 
upon  it  mournfully,  and  cast  his  eyes  towards  heaven. 
He  seemed  to  be  praying  devoutly.  At  length  he  bowed 
his  head  respectfully,  kissed  the  crucifix  thrice,  and 
quitted  his  kneeling  posture.  He  next  drew  from  the 
chest  a covered  goblet;  with  the  liquor  which  it  con- 
tained, and  which  appeared  to  be  blood,  he  sprinkled 
the  floor ; and  then  dipping  in  it  one  end  of  the  crucifix, 
he  described  a circle  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Round 
about  this  he  placed  various  reliques,  skulls,  thigh- 
bones, &c.  I observed  that  he  disposed  them  all  in  the 
forms  of  crosses.  Lastly,  he  took  out  a large  Bible,  and 
beckoned  me  to  follow  him  into  the  circle.  I obeyed. 

‘Be  cautious  not  to  utter  a syllable  !’  whispered  the 
stranger : ‘ step  not  out  of  the  circle,  and  as  you  love 
yourself,  dare  not  to  look  upon  my  face.’  Holding  the 
crucifix  in  one  hand,  the  Bible  in  the  other,  he  seemed 
to  read  with  profound  attention.  The  clock  struck  one ; 
as  usual,  I heard  the  spectre’s  steps  upon  the  staircase, 
but  I was  not  seized  with  the  accustomed  shivering.  I 
waited  her  approach  with  confidence.  She  entered  the 
room,  drew  near  the  circle,  and  stopped.  The  stranger 
muttered  some  words,  to  me  unintelligible.  Then  rais- 
ing his  head  from  the  book,  and  extending  the  crucifix 
towards  the  ghost,  he  pronounced  in  a voice  distinct 
and  solemn  : ‘ Beatrice  ! Beatrice  ! Beatrice  ! ' ‘ What 

wouldst  thou  ?’  replied  the  apparition  in  a hollow  falter- 
ing tone.  ‘What  disturbs  thy  sleep?  Why  dost  thou, 
afflict  and  torture  this  youth  ? How  can  rest  be  restored 
to  thy  unquiet  spirit  V ‘I  dare  not  tell,  I must  not  tell. 
Fain  would  I repose  in  my  grave,  but  stern  commands 
force  me  to  prolong  my  punishment!’  ‘Knowest  thou 
this  blood  ? Knowest  thou  in  whose  veins  it  flowed  ? 
Beatrice  ! Beatrice  ! in  his  name  I charge  thee  to  answer 
me.’  ‘I  dare  not  disobey  my  taskers.’  ‘Darest  thou 
disobey  me  ? ’ He  spoke  in  a commanding  tone,  and 
drew  the  sable  band  from  his  forehead.  In  spite  of  his 
injunction  to  the  contrary,  curiosity  would  not  suffer  me 
to  keep  my  eyes  off  his  face : I raised  them,  and  beheld 
a burning  cross  impressed  upon  his  brow.  For  the 
horror  with  which  this  object  inspired  me  I cannot 
account,  but  I never  felt  its  equal.  My  senses  left  me 
for  some  moments;  a mysterious  dread  overcame  my 
courage ; and  had  not  the  exorciser  caught  my  hand,  I 
should  have  fallen  out  of  the  circle.  When  I recovered 
myself,  I perceived  that  the  burning  cross  had  produced 
an  effect  no  less  violent  upon  the  spectre.  Her  counte- 
nance expressed  reverence  and  horror,  and  her  visionary 
limbs  were  shaken  by  fear.  ‘Yes,’ she  said  at  length, 

‘ I tremble  at  that  mark  ! I respect  it ! I obey  you  f 
Know,  then,  that  my  bones  lie  still  unburied — they  rot 
in  the  obscurity  of  Lindenberg-hole.  None  but  this 
youth  has  the  right  of  consigning  them  to  the  grave. 
His  own  lips  have  made  over  to  me  his  body  and  his 
soul ; never  will  I give  back  his  promise ; never  shall 
he  know  a night  devoid  of  terror  unless  he  engages  to 
collect  my  mouldering  bones,  and  deposit  them  in  the 
family  vault  of  his  Andalusian  castle.  Then  let  thirty 
masses  be  said  for  the  repose  of  my  spirit,  and  I trouble 
this  world  no  more.  Now  let  me  depart;  those  flames 
are  scorching.’ 

He  let  the  hand  drop  slowly  which  held  the  crucifix, 
and  which  till  then  he  had  pointed  towards  her.  The 
apparition  bowed  her  head,  and  her  form  melted  into 
air. 

HISTORIANS. 

DAVID  HUME. 

Relying  on  the  valuable  collections  of  Carte ; 
animated  by  a strong  love  of  literary  fame,  which 
he  avowed  to  be  his  ruling  passion ; desirous  also 
of  combating  the  popular  prejudices  in  favour  of 
Elizabeth  and  against  the  Stuarts ; and  master  of  a 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


style  singularly  fascinating,  simple,  and  graceful, 
the  celebrated  David  Hume  left  his  philosophical 
studies  to  embark  in  historical  composition.  This 
eminent  person  was  a native  of  Scotland,  horn  of  a 
good  family,  being  the  second  son  of  Joseph  Homfe 
— the  historian  first  spelt  the  name  Hume — laird  of 
Ninewells,  near  Dunse,  in  Berwickshire.  David 
was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the  26th  of  April  1711. 
After  attending  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  his 
friends  were  anxious  that  he  should  commence  the 
study  of  the  law,  but  a love  of  literature  rendered 
him  averse  to  this  profession.  An  attempt  was  then 
made  to  establish  him  in  business,  and  he  was  placed 
in  a mercantile  house  in  Bristol.  This  employment 
was  found  equally  uncongenial,  and  Hume  removed 
to  Prance,  where  he  passed  some  years  in  literary 
retirement,  living  with  the  utmost  frugality  and 
care  on  the  small  allowance  made  him  by  his  family. 
He  returned  in  1737  to  publish  his  first  philo- 
sophical work,  the  Treatise  on  Human  Nature , which 
he  acknowledges  ‘fell  dead-born  from  the  press.’ 
A third  part  appeared  in  1740;  and  in  1742 
he  produced  two  volumes,  entitled  Essays  Moral 
and  Philosophical.  Some  of  these  miscellaneous 
productions  are  remarkable  for  research  and  dis- 
crimination, and  for  elegance  of  style.  In  1745,  he 
undertook  the  charge  of  the  Marquis  of  Annandale, 
a young  nobleman  of  deranged  intellects ; and  in 
this  humiliating  employment  the  philosopher  con- 
tinued about  a twelvemonth.  He  next  made  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  be  appointed  professor  of 
moral  philosophy  in  his  native  university,  after 
which  he  fortunately  obtained  the  situation  of 
secretary  to  Lieutenant-general  St  Clair,  who  was 
first  appointed  to  the  command  of  an  expedition 
against  Canada,  and  afterwards  ambassador  to  the 
courts  of  Vienna  and  Turin.  In  the  latter,  Hume 
enjoyed  congenial  and  refined  society.  Having 
remodelled  his  Treatise  on  Human  Nature , he  repub- 
lished it  in  1751  under  the  title  of  an  Inquiry  Con- 
cerning the  Principles  of  Morals.  Next  year  he  issued 
two  volumes  of  Political  Discourses , and,  with  a view 
to  the  promotion  of  his  studies,  assumed  gratuitously 
the  office  of  librarian  to  the  Faculty  of  Advocates. 
He  now  struck  into  the  path  of  historical  writing. 
In  1754  appeared  the  first  volume  of  his  History  of 
Great  Britain , containing  the  reigns  of  James  I. 
and  Charles  I.  It  was  assailed  by  the  Whigs  with 
unusual  bitterness,  and  Hume  was  so  disappointed, 
partly  from  the  attacks  on  him,  and  partly  because 
of  the  slow  sale  of  the  work,  that  he  intended  retir- 
ing to  France,  changing  his  name,  and  never  more 
returning  to  his  native  country.  The  breaking  out 
of  the  war  with  Prance  prevented  this  step,  but  we 
suspect  the  complacency  of  Hume  and  his  love  of 
Scotland  would  otherwise  have  frustrated  his  inten- 
tion. A second  volume  of  the  history  was  published, 
with  more  success,  in  1757 ; a third  and  fourth 
in  1759;  and  the  last  two  in  1762.  The  work 
became  highly  popular ; edition  followed  edition ; 
and  by  universal  consent,  Hume  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  English  historians.  In  1763  our  author 
accompanied  the  Earl  of  Hertford  on  his  embassy 
to  Paris,  where  he  was  received  with  marked  dis- 
tinction. In  1766  he  returned  to  Scotland,  but  was 
induced  next  year  to  accept  the  situation  of  under- 
secretary of  state,  which  he  held  for  two  years. 
With  a revenue  of  £1000  a year — which  he  con- 
sidered opulence — the  historian  retired  to  his  native 
city,  where  he  continued  to  reside,  in  habits  of 
intimacy  with  his  literary  friends,  till  his  death,  on 
the  25th  of  August  1776.  His  easy  good-humoured 
disposition,  his  literary  fame,  his  extensive  know- 
ledge and  respectable  rank  in  society,  rendered  his 


company  always  agreeable  and  interesting,  even  to 
those  who  were  most  decidedly  opposed  to  the  tone 
of  scepticism  which  pervades  all  his  writings.  His 
opinions  were  never  obtruded  on  his  friends : he 
threw  out  dogmas  for  the  learned,  not  food  for  the 
multitude. 

The  History  of  Hume  is  not  a work  of  high  autho- 
rity, but  it  is  one  of  the  most  easy,  elegant,  and 
interesting  narratives  in  the  language.  He  was 
constantly  subjecting  it  to  revision  in  point  of  style, 
but  was  content  to  take  his  authorities  at  second- 
hand. The  striking  parts  of  his  subject  are  related 
with  a picturesque  and  dramatic  force ; and  his 
dissertations  on  the  state  of  parties  and  the  ten- 
dency of  particular  events,  are  remarkable  for  the 
philosophical  tone  in  which  they  are  conceived  and 
written.  He  was  too  indolent  to  be  exact ; too 
indifferent  to  sympathise  heartily  with  any  political 
party ; too  sceptical  on  matters  of  religion  to  appre- 
ciate justly  the  full  force  of  religious  principles  in 
directing  the  course  of  public  events.  An  enemy  to 
all  turbulence  and  enthusiasm,  he  naturally  leaned 
to  the  side  of  settled  government,  even  when  it  was 
united  to  arbitrary  power ; and  though  he  could 
‘ shed  a generous  tear  for  the  fate  of  Charles  I.  and 
the  Earl  of  Strafford,’  the  struggles  of  his  poor 
countrymen  for  conscience’  sake  against  the  tyranny 
of  the  Stuarts,  excited  with  him  no  other  feelings 
than  those  of  ridicule  or  contempt.  He  could  even 
forget  the  merits  and  exaggerate  the  faults  of  the 
accomplished  and  chivalrous  Raleigh,  to  shelter  the 
sordid  injustice  of  a weak  and  contemptible  sove- 
reign. No  hatred  of  oppression  burns  through  his 
pages.  The  careless  epicurean  repose  of  the  philos- 
opher was  not  disturbed  by  any  visions  of  liberty, 
or  any  ardent  aspirations  for  the  improvement  of 
mankind.  Yet  Hume  was  not  a slavish  worshipper 
of  power.  In  his  personal  character,  he  was  liberal 
and  independent:  ‘he  had  early  in  life,’  says  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  ‘ conceived  an  antipathy  to  the 
Calvinistic  divines,  and  his  temperament  led  him  at 
all  times  to  regard  with  disgust  and  derision  that 
religious  enthusiasm  or  bigotry  with  which  the 
spirit  of  English  freedom  was,  in  his  opinion,  inse- 
parably associated:  his  intellect  was  also  perhaps 
too  active  and  original  to  submit  with  sufficient 
patience  to  the  preparatory  toils  and  long-suspended 
judgment  of  a historian,  and  led  him  to  form  pre- 
mature conclusions  and  precipitate  theories,  which 
it  then  became  the  pride  of  his  ingenuity  to  justify.’ 
A love  of  paradox  undoubtedly  led  to  his  formation 
of  the  theory  that  the  English  government  was 
purely  despotic  and  absolute  before  the  accession 
of  the  Stuarts.  A love  of  effect,  no  less  than  his 
constitutional  indolence,  may  have  betrayed  the 
historian  into  inconsistencies,  and  prompted  some 
of  his  exaggeration  and  high  colouring  relative  to 
the  unfortunate  Charles  I.,  his  trial  and  execution. 
Thus,  in  one  page  we  are  informed  that  ‘ the  height 
of  all  iniquity  and  fanatical  extravagance  yet 
remained — the  public  trial  and  execution  of  the 
sovereign.’  Three  pages  further  on,  the  historian 
remarks : ‘ The  pomp,  the  dignity,  the  ceremony 
of  this  transaction,  corresponded  to  the  greatest 
conception  that  is  suggested  in  the  annals  of 
humankind ; the  delegates  of  a great  people  sitting 
in  judgment  upon  their  supreme  magistrate,  and 
trying  him  for  his  misgovernment  and  breach  of 
trust.’  With  similar  inconsistency,  he  in  one  part 
admits,  and  in  another  denies,  that  Charles  was 
insincere  in  dealing  with  his  opponents.  To  illus- 
trate his  theory  of  the  sudden  elevation  of  Cromwell 
into  importance,  the  historian  states  that  about  the 
meeting  of  parliament  in  1640,  the  name  of  Oliver 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DAVID  HUME. 


is  not  to  be  found  oftener  than  twice  upon  any 
committee,  whereas  the  journals  of  the  House  of 
Commons  shew  that  before  the  time  specified, 
Cromwell  was  in  forty-five  committees,  and  twelve 
special  messages  to  the  Lords.  Careless  as  to  facts 
of  this  kind— hundreds  of  which  errors  have  been 
pointed  out — we  must  look  at  the  general  character 
of  Hume’s  History ; at  its  clear  and  admirable 
narrative ; the  philosophic  composure  and  dignity 
of  its  style ; the  sagacity  with  which  the  views  of 
conflicting  sects  and  parties  are  estimated  and 
developed ; the  large  admissions  which  the  author 
makes  to  his  opponents ; and  the  high  importance 
he  everywhere  assigns  to  the  cultivation  of  letters, 
and  the  interests  of  learning  and  literature.  Judged 
by  this  elevated  standard,  the  work  of  Hume  must 
ever  be  regarded  as  an  honour  to  British  literature. 
It  differs  as  widely  from  the  previous  annals  and 
compilations  as  a finished  portrait  by  Reynolds 
differs  from  the  rude  draughts  of  a country  artist. 
The  latter  may  be  the  more  faithful  external  like- 
ness, but  is  wanting  in  all  that  gives  grace  and 
sentiment,  sweetness  or  loftiness,  to  the  general 
composition. 

Ample  information  as  to  the  life  and  character 
and  studies  of  Hume  was  given  to  the  world  in 
the  Life  and  Correspondence  of  David  Hume , two 
volumes,  1816,  by  John  Hill  Burton,  advocate. 

[State  of  Parties  at  the  Reformation  in  England.'] 

The  friends  of  the  Reformation  asserted  that  nothing 
could  be  more  absurd  than  to  conceal,  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  the  word  of  God  itself,  and  thus  to  counteract 
the  will  of  Heaven,  which,  for  the  purpose  of  universal 
salvation,  had  published  that  salutary  doctrine  to  all 
nations ; that  if  this  practice  were  not  very  absurd,  the 
artifice  at  least  was  very  gross,  and  proved  a conscious- 
ness that  the  glosses  and  traditions  of  the  clergy  stood 
in  direct  opposition  to  the  original  text  dictated  by 
Supreme  Intelligence ; that  it  was  now  necessary  for  the 
people,  so  long  abused  by  interested  pretensions,  to  see 
with  their  own  eyes,  and  to  examine  whether  the  claims 
of  the  ecclesiastics  were  founded  on  that  charter  which 
was  on  all  hands  acknowledged  to  be  derived  from 
Heaven ; and  that,  as  a spirit  of  research  and  curiosity 
was  happily  revived,  and  men  were  now  obliged  to  make 
a choice  among  the  contending  doctrines  of  different 
sects,  the  proper  materials  for  decision,  and,  above  all, 
the  Holy  Scriptures,  should  be  set  before  them;  and 
the  revealed  will  of  God,  which  the  change  of  language 
had  somewhat  obscured,  be  again  by  their  means 
revealed  to  mankind. 

The  favourers  of  the  ancient  religion  maintained,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  pretence  of  making  the  people 
see  with  their  own  eyes  was  a mere  cheat,  and  was 
itself  a very  gross  artifice,  by  which  the  new  preachers 
hoped  to  obtain  the  guidance  of  them,  and  to  seduce 
them  from  those  pastors  whom  the  laws  of  ancient 
establishments,  whom  Heaven  itself,  had  appointed  for 
their  spiritual  direction ; that  the  people  were,  by 
their  ignorance,  their  stupidity,  their  necessary  avoca- 
tions, totally  unqualified  to  choose  their  own  principles ; 
and  it  was  a mockery  to  set  materials  before  them  of 
which  they  could  not  possibly  make  any  proper  use; 
that  even  in  the  affairs  of  common  life,  and  in  their 
temporal  concerns,  which  lay  more  within  the  compass  of 
human  reason,  the  laws  had  in  a great  measure  deprived 
them  of  the  right  of  private  judgment,  and  had, 
happily  for  their  own  and  the  public  interest,  regulated 
their  conduct  and  behaviour ; that  theological  questions 
were  placed  far  beyond  the  sphere  of  vulgar  compre- 
hension ; and  ecclesiastics  themselves,  though  assisted 
by  all  the  advantages  of  education,  erudition,  and  an 
assiduous  study  of  the  science,  could  not  be  fully  assured 


of  a just  decision ; except  by  the  promise  made  them 
in  Scripture,  that  God  would  be  ever  present  with  his 
church,  and  that  the  gates  of  hell  should  not  prevail 
against  her ; that  the  gross  errors  adopted  by  the  Avisest 
heathens  prove  how  unfit  men  were  to  grope  their  own 
way  through  this  profound  darkness;  nor  would  the 
Scriptures,  if  trusted  to  every  man’s  judgment,  be  able 
to  remedy,  on  the  contrary,  they  would  much  augment 
those  fatal  illusions;  that  Sacred  Writ  itself  was 
involved  in  so  much  obscurity,  gave  rise  to  so  many 
difficulties,  contained  so  many  appearing  contradictions, 
that  it  was  the  most  dangerous  weapon  that  could  be 
intrusted  into  the  hands  of  the  ignorant  and  giddy 
multitude;  that  the  poetical  style  in  which  a great 
part  of  it  was  composed,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
occasioned  uncertainty  in  the  sense  by  its  multiplied 
tropes  and  figures,  was  sufficient  to  kindle  the  zeal  of 
fanaticism,  and  thereby  throw  civil  society  into  the 
most  furious  combustion ; that  a thousand  sects  must 
arise,  which  would  pretend,  each  of  them,  to  derive  its 
tenets  from  the  Scriptures;  and  would  be  able,  by 
specious  arguments,  to  seduce  silly  women  and  ignorant 
mechanics  into  a belief  of  the  most  monstrous  prin- 
ciples ; and  that  if  ever  this  disorder,  dangerous  to  the 
magistrate  himself,  received  a remedy,  it  must  be  from 
the  tacit  acquiescence  of  the  people  in  some  new  autho- 
rity; and  it  was  evidently  better,  without  further 
contest  or  inquiry,  to  adhere  peaceably  to  ancient,  and 
therefore  the  more  secure,  establishments. 

[The  Middle  Ages — Progress  of  Freedom.] 

Those  who  cast  their  eye  on  the  general  revolutions 
of  society,  wrill  find  that,  as  almost  all  improvements  of 
the  human  mind  had  reached  nearly  to  their  state  of 
perfection  about  the  age  of  Augustus,  there  was  a 
sensible  decline  from  that  point  or  period ; and  men 
thenceforth  gradually  relapsed  into  ignorance  and  bar- 
barism. The  unlimited  extent  of  the  Roman  empire, 
and  the  consequent  despotism  of  its  monarch  s,  extin- 
guished all  emulation,  debased  the  generous  spirits  of 
men,  and  depressed  the  noble  flame  by  which  all  the 
refined  arts  must  be  cherished  and  enlivened.  The 
military  government  which  soon  succeeded,  rendered 
even  the  lives  and  properties  of  men  insecure  and  pre- 
carious ; and  proved  destructive  to  those  vulgar  and  more 
necessary  arts  of  agriculture,  manufactures,  and  com- 
merce ; and  in  the  end,  to  the  military  art  and  genius 
itself,  by  which  alone  the  immense  fabric  of  the  empire 
could  be  supported.  The  irruption  of  the  barbarous 
nations  which  soon  followed,  overwhelmed  all  human 
knowledge,  which  was  already  far  in  its  decline;  and 
men  sunk  every  age  deeper  into  ignorance,  stupidity, 
and  superstition ; till  the  light  of  ancient  science  and 
history  had  very  nearly  suffered  a total  extinction  in  all 
the  European  nations. 

But  there  is  a point  of  depression  as  well  as  of  exalt- 
ation, from  which  human  affairs  naturally  return  in  a 
contrary  direction,  and  beyond  which  they  seldom  pass, 
either  in  their  advancement  or  decline.  The  period  in 
which  the  people  of  Christendom  were  the  lowest  sunk 
in  ignorance,  and  consequently  in  disorders  of  every 
kind,  may  justly  be  fixed  at  the  eleventh  century,  about 
the  age  of  William  the  Conqueror ; and  from  that  era 
the  sun  of  science,  beginning  to  reascend,  threw  out 
many  gleams  of  light,  which  preceded  the  full  morning 
when  letters  were  revived  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
The  Danes  and  other  northern  people  who  had  so  long 
infested  all  the  coasts,  and  even  the  inland  parts  of 
Europe,  by  their  depredations,  having  now  learned  the 
arts  of  tillage  and  agriculture,  found  a certain  subsist- 
ence at  home,  and  were  no  longer  tempted  to  desert 
their  industry  in  order  to  seek  a precarious  livelihood 
by  rapine  and  by  the  plunder  of  their  neighbours.  The 
feudal  governments  also,  among  the  more  southern 
nations,  were  reduced  to  a kind  of  system ; and  though 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


that  strange  species  of  civil  polity  was  ill  fitted  to 
insure  either  liberty  or  tranquillity,  it  was  preferable 
to  the  universal  licence  and  disorder  which  had  every- 
where preceded  it. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  the  progress  of  the  arts, 
which  seems,  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  to  have 
daily  increased  the  number  of  slaves,  should  in  later 
times  have  proved  so  general  a source  of  liberty;  but 
this  difference  in  the  events  proceeded  from  a great 
difference  in  the  circumstances  which  attended  those 
institutions.  The  ancient  barons,  obliged  to  maintain 
themselves  continually  in  a military  posture,  and  little 
emulous  of  eloquence  or  splendour,  employed  not  their 
villeins  as  domestic  servants,  much  less  as  manufac- 
turers; but  composed  their  retinue  of  freemen,  whose 
military  spirit  rendered  the  chieftain  formidable  to  his 
neighbours,  and  who  were  ready  to  attend  him  in  every 
warlike  enterprise.  The  villeins  were  entirely  occupied 
in  the  cultivation  of  their  master’s  land,  and  paid  their 
rents  either  in  corn  and  cattle,  and  other  produce  of  the 
farm,  or  in  servile  offices,  which  they  performed  about 
the  baron’s  family,  and  upon  the  farms  which  he 
retained  in  his  own  possession.  In  proportion  as  agri- 
culture improved  and  money  increased,  it  was  found 
that  these  services,  though  extremely  burdensome  to  the 
villein,  were  of  little  advantage  to  the  master ; and  that 
the  produce  of  a large  estate  could  be  much  more  con- 
veniently disposed  of  by  the  peasants  themselves,  who 
raised  it,  than  by  the  landlord  or  his  bailiff,  who  were 
formerly  accustomed  to  receive  it.  A commutation  was 
therefore  made  of  rents  for  services,  and  of  money-rents 
for  those  in  kind ; and  as  men,  in  a subsequent  age, 
discovered  that  farms  were  better  cultivated  where  the 
farmer  enjoyed  a security  in  his  possession,  the  practice 
of  granting  leases  to  the  peasant  began  to  prevail,  which 
entirely  broke  the  bonds  of  servitude,  already  much 
relaxed  from  the  former  practices.  After  this  manner 
villenage  went  gradually  into  disuse  throughout  the 
more  civilised  parts  of  Europe : the  interest  of  the 
master  as  well  as  that  of  the  slave  concurred  in  this 
alteration.  The  latest  laws  which  we  find  in  England 
for  enforcing  or  regulating  this  species  of  servitude, 
were  enacted  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  And  though 
the  ancient  statutes  on  this  head  remain  unrepealed  by 
parliament,  it  appears  that,  before  the  end  of  Eliza- 
beth, the  distinction  of  villein  and  freeman  was  totally 
though  insensibly  abolished,  and  that  no  person 
remained  in  the  state  to  whom  the  former  laws  could 
be  applied. 

Thus  'personal  freedom  became  almost  general  in 
Europe ; an  advantage  which  paved  the  way  for  the 
increase  of  political  or  civil  liberty,  and  which,  even 
where  it  was  not  attended  with  this  salutary  effect, 
served  to  give  the  members  of  the  community  some  of 
the  most  considerable  advantages  of  it. 

[Death  and  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth .] 

Some  incidents  happened  which  revived  her  tender- 
ness for  Essex,  and  filled  her  with  the  deepest  sorrow 
for  the  consent  which  she  had  unwarily  given  to  his 
execution. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  after  his  return  from  the  fortun- 
ate expedition  against  Cadiz,  observing  the  increase  of 
the  queen’s  fond  attachment  towards  him,  took  occasion 
to  regret  that  the  necessity  of  her  service  required  him 
often  to  be  absent  from  her  person,  and  exposed  him 
to  all  those  ill  offices  which  his  enemies,  more  assiduous 
in  their  attendance,  could  employ  against  him.  She 
was  moved  with  this  tender  jealousy  ; and  making  him 
the  present  of  a ring,  desired  him  to  keep  that  pledge 
of  her  affection,  and  assured  him  that  into  whatever 
disgrace  he  should  fall,  whatever  prejudices  she  might 
be  induced  to  entertain  against  him,  yet  if  he  sent  her 
that  ring,  she  would  immediately,  upon  sight  of  it,  recall 
her  former  tenderness,  would  afford  him  a patient 
172 


hearing,  and  would  lend  a favourable  ear  to  his  apology. 
Essex,  notwithstanding  all  his  misfortunes,  reserved 
this  precious  gift  to  the  last  extremity;  but  after  his 
trial  and  condemnation,  he  resolved  to  try  the  experi- 
ment, and  he  committed  the  ring  to  the  Countess  of 
Nottingham,  whom  he  desired  to  deliver  it  to  the  queen. 
The  countess  was  prevailed  on  by  her  husband,  the 
mortal  enemy  of  Essex,  not  to  execute  the  commission ; 
and  Elizabeth,  who  still  expected  that  her  favourite 
would  make  this  last  appeal  to  her  tenderness,  and  who 
ascribed  the  neglect  of  it  to  his  invincible  obstinacy, 
was,  after  much  delay  and  many  internal  combats, 
pushed  by  resentment  and  policy  to  sign  the  warrant 
for  his  execution.  The  Countess  of  Nottingham  falling: 
into  sickness,  and  affected  with  the  near  approach  of 
death,  was  seized  with  remorse  for  her  conduct;  and 
having  obtained  a visit  from  the  queen,  she  craved  her 
pardon,  and  revealed  to  her  the  fatal  secret.  The  queen, 
astonished  with  this  incident,  burst  into  a furious 
passion : she  shook  the  dying  countess  in  her  bed ; and 
crying  to  her  that  God  might  pardon  her,  but  she  never 
could,  she  broke  from  her,  and  thenceforth  resigned  her- 
self over  to  the  deepest  and  most  incurable  melancholy.. 
She  rejected  all  consolation ; she  even  refused  food  and 
sustenance;  and,  throwing  herself  on  the  floor,  she 
remained  sullen  and  immovable,  feeding  her  thoughts- 
on  her  afflictions,  and  declaring  life  and  existence  an 
insufferable  burden  to  her.  Few  words  she  uttered ;. 
and  they  were  all  expressive  of  some  inward  grief  which 
she  cared  not  to  reveal : but  sighs  and  groans  were  the 
chief  vent  which  she  gave  to  her  despondency,  and; 
which,  though  they  discovered  her  sorrows,  were  never 
able  to  ease  or  assuage  them.  Ten  days  and  nights  she 
lay  upon  the  carpet,  leaning  on  cushions  which  her 
maids  brought  her : and  her  physicians  could  not 
persuade  her  to  allow  herself  to  be  put  to  bed,  much 
less  to  make  trial  of  any  remedies  which  they  prescribed 
to  her.  Her  anxious  mind  at  last  had  so  long  preyed 
on  her  frail  body,  that  her  end  was  visibly  approaching ; 
and  the  council  being  assembled,  sent  the  keeper, 
admiral,  and  secretary,  to  know  her  will  with  regard  to 
her  successor.  She  answered  with  a faint  voice  that  as 
she  had  held  a regal  sceptre,  she  desired  no  other  than  a 
royal  successor.  Cecil  requesting  her  to  explain  herself 
more  particularly,  she  subjoined  that  she  would  have  a 
king  to  succeed  her ; and  who  should  that  be  but  her 
nearest  kinsman,  the  king  of  Scots  ? Being  then  advised 
by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  fix  her  thoughts  upon 
God,  she  replied  that  she  did  so,  nor  did  her  mind  in 
the  least  wander  from  him.  Her  voice  soon  after  left 
her ; her  senses  failed ; she  fell  into  a lethargic  slumber* 
which  continued  some  hours,  and  she  expired  gently, 
without  further  struggle  or  convulsion  (March  24,  1603), 
in  the  seventieth  year  of  her  age  and  forty-fifth  of  her 
reign. 

So  dark  a cloud  overcast  the  evening  of  that  day, 
which  had  shone  out  with  a mighty  lustre  in  the  eyes 
of  all  Europe.  There  are  few  great  personages  in  his- 
tory who  have  been  more  exposed  to  the  calumny  of 
enemies  and  the  adulation  of  friends  than  Queen  Eliza- 
beth; and  yet  there  is  scarcely  any  whose  reputation 
has  been  more  certainly  determined  by  the  unanimous 
consent  of  posteiity.  The  unusual  length  of  her  admin- 
istration, and  the  strong  features  of  her  character,  were 
able  to  overcome  all  prejudices ; and  obliging  her 
detractors  to  abate  much  of  their  invectives,  and  her 
admirers  somewhat  of  their  panegyrics,  have  at  last,  in 
spite  of  political  factions,  and  what  is  more,  of  religious 
animosities,  produced  a uniform  judgment  with  regard 
to  her  conduct.  Her  vigour,  her  constancy,  her  mag- 
nanimity, her  penetration,  vigilance,  and  address,  are- 
allowed  to  merit  the  highest  praises,  and  appear  not  to 
have  been  surpassed  by  any  person  that  ever  filled  a 
throne : a conduct  less  rigorous,  less  imperious,  more 
sincere,  more  indulgent  to  her  people,  would  have  been 
requisite  to  form  a perfect  character.  By  the  force  of 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


her  mind  she  controlled  all  her  more  active  and  stronger 
qualities,  and  prevented  them  from  running  into  excess  : 
her  heroism  was  exempt  from  temerity,  her  frugality 
from  avarice,  her  friendship  from  partiality,  her  active 
temper  from  turhulency  and  a vain  ambition : she 
guarded  not  herself  with  equal  care  or  equal  success 
from  lesser  infirmities;  the  rivalship  of  beauty,  the 
desire  of  admiration,  the  jealousy  of  love,  and  the  sallies 
of  anger. 

Her  singular  talents  for  government  were  founded 
-equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity.  Endowed 
with  a great  command  over  herself,  she  soon  obtained 
an  uncontrolled  ascendant  over  her  people;  and  while 
she  merited  all  their  esteem  by  her  real  virtues,  she  also 
engaged  their  affections  by  her  pretended  ones.  Few 
sovereigns  of  England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  more 
difficult  circumstances;  and  none  ever  conducted  the 
government  with  such  uniform  success  and  felicity. 
Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  toleration — 
the  true  secret  for  managing  religious  factions — she 
preserved  her  people,  by  her  superior  prudence,  from 
those  confusions  in  which  theological  controversy  had 
involved  all  the  neighbouring  nations : and  though  her 
enemies  were  the  most  powerful  princes  of  Europe,  the 
most  active,  the  most  enterprising,  the  least  scrupulous, 
she  was  able  by  her  vigour  to  make  deep  impressions  on 
their  states;  her  own  greatness  meanwhile  remained 
untouched  and  unimpaired. 

The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors  who  flourished 
under  her  reign,  share  the  praise  of  her  success;  but 
instead  of  lessening  the  applause  due  to  her,  they  make 
great  addition  to  it.  They  owed,  all  of  them,  their 
advancement  to  her  choice ; they  were  supported  by  her 
constancy,  and  with  all  their  abilities,  they  were  never 
able  to  acquire  any  undue  ascendant  over  her.  In  her 
family,  in  her  court,  in  her  kingdom,  she  remained 
equally  mistress : the  force  of  the  tender  passions  was 
great  over  her,  but  the  force  of  her  mind  was  still 
superior ; and  the  combat  which  her  victory  visibly  cost 
her,  serves  only  to  display  the  firmness  of  her  resolution, 
and  the  loftiness  of  her  ambitious  sentiments. 

The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted 
the  prejudices  both  of  faction  and  bigotry,  yet  lies  still 
exposed  to  another  prejudice,  which  is  more  durable 
because  more  natural,  and  which,  according  to  the 
different  views  in  which  we  survey  her,  is  capable  either 
of  exalting  beyond  measure  or  diminishing  the  lustre  of 
her  character.  This  prejudice  is  founded  on  the  con- 
sideration of  her  sex.  When  we  contemplate  her  as  a 
woman,  we  are  apt  to  be  struck  with  the  highest  admir- 
ation of  her  great  qualities  and  extensive  capacity  ; but 
we  are  also  apt  to  require  some  more  softness  of  dispo- 
sition, some  greater  lenity  of  temper,  some  of  those 
amiable  weaknesses  by  which  her  sex  is  distinguished. 
But  the  true  method  of  estimating  her  merit  is  to  lay 
aside  all  these  considerations,  and  consider  her  merely 
as  a rational  being  placed  in  authority,  and  intrusted 
with  the  government  of  mankind.  We  may  find  it 
difficult  to  reconcile  our  fancy  to  her  as  a wife  or  a 
mistress ; but  her  qualities  as  a sovereign,  though  with 
some  considerable  exceptions,  are  the  object  of  undis- 
puted applause  and  approbation. 


DR  WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 

Dr  William  Robertson  was  born  at  Borthwick, 
county  of  Edinburgh,  in  the  year  1721.  His  father 
was  a clergyman,  minister  of  Borthwick,  and  after- 
wards of  the  Greyfriars  Church,  Edinburgh : the  son 
was  also  educated  for  the  church.  In  1743  he  was 
appointed  minister  of  Gladsmuir,  in  Haddington- 
shire, whence  he  removed,  in  1758,  to  be  incumbent 
of  Lady  Yester’s  parish  in  Edinburgh.  He  had 
distinguished  himself  by  his  talents  in  the  General 
Assembly  ; but  it  was  not  till  1759  that  he  became 


known  as  a historian.  In  that  year  he  published 
his  History  of  Scotland  during  the  Reigns  of  Queen 
Mary  and  of  King  James  VI.,  till  his  Accession  to 
the  Crown  of  England , by  which  his  fortune  was 
benefited  to  the  extent  of  £600,  and  his  fame  was 
by  one  effort  placed  on  an  imperishable  basis.  No 
first  work  was  ever  more  successful.  The  author 
was  congratulated  by  all  who  were  illustrious  for 
their  rank  or  talents.  He  was  appointed  chaplain 
of  Stirling  Castle  ; in  two  years  afterwards,  he  was 
nominated  one  of  his  majesty’s  chaplains  in  ordinary 
for  Scotland ; and  he  was  successively  made 
principal  of  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  and 
historiographer  for  Scotland,  with  a salary  of  £200 
per  annum.  Stimulated  by  such  success,  as  well  as 
by  a love  of  composition,  Dr  Robertson  continued 
his  studies,  and  in  1769  he  produced  his  History 
of  the  Reign  of  Charles  V.,  in  three  volumes, 
quarto,  for  which  he  received  from  the  booksellers 
the  princely  sum  of  £4500.  It  was  equally  well 
received  with  his  former  work.  In  1777  he 
published  his  History  of  America,  and  in  1791  his 
Historical  Disquisition  on  Ancient  India,  a slight 
work,  to  which  he  had  been  led  by  Major  Rennel’s 
Memoirs  of  a Map  of  Hindostan.  For  many  years 
Dr  Robertson  was  leader  of  the  moderate  party  in 
the  Church  of  Scotland,  in  which  capacity  he  is  said 
to  have  evinced  in  the  General  Assembly  a readiness 
and  eloquence  in  debate  which  his  friend  Gibbon 
might  have  envied  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
After  a gradual  decay  of  his  powers,  this  accom- 
plished historian  died  on  the  11th  of  June  1793,  in 
the  seventy-first  year  of  his  age. 

The  History  of  Scotland  possesses  the  interest  and 
something  of  the  character  of  a memoir  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots.  This  unfortunate  princess  forms 
the  attraction  of  the  work ; and  though  Robertson 
is  not  among  the  number  of  her  indiscriminate 
admirers  and  apologists,  he  labours — with  more  of 
the  art  of  the  writer  to  produce  a romantic  and 
interesting  narrative,  than  with  the  zeal  of  the 
philosopher  to  establish  truth — to  awaken  the 
sympathies  of  the  reader  strongly  in  her  behalf. 
The  luminous  historical  views  and  retrospects  in 
which  this  historian  excels,  were  indicated  in  his 
introductory  chapter  on  Scottish  history,  prior  to 
the  birth  of  Mary.  Though  a brief  and  rapid 
summary,  this  chapter  is  finely  written,  and  is 
remarkable  equally  for  elegance  and  perspicuity. 
The  style  of  Robertson  seems  to  have  surprised  his 
contemporaries ; and  Horace  Walpole,  in  a letter  to 
the  author,  expresses  the  feeling  with  his  usual 
point  and  vivacity.  ‘ Before  I read  your  History,  I 
should  probably  have  been  glad  to  dictate  to  you, 
and  (I  will  venture  to  say  it— it  satirises  nobody 
but  myself)  should  have  thought  I did  honour  to  an 
obscure  Scotch  clergyman  by  directing  his  studies 
by  my  superior  lights  and  abilities.  How  you  have 
saved  me,  sir,  from  making  a ridiculous  figure,  by 
making  so  great  a one  yourself!  But  could  I 
suspect  that  a man  I believe  much  younger,  and 
whose  dialect  I scarce  understood,  and  who  came  to 
me  with  all  the  diffidence  and  modesty  of  a very 
middling  author,  and  who  I was  told  had  passed  his 
life  in  a small  living  near  Edinburgh — could  I then 
suspect  that  he  had  not  only  written  what  all  the 
world  now  allows  the  best  modern  history,  but  that 
he  had  written  it  in  the  purest  English,  and  with  as 
much  seeming  knowledge  of  men  and  courts  as  if  lie 
had  passed  all  his  life  in  important  embassies  ? ’ 
This  is  delicate  though  somewhat  overstrained 
flattery.  Two  of  the  quarto  volumes  of  Hume’s 
History  had  then  been  published,  and  his  inimitable 
essays  were  also  before  the  world,  shewing  that  in 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


mere  style  a Scotchman  could  carry  off  the  palm  for 
ease  and  elegance.  Robertson  is  more  uniform  and 
measured  than  Hume.  He  has  few  salient  points, 
and  no  careless  beauties.  His  style  is  a full  and 
equable  stream,  that  rolls  everywhere  the  same, 
without  lapsing  into  irregularity,  or  overflowing  its 
prescribed  course.  It  wants  spirit  and  variety.  Of 
grandeur  or  dignity  there  is  no  deficiency ; and 
when  the  subject  awakens  a train  of  lofty  or  philos- 
ophical ideas,  the  manner  of  the  historian  is  in  fine 
accordance  with  his  matter.  When  he  sums  up  the 
character  of  a sovereign,  or  traces  the  progress  of 
society  and  the  influence  of  laws  and  government, 
we  recognise  the  mind  and  language  of  a master  in 
historical  composition.  The  artificial  graces  of  his 
style  are  also  finely  displayed  in  scenes  of  tenderness 
and  pathos,  or  in  picturesque  description.  His 
account  of  the  beauty  and  sufferings  of  Mary,  or  of 
the  voyage  of  Columbus,  when  the  first  glimpses  of 
the  new  world  broke  upon  the  adventurers,  possesses 
almost  enough  of  imagination  to  rank  it  with  poetry. 
The  whole  of  the  History  of  America  is  indeed  full 
of  the  strongest  interest.  The  discovery  of  so  vast 
a portion  of  the  globe,  the  luxuriance  of  its  soil,  the 
primitive  manners  of  its  natives,  the  pomp,  magni- 
ficence, and  cruelty  of  its  conquerors,  all  form  a 
series  of  historical  pictures  and  images  that  power- 
fully affect  the  mind.  No  history  of  America  can 
ever  supplant  the  work  of  Robertson,  for  his 
materials  are  so  well  arranged,  his  information  so 
varied,  his  philosophical  reflections  so  just  and 
striking,  and  his  narrative  so  graceful,  that  nothing 
could  be  added  but  mere  details  destitute  of  any 
interest.  His  History  of  the  Reign  of  Charles  V. 
wants  this  natural  romance,  but  the  knowledge 
displayed  by  the  historian,  and  the  enlarged  and 
liberal  spirit  of  his  philosophical  inquiries,  are 
scarcely  less  worthy  of  commendation.  The  first 
volume,  which  describes  the  state  of  Europe 
previous  to  the  sixteenth  century,  contains  the 
result  of  much  study  and  research,  expressed  in 
language  often  eloquent,  and  generally  pleasing 
and  harmonious.  If  the  ‘pomp  and  strut’  which 
Cowper  the  poet  imputes  to  Robertson  be  sometimes 
apparent  in  the  orderly  succession  of  well-balanced 
and  equally  flowing  periods,  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  there  is  also  much  real  dignity  and 
power,  springing  from  the  true  elevation  of  intellec- 
tual and  moral  character. 

A late  acute  critic,  Mr  Gifford,  has  thus  discrimi- 
nated between  the  styles  of  Hume  and  Robertson : 
‘Hume,  the  most  contracted  in  his  subject,  is  the 
most  finished  in  execution ; the  nameless  number- 
less graces  of  his  style;  the  apparent  absence  of 
elaboration,  yet  the  real  effect  produced  by  efforts 
the  most  elaborate  ; the  simplicity  of  his  sentences, 
the  perspicuity  of  his  ideas,  the  purity  of  his 
expression,  entitle  him  to  the  name  and  to  the 
praises  of  another  Xenophon.  Robertson  never 
attained  to  the  same  graceful  ease,  or  the  same 
unbounded  variety  of  expression.  With  a fine  ear 
and  exact  judgment  in  the  construction  of  his  sen- 
tences, and  with  an  absence  of  Scotticisms  truly 
wonderful  in  one  who  had  never  ceased  to  converse 
with  Scotsmen,  there  is  in  the  sentences  of  this  his- 
torian something  resembling  the  pace  of  an  animal 
disciplined  by  assiduous  practice  to  the  curb,  and 
never  moving  but  in  conformity  to  the  rules  of  the 
manege.  The  taste  of  Hume  was  Greek — Attic 
Greek:  he  had,  as  far  as  the  genius  of  the  two 
languages  would  permit,  collected  the  very  juice  and 
flavour  of  their  style,  and  transfused  it  into  his 
own.  Robertson,  we  suspect,  though  a good,  was 
never  a profound  scholar : from  the  peculiar  nature 


of  his  education,  and  his  early  engagement  in  the 
duties  of  his  profession,  he  had  little  leisure  to  be 
learned.  Both,  in  their  several  ways,  were  men  of 
the  world ; but  Hume,  polished  by  long  intercourse 
with  the  best  society  in  France,  as  well  as  his  own 
country,  transferred  some  portion  of  easy  high- 
breeding  from  his  manners  to  his  writings ; while 
his  friend,  though  no  man  was  ever  more  completely 
emancipated  from  the  bigotry  of  a Scots  minister, 
or  from  the  pedantry  of  the  head  of  a college,  in  ' 
his  intercourse — which  he  assiduously  courted — 
with  the  great,  did  not  catch  that  last  grace  and 
polish  which  intercourse  without  equality  will  never 
produce,  and  which,  for  that  reason,  mere  savans 
rarely  acquire  from  society  more  liberal  or  more 
dignified  than  what  is  found  in  their  own  rank.’ 

[Character  of  Mary  Queen  of  $cofs.] 

To  all  the  charms  of  beauty  and  the  utmost  elegance 
of  external  form,  she  added  those  accomplishments 
which  render  their  impression  irresistible.  Polite, 
affable,  insinuating,  sprightly,  and  capable  of  speaking 
and  of  writing  with  equal  ease  and  dignity.  Sudden,  i 
however,  and  violent  in  all  her  attachments,  because 
her  heart  was  warm  and  unsuspicious.  Impatient  of 
contradiction,  because  she  had  been  accustomed  from 
her  infancy  to  be  treated  as  a queen.  No  stranger, 
on  some  occasions,  to  dissimulation,  which,  in  that 
perfidious  court  where  she  received  her  education,  was 
reckoned  among  the  necessary  arts  of  government.  Not 
insensible  of  flattery,  or  unconscious  of  that  pleasure 
with  which  almost  every  woman  beholds  the  influence 
of  her  own  beauty.  Formed  with  the  qualities  which 
we  love,  not  with  the  talents  that  we  admire,  she  was 
an  agreeable  woman  rather  than  an  illustrious  queen. 
The  vivacity  of  her  spirit,  not  sufficiently  tempered 
with  sound  judgment,  and  the  warmth  of  her  heart, 
which  was  not  at  all  times  under  the  restraint  of  dis- 
cretion, betrayed  her  both  into  errors  and  into  crimes. 

To  say  that  she  was  always  unfortunate  will  not  account 
for  that  long  and  almost  uninterrupted  succession  of 
calamities  which  befell  her ; we  must  likewise  add  that 
she  was  often  imprudent.  Her  passion  for  Darnley  was 
rash,  youthful,  and  excessive.  And  though  the  sudden 
transition  to  the  opposite  extreme  was  the  natural 
effect  of  her  ill-requited  love,  and  of  his  ingratitude, 
insolence,  and  brutality,  yet  neither  these  nor  Bothwell’s 
artful  address  and  important  services  can  justify  her 
attachment  to  that  nobleman.  Even  the  manners  of 
the  age,  licentious  as  they  were,  are  no  apology  for  this 
unhappy  passion ; nor  can  they  induce  us  to  look  on 
that  tragical  and  infamous  scene  which  followed  upon  it 
with  less  abhorrence.  Humanity  will  draw  a veil  over 
this  part  of  her  character  which  it  cannot  approve,  and 
may,  perhaps,  prompt  some  to  impute  her  actions  to  her 
situation  more  than  to  her  dispositions,  and  to  lament 
the  unhappiness  of  the  former  rather  than  accuse  the 
perverseness  of  the  latter.  Mary’s  sufferings  exceed, 
both  in  degree  and  in  duration,  those  tragical  distresses 
which  fancy  has  feigned  to  excite  sorrow  and  commiser- 
ation ; and  while  we  survey  them,  we>  are  apt  altogether 
to  forget  her  frailties ; we  think  of  her  faults  with  less 
indignation,  and  approve  of  our  tears  as  if  they  were 
shed  for  a person  who  had  attained  much  nearer  to 
pure  virtue. 

With  regard  to  the  queen’s  person,  a circumstance  not 
to  be  omitted  in  writing  the  history  of  a female  reign, 
all  contemporary  authors  agree  in  ascribing  to  Mary  the 
utmost  beauty  of  countenance  and  elegance  of  shape  of 
which  the  human  form  is  capable.  Her  hair  was  black, 
though,  according  to  the  fashion  of  that  age,  she  fre- 
quently wore  borrowed  locks,  and  of  different  colours. 
Her  eyes  were  a dark  gray,  her  complexion  was  exqui- 
sitely fine,  and  her  hands  and  arms  remarkably  delicate. 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


both  as  to  shape  and  colour.  Her  stature  was  of  a 
height  that  rose  to  the  majestic.  She  danced,  she 
walked,  and  rode  with  equal  grace.  Her  taste  for 
music  was  just,  and  she  both  sung  and  played  upon  the 
lute  with  uncommon  skill.  Towards  the  end  of  her  life 
she  began  to  grow  fat,  and  her  long  confinement  and 
the  coldness  of  the  houses  in  which  she  had  been 
imprisoned,  brought  on  a rheumatism,  which  deprived 
her  of  the  use  of  her  limbs.  ‘ No  man,’  says  Brantome, 
‘ ever  beheld  her  person  without  admiration  and  love, 
or  will  read  her  history  without  sorrow.’ 

[Martin  Luther .] 

[From  the  History  of  Charles  V.] 

While  appearances  of  danger  daily  increased,  and  the 
tempest  which  had  been  so  long  a gathering  was  ready 
to  break  forth  in  all  its  violence  against  the  Protestant 
church,  Luther  was  saved,  by  a seasonable  death,  from 
feeling  or  beholding  its  destructive  rage.  Having  gone, 
though  in  a declining  state  of  health,  and  during  a 
rigorous  season,  to  his  native  city  of  Eysleben,  in  order 
to  compose,  by  his  authority,  a dissension  among  the 
counts  of  Mansfield,  he  was  seized  with  a violent  inflam- 
mation in  his  stomach,  which  in  a few  days  put  an  end 
to  his  life,  in  the  sixty-third  year  of  his  age.  As  he 
was  raised  up  by  Providence  to  be  the  author  of  one  of 
the  greatest  and  most  interesting  revolutions  recorded 
in  history,  there  is  not  any  person,  perhaps,  whose 
character  has  been  drawn  with  such  opposite  colours. 
In  his  own  age,  one  party,  struck  with  horror  and 
inflamed  with  rage,  when  they  saw  with  what  a daring 
hand  he  overturned  everything  which  they  held  to  be 
sacred,  or  valued  as  beneficial,  imputed  to  him  not  only 
all  the  defects  and  vices  of  a man,  but  the  qualities 
of  a demon.  The  other,  warmed  with  the  admiration 
and  gratitude  which  they  thought  he  merited  as  the 
restorer  of  light  and  liberty  to  the  Christian  church, 
ascribed  to  him  perfections  above  the  condition  of 
humanity,  and  viewed  all  his  actions  with  a veneration 
bordering  on  that  which  should  be  paid  only  to  those 
who  are  guided  by  the  immediate  inspiration  of  Heaven. 
It  is  his  own  conduct,  not  the  undistinguishing  censure 
or  the  exaggerated  praise  of  his  contemporaries,  that 
ought  to  regulate  the  opinions  of  the  present  age 
concerning  him.  Zeal  for  what  he  regarded  as  truth, 
undaunted  intrepidity  to  maintain  his  own  system, 
abilities,  both  natural  and  acquired,  to  defend  his 
principles,  and  unwearied  industry  in  propagating  them, 
are  virtues  which  shine  so  conspicuously  in  every  part 
of  his  behaviour,  that  even  his  enemies  must  allow  him 
to  have  possessed  them  in  an  eminent  degree.  To  these 
may  be  added,  with  equal  justice,  such  purity  and  even 
austerity  of  manners  as  became  one  who  assumed  the 
character  of  a reformer ; such  sanctity  of  life  as  suited 
the  doctrine  which  he  delivered ; and  such  perfect 
disinterestedness  as  affords  no  slight  presumption  of 
his  sincerity.  Superior  to  all  selfish  considerations,  a 
stranger  to  the  elegances  of  life,  and  despising  its 
pleasures,  he  left  the  honours  and  emoluments  of  the 
church  to  his  disciples,  remaining  satisfied  himself  in 
his  original  state  of  professor  in  the  university,  and 
pastor  of  the  town  of  Wittemberg,  with  the  moderate 
appointments  annexed  to  these  offices.  His  extraor- 
dinary qualities  were  alloyed  with  no  inconsiderable 
mixture  of  human  frailty  and  human  passions.  These, 
however,  were  of  such  a nature,  that  they  cannot  be 
imputed  to  malevolence  or  corruption  of  heart,  but  seem 
to  have  taken  their  rise  from  the  same  source  with 
many  of  his  virtues.  His  mind,  forcible  and  vehement 
in  all  its  operations,  roused  by  great  objects,  or  agitated 
by  violent  passions,  broke  out,  on  many  occasions,  with 
an  impetuosity  which  astonishes  men  of  feebler  spirits, 
or  such  as  are  placed  in  a more  tranquil  situation.  By 
carrying  some  praiseworthy  dispositions  to  excess,  he 
bordered  sometimes  on  what  was  culpable,  and  was 


HR  WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


often  betrayed  into  actions  which  exposed  him  to 
censure.  His  confidence  that  his  own  opinions  were 
well  founded,  approached  to  arrogance ; his  courage  in 
asserting  them,  to  rashness  ; his  firmness  in  adhering 
to  them,  to  obstinacy ; and  his  zeal  in  confuting  his 
adversaries,  to  rage  and  scurrility.  Accustomed  him- 
self to  consider  everything  as  subordinate  to  truth,  he 
expected  the  same  deference  for  it  from  other  men ; and 
without  making  any  allowances  for  their  timidity  or 
prejudices,  he  poured  forth  against  such  as  disappointed 
him,  in  this  particular,  a torrent  of  invective  mingled 
with  contempt.  Regardless  of  any  distinction  of  rank 
or  character  when  his  doctrines  were  attacked,  he  chas- 
tised all  his  adversaries  indiscriminately  with  the  same 
rough  hand ; neither  the  royal  dignity  of  Henry  VIII., 
nor  the  eminent  learning  and  abilities  of  Erasmus, 
screened  them  from  the  same  gross  abuse  with  which  he 
treated  Tetzel  or  Eccius. 

But  these  indecencies,  of  which  Luther  was  guilty, 
must  not  be  imputed  wholly  to  the  violence  of  his 
temper.  They  ought  to  be  charged  in  part  on  the  man- 
ners of  the  age.  Among  a rude  people,  unacquainted 
with  those  maxims  which,  by  putting  continual  restraint 
on  the  passions  of  individuals,  have  polished  society 
and  rendered  it  agreeable,  disputes  of  every  kind  were 
managed  with  heat,  and  strong  emotions  were  uttered 
in  their  natural  language  without  reserve  or  delicacy. 

At  the  same  time,  the  works  of  learned  men  were  all 
composed  in  Latin,  and  they  were  not  only  authorised, 
by  the  example  of  eminent  writers  in  that  language,  to 
use  their  antagonists  with  the  most  illiberal  scurrility; 
but  in  a dead  tongue,  indecencies  of  every  kind  appear 
less  shocking  than  in  a living  language,  whose  idioms 
and  phrases  seem  gross,  because  they  are  familiar. 

In  passing  judgment  upon  the  characters  of  men,  we 
ought  to  try  them  by  the  principles  and  maxims  of  their 
own  age,  not  by  those  of  another;  for  although  virtue 
and  vice  are  at'  all  times  the  same,  manners  and  customs 
vary  continually.  Some  parts  of  Luther’s  behaviour, 
which  appear  to  us  most  culpable,  gave  no  disgust  to 
his  contemporaries.  It  was  even  by  some  of  those  ; 
qualities,  which  we  are  now  apt  to  blame,  that  he  was 
fitted  for  accomplishing  the  great  work  which  he  under-  j 
took.  To  rouse  mankind,  when  sunk  in  ignorance  or  [ 
superstition,  and  to  encounter  the  rage  of  bigotry  armed 
with  power,  required  the  utmost  vehemence  of  zeal,  as 
well  as  a temper  daring  to  excess.  A gentle  call  would  | 
neither  have  reached  nor  have  excited  those  to  whom  j 
it  was  addressed.  A spirit  more  amiable,  but  less  I 
vigorous  than  Luther’s,  would  have  shrunk  back  from 
the  dangers  which  he  braved  and  surmounted. 

[ Discovery  of  America.] 

Next  morning,  being  Friday  the  third  day  of  August, 
in  the  year  1492,  Columbus  set  sail,  a little  before 
sunrise,  in  presence  of  a vast  crowd  of  spectators,  who 
sent  up  their  supplications  to  Heaven  for  the  prosperous 
issue  of  the  voyage,  which  they  wished  rather  than 
expected.  Columbus  steered  directly  for  the  Canary 
Islands,  and  arrived  there  without  any  occurrence  that 
would  have  deserved  notice  on  any  other  occasion. 
But  in  a voyage  of  such  expectation  and  importance, 
every  circumstance  was  the  object  of  attention.  * * 

Upon  the  1st  of  October  they  were,  according  to  the 
admiral’s  reckoning,  seven  hundred  and  seventy  leagues 
to  the  west  of  the  Canaries ; but,  lest  his  men  should 
be  intimidated  by  the  prodigious  length  of  the  naviga- 
tion, he  gave  out  that  they  had  proceeded  only  five 
hundred  and  eighty-four  leagues;  and,  fortunately  for 
Columbus,  neither  his  own  pilot  nor  those  of  the  other 
ships  had  skill  sufficient  to  correct  this  error  and  dis- 
cover the  deceit.  They  had  now  been  above  three  weeks 
at  sea;  they  had  proceeded  far  beyond  what  former 
navigators  had  attempted  or  deemed  possible  ; all  their 
prognostics  of  discovery,  drawn  from  the  flight  of  bii;ds 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

and  other  circumstances,  had  proved  fallacious ; the 
appearances  of  land,  with  which  their  own  credulity  or 
the  artifice  of  their  commander  had  from  time  to  time 
flattered  and  amused  them,  had  been  altogether  illusive, 
and  their  prospect  of  success  seemed  now  to  be  as 
distant  as  ever.  These  reflections  occurred  often  to 
men  who  had  no  other  object  or  occupation  than  to 
reason  and  discourse  concerning  the  intention  and  cir- 
cumstances of  their  expedition.  They  made  impression 
at  first  upon  the  ignorant  and  timid,  and  extending 
by  degrees  to  such  as  were  better  informed  or  more 
resolute,  the  contagion  spread  at  length  from  ship  to 
ship.  From  secret  whispers  or  murmurings  they  pro- 
ceeded to  open  cabals  and  public  complaints.  They 
faxed  their  sovereign  with  inconsiderate  credulity, 
in  paying  such  regard  to  the  vain  promises  and  rash 
conjectures  of  an  indigent  foreigner,  as  to  hazard  the 
lives  of  so  many  of  her  own  subjects  in  prosecuting  a 
■chimerical  scheme.  They  affirmed  that  they  had 
fully  performed  their  duty  by  venturing  so  far  in  an 
unknown  and  hopeless  course,  and  could  incur  no  blame 
for  refusing  to  follow  any  longer  a desperate  adventurer 
to  certain  destruction.  They  contended  that  it  was 
necessary  to  think  of  returning  to  Spain  while  their 
•crazy  vessels  were  still  in  a condition  to  keep  the  sea, 
but  expressed  their  fears  that  the  attempt  would  prove 
vain,  as  the  wind,  which  had  hitherto  been  so  favour- 
able to  their  course,  must  render  it  impossible  to  sail 
in  the  opposite  direction.  All  agreed  that  Columbus 
should  be  compelled  by  force  to  adopt  a measure  on 
which  their  common  safety  depended.  Some  of  the 
more  audacious  proposed,  as  the  most  expeditious  and 
certain  method  for  getting  rid  at  once  of  his  remon- 
strances, to  throw  him  into  the  sea,  being  persuaded 
fhat,  upon  their  return  to  Spain,  the  death  of  an 
unsuccessful  projector  would  excite  little  concern,  and 
be  inquired  into  with  no  curiosity. 

Columbus  was  fully  sensible  of  his  perilous  situation. 
He  had  observed,  with  great  uneasiness,  the  fatal  opera- 
tion of  ignorance  and  of  fear  in  producing  disaffection 
among  his  crew,  and  saw  that  it  was  now  ready  to  burst 
out  into  open  mutiny.  He  retained,  however,  perfect 
presence  of  mind.  He  affected  to  seem  ignorant  of  their 
machinations.  Notwithstanding  the  agitation  and  soli- 
citude of  his  own  mind,  he  appeared  with  a cheerful 
countenance,  like  a man  satisfied  with  the  progress 
he  had  made,  and  confident  of  success.  Sometimes  he 
employed  all  the  arts  of  insinuation  to  soothe  his 
men.  Sometimes  he  endeavoured  to  work  upon  their 
ambition  or  avarice  by  magnificent  descriptions  of  the 
fame  and  wealth  which  they  were  about  to  acquire.  On 
other  occasions  he  assumed  a tone  of  authority,  and 
threatened  them  with  vengeance  from  their  sovereign 
if,  by  their  dastardly  behaviour,  they  should  defeat  this 
noble  effort  to  promote  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  exalt  the 
Spanish  name  above  that  of  every  other  nation.  Even 
with  seditious  sailors,  the  words  of  a man  whom  they 
had.  been  accustomed  to  reverence,  were  weighty  and 
persuasive,  and  not  only  restrained  them  from  those 
violent  excesses  which  they  meditated,  but  prevailed 
with  them  to  accompany  their  admiral  for  some  time 
longer. 

As  they  proceeded,  the  indications  of  approaching 
land  seemed  to  be  more  certain,  and  excited  hope  in 
proportion.  The  birds  began  to  appear  in  flocks,  making 
towards  the  south-west.  Columbus,  in  imitation  of  the 
Portuguese  navigators,  who  had  been  guided  in  several 
of  their  discoveries  by  the  motion  of  birds,  altered  his 
course  from  due  west  towards  that  quarter  whither  they 
pointed  their  flight.  But,  after  holding  on  for  several 
days  in  this  new  direction,  without  any  better  success 
than  formerly,  having  seen  no  object  during  thirty  days 
but  the  sea  and  the  sky,  the  hopes  of  his  companions 
subsided  faster  than  they  had  risen ; their  fears  revived 
with  additional  force;  impatience,  rage,  and  despair 
appeared  in  every  countenance.  All  sense  of  subordi- 
17G 

nation  was  lost.  The  officers,  who  had  hitherto  con- 
curred with  Columbus  in  opinion,  and  supported  his 
authority,  now  took  part  with  the  private  men;  they 
assembled  tumultuously  on  the  deck,  expostulated  with 
their  commander,  mingled  threats  with  their  expostu- 
lations, and  required  him  instantly  to  tack  about  and 
return  to  Europe.  Columbus  perceived  that  it  would 
be  of  no  avail  to  have  recourse  to  any  of  his  former  arts, 
which,  having  been  tried  so  often,  had  lost  their  effect ; 
and  that  it  was  impossible  to  rekindle  any  zeal  for  the 
success  of  the  expedition  among  men  in  whose  breasts 
fear  had  extinguished  every  generous  sentiment.  He 
saw  that  it  was  no  less  vain  to  think  of  employing 
either  gentle  or  severe  measures  to  quell  a mutiny  so 
general  and  so  violent.  It  was  necessary,  on  all  these 
accounts,  to  soothe  passions  which  he  could  no  longer 
command,  and  to  give  way  to  a torrent  too  impetuous 
to  be  checked.  He  promised  solemnly  to  his  men  that 
he  would  comply  with  their  request,  provided  they 
would  accompany  him  and  obey  his  command  for  three 
days  longer,  and  if,  during  that  time,  land  were  not 
discovered,  he  would  then  abandon  the  enterprise,  and 
direct  his  course  towards  Spain. 

Enraged  as  the  sailors  were,  and  impatient  to  turn 
their  faces  again  towards  their  native  country,  this  pro- 
position did  not  appear  to  them  unreasonable ; nor  did 
Columbus  hazard  much  in  confining  himself  to  a term 
so  short.  The  presages  of  discovering  land  were  now 
so  numerous  and  promising  that  he  deemed  them 
infallible.  For  some  days  the  sounding-line  reached 
the  bottom,  and  the  soil  which  it  brought  up  indicated 
land  to  be  at  no  great  distance.  The  flocks  of  birds 
increased,  and  were  composed  not  only  of  sea-fowl,  but 
of  such  land-birds  as  could  not  be  supposed  to  fly  far 
from  the  shore.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta  observed  a 
cane  floating,  which  seemed  to  have  been  newly  cut, 
and  likewise  a piece  of  timber  artificially  carved.  The 
sailors  aboard  the  Nigna  took  up  the  branch  of  a tree 
with  red  berries  perfectly  fresh.  The  clouds  around 
the  setting  sun  assumed  a new  appearance;  the  air 
was  more  mild  and  warm,  and  during  night  the 
wind  became  unequal  and  variable.  From  all  these 
symptoms,  Columbus  was  so  confident  of  being  near 
land,  that  on  the  evening  of  the  eleventh  of  October, 
after  public  prayers  for  success,  he  ordered  the  sails  to 
be  furled,  and  the  ships  to  lie  to,  keeping  strict  watch 
lest  they  should  be  driven  ashore  in  the  night.  During 
this  interval  of  suspense  and  expectation,  no  man  shut 
his  eyes,  all  kept  upon  deck,  gazing  intently  towards 
that  quarter  where  they  expected  to  discover  the  land, 
which  had  so  long  been  the  object  of  their  wishes. 

About  two  hours  before  midnight,  Columbus,  stand- 
ing on  the  forecastle,  observed  a light  at  a distance, 
and  privately  pointed  it  out  to  Pedro  Guttierez,  a 
page  of  the  queen’s  wardrobe.  Guttierez  perceived  it, 
and  calling  to  Salcedo,  comptroller  of  the  fleet,  all  three 
saw  it  in  motion,  as  if  it  were  carried  from  place  to 
place.  A little  after  midnight,  the  joyful  sound  of 
Land!  Land!  was  heard  from  the  Pinta,  which  kept 
always  ahead  of  the  other  ships.  But  having  been 
so  often  deceived  by  fallacious  appearances,  every  man 
was  now  become  slow  of  belief,  and  waited  in  all  the 
anguish  of  uncertainty  and  impatience  for  the  return 
of  day.  As  soon  as  morning  dawned,  all  doubts  and 
fears  were  dispelled.  From  every  ship  an  island  was 
seen  about  two  leagues  to  the  north,  whose  flat  and 
verdant  fields,  well  stored  with  wood,  and  watered 
with  many  rivulets,  presented  the  aspect  of  a delightful 
country.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta  instantly  began  the 
Te  Deum,  as  a hymn  of  thanksgiving  to  God,  and  were 
joined  by  those  of  the  other  ships  with  tears  of  joy  and 
transports  of  congratulation.  This  office  of  gratitude 
to  Heaven  was  followed  by  an  act  of  justice  to  their 
commander.  They  threw  themselves  at  the  feet  of 
Columbus,  with  feelings  of  self-condemnation,  mingled 
with  reverence.  They  implored  him  to  pardon  their 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


ignorance,  incredulity,  and  insolence,  which  had  created 
him  so  much  unnecessary  disquiet,  and  had  so  often 
obstructed  the  prosecution  of  his  well-concerted  plan; 
and  passing,  in  the  warmth  of  their  admiration,  from 
one  extreme  to  another,  they  now  pronounced  the  man 
whom  they  had  so  lately  reviled  and  threatened,  to  be 
a person  inspired  by  Heaven  with  sagacity  and  fortitude 
more  than  human,  in  order  to  accomplish  a design 
so  far  beyond  the  ideas  and  conception  of  all  former 
ages. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  arose,  all  their  boats  were 
manned  and  armed.  They  rowed  towards  the  island 
with  their  colours  displayed,  with  warlike  music,  and 
other  martial  pomp.  As  they  approached  the  coast, 
they  saw  it  covered  with  a multitude  of  people,  whom 
the  novelty  of  the  spectacle  had  drawn  together,  whose 
attitudes  and  gestures  expressed  wonder  and  astonish- 
ment at  the  strange  objects  which  presented  themselves 
to  their  view.  Columbus  was  the  first  European  who 
set  foot  on  the  new  world  which  he  had  discovered.  He 
landed  in  a rich  dress,  and  with  a naked  sword  in  his 
hand.  His  men  followed,  and,  kneeling  down,  they  all 
kissed  the  ground  which  they  had  so  long  desired  to  see. 
They  next  erected  a crucifix,  and  prostrating  them- 
selves before  it,  returned  thanks  to  God  for  conducting 
their  voyage  to  such  a happy  issue.  They  then  took 
solemn  possession  of  the  country  for  the  crown  of  Castile 
and  Leon,  with  all  the  formalities  which  the  Portuguese 
were  accustomed  to  observe  in  acts  of  this  kind  in  their 
new  discoveries. 

The  Spaniards,  while  thus  employed,  were  surrounded 
by  many  of  the  natives,  who  gazed  in  silent  admiration 
upon  actions  which  they  could  not  comprehend,  and  of 
which  they  did  not  foresee  the  consequences.  The  dress 
of  the  Spaniards,  the  whiteness  of  their  skins,  their 
beards,  their  arms,  appeared  strange  and  surprising. 
The  vast  machines  in  which  they  had  traversed  the 
ocean,  that  seemed  to  move  upon  the  waters  with  wings, 
and  uttered  a dreadful  sound  resembling  thunder, 
accompanied  with  lightning  and  smoke,  struck  them  with 
such  terror  that  they  began  to  respect  their  new  guests 
as  a superior  order  of  beings,  and  concluded  that  they 
were  children  of  the  sun,  who  had  descended  to  visit 
the  earth. 

The  Europeans  were  hardly  less  amazed  at  the  scene 
now  before  them.  Every  herb  and  shrub  and  tree  was 
different  from  those  which  flourished  in  Europe.  The 
soil  seemed  to  be  rich,  but  bore  few  marks  of  cultiva- 
tion. The  climate,  even  to  the  Spaniards,  felt  warm, 
though  extremely  delightful.  The  inhabitants  appeared 
in  the  simple  innocence  of  nature,  entirely  naked. 
Their  black  hair,  long  and  uncurled,  floated  upon  their 
shoulders,  or  was  bound  in  tresses  on  their  heads.  They 
had  no  beards,  and  every  part  of  their  bodies  was  per- 
fectly smooth.  Their  complexion  was  of  a dusky  copper 
colour,  their  features  singular  rather  than  disagreeable, 
their  aspect  gentle  and  timid.  Though  not  tall,  they 
were  well  shaped  and  active.  Their  faces,  and  several 
parts  of  their  bodies,  were  fantastically  painted  with 
glaring  colours.  They  were  shy  at  first  through  fear, 
but  soon  became  familiar  with  the  Spaniards,  and  with 
transports  of  joy  received  from  them  hawk-bells,  glass 
beads,  or  other  baubles ; in  return  for  which  they  gave 
such  provisions  as  they  had,  and  some  cotton  yarn,  the 
only  commodity  of  value  which  they  could  produce. 
Towards  evening,  Columbus  returned  to  his  ship,  accom- 
panied by  many  of  the  islanders  in  their  boats,  which 
they  called  canoes,  and  though  rudely  formed  out  of  the 
trunk  of  a single  tree,  they  rowed  them  with  surprising 
dexterity.  Thus,  in  the  first  interview  between  the 
.inhabitants  of  the  old  and  new  worlds,  everything  was 
conducted  amicably  and  to  their  mutual  satisfaction. 
The  former,  enlightened  and  ambitious,  formed  already 
vast  ideas  with  respect  to  the  advantages  which  they 
might  derive  from  the  regions  that  began  to  open  to 
their  view.  The  latter,  simple  and  undiscerning,  had 


no  foresight  of  the  calamities  and  desolation  which  were 
approaching  their  country  ! 

[Chivalry.] 

Among  uncivilised  nations,  there  is  but  one  profes- 
sion honourable — that  of  arms.  All  the  ingenuity  and 
vigour  of  the  human  mind  are  exerted  in  acquiring 
military  skill  or  address.  The  functions  of  peace  are 
few  and  simple,  and  require  no  particular  course  of 
education  or  of  study  as  a preparation  for  discharging 
them.  This  was  the  state  of  Europe  during  several 
centuries.  Every  gentleman,  born  a soldier,  scorned  any 
other  occupation.  He  was  taught  no  science  but  that 
of  war ; even  his  exercises  and  pastimes  were  feats  of 
martial  prowess.  Nor  did  the  judicial  character,  which 
persons  of  noble  birth  were  alone  entitled  to  assume, 
demand  any  degree  of  knowledge  beyond  that  which 
such  untutored  soldiers  possessed.  To  recollect  a few 
traditionary  customs  which  time  had  confirmed  and 
rendered  respectable,  to  mark  out  the  lists  of  battle 
with  due  formality,  to  observe  the  issue  of  the  combat, 
and  to  pronounce  whether  it  had  been  conducted  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  arms,  included  everything  that  a 
baron,  who  acted  as  a judge,  found  it  necessary  to 
understand. 

But  when  the  forms  of  legal  proceedings  were  fixed, 
when  the  rules  of  decision  were  committed  to  writing 
and  collected  into  a body,  law  became  a science,  the 
knowledge  of  which  required  a regular  course  of  study, 
together  with  long  attention  to  the  practice  of  courts. 
Martial  and  illiterate  nobles  had  neither  leisure  nor 
inclination  to  undertake  a task  so  laborious,  as  well  as 
so  foreign  from  all  the  occupations  which  they  deemed 
entertaining  or  suitable  to  their  rank.  They  gradually 
relinquished  their  places  in  courts  of  justice,  where 
their  ignorance  exposed  them  to  contempt.  They 
became  weary  of  attending  to  the  discussion  of  cases 
which  grew  too  intricate  for  them  to  comprehend.  Not 
only  the  judicial  determination  of  points,  which  were 
the  subject  of  controversy,  but  the  conduct  of  all  legal 
business  and  transactions,  was  committed  to  persons 
trained  by  previous  study  and  application  to  the  know- 
ledge of  law.  An  order  of  men,  to  whom  their  fellow- 
citizens  had  daily  recourse  for  advice,  and  to  whom  they 
looked  up  for  decision  in  their  most  important  concerns, 
naturally  acquired  consideration  and  influence  in  society. 
They  were  advanced  to  honours  which  had  been  con- 
sidered hitherto  as  the  peculiar  rewards  of  military 
virtue.  They  were  intrusted  with  offices  of  the  highest 
dignity  and  most  extensive  power.  Thus,  another  pro- 
fession than  that  of  arms  came  to  be  introduced  among 
the  laity,  and  was  reputed  honourable.  The  functions 
of  civil  life  were  attended  to.  The  talents  requisite  for 
discharging  them  were  cultivated.  A new  road  was 
opened  to  wealth  and  eminence.  The  arts  and  virtues 
of  peace  were  placed  in  their  proper  rank,  and  received 
their  due  recompense. 

While  improvements,  so  important  with  respect  to 
the  state  of  society  and  the  administration  of  justice, 
gradually  made  progress  in  Europe,  sentiments  more 
liberal  and  generous  had  begun  to  animate  the  nobles. 
These  were  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  which, 
though  considered  commonly  as  a wild  institution,  the 
effect  of  caprice,  and  the  source  of  extravagance,  arose 
naturally  from  the  state  of  society  at  that  period,  and 
had  a very  serious  influence  in  refining  the  manners  of 
the  European  nations.  The  feudal  state  was  a state 
of  almost  perpetual  war,  rapine,  and  anarchy;  during 
which  the  weak  and  unarmed  were  exposed  to  insults 
or  injuries.  The  power  of  the  sovereign  was  too  limited 
to  prevent  these  wrongs,  and  the  administration  of 
justice  too  feeble  to  redress  them.  The  most  effectual 
protection  against  violence  and  oppression  was  often 
found  to  be  that  which  the  valour  and  generosity  .of 
private  persons  afforded.  The  same  spirit  of  enterprise 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


which  had  prompted  so  many  gentlemen  to  take 
arms  in  defence  of  the  oppressed  pilgrims  in  Palestine, 
incited  others  to  declare  themselves  the  patrons  and 
avengers  of  injured  innocence  at  home.  When  the  final 
reduction  of  the  Holy  Land,  under  the  dominion  of 
infidels,  put  an  end  to  these  foreign  expeditions,  the 
: latter  was  the  only  employment  left  for  the  activity  and 
j courage  of  adventurers.  To  check  the  insolence  of  over- 
' grown  oppressors ; to  rescue  the  helpless  from  captivity ; 

to  protect  or  to  avenge  women,  orphans,  and  ecclesias- 
! tics,  who  could  not  bear  arms  in  their  own  defence ; to 
redress  wrongs  and  remove  grievances;  were  deemed 
acts  of  the  highest  prowess  and  merit.  Valour,  human- 
| ity,  courtesy,  justice,  honour,  were  the  characteristic 
qualities  of  chivalry.  To  these  were  added  religion, 
i which  mingled  itself  with  every  passion  and  institution 
i during  the  middle  ages,  and  by  infusing  a large  propor- 
tion of  enthusiastic  zeal,  gave  them  such  force  as  carried 
them  to  romantic  excess.  Men  were  trained  to  knight- 
hood by  a long  previous  discipline ; they  were  admitted 
into  the  order  by  solemnities  no  less  devout  than  pomp- 
ous ; every  person  of  noble  birth  courted  that  honour ; 
it  was  deemed  a distinction  superior  to  royalty;  and 
monarchs  were  proud  to  receive  it  from  the  hands  of 
private  gentlemen. 

This  singular  institution,  in  which  valour,  gallantry, 
and  religion,  were  so  strangely  blended,  was  wonderfully 
adapted  to  the  taste  and  genius  of  martial  nobles ; and 
its  effects  were  soon  visible  in  their  manners.  War 
was  carried  on  with  less  ferocity  when  humanity  came 
to  be  deemed  the  ornament  of  knighthood  no  less  than 
courage.  More  gentle  and  polished  manners  were 
: introduced  when  courtesy  was  recommended  as  the 
most  amiable  of  knightly  virtues.  Violence  and 
oppression  decreased  when  it  was  reckoned  meritorious 
' to  check  and  to  punish  them.  A scrupulous  adherence 
to  truth,  with  the  most  religious  attention  to  fulfil 
I every  engagement,  became  the  distinguishing  charac- 
| teristic  of  a gentleman,  because  chivalry  was  regarded 
1 as  the  school  of  honour,  and  inculcated  the  most  deli- 
cate sensibility  with  respect  to  those  points.  The 
admiration  of  these  qualities,  together  with  the  high 
distinctions  and  prerogatives  conferred  on  knighthood 
in  every  part  of  Europe,  inspired  persons  of  noble  birth 
on  some  occasions  with  a species  of  military  fanaticism, 
and  led  them  to  extravagant  enterprises.  But  they 
deeply  imprinted  on  their  minds  the  principles  of 
i generosity  and  honour.  These  were  strengthened  by 
| everything  that  can  affect  the  senses  or  touch  the  heart. 
The  wild  exploits  of  those  romantic  knights  who  sallied 
forth  in  quest  of  adventures  are  well  known,  and  have 
been  treated  with  proper  ridicule.  The  political  and 
permanent  effects  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  have  been 
less  observed.  Perhaps  the  humanity  which  accom- 
panies all  the  operations  of  war,  the  refinements  of 
gallantry,  and  the  point  of  honour — the  three  chief 
circumstances  which  distinguish  modem  from  ancient 
manners — may  be  ascribed  in  a great  measure  to  this 
institution,  which  has  appeared  whimsical  to  superficial 
observers,  but  by  its  effects  has  proved  of  great  benefit 
to  mankind.  The  sentiments  which  chivalry  inspired 
had  a wonderful  influence  on  manners  and  conduct 
during  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth 
centuries.  They  were  so  deeply  rooted,  that  they  con- 
tinued to  operate  after  the  vigour  and  reputation  of  the 
institution  itself  began  to  decline. 

[Characters  of  Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V.] 

During  twenty-eight  years,  an  avowed  rivalship  sub- 
sisted between  Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V., 
which  involved  not  only  their  own  dominions,  but  the 
greatest  part  of  Europe,  in  wars  which  were  prosecuted 
with  more  violent  animosity,  and  drawn  out  to  a greater 
length,  than  had  been  known  in  any  former  period. 
Many  circumstances  contributed  to  this.  Their  animosity 
178 


was  founded  in  opposition  of  interest,  heightened  by 
personal  emulation,  and  exasperated,  not  only  by  mutual 
injuries,  but  by  reciprocal  insults.  At  the  same  time, 
whatever  advantage  one  seemed  to  possess  towards  gain- 
ing the  ascendant,  was  wonderfully  balanced  by  some 
favourable  circumstance  peculiar  to  the  other. 

The  emperor’s  dominions  were  of  greater  extent ; the 
French  king’s  lay  more  compact.  Francis  governed  his 
kingdom  with  absolute  power;  that  of  Charles  was 
limited,  but  he  supplied  the  want  of  authority  by 
address.  The  troops  of  the  former  were  more  impetuous 
and  enterprising ; those  of  the  latter  better  disciplined, 
and  more  patient  of  fatigue.  The  talents  and  abilities 
of  the  two  monarchs  were  as  different  as  the  advantages 
which  they  possessed,  and  contributed  no  less  to  prolong 
the  contest  between  them.  Francis  took  his  resolutions 
suddenly,  prosecuted  them  at  first  with  warmth,  and 
pushed  them  into  execution  with  a most  adventurous 
courage ; but  being  destitute  of  the  perseverance 
necessary  to  surmount  difficulties,  he  often  abandoned 
his  designs,  or  relaxed  the  vigour  of  pursuit  from 
impatience,  and  sometimes  from  levity.  Charles  delib- 
erated long,  and  determined  with  coolness ; but  having 
once  fixed  his  plan,  he  adhered  to  it  with  inflexible 
obstinacy,  and  neither  danger  nor  discouragement  could 
turn  him  aside  from  the  execution  of  it.  The  success 
of  their  enterprises  was  suitable  to  the  diversity  of 
their  characters,  and  was  uniformly  influenced  by  it. 
Francis,  by  his  impetuous  activity,  often  disconcerted 
the  emperor’s  best-laid  schemes;  Charles,  by  a more 
calm  but  steady  prosecution  of  his  designs,  checked  the 
rapidity  of  his  rival’s  career,  and  baffled  or  repulsed  his 
most  vigorous  efforts.  The  former,  at  the  opening  of  a 
war  or  of  a campaign,  broke  in  upon  the  enemy  with  the 
violence  of  a torrent,  and  carried  all  before  him;  the 
latter,  waiting  until  he  saw  the  force  of  his  rival  begin- 
ning to  abate,  recovered  in  the  end  not  only  all  that  he 
had  lost,  but  made  new  acquisitions.  Few  of  the  French 
monarch’s  attempts  towards  conquest,  whatever  promis- 
ing aspect  they  might  wear  at  first,  were  conducted 
to  a happy  issue ; many  of  the  emperor’s  enterprises, 
even  after  they  appeared  desperate  and  impracticable, 
terminated  in  the  most  prosperous  manner. 

In  1763  Goldsmith  published  a History  of  England, 
in  a Series  of  Letters  from  a Nobleman  to  his  Son,  in 
two  small  volumes.  The  deceptive  title  had  the 
desired  attraction ; the  letters  were  variously  attri- 
buted to  Lords  Chesterfield,  Orrery,  and  Lyttelton, 
and  in  purity  and  grace  of  style  surpassed  the  writ- 
ings of  any  of  the  reputed  authors.  The  success  of 
this  compilation  afterwards  led  Goldsmith  to  compile 
a more  extended  history  of  England,  and  abridg- 
ments of  Grecian  and  Roman  history.  Even  in  this 
subordinate  walk,  to  which  nothing  but  necessity 
compelled  him,  Goldsmith  was  unrivalled. 

Lord  Lyttelton  afterwards  came  forward  himself 
as  a historian,  though  of  but  a limited  period.  His 
History  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  II.,  on  which  he  had 
bestowed  years  of  study,  is  a valuable  repertory  of 
facts,  but  a dry  and  uninteresting  composition. 
The  first  three  volumes  were  published  in  1764, 
and  the  conclusion  in  1771.  Of  a similar  char- 
acter are  the  Historical  Memoirs  and  Lives — Queen 
Elizabeth,  Raleigh,  Henry  Prince  of  Wales,  &c. — 
written  by  Dr  Thomas  Birch,  of  the  Royal 
Society.  These  works  drew  attention  to  the 
materials  that  existed  for  a history  of  domestic 
manners,  always  more  interesting  than  state  diplo- 
macy or  wars ; * and  Dr  Robert  Henry  (1718-1790) 

* For  at  least  part  of  our  history,  a mass  of  facts  relating  to 
events  and  individuals  had  been  accumulated  in  the  Political 
State  of  Great  Britain,  a monthly  publication  from  1711  to 
1740,  or  in  sixty  volumes;  and  in  the  Uittorical  Register, 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


entered  upon  a History  of  Great  Britain , in  which 
particular  attention  was  to  be  given  to  this  depart- 
ment. The  first  volume  was  published  in  1771,  and 
four  others  at  intervals  between  that  time  and 
1785.  This  work  realised  to  its  author  the  large 
sum  of  £3300,  and  was  rewarded  with  a pension 
from  the  crown  of  £100  per  annum.  Henry’s  work 
does  not  come  further  down  than  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  In  our  own  days,  the  plan  of  a 
history  with  copious  information  as  to  manners, 
arts,  and  improvements,  has  been  admirably  realised 
in  the  Pictorial  History  of  England , published  by  Mr 
Charles  Knight.  Of  Dr  Henry,  we  may  add  that 
he  was  a native  of  St  Ninians,  in  Stirlingshire,  and 
one  of  the  ministers  of  Edinburgh. 

Dr  Gilbert  Stuart  (1742-1786),  a native  of 
Edinburgh,  wrote  various  historical  works,  a 
History  of  Scotland , a Dissertation  on  the  British 
Constitution , a History  of  the  Reformation , &c.  His 
style  is  florid  and  high  sounding,  not  wanting  in 
elegance,  but  disfigured  by  affectation,  and  still 
more  by  the  violent  prejudices  of  its  vindictive  and 
unprincipled  author. 

Histories  of  Ireland,  evincing  antiquarian  research, 
were  published,  the  first  in  1763-7  by  Dr  Warner, 
and  another  in  1773  by  Dr  Leland,  the  translator 
of  our  best  English  version  of  Demosthenes.  A 
review  of  Celtic  and  Roman  antiquities  was  in  1771-5 
presented  by  John  Whittaker,  grafted  upon  his 
History  of  Manchester ; and  the  same  author  after- 
wards wrote  a violent  and  prejudiced  Vindication  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  Biographical  History  of 
England  by  Granger,  and  Orme’s  History  of  the 
British  Transactions  in  Hindostan,  which  appeared 
at  this  time,  are  also  valuable  works.  In  1775, 
Macpherson,  translator  of  Ossian,  published  a 
History  of  Great  Britain  from  the  Restoration  to  the 
Accession  of  the  House  of  Hanover , accompanied  by 
original  papers.  The  object  of  Macpherson  was  to 
support  the  Tory  party,  and  to  detract  from  the 
purity  and  patriotism  of  those  who  had  planned  and 
effected  the  Revolution  of  1688.  The  secret  history 
brought  to  light  by  his  original  papers — though 
Macpherson  is  charged  with  having  tampered 
with  them  and  falsified  history — disclosed  a degree 
of  selfishness  and  intrigue  for  which  the  public 
were  not  prepared.  In  this  task,  the  historian — if 
Macpherson  be  entitled  to  the  venerable  name — 
had  the  use  of  Carte’s  collections,  for  which  he 
paid  £200,  and  he  received  no  less  than  £3000  for 
the  copyright  of  his  work.  The  Annals  of  Scotland, 
from  Malcolm  III.  to  Robert  I.,  were  published  in 
1776  by  Sir  David  Dalrymple,  Lord  Hailes.  In 
1779  the  same  author  produced  a continuation  to  I 
the  accession  of  the  House  of  Stuart.  These  works  ; 
were  invaluable  at  the  time,  and  have  since  formed 
an  excellent  quarry  for  the  historian.  Lord  Hailes  j 
was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1726,  the  son  of  Sir 
James  Dalrymple  of  Hailes,  Bart.  He  distinguished 
himself  at  the  Scottish  bar,  and  was  appointed  one 
of  the  judges  of  the  Court  of  Session  in  1766. 
He  was  the  author  of  various  legal  and  antiquarian 
treatises : of  the  Remains  of  Christian  Antiquity , con- 
taining translations  from  the  fathers,  &c. ; and  of 
an  inquiry  into  the  secondary  causes  assigned 
by  Gibbon  the  historian  for  the  rapid  growth  of 
Christianity.  Lord  Hailes  was  a man  of  great 
erudition,  an  able  lawyer,  and  upright  judge.  He 

1714-1738.  The  former  miscellany  was  begun  by  Abel  Boyer 
(1666-1729),  a French  refugee,  with  a German  appetite  for  J 
work.  Besides  his  Political  State , Boyer  compiled  histories 
of  Queen  Anne  and  William  III.,  and  was  author  of  a French 
and  English  dictionary,  long  popular. 


died  in  1792.  In  1776  Robert  Watson,  professor 
of  rhetoric,  and  afterwards  principal  of  one  of  the 
colleges  of  St  Andrews,  wrote  a History  of  Philip  II. 
of  Spain  as  a continuation  to  Robertson,  and  left 
unfinished  a History  of  Philip  III.,  which  was  com- 
pleted by  Dr  William  Thomson,  and  published  in 
1783.  In  1779,  the  two  first  volumes  of  a History 
of  Modern  Europe,  by  Dr  William  Russell  (1741- 
1793),  were  published  with  distinguished  success, 
and  three  others  were  added  in  1784,  bringing  down 
the  history  to  the  year  1763.  Continuations  to  this 
valuable  compendium  have  been  made  by  Dr  Coote 
and  others,  and  it  continues  to  be  a standard  work. 
Russell  was  a native  of  Selkirkshire,  and  fought  his 
way  to  learning  and  distinction  in  the  midst  of  con- 
siderable difficulties.  The  vast  number  of  historical 
works  published  about  this  time  shews  how  eagerly 
this  noble  branch  of  study  was  cultivated,  both  by 
authors  and  the  public.  No  department  of  literary 
labour  seems  then  to  have  been  so  lucrative,  or  so 
sure  of  leading  to  distinction.  But  our  greatest 
name  yet  remains  behind. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 

The  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire  was  by  birth,  education,  and  manners, 
distinctively  an  English  gentleman.  He  was  born 
at  Putney,  in  Surrey,  April  27,  1737.  His  father 


Edward  Gibbon. 


was  of  an  ancient  family  settled  at  Beriton,  near 
Pctersfield,  Hampshire.  Of  delicate  health,  young 
Edward  Gibbon  was  privately  educated,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  placed  at  Magdalen  College, 
Oxford.  He  was  almost  from  infancy  a close 
student,  but  his  indiscriminate  appetite  for  books 
* subsided  by  degrees  in  the  historic  line.’  He 
arrived  at  Oxford,  he  says,  with  a stock  of  erudition 
that  might  have  puzzled  a doctor,  and  a degree  of 
ignorance  of  which  a school-boy  would  have  been 
ashamed.  He  spent  fourteen  months  at  college  idly 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

and  unprofitable  as  he  himself  states : and,  study- 
ing the  works  of  Bossuet  and  Parsons  the  Jesuit, 
he  became  a convert  to  the  Koman  Catholic  religion. 
He  went  to  London,  and  at  the  feet  of  a priest,  on 
the  8th  of  June  1753,  he  ‘solemn^,  though  privately, 
abjured  the  errors  of  heresy.’  His  father,  in  order 
to  reclaim  him,  placed  him  for  some  years  at 
Lausanne,  in  Switzerland,  under  the  charge  of  M. 
Pavilliard,  a Calvinist  clergyman,  whose  judicious 
conduct  prevailed  upon  his  pupil  to  return  to  the 
bosom  of  the  Protestant  church.  On  Christmas-day 
1754,  he  received  the  sacrament  in  the  Protestant 
church  at  Lausanne.  ‘It  was  here,’  says  the  his- 
torian, ‘that  I suspended  my  religious  inquiries, 
acquiescing  with  implicit  belief  in  the  tenets 
and  mysteries  which  are  adopted  by  the  general 
consent  of  Catholics  and  Protestants.’  At  Lausanne, 
a regular  and  severe  system  of  study  perfected 
Gibbon  in  the  Latin  and  French  languages,  and 
in  a general  knowledge  of  literature.  In  1758 
he  returned  to  England,  and  three  years  afterwards 
appeared  as  an  author  in  a slight  French  treatise, 
an  Essay  on  the  Study  of  Literature.  He  accepted 
the  commission  of  captain  in  the  Hampshire  militia ; 
and  though  his  studies  were  interrupted,  ‘the 
discipline  and  evolutions  of  a modern  battle,’  he 
remarks,  ‘ gave  him  a clearer  notion  of  the  phalanx 
and  the  legion,  and  the  captain  of  the  Hampshire 
grenadiers  was  not  useless  to  the  historian  of  the 
Roman  Empire.’  On  the  peace  of  1762,  Gibbon  was 
released  from  his  military  duties,  and  paid  a visit  to 
France  and  Italy.  He  had  long  been  meditating 
some  historical  work,  and  whilst  at  Rome,  October 
15,  1764,  his  choice  was  determined  by  an  incident 
of  a striking  and  romantic  nature.  ‘As  I sat 
musing,’  he  says,  ‘ amidst  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol, 
while  the  barefooted  friars  were  singing  vespers  in 
the  temple  of  Jupiter,  the  idea  of  writing  the  decline 
and  fall  of  the  city  first  started  to  my  mind.’  Many 
years,  however,  elapsed  before  he  realised  his  inten- 
tions. On  returning  to  England  in  1765,  he  seems 
to  have  been  fashionable  and  idle ; his  father  died 
in  1770,  and  he  then  began  to  form  the  plan  of  an 
independent  life.  The  estate  left  him  by  his  father 
was  much  involved  in  debt,  and  he  determined  on 
quitting  the  country  and  residing  permanently  in 
London.  He  then  undertook  the  composition  of 
the  first  volume  of  his  history.  ‘ At  the  outset,’  he 
remarks,  ‘ all  was  dark  and  doubtful : even  the  title 
of  the  work,  the  true  era  of  the  decline  and  fall  of 
the  empire,  the  limits  of  the  introduction,  the 
division  of  the  chapters,  and  the  order  of  the  narra- 
tive; and  I was  often  tempted  to  cast  away  the 
labour  of  seven  years.  The  style  of  an  author 
should  be  the  image  of  his  mind,  but  the  choice  and 
command  of  language  is  the  fruit  of  exercise.  Many 
experiments  were  made  before  I could  hit  the 
middle  tone  between  a dull  tone  and  a rhetorical 
declamation : three  times  did  I compose  the  first 
chapter,  and  twice  the  second  and  third,  before  I 
was  tolerably  satisfied  with  their  effect.  In  the 
remainder  of  the  way,  I advanced  with  a more  equal 
and  easy  pace.’ 

In  1774  he  was  returned  for  the  borough  of 
Liskeard,  and  sat  in  parliament  eight  sessions  during 
the  memorable  contest  between  Great  Britain  and 
America.  Prudence,  he  says,  condemned  him  to 
acquiesce  in  the  humble  station  of  a mute ; the 
great  speakers  filled  him  with  despair,  the  bad  ones 
with  terror.  Gibbon,  however,  supported  by  his 
vote  the  administration  of  Lord  North,  and  was  by 
this  nobleman  appointed  one  of  the  lords  com- 
missioners of  trade  and  plantations.  In  1776  the 
first  quarto  volume  of  his  history  was  given  to  the 
180 

world.  Its  success  was  almost  unprecedented  for  a 
grave  historical  work : ‘ the  first  impression  was 
exhausted  in  a few  days ; a second  and  third  edition 
was  scarcely  adequate  to  the  demand ; and  the  book- 
seller’s property  was  twice  invaded  by  the  pirates 
of  Dublin : the  book  was  on  every  table,  and  almost 
on  every  toilet.’  His  brother-historians,  Robert- 
son and  Hume,  generously  greeted  him  with  warm 
applause.  ‘ Whether  I consider  the  dignity  of  your 
style,’  says  Hume,  ‘ the  depth  of  your  matter,  or  the 
extensiveness  of  your  learning,  I must  regard  the 
work  as  equally  the  object  of  esteem.’  There  was 
another  bond  of  sympathy  between  the  English  and 
the  Scottish  historian:  Gibbon  had  insidiously, 
though  too  unequivocally,  evinced  his  adoption  of 
infidel  principles.  ‘ The  various  modes  of  worship 
which  prevailed  in  the  Roman  world  were  all,’  he 
remarks,  ‘ considered  by  the  people  as  equally  true, 
by  the  philosopher  as  equally  false,  and  by  the 
magistrate  as  equally  usefuL’  Some  feeling  of 
this  kind  constituted  the  whole  of  Gibbon’s 
religious  belief:  the  philosophers  of  France  had 
triumphed  over  the  lessons  of  the  Calvinist  minister 
of  Lausanne,  and  the  historian  seems  never  to  have 
returned  to  the  faith  and  the  humility  of  the 
Christian.  In  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  chapters 
of  his  work  he  gave  an  account  of  the  growth  and 
progress  of  Christianity,  which  he  accounted  for 
solely  by  secondary  causes,  without  reference  to  its 
divine  origin.  A number  of  answers  were  written 
to  these  memorable  chapters,  the  only  one  of  which 
that  has  kept  possession  of  the  public  is  the  reply 
by  Dr  Watson,  bishop  of  Llandaff,  entitled  An 
Apology  for  Christianity.  Gibbon’s  method  of  attack- 
ing our  faith  has  been  well  described  by  Lord 
Byron,  as 

Sapping  a solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer, 

The  lord  of  irony,  that  master  spell. 

He  nowhere  openly  avows  his  disbelief.  By  tacitly 
sinking  the  early  and  astonishing  spread  of  Chris- 
tianity during  the  time  of  the  Apostles,  and  dwell- 
ing with  exaggerated  colouring  and  minuteness  on 
the  errors  and  corruption  by  which  it  afterwards 
became  debased,  the  historian  in  effect  conveys  an 
impression  that  its  divine  origin  is  but  a poetical 
fable,  like  the  golden  age  of  the  poets,  or  the  mystic 
absurdities  of  Mohammedanism.  The  Christian  faith 
was  a bold  and  successful  innovation,  and  Gibbon 
hated  all  innovations.  In  his  after-life,  he  was  in 
favour  of  retaining  even  the  Inquisition,  with  its 
tortures  and  its  tyranny,  because  it  was  an  ancient 
institution!  Besides  the  ‘solemn  sneer’  of  Gibbon, 
there  is  another  cardinal  defect  in  his  account  of 
the  progress  of  the  Christian  faith,  which  has  been 
thus  ably  pointed  out  by  the  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman : 

‘ Christianity  alone  receives  no  embellishment  from 
the  magic  of  Gibbon’s  language ; his  imagination  is 
dead  to  its  moral  dignity;  it  is  kept  down  by  a 
general  tone  of  jealous  disparagement,  or  neutralised 
by  a painfully  elaborate  exposition  of  its  darker  and 
degenerate  periods.  There  are  occasions,  indeed, 
when  its  pure  and  exalted  humanity,  when  its 
manifestly  beneficial  influence  can  compel  even  him, 
as  it  were,  to  fairness,  and  kindle  his  unguarded 
eloquence  to  its  usual  fervour;  but  in  general 
he  soon  relapses  into  a frigid  apathy;  affects  an 
ostentatiously  severe  impartiality ; notes  all  the 
faults  of  Christians  in  every  age  with  bitter  and 
almost  malignant  sarcasm;  reluctantly,  and  with 
exception  and  reservation,  admits  their  claim  to 
admiration.  This  inextricable  bias  appears  even 
to  influence  his  manner  of  composition.  While  all 
the  other  assailants  of  the  Roman  empire,  whether 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


warlike  or  religious,  the  Goth,  the  Hun,  the  Arab, 
the  Tatar,  Alaric  and  Attila,  Mohammed,  and 
Zingis,  and  Tamerlane,  are  each  introduced  upon 
the  scene  almost  with  dramatic  animation — their 
progress  related  in  a full,  complete,  and  unbroken 
narrative — the  triumph  of  Christianity  alone  takes 
the  form  of  a cold  and  critical  disquisition.  The 
successes  of  barbarous  energy  and  brute  force  call 
forth  all  the  consummate  skill  of  composition, 
while  the  moral  triumphs  of  Christian  benevolence, 
the  tranquil  heroism  of  endurance,  the  blameless 
purity,  the  contempt  of  guilty  fame,  and  of  honours 
destructive  to  the  human  race,  which,  had  they 
assumed  the  proud  name  of  philosophy,  would  have 
been  blazoned  in  his  brightest  words,  because  they 
own  religion  as  their  principle,  sink  into  narrow 
asceticism.  The  glories  of  Christianity,  in  short, 
touch  on  no  chord  in  the  heart  of  the  writer;  his 
imagination  remains  unkindled ; his  words,  though 
they  maintain  their  stately  and  measured  march, 
have  become  cool,  argumentative,  and  inanimate.’ 
The  second  and  third  volumes  of  the  history  did 
not  appear  till  1781.  After  their  publication, 
finding  it  necessary  to  retrench  his  expenditure, 
and  being  disappointed  of  a lucrative  place  which 
he  had  hoped  for  from  ministerial  patronage,  he 
resolved  to  retire  to  Lausanne,  where  he  was  offered 
a residence  by  a friend  of  his  youth,  M.  Deyverdun. 


Residence  of  Gibbon  at  Lausanne. 


Here  he  lived  very  happily  for  about  four  years, 
devoting  his  mornings  to  composition,  and  his 
evenings  to  the  enlightened  and  polished  society 
which  had  gathered  in  that  situation.  The  history 
was  completed  at  the  time  and  in  the  circumstances 
which  he  has  thus  stated : ‘ It  was  on  the  day,  or 
rather  night,  of  the  27th  of  June  1787,  between  the 
hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  that  I wrote  the  last  lines 
of  the  last  page  in  a summer-house  in  my  garden. 
After  laying  down  my  pen,  I took  several  turns 
in  a berceau,  or  covered  walk  of  acacias,  which 
commands  a prospect  of  the  country,  the  lake,  and 
the  mountains.  The  air  was  temperate,  the  sky 
Avas  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  Avas  reflected 
from  the  waters,  and  all  nature  was  silent.  I will 
not  dissemble  the  first  emotions  of  joy  on  the 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


recovery  of  my  freedom,  and  perhaps  the  establish- 
ment of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  Avas  soon  humbled, 
and  a sober  melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind  by 
the  idea  that  I had  taken  an  everlasting  leave  of  an 
old  and  agreeable  companion,  and  that  Avhatsoever 
might  be  the  future  date  of  my  history,  the  life  of 
the  historian  must  be  short  and  precarious.’  * The 
historian  adds  two  facts  which  have  seldom  occurred 
in  the  composition  of  six  or  even  five  quartos ; his 
first  rough  manuscript,  without  an  intermediate 
copy,  was  sent  to  the  press,  and  not  a sheet  Avas 
seen  by  any  person  but  the  author  and  the  printer. 
His  lofty  style,  like  that  of  Johnson,  was,  in  fact, 
‘ the  image  of  his  mind.’ 

Gibbon  went  to  London  to  superintend  the  publi- 
cation of  his  last  three  volumes,  and  afterwards 
returned  to  Lausanne,  where  he  resided  till  1793. 
The  Erench  Revolution  had  imbittered  and  divided 
the  society  of  Lausanne;  some  of  his  friends  were 
dead,  and  he  anxiously  wished  himself  again  in 
England.  At  this  time,  the  lady  of  his  most 
intimate  friend,  Lord  Sheffield,  died,  and  he 
hastened  to  administer  consolation:  he  arrived  at 
Lord  Sheffield’s  house  in  London  in  June  1793. 
The  health  of  the  historian  had,  however,  been 
indifferent  for  some  time,  owing  to  a long-settled 
complaint;  and,  exhausted  by  surgical  operations, 
he  died  without  pain,  and  apparently  without  any 
sense  of  his  danger,  on  the  16th  of  January  1794. 

In  most  of  the  essential  qualifications  of  a his- 
torian, Gibbon  was  equal  to  either  Hume  or  Robert- 
son. In  some,  he  was  superior.  He  had  greater 
depth  and  variety  of  learning,  and  a more  perfect 
command  of  his  intellectual  treasures.  It  was 
not  merely  Avith  the  main  stream  of  Roman  history 
that  he  Avas  familiar.  All  its  accessories  and 
tributaries — the  art  of  Avar,  philosophy,  theology, 
jurisprudence,'  geography — down  to  its  minutest 
point— every  shade  of  manners,  opinions,  and  public 
character,  in  Roman  and  contemporaneous  history, 
he  had  studied  Avith  laborious  diligence  and  com- 
plete success.  Hume  Avas  elaborate,  but  it  Avas 
only  with  respect  to  style.  Errors  in  fact  and 
theory  were  perpetuated  through  every  edition, 
while  the  author  was  purifying  his  periods  and 
AAreeding  out  Scotticisms.  The  labour  of  Gibbon 
was  directed  to  higher  objects — to  the  accumulation 
of  facts,  and  the  collation  of  ancient  authors.  His 
style,  once  fixed,  remained  unaltered.  In  erudition, 
and  comprehensiveness  of  intellect,  Gibbon  may 
therefore  be  pronounced  the  first  of  English  his- 
torians. The  vast  range  of  his  subject,  and  the 
tone  of  dignity  which  he  preserves  throughout  the 
whole  of  his  capacious  circuit,  also  give  him  a 
superiority  over  his  illustrious  rivals.  In  concen- 
trating his  information,  and  presenting  it  in  a clear 
and  lucid  order,  he  is  no  less  remarkable,  while 
his  vivid  imagination,  quickening  and  adorning 
his  varied  knoAvledge,  is  fully  equal  to  his  other 
powers.  He  identifies  himself  with  Avhatever 
lie  describes,  and  paints  local  scenery,  national 
costume  or  manners,  Avith  all  the  force  and  anima- 
tion of  a native  or  eye-witness.  These  solid  and 
bright  acquirements  of  the  historian  were  not, 
liOAvever,  Avithout  their  drawbacks.  His  mind  was 
more  material  or  sensual  than  philosophical — more 
fond  of  splendour  and  display  than  of  the  beauty 
of  virtue  or  the  grandeur  of  moral  heroism.  His 
taste  Avas  vitiated  and  impure,  so  that  his  style 

* ‘ The  garden  and  summer-house  whero  he  composed  are 
neglected,  and  the  last,  utterly  decayed,  but  they  still  shew  it 
as  his  “ cabinet,”  and  seem  perfectly  aware  of  his  memory.’ — 
Byron's  Letters. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


to  1800. 


is  not  only  deficient  in  chaste  simplicity,  but  is 
disfigured  by  offensive  pruriency  and  occasional 
grossness.  His  lofty  ornate  diction  fatigues  by  its 
uniform  pomp  and  dignity,  notwithstanding  the 
graces  and  splendour  of  his  animated  narrative. 
Deficient  in  depth  of  moral  feeling  and  elevation 
of  sentiment,  Gibbon  seldom  touches  the  heart  or 
inspires  true  enthusiasm.  The  reader  admires  his 
glittering  sentences,  his  tournaments,  and  battle- 
pieces,  his  polished  irony  and  masterly  sketches 
of  character ; he  marvels  at  his  inexhaustible  learn- 
ing, and  is  fascinated  by  his  pictures  of  military 
conquest  and  Asiatic  luxury,  but  he  still  feels 
that,  as  in  the  state  of  ancient  Rome  itself,  the  seeds 
of  ruin  are  developed  amidst  flattering  appearances : 
‘the  florid  bloom  but  ill  conceals  the  fatal  malady 
which  preys  upon  the  vitals.’*  The  want  of  one 
great  harmonising  spirit  of  humanity  and  genuine 
philosophy  to  give  unity  to  the  splendid  mass, 
becomes  painfully  visible  on  a calm  review  of  the 
entire  work.  After  one  attentive  study  of  Gibbon, 
when  the  mind  has  become  saturated  with  his  style 
and  manner,  we  seldom  recur  to  his  pages  excepting 
for  some  particular  fact  or  description.  Such  is  the 
importance  of  simplicity  and  purity  in  a voluminous 
narrative,  that  this  great  historian  is  seldom  read 
but  as  a study,  while  Hume  and  Robertson  are 
always  perused  as  a pleasure. 

The  work  of  Gibbon  has  been  translated  into 
French,  with  notes  by  M.  Guizot,  the  distinguished 
philosopher  and  statesman.  The  remarks  of  Guizot, 
with  those  of  Wenck,  a German  commentator,  and 
numerous  original  illustrations  and  corrections,  are 
embodied  in  a fine  edition  by  Mr  Milman,  in  twelve 
volumes,  published  by  Mr  Murray,  London,  in  1838. 
M.  Guizot  has  thus  recorded  his  otvn  impressions 
on  reading  Gibbon’s  history:  ‘After  a first  rapid 
perusal,  which  allowed  me  to  feel  nothing  but  the 
interest  of  a narrative,  always  animated,  and,  not- 
withstanding its  extent  and  the  variety  of  objects 
which  it  makes  to  pass  before  the  view,  always 
perspicuous,  I entered  upon  a minute  examination 
of  the  details  of  which  it  was  composed,  and  the 
opinion  which  I then  formed  was,  I confess,  sin- 
gularly severe.  I discovered  in  certain  chapters 
errors  which  appeared  to  me  sufficiently  important 
and  numerous  to  make  me  believe  that  they  had 
! been  written  with  extreme  negligence ; in  others, 
I was  struck  with  a certain  tinge  of  partiality 
and  prejudice,  which  imparted  to  the  exposition 
! of  the  facts  that  want  of  truth  and  justice  which 
j the  English  express  by  their  happy  term,  misre- 
presentation. Some  imperfect  quotations,  some 
passages  omitted  unintentionally  or  designedly, 
have  cast  a suspicion  on  the  honesty  of  the  author ; 
and  his  violation  of  the  first  law  of  history — 
increased  to  my  eyes  by  the  prolonged  attention 
with  which  I occupied  myself  with  every  phrase, 
every  note,  every  reflection — caused  me  to  form  on 
the  whole  work  a judgment  far  too  rigorous.  After 
having  finished  my  labours,  I allowed  some  time 
to  elapse  before  I reviewed  the  whole.  A second 
attentive  and  regular  perusal  of  the  entire  work, 
of  the  notes  of  the  author,  and  of  those  which  I 
had  thought  it  right  to  subjoin,  shewed  me  how 
much  I had  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the 
reproaches  which  Gibbon  really  deserved:  I was 
struck  with  the  same  errors,  the  same  partiality  on 
certain  subjects ; but  I had  been  far  from  doing 
adequate  justice  to  the  immensity  of  his  researches, 
the  variety  of  his  knowledge,  and,  above  all,  to  that 
truly  philosophical  discrimination  (justesse  d' esprit) 

* Hall  on  the  Causes  of  the  Present  Discontents. 


which  judges  the  past  as  it  would  judge  the 
present ; which  does  not  permit  itself  to  be  blinded 
by  the  clouds  which  time  gathers  around  the  dead, 
and  which  prevent  us  from  seeing  that  under  the 
toga  as  under  the  modern  dress,  in  the  senate  as 
in  our  councils,  men  were  what  they  still  are,  and 
that  events  took  place  eighteen  centuries  ago  as 
they  take  place  in  our  days.  I then  felt  that  his 
book,  in  spite  of  its  faults,  will  always  be  a noble 
work ; and  that  we  may  correct  his  errors,  and 
combat  his  prejudices,  without  ceasing  to  admit 
that  few  men  have  combined,  if  we  are  not  to  say 
in  so  high  a degree,  at  least  in  a manner  so  complete 
and  so  well  regulated,  the  necessary  qualifications 
for  a writer  of  history.’ 

[ Opinion  of  the  Ancient  Philosophers  on  the 
Immortality  of  the  Soul.] 

The  writings  of  Cicero  represent  in  the  most  lively 
colours  the  ignorance,  the  errors,  and  the  uncertainty  of 
the  ancient  philosophers  with  regard  to  the  immortality 
of  the  soul.  When  they  are  desirous  of  arming  their 
disciples  against  the  fear  of  death,  they  inculcate  as  an 
obvious  though  melancholy  position,  that  the  fatal  stroke 
of  our  dissolution  releases  us  from  the  calamities  of  life ; 
and  that  those  can  no  longer  suffer  who  no  longer  exist. 
Yet  there  were  a few  sages  of  Greece  and  Rome  who 
had  conceived  a more  exalted,  and  in  some  respects  a 
juster  idea  of  human  nature ; though,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, that  in  the  sublime  inquiry,  their  reason  had 
often  been  guided  by  their  imagination,  and  that  their 
imagination  had  been  prompted  by  their  vanity.  When 
they  viewed  with  complacency  the  extent  of  their  own 
mental  powers ; when  they  exercised  the  various  facul- ' 
ties  of  memory,  of  fancy,  and  of  judgment,  in  the  most 
profound  speculations,  or  the  most  important  labours ; 
and  when  they  reflected  on  the  desire  of  fame,  which 
transported  them  into  future  ages,  far  beyond  the 
bounds  of  death  and  of  the  grave  ; they  were  unwilling 
to  confound  themselves  with  the  beasts  of  the  field,  or 
to  suppose  that  a being,  for  whose  dignity  they  enter- 
tained the  most  sincere  admiration  j could  be  limited  to 
a spot  of  earth,  and  to  a few  years  of  duration.  With 
this  favourable  prepossession,  they  summoned  to  their 
aid  the  science,  or  rather  the  language  of  metaphysics. 
They  soon  discovered  that  as  none  of  the  properties  of 
matter  will  apply  to  the  operations  of  the  mind,  the 
human  soul  must  consequently  be  a substance  distinct 
from  the  body — pure,  simple,  and  spiritual,  incapable  of 
dissolution,  and  susceptible  of  a much  higher  degree  of 
virtue  and  happiness  after  the  release  from  its  corporeal 
prison.  From  these  specious  and  noble  principles,  the 
philosophers  who  trod  in  the  footsteps  of  Plato  deduced 
a very  unjustifiable  conclusion,  since  they  asserted  not 
only  the  future  immortality,  but  the  past  eternity  of 
the  human  soul,  which  they  were  too  apt  to  consider  as 
a portion  of  the  infinite  and  self-existing  spirit  which 
pervades  and  sustains  the  universe.  A doctrine  thus 
removed  beyond  the  senses  and  the  experience  of  man- 
kind might  serve  to  amuse  the  leisure  of  a philosophic 
mind ; or,  in  the  silence  of  solitude,  it  might  sometimes 
impart  a ray  of  comfort  to  desponding  virtue  ; but  the 
faint  impression  which  had  been  received  in  the  school 
was  soon  obliterated  by  the  commerce  and  business  of 
active  life.  We  are  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
eminent  persons  who  flourished  in  the  age  of  Cicero, 
and  of  the  first  Caesars,  with  their  actions,  their 
characters,  and  their  motives,  to  be  assured  that  their 
conduct  in  this  life  was  never  regulated  by  any  serious 
conviction  of  the  rewards  or  punishments  of  a future 
state.*  At  the  bar  and  in  the  senate  of  Rome  the 

* This  passage  of  Gibbon  is  finely  illustrated  in  Hall’s 
Funeral  Sermon  for  Dr  Ryland  : 

‘ If  the  mere  conception  of  the  reunion  of  good  men  in  a 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


ablest  orators  were  not  apprehensive  of  giving  offence  to 
their  hearers  by  exposing  that  doctrine  as  an  idle  and 
extravagant  opinion,  which  was  rejected  with  contempt 
by  every  man  of  a liberal  education  and  understanding. 

Since,  therefore,  the  most  sublime  efforts  of  philosophy 
can  extend  no  further  than  feebly  to  point  out  the  desire, 
the  hope,  or  at  most  the  probability,  of  a future  state, 
there  is  nothing  except  a divine  revelation  that  can 
ascertain  the  existence  and  describe  the  condition  of  the 
invisible  country  which  is  destined  to  receive  the  souls 
of  men  after  their  separation  from  the  body. 

[The  City  of  Bagdad — Magnificence  of  the  Caliphs.'] 

Almansor,  the  brother  and  successor  of  Saffah,  laid 
the  foundations  of  Bagdad  (762  a.d.),  the  imperial  seat 
of  his  posterity  during  a reign  of  five  hundred  years. 
The  chosen  spot  is  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Tigris, 
about  fifteen  miles  above  the  ruins  of  Modain : the  double 
wall  was  of  a circular  form ; and  such  was  the  rapid 
increase  of  a capital  now  dwindled  to  a provincial  town, 
that  the  funeral  of  a popular  saint  might  be  attended 
by  eight  hundred  thousand  men  and  sixty  thousand 
women  of  Bagdad  and  the  adjacent  villages.  In  this 
city  of  peace,  amidst  the  riches  of  the  east,  the  Abba- 
sides  soon  disdained  the  abstinence  and  frugality  of  the 
first  caliphs,  and  aspired  to  emulate  the  magnificence 
of  the  Persian  kings.  After  his  wars  and  buildings, 
Almansor  left  behind  him  in  gold  and  silver  about 
thirty  millions  sterling ; and  this  treasure  was  exhausted 
in  a few  years  by  the  vices  or  virtues  of  his  children. 
His  son  Mahadi,  in  a single  pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
expended  six  millions  of  dinars  of  gold.  A pious  and 
charitable  motive  may  sanctify  the  foundation  of 
cisterns  and  caravanseras,  which  he  distributed  along  a 
measured  road  of  seven  hundred  miles;  but  his  train 
of  camels,  laden  with  snow,  could  serve  only  to  astonish 
the  natives  of  Arabia,  and  to  refresh  the  fruits  and 
liquors  of  the  royal  banquet.  The  courtiers  would 
surely  praise  the  liberality  of  his  grandson  Almamon, 
who  gave  away  four-fifths  of  the  income  of  a province — 
a sum  of  two  millions  four  hundred  thousand  gold  dinars 
— before  he  drew  his  foot  from  the  stirrup.  At  the 
nuptials  of  the  same  prince,  a thousand  pearls  of  the 
largest  size  were  showered  on  the  head  of  the  bride, 
and  a lottery  of  lands  and  houses  displayed  the  capri- 
cious bounty  of  fortune.  The  glories  of  the  court  were 
brightened  rather  than  impaired  in  the  decline  of  the 
empire,  and  a Greek  ambassador  might  admire  or  pity 
the  magnificence  of  the  feeble  Moctader.  ‘ The  caliph’s 
whole  army,’  says  the  historian  Abulfeda,  ‘ both  horse 
and  foot,  was  under  arms,  which  together  made  a body 
of  one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  men.  His  state- 
officers,  the  favourite  slaves,  stood  near  him  in  splendid 
apparel,  their  belts  glittering  with  gold  and  gems.  Near 
them  were  seven  thousand  eunuchs,  four  thousand  of 
them  white,  the  remainder  black  The  porters  or  door- 

future  state  infused  a momentary  rapture  into  the  mind  of 
Tully;  if  an  airy  speculation,  for  there  is  reason  to  fear  it  had 
little  hold  on  his  convictions,  could  inspire  him  with  such 
delight,  what  may  we  be  expected  to  feel  who  are  assured  of 
such  an  event  by  the  true  sayings  of  God ! IIow  should  we 
rejoice  in  the  prospect,  the  certainty  rather,  of  spending  a 
blissful  eternity  with  those  whom  we  loved  on  earth,  of  seeing 
them  emerge  from  the  ruins  of  the  tomb,  and  the  deeper 
ruins  of  the  fall,  not  only  uninjured,  but  refined  and  perfected, 
“ with  every  tear  wiped  from  their  eyes,”  standing  before  the 
throne  of  God  and  the  Larnb,  “ in  white  robes,  and  palms  in 
their  hands,  crying  with  a loud  voice,  Salvation  to  God  that 
sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  to  the  Lamb,  for  ever  and  ever ! ” 
What  delight  will  it  afford  to  renew  the  sweet  counsel  wo  have 
taken  together,  to  recount  the  toils  of  combat  and  the  labour 
of  the  way,  and  to  approach  not  the  house,  but  the  throne  of 
God  in  company,  in  order  to  join  in  the  symphony  of  heavenly 
voices,  and  lose  ourselves  amidst  the  splendours  and  fruitions 
of  the  beatific  vision.’ 


keepers  were  in  number  seven  hundred.  Barges  and 
boats,  with  the  most  superb  decorations,  were  seen 
swimming  upon  the  Tigris.  Nor  was  the  place  itself 
less  splendid,  in  which  were  hung  up  thirty-eight  thou- 
sand pieces  of  tapestry,  twelve  thousand  five  hundred  of 
which  were  of  silk  embroidered  with  gold.  The  carpets 
on  the  floor  were  twenty-two  thousand.  A hundred 
lions  were  brought  out,  with  a keeper  to  each  lion. 
Among  the  other  spectacles  of  rare  and  stupendous 
luxury,  was  a tree  of  gold  and  silver  spreading  into 
eighteen  large  branches,  on  which,  and  on  the  lesser 
boughs,  sat  a variety  of  birds  made  of  the  same  precious 
metals,  as  well  as  the  leaves  of  the  tree.  While  the 
machinery  affected  spontaneous  motions,  the  several 
birds  warbled  their  natural  harmony.  Through  this 
scene  of  magnificence  the  Greek  ambassador  was  led  by 
the  vizier  to  the  foot  of  the  caliph’s  throne.’  In  the 
west,  the  Ommiades  of  Spain  supported,  with  equal 
pomp,  the  title  of  commander  of  the  faithful.  Three 
miles  from  Cordova,  in  honour  of  his  favourite  sultana, 
the  third  and  greatest  of  the  Abdalrahmans  constructed 
the  city,  palace,  and  gardens  of  Zehra.  Twenty-five 
years,  and  above  three  millions  sterling,  were  employed 
by  the  founder : his  liberal  taste  invited  the  artists  of 
Constantinople,  the  most  skilful  sculptors  and  architects 
of  the  age ; and  the  buildings  were  sustained  or  adorned 
by  twelve  hundred  columns  of  Spanish  and  African,  of 
Greek  and  Italian  marble.  The  hall  of  audience  was 
incrusted  with  gold  and  pearls,  and  a great  basin  in  the 
centre  was  surrounded  with  the  curious  and  costly 
figures  of  birds  and  quadrupeds.  In  a lofty  pavilion 
of  the  gardens,  one  of  these  basins  and  fountains,  so 
delightful  in  a sultry  climate,  was  replenished  not  with 
water,  but  with  the  purest  quicksilver.  The  seraglio  of 
Abdalrahman,  his  wives,  concubines,  and  black  eunuchs, 
amounted  to  six  thousand  three  hundred  persons  ; and 
he  was  attended  to  the  field  by  a guard  of  twelve  thou- 
sand horse,  whose  belts  and  scimitars  were  studded 
with  gold. 

In  a private  condition,  our  desires  are  perpetually 
repressed  by  poverty  and  subordination ; but  the  lives 
and  labours  of  millions  are  devoted  to  the  service  of  a 
despotic  prince,  whose  laws  are  blindly  obeyed,  and 
whose  wishes  are  instantly  gratified.  Our  imagination 
is  dazzled  by  the  splendid  picture ; and  whatever  may 
be  the  cool  dictates  of  reason,  there  are  few  among  us 
who  would  obstinately  refuse  a trial  of  the  comforts  and 
the  cares  of  royalty.  It  may  therefore  be  of  some  use 
to  borrow  the  experience  of  the  same  Abdalrahman, 
whose  magnificence  has  perhaps  excited  our  admiration 
and  envy,  and  to  transcribe  an  authentic  memorial 
which  was  found  in  the  closet  of  the  deceased  caliph. 
‘I  have  now  reigned  above  fifty  years  in  victory  or 
peace ; beloved  by  my  subjects,  dreaded  by  my  enemies, 
and  respected  by  my  allies.  Riches  and  honours,  power 
and  pleasure,  have  waited  on  my  call,  nor  does  any 
earthly  blessing  appear  to  have  been  wanting  to  my 
felicity.  In  this  situation  I have  diligently  numbered 
the  days  of  pure  and  genuine  happiness  which  have 
fallen  to  my  lot : they  amount  to  fourteen.  0 man  ! 
place  not  thy  confidence  in  this  present  world.’ 

[Conquest  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Crusaders,  1099  a.d.] 

Jerusalem  has  derived  some  reputation  from  the 
number  and  importance  of  her  memorable  sieges.  It 
was  not  till  after  a long  and  obstinate  contest  that 
Babylon  and  Rome  could  prevail  against  the  obstinacy 
of  the  people,  the  craggy  ground  that  might  supersede 
the  necessity  of  fortifications,  and  the  walls  and  towers 
that  would  have  fortified  the  most  accessible  plain. 
These  obstacles  were  diminished  in  the  age  of  the 
crusades.  The  bulwarks  had  been  completely  destroyed 
and  imperfectly  restored:  the  Jews,  their  nation  and 
worship,  were  for  ever  banished;  but  nature  is  less 
changeable  than  man,  and  the  site  of  J erusalem,  though 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

somewhat  softened  and  somewhat  removed,  was  still 
strong  against  the  assaults  of  an  enemy.  By  the  expe- 
rience of  a recent  siege,  and  a three  years’  possession, 
the  Saracens  of  Egypt  had  been  taught  to  discern,  and 
in  some  degree  to  remedy,  the  defects  of  a place  which 
religion  as  well  as  honour  forbade  them  to  resign.  Aladin 
or  Iftikhar,  the  caliph’s  lieutenant,  was  intrusted  with 
the  defence;  his  policy  strove  to  restrain  the  native 
Christians  by  the  dread  of  their  own  ruin  and  that  of 
the  holy  sepulchre;  to  animate  the  Moslems  by  the 
assurance  of  temporal  and  eternal  rewards.  His  garri- 
son is  said  to  have  consisted  of  forty  thousand  Turks 
and  Arabians ; and  if  he  could  muster  twenty  thousand 
of  the  inhabitants,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  besieged 
were  more  numerous  than  the  besieging  anny.  Had  the 
diminished  strength  and  numbers  of  the  Latins  allowed 
them  to  grasp  the  whole  circumference  of  four  thousand 
yards — about  two  English  miles  and  a half — to  what 
useful  purpose  should  they  have  descended  into  the 
valley  of  Ben  Himmon  and  torrent  of  Cedron,  or 
approached  the  precipices  of  the  south  and  east,  from 
whence  they  had  nothing  either  to  hope  or  fear  ? Their 
siege  was  more  reasonably  directed  against  the  northern 
and  western  sides  of  the  city.  Godfrey  of  Bouillon 
erected  his  standard  on  the  first  swell  of  Mount  Calvary ; 
to  the  left,  as  far  as  St  Stephen’s  gate,  the  line  of  attack 
was  continued  by  Tancred  and  the  two  Roberts;  and 
Count  Raymond  established  his  quarters  from  the 
citadel  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Sion,  which  was  no  longer 
included  within  the  precincts  of  the  city.  On  the  fifth 
day,  the  crusaders  made  a general  assault,  in  the  fanatic 
hope  of  battering  down  the  walls  without  engines,  and 
of  scaling  them  without  ladders.  By  the  dint  of  brutal 
force,  they  burst  the  first  barrier,  but  they  were  driven 
back  with  shame  and  slaughter  to  the  camp  : the  influ- 
ence of  vision'  and  prophecy  was  deadened  by  the  too 
frequent  abuse  of  those  pious  stratagems,  and  time  and 
labour  were  found  to  be  the  only  means  of  victory. 
The  time  of  the  siege  was  indeed  fulfilled  in  forty  days, 
but  they  were  forty  days  of  calamity  and  anguish.  A 
repetition  of  the  old  complaint  of  famine  may  be 
imputed  in  some  degree  to  the  voracious  or  disorderly 
appetite  of  the  Franks,  but  the  stony  soil  of  Jerusalem 
is  almost  destitute  of  water;  the  scanty  springs  and 
hasty  torrents  were  dry  in  the  summer  season ; nor  was 
the  thirst  of  the  besiegers  relieved,  as  in  the  city,  by  the 
artificial  supply  of  cisterns  and  aqueducts.  The  circum- 
j jacent  country  is  equally  destitute  of  trees  for  the  uses 
! of  shade  or  building,  but  some  large  beams  were  dis- 
| covered  in  a cave  by  the  crusaders  : a wood  near  Sichem, 
i the  enchanted  grove  of  Tasso,  was  cut  down : the 
1 necessary  timber  was  transported  to  the  camp  by  the 
vigour  and  dexterity  of  Tancred ; and  the  engines  were 
framed  by  some  Genoese  artists,  who  had  fortunately 
landed  in  the  harbour  of  Jaffa.  Two  movable  turrets 
were  constructed  at  the  expense  and  in  the  stations  of 
the  Duke  of  Lorraine  and  the  Count  of  Tholouse,  and 
rolled  forwards  with  devout  labour,  not  to  the  most 
accessible,  but  to  the  most  neglected  parts  of  the  fortifi- 
cation. Raymond’s  tower  was  reduced  to  ashes  by  the 
fire  of  the  besieged,  but  his  colleague  was  more  vigilant 
and  successful ; the  enemies  were  driven  by  his  archers 
from  the  rampart ; the  drawbridge  was  let  down ; and 
j on  a Friday,  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  day  and  hour 
of  the  Passion,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  stood  victorious  on 
J the  walls  of  Jerusalem.  His  example  was  followed  on 
every  side  by  the  emulation  of  valour ; and  about  four 
hundred  and  sixty  years  after  the  conquest  of  Omar,  the 
holy  city  was  rescued  from  the  Mohammedan  yoke.  In 
the  pillage  of  public  and  private  wealth,  the  adventurers 
had  agreed  to  respect  the  exclusive  property  of  the 
first  occupant;  and  the  spoils  of  the  great  mosque — 
seventy  lamps  and  massy  vases  of  gold  and  silver — 
rewarded  the  diligence  and  displayed  the  generosity  of 
Tancred.  A bloody  sacrifice  was  offered  by  his  mistaken 
votaries  to  the  God  of  the  Christians : resistance  might 
184 

provoke,  but  neither  age  nor  sex  could  mollify  their 
implacable  rage;  they  indulged  themselves  three  days 
in  a promiscuous  massacre,  and  the  infection  of  the  dead 
bodies  produced  an  epidemical  disease.  After  seventy 
thousand  Moslems  had  been  put  to  the  sword,  and  the 
harmless  Jews  had  been  burnt  in  their  synagogue,  they 
could  still  reserve  a multitude  of  captives  whom  interest 
or  lassitude  persuaded  them  to  spare.  Of  these  savage 
heroes  of  the  cross,  Tancred  alone  betrayed  some  senti- 
ments of  compassion ; yet  we  may  praise  the  more  selfish 
lenity  of  Raymond,  who  granted  a capitulation  and 
safe-conduct  to  the  garrison  of  the  citadel.  The  holy 
sepulchre  was  now  free ; and  the  bloody  victors  prepared 
to  accomplish  their  vow.  Bareheaded  and  barefoot,  with 
contrite  hearts,  and  in  a humble  posture,  they  ascended 
the  hill  of  Calvary  amidst  the  loud  anthems  of  the 
clergy ; kissed  the  stone  which  had  covered  the  Saviour 
of  the  world,  and  bedewed  with  tears  of  joy  and 
penitence  the  monument  of  their  redemption. 

[Appearance  and  Character  of  Mohammed.] 

According  to  the  tradition  of  his  companions,  Moham- 
med was  distinguished  by  the  beauty  of  his  person — an 
outward  gift  which  is  seldom  despised,  except  by  those 
to  whom  it  has  been  refused.  Before  he  spoke,  the 
orator  engaged  on  his  side  the  affections  of  a public  or 
private  audience.  They  applauded  his  commanding 
presence,  his  majestic  aspect,  his  piercing  eye,  his 
gracious  smile,  his  flowing  beard,  his  countenance  that 
painted  every  sensation  of  the  soul,  and  his  gestures  that 
enforced  each  expression  of  the  tongue.  In  the  familiar 
offices  of  life  he  scrupulously  adhered  to  the  grave  and 
ceremonious  politeness  of  his  country : his  respectful 
attention  to  the  rich  and  powerful  was  dignified  by  his 
condescension  and  affability  to  the  poorest  citizens  of 
Mecca;  the  frankness  of  his  manner  concealed  the 
artifice  of  his  views ; and  the  habits  of  courtesy  were 
imputed  to  personal  friendship  or  universal  benevolence. 
His  memory  was  capacious  and  retentive,  his  wit  easy 
and  social,  his  imagination  sublime,  his  judgment  clear, 
rapid,  and  decisive.  He  possessed  the  courage  both  of 
thought  and  action ; and  although  his  designs  might 
gradually  expand  with  his  success,  the  first  idea  which 
he  entertained  of  his  divine  mission  bears  the  stamp  of 
an  original  and  superior  genius.  The  son  of  Abdallah 
was  educated  in  the  bosom  of  the  noblest  race,  in  the 
use  of  the  purest  dialect  of  Arabia  ; and  the  fluency  of 
his  speech  was  corrected  and  enhanced  by  the  practice 
of  discreet  and  seasonable  silence.  With  these  powers 
of  eloquence,  Mohammed  was  an  illiterate  barbarian ; his 
youth  had  never  been  instructed  in  the  arts  of  reading 
and  writing ; the  common  ignorance  exempted  him  from 
shame  or  reproach,  but  he  was  reduced  to  a narrow 
circle  of  existence,  and  deprived  of  those  faithful  mirrors 
which  reflect  to  our  mind  the  minds  of  sages  and  heroes. 
Yet  the  book  of  nature  and  of  man  was  open  to  his 
view ; and  some  fancy  has  been  indulged  in  the  political 
and  philosophical  observations  which  are  ascribed  to 
the  Arabian  traveller.  He  compares  the  nations  and 
religions  of  the  earth;  discovers  the  weakness  of  the 
Persian  and  Roman  monarchies ; beholds  with  pity  and 
indignation  the  degeneracy  of  the  times ; and  resolves 
to  unite,  under  one  God  and  one  king,  the  invincible 
spirit  and  primitive  virtues  of  the  Arabs.  Our  more 
accurate  inquiry  will  suggest,  that  instead  of  visiting 
the  courts,  the  camps,  the  temples  of  the  east,  the  two 
journeys  of  Mohammed  into  Syria  were  confined  to  the 
fairs  of  Bostra  and  Damascus ; that  he  was  only  thirteen 
years  of  age  when  he  accompanied  the  caravan  of  his 
uncle,  and  that  his  duty  compelled  him  to  return  as 
soon  as  he  had  disposed  of  the  merchandise  of  Cadijah. 
In  these  hasty  and  superficial  excursions,  the  eye  of 
genius  might  discern  some  objects  invisible  to  his  grosser 
companions;  some  seeds  of  knowledge  might  be  cast 
upon  a fruitful  soil;  but  his  ignorance  of  the  Syriac 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


language  must  have  checked  his  curiosity,  and  I cannot 
perceive  in  the  life  or  writings  of  Mohammed  that  his 
prospect  was  far  extended  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
Arabian  world.  From  every  region  of  that  solitary 
world  the  pilgrims  of  Mecca  were  annually  assembled, 
by  the  calls  of  devotion  and  commerce : in  the  free 
concourse  of  multitudes,  a simple  citizen,  in  his  native 
tongue,  might  study  the  political  state  and  character  of 
the  tribes,  the  theory  and  practice  of  the  Jews  and 
Christians.  Some  useful  strangers  might  be  tempted  or 
forced  to  implore  the  rites  of  hospitality;  and  the 
enemies  of  Mohammed  have  named  the  Jew,  the  Persian, 
and  the  Syrian  monk,  wdiom  they  accuse  of  lending  their 
secret  aid  to  the  composition  of  the  Koran.  Conversation 
enriches  the  understanding,  but  solitude  is  the  school  of 
genius ; and  the  uniformity  of  a work  denotes  the  hand 
of  a single  artist.  From  his  earliest  youth  Mohammed 
was  addicted  to  religious  contemplation : each  year, 
during  the  month  of  Ramadan,  he  withdrew  from  the 
world  and  from  the  arms  of  Cadijah : in  the  cave  of 
Hera,  three  miles  from  Mecca,  he  consulted  the  spirit  of 
fraud  or  enthusiasm,  whose  abode  is  not  in  the  heavens 
but  in  the  mind  of  the  prophet.  The  faith  which,  under 
the  name  of  Islam,  he  preached  to  his  family  and  nation, 
is  compounded  of  an  eternal  truth  and  a necessary  fiction 
— that  there  is  only  one  God,  and  that  Mohammed  is 
the  apostle  of  God. 

[ Term  of  the  Conquest  of  Timour,  or  Tamerlane ; his 

Triumph  at  Samarcand ; his  Death  on  the  Road  to 

China  (1405  a.d.)  ; Character  and  Merits  of  Timour.'] 

From  the  Irtish  and  Volga  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  and 
from  the  Ganges  to  Damascus  and  the  Archipelago,  Asia 
was  in  the  hand  of  Timour ; his  armies  were  invincible, 
his  ambition  was  boundless,  and  his  zeal  might  aspire 
to  conquer  and  convert  the  Christian  kingdoms  of  the 
west,  which  already  trembled  at  his  name.  He  touched 
the  utmost  verge  of  the  land ; but  an  insuperable  though 
narrow  sea  rolled  between  the  two  continents  of  Europe 
and  Asia,  and  the  lord  of  so  many  tomans , or  myriads 
of  horse,  was  not  master  of  a single  galley.  The  two 
passages  of  the  Bosphorus  and  Hellespont,  of  Constan- 
tinople and  Gallipoli,  were  possessed,  the  one  by  the 
Christians,  the  other  by  the  Turks.  On  this  great 
occasion  they  forgot  the  difference  of  religion,  to  act 
with  union  and  firmness  in  the  common  cause : the 
double  straits  were  guarded  with  ships  and  fortifications  ; 
and  they  separately  withheld  the  transports,  which 
Timour  demanded  of  either  nation,  under  the  pretence 
of  attacking  their  enemy.  At  the  same  time  they 
soothed  his  pride  with  tributary  gifts  and  suppliant 
embassies,  and  prudently  tempted  him  to  retreat  with 
the  honours  of  victory.  Soliman,  the  son  of  Bajazet, 
implored  his  clemency  for  his  father  and  himself; 
accepted,  by  a red  patent,  the  investiture  of  the  king- 
dom of  Romania,  which  he  already  held  by  the  sword ; 
and  reiterated  his  ardent  wish,  of  casting  himself  in 
person  at  the  feet  of  the  king  of  the  world.  The  Greek 
emperor — either  John  or  Manuel — submitted  to  pay  the 
same  tribute  which  he  had  stipulated  with  the  Turkish 
sultan,  and  ratified  the  treaty  by  an  oath  of  allegiance, 
from  which  he  could  absolve  his  conscience  so  soon  as 
the  Mogul  arras  had  retired  from  Anatolia.  But  the 
fears  and  fancy  of  nations  ascribed  to  the  ambitious 
Tamerlane  a new  design  of  vast  and  romantic  compass — 
a design  of  subduing  Egypt  and  Africa,  marching  from 
the  Nile  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  entering  Europe  by  the 
straits  of  Gibraltar,  and,  after  imposing  his  yoke  on  the 
kingdoms  of  Christendom,  of  returning  home  by  the 
deserts  of  Russia  and  Tatary.  This  remote  and  perhaps 
imaginary  danger  was  averted  by  the  submission  of  the 
sultan  of  Egypt ; the  honours  of  the  prayer  and  the  coin 
attested  at  Cairo  the  supremacy  of  Timour ; and  a rare 
gift  of  a giraffe,  or  camelopard,  and  nine  ostriches, 
represented  at  Samarcand  the  tribute  of  the  African 


world.  Our  imagination  is  not  less  astonished  by  the 
portrait  of  a Mogul  who,  in  his  camp  before  Smyrna, 
meditates  and  almost  accomplishes  the  invasion  of  the 
Chinese  empire.  Timour  was  urged  to  this  enterprise 
by  national  honour  and  religious  zeal.  The  torrents 
which  he  had  shed  of  Mussulman  blood  could  be 
expiated  only  by  an  equal  destruction  of  the  infidels ; 
and  as  he  now  stood  at  the  gates  of  paradise,  he  might 
best  secure  his  glorious  entrance  by  demolishing  the 
idols  of  China,  founding  mosques  in  every  city,  and 
establishing  the  profession  of  faith  in  one  God  and  his 
prophet  Mohammed.  The  recent  expulsion  of  the  house 
of  Zingis  was  an  insult  on  the  Mogul  name ; and  the 
disorders  of  the  empire  afforded  the  fairest  opportunity 
for  revenge.  The  illustrious  Hongvou,  founder  of  the 
dynasty  of  Ming,  died  four  years  before  the  battle  of 
Angora;  and  his  grandson,  a weak  and  unfortunate 
youth,  was  burnt  in  his  palace,  after  a million  of 
Chinese  had  perished  in  the  civil  war.  Before  he 
evacuated  Anatolia,  Timour  despatched  beyond  the 
Sihoon  a numerous  army,  or  rather  colony,  of  his  old 
and  new  subjects,  to  open  the  road,  to  subdue  the  pagan 
Calmucks  and  Mungals,  and  to  found  cities  and  maga- 
zines in  the  desert ; and  by  the  diligence  of  his  lieutenant, 
he  soon  received  a perfect  map  and  description  of  the 
unknown  regions,  from  the  source  of  the  Irtish  to  the 
wall  of  China.  During  these  preparations,  the  emperor 
achieved  the  final  conquest  of  Georgia,  passed  the  winter 
on  the  banks  of  the  Araxes,  appeased  the  troubles  of 
Persia,  and  slowly  returned  to  his  capital,  after  a 
campaign  of  four  years  and  nine  months. 

On  the  throne  of  Samarcand,  he  displayed  in  a short 
repose  his  magnificence  and  power ; listened  to  the  com- 
plaints of  the  people,  distributed  a just  measure  of 
rewards  and  punishments,  employed  his  riches  in  the 
architecture  of  palaces  and  temples,  and  gave  audience 
to  the  ambassadors  of  Egypt,  Arabia,  India,  Tatary, 
Russia,  and  Spain,  the  last  of  whom  presented  a suit 
of  tapestry  which  eclipsed  the  pencil  of  the  oriental 
artists.  The  marriage  of  six  of  the  emperor’s  grandsons 
was  esteemed  an  act  of  religion  as  well  as  of  paternal 
tenderness;  and  the  pomp  of  the  ancient  caliphs  was 
revived  in  their  nuptials.  They  were  celebrated  in  the 
gardens  of  Canighul,  decorated  with  innumerable  tents 
and  pavilions,  which  displayed  the  luxury  of  a great  city 
and  the  spoils  of  a victorious  camp.  Whole  forests  were 
cut  down  to  supply  fuel  for  the  kitchens;  the  plain 
was  spread  with  pyramids  of  meat  and  vases  of  every 
liquor,  to  which  thousands  of  guests  were  courteously 
invited;  the  orders  of  the  state,  and  the  nations  of 
the  earth,  were  marshalled  at  the  royal  banquet;  nor 
were  the  ambassadors  of  Europe  (says  the  haughty 
Persian)  excluded  from  the  feast ; since  even  the  casses, 
the  smallest  of  fish,  find  their  place  in  the  ocean.  The 
public  joy  was  testified  by  illuminations  and  masque- 
rades ; the  trades  of  Samarcand  passed  in  review ; and 
every  trade  was  emulous  to  execute  some  quaint  device, 
some  marvellous  pageant,  with  the  materials  of  their 
peculiar  art.  After  the  marriage-contracts  had  been 
ratified  by  the  cadhis,  the  bridegrooms  and  their  brides 
retired  to  the  nuptial  chambers ; nine  times,  according 
to  the  Asiatic  fashion,  they  were  dressed  and  undressed ; 
and  at  each  change  of  apparel,  pearls  and  rubies  were 
showered  on  their  heads,  and  contemptuously  abandoned 
to  their  attendants.  A general  indulgence  was  pro- 
claimed ; every  law  was  relaxed,  every  pleasure  was 
allowed ; the  people  were  free,  the  sovereign  was  idle ; 
and  the  historian  of  Timour  may  remark,  that,  after 
devoting  fifty  years  to  the  attainment  of  empire,  the 
only  happy  period  of  his  life  was  the  two  months  in 
which  he  ceased  to  exercise  his  power.  But  he  was 
soon  awakened  to  the  cares  of  government  and  war. 
The  standard  was  unfurled  for  the  invasion  of  China ; 
the  emirs  made  their  report  of  two  hundred  thousand, 
the  select  and  veteran  soldiers  of  Iran  and  Touran ; 
their  baggage  and  provisions  were  transported  by  five 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


hundred  great  wagons,  and  an  immense  train  of  horses 
and  camels;  and  the  troops  might  prepare  for  a long 
absence,  since  more  than  six  months  were  employed 
in  the  tranquil  journey  of  a caravan  from  Samarcand 
to  Pekin.  Neither  age  nor  the  severity  of  the  winter 
could  retard  the  impatience  of  Timour;  he  mounted 
on  horseback,  passed  the  Sihoon  on  the  ice,  marched 
seventy-six  parasangs  (three  hundred  miles)  from  his 
capital,  and  pitched  his  last  camp  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Otrar,  where  he  was  expected  by  the  angel  of 
death.  Fatigue,  and  the  indiscreet  use  of  iced  water, 
accelerated  the  progress  of  his  fever ; and  the  con- 
queror of  Asia  expired  in  the  seventieth  year  of  his 
age,  thirty-five  years  after  he  had  ascended  the  throne 
of  Zagatai.  His  designs  were  lost;  his  armies  were 
disbanded ; China  was  saved ; and  fourteen  years  after 
his  decease,  the  most  powerful  of  his  children  sent 
an  embassy  of  friendship  and  commerce  to  the  court 
of  Pekin. 

The  fame  of  Timour  has  pei^aded  the  east  and  west ; 
his  posterity  is  still  invested  with  the  imperial  title ; 
and  the  admiration  of  his  subjects,  who  revered  him 
almost  as  a deity,  may  be  justified  in  some  degree  by 
the  praise  or  confession  of  his  bitterest  enemies. 
Although  he  was  lame  of  a hand  and  foot,  his  form 
and  stature  were  not  unworthy  of  his  rank ; and  his 
vigorous  health,  so  essential  to  himself  and  to  the 
world,  was  corroborated  by  temperance  and  exercise. 
In  his  familiar  discourse,  he  was  grave  and  modest, 
and  if  he  was  ignorant  of  the  Arabic  language,  he 
spoke  with  fluency  and  elegance  the  Persian  and 
Turkish  idioms.  It  was  his  delight  to  converse  with 
the  learned  on  topics  of  history  and  science ; and  the 
amusement  of  his  leisure  hours  was  the  game  of  chess, 
which  he  improved  or  corrupted  with  new  refinements. 
In  his  religion  he  was  a zealous,  though  not  perhaps 
an  orthodox,  Mussulman ; but  his  sound  understanding 
may  tempt  us  to  believe  that  a superstitious  reverence 
for  omens  and  prophecies,  for  saints  and  astrologers, 
was  only  affected  as  an  instrument  of  policy.  In  the 
government  of  a vast  empire  he  stood  alone  and  abso- 
lute, without  a rebel  to  oppose  his  power,  a favourite 
to  seduce  his  affections,  or  a minister  to  mislead  his 
judgment.  It  was  his  firmest  maxim,  that,  whatever 
might  be  the  consequence,  the  word  of  the  prince 
should  never  be  disputed  or  recalled ; but  his  foes  have 
maliciously  observed,  that  the  commands  of  anger  and 
destruction  were  more  strictly  executed  than  those  of 
beneficence  and  favour.  His  sons  and  grandsons,  of 
whom  Timour  left  six-and-thirty  at  his  decease,  were 
his  first  and  most  submissive  subjects ; and  whenever 
they  deviated  from  their  duty,  they  were  corrected, 
according  to  the  laws  of  Zingis,  with  the  bastonade, 
and  afterwards  restored  to  honour  and  command. 
Perhaps  his  heart  was  not  devoid  of  the  social  virtues ; 
perhaps  he  was  not  incapable  of  loving  his  friends  and 
pardoning  his  enemies ; but  the  rules  of  morality  are 
founded  on  the  public  interest ; and  it  may  be  sufficient 
to  applaud  the  wisdom  of  a monarch  for  the  liberality 
by  which  he  is  not  impoverished,  and  for  the  justice 
by  which  he  is  strengthened  and  enriched.  To  maintain 
the  harmony  of  authority  and  obedience,  to  chastise  the 
proud,  to  protect  the  weak,  to  reward  the  deserving, 
to  banish  vice  and  idleness  from  his  dominions,  to 
secure  the  traveller  and  merchant,  to  restrain  the 
depredations  of  the  soldier,  to  cherish  the  labours  of 
the  husbandman,  to  encourage  industry  and  learning, 
and,  by  an  equal  and  moderate  assessment,  to  increase 
the  revenue  without  increasing  the  taxes,  are  indeed 
the  duties  of  a prince ; but,  in  the  discharge  of  these 
duties,  he  finds  an  ample  and  immediate  recompense. 
Timour  might  boast  that,  at  his  accession  to  the  throne, 
Asia  was  the  prey  of  anarchy  and  rapine,  whilst  under 
his  prosperous  monarchy  a child,  fearless  and  unhurt, 
might  carry  a purse  of  gold  from  the  east  to  the  west. 
Such  was  his  confidence  of  merit,  that  from  this  refor- 
18G  


mation  he  derived  an  excuse  for  his  victories,  and  a 
title  to  universal  dominion.  The  four  following  obser- 
vations will  serve  to  appreciate  his  claim  to  the  public 
gratitude ; and  perhaps  we  shall  conclude  that  the 
Mogul  emperor  was  rather  the  scourge  than  the  bene- 
factor of  mankind.  1.  If  some  partial  disorders,  some 
local  oppressions,  were  healed  by  the  sword  of  Timour, 
the  remedy  was  far  more  pernicious  than  the  disease. 
By  their  rapine,  cruelty,  and  discord,  the  petty  tyrants 
of  Persia  might  afflict  their  subjects ; but  whole  nations 
were  crushed  under  the  footsteps  of  the  reformer. 
The  ground  which  had  been  occupied  by  flourishing 
cities  was  often  marked  by  his  abominable  trophies — 
by  columns  or  pyramids  of  human  heads.  Astracan, 
Carizme,  Delhi,  Ispahan,  Bagdad,  Aleppo,  Damascus, 
Boursa,  Smyrna,  and  a thousand  others,  were  sacked, 
or  burned,  or  utterly  destroyed  in  his  presence,  and  by 
his  troops ; and  perhaps  his  conscience  would  have  been 
startled  if  a priest  or  philosopher  had  dared  to  number 
the  millions  of  victims  whom  he  had  sacrificed  to  the 
establishment  of  peace  and  order.  2.  His  most  destruc- 
tive wars  were  rather  inroads  than  conquests.  He 
invaded  Turkestan,  Kipzak,  Russia,  Hindostan,  Syria, 
Anatolia,  Armenia,  and  Georgia,  without  a hope  or 
a desire  of  preserving  those  distant  provinces.  From 
thence  he  departed  laden  with  spoil;  but  he  left 
behind  him  neither  troops  to  awe  the  contumacious, 
nor  magistrates  to  protect  the  obedient  natives.  When 
he  had  broken  the  fabric  of  their  ancient  government, 
he  abandoned  them  to  the  evils  which  his  invasion  had 
aggravated  or  caused  ; nor  were  these  evils  compensated 
by  any  present  or  possible  benefits.  3.  The  kingdoms  of 
Transoxiana  and  Persia  were  the  proper  field  which 
he  laboured  to  cultivate  and  adorn,  as  the  perpetual 
inheritance  of  his  family.  But  his  peaceful  labours 
were  often  interrupted,  and  sometimes  blasted,  by  the 
absence  of  the  conqueror.  While  he  triumphed  on 
the  Volga  or  the  Ganges,  his  servants,  and  even  his 
sons,  forgot  their  master  and  their  duty.  The  public 
and  private  injuries  were  poorly  redressed  by  the  tardy 
rigour  of  inquiry  and  punishment;  and  we  must  be 
content  to  praise  the  institutions  of  Timour  as  the 
specious  idea  of  a perfect  monarchy.  4.  Whatsoever 
might  be  the  blessings  of  his  administration,  they 
evaporated  with  his  life.  To  reign,  rather  than  to 
govern,  was  the  ambition  of  his  children  and  grand- 
children, the  enemies  of  each  other  and  of  the  people. 
A fragment  of  the  empire  was  upheld  with  some  glory 
by  Sharokh,  his  youngest  son;  but  after  his  decease, 
the  scene  was  again  involved  in  darkness  and  blood ; 
and  before  the  end  of  a century,  Transoxiana  and 
Persia  were  trampled  by  the  Uzbecks  from  the  north, 
and  the  Turkmans  of  the  black  and  white  sheep.  The 
race  of  Timour  would  have  been  extinct,  if  a hero, 
his  descendant  in  the  fifth  degree,  had  not  fled  before 
the  Uzbek  arms  to  the  conquest  of  Hindostan.  His 
successors — the  great  Moguls— extended  their  sway 
from  the  mountains  of  Cashmir  to  Cape  Comorin,  and 
from  Candahar  to  the  Gulf  of  Bengal.  Since  the  reign 
of  Aurungzebe,  their  empire  has  been  dissolved ; their 
treasures  of  Delhi  have  been  rifled  by  a Persian 
robber ; and  the  richest  of  their  kingdoms  is  now 
possessed  by  a company  of  Christian  merchants,  of  a 
remote  island  in  the  northern  ocean. 

[Invention  and  Use  of  Gunpoivdei *.] 

The  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the  Greek  empire  and 
the  adjacent  kingdoms,  would  have  been  some  more 
powerful  weapon,  some  discovery  in  the  art  of  war,  that 
should  give  them  a decisive  superiority  over  their 
Turkish  foes.  Such  a weapon  was  in  their  hands; 
such  a discovery  had  been  made  in  the  critical  moment 
of  their  fate.  The  chemists  of  China  or  Europe  had 
found,  by  casual  or  elaborate  experiments,  that  a 
mixture  of  saltpetre,  sulphur,  and  charcoal,  produces, 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


I with  a spark  of  fire,  a tremendous  explosion.  It  was 
soon  observed,  that  if  the  expansive  force  were  com- 
pressed in  a strong  tube,  a ball  of  stone  or  iron  might 
be  expelled  with  irresistible  and  destructive  velocity. 
The  precise  era  of  the  invention  and  application  of 
gunpowder  is  involved  in  doubtful  traditions  and 
equivocal  language ; yet  we  may  clearly  discern  that  it 
was  known  before  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century ; 
and  that  before  the  end  of  the  same,  the  use  of  artillery 
in  battles  and  sieges,  by  sea  and  land,  was  familiar 
to  the  states  of  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  France,  and 
England.  The  priority  of  nations  is  of  small  account ; 
none  could  derive  any  exclusive  benefit  from  their 
previous  or  superior  knowledge ; and  in  the  common 
improvement,  they  stood  on  the  same  level  of  relative 
power  and  military  science.  Nor  was  it  possible  to 
circumscribe  the  secret  within  the  pale  of  the  church  ; 
it  was  disclosed  to  the  Turks  by  the  treachery  of 
apostates  and  the  selfish  policy  of  rivals;  and  the 
sultans  had  sense  to  adopt,  and  wealth  to  reward,  the 
talents  of  a Christian  engineer.  The  Genoese,  who 
transported  Amurath  into  Europe,  must  be  accused  as 
his  preceptors ; and  it  was  probably  by  their  hands  that 
his  cannon  was  cast  and  directed  at  the  siege  of  Con- 
stantinople. The  first  attempt  was  indeed  unsuccessful ; 
but  in  the  general  warfare  of  the  age,  the  advantage 
was  on  their  side  who  were  most  commonly  the  assail- 
ants; for  a while  the  proportion  of  the  attack  and 
defence  was  suspended;  and  this  thundering  artillery 
was  pointed  against  the  walls  and  towers  which  had 
been  erected  only  to  resist  the  less  potent  engines  of 
antiquity.  By  the  Venetians,  the  use  of  gunpowder 
was  communicated  without  reproach  to  the  sultans  of 
Egypt  and  Persia,  their  allies  against  the  Ottoman 
power ; the  secret  was  soon  propagated  to  the  extremities 
of  Asia ; and  the  advantage  of  the  European  was  con- 
fined to  his  easy  victories  over  the  savages  of  the  new 
world.  If  we  contrast  the  rapid  progress  of  this  mis- 
chievous discovery  with  the  slow  and  laborious  advances 
of  reason,  science,  and  the  arts  of  peace,  a philosopher, 
according  to  his  temper,  will  laugh  or  weep  at  the  folly 
of  mankind. 

[Letter  of  Gibbon  to  Mrs  Porten — Account  of  his  Mode 
of  Life  at  Lausanne .] 

December  27,  1783. 

The  unfortunate  are  loud  and  loquacious  in  their 
complaints,  but  real  happiness  is  content  with  its  own 
silent  enjoyment ; and  if  that  happiness  is  of  a quiet 
uniform  kind,  we  suffer  days  and  weeks  to  elapse 
without  communicating  our  sensations  to  a distant 
friend.  By  you,  therefore,  whose  temper  and  under- 
standing have  extracted  from  human  life,  on  every 
occasion,  the  best  and  most  comfortable  ingredients, 
my  silence  will  always  be  interpreted  as  an  evidence  of 
content,  and  you  would  only  be  alarmed— the  danger 
is  not  at  hand — by  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  my 
letters.  Perhaps  I should  have  continued  to  slumber, 
I don’t  know  how  long,  had  I not  been  awakened  by  the 
anxiety  which  you  express  in  your  last  letter.  * * 

From  this  base  subject  I descend  to  one  which  more, 
seriously  and  strongly  engages  your  thoughts — the  con- 
sideration of  my  health  and  happiness.  And  you  will 
give  me  credit  when  I assure  you,  with  sincerity,  that  I 
have  not  repented  a single  moment  of  the  step  which  I 
have  taken,  and  that  I only  regret  the  not  having 
executed  the  same  design  two,  or  five,  or  even  ten  years 
ago.  By  this  time  I might  have  returned  independent 
and  rich  to  my  native  country ; I should  have  escaped 
many  disagreeable  events  that  have  happened  in  the 
meanwhile,  and  I should  have  avoided  the  parliamentary 
life,  which  experience  has  proved  to  be  neither  suitable 
to  my  temper  nor  conducive  to  my  fortune.  In  speaking 
of  the  happiness  which  I enjoy,  you  will  agree  with  me 
in  giving  the  preference  to  a sincere  and  sensible  friend ; 


and  though  you  cannot  discern  the  full  extent  of  his 
merit,  you  will  easily  believe  that  Deyverdun  is  the 
man.  Perhaps  two  persons  so  perfectly  fitted  to  live 
together  were  never  formed  by  nature  and  education. 
We  have  both  read  and  seen  a great  variety  of  objects; 
the  lights  and  shades  of  our  different  characters  are 
happily  blended ; and  a friendship  of  thirty  years  has 
taught  us  to  enjoy  our  mutual  advantages,  and  to 
support  our  unavoidable  imperfections.  In  love  and 
marriage,  some  harsh  sounds  will  sometimes  interrupt 
the  harmony,  and  in  the  course  of  time,  like  our  neigh- 
bours, we  must  expect  some  disagreeable  moments ; but 
confidence  and  freedom  are  the  two  pillars  of  our  union, 
and  I am  much  mistaken  if  the  building  be  not  solid 
and  comfortable.  * * In  this  season,  I rise — not  at 
four  in  the  morning,  but — a little  before  eight ; at  nine 
I am  called  from  my  study  to  breakfast,  which  I always 
perform  alone,  in  the  English  style ; and,  with  the  aid 
of  Caplin,*  I perceive  no  difference  between  Lausanne 
and  Bentinck  Street.  Our  mornings  are  usually  passed 
in  separate  studies;  we  never  approach  each  other’s 
door  without  a previous  message,  or  thrice  knocking,, 
and  my  apartment  is  already  sacred  and  formidable  to 
strangers.  I dress  at  half-past  one,  and  at  two — an 
early  hour,  to  which  I am  not  perfectly  reconciled — we 
sit  down  to  dinner.  We  have  hired  a female  cook,  well 
skilled  in  her  profession,  and  accustomed  to  the  taste 
of  every  nation ; as,  for  instance,  we  had  excellent 
mince-pies  yesterday.  After  dinner  and  the  departure 
of  our  company — one,  two,  or  three  friends — we  read 
together  some  amusing  book,  or  play  at  chess,  or  retire 
to  our  rooms,  or  make  visits,  or  go  to  the  coffee-house. 
Between  six  and  seven  the  assemblies  begin,  and  I am 
oppressed  only  with  their  number  and  variety.  Whist, 
at  shillings  or  half-crowns,  is  the  game  I generally  play, 
and  I play  three  rubbers  with  pleasure.  Between  nine 
and  ten  we  withdraw  to  our  bread  and  cheese,  and 
friendly  converse,  which  sends  us  to  bed  at  eleven ; but 
these  sober  hours  are  too  often  interrupted  by  private 
or  numerous  suppers,  which  I have  not  the  courage  to 
resist,  though  I practise  a laudable  abstinence  at  the 
best  furnished  tables.  You  wish  me  happy  ; acknow- 
ledge that  such  a life  is  more  conducive  to  happiness 
than  five  nights  in  the  week  passed  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  or  five  mornings  spent  at  the  Custom-house. 

[Remarks  on  Reading.'] 

[These  remarks  form  the  preface  to  a series  of  memoranda 
begun  by  Gibbon  in  1761,  under  the  title  of  Abstract  of  my 
Readings .] 

‘ Reading  is  to  the  mind,’  said  the  Duke  of  Vivonne 
to  Louis  XIV.,  ‘ what  your  partridges  are  to  my  chops.’ 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  nourishment  of  the  mind ; for  by 
reading  we  know  our  Creator,  his  works,  ourselves 
chiefly,  and  our  fellow-creatures.  But  this  nourishment 
is  easily  converted  into  poison.  Salmasius  had  read  as 
much  as  Grotius,  perhaps  more ; but  their  different 
modes  of  reading  made  the  one  an  enlightened  philos- 
opher, and  the  other,  to  speak  plainly,  a pedant,  puffed 
up  with  a useless  erudition. 

Let  us  read  with  method,  and  propose  to  ourselves  an 
end  to  which  all  our  studies  may  point.  Through 
neglect  of  this  rule,  gross  ignorance  often  disgraces 
great  readers  ; who,  by  skipping  hastily  and  irregularly 
from  one  subject  to  another,  render  themselves  incapable 
of  combining  their  ideas.  So  many  detached  parcels  of 
knowledge  cannot  form  a whole.  This  inconstancy 
weakens  the  energies  of  the  mind,  creates  in  it  a dislike 
to  application,  and  even  robs  it  of  the  advantages  of 
natural  good  sense. 

Yet  let  us  avoid  the  contrary  extreme,  and  respect 
method,  without  rendering  ourselves  its  slaves.  While 
we  propose  an  end  in  our  reading,  let  not  this  end  be 

* His  English  valet  de  chambre. 

187 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  To  1800. 


too  remote ; and  when  once  we  have  attained  it,  let  our 
attention  be  directed  to  a different  subject.  Inconstancy 
weakens  the  understanding ; a long  and  exclusive  appli- 
cation to  a single  object  hardens  and  contracts  it.  Our 
ideas  no  longer  change  easily  into  a different  channel, 
and  the  course  of  reading  to  which  we  have  too  long 
accustomed  ourselves  is  the  only  one  that  we  can  pursue 
with  pleasure. 

We  ought,  besides,  to  be  careful  not  to  make  the 
order  of  our  thoughts  subservient  to  that  of  our 
subjects ; this  would  be  to  sacrifice  the  principal  to 
the  accessory.  The  use  of  our  reading  is  to  aid  us  in 
thinking.  The  perusal  of  a particular  work  gives  birth, 
perhaps,  to  ideas  unconnected  with  the  subject  of  which 
it  treats.  I wish  to  pursue  these  ideas ; they  withdraw 
me  from  my  proposed  plan  of  reading,  and  throw  me 
into  a new  track,  and  from  thence,  perhaps,  into  a 
second  and  a third.  At  length  I begin  to  perceive 
whither  my  researches  tend.  Their  result,  perhaps, 
may  be  profitable ; it  is  worth  while  to  try ; whereas, 
had  I followed  the  high  road,  I should  not  have  been 
able,  at  the  end  of  my  long  journey,  to  retrace  the 
progress  of  my  thoughts. 

This  plan  of  reading  is  not  applicable  to  our  early 
studies,  since  the  severest  method  is  scarcely  sufficient 
to  make  us  conceive  objects  altogether  new.  Neither 
can  it  be  adopted  by  those  who  read  in  order  to  write, 
and  who  ought  to  dwell  on  their  subject  till  they  have 
sounded  its  depths.  These  reflections,  however,  I do 
not  absolutely  warrant.  On  the  supposition  that  they 
are  just,  they  may  be  so,  perhaps,  for  myself  only.  The 
constitution  of  minds  differs  like  that  of  bodies;  the 
same  regimen  will  not  suit  all.  Each  individual  ought 
to  study  his  own. 

To  read  with  attention,  exactly  to  define  the  expres- 
sions of  our  author,  never  to  admit  a conclusion  without 
comprehending  its  reason,  often  to  pause,  reflect,  and 
interrogate  ourselves,  these  are  so  many  advices  which 
it  is  easy  to  give,  but  difficult  to  follow.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  that  almost  evangelical  maxim  of  forgetting 
friends,  country,  religion,  of  giving  merit  its  due  praise, 
and  embracing  truth  wherever  it  is  to  be  found. 

But  what  ought  we  to  read  ? Each  individual  must 
answer  this  question  for  himself,  agreeably  to  the  object 
of  his  studies.  The  only  general  precept  that  I would 
venture  to  give,  is  that  of  Pliny,  ‘ to  read  much,  rather 
than  many  things to  make  a careful  selection  of  the 
best  works,  and  to  render  them  familiar  to  us  by  atten- 
tive and  repeated  perusals. 


GILLIES — ROSCOE — LAING PINKERTON. 

I)r  John  Gillies,  historiographer  to  his  majesty 
for  Scotland,  published  The  History  of  Ancient  Greece , 
its  Colonies  and  Conquests , two  volumes,  quarto, 
1786.  The  monarchical  spirit  of  the  new  historian 
was  decidedly  expressed.  ‘ The  history  of  Greece,’ 
says  Dr  Gillies,  ‘ exposes  the  dangerous  turbulence 
of  democracy,  and  arraigns  the  despotism  of  tyrants. 
By  describing  the  incurable  evils  inherent  in  every 
republican  policy,  it  evinces  the  inestimable  benefits 
resulting  to  liberty  itself  from  the  lawful  dominion 
of  hereditary  kings,  and  the  steady  operation  of  well- 
regulated  monarchy.’  The  history  of  Dr  Gillies  was 
executed  with  considerable  ability  and  care ; a sixth 
edition  of  the  work  (London,  1820,  four  volumes, 
8vo)  has  been  called  for,  and  it  may  still  be  con- 
sulted with  advantage. 

William  Roscoe  (1753-1831),  as  the  author  of 
the  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  the  Life  and 
Pontificate  of  L,eo  X.,  may  be  more  properly  classed 
with  our  historians  than  biographers.  The  two 
works  contain  an  account  of  the  revival  of  letters, 
and  fill  up  the  blank  between  Gibbon’s  Decline  and 
Fall  and  Robertson’s  Charles  V.  Mr  Roscoe  was  a 
188 


native  of  Liverpool,  the  son  of  humble  parents,  and 
while  engaged  as  clerk  to  an  attorney,  he  devoted 
his  leisure  hours  to  the  cultivation  of  his  taste  for 
poetry  and  elegant  literature.  He  acquired  a com- 
petent knowledge  of  the  Latin,  French,  and  Italian 


William  Roscoe. 


languages.  After  the  completion  of  his  clerkship, 
Mr  Roscoe  entered  into  business  in  Liverpool,  and 
took  an  active  part  in  every  scheme  of  improvement, 
local  and  national.  He  wrote  a poem  on  the  Wrongs 
of  Africa,  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  slavery,  and  also 
a pamphlet  on  the  same  subject,  which  was  trans- 
lated into  French  by  Madame  Necker.  The  stirring 
times  in  which  he  lived  called  forth  several  short 
political  dissertations  from  his  pen ; but  about  the 
year  1789,  he  applied  himself  to  the  great  task  he 
had  long  meditated,  a biographical  account  of 
Lorenzo  de  Medici.  He  procured  much  new  and 
valuable  information,  and  in  1796  published  the 
result  of  his  labours  in  two  quarto  volumes,  entitled 
The  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  called  the  Magnificent. 
The  work  was  highly  successful,  and  at  once  elevated 
Mr  Roscoe  into  the  proud  situation  of  one  of  the 
most  popular  authors  of  the  day.  A second  edition 
was  soon  called  for,  and  Messrs  Cadell  and  Davies 
purchased  the  copyright  for  £1200.  About  the 
^ame  time  he  relinquished  the  practice  of  an 
attorney,  and  studied  for  the  bar,  but  ultimately 
settled  as  a banker  in  Liverpool.  His  next  literary 
appearance  was  as  the  translator  of  The  Nurse,  a 
poem,  from  the  Italian  of  Luigi  Tansillo.  In  1805 
was  published  his  second  great  work,  The  Life  and 
Pontificate  of  Leo  X.,  four  volumes  quarto,  which, 
though  carefully  prepared,  and  also  enriched  with 
new  information,  did  not  experience  the  same 
success  as  his  life  of  Lorenzo.  ‘ The  history  of  the 
reformation  of  religion,’  it  has  been  justly  remarked, 
‘involved  many  questions  of  subtle  disputation,  as 
well  as  many  topics  of  character  and  conduct ; and, 
for  a writer  of  great  candour  and  discernment,  it 
was  scarcely  possible  to  satisfy  either  the  Papists 
or  the  Protestants.’  The  liberal  sentiments  and 
accomplishments  of  Mr  Roscoe  recommended  him 
to  his  townsmen  as  a fit  person  to  represent  them 
in  parliament,  and  he  was  accordingly  elected  in 
1806.  He  spoke  in  favour  of  the  abolition  of  the 
slave-trade,  and  of  the  civil  disabilities  of  the 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  REIH. 


Catholics,  which  excited  against  him  a powerful  and 
violent  opposition.  Inclined  himself  to  quiet  and 
retirement,  and  disgusted  with  the  conduct  of  his 
opponents,  he  withdrew  from  parliament  at  the  next 
dissolution,  and  resolutely  declined  offering  himself 
as  a candidate.  He  still,  however,  took  a warm 
interest  in  passing  events,  and  published  several 
pamphlets  on  the  topics  of  the  day.  He  pro- 
jected a history  of  art  and  literature,  a task  well 
suited  to  his  talents  and  attainments,  but  did  not 
proceed  with  the  work.  Pecuniary  embarrassments 
also  came  to  cloud  his  latter  days.  The  banking 
establishment  of  which  he  was  a partner  was  forced 
in  1816  to  suspend  payment,  and  Mr  Roscoe  had  to 
sell  his  library,  pictures,  and  other  works  of  art. 
His  love  of  literature  continued  undiminished.  He 
gave  valuable  assistance  in  the  establishment  of  the 
Royal  Institution  of  Liverpool,  and  on  its  opening, 
delivered  an  inaugural  address  on  the  origin  and 
vicissitudes  of  literature,  science,  and  art,  and  their 
influence  on  the  present  state  of  society.  In  1827 
he  received  the  great  gold  medal  of  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature  for  his  merits  as  a historian. 
He  had  previously  edited  an  edition  of  Pope,  in  ten 
volumes. 

Malcolm  Laing,  a zealous  Scottish  historian,  was 
born  in  the  year  1762  at  Strynzia,  his  paternal 
estate,  in  Orkney.  He  was  educated  for  the  Scottish 
bar,  and  passed  advocate  in  1785.  He  appeared  as 
an  author  in  1793,  having  completed  Dr  Henry’s 
History  of  Great  Britain  after  that  author’s  death. 
The  sturdy  Whig  opinions  of  Laing  formed  a con- 
trast to  the  tame  moderatism  of  Henry;  but  his 
attainments  and  research  were  far  superior  to  those 
of  his  predecessor.  In  1800  he  published  The  History 
of  Scotland  from  the  Union  of  the  Crowns  on  the  Acces- 
sion of  King  James  VI.  to  the  Throne  of  England , to 
the  Union  of  the  Kingdoms  in  the  Reign  of  Queen 
Anne;  with  two  Dissertations , Historical  and  Critical, 
on  the  Goiorie  Conspiracy,  and  on  the  supposed  Authen- 
ticity of  Ossian’s  Poems.  This  is  an  able  work, 
marked  by  strong  prejudices  and  predilections,  but 
valuable  to  the  historical  student  for  its  acute 
reasoning  and  analysis.  Laing  attacked  the  trans- 
lator of  Ossian  with  unmerciful  and  almost  ludicrous 
severity ; in  revenge  for  which,  the  Highland  admirers 
of  the  Celtic  muse  attributed  his  sentiments  to  the 
prejudice  natural  to  an  Orkney  man,  caused  by  the 
severe  checks  given  by  the  ancient  Caledonians  to 
their  predatory  Scandinavian  predecessors ! Laing 
replied  by  another  publication — The  Poems  of  Ossian, 
fyc.,  containing  the  Poetical  Works  of  James  Macpher - 
son,  Esq.,  in  Prose  and  Rhyme,  with  Notes  and  Illus- 
trations. In  1804,  he  published  another  edition  of 
his  History  of  Scotland,  to  which  he  prefixed  a Pre- 
liminary Dissertation  on  the  Participation  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  in  the  Murder  of  Darnley.  The  latter 
is  a very  ingenious  historical  argument,  the  ablest 
of  Mr  Laiog’s  productions,  uniting  the  practised 
skill  and  acumen  of  the  Scottish  lawyer  with  the 
knowledge  of  the  antiquary  and  historian.  The  latter 
portion  of  Mr  Laing’s  life  was  spent  on  his  paternal 
estate  in  Orkney,  where  he  entered  upon  a course  of 
local  and  agricultural  improvement  with  the  same 
ardour  that  he  devoted  to  his  literary  pursuits.  He 
died  in  the  year  1818.  ‘Mr  Laing’s  merit,’  says  a 
writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  ‘ as  a critical 
inquirer  into  history,  an  enlightened  collector  of 
materials,  and  a sagacious  judge  of  evidence,  has 
never  been  surpassed.  In  spite  of  his  ardent  love 
of  liberty,  no  man  has  yet  presumed  to  charge  him 
with  the  slightest  sacrifice  of  historical  integrity  to 
his  zeal.  That  he  never  perfectly  attained  the  art 
of  full,  clear,  and  easy  narrative,  was  owing  to  the 


peculiar  style  of  those  writers  who  were  popular  in 
his  youth,  and  may  be  mentioned  as  a remarkable 
instance  of  the  disproportion  of  particular  talents  to 
a general  vigour  of  mind.’ 

John  Pinkerton  (1758-1825)  distinguished  him- 
self by  the  fierce  controversial  tone  of  his  historical 
writings,  and  by  the  violence  of  his  prejudices,  yet 
was  a learned  and  industrious  collector  of  forgotten 
fragments  of  ancient  history  and  of  national  anti- 
quities. He  was  a native  of  Edinburgh,  and  bred 
to  the  law.  The  latter,  however,  he  soon  forsook 
for  literary  pursuits.  He  commenced  by  writing 
imperfect  verses,  which,  in  his  peculiar  antique 
orthography,  he  styled  ‘Rimes,’  from  which  he 
diverged  to  collecting  Select  Scottish  Ballads,  1783, 
and  inditing  an  Essay  on  Medals,  1784.  Under  the 
name  of  Heron,  he  published  some  Letters  on 
Literature,  and  was  recommended  by  Gibbon  to  the 
booksellers  as  a fit  person  to  translate  the  monkish 
historians.  He  afterwards  (1786)  published  Ancient 
Scottish  Poems,  being  the  writings  of  Sir  Richard' 
Maitland  and  others,  extracted  from  a manuscript 
in  the  Pepys  Library  at  Cambridge.  His  first 
historical  work  was  A Dissertation  on  the  Origin  and 
Progress  of  the  Scythians,  or  Goths,  in  which  he  laid 
down  that  theory  which  he  maintained  through 
life,  that  the  Celts  of  Ireland,  Wales,  and  Scotland, 
are  savages,  and  have  been  savages  since  the  world 
began!  His  next  important  work  was  an  Inquiry 
into  the  History  of  Scotland  Preceding  the  Reign  of 
Malcolm  III.,  or  1056,  in  which  he  debates  at  great 
length,  and,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  remarks,  with 
much  display  of  learning,  on  the  history  of  the 
Goths,  and  the  conquests  which  he  states  them  to 
have  obtained  over  the  Celts  in  their  progress 
through  all  Europe.  In  1796,  he  published  a History 
of  Scotland  during  the  Reign  of  the  Stuarts,  the  most 
laborious  and  valuable  of  his  works.  He  also  com- 
piled a Modern  Geography,  edited  a Collection  of 
Voyages  and  Travels,  was  some  time  editor  of  the 
Critical  Review,  wrrote  a Treatise  on  Rocks,  and  was 
engaged  on  various  other  literary  tasks.  Pinkerton 
died  in  want  and  obscurity  in  Paris. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

The  novelty  and  boldness  of  Hume’s  speculations, 
and  the  great  talent  and  ingenuity  with  which  they 
were  propounded  and  illustrated,  continued  a taste 
for  metaphysical  studies,  especially  in  Scotland. 

DR  REID. 

Dr  Reid’s  Inquiry  into  the  Human  Mind,  published 
in  1764,  was  an  attack  on  the  ideal  theory,  and  on 
the  sceptical  conclusions  which  Hume  deduced  from 
it.  The  author  had  the  candour  to  submit  it  to 
Hume  before  publication;  and  the  latter,  with  his 
usual  complacency  and  good-nature,  acknowledged 
the  merit  of  the  treatise.  In  1785  Reid  published 
his  Essays  on  the  Intellectual  Powers  of  Man,  and  in 
1788  those  on  the  Active  Powers.  The  merit  of 
Reid  as  a correct  reasoner  and  original  thinker  on 
moral  science,  free  from  the  jargon  of  the  schools, 
and  basing  his  speculations  on  inductive  reasoning, 
has  been  generally  admitted.  The  ideal  theory  which 
he  combated,  taught  that  ‘ nothing  is  perceived  but 
what  is  in  the  mind  which  perceives  it ; that  we 
really  do  not  perceive  things  that  are  external,  but 
only  certain  images  and  pictures  of  them  imprinted 
upon  the  mind,  which  are  called  impressions  and 
ideas.’  This  doctrine  Reid  had  himself  believed, 
till,  finding  it  led  to  important  consequences,  he 


FRO 31  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


asked  himself  the  question : ‘ What  evidence  have  I 
for  this  doctrine,  that  all  the  objects  of  my  know- 
ledge are  ideas  in  my  own  mind  ? ’ He  set  about  an 
inquiry,  but  could  find  no  evidence  for  the  principle, 
he  says,  excepting  the  authority  of  philosophers. 
Dugald  Stewart  says  of  Reid,  that  it  is  by  the  logi- 
cal rigour  of  his  method  of  investigating  metaphy- 
sical subjects — imperfectly  understood  even  by  the 
disciples  of  Locke — still  more  than  by  the  import- 
ance of  his  particular  conclusions,  that  he  stands  so 
conspicuously  distinguished  among  those  who  have 
hitherto  prosecuted  analytically  the  study  of  man. 
In  the  dedication  of  his  Inquiry , Reid  incidentally 
makes  a definition  which  strikes  us  as  very  happy : 
‘The  productions  of  imagination,’  he  says,  ‘require 
a genius  which  soars  above  the  common  rank ; but 
the  treasures  of  knowledge  are  commonly  buried 
deep,  and  may  be  reached  by  those  drudges  who 
can  dig  with  labour  and  patience,  though  they  have 
not  wings  to  fly,’  Dr  Reid  was  a native  of  Strachan, 
in  Kincardineshire,  where  he  was  born  on  the  26tli 
of  April  1710.  He  was  bred  to  the  church,  and 
obtained  the  living  of  New  Machar,  Aberdeenshire. 
In  1752  he  was  appointed  professor  of  moral  phil- 
osophy in  King’s  College,  Aberdeen,  which  he 
quitted  in  1763  for  the  chair  of  moral  philosophy 
in  Glasgow.  He  died  on  the  7th  of  October  1796. 


LORD  KAMES. 

Henry  Home  (1696-1782),  a Scottish  lawyer  and 
judge,  in  which  latter  capacity  he  took,  according  to 
a custom  of  his  country,  the  designation  of  Lord 
Kames,  was  a conspicuous  member  of  the  literary 
and  philosophical  society  assembled  in  Edinburgh 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  he  devoted  the 
whole  powers  of  an  acute  and  reflective  mind,  and 
with  an  industry  calling  for  the  greatest  praise,  to 
his  profession,  and  compilations  and  treatises  con- 
nected with  it.  But  the  natural  bent  of  his  faculties 
towards  philosophical  disquisition — the  glory  if  not 
the  vice  of  his  age  and  country — at  length  took  the 
mastery,  and,  after  reaching  the  bench  in  1752,  he 
gave  his  leisure  almost  exclusively  to  metaphysi- 
cal and  ethical  subjects.  His  first  work  of  this 
kind,  Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Morality  and 
Natural  Religion , combats  those  theories  of  human 
nature  which  deduce  all  actions  from  some  single 
principle,  and  attempts  to  establish  several  prin- 
ciples of  action.  He  here  maintained  philosophical 
necessity,  but  in  a connection  with  the  duties  of 
morality  and  religion,  which  he  hoped  might  save 
him  from  the  obloquy  bestowed  on  other  defenders 
of  that  doctrine ; an  expectation  in  which  he  was 
partially  disappointed,  as  he  narrowly  escaped  a 
citation  before  the  General  Assembly  of  his  native 
church,  on  account  of  this  book. 

The  Introduction  to  the  Art  of  Thinking , published 
in  1761,  was  a small  and  subordinate  work,  consist- 
ing mainly  of  a series  of  detached  maxims  and 
general  observations  on  human  conduct,  illustrated 
by  anecdotes  drawn  from  the  stores  of  history 
and  biography.  In  the  ensuing  year  appeared  a 
larger  work,  perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  composi- 
tions— The  Elements  of  Criticism , three  volumes,  a 
bold  and  original  performance,  which,  discarding  all 
arbitrary  rules  of  literary  criticism  derived  from 
authority,  seeks  for  a proper  set  of  rules  in  the 
fundamental  principles  of  human  nature  itself. 
Dugald  Stewart  admits  this  to  be  the  first  sys- 
tematic attempt  to  investigate  the  metaphysical 
principles  of  the  fine  arts. 

Lord  Kames  had,  for  many  years,  kept  a common- 
190 


place-book,  into  which  he  transcribed  all  anecdotes 
of  man,  in  his  various  nations  and  degrees  of  civil- 
isation which  occurred  in  the  course  of  his  reading, 
or  appeared  in  the  fugitive  publications  of  the  da)*. 
When  advanced  to  near  eighty  years  of  age,  he 
threw  these  together  in  a work  entitled  Sketches  of  j 
the  History  of  Man  (two  vols.  4to,  1773),  which  ; 
shews  his  usual  ingenuity  and  acuteness,  and  pre-  j 
sents  many  curious  disquisitions  on  society,  but  is  S 
materially  reduced  in  value  by  the  absence  of  a j 


House  of  Lord  Kames,  Canongate,  Edinburgh. 


proper  authentication  to  many  of  the  statements 
presented  in  it  as  illustrations.  A volume,  entitled 
Loose  Hints  on  Education , published  in  1781,  and  in 
which  he  anticipates  some  of  the  doctrines  on  that 
subject  which  have  since  been  popular,  completes 
the  list  of  his  philosophical  works. 

Lord  Kames  was  also  distinguished  as  an  amateur 
agriculturist  and  improver  of  land,  and  some  opera- 
tions, devised  by  him  for  clearing  away  a superin- 
cumbent moss  from  his  estate  by  means  of  water 
raised  from  a neighbouring  river,  help  to  mark  the 
originality  and  boldness  of  his  conceptions.  This 
taste  led  to  his  producing,  in  1777,  a volume  entitled 
The  Gentleman  Farmer , which  he  has  himself  suffi- 
ciently described  as  ‘an  attempt  to  improve  agri- 
culture by  subjecting  it  to  the  test  of  rational 
principles.’ 

Lord  Kames  was  a man  of  commanding  aspect 
and  figure,  but  easy  and  familiar  manners.  He  was 
the  life  and  soul  of  every  private  company,  and  it 
was  remarked  of  him  that  no  subject  seemed  too 
great  or  too  frivolous  to  derive  lustre  from  his 
remarks  upon  it.  The  taste  and  thought  of  his 
philosophical  works  have  now  placed  them  out  of 
fashion,  but  they  contain  many  views  and  reflec- 
tions from  which  modern  inquirers  might  derive 
advantage. 

[Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  the  Ear.] 

That  nothing  external  is  perceived  till  first  it  make 
an  impression  upon  the  organ  of  sense,  is  an  observation 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  KAMES. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


that  holds  equally  in  every  one  of  the  external  senses. 
But  there  is  a difference  as  to  our  knowledge  of  that 
impression ; in  touching,  tasting,  and  smelling,  we  are 
sensible  of  the  impression  ; that,  for  example,  which  is 
made  upon  the  hand  by  a stone,  upon  the  palate  by  an 
apricot,  and  upon  the  nostrils  by  a rose.  It  is  other- 
wise in  seeing  and  hearing ; for  I am  not  sensible  of 
the  impression  made  upon  my  eye  when  I behold  a tree, 
nor  of  the  impression  made  upon  my  ear  when  I listen 
to  a song.  That  difference  in  the  manner  of  perceiving 
external  objects,  distinguisheth  remarkably  hearing  and 
seeing  from  the  other  senses ; and  I am  ready  to  shew 
that  it  distinguisheth  still  more  remarkably  the  feelings 
of  the  former  from  that  of  the  latter ; every  feeling, 
pleasant  or  painful,  must  be  in  the  mind;  and  yet, 
because  in  tasting,  touching,  and  smelling,  we  are 
sensible  of  the  impression  made  upon  the  organ,  we 
are  led  to  place  there  also  the  pleasant  or  painful  feeling 
caused  by  that  impression ; but,  with  respect  to  seeing 
and  hearing,  being  insensible  of  the  organic  impression, 
we  are  not  misled  to  assign  a wrong  place  to  the 
pleasant  or  painful  feelings  caused  by  that  impression ; 
and  therefore  we  naturally  place  them  in  the  mind, 
where  they  really  are  ; upon  that  account,  they  are 
conceived  to  be  more  refined  and  spiritual  than  what 
are  derived  from  tasting,  touching,  and  smelling ; for 
the  latter  feelings,  seeming  to  exist  externally  at  the 
organ  of  sense,  are  conceived  to  be  merely  corporeal. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  being  thus 
elevated  above  those  of  the  other  external  senses, 
acquire  so  much  dignity,  as  to  become  a laudable 
entertainment.  They  are  not,  however,  set  on  a level 
with  the  purely  intellectual,  being  no  less  inferior  in 
dignity  to  intellectual  pleasures,  than  superior  to  the 
organic  or  corporeal : they  indeed  resemble  the  latter, 
being,  like  them,  produced  by  external  objects  ; but 
they  also  resemble  the  former,  being,  like  them,  pro- 
duced without  any  sensible  organic  impression.  Their 
mixed  nature  and  middle  place  between  organic  and 
intellectual  pleasures  qualify  them  to  associate  with 
both  ; beauty  heightens  all  the  organic  feelings,  as  well 
as  the  intellectual ; harmony,  though  it  aspires  to 
inflame  devotion,  disdains  not  to  improve  the  relish  of 
a banquet. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  have  other 
valuable  properties  beside  those  of  dignity  and  eleva- 
tion ; being  sweet  and  moderately  exhilarating,  they 
are  in  their  tone  equally  distant  from  the  turbulence 
of  passion  and  the  languor  of  indolence  ; and  by  that 
tone  are  perfectly  well  qualified  not  only  to  revive  the 
spirits  when  sunk  by  sensual  gratification,  but  also  to 
relax  them  when  overstrained  in  any  violent  pursuit. 
Here  is  a remedy  provided  for  many  distresses  ; and  to 
be  convinced  of  its  salutary  effects,  it  will  be  sufficient 
to  run  over  the  following  particulars.  Organic  pleasures 
have  naturally  a short  duration  ; when  prolonged,  they 
lose  their  relish ; when  indulged  to  excess,  they 
beget  satiety  and  disgust ; and  to  restore  a proper  tone 
of  mind,  nothing  can  be  more  happily  contrived  than 
the  exhilarating  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  car.  On  the 
other  hand,  any  intense  exercise  of  intellectual  powers 
becomes  painful  by  overstraining  the  mind ; cessation 
from  such  exercise  gives  not  instant  relief  ; it  is  neces- 
sary that  the  void  be  filled  with  some  amusement,  gently 
relaxing  the  spirits : organic  pleasure,  which  hath  no 
relish  but  while  we  are  in  vigour,  is  ill  qualified  for  that 
office ; but  the  finer  pleasures  of  sense,  which  occupy, 
without  exhausting,  the  mind,  are  finely  qualified  to 
restore  its  usual  tone  after  severe  application  to  study 
or  business,  as  well  as  after  satiety  from  sensual 
gratification. 

Our  first  perceptions  are  of  external  objects,  and  our 
first  attachments  are  to  them.  Organic  pleasures  take 
the  lead  ; but  the  mind  gradually  ripening,  relisheth 
more  and  more  the  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  which 
approach  the  purely  mental  without  exhausting  the 


spirits,  and  exceed  the  purely  sensual  without  danger  of 
satiety.  The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear  have  accord- 
ingly a natural  aptitude  to  draw  us  from  the  immoderate 
gratification  of  sensual  appetite ; and  the  mind,  once 
accustomed  to  enjoy  a variety  of  external  objects  without 
being  sensible  of  the  organic  impression,  is  prepared  for 
enjoying  internal  objects  where  there  cannot  be  an 
organic  impression.  Thus  the  Author  of  nature,  by 
qualifying  the  human  mind  for  a succession  of  enjoy- 
ments from  low  to  high,  leads  it  by  gentle  steps  from 
the  most  grovelling  corporeal  pleasures,  for  which  only 
it  is  fitted  in  the  beginning  of  life,  to  those  refined  and 
sublime  pleasures  that  are  suited  to  its  maturity. 

But  we  are  not  bound  down  to  this  succession  by  any 
law  of  necessity  : the  God  of  nature  offers  it  to  us  in 
order  to  advance  our  happiness ; and  it  is  sufficient 
that  he  hath  enabled  us  to  carry  it  on  in  a natural 
course.  Nor  has  he  made  our  task  either  disagreeable 
or  difficult  : on  the  contrary,  the  transition  is  sweet  and 
easy  from  corporeal  pleasures  to  the  more  refined 
pleasures  of  sense  ; and  no  less  so  from  these  to  the 
exalted  pleasures  of  morality  and  religion.  _ We  stand 
therefore  engaged  in  honour  as  well  as  interest,  to  second 
the  purposes  of  nature  by  cultivating  the  pleasures 
of  the  eye  and  ear,  those  especially  that  require  extra- 
ordinary culture,  such  as  arise  from  poetry,  painting, 
sculpture,  music,  gardening,  and  architecture.  This 
especially  is  the  duty  of  the  opulent,  who  have  leisure 
to  improve  their  minds  and  their  feelings.  The  fine 
arts  are  contrived  to  give  pleasure  to  the  eye  and  the 
ear,  disregarding  the  inferior  senses.  A taste  for  these 
arts  is  a plant  that  grows  naturally  in  many  soils  ; but 
without  culture,  scarce  to  perfection  in  any  soil : it  is 
susceptible  of  much  refinement,  and  is  by  proper  care 
greatly  improved.  In  this  respect,  a taste  in  the  fine 
arts  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  moral  sense,  to  which, 
indeed,  it  is  nearly  allied  : both  of  them  discover  what  is 
right  and  what  is  wrong  : fashion,  temper,  and  educa- 
tion, have  an  influence  to  vitiate  both,  or  to  preserve 
them  pure  and  untainted : neither  of  them  are  arbit- 
rary nor  local,  being  rooted  in  human  nature,  and 
governed  by  principles  common  to  all  men.  The  design 
of  the  present  undertaking,  which  aspires  not  to 
morality,  is  to  examine  the  sensitive  branch  of  human 
nature,  to  trace  the  objects  that  are  naturally  agreeable, 
as  well  as  those  that  are  naturally  disagreeable  ; and 
by  these  means  to  discover,  if  we  can,  what  are  the 
genuine  pi’inciples  of  the  fine  arts.  The  man  who 
aspires  to  be  a critic  in  these  arts  must  pierce  still 
deeper  ; he  must  acquire  a clear  perception  of  what 
objects  are  lofty,  what  low,  what  proper  or  improper, 
what  manly,  and  what  mean  or  trivial  ; hence  a found- 
ation for  reasoning  upon  the  taste  of  any  individual, 
and  for  passing  a sentence  upon  it  : where  it  is  con- 
formable to  principles,  we  can  pronounce  with  certainty 
that  it  is  correct  ; otherwise,  that  it  is  incorrect  and 
perhaps  whimsical.  Thus  the  fine  arts,  like  morals, 
become  a rational  science  ; and,  like  morals,  may  be 
cultivated  to  a high  degree  of  refinement. 

Manifold  are  the  advantages  of  criticism  when  thus 
studied  as  a rational  science.  In  the  first  place,  a 
thorough  acquaintance  with  the  principles  of  the  fine 
arts  redoubles  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  them.  To 
the  man  who  resigns  himself  to  feeling  without  inter- 
posing any  judgment,  poetry,  music,  painting,  are 
mere  pastime.  In  the  prime  of  life,  indeed,  they  are 
delightful,  being  supported  by  the  force  of  novelty  and 
the  heat  of  imagination  ; but  in  time  they  lose  their 
relish,  and  are  generally  neglected  in  the  maturity  of 
life,  which  disposes  to  more  serious  and  more  important 
occupations.  To  those  who  deal  in  criticism  as  a 
regular  science  governed  by  just  principles,  and  giving 
scope  to  judgment  as  well  as  to  fancy,  the  fine  arts 
are  a favourite  entertainment,  and  in  old  age  main- 
tain that  relish  which  they  produce  in  the  morning 
of  life. 

191 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


DR 


BEATTIE. 


avarice  and  ambition  are  not  tbe  infirmities  of  that 
period,  would,  with  equal  sincerity  and  rapture, 
exclaim : 


Among  the  answerers  of  Hume  was  Dr  Beattie 
the  poet,  who,  in  1770,  published  his  Essay  on  the 
Nature  and  Immutability  of  T?'uth , in  Opposition  to 
Sophistry  and  Scepticism.  Inferior  to  most  of  the 
metaphysicians  in  logical  precision,  equanimity  of 
temper,  or  patient  research,  Beattie  brought  great 
zeal  and  fervour  to  his  task,  a respectable  share  of 
philosophical  knowledge,  and  a better  command  of  i 
popular  language  and  imaginative  illustration  than 
most  of  his  fellow-labourers  in  that  dry  and  dusty  | 
field.  These  qualities,  joined  to  the  pious  and  bene-  ; 
ficial  tendency  of  his  work,  enabled  him  to  produce  i 
a highly  popular  treatise.  No  work  of  the  kind  was 
ever  so  successful.  It  has  fallen  into  equal  neglect 
with  other  metaphysical  treatises  of  the  age,  and  is 
now  considered  unworthy  the  talents  of  its  author. 
It  has  neither  the  dignity  nor  the  acumen  of  the 
original  philosopher,  and  is  unsuited  to  the  ordinary 
religious  reader.  The  best  of  Beattie’s  prose  works 
are  his  Dissertations , Moral  and  Critical , and  his 
Essays  on  Poetry , Music , §~c.  He  also  published  a 
digest  of  his  college  lectures,  under  the  title  of 
Elements  of  Moral  Science.  In  these  works,  though 
not  profoundly  philosophical,  the  author’s  ‘lively 
relish  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful,  his  clear  and 
elegant  style,’  and  his  happy  quotations  and  critical 
examples,  must  strike  every  reader. 

[On  the  Love  of  Nature.] 

[From  Beattie’s  Essays .] 

Homer’s  beautiful  description  of  the  heavens  and 
earth,  as  they  appear  in  a calm  evening  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  and  stars,  concludes  with  this  circumstance 
— ‘and  the  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  glad.’  Madame 
Dacier,  from  the  turn  she  gives  to  the  passage  in  her 
version,  seems  to  think,  and  Pope,  in  order  perhaps  to 
make  out  his  couplet,  insinuates,  that  the  gladness  of  the 
shepherd  is  owing  to  his  sense  of  the  utility  of  those 
luminaries.  And  this  may  in  part  be  the  case ; but  this 
is  not  in  Homer;  nor  is  it  a necessary  consideration. 
It  is  true  that,  in  contemplating  the  material  universe, 
they  who  discern  the  causes  and  effects  of  things  must  be 
more  rapturously  entertained  than  those  who  perceive 
nothing  but  shape  and  size,  colour  and  motion.  Yet,  in 
the  mere  outside  of  nature’s  works — if  I may  so  express 
myself — there  is  a splendour  and  a magnificence  to 
which  even  untutored  minds  cannot  attend  without 
great  delight. 

Not  that  all  peasants  or  all  philosophers  are  equally 
susceptible  of  these  charming  impressions.  It  is  strange 
to  observe  the  callousness  of  some  men,  before  whom  all 
the  glories  of  heaven  and  earth  pass  in  daily  succession, 
without  touching  their  hearts,  elevating  their  fancy,  or 
leaving  any  durable  remembrance.  Even  of  those  who 
pretend  to  sensibility,  how  many  are  there  to  whom  the 
lustre  of  the  rising  or  setting  sun,  the  sparkling  concave 
of  the  midnight  sky,  the  mountain  forest  tossing  and 
roaring  to  the  storm,  or  warbling  with  all  the  melodies 
of  a summer  evening ; the  sweet  interchange  of  hill  and 
dale,  shade  and  sunshine,  grove,  lawn,  and  water,  which 
an  extensive  landscape  offers  to  the  view ; the  scenery  of 
the  ocean,  so  lovely,  so  majestic,  and  so  tremendous,  and 
the  many  pleasing  varieties  of  the  animal  and  vegetable 
kingdom,  could  never  afford  so  much  real  satisfaction  as 
the  steams  and  noise  of  a ball-room,  the  insipid  fiddling 
and  squeaking  of  an  opera,  or  the  vexations  and 
wranglings  of  a card-table ! 

But  some  minds  there  are  of  a different  make,  who, 
even  in  the  early  part  of  life,  receive  from  the  con- 
templation of  nature  a species  of  delight  which  they 
would  hardly  exchange  for  any  other;  and  who,  as 
192 


*1  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature’s  grace ; 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shews  her  brightening  face ; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns  by  living  stream  at  eve.’ 

Such  minds  have  always  in  them  the  seeds  of  true  taste, 
and  frequently  of  imitative  genius.  At  least,  though 
their  enthusiastic  or  visionary  turn  of  mind,  as  the  man 
of  the  world  would  call  it,  should  not  always  incline 
them  to  practise  poetry  or  painting,  we  need  not  scruple 
to  affirm  that,  without  some  portion  of  this  enthusiasm, 
no  person  ever  became  a true  poet  or  painter.  For  he 
who  would  imitate  the  works  of  nature,  must  first 
accurately  observe  them,  and  accurate  observation  is 
to  be  expected  from  those  only  who  take  great  pleasure 
in  it. 

To  a mind  thus  disposed,  no  part  of  creation  is 
indifferent.  In  the  crowded  city  and  howling  wilder- 
ness, in  the  cultivated  province  and  solitary  isle,  in  the 
flowery  lawn  and  craggy  mountain,  in  the  murmur  of 
the  rivulet  and  in  the  uproar  of  the  ocean,  in  the 
radiance  of  summer  and  gloom  of  winter,  in  the  thunder 
of  heaven  and  in  the  whisper  of  the  breeze,  he  still  finds 
something  to  rouse  or  to  soothe  his  imagination,  to  draw 
forth  his  affections,  or  to  employ  his  understanding. 
And  from  every  mental  energy  that  is  not  attended 
with  pain,  and  even  from  some  of  those  that  are,  as 
moderate  terror  and  pity,  a sound  mind  derives  satis- 
faction; exercise  being  equally  necessary  to  the  body 
and  the  soul,  and  to  both  equally  productive  of  health 
and  pleasure. 

This  happy  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature 
should  be  cherished  in  young  persons.  It  engages  them 
to  contemplate  the  Creator  in  his  wonderful  works ; it 
purifies  and  harmonises  the  soul,  and  prepares  it  for 
moral  and  intellectual  discipline ; it  supplies  a never- 
failing  source  of  amusement;  it  contributes  even  to 
bodily  health ; and,  as  a strict  analogy  subsists  between 
material  and  moral  beauty,  it  leads  the  heart  by  an  easy 
transition  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  thus  recom- 
mends virtue  for  its  transcendent  loveliness,  and  makes 
vice  appear  the  object  of  contempt  and  abomination.  An 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  best  descriptive  poets — 
Spenser,  Milton,  and  Thomson,  but,  above  all,  with  the 
divine  Georgic — joined  to  some  practice  in  the  art  of 
drawing,  will  promote  this  amiable  sensibility  in  early 
years ; for  then  the  face  of  nature  has  novelty  super- 
added  to  its  other  charms,  the  passions  are  not  pre- 
engaged,  the  heart  is  free  from  care,  and  the  imagination 
warm  and  romantic. 

But  not  to  insist  longer  on  those  ardent  emotions  that 
are  peculiar  to  the  enthusiastic  disciple  of  nature,  may 
it  not  be  affirmed  of  all  men  without  exception,  or  at 
least  of  all  the  enlightened  part  of  mankind,  that  they 
are  gratified  by  the  contemplation  of  things  natural  as 
opposed  to  unnatural  ? Monstrous  sights  please  but  for 
a moment,  if  they  please  at  all ; for  they  derive  their 
charm  from  the  beholder’s  amazement,  which  is  quickly 
over.  I have  read,  indeed,  of  a man  of  rank  in  Sicily 
who  chooses  to  adorn  his  villa  with  pictures  and  statues 
of  most  unnatural  deformity;  but  it  is  a singular 
instance ; and  one  would  not  be  much  more  surprised  to 
hear  of  a person  living  without  food,  or  growing  fat  by 
the  use  of  poison.  To  say  of  anything  that  it  is  contrary 
to  nature,  denotes  censure  and  disgust  on  the  part  of  the 
speaker ; as  the  epithet  natural  intimates  an  agreeable 
quality,  and  seems  for  the  most  part  to  imply  that  a 
thing  is  as  it  ought  to  be,  suitable  to  our  own  taste,  and 
congenial  with  our  own  constitution.  Think  with  what 
sentiments  we  should  peruse  a poem  in  which  nature  was 
totally  misrepresented,  and  principles  of  thought  and  of 
operation  supposed  to  take  place  repugnant  to  everything 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  DR  BEATTIE. 

we  had  seen  or  heard  of ; in  which,  for  example,  avarice 
and  coldness  were  ascribed  to  youth,  and  prodigality  and 
passionate  attachment  to  the  old ; in  which  men  were 
made  to  act  at  random,  sometimes  according  to  character, 
and  sometimes  contrary  to  it ; in  which  cruelty  and  envy 
were  productive  of  love,  and  beneficence  and  kind  affec- 
tion of  hatred;  in  which  beauty  was  invariably  the 
object  of  dislike,  and  ugliness  of  desire ; in  which  society 
was  rendered  happy  by  atheism  and  the  promiscuous 
perpetration  of  crimes,  and  justice  and  fortitude  were 
held  in  universal  contempt.  Or  think  how  we  should 
relish  a painting  where  no  regard  was  had  to  the  pro- 
portions, colours,  or  any  of  the  physical  laws  of  nature ; 
where  the  ears  and  eyes  of  animals  were  placed  in  their 
shoulders;  where  the  sky  was  green,  and  the  grass 
orimson ; where  trees  grew  with  their  branches  in  the 
oarth,  and  their  roots  in  the  air ; where  men  were  seen 
fighting  after  their  heads  were  cut  off,  ships  sailing  on 
the  land,  lions  entangled  in  cobwebs,  sheep  preying 
on  dead  carcasses,  fishes  sporting  in  the  woods,  and 
elephants  walking  on  the  sea.  Could  such  figures  and 
combinations  give  pleasure,  or  merit  the  appellation  of 
sublime  or  beautiful  ? Should  we  hesitate  to  pronounce 
their  author  mad  ? And  are  the  absurdities  of  madmen 
proper  subjects  either  of  amusement  or  of  imitation  to 
reasonable  beings  ? 

[On  Scottish  Music.] 

[From  the  same.] 

There  is  a certain  style  of  melody  peculiar  to  each 
musical  country,  w'hich  the  people  of  that  country  are 
apt  to  prefer  to  every  other  style.  That  they  should 
prefer  their  own,  is  not  surprising ; and  that  the  melody 
of  one  people  should  differ  from  that  of  another,  is  not 
more  surprising,  perhaps,  than  that  the  language  of  one 
people  should  differ  from  that  of  another.  But  there  is 
something  not  unworthy  of  notice  in  the  particular 
expression  and  style  that  characterise  the  music  of 
one  nation  or  province,  and  distinguish  it  from  every 
other  sort  of  music.  Of  this  diversity,  Scotland  supplies 
a striking  example.  The  native  melody  of  the  Highlands 
and  Western  Isles  is  as  different  from  that  of  the  south- 
ern part  of  the  kingdom  as  the  Irish  or  Erse  language  is 
different  from  the  English  or  Scotch.  In  the  conclusion 
of  a discourse  on  music,  as  it  relates  to  the  mind,  it  will 
not  perhaps  be  impertinent  to  offer  a conjecture  on  the 
cause  of  these  peculiarities  ; which  though  it  should 
not — and  indeed  I am  satisfied  that  it  will  not — fully 
account  for  any  one  of  them,  may,  however,  incline 
the  reader  to  think  that  they  are  not  unaccountable, 
and  may  also  throw  some  faint  light  on  this  part  of 
philosophy. 

Every  thought  that  partakes  of  the  nature  of  passion 
has  a correspondent  expression  in  the  look  and  gesture ; 
and  so  strict  is  the  union  between  the  passion  and  its 
outward  sign,  that  where  the  former  is  not  in  some 
degree  felt,  the  latter  can  never  be  perfectly  natural, 
but  if  assumed,  becomes  awkward  mimicry,  instead  of 
that  genuine  imitation  of  nature  which  draws  forth  the 
sympathy  of  the  beholder.  If,  therefore,  there  be,  in  the 
circumstances  of  particular  nations  or  persons,  anything 
that  gives  a peculiarity  to  their  passions  and  thoughts, 
it  seems  reasonable  to  expect  that  they  will  also  have 
something  peculiar  in  the  expression  of  their  counte- 
nance and  even  in  the  form  of  their  features.  Caius 
Marius,  Jugurtha,  Tamerlane,  and  some  other  great 
warriors,  are  celebrated  for  a peculiar  ferocity  of  aspect, 

I which  they  had  no  doubt  contracted  from  a perpetual 
and  unrestrained  exertion  of  fortitude,  contempt,  and 
other  violent  emotions.  These  produced  in  the  face 
their  correspondent  expressions,  which,  being  often 
repeated,  became  at  last  as  habitual  to  the  features 
as  the  sentiments  they  arose  from  were  to  the  heart. 
Savages,  whose  thoughts  are  little  inured  to  control, 
have  more  of  this  significancy  of  look  than  those  men 
65 

who,  being  born  and  bred  in  civilised  nations,  are  accus- 
tomed from  their  childhood  to  suppress  every  emotion 
that  tends  to  interrupt  the  peace  of  society.  And  while 
the  bloom  of  youth  lasts,  and  the  smoothness  of  feature 
peculiar  to  that  period,  the  human  face  is  less  marked 
with  any  strong  character  than  in  old  age.  A peevish 
or  surly  stripling  may  elude  the  eye  of  the  physiognomist  ; 
but  a wicked  old  man,  whose  visage  does  not  betray  the 
evil  temperature  of  his  heart,  must  have  more  cunning 
than  it  would  be  prudent  for  him  to  acknowledge. 
Even  by  the  trade  or  profession,  the  human  countenance 
may  be  characterised.  They  who  employ  themselves  in 
the  nicer  mechanic  arts,  that  require  the  earnest  atten- 
tion of  the  artist,  do  generally  contract  a fixedness  of 
feature  suited  to  that  one  uniform  sentiment  which 
engrosses  them  while  at  work.  Whereas  other  artists, 
whose  work  requires  less  attention,  and  who  may  ply 
their  trade  and  amuse  themselves  with  conversation  at 
the  same  time,  have,  for  the  most  part,  smoother 
and  more  unmeaning  faces : their  thoughts  are  more 
miscellaneous,  and  therefore  their  features  are  less 
fixed  in  one  uniform  configuration.  A keen  pene- 
trating look  indicates  thoughtfulness  and  spirit:  a 
dull  torpid  countenance  is  not  often  accompanied  with 
great  sagacity. 

This,  though  there  may  be  many  an  exception,  is  in 
general  true  of  the  visible  signs  of  our  passions  ; and  it 
is  no  less  true  of  the  audible.  A man  habitually  peevish, 
or  passionate,  or  querulous,  or  imperious,  may  be  known 
by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  well  as  by  his  physiognomy. 
May  we  not  go  a step  further,  and  say  that  if  a man, 
under  the  influence  of  any  passion,  were  to  compose  a 
discourse,  or  a poem,  or  a tune,  his  work  would  in  some 
measure  exhibit  an  image  of  his  mind?  I could  not 
easily  be  persuaded  that  Swift  and  Juvenal  were  men  of 
sweet  tempers ; or  that  Thomson,  Arbuthnot,  and  Prior 
were  ill-natured.  The  airs  of  Felton  are  so  uniformly 
mournful  that  I cannot  suppose  him  to  have  been  a 
merry  or  even  a cheerful  man.  If  a musician,  in  deep 
affliction,  were  to  attempt  to  compose  a lively  air,  I 
believe  he  would  not  succeed : though  I confess  I do 
not  well  understand  the  nature  of  the  connection  that 
may  take  place  between  a mournful  mind  and  a melan- 
choly tune.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  how  a poet  or  an 
orator  should  transfuse  his  passions  into  his  work ; for 
every  passion  suggests  ideas  congenial  to  its  own  nature ; 
and  the  composition  of  the  poet  or  of  the  orator  must 
necessarily  consist  of  those  ideas  that  occur  at  the  time 
he  is  composing.  But  musical  sounds  are  not  the  signs 
of  ideas ; rarely  are  they  even  the  imitations  of  natural 
sounds ; so  that  I am  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  it  should 
happen  that  a musician,  overwhelmed  with  sorrow,  for 
example,  should  put  together  a series  of  notes  whose 
expression  is  contrary  to  that  of  another  series  which  he 
had  put  together  when  elevated  with  joy.  But  of  the 
fact  I am  not  doubtful ; though  I have  not  sagacity  or 
knowledge  of  music  enough  to  be  able  to  explain  it. 
And  my  opinion  in  this  matter  is  warranted  by  that 
of  a more  competent  judge,  who  says,  speaking  of 
church  voluntaries,  that  if  the  organist  ‘do  not  feel 
in  himself  the  divine  energy  of  devotion,  he  will  labour 
in  vain  to  raise  it  in  others.  Nor  can  he  hope  to  throw 
out  those  happy  instantaneous  thoughts  which  some- 
times far  exceed  the  best  concerted  compositions,  and 
which  the  enraptured  performer  would  gladly  secure 
to  his  future  use  and  pleasure,  did  they  not  as  fleetly 
escape  as  they  rise.’  A man  who  has  made  music  the 
study  of  his  life, ‘and  is  well  acquainted  with  all  the  best 
examples  of  style  and  expression  that  are  to  be  found 
in  the  works  of  former  masters,  may,  by  memory  and 
much  practice,  attain  a sort  of  mechanical  dexterity 
in  contriving  music  suitable  to  any  given  passion  ; but 
such  music  would,  I presume,  be  vulgar  and  spiritless 
compared  to  what  an  artist  of  genius  throws  out  when 
under  the  power  of  any  ardent  emotion.  It  is  recorded 
of  Lulli,  that  once  when  his  imagination  was  all  on  fire 

193 

FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


with  some  verses  descriptive  of  terrible  ideas,  which  he 
had  been  reading  in  a French  tragedy,  he  ran  to  his 
harpsichord,  and  struck  off  such  a combination  of  sounds, 
that  the  company  felt  their  hair  stand  on  end  with 
horror. 

Let  us  therefore  suppose  it  proved,  or,  if  you  please, 
take  it  for  granted,  that  different  sentiments  in  the 
mind  of  the  musician  will  give  different  and  peculiar 
expressions  to  his  music ; and  upon  this  principle  it 
will  not  perhaps  be  impossible  to  account  for  some  of 
the  phenomena  of  a national  ear. 

The  Highlands  of  Scotland  are  a picturesque,  but  in 
general  a melancholy  country.  Long  tracts  of  moun- 
tainous desert,  covered  with  dark  heath,  and  often 
obscured  by  misty  weather ; narrow  valleys,  thinly 
inhabited,  and  bounded  by  precipices  resounding  with 
the  fall  of  torrents ; a soil  so  rugged,  and  a climate  so 
dreary,  as  in  many  parts  to  admit  neither  the  amuse- 
ments of  pasturage  nor  the  labours  of  agriculture  ; the 
mournful  dashing  of  waves  along  the  firths  and  lakes 
that  intersect  the  country  ; the  portentous  noises  which 
every  change  of  the  wind  and  every  increase  and  diminu- 
tion of  the  waters  is  apt  to  raise  in  a lonely  region,  full 
of  echoes,  and  rocks,  and  caverns ; the  grotesque  and 
ghastly  appearance  of  such  a landscape  by  the  light 
of  the  moon.  Objects  like  these  diffuse  a gloom  over 
the  fancy,  which  may  be  compatible  enough  with 
occasional  and  social  merriment,  but  cannot  fail  to 
tincture  the  thoughts  of  a native  in  the  hour  of  silence 
and  solitude.  If  these  people,  notwithstanding  their 
reformation  in  religion,  and  more  frequent  intercourse 
with  strangers,  do  still  retain  many  of  their  old  super- 
stitions, we  need  not  doubt  but  in  former  times  they 
must  have  been  more  enslaved  to  the  horrors  of  imagin- 
ation, when  beset  with  the  bugbears  of  popery  and  the 
darkness  of  paganism.  Most  of  their  superstitions  are 
of  a melancholy  cast.  That  second-sight  wherewith 
some  of  them  are  still  supposed  to  be  haunted,  is  con- 
sidered by  themselves  as  a misfortune,  on  account  of  the 
many  dreadful  images  it  is  said  to  obtrude  upon  the 
fancy.  I have  been  told  that  the  inhabitants  of  some 
of  the  Alpine  regions  do  likewise  lay  claim  to  a sort  of 
second-sight.  Nor  is  it  wonderful  that  persons  of  lively 
imagination,  immured  in  deep  solitude,  and  surrounded 
with  the  stupendous  scenery  of  clouds,  precipices,  and 
torrents,  should  dream,  even  when  they  think  them- 
selves awake,  of  those  few  striking  ideas  with  which 
their  lonely  lives  are  diversified ; of  corpses,  funeral 
processions,  and  other  objects  of  terror ; or  of  marriages 
and  the  arrival  of  strangers,  and  such-like  matters  of 
more  agreeable  curiosity.  Let  it  be  observed,  also,  that 
the  ancient  Highlanders  of  Scotland  had  hardly  any 
other  way  of  supporting  themselves  than  by  hunting, 
fishing,  or  war,  professions  that  are  continually  exposed 
to  fatal  accidents.  And  hence,  no  doubt,  additional 
horrors  would  often  haunt  their  solitude,  and  a deeper 
gloom  overshadow  the  imagination  even  of  the  hardiest 
native. 

What,'  then,  would  it  be  reasonable  to  expect  from  the 
fanciful  tribe,  from  the  musicians  and  poets,  of  such  a 
region?  Strains  expressive  of  joy,  tranquillity,  or  the 
softer  passions?  No  : their  style  must  have  been  better 
suited  to  their  circumstances.  And  so  we  find,  in  fact, 
that  their  music  is.  The  wildest  irregularity  appears  in 
its  composition : the  expression  is  warlike  and  melan- 
choly, and  approaches  even  to  the  terrible.  And  that 
their  poetry  is  almost  uniformly  mournful,  and  their 
views  of  nature  dark  and  dreary,  will  be  allowed  by  all 
who  admit  of  the  authenticity  of  Ossian;  and  not 
doubted  by  any  who  believe  those  fragments  of  High- 
land poetry  to  be  genuine,  which  many  old  people, 
now  alive,  of  that  country,  remember  to  have  heard  in 
their  youth,  and  were  then  taught  to  refer  to  a pretty 
high  antiquity. 

Some  of  the  southern  provinces  of  Scotland  present  a 
very  different  prospect.  Smooth  and  lofty  hills  covered 
194 


with  verdure;  clear  streams  winding  through  long 
and  beautiful  valleys ; trees  produced  without  culture", 
here  straggling  or  single,  and  there  crowding  into  little 
groves  and  bowers,  with  other  circumstances  peculiar  to 
the  districts  I allude  to,  render  them  fit  for  pasturage, 
and  favourable  to  romantic  leisure  and  tender  passions. 
Several  of  the  old  Scotch  songs  take  their  names  from 
the  rivulets,  villages,  and  hills  adjoining  to  the  Tweed 
near  Melrose ; a region  distinguished  by  many  charming 
varieties  of  rural  scenery,  and  which,  whether  we  consider 
the  face  of  the  country  or  the  genius  of  the  people,  may 
properly  enough  be  termed  the  Arcadia  of  Scotland. 
And  all  these  songs  are  sweetly  and  powerfully  expres- 
sive of  love  and  tenderness,  and  other  emotions  suited 
to  the  tranquillity  of  pastoral  life.  * * I believe  it 
[the  Scottish  music]  took  its  rise  among  men  who  were 
real  shepherds,  and  who  actually  felt  the  sentiments  and 
affections  whereof  it  is  so  very  expressive. 


ABRAHAM  TUCKER — DR  PRIESTLEY. 

Abraham  Tucker  (1705-1774)  was  an  English 
squire,  who,  instead  of  pursuing  the  pleasures  of  the 
chase,  studied  metaphysics  at  his  country  seat, 
and  published  (1768)  under  the  fictitious  name  of 
Edward  Search,  a work  entitled  The  Light  of  Nature 
Pursued , which  Paley  said  contained  more  original 
thinking  and  observation  than  any  other  work  of 
the  kind.  Tucker,  like  Adam  Smith,  excelled  in 
illustration,  and  he  did  not  disdain  the  most 
homely  subjects  for  examples.  Mackintosh  says  he 
excels  in  mixed,  not  in  pure  philosophy,  and  that 
his  intellectual  views  are  of  the  Hartleian  school. 
How  truly,  and  at  the  same  time  how  beautifully, 
has  Tucker  characterised  in  one  short  sentence  his 
own  favourite  metaphysical  studies : ‘ The  science 
of  abstruse  learning,’  he  says,  ‘when  completely 
attained,  is  like  Achilles’s  spear,  that  healed  the 
wounds  it  had  made  before.  It  casts  no  additional 
light  upon  the  paths  of  life,  hut  disperses  the 
clouds  with  which  it  had  overspread  them;  it 
advances  not  the  traveller  one  step  on  his  journey, 
but  conducts  him  back  again  to  the  spot  from 
whence  he  had  wandered.’ 

In  1775,  Dr  Joseph  Priestley  published  an 
examination  of  the  principles  of  Dr  Reid  and 
others,  designed  as  a refutation  of  the  doctrine  of 
common  sense,  said  to  be  employed  as  the  test  of 
truth  by  the  Scottish  metaphysicians.  The  doctrines 
of  Priestley  are  of  the  school  of  Hartley.  In  1777 
he  published  a series  of  disquisitions  on  Matter 
and  Spirit , in  which  he  openly  supported  the  mate- 
rial system.  He  also  wrote  in  support  of  another 
unpopular  doctrine — that  of  necessity.  He  settled 
in  Birmingham  in  1780,  and  officiated  as  minister  of 
a dissenting  congregation.  His  religious  opinions 
were  originally  Calvinistic,  hut  afterwards  became 
decidedly  anti-Trinitarian.  His  works  excited  so 
much  opposition,  that  he  ever  after  found  it  neces- 
sary, as  he  states,  to  write  a pamphlet  annually 
in  their  defence!  Priestley  was  also  an  active 
and  distinguished  chemist,  and  wrote  a history  of 
discoveries  relative  to  light  and  colours,  a history 
of  electricity,  &c.  At  the  period  of  the  French 
Revolution  in  1791,  a mob  of  outrageous  and 
brutal  loyalists  set  fire  to  his  house  in  Birming- 
ham, and  destroyed  his  library,  apparatus,  and 
specimens.  Three  years  afterwards  he  emigrated 
to  America,  where  he  continued  his  studies  in 
science  and  theology,  and  died  at  Northumberland, 
Pennsylvania,  in  1804.  As  an  experimental  phil- 
osopher, Priestley  was  of  a superior  class ; but  as 
a metaphysical  or  ethical  writer,  he  can  only  be 
considered  subordinate.  He  was  a man  of  intrepid 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  PALET. 


spirit  and  of  unceasing  industry.  One  of  his  critics 
— in  the  Edinburgh  Review — draws  from  his  writings 
a lively  picture  of  ‘ that  indefatigable  activity,  that 
bigoted  vanity,  that  precipitation,  cheerfulness,  and 
sincerity,  which  made  up  the  character  of  this 
restless  philosopher.’  Robert  Hall,  whose  feelings 
as  a dissenter,  and  an  enemy  to  all  religious  intol- 
erance and  persecution,  were  enlisted  on  the  side  of 
Priestley,  has  thus  eulogised  him  in  one  of  his 
most  eloquent  sentences : 1 The  religious  tenets  of 
Dr  Priestley  appear  to  me  erroneous  in  the  extreme  : 
but  I should  be  sorry  to  suffer  any  difference  of 
sentiment  to  diminish  my  sensibility  to  virtue,  or 
my  admiration  of  genius.  His  enlightened  and 
active  mind,  his  unwearied  assiduity,  the  extent  of 
his  researches,  the  light  he  has  poured  into  almost 
every  department  of  science,  will  be  the  admir- 
ation of  that  period,  when  the  greater  part  of  those 
who  have  favoured,  or  those  who  have  opposed  him, 
will  be  alike  forgotten.  Distinguished  merit  will 
ever  rise  superior  to  oppression,  and  will  draw 
lustre  from  reproach.  The  vapours  which  gather 
round  the  rising  sun,  and  follow  in  its  course, 
seldom  fail  at  the  close  of  it  to  form  a magnificent 
theatre  for  its  reception,  and  to  invest  with  varie- 
gated tints,  and  with  a softened  effulgence,  the 
luminary  which  they  cannot  hide.’ 


THEOLOGIANS. 

Critical  and  biblical  literature  have  made  great 
progress  within  the  last  century,  but  the  number 
of  illustrious  divines  is  not  great.  The  early 
fathers  of  the  Protestant  church  had  indeed  done  so 
much  in  general  theology  and  practical  divinity, 
that  comparatively  little  was  left  to  their  successors. 


DR  PALET. 

The  greatest  divine  of  the  period  is  Dr  William 
Palet,  a man  of  remarkable  vigour  and  clearness  of 
intellect,  and  originality  of  character.  His  acquire- 
ments as  a scholar  and  churchman  were  grafted 
on  a homely,  shrewd,  and  benevolent  nature,  which 
no  circumstances  could  materially  alter.  There 
was  no  doubt  or  obscurity  either  about  the  man  or 
his  works : he  stands  out  in  bold  relief  among  his 
brother-divines,  like  a sturdy  oak  on  a lawn  or 
parterre — a little  hard  and  cross-grained,  but  sound, 
fresh,  and  massive — dwarfing  his  neighbours  with 
his  weight  and  bulk,  and  his  intrinsic  excellence. 

He  shall  be  like  a tree  that  grows 
Near  planted  by  a river, 

Which  in  his  season  yields  his  fruit, 

And  his  leaf  fadeth  never. 

So  says  our  old  version  of  the  Psalms  with  respect 
to  the  fate  of  a righteous  man,  and  Paley  was  a 
righteous  man  whose  mind  yielded  precious  fruit, 
and  whose  leaves  will  never  fade.  This  excellent 
author  was  born  at  Peterborough  in  1743.  His 
father  was  afterwards  curate  of  Giggleswick,  York- 
shire, and  teacher  of  the  grammar-school  there.  At 
the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  entered  as  sizar  at  Christ’s 
College,  Cambridge,  and  after  completing  his  aca- 
demical course,  he  became  tutor  in  an  academy  at 
Greenwich.  As  soon  as  he  was  of  sufficient  age,  he 
was  ordained  to  be  assistant  curate  of  Greenwich. 
He  was  afterwards  elected  a fellow  of  his  college, 
and  went  thither  to  reside,  engaging  first  as  tutor. 
He  next  lectured  in  the  university  on  moral  phil- 
osophy and  the  Greek  Testament.  His  college- 
friend,  Dr  Law,  bishop  of  Carlisle,  presented  him 


with  the  rectory  of  Musgrave,  in  Westmoreland, 
and  he  removed  to  his  country  charge,  worth  only 
£80  per  annum.  He  was  soon  inducted  into  the 
vicarage  of  Dalston,  in  Cumberland,  to  a prebend’s 
stall  in  Carlisle  Cathedral,  and  also  to  the  arch- 
deaconry of  Carlisle.  In  1785,  appeared  his  long- 
meditated  Elements  of  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy  ; 
in  1790,  his  Horae  Paulinas ; and  in  1794,  his  View 
of  the  Evidences  of  Christianity.  Friends  and  pre- 
ferment now  crowded  in  on  him.  The  bishop  of 
'London  (Porteous)  made  him  a prebend  of  St 
Paul’s ; the  bishop  of  Lincoln  presented  him  with 
the  sub-deanery  of  Lincoln;  and  the  bishop  of 
Durham  gave  him  the  rectory  of  Bishop-Wearmouth, 
worth  about  a thousand  pounds  per  annum— and 
all  these  within  six  months,  the  luckiest  half-year 
of  his  life.  The  boldness  and  freedom  of  some  of 
Paley’s  disquisitions  on  government,  and  perhaps 
a deficiency,  real  or  supposed,  in  personal  dignity, 
and  some  laxness,  as  well  as  an  inveterate  provincial 
homeliness,  in  conversation,  prevented  his  rising 
to  the  bench  of  bishops.  When  his  name  was  once 
mentioned  to  George  III.,  the  monarch  is  reported 
to  have  said:  ‘Paley!  what,  pigeon  Paley?’ — an 
allusion  to  a famous  sentence  in  the  Moral  and 
Political  Philosophy  on  property.  As  a specimen  of 
his  style  of  reasoning,  and  the  liveliness  of  his 
illustrations,  we  subjoin  this  passage,  which  is  part 
of  an  estimate  of  the  relative  duties  of  men  in 
society : 

Of  Property. 

If  you  should  see  a flock  of  pigeons  in  a field  of  corn, 
and  if — instead  of  each  picking  where  and  what  it  liked, 
taking  just  as  much  as  it  wanted,  and  no  more — you 
should  see  ninety-nine  of  them  gathering  all  they  got 
into  a heap,  reserving  nothing  for  themselves  but  the 
chaff  and  the  refuse,  keeping  this  heap  for  one,  and 
that  the  weakest,  perhaps  worst  pigeon  of  the  flock ; 
sitting  round,  and  looking  on  all  the  winter,  whilst  this 
one  was  devouring,  throwing  about  and  wasting  it ; and 
if  a pigeon,  more  hardy  or  hungry  than  the  rest,  touched  i 
a grain  of  the  hoard,  all  the  others  instantly  flying  upon 
it  and  tearing  it  to  pieces  : if  you  should  see  this,  you 
would  see  nothing  more  than  what  is  every  day  practised 
and  established  among  men.  Among  men  yon  see  the 
ninety-and-nine  toiling  and  scraping  together  a heap  of 
superfluities  for  one,  and  this  one  too,  oftentimes,  the 
feeblest  and  worst  of  the  whole  set — a child,  a woman, 
a madman,  or  a fool — getting  nothing  for  themselves  all 
the  while  but  a little  of  the  coarsest  of  the  provision 
which  their  own  industry  produces  ; looking  quietly  on 
while  they  see'  the  fruits  of  all  their  labour  spent  or 
spoiled  ; and  if  one  of  the  number  take  or  touch  a 
particle  of  the  hoard,  the  others  joining  against  him, 
and  hanging  him  for  the  theft. 

There  must  be  some  very  important  advantages  to 
account  for  an  institution  which,  in  the  view  of  it  above 
given,  is  so  paradoxical  and  unnatural. 

The  principal  of  these  advantages  are  the  following  : 

I.  It  increases  the  produce  of  the  earth. 

The  earth,  in  climates  like  ours,  produces  little 
without  cultivation  ; and  none  would  be  found  willing 
to  cultivate  the  ground,  if  others  were  to  be  admitted 
to  an  equal  share  of  the  produce.  The  same  is  true  of 
the  care  of  flocks  and  herds  of  tame  animals. 

Crabs  and  acorns,  red  deer,  rabbits,  game,  and  fish, 
are  all  which  we  should  have  to  subsist  upon  in  this 
country,  if  we  trusted  to  the  spontaneous  productions 
of  the  soil;  and  it  fares  not  much  better  with  other 
countries.  A nation  of  North  American  savages,  con- 
sisting of  two  or  three  hundred,  will  take  up  and  be 
half  starved  upon  a tract  of  land  which  in  Europe,  and 
with  European  management,  would  be  sufficient  for  the 
maintenance  of  as  many  thousands. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


In  some  fertile  soils,  together  with  great  abundance 
of  fish  upon  their  coasts,  and  in  regions  where  clothes 
are  unnecessary,  a considerable  degree  of  population 
may  subsist  without  property  in  land,  which  is  the  case 
in  the  islands  of  Otaheite  ; but  in  less-favoured  situa- 
tions, as  in  the  country  of  New  Zealand,  though  this 
sort  of  property  obtain  in  a small  degree,  the  inhabit- 
ants, for  want  of  a more  secure  and  regular  establish- 
j ment  of  it,  are  driven  oftentimes  by  the  scarcity  of 
I provision  to  devour  one  another. 

II.  It  preserves  the  produce  of  the  earth  to  maturity. 

We  may  judge  what  would  be  the  effects  of  a com- 
I munity  of  right  to  the  productions  of  the  earth  from 
I the  trifling  specimens  which  we  see  of  it  at  present.  A 
i cherry-tree  in  a hedgerow,  nuts  in  a wood,  the  grass  of 
j an  unstinted  pasture,  are  seldom  of  much  advantage  to 
anybody,  because  people  do  not  wait  for  the  proper 
! season  of  reaping  them.  Corn,  if  any  were  sown,  would 
j never  ripen ; lambs  and  calves  would  never  grow  up  to 
! sheep  and  cows,  because  the  first  person  that  met  them 
would  reflect  that  he  had  better  take  them  as  they  are 
j than  leave  them  for  another, 
j III.  It  prevents  contests. 

War  and  waste,  tumult  and  confusion,  must  be 
unavoidable  and  eternal  where  there  is  not  enough 
for  all,  and  where  there  are  no  rules  to  adjust  the 
division. 

IV.  It  improves  the  conveniency  of  living. 

This  it  does  two  ways.  It  enables  mankind  to  divide 
themselves  into  distinct  professions,  which  is  impossible, 

J unless  a man  can  exchange  the  productions  of  his  own 
j art  for  what  he  wants  from  others,  and  exchange  implies 
property.  Much  of  the  advantage  of  civilised  over 
I savage  life  depends  upon  this.  When  a man  is,  from 
j necessity,  his  own  tailor,  tent-maker,  carpenter,  cook, 
i huntsman,  and  fisherman,  it  is  not  probable  that  he  will 
: be  expert  at  any  of  his  callings.  Hence  the  rude  habi- 
! tations,  furniture,  clothing,  and  implements  of  savages, 

| and  the  tedious  length  of  time  which  all  their  operations 
1 require. 

It  likewise  encourages  those  arts  by  which  the  accom- 
j modations  of  human  life  are  supplied,  by  appropriating 
| to  the  artist  the  benefit  of  his  discoveries  and  improve- 
j ments,  without  which  appropriation,  ingenuity  will 
| never  be  exerted  with  effect. 

Upon  these  several  accounts  we  may  venture,  with  a 
I few  exceptions,  to  pronounce  that  even  the  poorest  and 
; the  worst  provided,  in  countries  where  property  and  the 
I consequences  of  property  prevail,  are  in  a better  situa- 
j tion  with  respect  to  food,  raiment,  houses,  and  what  are 
! called  the  necessaries  of  life,  than  any  are  in  places 
| where  most  things  remain  in  common. 

The  balance,  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  must  prepon- 
derate in  favour  of  property  with  a manifest  and  great 
excess. 

Inequality  of  property,  in  the  degree  in  which  it  exists 
in  most  countries  of  Europe,  abstractedly,  considered,  is 
an  evil ; but  it  is  an  evil  which  flows  from  those  rules 
concerning  the  acquisition  and  disposal  of  property,  by 
which  men  are  incited  to  industry,  and  by  which  the 
object  of  their  industry  is  rendered  secure  and  valuable. 
If  there  be  any  great  inequality  unconnected  with  this 
crigin,  it  ought  to  be  corrected. 

In  1802  Paley  published  his  Natural  Theology , his 
last  work.  He  enjoyed  himself  in  the  country  with 
his  duties  and  recreations : he  was  particularly  fond 
of  angling ; and  he  mixed  familiarly  with  his  neigh- 
bours in  all  their  plans  of  utility,  sociality,  and  even 
conviviality.  He  disposed  of  his  time  with  great 
regularity : in  his  garden  he  limited  himself  to  one 
hour  at  a time,  twice  a day ; in  reading  books  of 
amusement,  one  hour  at  breakfast  and  another  in 
the  evening,  and  one  for  dinner  and  his  newspaper. 
By  thus  dividing  and  husbanding  his  pleasures, 
196 


they  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  He  died  on 
the  25th  of  May  1805. 

No  works  of  a theological  or  philosophical  nature 
have  been  so  extensively  popular  among  the  edu- 
cated classes  of  England  as  those  of  Paley.  His 
perspicacity  of  intellect  and  simplicity  of  style  are 
almost  unrivalled.  Though  plain  and  homely,  and 
often  inelegant,  he  has  such  vigour  and  discrimina- 
tion, and  such  a happy  vein  of  illustration,  that  he  is 
always  read  -with  pleasure  and  instruction.  No 
reader  is  ever  at  a loss  for  his  meaning,  or  finds  him 
too  difficult  for  comprehension.  He  had  the  rare 
art  of  popularising  the  most  recondite  knowledge, 
and  blending  the  business  of  life  with  philosophy. 
The  principles  inculcated  in  some  of  his  works  have 
been  disputed,  particularly  his  doctrine  of  expedi- 
ency as  a rule  of  morals,  which  has  been  considered 
as  trenching  on  the  authority  of  revealed  religion, 
and  also  lowering  the  standard  of  public  duty.  The 
system  of  Paley  certainly  would  not  tend  to  foster 
the  great  and  heroic  virtues.  In  his  early  life  he  is 
reported  to  have  said,  with  respect  to  his  subscrip- 
tion to  the  thirty-nine  articles  of  the  Church  of 
England,  that  he  was  ‘too  poor  to  keep  a conscience 
and  something  of  the  same  laxness  of  moral  feeling 
pervades  his  ethical  system.  His  abhorrence  of  all 
hypocrisy  and  pretence  was  probably  at  the  root  of 
this  error.  Like  Dr  Johnson,  he  was  a practical 
moralist,  and  looked  with  distrust  on  any  high- 
strained  virtue  or  enthusiastic  devotion.  He  did 
not  write  for  philosophers  or  metaphysicians,  but 
for  the  great  body  of  the  people  anxious  to  acquire 
knowledge,  and  to  be  able  to  give  ‘ a reason  for  the 
hope  that  is  in  them.’  He  considered  the  art  of  life 
to  consist  in  properly  ‘ setting  our  habits ,’  and  for  this 
no  subtle  distinctions  or  profound  theories  were 
necessary.  His  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy  is 
framed  on  this  basis  of  utility,  directed  by  strong 
sense,  a discerning  judgment,  and  a sincere  regard 
for  the  true  end  of  all  knowledge — the  well-being  of 
mankind  here  and  hereafter.  Of  Paley’s  other  works, 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  has  pronounced  the  following 
opinion : ‘ The  most  original  and  ingenious  of  his 
writings  is  the  Horae  Paulinas.  The  Evidences  of 
Christianity  are  formed  out  of  an  admirable  trans- 
lation of  Butler’s  Analogy , and  a most  skilful  abridg- 
ment of  Lardner’s  Credibility  of  the  Gospel  History. 
He  may  be  said  to  have  thus  given  value  to  two 
works,  of  which  the  first  was  scarcely  intelligible 
to  most  of  those  who  were  most  desirous  of  profiting 
by  it ; and  the  second  soon  wearies  out  the  greater 
part  of  readers,  though  the  few  who  are  more  patient 
have  almost  always  been  gradually  won  over  to 
feel  pleasure  in  a display  of  knowledge,  probity, 
charity,  and  meekness  unmatched  by  an  avowed 
advocate  in  a cause  deeply  interesting  his  warmest 
feelings.  His  Natural  Theology  is  the  wonderful 
work  of  a man  who,  after  sixty,  had  studied  anatomy 
in  order  to  write  it ; and  it  could  only  have  been 
surpassed  by  a man  (Sir  Charles  Bell)  who,  to  great 
originality  of  conception  and  clearness  of  exposition, 
added  the  advantage  of  a high  place  in  the  first 
class  of  physiologists.’ 

[The  World  was  Made  with  a Benevolent  Design .] 
[From  Natural  Theology.'] 

It  is  a happy  world  after  all.  The  air,  the  earth,  the 
water,  teem  with  delighted  existence.  In  a spring  noon 
or  a summer  evening,  on  whichever  side  I turn  my  eyes, 
myriads  of  happy  beings  crowd  upon  my  view.  ‘ The 
insect  youth  are  on  the  wing.’  Swarms  of  new-born 
flies  are  trying  their  pinions  in  the  air.  Their  sportive 
motions,  their  wanton  mazes,  their  gratuitous  activity, 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  WATSON — DR  HORSLEY. 


their  continual  change  of  place  without  use  or  purpose, 
testify  their  joy  and  the  exultation  which  they  feel  in 
their  lately  discovered  faculties.  A bee  amongst  the 
flowers  in  spring  is  one  of  the  most  cheerful  objects  that 
can  be  looked  upon.  Its  life  appears  to  be  all  enjoy- 
ment ; so  busy  and  so  pleased : yet  it  is  only  a specimen 
of  insect  life,  with  which,  by  reason  of  the  animal  being 
half  domesticated,  we  happen  to  be  better  acquainted 
than  we  are  with  that  of  others.  The  whole  winged 
insect  tribe,  it  is  probable,  are  equally  intent  upon  their 
proper  employments,  and,  under  every  variety  of  consti- 
tution, gratified,  and  perhaps  equally  gratified,  by  the 
offices  which  the  Author  of  their  nature  has  assigned  to 
them.  But  the  atmosphere  is  not  the  only  scene  of 
enjoyment  for  the  insect  race.  Plants  are  covered  with 
aphides,  greedily  sucking  their  juices,  and  constantly,  as 
it  should  seem,  in  the  act  of  sucking.  It  cannot  be 
doubted  but  that  this  is  a state  of  gratification : what 
else  should  fix  them  so  close  to  the  operation  and  so 
long  ? Other  species  are  running  about  with  an  alacrity 
in  their  motions  which  carries  with  it  every  mark  of 
pleasure.  Large  patches  of  ground  are  sometimes  half 
covered  with  these  brisk  and  sprightly  natures.  If  we 
look  to  what  the  waters  produce,  shoals  of  the  fry  of  fish 
frequent  the  margins  of  rivers,  of  lakes,  and  of  the  sea 
itself.  These  are  so  happy  that  they  know  not  what 
to  do  with  themselves.  Their  attitudes,  their  vivacity, 
their  leaps  out  of  the  water,  their  frolics  in  it — which  I 
have  noticed  a thousand  times  with  equal  attention  and 
amusement — all  conduce  to  shew  their  excess  of  spirits, 
and  are  simply  the  effects  of  that  excess.  Walking  by 
the  sea-side  in  a calm  evening  upon  a sandy  shore  and 
with  an  ebbing  tide,  I have  frequently  remarked  the 
appearance  of  a dark  cloud,  or  rather  very  thick  mist, 
hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  water,  to  the  height, 
perhaps,  of  half  a yard,  and  of  the  breadth  of  two  or 
three  yards,  stretching  along  the  coast  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  and  always  retiring  with  the  water.  When 
this  cloud  came  to  be  examined,  it  proved  to  be  nothing 
else  than  so  much  space  filled  with  young  shrimps  in 
the  act  of  bounding  into  the  air  from  the  shallow  margin 
of  the  water,  or  from  the  wet  sand.  If  any  motion  of  a 
mute  animal  could  express  delight,  it  was  this  ; if  they 
had  meant  to  make  signs  of  their  happiness,  they  could 
not  have  done  it  more  intelligibly.  Suppose,  then,  what 
I have  no  doubt  of,  each  individual  of  this  number  to 
be  in  a state  of  positive  enjoyment ; what  a sum, 
collectively,  of  gratification  and  pleasure  have  we  here 
before  our  view ! 

The  young  of  all  animals  appear  to  me  to  receive 
pleasure  simply  from  the  exercise  of  their  limbs  and 
bodily  faculties,  without  reference  to  any  end  to  be 
attained,  or  any  use  to  be  answered  by  the  exertion.  A 
child,  without  knowing  anything  of  the  use  of  language, 
is  in  a high  degree  delighted  with  being  able  to  speak. 
Its  incessant  repetition  of  a few  articulate  sounds,  or 
perhaps  of  the  single  word  which  it  has  learned  to 
pronounce,  proves  this  point  clearly.  Nor  is  it  less 
pleased  with  its  first  successful  endeavours  to  walk, 
or  rather  to  run — which  precedes  walking — although 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  importance  of  the  attainment 
to  its  future  life,  and  even  without  applying  it  to  any 
present  purpose.  A child  is  delighted  with  speaking, 
without  having  anything  to  say  ; and  with  walking, 
without  knowing  where  to  go.  And,  prior  to  both 
these,  I am  disposed  to  believe  that  the  waking-hours 
of  infancy  are  agreeably  taken  up  with  the  exercise  of 
vision,  or  perhaps,  more  properly  speaking,  with  learning 
to  see. 

But  it  is  not  for  youth  alone  that  the  great  Parent  of 
creation  hath  provided.  Happiness  is  found  with  the 
purring  cat  no  less  than  with  the  playful  kitten  ; in  the 
arm-chair  of  dozing  age,  as  well  as  in  either  the  spright- 
liness of  the  dance  or  the  animation  of  the  chase.  To 
novelty,  to  acuteness  of  sensation,  to  hope,  to  ardour  of 
pursuit,  succeeds  what  is,  in  no  inconsiderable  degree, 


an  equivalent  for  them  all,  ‘ perception  of  ease.’  Herein 
is  the  exact  difference  between  the  young  and  the  old. 
The  young  are  not  happy  but  when  enjoying  pleasure  ; . 
the  old  are  happy  when  free  from  pain.  And  this 
constitution  suits  with  the  degrees  of  animal  power 
which  they  respectively  possess.  The  vigour  of  youth 
was  to  be  stimulated  to  action  by  impatience  of  rest; 
whilst  to  the  imbecility  of  age,  quietness  and  repose 
become  positive  gratifications.  In  one  important  step 
the  advantage  is  with  the  old.  A state  of  ease  is, 
generally  speaking,  more  attainable  than  a state  of 
pleasure.  A constitution,  therefore,  which  can  enjoy 
ease,  is  preferable  to  that  which  can  taste  only  pleasure. 
This  same  perception  of  ease  oftentimes  renders  old  age 
a condition  of  great  comfort,  especially  when  riding  at 
its  anchor  after  a busy  or  tempestuous  life.  It  is  well 
described  by  Rousseau  to  be  the  interval  of  repose  and 
enjoyment  between  the  hurry  and  the  end  of  life.  How 
far  the  same  cause  extends  to  other  animal  natures, 
cannot  be  judged  of  with  certainty.  The  appearance  of 
satisfaction  with  which  most  animals,  as  their  activity 
subsides,  seek  and  enjoy  rest,  affords  reason  to  believe 
that  this  source  of  gratification  is  appointed  to  advanced 
life  under  all  or  most  of  its  various  forms.  In  the 
species  with  which  we  are  best  acquainted,  namely,  our 
own,  I am  far,  even  as  an  observer  of  human  life,  from 
thinking  that  youth  is  its  happiest  season,  much  less 
the  only  happy  one. 

A new  and  illustrated  edition  of  Paley’s  Natural 
Theology  was  published  in  1835,  with  scientific 
illustrations  by  Sir  Charles  Bell,  and  a preliminary 
discourse  by  Henry  Lord  Brougham. 

DR  WATSON — DR  HORSLEY — DR  PORTEOUS — 
GILBERT  WAKEFIELD. 

Dr  Richard  Watson,  bishop  of  Llandaff  (1737- 
1816),  did  good  service  to  the  cause  of  revealed 
religion  and  social  order  by  his  replies  to  Gibbon 
the  historian,  and  Thomas  Paine.  To  the  former, 
he  addressed  a series  of  letters,  entitled  An  Apology 
for  Christianity , in  answer  to  Gibbon’s  celebrated 
chapters  on  the  rise  and  progress  of  Christianity; 
and  when  Paine  published  his  Age  of  Reason , the 
bishop  met  it  with  a vigorous  and  conclusive  reply, 
which  he  termed  An  Apology  for  the  Bible.  Watson 
also  published  a few  sermons,  and  a collection  of 
theological  tracts,  selected  from  various  authors,  in 
six  volumes.  His  Whig  principles  stood  in  the  way 
of  his  church  preferment,  and  he  had  not  magnani- 
mity enough  to  conceal  his  disappointment,  which 
is  strongly  expressed  in  an  autobiographical  memoir 
published  after  his  death  by  his  son.  Dr  Watson, 
however,  was  a man  of  forcible  intellect,  and  of 
various  knowledge.  His  controversial  works  are 
highly  honourable  to  him,  both  for  the  manly  and 
candid  spirit  in  which  they  are  written,  and  the 
logical  clearness  and  strength  of  his  reasoning. 

Dr  Samuel  Horsley,  bishop  of  St  Asaph  (1733- 
1806),  was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  churchmen 
of  his  day.  He  belonged  to  the  high-church  party, 
and  strenuously  resisted  all  political  or  ecclesiastical 
change.  He  was  learned  and  eloquent,  but  prone 
to  controversy,  and  deficient  in  charity  and  the 
milder  virtues.  His  character  was  not  unlike  that 
of  one  of  his  patrons,  Chancellor  Thurlow,  stern  and 
unbending,  but  cast  in  a manly  mould.  He  was  an 
indefatigable  student.  His  first  public  appearance 
was  in  the  character  of  a man  of  science.  He  was 
some  time  secretary  of  the  Royal  Society — wrote 
various  short  treatises  on  scientific  subjects,  and 
published  an  edition  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton’s  works. 
As  a critic  and  scholar,  he  had  few  equals ; and 
his  disquisitions  on  the  prophets  Isaiah  and  llosea, 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


his  translations  of  the  Psalms,  and  his  Biblical 
Criticisms  (in  four  volumes),  justly  entitled  him 
to  the  honour  of  the  mitre.  His  sermons,  in  three 
volumes,  are  about  the  best  in  the  language : clear, 
nervous,  and  profound,  he  entered  undauntedly  upon 
the  most  difficult  subjects,  and  dispelled,  by  research 
and  argument,  the  doubt  that  hung  over  several 
passages  of  Scripture.  He  was  for  many  years 
engaged  in  a controversy  with  Dr  Priestley  on  the 
subject  of  the  divinity  of  Christ.  Both  of  the 
combatants  lost  their  temper;  but  when  Priestley 
resorted  to  a charge  of  ‘incompetency  and  ignorance,’ 
it  was  evident  that  he  felt  liimself  sinking  in  the 
struggle.  In  intellect  and  scholarship,  Horsley  was 
vastly  superior  to  his  antagonist.  The  political 
opinions  and  intolerance  of  the  bishop  were  more 
successfully  attacked  by  Robert  Hall,  in  his  Apology 
for  the  Freedom  of  the  Press. 

Dr  Beilby  Porteous,  bishop  of  London  (1731- 
1808),  was  a popular  dignitary  of  the  church,  author 
of  a variety  of  sermons  and  tracts  connected  with 
church-discipline.  He  distinguished  himself  at 


college  by  a prize  poem  On  Death , which  has  been 
often  reprinted:  it  is  but  a feeble  transcript  of 
Blair’s  Grave.  Dr  Porteous  warmly  befriended 
Beattie  the  poet  (whom  he  wished  to  take  orders 
in  the  Church  of  England),  and  he  is  said  to  have 
assisted  Hannah  More  in  her  novel  of  Coelebs. 

Gilbert  Wakefield  (1756-1801)  enjoyed  cele- 
brity both  as  a writer  on  controversial  divinity  and 
a classical  critic.  He  left  the  church  in  consequence 
of  his  embracing  Unitarian  opinions,  and  afterwards 
left  also  the  dissenting  establishment  at  Hackney, 
to  which  he  had  attached  himself.  He  published 
translations  of  some  of  the  epistles  in  the  New 
Testament,  and  an  entire  translation  of  the  same 
sacred  volume,  with  notes.  He  was  also  author  of 
a work  on  Christian  evidence,  in  reply  to  Paine. 
The  bishop  of  Llandaff  having  in  1798  written  an 
address  against  the  principles  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, Wakefield  replied  to  it,  and  was  subjected  to 
a crown  prosecution  for  libel ; he  was  found  guilty, 
and  sentenced  to  two  years’  imprisonment.  He 
198 


published  editions  of  Horace,  Virgil,  Lucretius,  &c., 
which  ranked  him  among  the  first  scholars  of  his 
time.  Wakefield  was  an  honest,  precipitate,  and 
simple-minded  man  ; a Pythagorean  in  his  diet,  and 
eccentric  in  many  of  his  habits  and  opinions.  ‘ He 
was,’  says  one  of  his  biographers,  ‘ as  violent  against 
Greek  accents  as  he  was  against  the  Trinity,  and 
anathematised  the  final  n as  strongly  as  episcopacy.’ 


MR  WILBERFORCE. 

The  infidel  principles  which  abounded  at  the 
period  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  continued  to 
agitate  both  France  and  England  for  some  years, 
induced  a disregard  of  vital  piety  long  afterwards 
in  the  higher  circles  of  British  society.  To  coun- 
teract this,  Mr  Wilberforce,  then  member  of 
parliament  for  the  county  of  York,  published  in  1797 
A Practical  View  of  the  Prevailing  Religious  System 
of  Professed  Christians  in  the  Higher  and  Middle 
Classes  of  this  Country , Contrasted  with  Real  Christi- 
anity. Five  editions  of  the  work  were  sold  within 
six  months,  and  it  still  continues,  in  various  lan- 
guages, to  form  a popular  religious  treatise.  The 
author  attested,  by  his  daily  life,  the  sincerity  of 
his  opinions.  William  Wilberforce  was  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  merchant,  and  born  at  Hull  in  1759.  He 
was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  on  completing  his 
twenty-first  year,  was  returned  to  parliament  for 
his  native  town.  He  soon  distinguished  liimself  by 
his  talents,  and  became  the  idol  of  the  fashionable 
world,  dancing  at  Almack’s,  and  singing  before  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  In  1784,  while  pursuing  a conti- 
nental tour  with  some  relations,  in  company  with 
Dean  Milner,  the  latter  so  impressed  him  with  the 
truths  of  Christianity,  that  Wilberforce  entered 
upon  a new  life,  and  abandoned  all  his  former 
gaieties.  In  parliament,  he  pursued  a strictly  inde- 
pendent course.  For  twenty,  years  he  laboured  for 
the  abolition  of  the  slave-trade,  a question  with 
which  his  name  is  inseparably  entwined.  His  time, 
his  talents,  influence,  and  prayers,  were  directed 
towards  the  consummation  of  this  object,  and  at 
length,  in  1807,  he  had  the  high  gratification  of 
seeing  it  accomplished.  The  religion  of  Wilberforce 
was  mild  and  cheerful,  unmixed  with  austerity  or 
gloom.  He  closed  his  long  and  illustrious  life  on 
the  27th  July  1833,  one  of  those  men  who,  by  their 
virtues,  talents,  and  energy,  impress  their  own 
character  on  the  age  in  which  they  live.  His  latter 
years  realised  his  own  beautiful  description — 

[On  the  Effects  of  Religion.] 

When  the  pulse  beats  high,  and  we  are  flushed  with 
youth,  and  health,  and  vigour ; when  all  goes  on  pros- 
perously, and  success  seems  almost  to  anticipate  our 
wishes,  then  we  feel  not  the  want  of  the  consolations  of 
religion;  but  when  fortune  frowns,  or  friends  forsake 
us ; when  sorrow,  or  sickness,  or  old  age  comes  upon  us, 
then  it  is  that  the  superiority  of  the  pleasures  of  reli- 
gion is  established  over  those  of  dissipation  and  vanity, 
which  are  ever  apt  to  fly  from  us  when  we  are  most  in 
want  of  their  aid.  There  is  scarcely  a more  melancholy 
sight  to  a considerate  mind,  than  that  of  an  old  man 
who  is  a stranger  to  those  only  true  sources  of  satisfac- 
tion. How  affecting,  and  at  the  same  time  how  dis- 
gusting, is  it  to  see  such  a one  awkwardly  catching  at 
the  pleasures  of  his  younger  years,  which  are  now 
beyond  his  reach ; or  feebly  attempting  to  retain  them, 
while  they  mock  his  endeavours  and  elude  his  grasp! 
To  such  a one  gloomily,  indeed,  does  the  evening  of  life 
set  in  ! All  is  sour  and  cheerless.  He  can  neither  look 
backward  with  complacency,  nor  forward  with  hope; 


theologians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  jortin — blair. 


while  the  aged  Christian,  relying  on  the  assured 
mercy  of  his  Redeemer,  can  calmly  reflect  that  his 
dismission  is  at  hand;  that  his  redemption  draweth 
nigh.  While  his  strength  declines,  and  his  faculties 
decay,  he  can  quietly  repose  himself  on  the  fidelity  of 
God;  and  at  the  very  entrance  of  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  he  can  lift  up  an  eye,  dim  perhaps  and 
feeble,  yet  occasionally  sparkling  with  hope,  and  confi- 
dently looking  forward  to  the  near  possession  of  his 
heavenly  inheritance,  ‘ to  those  joys  which  eye  hath  not 
seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  to  conceive.’  What  striking  lessons  have 
we  had  of  the  precarious  tenure  of  all  sublunary  posses- 
sions ! Wealth,  and  power,  and  prosperity,  how  pecu- 
liarly transitory  and  uncertain  ! But  religion  dispenses 
her  choicest  cordials  in  the  seasons  of  exigence,  in 
poverty,  in  exile,  in  sickness,  and  in  death.  The  essen- 
tial superiority  of  that  support  which  is  derived  from 
religion  is  less  felt,  at  least  it  is  less  apparent,  when  the 
Christian  is  in  full  possession  of  riches  and  splendour, 
and  rank,  and  all  the  gifts  of  nature  and  fortune.  But 
when  all  these  are  swept  away  by  the  rude  hand  of 
time  or  the  rough  blasts  of  adversity,  the  true  Christian 
stands,  like  the  glory  of  the  forest,  erect  and  vigorous ; 
stripped,  indeed,  of  his  summer  foliage,  but  more  than 
ever  discovering  to  the  observing  eye  the  solid  strength 
of  his  substantial  texture. 


JORTIN — HURD — HORNE. 

Dr  John  Jortin  (1698-1770),  a prebendary  of 
St  Paul’s,  and  archdeacon  of  London,  was  early 
distinguished  as  a scholar  and  an  independent 
theologian.  His  Remarks  upon  Ecclesiastical  History , 
published  at  intervals  between  1751  and  1751,  with 
an  addition  of  two  more  volumes  after  his  death, 
have  been  greatly  admired,  and  he  wrote  Six 
Dissertations  upon  Various  Subjects  (1755),  which 
evince  his  classical  taste  and  acquirements.  His 
other  works  are  a Life  of  Erasmus , 1758  ; Remarks 
upon  the  Works  of  Erasmus , 1760 ; and  several  tracts, 
philological,  critical,  and  miscellaneous.  Seven 
volumes  of  his  Sermons  were  published  after  his 
decease. 

Dr  Richard  Hurd  (1720-1808),  a friend  and 
disciple  of  Warburton,  was  author  of  an  Introduction 
to  the  Study  of  the  Prophecies , being  the  substance 
of  twelve  discourses  delivered  at  Cambridge.  Hurd 
was  a man  of  taste  and  learning,  author  of  a com- 
mentary on  Horace,  and  editor  of  Cowley’s  works. 
He  rose  to  enjoy  high  church  preferment,  and  died 
bishop  of  Worcester,  after  having  declined  the 
archiepiscopal  see  of  Canterbury. 

Dr  George  Horne  (1730-1792)  was  another 
divine  whose  talents  and  learning  raised  him  to  the 
bench  of  bishops.  He  wrote  various  works,  the 
most  important  of  which  is  a Commentary  on  the 
Book  of  Psalms , which  appeared  in  1776  in  two 
volumes  quarto.  It  is  still  a text-book  with  theo- 
logical students  and  divines,  and  unites  extensive 
erudition  with  fervent  piety. 


DR  HUGH  BLAIR. 

The  Scottish  church  at  this  time  also  contained 
some  able  and  accomplished  divines.  The  equality 
of  livings  in  the  northern  establishment,  and  the 
greater  amount  of  pastoral  labour  devolving  upon  its 
ministers,  arc  unfavourable  for  studious  research  or 
profound  erudition.  The  Edinburgh  clergy,  how- 
ever, are  generally  men  of  talents  and  attainments, 
and  the  universities  occasionally  receive  some  of  the 
best  divines  as  professors.  One  of  the  most  popular 
and  influential  of  the  Scottish  clergy  was  Dr  Hugh 


Blair,  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1718.  He  was  at  first 
minister  of  a country  church  in  Pifeshire,  but,  being 
celebrated  for  his  pulpit  eloquence,  he  was  succes- 
sively preferred  to  the  Canongate,  Lady  Yester’s, 
and-  the  High  Church  in  Edinburgh.  In  1759  he 
commenced  a course  of  lectures  on  rhetoric  and 
belles-lettres,  which  extended  his  literary  reputa- 
tion; and  in  1763  he  published  his  Dissertation  on 
the  Poems  of  Ossian , a production  evincing  both 
critical  taste  and  learning.  In  1777  appeared  the 
first  volume  of  his  Sermons , which  was  so  well 
received  that  the  author  published  three  other 
volumes,  and  a fifth  which  he  had  prepared,  was 
printed  after  his  death.  A royal  pension  of  £200 
per  annum  further  rewarded  its  author.  Blair  next 
published  his  Rhetorical  Lectures,  and  they  also  met 
with  a favourable  reception.  Though  somewhat 
hard  and  dry  in  style  and  manner,  this  work  forms 
a useful  guide  to  the  young  student : it  is  carefully 
arranged,  contains  abundance  of  examples  in  every 
department  of  literary  composition,  and  has  also 
detailed  criticisms  on  ancient  and  modern  authors. 
The  sermons,  however,  are  the  most  valuable  of 
Blair’s  works.  They  are  written  with  taste  and 
elegance,  and  by  inculcating  Christian  morality 
without  any  allusion  to  controversial  topics,  are 
suited  to  all  classes  of  Christians.  Profound 
thought,  or  reasoning,  or  impassioned  eloquence, 
they  certainly  do  not  possess,  and  in  this  respect 
they  must  be  considered  inferior  to  the  posthumous 
sermons  of  Logan  the  poet,  which,  if  occasionally 
irregular,  or  faulty  in  style,  have  more  of  devo- 
tional ardour  and  vivid  description.  In  society, 
Dr  Blair  was  cheerful  and  polite,  the  friend  of 
literature  as  well  as  of  virtue.  His  predominant 
weakness  seems  to  have  been  vanity,  which  was 
soon  discovered  by  Burns,  in  his  memorable  resi- 
dence in  Edinburgh  in  1787.  Blair  died  on  the 
27th  of  December  1800. 


[On  the  Cultivation  of  Taste .] 

[From  Blair’s  Lectures.'] 

Such  studies  have  this  peculiar  advantage,  that  they 
exercise  our  reason  without  fatiguing  it.  They  lead 
to  inquiries  acute,  but  not  painful ; profound,  but  not 
dry  or  abstruse.  They  strew  flowers  in  the  path  of 
science,  and  while  they  keep  the  mind  bent  in  some 
degree  and  active,  they  relieve  it  at  the  same  time 
from  that  more  toilsome  labour  to  which  it  must 
submit  in  the  acquisition  of  necessary  erudition  or 
the  investigation  of  abstract  truth. 

The  cultivation  of  taste  is  further  recommended  by 
the  happy  effects  which  it  naturally  tends  to  produce 
on  human  life.  The  most  busy  man  in  the  most 
active  sphere  cannot  be  always  occupied  by  business. 
Men  of  serious  professions  cannot  always  be  on  the 
stretch  of  serious  thought.  Neither  can  the  most  gay 
and  flourishing  situations  of  fortune  afford  any  man  the 
power  of  filling  all  his  hours  with  pleasure.  Life  must 
always  languish  in  the  hands  of  the  idle.  It  will 
frequently  languish  even  in  the  hands  of  the  busy,  if 
they  have  not  some  employment  subsidiary  to  that 
which  forms  their  main  pursuit.  How,  then,  shall  these 
vacant  spaces,  those  unemployed  intervals,  which  more 
or  less  occur  in  the  life  of  every  one,  be  filled  up  ? How 
can  we  contrive  to  dispose  of  them  in  any  way  that 
shall  be  more  agreeable  in  itself,  or  more  consonant  to 
the  dignity  of  the  human  mind,  than  in  the  entertain- 
ments of  taste,  and  the  study  of  polite  literature  ? He 
who  is  so  happy  as  to  have  acquired  a relish  for  these, 
has  always  at  hand  an  innocent  and  irreproachable 
amusement  for  his  leisure  hours,  to  save  him  from 
the  danger  of  many  a pernicious  passion.  He  is  not 

199 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


in  hazard  of  being  a burden  to  himself.  He  is  not 
obliged  to  fly  to  low  company,  or  to  court  the  riot 
of  loose  pleasures,  in  order  to  cure  the  tediousness  of 
existence. 

Providence  seems  plainly  to  have  pointed  out  this 
useful  purpose  to  which  the  pleasures  of  taste  may 
he  applied,  by  interposing  them  in  a middle  station 
between  the  pleasures  of  sense  and  those  of  pure  intel- 
lect. We  were  not  designed  to  grovel  always  among 
objects  so  low  as  the  former;  nor  are  we  capable  of 
dwelling  constantly  in  so  high  a region  as  the  latter. 
The  pleasures  of  taste  refresh  the  mind  after  the  toils 
of  the  intellect  and  the  labours  of  abstract  study ; and 
they  gradually  raise  it  above  the  attachments  of  sense, 
and  prepare  it  for  the  enjoyments  of  virtue. 

So  consonant  is  this  to  experience,  that,  in  the  edu- 
cation of  youth,  no  object  has  in  every  age  appeared 
more  important  to  wise  men  than  to  tincture  them 
early  with  a relish  for  the  entertainments  of  taste. 
The  transition  is  commonly  made  with  ease  from  these 
to  the  discharge  of  the  higher  and  more  important 
duties  of  life.  Good  hopes  may  be  entertained  of  those 
whose  minds  have  this  liberal  and  elegant  turn.  It  is 
favourable  to  many  virtues.  Whereas,  to  be  entirely 
devoid  of  relish  for  eloquence,  poetry,  or  any  of  the  fine 
arts,  is  justly  construed  to  be  an  unpromising  symptom 
of  youth ; and  raises  suspicions  of  their  being  prone 
to  low  gratifications,  or  destined  to  drudge  in  the  more 
vulgar  and  illiberal  pursuits  of  life. 

There  are  indeed  few  good  dispositions  of  any  kind 
with  which  the  improvement  of  taste  is  not  more  or 
less  connected.  A cultivated  taste  increases  sensi- 
bility to  all  the  tender  and  humane  passions,  by  giving 
them  frequent  exercise ; while  it  tends  to  weaken  the 
more  violent  and  fierce  emotions. 

Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes 

Emollit  mores,  nec  sinit  esse  feros. 

[These  polished  arts  have  humanised  mankind, 

Softened  the  rude,  and  calmed  the  boisterous  mind.] 

The  elevated  sentiments  and  high  examples  which 
poetry,  eloquence,  and  history  are  often  bringing  under 
our  view,  naturally  tend  to  nourish  in  our  minds  public 
spirit,  the  love  of  glory,  contempt  of  external  fortune, 
and  the  admiration  of  what  is  truly  illustrious  and 
great. 

I will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  improvement 
of  taste  and  of  virtue  is  the  same,  or  that  they  may 
always  be  expected  to  coexist  in  an  equal  degree. 
More  powerful  correctives  than  taste  can  apply  are 
necessary  for  reforming  the  corrupt  propensities  which 
too  frequently  prevail  among  mankind.  Elegant 
speculations  are  sometimes  found  to  float  on  the 
surface  of  the  mind,  while  bad  passions  possess  the 
interior  regions  of  the  heart.  At  the  same  time,  this 
cannot  but  be  admitted,  that  the  exercise  of  taste  is, 
in  its  native  tendency,  moral  and  purifying.  From 
reading  the  most  admired  productions  of  genius, 
whether  in  poetry  or  prose,  almost  every  one  rises 
with  some  good  impressions  left  on  his  mind;  and 
though  these  may  not  always  be  durable,  they  are  at 
least  to  be  ranked  among  the  means  of  disposing  the 
heart  to  virtue.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  without 
possessing  the  virtuous  affections  in  a strong  degree, 
no  man  can  attain  eminence  in  the  sublime  parts  of 
eloquence.  He  must  feel  what  a good  man  feels,  if  he 
expects  greatly  to  move  or  to  interest  mankind.  They 
are  the  ardent  sentiments  of  honour,  virtue,  magnani- 
mity, and  public  spirit,  that  only  can  kindle  that  fire 
of  genius,  and  call  up  into  the  mind  those  high  ideas, 
which  attract  the  admiration  of  ages ; and  if  this 
spirit  be  necessary  to  produce  the  most  distinguished 
efforts  of  eloquence,  it  must  be  necessary  also  to  our 
relishing  them  with  proper  taste  and  feeling. 

200 


[Difference  between  Taste  and  Genius .] 

[From  the  Bame.] 

Taste  and  genius  are  two  words  frequently  joined 
together,  and  therefore,  by  inaccurate  thinkers,  con- 
founded. They  signify,  however,  two  quite  different 
things.  The  difference  between  them  can  be  clearly 
pointed  out,  and  it  is  of  importance  to  remember  it. 
Taste  consists  in  the  power  of  judging;  genius  in  the 
power  of  executing.  One  may  have  a considerable 
degree  of  taste  in  poetry,  eloquence,  or  any  of  the  fine 
arts,  who  has  little  or  hardly  any  genius  for  compo- 
sition or  execution  in  any  of  these  arts;  but  genius 
cannot  be  found  without  including  taste  also.  Genius, 
therefore,  deserves  to  be  considered  as  a higher  power 
of  the  mind  than  taste.  Genius  always  imports  some- 
thing inventive  or  creative,  which  does  not  rest  in 
mere  sensibility  to  beauty  where  it  is  perceived,  but 
which  can,  moreover,  produce  new  beauties,  and 
exhibit  them  in  such  a manner  as  strongly  to  impress 
the  minds  of  others.  Refined  taste  forms  a good  critic  ; 
but  genius  is  further  necessary  to  form  the  poet  or  the 
orator. 

It  is  proper  also  to  observe,  that  genius  is  a word 
which,  in  common  acceptation,  extends  much  further 
than  to  the  objects  of  taste.  It  is  used  to  signify  that 
talent  or  aptitude  which  we  receive  from  nature  for 
excelling  in  any  one  thing  whatever.  Thus,  we  speak 
of  a genius  for  mathematics,  as  well  as  a genius  for 
poetry — of  a genius  for  war,  for  politics,  or  for  any 
mechanical  employment. 

This  talent  or  aptitude  for  excelling  in  some  one 
particular  is,  I have  said,  what  we  receive  from  nature. 
By  art  and  study,  no  doubt,  it  may  be  greatly  im- 
proved, but  by  them  alone  it  cannot  be  acquired.  As 
genius  is  a higher  faculty  than  taste,  it  is  ever,  accord- 
ing to  the  usual  frugality  of  nature,  more  limited  in 
the  sphere  of  its  operations.  It  is  not  uncommon 
to  meet  with  persons  who  have  an  excellent  taste  in 
several  of  the  polite  arts,  such  as  music,  poetry,  paint- 
ing, and  eloquence,  all  together;  but  to  find  one  who 
is  an  excellent  performer  in  all  these  arts,  is  much 
more  rare,  or  rather,  indeed,  such  a one  is  not  to  be 
looked  for.  A sort  of  universal  genius,  or  one  who  is 
equally  and  indifferently  turned  towards  several  different 
professions  and  arts,  is  not  likely  to  excel  in  any; 
although  there  may  be  some  few  exceptions,  yet  in 
general  it  holds,  that  when  the  bent  of  the  mind  is 
wholly  directed  towards  some  one  object,  exclusive  in 
a manner  of  others,  there  is  the  fairest  prospect  of 
eminence  in  that,  whatever  it  be.  The  rays  must 
converge  to  a point,  in  order  to  glow  intensely. 


DR  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Dr  George  Campbell,  professor  of  divinity,  and 
afterwards  principal  of  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen, 
was  a theologian  and  critic  of  more  'vigorous  intel- 
lect and  various  learning  than  Dr  Blair.  His  Dis- 
sertation on  Miracles , written  in  reply  to  Hume,  is  a 
conclusive  and  masterly  piece  of  reasoning ; and 
his  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric — published  in  1776 — is 
perhaps  the  best  hook  of  the  kind  since  Aristotle. 
Most  of  the  other  works  on  this  subject  are  little 
else  but  compilations,  but  Campbell  brought  to  it 
a high  degree  of  philosophical  acumen  and  learned 
research.  Its  utility  is  also  equal  to  its  depth  and 
originality : the  philosopher  finds  in  it  exercise  for 
his  ingenuity,  and  the  student  may  safely  consult  it 
for  its  practical  suggestions  and  illustrations.  Dr 
Campbell’s  other  works  are,  a Translation  of  the 
Four  Gospels , worthy  of  his  talents ; some  sermons 
preached  on  public  occasions ; and  a series  of  Lectures 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


EARL  OP  CHESTERFIELD. 


on  Ecclesiastical  History , which  were  not  published 
till  after  his  death.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that 
Hume  himself  admitted  the  ‘ ingenuity  ’ of  Camp- 
bell’s reply  to  his  sceptical  opinions,  and  the  ‘ great 
learning’  of  the  author.  The  well-known  hypo- 
thesis of  Hume  is,  that  no  testimony  for  any  kind 
of  miracle  can  ever  amount  to  a probability,  much 
less  to  a proof.  To  this  Dr  Campbell  opposed  the 
argument  that  testimony  has  a natural  and  original 
influence  on  belief,  antecedent  to  experience;  in 
illustration  of  which  he  remarked,  that  the  earliest 
assent  which  is  given  to  testimony  by  children,  and 
which  is  previous  to  all  experience,  is  in  fact  the 
most  unlimited.  His  answer  is  divided  into  two 
parts ; first,  that  miracles  are  capable  of  proof  from 
testimony,  and  religious  miracles  not  less  than 
others;  and,  secondly,  that  the  miracles  on  which 
the  belief  of  Christianity  is  founded,  are  sufficiently 
attested.  Campbell  had  no  fear  for  the  result  of 
such  discussions : ‘ I do  not  hesitate  to  affirm,’  he 
says,  ‘that  our  religion  has  been  indebted  to  the 
attempts,  though  not  to  the  intentions,  of  its  bitterest 
enemies.  They  have  tried  its  strength,  indeed,  and, 
by  trying,  they  have  displayed  its  strength;  and 
that  in  so  clear  a light,  as  we  could  never  have 
hoped,  without  such  a trial,  to  have  viewed  it  in. 
Let  them,  therefore,  write;  let  them  argue,  and, 
when  arguments  fail,  even  let  them  cavil  against 
religion  as  much  as  they  please ; I should  be 
heartily  sorry  that  ever  in  this  island,  the  asylum 
of  liberty,  where  the  spirit  of  Christianity  is  better 
understood — however  defective  the  inhabitants  are 
in  the  observance  of  its  precepts — than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  Christian  world;  I should,  I say,  be 
sorry  that  in  this  island  so  great  a disservice  were 
done  to  religion  as  to  check  its  adversaries  in  any 
other  way  than  by  returning  a candid  answer  to 
their  objections.  I must  at  the  same  time  acknow- 
ledge, that  I am  both  ashamed  and  grieved  when  I 
observe  any  friends  of  religion  betray  so  great  a 
diffidence  in  the  goodness  of  their  cause— for  to  this 
diffidence  alone  can  it  be  imputed— as  to  shew  an 
inclination  for  recurring  to  more  forcible  methods. 
The  assaults  of  infidels,  I may  venture  to  pro- 
phesy, will  never  overturn  our  religion.  They  will 
prove  not  more  hurtful  to  the  Christian  system,  if 
it  be  allowed  to  compare  small  things  with  the 
greatest,  than  the  boisterous  winds  are  said  to 
prove  to  the  sturdy  oak.  They  shake  it  impetu- 
ously for  a time,  and  loudly  threaten  its  subversion ; 
whilst,  in  effect,  they  only  serve  to  make  it 
strike  its  roots  the  deeper,  and  stand  the  firmer 
ever  after.’ 

In  the  same  manly  spirit,  and  reliance  on  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  truth,  Dr  Campbell  was  opposed 
to  the  penal  lawrs  against  the  Catholics ; and  in  1779, 
when  the  country  was  agitated  with  that  intolerant 
zeal  against  popery,  which  in  the  following  year 
burst  out  in  riots  in  London,  he  issued  an  Address 
to  the  People  of  Scotland,  remarkable  for  its  cogency 
of  argument  and  its  just  and  enlightened  sentiments. 
Eor  this  service  to  true  religion  and  toleration  the 
mob  of  Aberdeen  broke  the  author’s  windows,  and 
nicknamed  him  ‘Pope  Campbell.’  In  1795,  when 
far  advanced  in  life,  Dr  Campbell  received  a pen- 
sion of  £300  from  the  crown,  on  which  he  resigned 
his  professorship,  and  his  situation  as  principal  of 
Marischal  College.  He  enjoyed  this  well-earned 
reward  only  one  year,  dying  in  1796,  in  his  seventy- 
seventh  year.  With  the  single  exception  of  Dr 
Robertson  the  historian — who  shone  in  a totally 
different  walk— the  name  of  Dr  Campbell  is  the 
greatest  which  the  Scottish  church  can  number 
among  its  clergy. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

EARL  OP  CHESTERFIELD. 

No  work  of  this  period  was  so  eagerly  perused  or 
so  sharply  criticised  as  the  series  of  Letters  written 
by  Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfield 
(1694-1773),  to  his  natural  son  Philip  Stanhope, 
some  time  envoy  at  the  court  of  Dresden.  The 
letters  were  never  designed  for  publication.  After 
the  death  of  Mr  Stanhope  in  1768,  it  was  found  that 
he  had  been  secretly  married,  and  had  left  a widow 
and  two  children.  The  widow  disposed  of  the 
original  letters  to  their  proper  owner,  Lord  Chester- 
field, but  she  preserved  copies,  and  immediately 
after  the  death  of  the  eminent  wit  and  statesman, 
the  letters  were  committed  to  the  press.  The 
correspondence  began,  as  was  stated  in  the  preface, 
with  ‘the  dawnings  of  instruction  adapted  to  the 
capacity  of  a boy,  rising  gradually  by  precepts  and 
monition  calculated  to  direct  and  guard  the  age 
of  incautious  youth  to  the  advice  and  knowledge 
requisite  to  form  the  man  ambitions  to  shine  as  an 
accomplished  courtier,  an  orator  in  the  senate,  or 
a minister  at  foreign  courts.’  Mr  Stanhope,  how- 
ever, was  not  calculated  to  shine ; he  was  deficient 
in  those  graces  which  the  anxious  and  courtly  father 
so  sedulously  inculcated ; his  manners  were  distant, 
shy,  and  repulsive;  and  he  was  more  disposed  to 
become  a pedant,  than  an  orator  or  statesman. 
The  letters  in  point  of  morality  are  indefensible. 
Johnson  said  strongly  that  they  taught  the  morals 
of  a courtesan  and  the  manners  of  a dancing- 
master;  but  they  are  also  characterised  by  good 
sense  and  refined  taste,  and  are  written  in  pure 
and  admirable  English.  Chesterfield  was,  per- 
haps, the  most  accomplished  man  of  his  age;  but 
it  was  an  age  in  which  a low  standard  of  morality 
prevailed  among  public  men.  As  a statesman 
and  diplomatist,  he  was  ingenious,  witty,  and 
eloquent,  without  being  high-spirited  or  profound. 
He  originated  no  great  measure  or  scheme  of 
national  policy  to  stamp  his  name  on  the  political 
annals  of  his  country ; but  as  lord  lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  for  a short  period  his  administration  was 
conciliatory  and  enlightened.  The  speeches,  state- 
papers,  literary  essays,  and  other  miscellaneous 
writings  of  this  celebrated  peer  were  published  by 
Dr  Maty,  accompanied  with  a memoir,  in  1774, 
and  a valuable  edition  of  his  Letters,  edited,  with 
notes,  by  Lord  Mahon,  was  given  to  the  world 
in  four  volumes  in  1845. 

The  importance  which  Chesterfield  attached  to 
‘ good-breeding  ’ may  be  seen  from  this  passage : 

A friend  of  yours  and  mine  has  very  justly  defined 
good-breeding  to  be,  ‘ the  result  of  much  good-sense,, 
some  good-nature,  and  a little  self-denial  for  the  sake 
of  others,  and  with  a view  to  obtain  the  same  indul- 
gence from  them.’  Taking  this  for  granted — as  I think 
it  cannot  be  disputed — it  is  astonishing  to  me  that 
anybody,  who  has  good-sense  and  good-nature,  can  essen- 
tially fail  in  good-breeding.  As  to  the  modes  of  it, 
indeed,  they  vary  according  to  persons,  places,  and 
circumstances,  and  are  only  to  be  acquired  by  observa- 
tion and  experience ; but  the  substance  of  it  is  every- 
where and  eternally  the  same.  Good-manners  are  to- 
particular  societies,  what  good  morals  are  to  society  in 
general — their  cement  and  their  security.  And  as  laws 
are  enacted  to  enforce  good  morals,  or  at  least  to  prevent 
the  ill  effects  of  bad  ones,  so  there  are  certain  rules  of 
civility,  universally  implied  and  received,  to  enforce 
good-manners  and  punish  bad  ones.  And  indeed  there 
seems  to  me  to  be  less  difference  both  between  the 
crimes  and  punishments,  than  at  first  one  would  imagine. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800, 


The  immoral  man,  who  invades  another’s  property,  is 
justly  hanged  for  it ; and  the  ill-bred  man,  who  by  his 
ill-manners  invades  and  disturbs  the  quiet  and  comforts 
of  private  life,  is  by  common  consent  as  justly  banished 
society.  Mutual  complaisances,  attentions,  and  sacri- 
fices of  little  conveniences,  are  as  natural  an  implied 
compact  between  civilised  people,  as  protection  and 
obedience  are  between  kings  and  subjects ; whoever,  in 
either  case,  violates  that  compact,  justly  forfeits  all 
advantages  arising  from  it.  For  my  own  part,  I really 
think  that,  next  to  the  consciousness  of  doing  a good 
action,  that  of  doing  a civil  one  is  the  most  pleasing ; 
and  the  epithet- which  I should  covet  the  most,  next  to 
that  of  Aristides,  would  be  that  of  well-bred. 

The  copyright  of  Chesterfield’s  Letters  was  sold  for 
£1500 — a sum  almost  unprecedented  for  such  a 
work,  and  five  editions  were  called  for  within 
twelve  months. 


CHARLOTTE  LENNOX — CATHERINE  MACAULEY. 

Among  the  literary  names  preserved  by  Boswell 
and  Horace  Walpole  are  those  of  Mrs  Charlotte 
Lennox  (1720-1804),  and  Mrs  Catherine  Mac- 
atjley  (1733-1791).  The  former  wrote  several 
novels,  one  of  which,  The  Female  Quixote , 1752,  is 
an  amusing  picture  of  female  extravagance  con- 
sequent on  romance-reading.  Mrs  Lennox  also 
published  a feeble  critical  work,  ShaJcspeare  Illus- 
trated, and  translated  from  the  French  Brumoy’s 
Greek  Theatre , The  Life  of  Sully , &c.  The  first 
novel  of  this  lady  '( Harriot  Stuart , 1751)  was 
celebrated  by  Johnson  and  a party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  in  the  Devil  Tavern,  where  a sumptuous 
supper  was  provided,  and  Johnson  invested  the 
authoress  with  a crown  of  laurel ! 

Mrs  Macauley  was  an  ardent  politician,  and  in 
sentiment  a republican — ‘the  hen-brood  of  faction,’ 
according  to  Walpole.  Her  chief  work  was  a 
History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James  I. 
to  the  Elevation  of  the  House  of  Hanover , 8 vols., 
1763-83.  Though  a work  of  no  authority  or 
original  information,  this  history  has  passages  of 
animated  composition.  To  ridicule  Mrs  Macauley’s 
republicanism,  Johnson  one  day  proposed  that  her 
footman,  ‘ a very  sensible,  civil,  well-behaved  fellow- 
citizen,’  should  be  allowed  to  sit  down  to  dinner 
with  them.  The  lady,  of  course,  was  indignant; 
hut  she  held  to  her  levelling  doctrines  in  theory, 
and  before  her  death,  had  visited  George  Washing- 
ton in  America,  and  written  against  Burke’s 
denunciation  of  the  French  Devolution. 


DR  RICHARD  FARMER — GEORGE  STEEVENS. 

In  1766,  Dr  Richard  Farmer  of  Emanuel 
College,  Cambridge  (1735-1797),  published  an 
Essay  on  the  Learning  of  ShaJcspeare,  which  was 
considered  to  have  for  ever  put  an  end  to  the 
dispute  concerning  the  classic  knowledge  of  the 
great  dramatist.  Farmer  certainly  shewed  that 
Shakspeare  had  implicitly  followed  English  trans- 
lations of  the  ancient  authors — as  North’s  Plutarch 
— copying  even  their  errors;  but  more  careful  and 
reverent  study  of  the  poet  has  weakened  the  force 
of  many  of  the  critic’s  conclusions.  The  due  appre- 
ciation of  Shakspeare  had  not  then  begun. 

A dramatic  critic  and  biographer,  George 
Steevens  (1736-1800),  was  associated  with  John- 
son in  the  second  edition  of  his  Shakspeare,  1773. 
He  had  previously  (1766)  published  twenty  of 
Shakspeare’s  plays,  with  notes.  In  1793,  Steevens 
published  an  enlarged  edition  of  his  Shakspeare. 
He  was  acute  and  well  read  in  dramatic  literature, 


but  prone  to  literary  mystification  and  deception. 
Gifford  styled  him  the  ‘ Puck  of  commentators.’ 

JACOB  BRYANT. 

A severe  student  and  profound  scholar,  Jacob 
Bryant  (1715-1804)  engaged  the  attention  of  the 
learned  and  critical  world  throughout  a long  life  by 
his  erudition,  inventive  fancy,  and  love  of  paradox. 
Through  the  influence  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
to  whom  he  had  acted  as  secretary,  Mr  Bryant 
obtained  a lucrative  appointment  in  the  Ordnance 
Office,  which  left  him  leisure  to  pursue  his  favourite 
studies.  His  most  celebrated  works  are  A New 
System  or  Analysis  of  Ancient  Mythology , 1774-76; 
Observations  on  the  Plain  of  Troy,  1795 ; and  a Dis- 
sertation concerning  the  War  of  Troy , 1796.  The 
object  of  Bryant  was  to  shew  that  the  expedition  of 
the  Greeks,  as  described  by  Homer,  is  fabulous,  and 
that  no  such  city  as  Troy  existed.  A host  of  classic 
adversaries  rose  up  against  him,  to  one  of  whom — 
Mr  J.  B.  S.  Morritt,  the  friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
— he  replied,  but  his  theory  has  not  obtained  general 
acquiescence.  His  views  regarding  the  ancient 
mythology — in  which  he  attempted  to  divest  tradi- 
tion of  fable,  and  to  substitute  etymological  for 
historical  evidence — are  also  in  a great  measure 
fanciful,  but  are  highly  ingenious,  and,  like  all  his 
writings,  evince  extraordinary  learning  and  research. 
Bryant  also  wrote  several  theological  treatises  and 
papers  on  classical  subjects.  It  is  worthy  of  remark 
that,  though  this  able  and  amiable  man  doubted  and 
denied  concerning  Homer,  he  was  a believer  in  the 
fabrications  of  Chatterton,  having  written  observa- 
tions to  prove  the  authenticity  of  the  Rowley  poems. 

THOMAS  AMORY. 

Thomas  Amory  (1692-1789)  was  an  eccentric 
miscellaneous  writer,  a humorist  of  an  extreme 
stamp.  He  Avas  most  probably  a native  of  Ireland, 
where  his  father,  a counsellor,  acquired  considerable 
property  as  secretary  for  the  confiscated  estates. 
Thomas  is  said  to  have  been  bred  a physician, 
but  is  not  known  to  have  practised.  He  is  found 
residing  in  Westminster  in  1757.  Previous  to  this, 
in  1755,  he  published  Memoirs:  containing  the  Lives 
of  several  Ladies  of  Great  Britain ; and  afterwards  he 
issued  the  Life  of  John  B uncle,  Esq.,  1756-66.  The 
‘ Ladies  ’ whose  charms  and  virtues  Amory  com- 
memorates, appear  to  have  been  fictitious  characters. 
The  object  of  the  author,  in  this  work,  as  well  as 
in  the  Life  of  Buncle,  was  to  extol  and  propagate 
Socinian  or  Unitarian  opinions.  All  his  ladies  are 
of  this  persuasion,  and  all  are  beautiful  and  intellec- 
tual. He  describes  himself  as  travelling  among  the 
hills  of  Northumberland,  and  meeting  there,  in 
a secluded  spot  (which  he  invests  with  all  the 
beauty  and  softness  of  a scene  in  Kent  or  Devon), 
a young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a deceased  college- 
friend,  who  had  been  disinherited  for  refusing  to 
sign  the  Thirty-nine  Articles.  The  young  lady 
entertains  her  father’s  friend,  and  introduces  him  to 
other  ladies.  They  undertake  a visit  to  the  Western 
Islands,  and  encounter  various  adventures  and 
vicissitudes,  besides  indulging  in  philosophical  and 
polemical  discussions.  The  Life  of  John  Buncle  is 
of  a similar  complexion,  but  Amory  is  supposed 
to  have  introduced  into  this  work  a considerable 
portion  of  his  own  history.  It  is  in  the  form  of  an 
autobiography.  Buncle  has  seven  wives,  all  wooed 
and  won  upon  his  peculiar  ‘ Christian  principles.’ 
To  such  reviewers  as  should  attempt  to  raise  the 
laugh  against  him,  he  replies : ‘ I think  it  unreason- 
able and  impious  to  grieve  immoderately  for  the 
dead.  A decent  and  proper  tribute  of  tears  and 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


sorrow,  humanity  requires  ; but  when  that  duty  has 
been  paid,  we  must  remember  that  to  lament  a dead 
woman  is  not  to  lament  a wife.  A wife  must  be  a 
living  woman.’  And  in  the  spirit  of  this  philosophy, 
John  Buncle  proceeds  after  each  bereavement, 
always  in  high  animal  spirits,  relishing  good  cheer, 
and  making  fresh  converts  to  his  views  and  opinions. 
The  character,  appearance,  and  acquirements  of 
each  wife,  with  her  family  history,  are  related  at 
length.  The  progeny  he  casts  into  shade.  ‘ As  I 
mention  nothing  of  any  children  by  so  many  wives,’ 
he  explains,  ‘ some  readers  may  perhaps  wonder  at 
this ; and  therefore  to  give  a general  answer  once 
for  all,  I think  it  sufficient  to  observe,  that  I had  a 
great  many  to  carry  on  the  succession ; but  as  they 
never  were  concerned  in  any  extraordinary  affairs, 
nor  ever  did  any  remarkable  things,  that  I ever 
heard  of— only  rise  and  breakfast,  read  and  saunter, 
drink  and  eat,  it  would  not  be  fair,  in  my  opinion,  to 
make  any  one  pay  for  their  history.’  In  lieu  of  this, 
the  reader  is  treated  to  dissertations  on  the  origin 
of  earthquakes,  on  muscular  motion,  of  phlogiston, 
fluxions,  the  Athanasian  creed,  and  fifty  other  topics 
brought  together  in  heroic  contempt  of  the  unities 
of  time  and  place.  Such  a fantastic  and  desultory 
work  would  be  intolerable  if  it  were  not,  like 
Rabelais  and  Burton’s  Anatomy  of  Melancholy — 
though  in  a greatly  inferior  degree — redolent  of  wit, 
scholarship,  and  quaint  original  thought.  Amory 
promised  to  give  the  world  an  account  of  Dean 
Swift.  ‘ I knew  him  well,’  he  says,  ‘ though  I never 
was  within  sight  of  his  house,  because  I could  not 
flatter,  cringe,  or  meanly  humour  the  extravagances 
of  any  man.  I had  him  often  to  myself  in  his  rides 
and  walks,  and  have  studied  his  soul  when  he  little 
thought  what  I was  about.  As  I lodged  for  a year 
within  a few  doors  of  him,  I knew  his  time  of  going 
out  to  a minute,  and  generally  nicked  the  oppor- 
tunity.’ Unfortunately,  though  Amory  lived  thirty 
years  after  making  this  declaration,  he  never 
redeemed  his  promise. 

[Picture  of  Arcadia.'] 

In  the  middle  of  this  delightful  country,  there  appears 
the  monument  of  a beauty,  who  had  been  snatched 
away  in  her  prime.  Her  statue  lies  on  the  tomb,  after 
the  manner  of  the  ancients.  There  is  this  sepulchral 
inscription  : ‘And  I was  once  an  inhabitant  of  Arcadia.’ 
The  unexpected  melancholy  scene  strikes  powerfully 
some  youths  and  virgins,  who  had  not  a thought  of 
meeting  with  this  object  of  sorrow,  and  as  they  gaze 
upon  the  image  of  the  lovely  maid,  they  seem  to  fall 
into  the  deepest  reflections.  The  youngest  of  the 
shepherdesses  pulls  off  a garland  of  flowers,  and  with  a 
finger  of  her  other  hand,  points  to  the  short  inscription. 
She  ponders  with  the  most  serious  attention  ; and  in 
every  face  a gloominess  of  grief  may  be  discerned, 
through  some  remains  of  an  expiring  joy.  They  all 
appear  very  greatly  affected,  and  seem  to  have  many 
interesting  thoughts  of  death,  as  they  see  it  spares  not 
even  youth  and  beauty;  and  that  even  the  happy 
climate  of  Arcadia  can  afford  no  sanctuary  from  the 
grave. 

[Portrait  of  Marinda  Bruce.] 

In  the  year  1739,  I travelled  many  hundred  miles  to 
visit  ancient  monuments,  and  discover  curious  things ; 
and  as  I wandered,  to  this  purpose,  among  the  vast 
hills  of  Northumberland,  fortune  conducted  me  one 
evening,  in  the  month  of  June,  when  I knew  not  where 
to  rest,  to  the  sweetest  retirement  my  eyes  have  ever 
beheld.  This  is  Hali-farm.  It  is  a beautiful  vale 
surrounded  with  rocks,  forest,  and  water.  I found  at 


the  upper  end  of  it  the  prettiest  thatched  house  in  the 
world,  and  a garden  of  the  most  artful  confusion  I had 
ever  seen.  The  little  mansion  was  covered  on  every 
side  with  the  finest  flowery  greens.  The  streams  ail 
round  were  murmuring  and  falling  a thousand  ways. 
All  the  kind  of  singing-birds  were  here  collected,  and 
in  high  harmony  on  the  sprays.  The  ruins  of  an  abbey 
enhance  the  beauties  of  this  place ; they  appear  at  the 
distance  of  four  hundred  yards  from  the  house ; and  as 
some  great  trees  are  now  grown  up  among  the  remains, 
and  a river  winds  between  the  broken  walls,  the  view 
is  solemn,  the  picture  fine. 

When  I came  up  to  the  house,  the  first  figure  I saw 
was  the  lady  whose  story  I am  going  to  relate.  She 
had  the  charms  of  an  angel,  but  her  dress  was  quite 
plain  and  clean  as  a country  maid.  Her  person  appeared 
faultless,  and  of  the  middle  size,  between  the  disagree- 
able extremes;  her  face,  a sweet  oval,  and  her  com- 
plexion the  brunette  of  the  bright  rich  kind  ; her  mouth, 
like  a rose-bud  that  is  just  beginning  to  blow ; and  a 
fugitive  dimple,  by  fits,  would  lighten  and  disappear. 
The  finest  passions  were  always  passing  in  her  face ; 
and  in  her  long,  even  chestnut  eyes,  there  was  a fluid 
fire,  sufficient  for  half-a-dozen  pair. 

She  had  a volume  of  Shakspeare  in  her  hand  as  I 
came  softly  towards  her,  having  left  my  horse  at  a 
distance  with  my  servant ; and  her  attention  was  so 
much  engaged  with  the  extremely  poetical  and  fine 
lines  which  Titania  speaks  in  the  third  act  of  the  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream , that  she  did  not  see  me  till  I 
was  quite  near  her.  She  seemed  then  in  great  amaze- 
ment. She  could  not  be  much  more  surprised  if  I had 
dropped  from  the  clouds.  But  this  was  soon  over,  upon 
my  asking  her  if  she  was  not  the  daughter  of  Mr  John 
Bruce,  as  I supposed,  from  a similitude  of  faces,  and 
informing  her  that  her  father,  if  I was  right,  was  my 
near  friend,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  his  chum  in  that 
part  of  the  world.  Marinda  replied:  ‘You  are  not 
wrong,’  and  immediately  asked  me  in.  She  conducted  me 
to  a parlour  that  was  quite  beautiful  in  the  rural  way, 
and  welcomed  me  to  Hali-farm,  as  her  father  would 
have  done,  she  said,  had  I arrived  before  his  removal 
to  a better  world.  She  then  left  me  for  a while,  and  I 
had  time  to  look  over  the  room  I was  in.  The  floor 
was  covered  with  rushes  wrought  into  the  prettiest 
mat,  and  the  walls  decorated  all  round  with  the  finest 
flowers  and  shells.  Robins  and  nightingales,  the  finch 
and  the  linnet,  were  in  the  neatest  reed  cages  of  her 
own  making ; and  at  the  upper  end  of  the  chamber,  in 
a charming  little  open  grotto,  was  the  finest  strix  capite 
aurito,  corpore  rufo  that  I have  seen,  that  is,  the  great 
eagle  owl.  This  beautiful  bird,  in  a niche  like  a ruin, 
looked  vastly  fine.  As  to  the  flowers  which  adorned 
this  room,  I thought  they  were  all  natural  at  my  first 
coming  in ; but  on  inspection,  it  appeared  that  several 
baskets  of  the  finest  kinds  were  inimitably  painted  on 
the  walls  by  Marinda’ s hand. 

These  things  afforded  me  a pleasing  entertainment 
for  about  half-an-hour,  and  then  Miss  Bruce  returned. 
One  of  the  maids  brought  in  a supper — such  fare,  she 
said,  as  her  little  cottage  afforded ; and  the  table  was 
covered  with  green  peas  and  pigeons,  cream -cheese,  new 
bread  and  butter.  Everything  was  excellent  in  its 
kind.  The  cider  and  ale  were  admirable.  Discretion 
and  dignity  appeared  in  Marinda’s  behaviour;  she 
talked  with  judgment ; and  under  the  decencies  of 
ignorance  was  concealed  a valuable  knowledge. 

DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

The  miscellaneous  department  of  our  literature 
was  unusually  rich  at  this  time,  as  it  included 
nearly  all  the  great  names  that  shone  in  poetry, 
fiction,  politics,  philosophy,  and  criticism..  At  its 
head,  as  exercising  a more  commanding  influence 
than  any  other  of  his  contemporaries,  may  he 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


placed  Dr  Johnson,  already  distinguished  as  a 
moral  poet  and  essayist.  In  1755  Johnson  pub- 
lished his  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language , which 
had  occupied  the  greater  part  of  his  time  for 
seven  years.  In  1765  appeared  his  edition  of 
Shakspeare,  containing  little  that  is  valuable  in 
the  way  of  annotation,  but  introduced  by  a power- 
ful and  masterly  preface.  In  1770  and  1771  he 
wrote  two  political  pamphlets  in  support  of  the 
measures  of  government,  The  False  Alarm,  and 
Thoughts  on  the  Late  1'ransactions  respecting  the  Falk- 
land Lslands.  Though  often  harsh,  contemptuous, 
and  intolerant,  these  pamphlets  are  admirable  pieces 
of  composition — full  of  nerve  and  controversial 
zeal.  In  1775  appeared  his  Journey  to  the  Western 
Isles  of  Scotland;  and  in  1781  his  Lives  of  the  Poets. 
It  was  the  felicity  of  Johnson,  as  of  Dryden,  to 
improve  as  an  author  as  he  advanced  in  years,  and 
to  write  best  after  he  had  passed  that  period  of  life 
when  many  men  are  almost  incapable  of  intellectual 
exertion.  In  reviewing  the  above  works,  little 
other  language  need  be  employed  than  that  of  eulogy. 
The  Dictionary  is  a valuable  practical  work,  not 
remarkable  for  philological  research,  but  for  its 
happy  and  luminous  definitions,  the  result  of  great 
sagacity,  precision  of  understanding,  and  clearness 
of  expression.  A few  of  the  definitions  betray  the 
personal  feelings  and  peculiarities  of  the  author,  and 
have  been  much  ridiculed.  For  example,  ‘ Excise,’ 
which — as  a Tory  hating  Walpole  and  the  Whig 
excise  act — he  defines,  ‘ A hateful  tax  levied  upon 
commodities,  and  adjudged,  not  by  the  common 
judges  of  property,  but  by  wretches  hired  by  those 
to  whom  excise  is  paid.’  A pension  is  defined  to  be 
‘ an  allowance  made  to  any  one  without  an  equiva- 
lent. In  England,  it  is  generally  understood  to 
mean  pay  given  to  a state-hireling  for  treason  to  his 
country.’  After  such  a definition,  it  is  scarcely  to 
be  wondered  that  Johnson  paused,  and  felt  some 
‘compunctious  visitings’  before  he  accepted  a 
pension  himself ! Oats  he  defines,  ‘A  grain  which 
in  England  is ‘generally  given  to  horses,  but  in 
Scotland  supports  the  people.’  This  gave  mortal 
offence  to  the  natives  of  Scotland,  and  is  hardly  yet 
forgiven  ; but  the  best  reply  was  the  happy  obser- 
vation of  Lord  Elibank,  ‘Yes,  and  where  will  you 
find  such  horses  and  such  men?’  The  Journey  to 
the  Western  Jsles  makes  no  pretension  to  scientific 
discovery,  but  it  is  an  entertaining  and  finely  written 
work.  In  the  Highlands,  the  poetical  imagination 
of  Johnson  expanded  with  the  new  scenery  and 
forms  of  life  presented  to  his  contemplation.  His 
love  of  feudalism,  of  clanship,  and  of  ancient 
Jacobite  families,  found  full  scope ; and  as  he  was 
always  a close  observer,  his  descriptions  convey 
much  pleasing  and  original  information.  His  com- 
plaints of  the  want  of  woods  in  Scotland,  though 
dwelt  upon  with  a ludicrous  perseverance  and 
querulousness,  had  the  effect  of  setting  the  landlords 
to  plant  their  bleak  moors  and  mountains,  and 
improve  the  aspect  of  the  country.  The  Lives  of 
the  Poets  have  a freedom  of  style,  a vigour  of 
thought,  and  happiness  of  illustration,  rarely 
attained  even  by  their  author.  The  plan  of  the 
work  was  defective,  as  the  lives  begin  only  with 
Cowley,  excluding  all  the  previous  poets  from 
Chaucer  downwards.  Some  feeble  and  worthless 
rhymsters  also  obtained  niches  in  J ohnson’s  gallery ; 
but  the  most  serious  defect  of  the  whole  is  the 
injustice  done  to  some  of  our  greatest  masters  of 
song,  in  consequence  of  the  political  or  personal 
prejudices  of  the  author.  To  Milton  he  is  strikingly 
unjust,  though  his  criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  is  able 
and  profound.  Gray  is  treated  with  a coarseness 
204 


and  insensibility  derogatory  only  to  the  critic  ; and 
in  general,  as  we  have  before  had  occasion  to  remark, 
the  higher  order  of  imaginative  poetry  suffers  under 
the  ponderous  hand  of  J ohnson.  Its  beauties  were 
too  airy  and  ethereal  for  his  grasp — too  subtle  for 
his  feeling  or  understanding.  A few  extracts  are 
subjoined,  to  illustrate  his  peculiar  but  impressive 
and  animated  style. 

[From  the  Preface  to  the  Dictionary .] 

It  is  the  fate  of  those  who  toil  at  the  lower  employ- 
ments of  life  to  be  rather  driven  by  the  fear  of  evil, 
than  attracted  by  the  prospect  of  good ; to  be  exposed 
to  censure  without  hope  of  praise ; to  be  disgraced  by 
miscarriage,  or  punished  for  neglect,  where  success 
would  have  been  without  applause,  and  diligence  with- 
out reward. 

Among  these  unhappy  mortals  is  the  writer  of  dic- 
tionaries ; whom  mankind  have  considered,  not  as  the 
pupil,  but  the  slave  of  science,  the  pioneer  of  literature, 
doomed  only  to  remove  rubbish  and  clear  obstructions 
from  the  paths  through  which  learning  and  genius  press 
forward  to  conquest  and  glory,  without  bestowing  a 
smile  on  the  humble  drudge  that  facilitates  their  pro- 
gress. Every  other  author  may  aspire  to  praise ; the 
lexicographer  can  only  hope  to  escape  reproach,  and 
even  this  negative  recompense  has  been  yet  granted 
to  very  few. 

I have,  notwithstanding  this  discouragement,  attempted 
a dictionary  of  the  English  language,  which,  while  it  was 
employed  in  the  cultivation  of  every  species  of  litera- 
ture, has  itself  been  hitherto  neglected  ; suffered  to 
spread,  under  the  direction  of  chance,  into  wild  exu- 
berance ; resigned  to  the  tyranny  of  time  and  fashion ; 
and  exposed  to  the  corruptions  of  ignorance,  and  caprices 
of  innovation. 

No  book  was  ever  turned  from  one  language  into 
another  without  imparting  something  of  its  native 
idiom ; this  is  the  most  mischievous  and  comprehensive 
innovation ; single  words  may  enter  by  thousands,  and 
the  fabric  of  the  tongue  continue  the  same;  but  new 
phraseology  changes  much  at  once;  it  alters  not  the 
single  stones  of  the  building,  but  the  order  of  the 
columns.  If  an  academy  should  be  established  for 
the  cultivation  of  our  style — which  I,  who  can  never 
wish  to  see  dependence  multiplied,  hope  the  spirit  of 
English  liberty  will  hinder  or  destroy — let  them, 
instead  of  compiling  grammars  and  dictionaries,  endea- 
vour, with  all  their  influence,  to  stop  the  licence  of 
translators,  whose  idleness  and  ignorance,  if  it  be’ 
suffered  to  proceed,  will  reduce  us  to  babble  a dialect 
of  France. 

If  the  changes  that  we  fear  be  thus  irresistible,  what 
remains  but  to  acquiesce  with  silence,  as  in  the  other 
insurmountable  distresses  of  humanity  ? It  remains  that 
we  retard  what  we  cannot  repel,  that  we  palliate  what 
we  cannot  cure.  Life  may  be  lengthened  by  care,  though 
death  cannot  be  ultimately  defeated;  tongues,  like 
governments,  have  a natural  tendency  to  degeneration ; 
we  have  long  preserved  our  constitution,  let  us  make 
some  struggles  for  our  language. 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own 
nature  forbids  to  be  immortal,  I have  devoted  this  book, 
the  labour  of  years,  to  the  honour  of  my  country,  that 
we  may  no  longer  yield  the  palm  of  philology,  without 
a contest,  to  the  nations  of  the  continent.  The  chief 
glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors  : whether  I 
shall  add  anything  by  my  own  writings  to  the  reputa- 
I tion  of  English  literature,  must  be  left  to  time ; much 
! of  my  life  has  been  lost  under  the  pressures  of  disease ; 

; much  has  been  trifled  away  ; and  much  has  always  been 
I spent  in  provision  for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  me ; 

I but  I shall  not  think  my  employment  useless  or  ignoble, 
if,  by  my  assistance,  foreign,  nations  and  distant  ages  gain 
I access  to  the  propagators  of  knowledge,  and  understand 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


tlie  teachers  of  truth ; if  my  labours  afford  light  to  the 
repositories  of  science,  and  add  celebrity  to  Bacon,  to 
Hooker,  to  Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  I am  animated  by  this  wish,  I look  with 
pleasure  on  my  book,  however  defective,  and  deliver  it 
to  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  a man  that  has  endea- 
voured well.  That  it  will  immediately  become  popular, 
I have  not  promised  to  myself  ; a few  wild  blunders  and 
risible  absurdities,  from  which  no  work  of  such  multi- 
plicity was  ever  free,  may  for  a time  furnish  folly  with 
laughter,  and  harden  ignorance  into  contempt;  but 
useful  diligence  will  at  last  prevail,  and  there  never 
can  be  wanting  some  who  distinguish  desert,  who  will 
consider  that  no  dictionary  of  a living  tongue  ever  can 
"be  perfect,  since,  while  it  is  hastening  to  publication, 
some  words  are  budding  and  some  falling  away  ; that  a 
whole  life  cannot  be  spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology, 
and  that  even  a whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient ; that 
he  whose  design  includes  whatever  language  can  express, 
must  often  speak  of  what  he  does  not  understand ; that 
a writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried  by  eagerness  to  the 
end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under  a task 
which  Scaliger  compares  to  the  labours  of  the  anvil 
and  the  mine ; that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always  known, 
and  what  is  known  is  not  always  present ; that  sudden 
fits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise  vigilance,  slight  avoca- 
tions will  seduce  attention,  and  casual  eclipses  of  the 
mind  will  darken  learning;  and  that  the  writer  shall 
often  in  vain  trace  his  memory  at  the  moment  of  need 
for  that  which  yesterday  he  knew  with  intuitive  readi- 
ness, and  which  will  come  uncalled  into  his  thoughts 
to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is 
omitted,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  much  likewise  is 
performed ; and  though  no  book  was  ever  spared  out  of 
tenderness  to  the  author,  and  the  world  is  little  soli- 
citous to  know  whence  proceeded  the  faults  of  that 
which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity  to 
inform  it,  that  the  English  Dictionary  was  written 
with  little  assistance  of  the  learned,  and  without  any 
patronage  of  the  great;  not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of 
retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of  academic  bowers,  but 
amid  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness  and  in 
sorrow.  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malignant 
criticism  to  observe,  that  if  our  language  is  not  here 
fully  displayed,  I have  only  failed  in  an  attempt  which 
no  human  powers  have  hitherto  completed.  If  the 
lexicons  of  ancient  tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and 
comprised  in  a few  volumes,  be  yet,  after  the  toil  of 
successive  ages,  inadequate  and  delusive;  if  the  aggre- 
gated knowledge  and  co-operating  diligence  of  the 
Italian  academicians  did  not  secure  them  from  the 
censure  of  Beni ; if  the  embodied  critics  of  France, 
when  fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon  'their  work,  were 
obliged  to  change  its  economy,  and  give  their  second 
edition  another  form,  I may  surely  be  contented  without 
the  praise  of  perfection,  which,  if  I could  obtain  in  this 
gloom  of  solitude,  what  would  it  avail  me?  I have 
protracted  my  work  till  most  of  those  whom  I wished 
to  please  have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and 
miscarriage  are  empty  sounds.  I therefore  dismiss 
it  with  .frigid  tranquillity,  having  little  to  fear  or  hope 
from  censure  or  from  praise. 

[ Reflections  on  Landing  at  Iona .] 

[From  the  Journey  to  the  Western  Isles.) 

"We  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island  which 
was  once  the  luminary  of  the  Caledonian  regions,  whence 
savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians  derived  the  benefits 
of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  religion.  To  abstract 
the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would  be  impossible  if 
it  were  endeavoured,  and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were 
possible.  Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of 
our  senses,  whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the 
future,  predominate  over  the  present,  advances  us  in  the 


dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  my  friends 
be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indifferent 
and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified 
by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  The  man  is  little  to  be 
envied  whose  patriotism  would  not  gain  force  on  the 
plains  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety  would  not  grow 
warmer  among  the  ruins  of  Iona. 

[ Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden.\ 

[From  the  Lives  of  the  Poets. ] 

Pope  professed  to  have  learned  his  poetry  from 
Dryden,  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  was  presented, 
he  praised  through  his  whole  life  with  unvaried  liber- 
ality; and  perhaps  his  character  may  receive  some 
illustration,  if  he  be  compared  with  his  master. 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment 
were  not  allotted  in  a less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to 
Pope.  The  rectitude  of  Dryden’ s mind  was  sufficiently 
shewn  by  the  dismission  of  his  poetical  prejudices, 
and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts  and  rugged 
numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to  apply  all  the 
judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed  to 
write,  merely  for  the  people;  and  when  he  pleased 
others  he  contented  himself.  He  spent  no  time  in 
struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers ; he  never  attempted 
to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good,  nor  often 
to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty.  He 
wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  consideration; 
when  occasion  or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured 
out  what  the  present  moment  happened  to  supply,  and, 
when  once  it  had  passed  the  press,  ejected  it  from  his 
mind ; for  when  he  had  no  pecuniary  interest,  he  had 
no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy : he  desired  to  excel, 
and  therefore  always  endeavoured  to  do  his  best : he 
did  not  court  the  candour,  but  dared  the  judgment  of 
his  reader,  and  expecting  no  indulgence  from  others, 
he  shewed  none  to  himself.  He  examined  lines  and 
words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observation,  and 
retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till 
he  had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his 
hands,  while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The 
only  poems  which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written 
with  such  regard  to  the  times  as  might  hasten  their 
publication,  were  the  two  satires  of  Thirty -eight,  of 
which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were  brought  to  him 
by  the  author  that  they  might  be  fairly  copied.  ‘Almost 
every  line,’  he  said,  ‘ was  then  written  twice  over.  I 
gave  him  a clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time 
afterwards  to  me  for  the  press,  with  almost  every  line 
written  twice  over  a second  time.’ 

His  declaration,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at 
their  publication,  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental 
attention  never  abandoned  them ; what  he  found  amiss 
in  the  first  edition,  he  silently  corrected  in  those  that 
followed.  He  appears  to  have  revised  the  Iliad,  and 
freed  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections;  and  the 
Essay  on  Criticism  received  many  improvements  after 
its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he 
altered  without  adding  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigour. 

Pope  had  perhaps  the  judgment  of  Dryden,  but 
Dryden  certainly  wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope. 

In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be 
allowed  to  Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  scholastic, 
and  who,  before  he  became  an  author,  had  been  allowed 
more  time  for  study,  with  better  means  of  information. 
His  mind  has  a larger  range,  and  he  collects  his  images 
and  illustrations  from  a more  extensive  circumference 
of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his  general 
nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions 
of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation, 
and  those  of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is 
more  dignity  in  the  knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more 
certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either;  for  both 
excelled  likewise  in  prose;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow 
his  prose  from  his  predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden 
is  capricious  and  varied,  that  of  Pope  is  cautious  and 
uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  of  his  own  mind, 
Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  composi- 
tion. Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid,  Pope 
is  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden’s 
page  is  a natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and 
diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of  abundant 
vegetation,  Pope’s  is  a velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the 
scythe,  and  levelled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a poet,  that 
quality  without  which  judgment  is  cold  and  knowledge 
is  inert,  that  energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies, 
and  animates,  the  superiority  must,  with  some  hesita- 
tion, be  allowed  to  Dryden.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred, 
that  of  this  poetical  vigour  Pope  had  only  a little, 
because  Dryden  had  more  ; for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope ; and  even  of  Dryden 
it  must  be  said,  that  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he 
has  not  better  poems.  Dryden’s  performances  were 
always  hasty,  either  excited  by  some  external  occasion, 
or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity;  he  composed  with- 
out consideration,  and  published  without  correction. 
What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one 
excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he 
gave.  The  dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to 
condense  his  sentiments,  to  multiply  his  images,  and 
to  accumulate  all  that  study  might  produce  or  chance 
might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden,  therefore,  are 
higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of 
Dryden’s  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope’s  the  heat 
is  more  regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses 
expectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden 
is  read  with  frequent  astonishment,  and  Pope  with 
perpetual  delight. 

This  parallel  will,  I hope,  when  it  is  well  considered, 
be  found  just;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me, 
as  I suspect  myself,  of  some  partial  fondness  for  the 
memory  of  Dryden,  let  him  not  too  hastily  condemn 
me,  for  meditation  and  inquiry  may,  perhaps,  shew 
him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination. 

[Picture  of  the  Miseries  of  War.] 

[From  the  Thoughts  on  the  Falkland  Islands .] 

It  is  wonderful  with  what  coolness  and  indifference 
the  greater  part  of  mankind  see  war  commenced.  Those 
that  hear  of  it  at  a distance  or  read  of  it  in  books,  but 
have  never  presented  its  evils  to  their  minds,  consider 
it  as  little  more  than  a splendid  game,  a proclamation, 
an  army,  a battle,  and  a triumph.  Some,  indeed,  must 
perish  in  the  successful  field,  but  they  die  upon  the  bed 
of  honour,  resign  their  lives  amidst  the  joys  of  conquest, 
and,  filled  with  England’s  glory,  smile  in  death ! 

The  life  of  a modern  soldier  is  ill  represented  by 
heroic  fiction.  War  has  means  of  destruction  more 
formidable  than  the  cannon  and  the  sword.  Of  the 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  that  perished  in  our  late 
contests  with  France  and  Spain,  a very  small  part  ever 
felt  the  stroke  of  an  enemy;  the  rest  languished  in 
tents  and  ships,  amidst  damps  and  putrefaction ; pale, 
torpid,  spiritless,  and  helpless;  gasping  and  groaning, 
unpitied  among  men,  made  obdurate  by  long  continu- 
ance of  hopeless  misery ; and  were  at  last  whelmed  in 
pits,  or  heaved  into  the  ocean,  without  notice  and  with- 
out remembrance.  By  incommodious  encampments  and 
unwholesome  stations,  where  courage  is  useless  and 
enterprise  impracticable,  fleets  are  silently  dispeopled, 
and  armies  sluggishly  melted  away. 

Thus  is  a people  gradually  exhausted,  for  the  most 
part,  with  little  effect.  The  wars  of  civilised  nations 
make  very  slow  changes  in  the  system  of  empire.  The 
public  perceives  scarcely  any  alteration  but  an  increase 
of  debt;  and  the  few  individuals  who  are  benefited 
206 


are  not  supposed  to  have  the  clearest  right  to  their 
advantages.  If  he  that  shared  the  danger  enjoyed  the 
profit,  and  after  bleeding  in  the  battle,  grew  rich  by 
the  victory,  he  might  shew  his  gains  without  envy. 
But  at  the  conclusion  of  a ten  years’  war,  how  are 
we  recompensed  for  the  death  of  multitudes  and  the 
expense  of  millions,  but  by  contemplating  the  sudden 
glories  of  paymasters  and  agents,  contractors  and 
commissaries,  whose  equipages  shine  like  meteors,  and 
whose  palaces  rise  like  exhalations  ? 


/ OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

The  Citizen  of  the  World , by  Goldsmith,  was  pub- 
lished in  a collected  shape  in  1762,  and  his  Essays 
in  1765.  As  a light  and  genial  satirist,  a sportive 
yet  tender  and  insinuating  moralist,  and  as  an 
observer  of  men  and  manners,  we  have  no  hesitation 
in  placing  Goldsmith  far  above  Johnson.  His  chaste 
humour,  poetical  fancy,  and  admirable  style,  render 
these  essays — for  the  Citizen  of  the  World  consists  of 
detached  pieces — a mine  of  lively  and  profound 
thought,  happy  imagery,  and  pure  English.  The 
story  of  the  Old  Soldier,  Beau  Tibbs,  the  Reverie  at 
the  Boar’s  Head  Tavern,  and  the  Strolling  Player, 
are  in  the  finest  vein  of  story-telling;  while  the 
Eastern  Apologue,  Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale,  and 
Alcander  and  Septimius,  are  tinged  with  the  light 
of  true  poetry  and  imagination.  Where  the  author 
speaks  of  actual  life,  and  the  ‘ fashion  of  our  estate/ 
we  see  the  workings  of  experience  and  a finely 
meditative  mind.  The  History  of  Animated  Nature , 
not  published  till  after  his  death,  is  imbued  with 
the  same  graces  of  composition.  Goldsmith  was  no 
naturalist,  strictly  speaking,  but  his  descriptions 
are  often  vivid  and  beautiful,  and  his  history  is  well 
calculated  to  awaken  a love  of  nature  and  a study 
of  its  various  phenomena. 

[Scenery  of  the  Alps.] 

[From  the  History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature .] 

Nothing  can  be  finer  or  more  exact  than  Mr  Pope’s 
description  of  a traveller  straining  up  the  Alps.  Every 
mountain  he  comes  to  he  thinks  will  be  the  last  : he 
finds,  however,  an  unexpected  hill  rise  before  him  ; and 
that  being  scaled,  he  finds  the  highest  summit  almost 
at  as  great  a distance  as  before.  Upon  quitting  the 
plain,  he  might  have  left  a green  and  fertile  soil,  and  a 
climate  warm  and  pleasing.  As  he  ascends,  the  ground 
assumes  a more  russet  colour,  the  grass  becomes  more 
mossy,  and  the  weather  more  moderate.  When  he  is 
still  higher,  the  weather  becomes  more  cold,  and  the 
earth  more  barren.  In  this  dreary  passage  he  is  often 
entertained  with  a little  valley  of  surprising  verdure, 
caused  by  the  reflected  heat  of  the  sun  collected  into  a 
narrow  spot  on  the  surrounding  heights.  But  it  much 
more  frequently  happens  that  he  sees  only  frightful 
precipices  beneath,  and  lakes  of  amazing  depth,  from 
whence  rivers  are  formed,  and  fountains  derive  their 
original.  On  those  places  next  the  highest  summits 
vegetation  is  scarcely  carried  on  : here  and  there  a 
few  plants  of  the  most  hardy  kind  appear.  The  air 
is  intolerably  cold — either  continually  refrigerated 
with  frosts,  or  disturbed  with  tempests.  All  the  ground 
here  wears  an  eternal  covering  of  ice  and  snow,  that 
seem  continually  accumulating.  Upon  emerging  from 
this  war  of  the  elements,  he  ascends  into  a purer  and 
serener  region,  where  vegetation  is  entirely  ceased — 
where  the  precipices,  composed  entirely  of  rocks,  rise 
perpendicularly  above  him  ; while  he  views  beneath 
him  all  the  combat  of  the  elements,  clouds  at  his  feet, 
and  thunders  darting  upwards  from  their  bosoms  below. 
A thousand  meteors,  which  are  never  seen  on  the  plain, 
present  themselves.  Circular  rainbows,  mock  suns,  the 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


shadow  of  the  mountain  projected  upon  the  body  of  the 
air,  and  the  traveller’s  own  image  reflected  as  in  a 
looking-glass  upon  the  opposite  cloud. 

[A  Sketch  of  the  Universe.'] 

[From  the  same.] 

The  world  may  be  considered  as  one  vast  mansion, 
where  man  has  been  admitted  to  enjoy,  to  admire,  and 
to  be  grateful.  The  first  desires  of  savage  nature  are 
merely  to  gratify  the  importunities  of  sensual  appetite, 
and  to  neglect  the  contemplation  of  things,  barely 
satisfied  with  their  enjoyment ; the  beauties  of  nature, 
and  all  the  wonders  of  creation,  have  but  little  charms 
for  a being  taken  up  in  obviating  the  wants  of  the  day, 
and  anxious  for  precarious  subsistence. 

Our  philosophers,  therefore,  who  have  testified  such 
surprise  at  the  want  of  curiosity  in  the  ignorant,  seem 
not  to  consider  that  they  are  usually  employed  in 
making  provisions  of  a more  important  nature — in 
providing  rather  for  the  necessities  than  the  amuse- 
ments of  life.  It  is  not  till  our  more  pressing  wants  are 
sufficiently  supplied,  that  we  can  attend  to  the  calls  of 
curiosity  ; so  that  in  every  age  scientific  refinement  has 
been  the  latest  effort  of  human  industry. 

But  human  curiosity,  though  at  first  slowly  excited, 
being  at  last  possessed  of  leisure  for  indulging  its  pro- 
pensity, becomes  one  of  the  greatest  amusements  of  life, 
and  gives  higher  satisfactions  than  what  even  the  senses 
can  afford.  A man  of  this  disposition  turns  all  nature 
into  a magnificent  theatre,  replete  with  objects  of  wonder 
and  surprise,  and  fitted  up  chiefly  for  his  happiness  and 
entertainment ; he  industriously  examines  all  things, 
from  the  minutest  insect  to  the  most  finished  animal, 
and  when  his  limited  organs  can  no  longer  make  the 
disquisition,  he  sends  out  his  imagination  upon  new 
inquiries. 

Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more  august  and  striking 
than  the  idea  which  his  reason,  aided  by  his  imagina- 
tion, furnishes  of  the  universe  around  him.  Astronomers 
tell  us  that  this  earth  which  we  inhabit  forms  but  a 
very  minute  part  in  that  great  assemblage  of  bodies  of 
which  the  world  is  composed.  It  is  a million  of  times 
j less  than  the  sun,  by  which  it  is  enlightened.  The 
planets  also,  which,  like  it,  are  subordinate  to  the  sun’s 
j influence,  exceed  the  earth  one  thousand  times  in  magni- 
| tude.  These,  which  were  at  first  supposed  to  wander  in 
the  heavens  without  any  fixed  path,  and  that  took  their 
name  from  their  apparent  deviations,  have  long  been 
found  to  perform  their  circuits  with  great  exactness 
and  strict  regularity.  They  have  been  discovered  as 
forming  with  our  earth  a system  of  bodies  circulating 
round  the  sun,  all  obedient  to  one  law,  and  impelled  by 
one  common  influence. 

Modern  philosophy  has  taught  us  to  believe,  that 
when  the  great  Author  of  nature  began  the  work  of 
creation,  he  chose  to  operate  by  second  causes  ; and 
that,  suspending  the  constant  exertion  of  his  power,  he 
endued  matter  with  a quality  by  which  the  universal 
economy  of  nature  might  be  continued,  without  his 
immediate  assistance.  This  quality  is  called  attraction, 
a sort  of  approximating  influence,  which  all  bodies, 
whether  terrestrial  or  celestial,  are  found  to  possess  ; 
and  which,  in  all,  increases  as  the  quantity  of  matter  in 
each  increases.  The  sun,  by  far  the  greatest  body  in 
our  system,  is,  of  consequence,  possessed  of  much  the 
greatest  share  of  this  attracting  power ; and  all  the 
planets,  of  which  our  earth  is  one,  are,  of  course, 
entirely  subject  to  its  superior  influence.  Were  this 
power,  therefore,  left  uncontrolled  by  any  other,  the  sun 
must  quickly  have  attracted  all  the  bodies  of  our  celes- 
tial system  to  itself ; but  it  is  equally  counteracted 
by  another  power  of  equal  efficacy  ; namely,  a pro- 
gressive force  which  each  planet  received  when  it  was 
impelled  forward  by  the  divine  architect  upon  its  first 
formation.  The  heavenly  bodies  of  our  system  being 


thus  acted  upon  by  two  opposing  powers ; namely,  by 
that  of  attraction,  which  draws  them  towards  the  sun, 
and  that  of  impulsion,  which  drives  them  straight 
forward  into  the  great  void  of  space,  they  pursue  a 
track  between  these  contrary  directions ; and  each,  like 
a stone  whirled  about  in  a sling,  obeying  two  opposite 
forces,  circulates  round  its  great  centre  of  heat  and 
motion. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  is  the  harmony  of  our 
planetary  system  preserved.  The  sun,  in  the  midst, 
gives  heat  and  light  and  circular  motion  to  the  planets 
which  surround  it : Mercury,  Venus,  the  Earth,  Mars, 
Jupiter,  and  Saturn,  perform  their  constant  circuits  at 
different  distances,  each  taking  up  a time  to  complete 
its  revolutions,  proportioned  to  the  greatness  of  the 
circle  which  it  is  to  describe.  The  lesser  planets,  also, 
which  are  attendants  upon  some  of  the  greater,  are 
subject  to  the  same  laws ; they  circulate  with  the  same 
exactness,  and  are  in  the  same  manner  influenced  by 
their  respective  centres  of  motion. 

Besides  those  bodies  which  make  a part  of  our 
peculiar  system,  and  which  may  be  said  to  reside  within 
its  great  circumference,  there  are  others  that  frequently 
come  among  us  from  the  most  distant  tracts  of  space, 
and  that  seem  like  dangerous  intruders  upon  the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  nature.  These  are  comets,  whose 
appearance  was  once  so  terrible  to  mankind,  and  the 
theory  of  which  is  so  little  understood  at  present ; all 
we  know  is,  that  their  number  is  much  greater  than 
that  of  the  planets,  and  that,  like  these,  they  roll  in 
orbits,  in  some  measure  obedient  to  solar  influence. 
Astronomers  have  endeavoured  to  calculate  the  return- 
ing periods  of  many  of  them ; but  experience  has  not, 
as  yet,  confirmed  the  veracity  of  their  investigations. 
Indeed,  who  can  tell,  when  those  wanderers  have  made 
their  excursions  into  other  worlds  and  distant  systems, 
what  obstacles  may  be  found  to  oppose  their  progress, 
to  accelerate  their  motions,  or  retard  their  return  ? 

But  what  we  have  hitherto  attempted  to  sketch  is 
but  a small  part  of  that  great  fabric  in  which  the 
Deity  has  thought  proper  to  manifest  his  wisdom  and 
omnipotence.  There  are  multitudes  of  other  bodies 
dispersed  over  the  face  of  the  heavens,  that  lie  too 
remote  for  examination ; these  have  no  motion  such  as 
the  planets  are  found  to  possess,  and  are  therefore 
called  fixed  stars ; and  from  their  extreme  brilliancy  I 
and  their  immense  distance,  philosophers  have  been 
induced  to  suppose  them  to  be  suns  resembling  that 
which  enlivens  our  system.  As  the  imagination,  also, 
once  excited,  is  seldom  content  to  stop,  it  has  furnished 
each  with  an  attendant  system  of  planets  belonging  to 
itself,  and  has  even  induced  some  to  deplore  the  fate  of 
those  systems  whose  imagined  suns,  which  sometimes 
happens,  have  become  no  longer  visible. 

But  conjectures  of  this  kind,  which  no  reasoning  can 
ascertain  nor  experiment  reach,  are  rather  amusing  than 
useful.  Though  we  see  the  greatness  and  wisdom  of 
the  Deity  in  all  the  seeming  worlds  that  surround  us, 
it  is  our  chief  concern  to  trace  him  in  that  which  we 
inhabit.  The  examination  of  the  earth,  the  wonders 
of  its  contrivance,  the  history  of  its  advantages,  or  of 
the  seeming  defects  in  its  formation,  are  the  proper 
business  of  the  natural  historian.  A description  of  this 
earth,  its  animals,  vegetables,  and  minerals,  is  the  most 
delightful  entertainment  the  mind  can  be  furnished 
with,  as  it  is  the  most  interesting  and  useful.  I would 
beg  leave,  therefore,  to  conclude  these  common-place 
speculations  with  an  observation  which,  I hope,  is  not 
entirely  so. 

A use,  hitherto  not  much  insisted  upon,  that  may 
result  from  the  contemplation  of  celestial  magnificence, 
is,  that  it  will  teach  us  to  make  an  allowance  for  the 
apparent  irregularities  we  find  below.  Whenever  we 
can  examine  the  works  of  the  Deity  at  a proper  point 
of  distance,  so  as  to  take  in  the  whole  of  his  design, 
we  see  nothing  but  uniformity,  beauty,  and  precision. 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


The  heavens  present  us  with  a plan  which,  though 
inexpressibly  magnificent,  is  yet  regular  beyond  the 
power  of  invention.  Whenever,  therefore,  we  find  any 
apparent  defects  in  the  earth,  instead  of  attempting 
to  reason  ourselves  into  an  opinion  that  they  are 
beautiful,  it  will  be  wiser  to  say  that  we  do  not  behold 
them  at  the  proper  point  of  distance,  and  that  our  eye 
is  laid  too  close  to  the  objects  to  take  in  the  regularity 
of  their  connection.  In  short,  we  may  conclude  that 
God,  who  is  regular  in  his  great  productions,  acts  with 
equal  uniformity  in  the  little. 

[Scenery  of  the  Sea-coast.] 

[From  the  same.] 

Those  who  have  been  much  upon  our  coasts  know 
that  there  are  two  different  kinds  of  shores — that 
which  slants  down  to  the  water  with  a gentle  declivity, 
and  that  which  rises  with  a precipitate  boldness,  and 
seems  set  as  a bulwark  to  repel  the  force  of  the  invad- 
ing deeps.  It  is  to  such  shores  as  these  that  the  whole 
tribe  of  the  gull  kind  resort,  as  the  rocks  offer  them  a 
retreat  for  their  young,  and  the  sea  a sufficient  supply. 
It  is  in  the  cavities  of  these  rocks,  of  which  the  shore 
is  composed,  that  the  vast  variety  of  sea-fowl  retire  to 
"breed  in  safety.  The  waves  beneath,  that  continually 
beat  at  the  base,  often  wear  the  shore  into  an  impend- 
ing boldness,  so  that  it  seems  to  jut  out  over  the  water, 
while  the  raging  of  the  sea  makes  the  place  inaccessible 
from  below.  These  are  the  situations  to  which  sea-fowl 
chiefly  resort,  and  bring  up  their  young  in  undisturbed 
security. 

Those  who  have  never  observed  our  boldest  coasts, 
have  no  idea  of  their  tremendous  sublimity.  The 
boasted  works  of  art,  the  highest  towers,  and  the  noblest 
domes,  are  but  ant-hills  when  put  in  comparison ; the 
single  cavity  of  a rock  often  exhibits  a coping  higher 
than  the  ceiling  of  a Gothic  cathedral.  The  face  of  the 
shore  offers  to  the  view  a wall  of  massive  stone  ten 
times  higher  than  our  tallest  steeples.  "What  should 
we  think  of  a precipice  three-quarters  of  a mile  in 
height  ? and  yet  the  rocks  of  St  Kilda  are  still  higher  ! 
'What  must  be  our  awe  to  approach  the  edge  of  that 
impending  height,  and  to  look  down  on  the  unfathom- 
able vacuity  below  ; to  ponder  on  the  terrors  of  falling 
to  the  bottom,  where  the  waves  that  swell  like  moun- 
tains are  scarcely  seen  to  curl  on  the  surface,  and  the 
roar  of  an  ocean  a thousand  leagues  broad  appears 
softer  than  the  murmur  of  a brook?  It  is  in  these 
formidable  mansions  that  myriads  of  sea-fowl  are  for 
■ever  seen  sporting,  flying  in  security  down  the  depth, 
half  a mile  beneath  the  feet  of  the  spectator.  The 
crow  and  the  chough  avoid  those  frightful  precipices ; 
they  choose  smaller  heights,  where  they  are  less  exposed 
to  the  tempest;  it  is  the  cormorant,  the  gannet,  the 
tarrock,  and  the  terne,  that  venture  to  these  dreadful 
retreats,  and  claim  an  undisturbed  possession.  To  the 
spectator  from  above,  those  birds,  though  some  of  them 
are  above  the  size  of  an  eagle,  seem  scarce  as  large  as 
a swallow,  and  their  loudest  screaming  is  scarcely 
perceptible. 

But  the  generality  of  our  shores  are  not  so  formid- 
able. Though  they  may  rise  two  hundred  fathom  above 
the  surface,  yet  it  often  happens  that  the  water  forsakes 
the  shore  at  the  departure  of  the  tide,  and  leaves  a noble 
and  delightful  walk  for  curiosity  on  the  beach.  Not  to 
mention  the  variety  of  shells  with  which  the  sand  is 
strewed,  the  lofty  rocks  that  hang  over  the  spectator’s 
head,  and  that  seem  but  just  kept  from  falling,  produce 
in  him  no  unpleasing  gloom.  If  to  this  be  added  the 
fluttering,  the  screaming,  and  the  pursuits  of  myriads 
of  water-birds,  all  either  intent  on  the  duties  of 
incubation,  or  roused  at  the  presence  of  a stranger, 
nothing  can  compose  a scene  of  more  peculiar  solemnity. 
To  walk  along  the  shore  when  the  tide  is  departed,  or 
to  sit  in  the  hollow  of  a rock  when  it  is  come  in, 


attentive  to  the  various  sounds  that  gather  on  every 
side,  above  and  below,  may  raise  the  mind  to  its  highest 
and  noblest  exertions.  The  solemn  roar  of  the  waves 
swelling  into  and  subsiding  from  the  vast  caverns 
beneath,  the  piercing  note  of  the  gull,  the  frequent 
chatter  of  the  guillemot,  the  loud  note  of  the  auk,  the 
scream  of  the  heron,  and  the  hoarse  deep  periodical 
croaking  of  the  cormorant,  all  unite  to  furnish  out  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene,  and  turn  the  mind  to  Him  who 
is  the  essence  of  all  sublimity. 

[On  the  Increased  Love  of  Life  vnth  Age] 

[From  Goldsmith’s  Essays.] 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases  our 
desire  of  living.  Those  dangers  which,  in  the  vigour  of 
youth,  we  had  learned  to  despise,  assume  new  terrors 
as  we  grow  old.  Our  caution  increasing  as  our  years 
increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  prevailing  passion  of 
the  mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  life  is  taken  up 
in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  provide  for  a 
continued  existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which 
even  the  wise  are  liable ! If  I should  judge  of  that 
part  of  life  which  lies  before  me  by  that  which  I have 
already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous.  Experience  tells 
me  that  my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no  real 
felicity,  and  sensation  assures  me  that  those  I have  felt 
are  stronger  than  those  which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet 
experience  and  sensation  in  vain  persuade ; hope,  more 
powerful  than  either,  dresses  out  the  distant  prospect 
in  fancied  beauty ; some  happiness,  in  long  perspective, 
still  beckons  me  to  pursue ; and,  like  a losing  gamester, 
every  new  disappointment  increases  my  ardour  to 
continue  the  game. 

Whence,  then,  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  which 
grows  upon  us  with  our  years?  whence  comes  it,  that 
we  thus  make  greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  existence 
at  a period  when  it  becomes  scarce  worth  the  keeping  ? 
Is  it  that  nature,  attentive  to  the  preservation  of  man- 
kind, increases  our  wishes  to  live,  while  she  lessens 
our  enjoyments;  and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of  every 
pleasure,  equips  imagination  in  the  spoil  ? Life  would 
be  insupportable  to  an  old  man  who,  loaded  with  infir- 
mities, feared  death  no  more  than  when  in  the  vigour  of 
manhood ; the  numberless  calamities  of  decaying  nature, 
and  the  consciousness  of  surviving  every  pleasure,  would 
at  once  induce  him,  with  his  own  hand,  to  terminate 
the  scene  of  misery ; but  happily  the  contempt  of  death 
forsakes  him  at  a time  when  it  could  only  be  prejudi- 
cial, and  life  acquires  an  imaginary  value  in  proportion 
as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  increases 
in  general  from  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  with  it. 

‘ I would  not  choose,’  says  a French  philosopher,  ‘ to  see 
an  old  post  pulled  up  with  which  I had  been  long 
acquainted.’  A mind  long  habituated  to  a certain  set  of 
objects  insensibly  becomes  fond  of  seeing  them ; visits 
them  from  habit,  and  parts  from  them  with  reluctance. 
From  hence  proceeds  the  avarice  of  the  old  in  every 
kind  of  possession ; they  love  the  world  and  all  that  it 
produces  ; they  love  life  and  all  its  advantages,  not 
because  it  gives  them  pleasure,  but  because  they  have 
known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of  China, 
commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  detained  in 
prison  during  the  preceding  reigns  should  be  set  free. 
Among  the  number  who  came  to  thank  their  deliverer 
on  this  occasion  there  appeared  a majestic  old  man, 
who,  falling  at  the  emperor’s  feet,  addressed  him  as 
follows  : ‘ Great  father  of  China,  behold  a wretch,  now 
eighty-five  years  old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a dungeon  at 
the  age  of  twenty-two.  I was  imprisoned,  though  a 
stranger  to  crime,  or  without  being  even  confronted  by 
my  accusers.  I have  now  lived  in  solitude  and  dark- 
ness for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  am  grown  familiar 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


with  distress.  As  yet,  dazzled  with  the  splendour  of 
that  sun  to  which  you  have  restored  me,  I have  been 
wandering  the  streets  to  find  out  some  friend  that 
would  assist,  or  relieve,  or  remember  me ; but  my 
friends,  my  family,  and  relations  are  all  dead,  and  I 
am  forgotten.  Permit  me,  then,  0 Chinvang,  to  wear 
out  the  wretched  remains  of  life  in  my  former  prison ; 
the  walls  of  my  dungeon  are  to  me  more  pleasing  than 
the  most  splendid  palace : I have  not  long  to  live,  and 
shall  be  unhappy  except  I spend  the  rest  of  my  days 
where  my  youth  was  passed — in  that  prison  from  whence 
you  were  pleased  to  release  me.’ 

The  old  man’s  passion  for  confinement  is  similar  to 
that  we  all  have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the 
prison,  we  look  round  with  discontent,  are  displeased 
with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our  captivity  only 
increases  our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees  we  have 
planted,  the  houses  we  have  built,  or  the  posterity  we 
have  begotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer  to  earth,  and 
imbitter  our  parting.  Life  sues  the  young  like  a new 
acquaintance ; the  companion,  as  yet  unexhausted,  is  at 
once  instructive  and  amusing ; its  company  pleases,  yet 
for  all  this  it  is  but  little  regarded.  To  us,  who  are 
declined  in  years,  life  appears  like  an  old  friend ; its 
jests  have  been  anticipated  in  former  conversation ; it 
has  no  new  story  to  make  us  smile,  no  new  improve- 
ment with  which  to  surprise,  yet  still  we  love  it ; desti- 
tute of  every  enjoyment,  still  we  love  it;  husband  the 
wasting  treasure  with  increasing  frugality,  and  feel  all 
the  poignancy  of  anguish  in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere, 
brave,  an  Englishman.  He  had  a complete  fortune  of 
his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his  master,  which  was 
equivalent  to  riches.  Life  opened  all  her  treasures 
before  him,  and  promised  a long  succession  of  future 
happiness.  He  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but 
was  disgusted  even  at  the  beginning.  He  professed  an 
aversion  to  living,  was  tired  of  walking  round  the  same 
circle ; had  tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found  them  all 
grow  weaker  at  every  repetition.  ‘ If  life  be  in  youth 
so  displeasing,’  cried  he  to  himself,  ‘ what  will  it  appear 
when  age  comes  on  ? if  it  be  at  present  indifferent,  sure 
it  will  then  be  execrable.’  This  thought  imbittered 
every  reflection ; till  at  last,  with  all  the  serenity  of 
perverted  reason,  he  ended  the  debate  with  a pistol ! 
Had  this  self-deluded  man  been  apprised  that  existence 
grows  more  desirable  to  us  the  longer  we  exist,  he  would 
have  then  faced  old  age  without  shrinking ; he  would 
have  boldly  dared  to  live,  and  served  that  society  by 
his  future  assiduity  which  he  basely  injured  by  his 
desertion. 


What  cities,  great  as  this,  have  once  triumphed  in 
existence,  had  their  victories  as  great,  joy  as  just  and  as 
unbounded,  and,  with  short-sighted  presumption,  pro- 
mised themselves  immortality ! Posterity  can  hardly 
trace  the  situation  of  some ; the  sorrowful  traveller 
wanders  over  the  awful  ruins  of  others ; and,  as  he 
beholds,  he  learns  wisdom,  and  feels  the  transience  of 
every  sublunary  possession. 

Here,  he  cries,  stood  their  citadel,  now  grown  over 
with  weeds;  there  their  senate-house,  but  now  the 
haunt  of  every  noxious  reptile.  Temples  and  theatres 
stood  here,  now  only  an  undistinguished  heap  of  ruin. 
They  are  fallen,  for  luxury  and  avarice  first  made 
them  feeble.  The  rewards  of  state  were  conferred  on 
amusing,  and  not  on  useful  members  of  society.  Their 
riches  and  opulence  invited  the  invaders,  who,  though 
|it  first  repulsed,  returned  again,  conquered  by  persever- 
ance, and  at  last  swept  the  defendants  into  undistin- 
guished destruction. 

How  few  appear  in  those  streets,  which  but  some  few 
hours  ago  were  crowded  ! And  those  who  appear,  now 
no  longer  wear  their  daily  mask,  nor  attempt  to  hide 
their  lewdness  or  their  misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their  couch, 
and  find  a short  repose  from  wretchedness  at  the  doors 
of  the  opulent?  These  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and 
orphans,  whose  circumstances  are  too  humble  to  expect 
redress,  and  whose  distresses  are  too  great  even  for 
pity.  Their  wretchedness  excites  rather  horror  than 
pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags, 
and  others  emaciated  with  disease.  The  world  has 
disclaimed  them : society  turns  its  back  upon  their 
distress,  and  has  given  them  up  to  nakedness  and 
hunger.  These  poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen 
happier  days,  and  been  flattered  into  beauty. 

Why,  why  was  I born  a man,  and  yet  see  the  suffer- 
ings of  wretches  I cannot  relieve?  Poor  houseless 
creatures ! the  world  will  give  you  reproaches,  but  will 
not  give  you  relief.  The  slightest  misfortunes  of  the 
great,  the  most  imaginary  uneasiness  of  the  rich,  are 
aggravated  with  all  the  power  of  eloquence,  and  held  up 
to  engage  our  attention  and  sympathetic  sorrow.  The 
poor  weep  unheeded,  persecuted  by  every  subordinate 
species  of  tyranny ; and  every  law  which  gives  others 
security  becomes  an  enemy  to  them. 

Why  was  this  heart  of  mine  formed  with  so  much 
sensibility ; or  why  was  not  my  fortune  adapted  to  its 
impulses  ? Tenderness  without  the  capacity  of  reliev- 
ing, only  makes  the  man  more  wretched  than  the  object 
which  sues  for  assistance. 


[A  City  Night-piece.] 

[From  the  Citizen  of  the  World.] 

The  clock  has  just  struck  two;  the  expiring  taper 
rises  and  sinks  in  the  socket ; the  watchman  forgets  the 
hour  in  slumber;  the  laborious  and  the  happy  are  at 
rest ; and  nothing  wakes  but  meditation,  guilt,  revelry, 
and  despair.  The  drunkard  once  more  fills  the  destroy- 
ing bowl ; the  robber  walks  his  midnight  round ; and 
the  suicide  lifts  his  guilty  arm  against  his  own  sacred 
person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the  page  of 
antiquity  or  the  sallies  of  contemporary  genius,  but 
pursue  the  solitary  walk,  where  vanity,  ever  changing, 
but  a few  hours  past  walked  before  me — where  she 
kept  up  the  pageant,  and  now,  like  a froward  child, 
seems  hushed  with  her  own  importunities. 

What  a gloom  hangs  all  around ! The  dying  lamp 
feebly  emits  a yellow  gleam ; no  sound  is  heard  but  of 
the  chiming  clock  or  the  distant  watch-dog;  all  the 
bustle  of  human  pride  is  forgotten.  An  hour  like  this 
may  well  display  the  emptiness  of  human  vanity. 

There  will  come  a time  when  this  temporary  solitude 
will  be  made  continual,  and  the  city  itself,  like  its 
inhabitants,  fade  away,  and  leave  a desert  in  its  room. 

66 


EDMUND  BURKE. 

As  an  orator,  politician,  and  author,  the  name  of 
Edmund  Burke  stood  high  with  his  contemporaries, 
and  time  has  abated  little  of  its  lustre.  He  is  still 
by  far  the  most  eloquent  and  imaginative  of  all  our 
writers  on  public  affairs,  and  the  most  philosophical 
of  English  statesmen.  Burke  was  born  in  Dublin, 
the  second  son  of  an  attorney,  in  1730.  After  his 
education  at  Trinity  College,  he  removed  to  London, 
where  he  entered  himself  as  a student  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  but  he  seems  soon  to  have  abandoned  his 
intention  of  prosecuting  the  law  as  a profession,  and 
in  1753  he  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the 
chair  of  Logic  in  the  university  of  Glasgow.  In  1756 
he  published  anonymously  a parody  on  the  style 
and  manner  of  Bolingbroke,  a Vindication  of  Natural 
Society , in  which  the  paradoxical  reasoning  of  the 
noble  sceptic  is  pushed  to  a ridiculous  extreme,  and 
its  absurdity  very  happily  exposed.  In  1757,  he 
published  A Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of 
our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful , which  soon 
attracted  considerable  attention,  and  paved  the 
way  for  the  author’s  introduction  to  the  society  of 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


Johnson,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith,  and  the  other  emi- 
nent men  of  the  day.  Burke,  however,  was  still 
struggling  with  difficulties,  and  compiling  for  book- 
sellers. He  suggested  to'  Dodsley  the  plan  of  an 
Annual  Register,  which  that  spirited  publisher 
adopted,  Burke  furnishing  the  whole  of  the  original 
matter.  He  continued  for  several  years  to  write 


the  historical  portion  of  this  valuable  compilation. 
In  1761,  Burke  accompanied  Mr  W.  G.  Hamilton 
(best  known  as  ‘ Single-speech  Hamilton  ’)  to  Ire- 
land, partly  in  the  capacity  of  private  secretary  to 
Hamilton  (who  had  been  appointed  chief-secretary 
to  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland), 
and  partly  as  a personal  friend.  This  connection 
did  not  last  long,  Burke  being  too  independent  to 
serve  as  a mere  tool-  of  party.  In  1765,  he  became 
secretary  to  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham,  and  was 
returned  to  the  House  of  Commons  as  member 
for  Wendover.  He  soon  distinguished  himself  in 
parliament,  but  the  Rockingham  administration  was 
dissolved  in  1766,  and  Burke  joined  the  opposition. 
In  1769,  he  wrote  an  able  reply  to  a pamphlet,  by 
Mr  Grenville,  on  the  State  of  the  Nation;  and  in 
the  following  year,  another  political  disquisition, 
Thoughts  on  the  Present  Discontents.  This  is  a 
powerful  argumentative  treatise.  We  shall  not 
attempt  to  follow  Burke’s  parliamentary  career. 
His  speeches  on  American  affairs  were  among  his 
most  vigorous  and  felicitous  appearances  : his  most 
important  public  duty  was  the  part  he  took 
in  the  prosecution  of  Warren  Hastings,  and  his 
opposition  to  the  regency  bill  of  Mr  Pitt.  Stormier 
times,  however,  were  at  hand  : the  French  Revolu- 
tion was  then  ‘blackening  the  horizon’ — to  use 
one  of  his  own  metaphors — and  he  early  predicted 
the  course  it  would  take.  He  strenuously  warned 
his  countrymen  against  the  dangerous  influence 
of  French  principles,  and  published  his  memorable 
treatise,  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution , 1790.  A 
rupture  now  took  place  between  him  and  his  Whig 
friends,  Mr  Fox  in  particular ; but  with  character- 
istic ardour  Burke  went  on  denouncing  the  doctrines 
of  the  Revolution,  and  published  his  Appeal  from 
the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs , his  Letters  to  a Noble 
Lord,  and  his  Letters  on  the  Proposals  for  Peace  with 
the  Regicide  Directory  of  France.  The  splendour  of 
these  compositions,  the  various  knowledge  which 
they  display,  the  rich  imagery  with  which  they 
abound,  and  the  spirit  of  philosophical  reflection 
210 


which  pervades  them  all,  stamp  them  among  the 
first  literary  productions  of  their  time.  Judged 
as  political  treatises,  they  may  in  some  instances 
be  considered  as  exaggerated  in  their  tone  and 
manner : the  imagination  of  the  orator  transported 
him  beyond  the  bounds  of  sober  prudence  and 
correct  taste ; but  in  all  his  wanderings  there  is 
genius,  wisdom,  and  eloquence.  Such  a flood  of 
rich  illustration  had  never  before  been  poured  on 
questions  of  state  policy  and  government.  At  the 
same  time,  Burke  was  eminently  practical  in  his 
views.  His  greatest  efforts  will  be  found  directed 
to  the  redress  of  some  existing  wrong,  or  the  preser- 
vation of  some  existing  good — to  hatred  of  actual 
oppression,  to  the  removal  of  useless  restrictions, 
and  to  the  calm  and  sober  improvement  of  the  laws 
and  government  which  he  venerated,  without  ‘ coin- 
ing to  himself  Whig  principles  from  a French  die, 
unknown  to  the  impress  of  our  fathers  in  the 
constitution.’  Where  inconsistencies  are  found  in 
his  writings  between  his  early  and  later  opinions, 
they  will  be  seen  to  consist  chiefly  in  matters  of 
detail  or  in  expression.  The  leading  principles  of 
his  public  life  were  always  the  same.  He  wished,  as 
he  says,  to  preserve  consistency,  but  only  by  varying 
his  means  to  secure  the  unity  of  his  end : ‘ when 
the  equipoise  of  the  vessel  in  which  he  sails  may  be 
endangered  by  overloading  it  upon  one  side,  he  is 
desirous  of  carrying  the  small  weight  of  his  reasons 
to  that  which  may  preserve  its  equipoise.’  When 
the  revolution  broke  out,  his  sagacity  enabled  him 
to  foresee  the  dreadful  consequences  which  it  would 
entail  upon  France  and  the  world,  and  his  enthusi- 
astic temperament  led  him  to  state  his  impressions 
in  language  sometimes  overcharged  and  almost 
bombastic,  sometimes  full  of  prophetic  fire,  and 
always  with  an  energy  and  exuberance  of  fancy 
in  which,  among  philosophical  politicians,  he  was 
unrivalled.  In  the  clash  of  party  strife,  so  eminent 
a person  could  not  escape  animadversion  or  censure; 
his  own  ardour  excited  others,  and  the  vehemence 
of  his  manner  naturally  provoked  and  aggravated 
discussion.  In  one  of  the  debates  on  the  French 
Revolution,  after  mentioning  that  he  understood 
that  three  thousand  daggers  had  been  ordered  from 
Birmingham,  Burke  drew  one  from  under  his  coat, 
and  throwing  it  on  the  floor,  exclaimed,  * This  is 
what  you  are  to  gain  by  an  alliance  with  France — 
this  is  your  fraternisation  ! ’ Such  a melodramatic 
exhibition  was  wholly  unworthy  of  Burke,  and  natu- 
rally provoked  ridicule.  He  stood  aloof  from  most 
of  his  old  associates,  when,  like  a venerable  tower, 
he  was  sinking  into  ruin  and  decay.  Posterity, 
however,  has  done  ample  justice  to  his  genius  and 
character,  and  has  confirmed  the  opinion  of  one  of 
his  contemporaries,  that  if — as  he  did  not  attempt  to 
conceal — Cicero  was  the  model  on  which  he  laboured 
to  form  his  own  character  in  eloquence,  in  policy,  in 
ethics,  and  philosophy,  he  infinitely  surpassed  the 
original.  Burke  retired  from  parliament  in  1794. 
The  friendship  of  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham  had 
enabled  him  to  purchase  an  estate  near  Beaconsfield, 
in  Buckinghamshire,  and  there  the  orator  spent 
exclusively  his  few  remaining  years.  In  1795,  he 
was  rewarded  with  a handsome  pension  from  the 
civil  list.  It  was  in  contemplation  to  elevate  him 
to  the  peerage,  but  the  death  of  his  only  son — who 
was  his  colleague  in  the  representation  of  Malton 
— rendered  him  indifferent,  if  not  averse,  to  such 
a distinction.  The  force  and  energy  of  his  mind, 
and  the  creative  richness  of  his  imagination,  con- 
tinued with  him  to  the  last.  His  Letter  to  a Noble 
Lord  on  his  Pension  (1796),  his  Letters  on  a Regicide 
Peace  (1796  and  1797),  and  his  Observations  on  the 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


Conduct  of  the  : Minority  (1797),  bear  no  trace  of 
decaying  vigour,  though  written  after  the  age  of 
sixty.  The  keen  and  lively  interest  with  which  he 
regarded  passing  events,  particularly  the  great 
political  drama  then  in  action  in  France,  is  still 
manifest  in  these  works,  with  general  observations 
and  reflections  that  strike  from  their  profundity  and 
their  universal  application.  ‘He  possessed,’  says 
Coleridge,  ‘ and  had  sedulously  sharpened  that  eye 
which  sees  all  things,  actions,  and  events,  in  relation 
to  the  laws  which  determine  their  existence  and 
circumscribe  their  possibility.  He  referred  habitu- 
ally to  principles — he  was  a scientific  statesman.’ 
This  reference  to  principles  in  the  writings  and 
speeches  of  Burke — and  his  speeches  were  all  care- 
fully prepared  for  the  press — renders  them  still 
popular  and  valuable,  when  the  circumstances  and 
events  to  which  they  relate  have  long  passed  away, 
and  been  succeeded  by  others  not  less  important ; 
while  their  grander  passages,  their  imagery  and 
profusion  of  illustration,  make  them  interesting  to 
the  orator  and  literary  student.  His  imagination, 
it  is  admitted,  was  not  always  guided  by  correct 
taste ; some  of  his  images  are  low,  and  even  border 
on  disgust.*  His  language  and  his  conceptions  are 
often  hyperbolical ; or  it  may  be  said,  his  mind, 
like  the  soil  of  the  East,  which  he  loved  to  paint, 
threw  up  a rank  and  luxuriant  vegetation,  in  which 
unsightly  weeds  were  mingled  with  the  choicest 
flowers  and  the  most  precious  fruit.  He  was  at 
once  a poet,  an  orator,  a philosopher,  and  practical 
statesman ; and  his  knowledge,  his  industry,  and 
perseverance,  were  as  remarkable  as  his  genius. 
The  protracted  and  brilliant  career  of  this  great 
man  was  terminated  on  the  9th  of  July  1797,  and 
he  was  interred  in  the  church  at  Beaconsfield.f 


A complete  edition  of  Burke’s  works  has  been 
published  in  sixteen  volumes.  His  Correspondence 
between  the  year  1744  and  his  decease,  edited  by 
Earl  Fitzwilliam  and  Sir  R.  Bourke,  was  published 
in  1844,  in  four  volumes ; and  copious  Lives  of 
Burke  have  been  written  by  Mr  Prior,  Dr  Croly, 
and  Mr  Macknight.  Burke’s  political,  and  not 


* One  of  the  happiest  of  his  homely  similes  is  contained  in  his 
reply  to  Pitt,  on  the  subject  of  the  commercial  treaty  with 
France  in  1787.  Pitt,  he  contended,  had  contemplated  the 
subject  with  a narrowness  peculiar  to  limited  minds—*  as  an 
affair  of  two  little  counting-houses,  and  not  of  two  great 
nations.  He  seems  to  consider  it  as  a contention  between 
the  sign  of  the  fleur-de-lis  and  the  sign  of  the  old  red  lion, 
for  which  should  obtain  the  best  custom.’  In  replying  to 
the  argument,  that  the  Americans  were  our  children,  and 
should  not  have  revolted  against  their  parent,  he  said : 
‘They  are  our  children,  it  is  true,  but  when  children  ask 
for  bread,  we  are  not  to  give  them  a stone.  When  those 
children  of  ours  wish  to  assimilate  with  their  parent,  and  to 
respect  the  beauteous  countenance  of  British  liberty,  are  we 
to  turn  to  them  the  shameful  parts  of  our  constitution  ? Are 
we  to  give  them  our  weakness  for  their  strength,  our  oppro- 
brium for  their  glory,  and  the  slough  of  slavery,  which  we  are 
not  able  to  work  off,  to  serve  them  for  their  freedom  ?’  His 
account  of  the  ill-assorted  administration  of  Lord  Chatham  is 
no  less  ludicrous  than  correct.  ‘He  made  an  administration 
so  checkered  and  speckled ; he  put  together  a piece  of  joinery 
so  crossly  indented,  and  whimsically  dovetailed  ; a cabinet  so 
variously  inlaid ; such  a piece  of  diversified  mosaic ; such  a 
tesselated  pavement  without  cement,  here  a bit  of  black  stone, 
and  there  a bit  of  white;  patriots  and  courtiers;  king’s  friends 
and  republicans  ; Whigs  and  Tories  ; treacherous  friends  and 
open  enemies;  that  it  was  indeed  a very  curious  show',  but 
utterly  unsafe  to  touch,  and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The  colleagues 
whom  he  had  assorted  at  the  same  boards  stared  at  each  other, 
and  were  obliged  to  ask  : “ Sir,  your  name?"  “ Sir,  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me;”  “Mr  Such-a-onc,  I beg  a thousand 
pardons.”  I venture  to  say  it  did  so  happen,  that  persons  had 
a single  office  divided  between  them,  who  had  never  spoke  to 
each  other  in  their  lives,  until  they  found  themselves,  they 
knew  not  how,  pigging  together,  heads  and  points,  in  the  same 
truckle-bed.’ 

t A plain  mural  tablet  has  been  erected  in  the  church  to 
the  memory  of  Burke.  The  orator’s  residence  was  about  a 
mile  from  the  town  of  Beaconsfield.  The  house  was  after- 
wards partly  destroyed  by  fire,  and  is  now,  we  believe,  wholly 
removed. 


Beaconsfield. 


liis  philosophical  writings,  are  now  chiefly  read. 
His  Disquisition  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful  is 
incorrect  in  theory  and  in  many  of  its  illustrations, 
though  containing  some  just  remarks  and  elegant 
criticism.  His  mighty  understanding,  as  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  observed,  was  best  employed  in  ‘ the 
middle  region,  between  the  details  of  business  and 
the  generalities  of  speculation.’  In  this  depart- 
ment, his  knowledge  of  men  as  well  as  of  hooks,  of 
passions  as  well  as  principles,  was  called  into  action, 
and  his  imagination  found  room  for  its  lights  and 
shadows  among  the  varied  realities  and  shifting 
scenes  of  life.  A generous  political  opponent,  and 
not  less  eloquent — though  less  original  and  less 
powerful — writer,  has  thus  sketched  the  character 
of  Burke : 

‘ It  is  pretended/  says  Robert  Hall,  ‘ that  the 
moment  we  quit  a state  of  nature,  as  we  have 
given  up  the  control  of  our  actions  in  return  for 
the  superior  advantages  of  law  and  government,  we 
can  never  appeal  again  to  any  original  principles, 
but  must  rest  content  with  the  advantages  that 
are  secured  by  the  terms  of  the  society.  These  are 
the  views  which  distinguish  the  political  writings  of 
Mr  Burke,  an  author  whoso  splendid  and  unequal 
powers  have  given  a vogue  and  fashion  to  certain 
tenets  which,  from  any  other  pen,  would  have 
appeared  abject  and  contemptible.  In  the  field  of 
reason,  the  encounter  would  not  be  difficult,  but 
who  can  withstand  the  fascination  and  magic  of 
his  eloquence?  The  excursions  of  his  genius  are 
immense.  His  imperial  fancy  has  laid  all  nature 
under  tribute,  and  has  collected  riches  from  every 
scene  of  the  creation  and  every  walk  of  art.  His 
culogium  on  the  queen  of  France  is  a master-piece 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


of  pathetic  composition ; so  select  are  its  images,  so 
fraught  with  tenderness,  and  so  rich  with  colours 
“ dipt  in  heaven,”  that  he  who  can  read  it  without 
rapture  may  have  merit  as  a reasoner,  but  must 
resign  all  pretensions  to  taste  and  sensibility.  His 
imagination  is,  in  truth,  only  too  prolific : a world 
of  itself,  where  he  dwells  in  the  midst  of  chimerical 
alarms — is  the  dupe  of  his  own  enchantments,  and 
starts,  like  Prospero,  at  the  spectres  of  his  own 
creation.  His  intellectual  views  in  general,  how- 
ever, are  wide  and  variegated,  rather  than  distinct ; 
and  the  light  he  has  let  in  on  the  British  constitu- 
tion, in  particular,  resembles  the  coloured  effulgence 
of  a painted  medium,  a kind  of  mimic  twilight, 
solemn  and  soothing  to  the  senses,  but  better  fitted 
for  ornament  than  use.’ 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  considered  that  Burke’s 
best  style  was  before  the  Indian  business  and  the 
French  Revolution  had  inflamed  him.  It  was  more 
chaste  and  simple ; but  his  writings  and  speeches  at 
this  period  can  hardly  be  said  to  equal  his  later 
productions  in  vigour,  fancy,  or  originality.  The 
excitement  of  the  times  seemed  to  give  a new 
development  to  his  mental  energies.  The  early 
speeches  have  most  constitutional  and  practical 
value — the  late  ones  most  genius.  The  former 
are  a solid  and  durable  structure,  and  the  latter 
its  ‘ Corinthian  columns.’ 


[From  the  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America,  1775.] 

Mr  Speaker,  I cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  hurry  over 
j the  great  consideration.  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here, 
j We  stand  where  we  have  an  immense  view  of  what  is, 

| and  what  is  past.  Clouds,  indeed,  and  darkness,  rest 
; upon  the  future.  Let  us,  however,  before  we  descend 
j from  this  noble  eminence,  reflect  that  this  growth  of 
I our  national  prosperity  has  happened  within  the  short 
period  of  the  life  of  man.  It  has  happened  within 
sixty-eight  years.  There  are  those  alive  whose  memory 
might  touch  the  two  extremities.  For  instance,  my 
Lord  Bathurst  might  remember  all  the  stages  of  the 
progress.  He  was  in  1704  of  an  age  at  least  to  be  made 
to  comprehend  such  things.  He  was  then  old  enough 
acta  parentum  jam  legere,  et  qua  sit  potent  cognoscere 
virtus.  Suppose,  sir,  that  the  angel  of  this  auspicious 
I youth,  foreseeing  the  many  virtues  which  made  him 
i one  of  the  most  amiable,  as  he  is  one  of  the  most 
j fortunate  men  of  his  age,  had  opened  to  him  in  vision, 
i that,  when  in  the  fourth  generation,  the  third  prince 
j of  the  house  of  Brunswick  had  sat  twelve  years  on 
i the  throne  of  that  nation,  which — by  the  happy  issue 
i of  moderate  and  healing  councils — was  to  be  made 
Great  Britain,  he  should  see  his  son,  lord-chancellor  of 
England,  turn  back  the  current  of  hereditary  dignity 
to  its  fountain,  and  raise  him  to  a higher  rank  of 
peerage,  whilst  he  enriched  the  family  with  a new  one. 
If  amidst  these  bright  and  happy  scenes  of  domestic 
honour  and  prosperity  that  angel  should  have  drawn 
up  the  curtain,  and  unfolded  the  rising  glories  of  his 
country,  and  whilst  he  was  gazing  with  admiration  on 
the  then  commercial  grandeur  of  England,  the  Genius 
should  point  out  to  him  a little  speck,  scarce  visible 
in  the  mass  of  the  national  interest,  a small  seminal 
principle,  rather  than  a formed  body,  and  should  tell 
him : ‘ Young  man,  there  is  America — which  at  this 
day  serves  for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with 
stories  of  savage  men  and  uncouth  manners ; yet  shall, 
before  you  taste  of  death,  shew  itself  equal  to  the  whole 
of  that  commerce  which  now  attracts  the  envy  of  the 
world.  Whatever  England  has  been  growing  to  by 
a progressive  increase  of  improvement,  brought  in  by 
varieties  of  people,  by  succession  of  civilising  conquests 
and  civilising  settlements  in  a series  of  seventeen 
hundred  years,  you  shall  see  as  much  added  to  her  by 
212 


America  in  the  course  of  a single  life  !’  If  this  state 
of  his  country  had  been  foretold  to  him,  would  it  not 
require  all  the  sanguine  credulity  of  youth,  and  all  the 
fervid  glow  of  enthusiasm,  to  make  him  believe  it? 
Fortunate  man,  he  has  lived  to  see  it ! Fortunate, 
indeed,  if  he  lives  to  see  nothing  that  shall  vary  the 
prospect  and  cloud  the  setting  of  his  day  ! * * 

You  cannot  station  garrisons  in  every  part  of  these 
deserts.  If  you  drive  the  people  from  one  place,  they 
will  carry  on  their  annual  tillage,  and  remove  with 
their  flocks  and  herds  to  another.  Many  of  the  people 
in  the  back  settlements  are  already  little  attached  to 
particular  situations.  Already  they  have  topped  the 
Appalachian  mountains.  From  thence  they  behold 
before  them  an  immense  plain,  one  vast,  rich,  level 
meadow;  a square  of  five  hundred  miles.  Over  this 
they  would  wander  without  a possibility  of  restraint ; 
they  would  change  their  manners  with  the  habits  of 
their  life ; would  soon  forget  a government  by  which 
they  were  disowned  ; would  become  hordes  of  English 
Tatars,  and,  pouring  down  upon  your  unfortified 
frontiers  a fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry,  become 
masters  of  your  governors  and  your  counsellors,  your 
collectors  and  comptrollers,  and  all  the  slaves  that 
adhere  to  them.  Such  would,  and  in  no  long  time 
must  be,  the  effect  of  attempting  to  forbid  as  a crime, 
and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the  command  and  blessing 
of  Providence — ‘increase  and  multiply.’  Such  would 
be  the  happy  result  of  an  endeavour  to  keep  as  a lair 
of  wild  beasts  that  earth  which  God,  by  an  express 
charter,  has  given  to  the  children  of  men.  Far 
different,  and  surely  much  wiser,  has  been  our  policy 
hitherto.  Hitherto  we  have  invited  our  people,  by 
every  kind  of  bounty,  to  fixed  establishments.  We 
have  invited  the  husbandman  to  look  to  authority  for 
his  title.  We  have  taught  him  piously  to  believe  in 
the  mysterious  virtue  of  wax  and  parchment.  We 
have  thrown  each  tract  of  land,  as  it  was  peopled, 
into  districts,  that  the  ruling  power  should  never  be 
wholly  out  of  sight.  We  have  settled  all  we  could, 
and  we  have  carefully  attended  every  settlement  with 
government. 

Adhering,  six*,  as  I do  to  this  policy,  as  well  as  for 
the  reasons  I have  just  given,  I think  this  new  project 
of  hedging  in  population  to  be  neither  prudent  nor 
practicable. 

To  impoverish  the  colonies  in  general,  and  in  par- 
ticular to  arrest  the  noble  course  of  their  marine 
enterprises,  would  be  a more  easy  task,  I freely  con- 
fess it.  We  have  shewn  a disposition  to  a system  of 
this  kind ; a disposition  even  to  continue  the  restraint 
after  the  offence;  looking  on  ourselves  as  rivals  to 
our  colonies,  and  persuaded  that  of  course  we  must 
gain  all  that  they  shall  lose.  Much  mischief  we  may 
certainly  do.  The  power  inadequate  to  all  other 
things  is  often  more  than  sufficient  for  this.  I do  not 
look  on  the  direct  and  immediate  power  of  the  colonies 
to  resist  our  violence  as  very  formidable.  In  this, 
however,  I may  be  mistaken.  But  when  I consider  that 
we  have  colonies  for  no  purpose  but  to  be  serviceable 
to  us,  it  seems  to  my  poor  understanding  a little  pre- 
posterous to  make  them  unserviceable,  in  order  to  keep 
them  obedient.  It  is,  in  truth,  nothing  more  than  the 
old,  and,  as  I thought,  exploded  problem  of  tyranny, 
which  proposes  to  beggar  its  subjects  into  submission. 
But  remember,  when  you  have  completed  your  system 
of  impoverishment,  that  nature  still  proceeds  in  her 
ordinary  course ; and  that  discontent  will  increase 
with  misery ; and  that  there  are  critical  moments 
in  the  fortunes  of  all  states,  when  they  who  are  too 
weak  to  contribute  to  your  prosperity,  may  be  strong 
enough  to  complete  your  ruin.  Spoliatis  arma 
supersunt. 

The  temper  and  character  which  prevail  in  our 
colonies  are,  I am  afraid,  unalterable  by  any  human 
art.  We  cannot,  I fear,  falsify  the  pedigree  of  this 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


fierce  people,  and  persuade  tliem  that  they  are  not 
sprung  from  a nation  in  whose  veins  the  blood  of 
freedom  circulates.  The  language  in  which  they 
would  hear  you  tell  them  this  tale  would  detect 
the  imposition ; your  speech  would  betray  you.  An 
Englishman  is  the  unfittest  person  on  earth  to  argue 
another  Englishman  into  slavery.  * * 

My  hold  of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close  affection  which 
grows  from  common  names,  from  kindred  blood,  from 
similar  privileges,  and  equal  protection.  These  are 
ties  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong  as  links 
of  iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keep  the  idea  of  their 
civil  rights  associated  with  your  government ; they  will 
cling  and  grapple  to  you;  and  no  force  under  heaven 
will  be  of  power  to  tear  them  from  their  allegiance. 
But  let  it  be  once  understood  that  your  government 
may  be  one  thing  and  their  privileges  another;  that 
these  two  things  may  exist  without  any  mutual  relation, 
the  cement  is  gone — the  cohesion  is  loosened — and  every- 
thing hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution.  As  long  as  you 
have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign  authority  of  this 
country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple 
consecrated  to  our  common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen 
race  and  sons  of  England  worship  freedom,  they  will 
turn  their  faces  towards  you.  The  more  they  multiply, 
the  more  friends  you  will  have ; the  more  ardently  they 
love  liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience. 
Slavery  they  can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a weed  that 
grows  in  every  soil.  They  may  have  it  from  Spain, 
they  may  have  it  from  Prussia ; but  until  you  become 
lost  to  all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your  natural 
dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none  but  you. 
This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which  you  have  the 
monopoly.  This  is  the  true  act  of  navigation,  which 
binds  you  to  the  commerce  of  the  colonies,  and  through 
them  secures  to  you  the  commerce  of  the  world.  Deny 
them  this  participation  of  freedom,  and  you  break  that 
sole  bond  which  originally  made,  and  must  still  preserve, 
the  unity  of  the  empire.  Do  not  entertain  so  weak 
an  imagination,  as  that  your  registers  and  your  bonds, 
your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  your  coquets  and 
your  clearances,  are  what  form  the  great  securities  of 
your  commerce.  Do  not  dream  that  your  letters  of  office, 
and  your  instructions,  and  your  suspending  clauses,  are 
the  things  that  hold  together  the  great  contexture 
of  this  mysterious  whole.  These  things  do  not  make 
your  government.  Dead  instruments,  passive  tools  as 
they  are,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  communion 
that  gives  all  their  life  and  efficacy  to  them.  It  is 
the  spirit  of  the  English  constitution  which,  infused 
through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades,  feeds,  unites, 
invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire,  even 
down  to  the  minutest  member. 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for 
us  here  in  England  ? Do  you  imagine,  then,  that  it  is 
the  land-tax  act  which  raises  your  revenue  ? that  it  is 
the  annual  vote  in  the  committee  of  supply  which  gives 
you  your  army  ? or  that  it  is  the  mutiny  bill  which 
inspires  it  with  bravery  and  discipline  ? No  ! Surely 
no  ! It  is  the  love  of  the  people ; it  is  their  attachment 
to  their  government,  from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake 
they  have  in  such  a glorious  institution,  which  gives 
you  your  army  and  your  navy,  and  infuses  into  both 
that  liberal  obedience  without  which  your  army  would  be 
a base  rabble,  and  your  navy  nothing  but  rotten  timber. 
All  this,  I know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and 
chimerical  to  the  profane  herd  of  those  vulgar  and 
mechanical  politicians  who  have  no  place  among  us  ; a 
sort  of  people  who  think  that  nothing  exists  but  what 
is  gross  and  material  ; and  who,  therefore,  far  from 
being  qualified  to  be  directors  of  the  great  movement  of 
empire,  are  not  fit  to  turn  a wheel  in  the  machine. 
But  to  men  truly  initiated  and  rightly  taught,  these 
ruling  and  master  principles  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
such  men  as  I have  mentioned,  have  no  substantial 
existence,  are  in  truth  everything,  and  all  in  all. 


Magnanimity  in  politics  is  not  seldom  the  truest 
wisdom,  and  a great  empire  and  little  minds  go  ill 
together.  If  we  are  conscious  of  our  situation,  and  glow 
with  zeal  to  fill  our  places  as  becomes  our  station  and 
ourselves,  we  ought  to  auspicate  all  our  public  proceed- 
ings on  America  with  the  old  warning  of  the  church, 
sursum  cordci!  We  ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to  the 
greatness  of  that  trust  to  which  the  order  of  Providence 
has  called  us.  By  adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high 
calling,  our  ancestors  have  turned  a savage  wilderness  into 
a glorious  empire  ; and  have  made  the  most  extensive, 
and  the  only  honourable  conquests  ; not  by  destroying, 
but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number,  the  happiness 
of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get  an  American  revenue, 
as  we  have  got  an  American  empire.  English  privi- 
leges have  made  it  all  that  it  is  ; English  privileges 
alone  will  make  it  all  it  can  be.  In  full  confidence  of 
this  unalterable  truth,  I now  ( quod  felix  fausiumquesit) 
lay  the  first  stone  of  the  temple  of  peace.* 

[Dependence  of  English  on  American  Freedom.'] 
[From  Address  to  the  King,  1777.] 

To  leave  any  real  freedom  to  parliament,  freedom 
must  be  left  to  the  colonies.  A military  government 
is  the  only  substitute  for  civil  liberty.  That  the 
establishment  of  such  a power  in  America  will  utterly 
ruin  our  finances — though  its  certain  effect — is  the 
smallest  part  of  our  concern.  It  will  become  an  apt, 
powerful,  and  certain  engine  for  the  destruction  of  our 
freedom  here.  Great  bodies  of  armed  men,  trained  to 
a contempt  of  popular  assemblies  representative  of  an 
English  people,  kept  up  for  the  purpose  of  exacting 
impositions  without  their  consent,  and  maintained  by 
that  exaction ; instruments  in  subverting,  without 
any  process  of  law,  great  ancient  establishments  and 
respected  forms  of  governments,  set  free  from,  and 
therefore  above  the  ordinary  English  tribunals  of  the 
country  where  they  serve ; these  men  cannot  so  trans- 
form themselves,  merely  by  crossing  the  sea,  as  to 
behold  with  love  and  reverence,  and  submit  with  pro- 
found obedience  to  the  very  same  things  in  Great 
Britain  which  in  America  they  had  been  taught  to 
despise,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  awe  and  humble. 
All  your  majesty’s  troops,  in  the  rotation  of  service, 
will  pass  through  this  discipline,  and  contract  these 
habits.  If  we  could  flatter  ourselves  that  this  would 
not  happen,  we  must  be  the  weakest  of  men  : we  must 
be  the  worst,  if  we  were  indifferent  whether  it  hap- 
pened or  not.  What,  gracious  sovereign,  is  the  empire 
of  America  to  us,  or  the  empire  of  the  world,  if  we 
lose  our  own  liberties?  We  deprecate  this  last  of 
evils.  We  deprecate  the  effect  of  the  doctrines  which 
must  support  and  countenance  the  government  over 
conquered  Englishmen. 

As  it  will  be  impossible  long  to  resist  the  powerful 
and  equitable  arguments  in  favour  of  the  freedom  of 
these  unhappy  people,  that  are  to  be  drawn  from  the 
principle  of  our  own  liberty,  attempts  will  be  made, 
attempts  have  been  made,  to  ridicule  and  to  argue 
away  this  principle,  and  to  inculcate  into  the  minds 
of  your  people  other  maxims  of  government  and  other 
grounds  of  obedience  than  those  which  have  prevailed 
at  and  since  the  glorious  Revolution.  By  degrees  these 
doctrines,  by  being  convenient,  may  grow  prevalent. 
The  consequence  is  not  certain ; but  a general  change 
of  principles  rarely  happens  among  a people  without 
leading  to  a change  of  government. 

* At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  Mr  Burke  moved  that 
the  right  of  parliamentary  representation  should  be  extended 
to  the  American  colonies,  but  his  motion  was  negatived  by 
270  to  78.  Indeed,  his  most  brilliant  orations  made  little 
impression  on  the  House  of  Commons,  the  ministerial  party 
being  omnipotent  in  numbers. 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


Sir,  your  throne  cannot  stand  secure  upon  the  prin- 
ciples of  unconditional  submission  and  passive  obedi- 
ence ; on  powers  exercised  without  the  concurrence  of 
the  people  to  be  governed;  on  acts  made  in  defiance  of 
their  prejudices  and  habits;  on  acquiescence  procured 
by  foreign  mercenary  troops,  and  secured  by  standing 
armies.  These  may  possibly  be  the  foundation  of  other 
thrones;  they  must  be  the  subversion  of  yours.  It 
was  not  to  passive  principles  in  our  ancestors  that  we 
owe  the  honour  of  appearing  before  a sovereign  who 
cannot  feel  that  he  is  a prince,  without  knowing  that 
we  ought  to  be  free.  The  Revolution  is  a departure 
from  the  ancient  course  of  the  descent  of  this  monarchy. 
The  people  at  that  time  re-entered  into  their  original 
rights  ; and  it  was  not  because  a positive  law  author- 
ised what  was  then  done,  but  because  the  freedom  and 
safety  of  the  subject,  the  origin  and  cause  of  all  laws, 
required  a proceeding  paramount  and  superior  to  them. 
At  that  ever-memorable  and  instructive  period,  the 
letter  of  the  law  was  superseded  in  favour  of  the 
substance  of  liberty.  To  the  free  choice,  therefore, 
of  the  people,  without  either  king  or  parliament,  we 
owe  that  happy  establishment  out  of  which  both  king 
and  parliament  were  regenerated.  From  that  great 
principle  of  liberty  have  originated  the  statutes  con- 
firming and  ratifying  the  establishment  from  which 
your  majesty  derives  your  right  to  rule  over  us.  Those 
statutes  have  not  given  us  our  liberties ; our  liberties 
have  produced  them.  Every  hour  of  your  majesty’s 
reign,  your  title  stands  upon  the  very  same  foundation 
on  which  it  was  at  first  laid,  and  we  do  not  know  a 
better  on  which  it  can  possibly  be  laid. 

Convinced,  sir,  that  you  cannot  have  different  rights, 
and  a different  security  in  different  parts  of  your 
dominions,  we  wish  to  lay  an  even  platform  for  your 
throne,  and  to  give  it  an  unmovable  stability,  by  lay- 
ing it  on  the  general  freedom  of  your  people,  and  by 
securing  to  your  majesty  that  confidence  and  affection 
in  all  parts  of  your  dominions,  which  makes  your  best 
security  and  dearest  title  in  this  the  chief  seat  of  your 
empire. 

[Destruction  of  the  Carnatic .] 

[From  speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot’s  debts,  1785.] 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had  to 
do  with  men  who  either  would  sign  no  convention,  or 
whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature  could  bind,  and  who 
were  the  determined  enemies  of  human  intercourse 
itself,  he  decreed  to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these 
incorrigible  and  predestinated  criminals  a memorable 
example  to  mankind.  He  resolved,  in  the  gloomy 
recesses  of  a mind  capacious  of  such  things,  to  leave 
the  whole  Carnatic  an  everlasting  monument  of  venge- 
ance, and  to  put  perpetual  desolation  as  a barrier 
between  him  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which 
holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together  was  no 
protection.  He  became  at  length  so  confident  of  his 
force,  so  collected  in  his  might,  that  he  made  no  secret 
whatever  of  his  dreadful  resolution.  Having  termin- 
ated his  disputes  with  every  enemy  and  every  riyal, 
who  buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their  common 
detestation  against  the  creditors  of  the  Nabob  of  Arcot, 
he  drew  from  every  quarter  whatever  a savage  ferocity 
could  add  to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruc- 
tion ; and  compounding  all  the  materials  of  fury,  havoc, 
and  desolation,  into  one  black  cloud,  he  hung  for  a 
while  on  the  declivities  of  the  mountains.  Whilst  the 
authors  of  all  these  evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing 
on  the  menacing  meteor  which  blackened  all  their 
horizon,  it  suddenly  burst  and  poured  down  the  whole 
of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of  the  Carnatic.  Then 
ensued  a scene  of  woe,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  had 
seen,  no  heart  conceived,  and  which  no  tongue  can 
adequately  tell.  All  the  horrors  of  war  before  known 
or  heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A storm 
214 


of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  consumed  every 
house,  destroyed  every  temple.  The  miserable  inhabit- 
ants flying  from  the  flaming  villages,  in  part  were 
slaughtered : others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to 
the  respect  of  rank,  or  sacredness  of  function ; fathers 
torn  from  children,  husbands  from  wives,  enveloped  in 
a whirlwind  of  cavalry,  and  amidst  the  goading  spears 
of  drivers  and  the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were 
swept  into  captivity,  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land. 
Those  who' were  able  to  evade  this  tempest  fled  to  the 
walled  cities ; but,  escaping  from  fire,  sword,  and  exile, 
they  fell  into  the  jaws  of  famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful  exi- 
gency, were  certainly  liberal;  and  all  was  done  by 
charity  that  private  charity  could  do  : but  it  was  a 
people  in  beggary;  it  was  a nation  that  stretched 
out  its  hands  for  food.  For  months  together  these 
creatures  of  sufferance,  whose  very  excess  and  luxury 
in  their  most  plenteous  days  had  fallen  short  of  the 
allowance  of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient,  resigned, 
without  sedition  or  disturbance,  almost  without  com- 
plaint, perished  by  a hundred  a day  in  the  streets  of 
Madras;  every  day  seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies 
in  the  streets,  or  on  the  glacis  of  Tanjore,  and  expired 
of  famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I was  going  to 
awake  your  justice  towards  this  unhappy  part  of  our 
fellow- citizens,  by  bringing  before  you  some  of  the 
circumstances  of  this  plague  of  hunger.  Of  all  the 
calamities  which  beset  and  waylay  the  life  of  man,  this 
comes  the  nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein  the 
proudest  of  us  all  feels  himself  to  be  nothing  more  than 
he  is : but  I find  myself  unable  to  manage  it  with 
decorum ; these  details  are  of  a species  of  horror  so 
nauseous  and  disgusting ; they  are  so  degrading  to  the 
sufferers  and  to  the  hearers ; they  are  so  humiliating 
to  human  nature  itself,  that,  on  better  thoughts,  I find 
it  more  advisable  to  throw  a pall  over  this  hideous 
object,  and  to  leave  it  to  your  general  conceptions. 

For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission,  this 
destruction  raged  from  the  gates  of  Madras  to  the  gates 
of  Tanjore;  and  so  completely  did  these  masters  in 
their  art,  Hyder  Ali  and  his  more  ferocious  son,  absolve 
themselves  of  their  impious  vow,  that  when  the  British 
armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic  for  hundreds 
of  miles  in  all  directions,  through  the  whole  line  of 
their  march  did  they  not  see  one  man,  not  one  woman, 
not  one  child,  not  one  four-footed  beast  of  any  descrip- 
tion whatever.  One  dead  uniform  silence  reigned  over 
the  whole  region.  * * The  Carnatic  is  a country 
not  much  inferior  in  extent  to  England.  Figure  to 
yourself,  Mr  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  representative 
chair  you  sit ; figure  to  yourself  the  form  and  fashion  of 
your  sweet  and  cheerful  country  from  Thames  to  Trent, 
north  and  south,  and  from  the  Irish  to  the  Herman 
Sea  east  and  west,  emptied  and  embowelled  (may  God 
avert  the  omen  of  our  crimes !)  by  so  accomplished  a 
desolation ! 

[Mr  BurJce's  Account  of  his  /Son.] 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of 
succession,  I should  have  been,  according  to  my  medi- 
ocrity, and  the  mediocrity  of  the  age  I live  in,  a sort  of 
founder  of  a family ; I should  have  left  a son,  who,  in 
all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be  viewed,  in 
science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honour,  in 
generosity,  in  humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment,  and 
every  liberal  accomplishment,  would  not  have  shewn 
himself  inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of 
those  whom  he  traces  in  his  line.  His  Grace  very  soon 
would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack  upon 
that  provision  which  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me. 
He  would  soon  have  supplied  every  deficiency,  and 
symmetrised  every  disproportion.  It  would  not  have 
been  for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant 
wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


He  had  in  himself  a salient  living  spring  of  generous 
and  manly  action.  Every  day  he  lived,  he  would  have 
repurchased  the  bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times 
more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was 
made  a public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment  what- 
ever but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this 
exigent  moment  the  loss  of  a finished  man  is  not 
easily  supplied. 

But  a Disposer,  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to 
resist,  and  whose  wisdom  it  behoves  us  not  at  all  to 
dispute,  has  ordained  it  in  another  manner,  and — 
whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  suggest — a far 
better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I lie  like  one 
of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered 
about  me.  I am  stripped  of  all  my  honours  ; I am 
torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the  earth  ! 
There,  and  prostrate  there,  I most  unfeignedly  recognise 
the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree  submit  to  it. 
But  whilst  I humble  myself  before  God,  I do  not  know 
that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  unjust  and 
inconsiderate  men.  The  patience  of  Job  is  proverbial. 
After  some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of  our  irritable 
nature,  he  submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and 
ashes.  But  even  so,  I do  not  find  him  blamed  for 
reprehending,  and  with  a considerable  degree  of  verbal 
asperity,  those  ill-natured  neighbours  of  his  who  visited 
his  dunghill  to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical 
lectures  on  his  misery.  I am  alone.  I have  none  to 
meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I 
greatly  deceive  myself,  if  in  this  hard  season  I would 
give  a peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame 
and  honour  in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a 
few.  It  is  a luxury  ; it  is  a privilege ; it  is  an  indul- 
gence for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all 
of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink 
from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct ; 
and  under  the  direction  of  reason,  instinct  is  always 
in  the  right.  I live  in  an  inverted  order.  They  who 
ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me  ; they 
who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity,  are  in  the 
place  of  ancestors.  I owe  to  the  dearest  relation — 
which  ever  must  subsist  in  memory — that  act  of  piety 
which  he  would  have  performed  to  me ; I owe  it 
to  him  to  shew,  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy 
parent. 

[The  British  Monarchy .] 

The  learned  professors  of  the  rights  of  man  regard 
prescription,  not  as  a title  to  bar  all  claim,  set  up 
against  old  possession,  but  they  look  on  prescription 
itself  as  a bar  against  the  possessor  and  proprietor. 
They  hold  an  immemorial  possession  to  be  no  more 
than  a long-continued,  and  therefore  an  aggravated 
injustice.  Such  are  their  ideas,  such  their  religion, 
and  such  their  law.  But  as  to  our  country  and  our 
race,  as  long  as  the  well-compacted  structure  of  our 
church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the  holy  of  holies  of 
that  ancient  lafr,  defended  by  reverence,  defended  by 
power,  a fortress  at  once  and  a temple,  shall  stand 
inviolate  on  the  brow  of  the  British  Sion — as  long  as 
the  British  monarchy,  not  more  limited  than  fenced 
by  the  orders  of  the  state,  shall,  like  the  proud  keep 
of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  majesty  of  proportion,  and 
girt  with  the  double  belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval 
towers — as  long  as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee 
and  guard  the  subjected  land,  so  long  the  mounds  and 
dikes  of  the  low  fat  Bedford  Level  will  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  all  the  pickaxes  of  all  the  levellers  of 
France.  As  long  as  our  sovereign  lord  the  king,  and 
his  faithful  subjects,  the  lords  and  commons  of  this 
realm — the  triple  cord  which  no  man  can  break; 
the  solemn,  sworn  constitutional  frankpledge  of  this 
nation ; the  firm  guarantee  of  each  other’s  being  and 
each  other’s  rights ; the  joint  and  several  securities, 


each  in  its  place  and  order  for  every  kind  and  every 
quality  of  property  and  of  dignity — as  long  as  these 
endure,  so  long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe;  and  we 
are  all  safe  together — the  high  from  the  blights  of 
envy  and  the  spoliations  of  rapacity;  the  low  from 
the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  insolent  spurn  of 
contempt. 

[Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France .] 

[From  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France.'] 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I saw  the 
queen  of  France,  then  the  dauphiness,  at  Versailles; 
and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly 
seemed  to  touch,  a more  delightful  vision.  I saw  her 
just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the 
elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in — glittering 
like  the  morning-star  full  of  life,  and  splendour,  and 
joy.  Oh  ! what  a revolution  ! and  what  a heart  must 
I have  to  contemplate  without  emotion  that  elevation 
and  that  fall ! Little  did  I dream,  when  she  added 
titles  of  veneration  to  that  enthusiastic,  distant, 
respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to 
carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in 
that  bosom;  little  did  I dream  that  I should  have 
lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a nation 
of  gallant  men,  in  a nation  of  men  of  honour  and 
of  cavaliers.  I thought  ten  thousand  swords  must* 
have  leaped  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a 
look  that  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the  age 
of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  economists, 
and  calculators  has  succeeded  ; and  the  glory  of  Europe 
is  extinguished  for  ever.  Never,  never  more  shall  we 
behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that 
proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  that  sub- 
ordination of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in 
servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The 
unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations, 
the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise 
is  gone!  It  is  gone  that  sensibility  of  principle,  that 
chastity  of  honour,  which  felt  a stain  like  a wound, 
which  inspired  courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity, 
which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which 
vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 

[The  Order  of  Nobility .] 

[From  the  same.] 

To  be  honoured  and  even  privileged  by  the  laws, 
opinions,  and  inveterate  usages  of  our  country,  growing 
out  of  the  prejudice  of  ages,  has  nothing  to  provoke 
horror  and  indignation  in  any  man.  Even  to  be  too 
tenacious  of  those  privileges  is  not  absolutely  a crime. 
The  strong  struggle  in  every  individual  to  preserve 
possession  of  what  he  has  found  to  belong  to  him,  and 
to  distinguish  him,  is  one  of  the  securities  against 
injustice  and  despotism  implanted  in  our  nature.  It 
operates  as  an  instinct  to  secure  property,  and  to 
preserve  communities  in  a settled  state.  What  is 
there  to  shock  in  this?  Nobility  is  a graceful  orna- 
ment to  the  civil  order.  It  is  the  Corinthian  capital 
of  polished  society.  Omnes  boni  nobilitati  semper 
favemus,  was  the  saying  of  a wise  and  good  man.  It 
is,  indeed,  one  sign  of  a liberal  and  benevolent  mind 
to  incline  to  it  with  some  sort  of  partial  propensity. 
He  feels  no  ennobling  principle  in  his  own  heart  who 
wishes  to  level  all  the  artificial  institutions  which  have 
teen  adopted  for  giving  a body  to  opinion  and  per- 
manence to  fugitive  esteem.  It  is  a sour,  malignant, 
and  envious  disposition,  without  taste  for  the  reality, 
or  for  any  image  or  representation  of  virtue,  that  sees 
with  joy  the  unmerited  fall  of  what  had  long  flourished 
in  splendour  and  in  honour.  I do  not  like  to  see 
anything  destroyed,  any  void  produced  in  society,  any 
ruin  on  the  face  of  the  land. 

215 


FROM  17G0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

[The  Difference  between  Mr  BurJce  and  the  Duke  of 
Bedford.'] 

[The  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  attacked 
Mr  Burke  and  his  pension  in  their  place  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  Burke  replied  in  his  Letter  to  a Noble  Lord,  one  of  the 
most  sarcastic  and  most  able  of  all  his  productions.] 

I was  not,  like  his  Grace  of  Bedford,  swaddled,  and 
rocked,  and  dandled  into  a legislator — Nitoi'  in  adver- 
sum  is  the  motto  for  a man  like  me.  I possessed  not 
one  of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated  one  of  the  arts, 
that  recommend  men  to  the  favour  and  protection  of 
the  great.  I was  not  made  for  a minion  or  a tool.  As 
little  did  I follow  the  trade  of  winning  the  hearts  by- 
imposing  on  the  understandings  of  the  people.  At 
every  step  of  my  progress  in  life — for  in  every  step 
was  I traversed  and  opposed — and  at  every  turnpike  I 
met  I was  obliged  to  shew  my  passport,  and  again  and 
again  to  prove  my  sole  title  to  the  honour  of  being 
useful  to  my  country,  by  a proof  that  I was  not  wholly 
unacquainted  with  its  laws,  and  the  whole  system  of 
its  interests  both  abroad  and  at  home.  Otherwise,  no 
rank,  no  toleration  even  for  me.  I had  no  arts  but 
manly  arts.  On  them  I have  stood,  and,  please  God, 
in  spite  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of 
Lauderdale,  to  the  last  gasp  will  I stand.  * * 

I know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems 
that,  whilst  his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-con- 
sidered censure  upon  me,  he  fell  into  a sort  of  sleep. 
Homer  nods,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford  may  dream; 
and  as  dreams — even  his  golden  dreams — are  apt  to  be 
ill-pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his  Grace 
preserved  his  idea  of  reproach  to  me,  but  took  the 
subject-matter  from  the  crown-grants  to  his  own  family. 
This  is  ‘the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams  are  made.’  In 
that  way  of  putting  things  together,  his  Grace  is  per- 
fectly in  the  right.  The  grants  to  the  house  of  Bussell 
were  so  enormous,  as  not  only  to  outrage  economy,  but 
even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  is 
the  leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the  crown. 
He  tumbles  about  his  unwieldy  bulk;  he  plays  and 
frolics  in  the  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is, 
and  whilst  ‘ he  lies  floating  many  a rood,’  he  is  still  a 
creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his  whalebone,  his  blubber, 
the  very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts  a torrent  of 
brine  against  his  origin,  and  covers  me  all  over  with 
the  spray — everything  of  him  and  about  him  is  from 
the  throne. 

Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the 
royal  favour  ? 

I really  am  at  a loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel 
between  the  public  merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he 
justifies  the  grants  he  holds,  and  these  services  of  mine, 
on  the  favourable  construction  of  which  I have  obtained 
what  his  Grace  so  much  disapproves.  In  private  life, 
I have  not  at  all  the  honour  of  acquaintance  with  the 
noble  Duke.  But  I ought  to  presume,  and  it  costs  me 
nothing  to  do  so,  that  he  abundantly  deserves  the 
esteem  and  love  of  all  who  live  with  him.  But  as  to 
1 public  service,  why,  truly,  it  would  not  be  more  ridi- 
culous for  me  to  compare  my  self  in  rank,  in  fortune,  in 
splendid  descent,  in  youth,  strength,  or  figure,  with  the 
Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a parallel  between  his 
services  and  my  attempts  to  be  useful  to  my  country. 
It  would  not  be  gross  adulation,  but  uncivil  irony,  to 
say  that  he  has  any  public  merit  of  his  own,  to  keep 
alive  the  idea  of  the  services  by  which  his  vast  landed 
pensions  were  obtained.  My  merits,  whatever  they  are, 
are  original  and  personal ; his,  are  derivative.  It  is  his 
ancestor,  the  original  pensioner,  that  has  laid  up  this 
inexhaustible  fund  of  merit,  which  makes  his  Grace  so 
very  delicate  and  exceptious  about  the  merit  of  all  other 
grantees  of  the  crown.  Had  he  permitted  me  to  remain 
in  quiet,  I should  have  said:  ‘’Tis  his  estate;  that’s 
enough.  It  is  his  by  law ; what  have  I to  do  with  it  or 
216 

its  history  V He  would  naturally  have  said  on  his  side  : 
‘’Tis  this  man’s  fortune.  He  is  as  good  now  as  my 
ancestor  was  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  I am  a 
young  man  with  very  old  pensions ; he  is  an  old  man 
with  very  young  pensions — that ’s  all.’ 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me 
reluctantly  to  compare  my  little  merit  with  that  which 
obtained  from  the  crown  those  prodigies  of  profuse 
donation  by  which  he  tramples  on  the  mediocrity  of 
humble  and  laborious  individuals  ? * * Since  the 

new  grantees  have  war  made  on  them  by  the  old,  and 
that  the  word  of  the  sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken,  let  us 
turn  our  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men  have 
always  a pleasure  in  contemplating  the  heroic  origin  of 
their  house. 

The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the 
grants,  was  a Mr  Russell,  a person  of  an  ancient  gentle- 
man’s family,  raised  by  being  a minion  of  Henry  VIII. 
As  there  generally  is  some  resemblance  of  character  to 
create  these  relations,  the  favourite  was  in  all  likeli- 
hood much  such  another  as  his  master.  The  first  of 
these  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from  the 
ancient  demesne  of  the  crown,  but  from  the  recent 
confiscation  of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The 
lion  having  sucked  the  blood-  of  his  prey,  threw  the 
offal  carcass  to  the  jackal  in  waiting.  Having  tasted 
once  the  food  of  confiscation,  the  favourites  became 
fierce  and  ravenous.  This  worthy  favourite’s  first  grant 
was  from  the  lay  nobility.  The  second,  infinitely  improv- 
ing on  the  enormity  of  the  first,  was  from  the  plunder 
of  the  church.  In  truth,  his  Grace  is  somewhat  excus- 
able for  his  dislike  to  a grant  like  mine,  not  only  in  its 
quantity,  but  in  its  kind  so  different  from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a mild  and  benevolent  sovereign ; his, 
from  Henry  VIII.  Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder 
of  any  innocent  person  of  illustrious  rank,  or  in  the 
pillage  of  any  body  of  unoffending  men ; his  grants 
were  from  the  aggregate  and  consolidated  funds  of 
judgments  iniquitously  legal,  and  from  possessions 
voluntarily  surrendered  by  the  lawful  proprietors  with 
the  gibbet  at  their  door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from,  was 
that  of  being  a prompt  and  greedy  instrument  of  a 
levelling  tyrant,  who  oppressed  all  descriptions  of  his 
people,  but  who  fell  with  particular  fury  on  everything 
that  was  great  and  noble.  Mine  has  been  in  endeavour- 
ing to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from  oppression, 
and  particularly  in  defending  the  high  and  eminent, 
who  in  the  bad  times  of  confiscating  princes,  confiscat- 
ing chief -governors,  or  confiscating  demagogues,  are  the 
most  exposed  to  jealousy,  avarice,  and  envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace’s 
pensions  was  in  giving  his  hand  to  the  work,  and  par- 
taking the  spoil  with  a prince,  who  plundered  a part 
of  the  national  church  of  his  time  and  country.  Mine 
was  in  defending  the  whole  of  the  national  church  of 
my  own  time  and  my  own  country,  and  the  whole  of 
the  national  churches  of  all  countries,  from  the  prin- 
ciples and  the  examples  which  lead  to  ecclesiastical 
pillage,  thence  to  a contempt  of  all  prescriptive  titles, 
thence  to  the  pillage  of  all  property,  and  thence  to 
universal  desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace’s  fortune  was 
in  being  a favourite  and  chief  adviser  to  a prince  who 
left  no  liberty  to  his  native  country.  My  endeavour 
was  to  obtain  liberty  for  the  municipal  country  in 
which  I was  born,  and  for  all  descriptions  and  denomi- 
nations in  it.  Mine  was  to  support,  with  unrelaxing 
vigilance,  every  right,  every  privilege,  every  franchise, 
in  this  my  adopted,  my  dearer,  and  more  comprehen- 
sive country ; and  not  only  to  preserve  those  rights  in 
this  chief  seat  of  empire,  but  in  every  nation,  in  every 
land,  in  every  climate,  language,  and  religion  in  the 
vast  domain  that  still  is  under  the  protection,  and  the 
larger  that  was  once  under  the  protection,  of  the  British 
crown. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JUNIUS. 


His  founder’s  merits  were  by  arts  in  which  he  served 
his  master  and  made  his  fortune,  to  bring  poverty, 
wretchedness,  and  depopulation  on  his  country.  Mine 
were  under  a benevolent  prince,  in  promoting  the  com- 
merce, manufactures,  and  agriculture  of  his  kingdom; 
in  which  his  majesty  shews  an  eminent  example,  who 
even  in  his  amusements  is  a patriot,  and  in  hours  of 
leisure  an  improver  of  his  native  soil. 

[Charade)'  of  Howard  the  Philanthropist.] 

I cannot  name  this  gentleman  without  remarking, 
that  his  labours  and  writings  have  done  much  to  open 
the  eyes  and  hearts  of  all  mankind.  He  has  visited  all 
Europe — not  to  survey  the  sumptuousness  of  palaces,  or 
the  stateliness  of  temples ; not  to  make  accurate  mea- 
surements of  the  remains  of  ancient  grandeur,  nor  to 
form  a scale  of  the  curiosities  of  modern  art;  nor  to 
collect  medals,  or  collate  manuscripts,  but  to  dive  into 
the  depths  of  dungeons,  to  plunge  into  the  infection  of 
hospitals,  to  survey  the  mansions  of  sorrow  and  pain ; 
to  take  the  gauge  and  dimensions  of  misery,  depression, 
and  contempt ; to  remember  the  forgotten,  to  attend  to 
the  neglected,  to  visit  the  forsaken,  and  compare  and 
collate  the  distresses  of  all  men  in  all  countries.  His 
plan  is  original ; it  is  as  full  of  genius  as  of  humanity. 
It  was  a voyage  of  discovery;  a circumnavigation  of 
charity.  Already,  the  benefit  of  his  labour  is  felt  more 
or  less  in  every  country : I hope  he  will  anticipate  his 
final  reward  by  seeing  all  its  effects  fully  realised  in  his 
own. 

JUNIUS. 

On  the  21st  of  January  1769  appeared  the  first  of 
a series  of  political  letters,  bearing  the  signature  of 
Junius,  which  have  since  taken  their  place  among 
the  standard  works  of  the  English  language.  Great 
excitement  prevailed  in  the  nation  at  the  time. 
The  contest  with  the  American  colonies,  the  imposi- 
tion of  new  taxes,  the  difficulty  of  forming  a steady 
and  permanent  administration,  and  the  great  ability 
and  eloquence  of  the  opposition,  had  tended  to 
spread  a feeling  of  dissatisfaction  throughout  the 
country.  The  publication  of  the  North  Briton , a 
periodical  edited  by  John  Wilkes,  and  conducted 
with  reckless  violence  and  asperity,  added  fuel  to 
the  flame,  and  the  prime-minister,  Lord  North,  said 
justly,  that  ‘the  press  overflowed  the  land  with  its 
black  gall,  and  poisoned  the  minds  of  the  people.’ 
The  government  was  by  no  means  equal  to  the 
emergency,  and  indeed  it  would  have  required  a 
cabinet  of  the  highest  powers  and  most  energetic 
wisdom  to  have  triumphed  over  the  opposition  of 
men  like  Chatham  and  Burke,  and  writers  like 
Junius.  The  most  popular  newspaper  of  that  day 
was  the  Public  Advertiser , published  by  Woodfall, 
a man  of  education  and  respectability.  In  this 
journal  the  writer  known  as  Junius  had  contributed 
under  various  signatures  for  about  two  years.  The 
letters  by  which  he  is  now  distinguished  were  more 
carefully  elaborated,  and  more  highly  polished,  than 
any  of  his  previous  communications.  They  attacked 
all  the  public  characters  of  the  day  connected  with 
the  government,  they  retailed  much  private  scandal 
and  personal  history,  and  did  not  spare  even  royalty 
itself'.  The  compression,  point,  and  brilliancy  of 
their  language,  their  unrivalled  sarcasm,  boldness, 
and  tremendous  invective,  at  once  arrested  the 
attention  of  the  public.  Every  effort  that  could  be 
devised  by  the  government,  or  prompted  by  private 
indignation,  was  made  to  discover  their  author,  but 
in  vain.  ‘ It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things,’  he 
writes  to  his  publisher,  ‘ that  you  or  anybody  else 
should  know  me,  unless  I make  myself  known : all 


arts  or  inquiries  or  rewards  would  be  ineffectual.’ 
In  another  place  he  remarks,  ‘ I am  the  sole  deposi- 
tary of  my  secret,  and  it  shall  die  with  me.’  The 
event  has  verified  the  prediction:  he  had  drawn 
around  himself  so  impenetrable  a veil  of  secrecy, 
that  all  the  efforts  of  inquirers,  political  and  literary, 
failed  in  dispelling  the  original  darkness.  The 
letters  were  published  at  intervals  from  1769  to 
1772,  when  they  were  collected  by  Woodfall,  and 
revised  by  their  author — who  was  equally  unknown 
to  his  publisher — and  printed  in  two  volumes.  They 
have  since  gone  through  innumerable  editions  ; but 
the  best  is  that  published  in  1812  by  Woodfall’s 
son,  which  includes  the  letters  by  the  same  writer 
under  other  signatures — probably  along  with  others 
not  written  by  him,  for  there  is  a want  of  direct 
evidence — with  his  private  notes  to  his  publisher, 
and  fac-similes  of  his  handwriting. 

The  principles  of  Junius  are  moderate,  compared 
with  his  personalities.  Some  sound  constitutional 
maxims  are  conveyed  in  his  letters,  but  his  style  has 
undoubtedly  been  his  passport  to  fame.  His  illus- 
trations and  metaphors  are  also  sometimes  uncom- 
monly felicitous.  The  personal  malevolence  of  his 
attacks  it  is  impossible  to  justify.  They  evince  a 
settled  deliberate  malignity,  which  could  not  proceed 
from  a man  of  a good  or  noble  nature,  and  contain 
allusions  to  obscure  individuals  in  the  public 
offices,  which  seem  to  have  arisen  less  from  patriot- 
ism than  from  individual  hatred  and  envy.  When 
the  controversy  as  to  the  authorship  of  these 
memorable  philippics  had  almost  died  away,  a book 
appeared  in  1816,  bearing  the  title  of  Junius  Identi- 
fied with  a Celebrated  Living  Character.  The  living 
character  was  the  late  Sir  Philip  Erancis,  and 
certainly  a mass  of  strong  circumstantial  evidence 
has  been  presented  in  his  favour.  ‘ The  external 
evidence,’  says  Macaulay,  ‘is,  we  think,  such  as 
would  support  a verdict  in  a civil,  nay,  in  a criminal 
proceeding.  The  handwriting  of  Junius  is  the  very 
peculiar  handwriting  of  Erancis,  slightly  disguised. 
As  to  the  position,  pursuits,  and  connections  of 
Junius,  the  following  are  the  most  important  facts 
which  can  be  considered  as  clearly  proved : First, 
that  he  was  acquainted  with  the  technical  forms  of 
the  secretary  of  state’s  office  ; secondly,  that  he  was 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  business  of  the  War- 
office;  thirdly,  that  he,  during  the  year  1770, 
attended  debates  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  took 
notes  of  speeches,  particularly  of  the  speeches  of 
Lord  Chatham ; fourthly,  that  he  bitterly  resented 
the  appointment  of  Mr  Chamier  to  the  place  of 
deputy-secretary  at  war;  fifthly,  that  he  was 
bound  by  some  strong  tie  to  the  first  Lord  Holland. 
Now,  Erancis  passed  some  years  in  the  secretary 
of  state’s  office.  He  was  subsequently  chief-clerk 
of  the  War-office.  He  repeatedly  mentioned  that 
lie  had  himself,  in  1770,  heard  speeches  of  Lord 
Chatham ; and  some  of  these  speeches  were 
actually  printed  from  his  notes.  He  resigned  his 
clerkship  at  the  War-office  from  resentment  at  the 
appointment  of  Mr  Chamier.  It  was  by  Lord 
Holland  that  he  was  first  introduced  into  the  public 
service.  Now,  here  are  five  marks,  all  of  which 
ought  to  be  found  in  Junius.  They  are  all  five 
found  in  Erancis.  We  do  not  believe  that  more 
than  two  of  them  can  be  found  in  any  other  person 
whatever.  If  this  argument  does  not  settle  the 
question,  there  is  an  end  of  all  reasoning  on  circum- 
stantial evidence.’  The  same  acute  writer  considers 
the  internal  evidence  to  be  equally  clear  as  to  the 
claims  of  Francis.  Attention  has  been  drawn  to 
another  individual,  one  of  ten  or  more  persons 
suspected  at  the  time  of  publication.  This  is  Lord 


FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1800. 


George  Sackville,  latterly  Viscount  Sackville,  an 
able  but  unpopular  soldier,  cashiered  from  the  army 
in  consequence  of  neglect  of  duty  at  the  battle 
of  Minden,  but  who  afterwards  regained  the  favour 
of  the  government,  and  acted  as  secretary  at  war 
throughout  the  whole  period  of  the  American  con- 
test. A work  by  Mr  Coventry  in  1825,  and  a 
volume  by  Mr  Jaques  in  1842,  have  been  devoted  to 
an  endeavour  to  fix  the  authorship  of  Junius  upon 
Lord  George.  In  1853  the  Grenville  Papers  were 
published  from  the  originals  at  Stowe,  and  an 
attempt  was  made  by  their  editor,  Mr  W.  J.  Smith, 
to  prove  that  Lord  Temple  was  Junius,  Lady 
Temple  acting  as  the  amanuensis.  Junius  had, 
without  disclosing  himself,  written  three  letters  to 
Lord  Temple  on  political  topics ; but  these  only 
prove  that  the  unknown  looked  for  the  patronage  of 
the  Temples,  should  that  family  gain  an  ascendency  in 
the  government.  It  is  probable  that  more  than  one 
person  was  connected  with  the  letters,  and  Temple 
may  have  been  one  of  these  supplying  hints  ; but  the 
evidence  given  to  prove  that  he  was  really  Junius 
must  be  pronounced  inconclusive.  The  claim  of 
Prancis  still  remains  the  best. 

Philip  Francis  was  the  son  of  the  Eev.  Philip 
Francis,  translator  of  Horace.  He  was  born/  in 
Dublin  in  1740,  and  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen  was 
placed  by  Lord  Holland  in  the  secretary  of  state’s 
office.  By  the  patronage  of  Pitt  (Lord  Chatham), 
he  was  made  secretary  to  General  Bligh  in  1758, 
and  was  present  at  the  capture  of  Cherbourg;  in 
1760  he  accompanied  Lord  Kinnoul  as  secretary 
on  his  embassy  to  Lisbon ; and  in  1763  he  was 
appointed  to  a considerable  situation  in  the  War- 
office,  which  he  held  till  1772.  Next  year  he  was 
made  a member  of  the  council  appointed  for  the 
government  of  Bengal,  from  whence  he  returned 
in  1781,  after  being  perpetually  at  war  with  the 
governor-general,  Warren  Hastings,  and  being 
wounded  by  him  in  a duel.  He  afterwards  sat  in 
parliament,  supporting  Whig  principles,  and  was 
one  of  the  ‘Friends  of  the  People’  in  association 
with  Fox,  Tierney,  and  Grey.  He  died  in  1818.  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  speeches  and  letters 
of  Sir  Philip  evince  much  of  the  talent  found  in 
Junius,  though  they  are  less  rhetorical  in  style; 
while  the  history  and  dispositions  of  the  man — his 
strong  resentments,  his  arrogance,  his  interest  in 
the  public  questions  of  the  day,  evinced  by  his 
numerous  pamphlets,  even  in  advanced  age,  and  the 
whole  complexion  of  his  party  and  political  senti- 
ments, are  what  we  should  expect  of  Woodfall’s 
celebrated  correspondent.  High  and  commanding 
qualities  he  undoubtedly  possessed ; nor  was  he 
without  genuine  patriotic  feelings,  and  a desire  to 
labour  earnestly  for  the  public  weal.  His  error  lay 
in  mistaking  his  private  enmities  for  public  virtue, 
and  nursing  his  resentments  till  they  attained  a 
dark  and  unsocial  malignity.  His  temper  was 
irritable  and  gloomy,  and  often  led  him  to  form 
mistaken  and  uncharitable  estimates  of  men  and 
measures. 

Of  the  literary  excellences  of  Junius,  his  sarcasm, 
compressed  energy,  and  brilliant  illustration,  a few 
specimens  may  be  quoted.  His  finest  metaphor — 
as  just  in  sentiment  as  beautiful  in  expression — is 
contained  in  the  conclusion  to  the  forty-second 
letter:  ‘The  ministry,  it  seems,  are  labouring  to 
draw  a line  of  distinction  between  the  honour  of  the 
crown  and  the  rights  of  the  people.  This  new  idea 
has  yet  only  been  started  in  discourse ; for,  in  effect, 
both  objects  have  been  equally  sacrificed.  I neither 
understand  the  distinction,  nor  what  use  the  ministry 
propose  to  make  of  it.  The  king’s  honour  is  that 
218 


of  his  people.  Their  real  honour  and  real  interest 
are  the  same.  I am  not  contending  for  a vain 
punctilio.  A clear  unblemished  character  compre- 
hends not  only  the  integrity  that  will  not  offer,  but 
the  spirit  that  will  not  submit,  to  an  injury;  and 
whether  it  belongs  to  an  individual  or  to  a com- 
munity, it  is  the  foundation  of  peace,  of  independ- 
ence, and  of  safety.  Private  credit  is  wealth ; 
public  honour  is  security.  The  feather  that  adorns 
the  royal  bird  supports  his  flight.  Strip  him  of  his 
plumage,  and  you  fix  him  to  the  earth.’ 

Thus  also  he  remarks : ‘ In  the  shipwreck  of  the 
state,  trifles  float  and  are  preserved;  while  every- 
thing solid  and  valuable  sinks  to  the  bottom,  and  is 
lost  for  ever.’ 

Of  the  supposed  enmity  of  George  III.  to  Wilkes, 
and  the  injudicious  prosecution  of  that  demagogue, 
Junius  happily  remarks : ‘ He  said  more  than 
moderate  men  would  justify,  but  not  enough  to 
entitle  him  to  the  honour  of  your  majesty’s  personal 
resentment.  The  rays  of  royal  indignation,  collected 
upon  him,  served  only  to  illuminate,  and  could  not 
consume.  Animated  by  the  favour  of  the  people 
on  the  one  side,  and  heated  by  persecution  on  the 
other,  Ills  views  and  sentiments  changed  with  his 
situation.  Hardly  serious  at  first,  he  is  now  an 
enthusiast.  The  coldest  bodies  warm  with  oppo- 
sition, the  hardest  sparkle  in  collision.  There  is  a 
holy  mistaken  zeal  in  politics  as  well  as  religion. 
By  persuading  others,  we  convince  ourselves.  The 
passions  are  engaged,  and  create  a maternal  affec- 
tion in  the  mind,  which  forces  us  to  love  the  cause 
for  which  we  suffer.’ 

The  letter  to  the  king  is  the  most  dignified  of  the 
letters  of  Junius ; those  to  the  Dukes  of  Grafton 
and  Bedford  the  most  severe.  The  latter  afford  the 
most  favourable  specimens  of  the  force,  epigram, 
and  merciless  sarcasm  of  his  best  style.  The  Duke 
of  Grafton  was  descended  from  Charles  II.,  and  this 
afforded  the  satirist  scope  for  invective : ‘ The 
character  of  the  reputed  ancestors  of  some  men 
has  made  it  possible  for  their  descendants  to  be 
vicious  in  the  extreme,  without  being  degenerate. 
Those  of  your  Grace,  for  instance,  left  no  distressing 
examples  of  virtue,  even  to  their  legitimate  pos- 
terity ; and  you  may  look  back  with  pleasure  to  an 
illustrious  pedigree,  in  which  heraldry  has  not  left  a 
single  good  quality  upon  record  to  insult  or  upbraid 
you.  You  have  better  proofs  of  your  descent,  my  lord, 
than  the  register  of  a marriage,  or  any  troublesome 
inheritance  of  reputation.  There  are  some  hereditary 
strokes  of  character  by  which  a family  may  be  as 
clearly  distinguished  as  by  the  blackest  features  of 
the  human  face.  Charles  I.  lived  and  died  a hypo- 
crite ; Charles  II.  was  a hypocrite  of  another  sort, 
and  should  have  died  upon  the  same  scaffold.  At 
the  distance  of  a century,  we  see  their  different 
characters  happily  revived  and  blended  in  your 
Grace.  Sullen  and  severe  without  religion,  profli- 
gate without  gaiety,  you  live  like  Charles  II., 
without  being  an  amiable  companion ; and,  for 
aught  I know,  may  die  as  his  father  did,  without 
the  reputation  of  a martyr.’ 

In  the  same  strain  of  elaborate  and  refined 
sarcasm  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  addressed:  ‘My 
lord,  you  are  so  little  accustomed  to  receive  any 
marks  of  respect  or  esteem  from  the  public,  that  if 
in  the  following  lines  a compliment  or  expression  of 
applause  should  escape  me,  I fear  you  would  consider 
it  as  a mockery  of  your  established  character,  and 
perhaps  an  insult  to  your  understanding.  You  have 
nice  feelings,  my  lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  your 
resentments.  Cautious,  therefore,  of  giving  offence 
where  you  have  so  little  deserved  it,  I shall  leave 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JUNIUS. 


the  illustration  of  your  virtues  to  other  hands. 
Your  friends  have  a privilege  to  play  upon  the 
easiness  of  your  temper,  or  probably  they  are 
better  acquainted  with  your  good  qualities  than  I 
am.  You  have  done  good  by  stealth.  The  rest  is 
upon  record.  You  have  still  left  ample  room  for 
speculation  when  panegyric  is  exhausted.’ 

After  having  reproached  the  duke  for  corruption 
and  imbecility,  the  splendid  tirade  of  Junius  con- 
cludes in  a strain  of  unmeasured  yet  lofty  invec- 
tive : ‘ Let  us  consider  you,  then,  as  arrived  at  the 
summit  of  worldly  greatness ; let  us  suppose  that 
all  your  plans  of  avarice  and  ambition  are  accom- 
plished, and  your  most  sanguine  wishes  gratified 
in  the  fear  as  well  as  the  hatred  of  the  people. 
Can  age  itself  forget  that  you  are  now  in  the  last 
act  of  life  ? Can  gray  hairs  make  folly  venerable  ? 
and  is  there  no  period  to  be  reserved  for  meditation 
and  retirement  ? Eor  shame,  my  lord ! Let  it  not 
be  recorded  of  you  that  the  latest  moments  of  your 
life  were  dedicated  to  the  same  unworthy  pursuits, 
the  same  busy  agitations,  in  which  your  youth  and 
manhood  were  exhausted.  Consider  that,  though 
you  cannot  disgrace  your  former  life,  you  are 
violating  the  character  of  age,  and  exposing  the 
impotent  imbecility,  after  you  have  lost  the  vigour, 
of  the  passions. 

‘Your  friends  will  ask,  perhaps,  Whither  shall 
this  unhappy  old  man  retire  ? Can  he  remain  in 
the  metropolis,  where  his  life  has  been  so  often 
threatened,  and  his  palace  so  often  attacked?  If 
he  returns  to  Woburn,  scorn  and  mockery  await 
him : he  must  create  a solitude  round  his  estate,  if 
he  would  avoid  the  face  of  reproach  and  derision. 
At  Plymouth,  his  destruction  would  be  more  than 
probable ; at  Exeter,  inevitable.  No  honest  English- 
man will  ever  forget  his  attachment,  nor  any  honest 
Scotchman  forgive  his  treachery,  to  Lord  Bute.  At 
every  town  he  enters,  he  must  change  his  liveries 
and  name.  Whichever  way  he  flies,  the  hue  and 
cry  of  the  country  pursues  him. 

‘In  another  kingdom,  indeed,  the  blessings  of  his 
administration  have  been  more  sensibly  felt,  his 
virtues  better  understood;  or,  at  worst,  they  will 
not  for  him  alone  forget  their  hospitality.  As 
•well  might  Yerres  have  returned  to  Sicily.  You 
have  twice  escaped,  my  lord;  beware  of  a third 
experiment.  The  indignation  of  a whole  people 
plundered,  insulted,  and  oppressed,  as  they  have 
been,  will  not  always  be  disappointed. 

‘It  is  in  vain,  therefore,  to  shift  the  scene ; you  can 
no  more  fly  from  your  enemies  than  from  yourself. 
Persecuted  abroad,  you  look  into  your  own  heart 
for  consolation,  and  find  nothing  but  reproaches  and 
despair.  But,  my  lord,  you  may  quit  the  field  of 
business,  though  not  the  field  of  danger ; and  though 
you  cannot  be  safe,  you  may  cease  to  be  ridiculous. 
I fear  you  have  listened  too  long  to  the  advice  of 
those  pernicious  friends  with  whose  interests  you 
have  sordidly  united  your  own,  and  for  whom  you 
have  sacrificed  everything  that  ought  to  be  dear  to 
a man  of  honour.  They  are  still  base  enough  to 
encourage  the  follies  of  your  age,  as  they  once  did 
the  vices  of  your  youth.  As  little  acquainted  with 
the  rules  of  decorum  as  with  the  laws  of  morality, 
they  will  not  suffer  you  to  profit  by  experience, 
nor  even  to  consult  the  propriety  of  a bad  character. 
Even  now  they  tell  you  that  life  is  no  more  than 
a dramatic  scene,  in  which  the  hero  should  preserve 
his  consistency  to  the  last ; and  that,  as  you  lived 
without  virtue,  you  should  die  without  repentance.’ 

These  are  certainly  brilliant  pieces  of  composi- 
tion. The  tone  and  spirit  in  which  they  are  con- 
ceived are  harsh  and  reprehensible— in  some  parts 


almost  fiendish— but  they  are  the  emanations  of  a 
powerful  and  cultivated  genius,  that,  under  better 
moral  discipline,  might  have  done  lasting  honour  to 
literature  and  virtue.  The  acknowledged  produc- 
tions of  Sir  Philip  Erancis  have  equal  animation, 
but  less  studied  brevity  and  force  of  style.  The 
soaring  ardour  of  youth  had  flown ; his  hopes  were 
crushed ; he  was  not  writing  under  the  mask  of  a 
fearless  and  impenetrable  secrecy.  Yet  in  1812,  in 
a letter  to  Earl  Grey  on  the  subject  of  the  blockade 
of  Norway,  we  find  such  vigorous  sentences  as  the 
following:  ‘Though  a nation  may  be  bought  and 
sold,  deceived  or  betrayed,  oppressed  or  beggared, 
and  in  every  other  sense  undone,  all  is  not  lost,  as 
long  as  a sense  of  national  honour  survives  the 
general  ruin.  Even  an  individual  cannot  be 
crushed  by  events  or  overwhelmed  by  adversity, 
if,  in  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  his  fortune,  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man  remains  unblemished.  That  force 
is  elastic,  and,  with  the  help  of  resolution,  will 
raise  him  again  out  of  any  depth  of  calamity. 
But  if  the  injured  sufferer,  whether  it  be  a great 
or  a little  community,  a number  of  individuals 
or  a single  person,  be  content  to  submit  in  silence, 
and  to  endure  without  resentment — if  no  com- 
plaints shall  be  uttered,  no  murmur  shall  be  heard, 
deploratum  est — there  must  be  something  celestial 
in  the  spirit  that  rises  from  that  descent. 

‘In  March  1798,  I had  your  voluntary  and  entire 
concurrence  in  the  following,  as  well  as  many  other 
abandoned  propositions— when  we  drank  pure  wine 
together — when  you  were  young,  and  I was  not 
superannuated — when  we  left  the  cold  infusions  of 
prudence  to  fine  ladies  and  gentle  politicians — when 
true  wisdom  was  not  degraded  by  the  name  of 
moderation — when  we  cared  but  little  by  what 
majorities  the  nation  was  betrayed,  or  how  many 
felons  were  acquitted  by  their  peers — and  when  we 
were  not  afraid  of  being  intoxicated  by  the  eleva- 
tion of  a spirit  too  highly  rectified.  In  England 
and  Scotland,  the  general  disposition  of  the  people 
may  be  fairly  judged  of  by  the  means  which  are 
said  to  be  necessary  to  counteract  it — an  immense 
standing  army,  barracks  in  every  part  of  the 
country,  the  bill  of  rights  suspended,  and,  in  effect, 
a military  despotism.’ 

The  following  vigorous  and  Junius-like  passage 
is  from  a speech  made  by  Francis  in  answer  to 
a remark  of  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow,  namely, 
that  it  would  have  been  well  for  the  country  if 
General  Clavering,  Colonel  Monson,  and  Mr 
Francis,  had  been  drowned  in  their  passage  to 
India.  Sir  Philip  observed:  ‘His  second  reason 
for  obtaining  a seat  in  parliament,  was  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  explaining  his  own  conduct  if  it 
should  be  questioned,  or  defending  it  if  it  should  be 
attacked.  The  last  and  not  least  urgent  reason 
was,  that  he  might  be  ready  to  defend  the  character 
of  his  colleagues,  not  against  specific  charges,  which 
he  was  sure  would  never  be  produced,  but  against 
the  language  of  calumny,  which  endeavoured  to 
asperse  without  daring  to  accuse.  It  was  well 
known  that  a gross  and  public  insult  had  been 
offered  to  the  memory  of  General  Clavering  and 
Colonel  Monson,  by  a person  of  high  rank  in  this 
country.  He  was  happy  when  he  heard  that  his 
name  was  included  in  it  with  theirs.  So  highly 
did  he  respect  the  character  of  those  men,  that  he 
deemed  it  an  honour  to  share  in  the  injustice  it 
had  suffered.  It  was  in  compliance  witli  the  forms 
of  the  house,  and  not  to  shelter  himself,  or  out  of 
tenderness  to  the  party,  that  he  forbore  to  name 
him.  He  meant  to  describe  him  so  exactly  that  he 
could  not  be  mistaken.  He  declared,  in  his  place 


fkom  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  To  1800. 


in  a great  assembly,  and  in  the  course  of  a grave 
deliberation,  “ that  it  would  have  been  happy  for 
this  country  if  General  Clavering,  Colonel  Monson, 
and  Mr  Francis,  had  been  drowned  in  their  passage 
to  India.”  If  this  poor  and  spiteful  invective  had 
been  uttered  by  a man  of  no  consequence  or  repute 
— by  any  light,  trifling,  inconsiderate  person — by  a 
lord  of  the  bed-chamber,  for  example — or  any  of 
the  other  silken  barons  of  modern  days,  he  should 
have  heard  it  with  indifference ; but  when  it  was 
seriously  urged,  and  deliberately  insisted  on,  by  a 
grave  lord  of  parliament,  by  a judge,  by  a man 
of  ability  and  eminence  in  his  profession,  whose 
personal  disposition  was  serious,  who  carried  gravity 
to  sternness,  and  sternness  to  ferocity,  it  could  not 
be  received  with  indifference,  or  answered  without 
resentment.  Such  a man  would  be  thought  to  have 
inquired  before  he  pronounced.  From  his  mouth  a 
reproach  was  a sentence,  an  invective  was  a judg- 
ment. The  accidents  of  life,  and  not  any  original 
distinction  that  he  knew  of,  had  placed  him  too 
high,  and  himself  at  too  great  a distance  from  him, 
to  admit  of  any  other  answer  than  a public  defiance 
for  General  Clavering,  for  Colonel  Monson,  and  for 
himself.  This  was  not  a party  question,  nor  should 
it  be  left  to  so  feeble  an  advocate  as  he  was  to 
support  it.  The  friends  and  fellow-soldiers  of 
General  Clavering  and  Colonel  Monson  would  assist 
him  in  defending  their  memory.  He  demanded  and 
expected  the  support  of  every  man  of  honour  in 
that  house  and  in  the  kingdom.  What  character 
was  safe,  if  slander  was  permitted  to  attack  the 
reputation  of  two  of  the  most  honourable  and 
virtuous  men  that  ever  were  employed,  or  ever 
perished  in  the  service  of  their  country  ? He  knew 
that  the  authority  of  this  man  was  not  without 
weight ; but  he  had  an  infinitely  higher  authority  to 
oppose  to  it.  He  had  the  happiness  of  hearing  the 
merits  of  General  Clavering  and  Colonel  Monson 
acknowledged  and  applauded,  in  terms  to  which  he 
was  not  at  liberty  to  do  more  than  to  allude — they 
were  rapid  and  expressive.  He  must  not  venture  to 
repeat,  lest  he  should  do  them  injustice,  or  violate 
the  forms  of  respect,  where  essentially  he  owed  and 
felt  the  most;  but  he  was  sufficiently  understood. 
The  generous  sensations  that  animate  the  royal 
mind  were  easily  distinguished  from  those  which 
rankled  in  the  heart  of  that  person  who  was 
supposed  to  be  the  keeper  of  the  royal  conscience.’ 
In  the  last  of  the  private  letters  of  Junius  to 
Woodfall — the  last,  indeed,  of  his  appearances  in 
that  character — he  says,  with  his  characteristic 
ardour  and  impatience,  ‘ I feel  for  the  honour  of  this 
country,  when  I see  that  there  are  not  ten  men  in 
it  who  will  unite  and  stand  together  upon  any  one 
question.  But  it  is  all  alike,  vile  and  contemptible.’ 
This  was  written  in  January  1773.  Forty-three 
years  afterwards,  in  1816,  Sir  Philip  Francis  thus 
writes  in  a letter  on  public  affairs,  addressed  to 
Lord  Holland,  and  the  similarity  in  manner  and 
sentiment  is  striking.  The  style  is  not  unworthy 
of  J unius : ‘ My  mind  sickens  and  revolts  at  the 
scenes  of  public  depravity,  of  personal  baseness,  and 
of  ruinous  folly,  little  less  than  universal,  which 
have  passed  before  us,  not  in  dramatic  representa- 
tion, but  in  real  action,  since  the  year  1792,  in  the 
government  of  this  once  flourishing  as  well  as  glori- 
ous kingdom.  In  that  period,  a deadly  revolution 
has  taken  place  in  the  moral  character  of  the  nation, 
and  even  in  the  instinct  of  the  gregarious  multitude. 
Passion  of  any  kind,  if  it  existed,  might  excite 
action.  With  still  many  generous  exceptions,  the 
body  of  the  country  is  lost  in  apathy  and  indifference 
— sometimes  strutting  on  stilts — for  the  most  part 
220 


grovelling  on  its  belly— no  life-blood  in  the  heart — 
and  instead  of  reason  or  reflection,  a caput  mortuum 
for  a head-piece ; of  all  revolutions  this  one  is  the 
worst,  because  it  makes  any  other  impossible.’* 

Among  the  lighter  sketches  of  Francis  may  be 
taken  the  following  brief  characters  of  Fox  and 
Pitt: 

They  know  nothing  of  Mr  Fox  who  think  that  he 
was  what  is  commonly  called  well  educated.  I know 
that  it  was  directly  or  very  nearly  the  reverse.  His 
mind  educated  itself,  not  by  early  study  or  instruction, 
but  by  active  listening  and  rapid  apprehension.  He 
said  so  in  the  House  of  Commons  when  he  and  Mr 
Burke  parted.  His  powerful  understanding  grew  like 
a forest  oak,  not  by  cultivation,  but  by  neglect.  Mr 
Pitt  was  a plant  of  an  inferior  order,  though  marvellous 
in  its  kind — a smooth  bark,  with  the  deciduous,  pomp 
and  decoration  of  a rich  foliage,  and  blossoms  and 
flowers  which  drop  off  of  themselves,  and  leave  the  tree 
naked  at  last  to  be  judged  by  its  fruits.  He,  indeed, 
as  I suspect,  had  been  educated  more  than  enough, 
until  there  was  nothing  natural  and  spontaneous  left 
in  him.  He  was  too  polished  and  accurate  in  the 
minor  embellishments  of  his  art  to  be  a great  artist 
in  anything.  He  could  have  painted  the  boat,  and 
the  fish,  ancl  the  broken  nets,  but  not  the  two  fisher- 
men. He  knew  his  audience,  and,  with  or  without 
eloquence,  how  to  summon  the  generous  passions  to 
his  applause.  The  human  eye  soon  grows  weary 

* The  character  of  Francis  is  seen  in  the  following  admirable 
observation,  which  is  at  once  acute  and  profound  : ‘ With  a 
callous  heart  there  can  be  no  genius  in  the  imagination  or 
wisdom  in  the  mind;  and  therefore  the  prayer  with  equal 
truth  and  sublimity  says  : “ Incline  our  hearts  unto  wisdom.” 
Resolute  thoughts  find  words  for  themselves,  and  make  their 
own  vehicle.  Impression  and  expression  are  relative  ideas. 
He  who  feels  deeply  will  express  strongly.  The  language  of 
slight  sensations  is  naturally  feeble  and  superficial.’ — Reflections 
on  the  Abundance  of  Paper , 1810.— Francis  excelled  in  pointed 
and  pithy  expression.  After  his  return  to  parliament  in  1784, 
he  gave  great  offence  to  Mr  Pitt,  by  exclaiming,  after  he  had 
pronounced  an  animated  eulogy  on  Lord  Chatham  : * 15ut  he 
is  dead,  and  has  left  nothing  in  this  world  that  resembles 
him ! ’ In  a speech  delivered  at  a political  meeting  in  1817.  he  | 
said  : ‘ We  live  in  times  that  call  for  wisdom  in  contempla- 
tion and  virtue  in  action;  but  in  which  virtue  and  wisdom 
will  not  do  without  resolution.’  When  the  property-tax  was 
imposed,  he  exclaimed  ‘ that  the  ministers  were  now  coming 
to  the  life-blood  of  the  country,  and  the  more  they  wanted 
the  less  they  would  get.’  In  a letter  to  Lord  Holland,  written 
in  1816,  he  remarks  : ‘Whether  you  look  up  to  the  top  or  down 
to  the  bottom,  whether  you  mount  with  the  froth  or  sink  with 
the  sediment,  no  rank  in  this  counti’y  can  support  a perfectly 
degraded  name.’  ‘ My  recital,’  he  says  to  Lord  Holland,  ‘shall 
be  inflicted  on  you,  as  if  it  were  an  operation,  with  compassion 
for  the  patient,  with  the  brevity  of  impatience  and  the  rapidity 
of  youth;  for  I feel  or  fancy  that  I am  gradually  growing 
young  again,  in  my  way  back  to  infancy.  The  taper  that 
burns  in  the  socket  flashes  more  than  once  before  it  dies.  I 
would  not  long  outlive  myself  if  I could  help  it,  like  some  of 
my  old  friends  who  pretend  to  be  alive,  when  to  my  certain 
knowledge  they  have  been  dead  these  seven  years.’  The  writer 
of  a memoir  of  Francis,  in  the  Annual  Obituary  (1820),  states 
that  one  of  his  maxims  was,  * That  the  views  of  every  one 
should  be  directed  towards  a solid,  however  moderate  inde- 
pendence, without  which  no  man  can  be  happy,  or  even  honest.’ 
There  is  a remarkable  coincidence— too  close  to  be  accidental 
— in  a private  letter  by  Junius  to  his  publisher  Woodfall,  dated 
March  5, 1772 : ‘ As  for  myself,  be  assured  that  I am  far  above 
all  pecuniary  views,  and  no  other  person  I think  has  any  claim 
to  share  with  you.  Make  the  most  of  it,  therefore,  and  let  all 
your  views  in  life  be  directed  to  a solid,  however  moderate 
independence.  Without  it,  no  man  can  be  happy,  nor  even 
honest.’  It  is  obvious,  however,  that  Francis  may  have  copied 
from  Junius,  and  it  has  been  surmised  that,  notwithstanding 
his  denials  of  the  authorship,  he  was  not  unwilling  to  bear  the 
imputation. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  JUNIUS* 

■ 

of  an  unbounded  plain,  and  sooner,  I believe,  than 
of  any  limited  portion  of  space,  whatever  its  dimen- 
sions may  be.  There  is  a calm  delight,  a dolce 
riposo,  in  viewing  the  smooth-shaven  verdure  of  a 
bowling-green  as  long  as  it  is  near.  You  must  learn 
from  repetition  that  those  properties  are  inseparable 
from  the  idea  of  a flat  surface,  and  that  flat  and 
tiresome  are  synonymous.  The  works  of  nature,  which 
command  admiration  at  once,  and  never  lose  it,  are 
compounded  of  grand  inequalities. 

[Junius’s  Celebrated  Letter  to  the  King.'] 

To  the  Printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser.— December  19, 17G9. 

Sir — When  the  complaints  of  a brave  and  powerful 
people  are  observed  to  increase  in  proportion  to  the 
wrongs  they  have  suffered ; when,  instead  of  sinking 
into  submission,  they  are  roused  to  resistance,  the  time 
will  soon  arrive  at  which  every  inferior  consideration 
must  yield  to  the  security  of  the  sovereign,  and  to  the 
general  safety  of  the  state.  There  is  a moment  of  diffi- 
culty and  danger,  at  which  flattery  and  falsehood  can 
no  longer  deceive,  and  simplicity  itself  can  no  longer 
be  misled.  Let  us  suppose  it  arrived.  Let  us  suppose 
a gracious,  well-intentioned  prince  made  sensible  at  last 
of  the  great  duty  he  owes  to  his  people,  and  of  his 
own  disgraceful  situation ; that  he  looks  round  him  for 
assistance,  and  asks  for  no  advice  but  how  to  gratify 
the  wishes  and  secure  the  happiness  of  his  subjects. 
In  these  circumstances,  it  may  be  matter  of  curious 
speculation  to  consider,  if  an  honest  man  were  permitted 
to  approach  a king,  in  what  terms  he  would  address 
himself  to  his  sovereign.  Let  it  be  imagined,  no  matter 
how  improbable,  that  the  first  prejudice  against  his 
character  is  removed ; that  the  ceremonious  difficulties 
of  an  audience  are  surmounted ; that  he  feels  himself 
animated  by  the  purest  and  most  honourable  affection 
to  his  king  and  country;  and  that  the  great  person 
whom  he  addresses  has  spirit  enough  to  bid  him  speak 
freely,  and  understanding  enough  to  listen  to  him  with 
attention.  Unacquainted  with  the  vain  impertinence  of 
forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sentiments  with  dignity  and 
firmness,  but  not  without  respect : 

Sir — It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and  originally 
the  cause  of  every  reproach  and  distress  which  has 
attended  your  government,  that  you  should  never  have 
been  acquainted  with  the  language  of  truth  till  you 
heard  it  in  the  complaints  of  your  people.  It  is  not, 
however,  too  late  to  correct  the  error  of  your  education. 
We  are  still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent  allowance 
for  the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your  youth, 
and  to  form  the  most  sanguine  hopes  from  the  natural 
benevolence  of  your  disposition.  We  are  far  from 
thinking  you  capable  of  a direct  deliberate  purpose  to 
invade  those  original  rights  of  your  subjects  on  which 
all  their  civil  and  political  liberties  depend.  Had  it 
been  possible  for  us  to  entertain  a suspicion  so  dis- 
honourable to  your  character,  we  should  long  since  have 
adopted  a style  of  remonstrance  very  distant  from  the 
humility  of  complaint.  The  doctrine  inculcated  by  our 
laws,  ‘that  the  king  can  do  no  wrong,’  is  admitted 
without  reluctance.  We  separate  the  amiable  good- 
natured  prince  from  the  folly  and  treachery  of  his 
servants,  and  the  private  virtues  of  the  man  from  the 
vices  of  his  government.  Were  it  not  for  this  just 
distinction,  I know  not  whether  your  majesty’s  condi- 
tion, or  that  of  the  English  nation,  would  deserve  most 
to  be  lamented.  I would  prepare  your  mind  for  a 
favourable  reception  of  truth,  by  removing  every  pain- 
ful offensive  idea  of  personal  reproach.  Your  subjects, 
sir,  wish  for  nothing  but  that,  as  they  are  reasonable 
and  affectionate  enough  to  separate  your  person  from 
your  government,  so  you , in  your  turn,  would  distinguish 
between  the  conduct  which  becomes  the  permanent 
dignity  of  a king,  and  that  which  serves  only  to  promote 

the  temporary  interest  and  miserable  ambition  of  a 
minister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a declared — and,  I 
doubt  not,  a sincere — resolution  of  giving  universal 
satisfaction  to  your  subjects.  You  found  them  pleased 
with  the  novelty  of  a young  prince,  whose  countenance 
promised  even  more  than  his  words,  and  loyal  to  you  not 
only  from  principle  but  passion.  It  was  not  a cold 
profession  of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate,  but  a 
partial,  animated  attachment  to  a favourite  prince,  the 
native  of  their  country.  They  did  not  wait  to  examine 
your  conduct,  nor  to  be  determined  by  experience,  but 
gave  you  a generous  credit  for  the  future  blessings  of 
your  reign,  and  paid  you  in  advance  the  dearest  tribute 
of  their  affections.  Such,  sir,  was  once  the  disposition 
of  a people  who  now  surround  your  throne  with 
reproaches  and  complaints.  Do  justice  to  yourself. 
Banish  from  your  mind  those  unworthy  opinions  with 
which  some  interested  persons  have  laboured  to  possess 
you.  Distrust  the  men  who  tell  you  that  the  English 
are  naturally  light  and  inconstant ; that  they  complain 
without  a cause.  Withdraw  your  confidence  equally 
from  all  parties;  from  ministers,  favourites,  and  rela- 
tions ; and  let  there  be  one  moment  in  your  life  in 
which  you  have  consulted  your  own  understanding. 

When  you  affectedly  renounced  the  name  of  English- 
man, believe  me,  sir,  you  were  persuaded  to  pay  a very 
ill-judged  compliment  to  one  part  of  your  subjects  at 
the  expense  of  another.  While  the  natives  of  Scotland 
are  not  in  actual  rebellion,  they  are  undoubtedly  entitled 
to  protection ; nor  do  I mean  to  condemn  the  policy 
of  giving  some  encouragement  to  the  novelty  of  their 
affection  for  the  house  of  Hanover.  I am  ready  to 
hope  for  everything  from  their  new-born  zeal,  and  from 
the  future  steadiness  of  their  allegiance.  But  hitherto 
they  have  no  claim  to  your  favour.  To  honour  them 
with  a determined  predilection  and  confidence,  in 
exclusion  of  your  English  subjects — who  placed  your 
family,  and,  in  spite  of  treachery  and  rebellion,  have 
supported  it,  upon  the  throne — is  a mistake  too  gross 
for  even  the  unsuspecting  generosity  of  youth.  In  this 
error  we  see  a capital  violation  of  the  most  obvious 
rules  of  policy  and  prudence.  We  trace  it,  however, 
to  an  original  bias  in  your  education,  and  are  ready  to 
allow  for  your  inexperience. 

To  the  same  early  influence  we  attribute  it  that  you 
have  descended  to  take  a share,  not  only  in  the  narrow 
views  and  interests  of  particular  persons,  but  in  the 
fatal  malignity  of  their  passions.  At  your  accession 
to  the  throne  the  whole  system  of  government  was 
altered ; not  from  wisdom  or  deliberation,  but  because 
it  had  been  adopted  by  your  predecessor.  A little 
personal  motive  of  pique  and  resentment  was  sufficient 
to  remove  the  ablest  servants  of  the  crown ; but  it  is 
not  in  this  country,  sir,  that  such  men  can  be  dis- 
honoured by  the  frowns  of  a king.  They  were  dismissed, 
but  could  not  be  disgraced. 

Without  entering  into  a minuter  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  the  peace,  we  may  observe,  in  the  imprudent 
hurry  with  which  the  first  overtures  from  France  were 
accepted,  in  the  conduct  of  the  negotiation,  and  terms 
of  the  treaty,  the  strongest  marks  of  that  precipitate 
spirit  of  concession  with  which  a certain  part  of  your 
subjects  have  been  at  all  times  ready  to  purchase  a 
peace  with  the  natural  enemies  of  this  country.  On  your 
part  we  are  satisfied  that  everything  was  honourable 
and  sincere ; and  if  England  was  sold  to  Fiance,  we 
doubt  not  that  your  majesty  was  equally  betrayed. 
The  conditions  of  the  peace  were  matter  of  grief  and 
surprise  to  your  subjects,  but  not  the  immediate  cause 
of  their  present  discontent. 

Hitherto,  sir,  you  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  prejudices 
and  passions  of  others.  With  what  firmness  will  you 
bear  the  mention  of  your  own  ? 

A man  not  very  honourably  distinguished  in  the 
world  commences  a formal  attack  upon  your  favourite ; 

221 

from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

\ 

considering  nothing  but  how  he  might  best  expose  his 
person  and  principles  • to  detestation,  and  the  national 
character  of  his  countrymen  to  contempt.  The  natives 
of  that  country,  sir,  are  as  much  distinguished  by  a 
peculiar  character,  as  by  your  majesty’s  favour.  Like 
another  chosen  people,  they  have  been  conducted  into 
the  land  of  plenty,  where  they  find  themselves  effec- 
tually marked  and  divided  from  mankind.  There  is 
hardly  a period  at  which  the  most  irregular  character 
may  not  be  redeemed;  the  mistakes  of  one  sex  find 
a retreat  in  patriotism;  those  of  the  other  in  devo- 
tion. Mr  Wilkes  brought  with  him  into  politics  the 
same  liberal  sentiments  by  which  his  private  conduct 
had  been  directed ; and  seemed  to  think,  that  as  there 
are  few  excesses  in  which  an  English  gentleman  may 
not  be  permitted  to  indulge,  the  same  latitude  was 
allowed  him  in  the  choice  of  his  political  principles, 
and  in  the  spirit  of  maintaining  them.  I mean  to 
state,  not  entirely  to  defend,  his  conduct.  In  the 
earnestness  of  his  zeal,  he  suffered  some  unwarrant- 
able insinuations  to  escape  him.  He  said  more  than 
moderate  men  would  justify,  but  not  enough  to  entitle 
him  to  the  honour  of  your  majesty’s  personal  resent- 
ment. The  rays  of  royal  indignation,  collected  upon 
him,  served  only  to  illumine,  and  could  not  consume. 
Animated  by  the  favour  of  the  people  on  one  side, 
and  heated  by  persecution  on  the  other,  his  views 
and  sentiments  changed  with  his  situation.  Hardly 
serious  at  first,  he  is  now  an  enthusiast.  The  coldest 
bodies  warm  with  opposition  ; the  hardest  sparkle  in 
collision.  There  is  a holy  mistaken  zeal  in  politics 
as  well  as  religion.  By  persuading  others,  we  convince 
ourselves;  the  passions  are  engaged,  and  create  a 
maternal  affection  in  the  mind,  which  forces  us  to  love 
the  cause  for  which  we  suffer.  Is  this  a contention 
worthy  of  a king?  Are  you  not  sensible  bow  much 
the  meanness  of  the  cause  gives  an  air  of  ridicule 
to  the  serious  difficulties  into  w'hich  you  have  been 
betrayed  ? The  destruction  of  one  man  has  been  now 
for  many  years  the  sole  object  of  your  government; 
and  if  there  can  be  anything  still  more  disgraceful,  we 
have  seen  for  such  an  object  the  utmost  influence  of 
the  executive  power,  and  every  ministerial  artifice, 
exerted  without  success.  Nor  can  you  ever  succeed, 
unless  he  should  be  imprudent  enough  to  forfeit  the 
protection  of  those  laws  to  which  you  owe  your  crown ; 
or  unless  your  ministers  should  persuade  you  to  make 
it  a question  of  force  alone,  and  try  the  whole  strength 
of  government  in  opposition  to  the  people.  The  lessons 
he  has  received  from  experience  will  probably  guard 
him  from  such  excess  of  folly;  and  in  your  majesty’s 
virtues  we  find  an  unquestionable  assurance  that  no 
illegal  violence  will  be  attempted. 

Far  from  suspecting  you  of  so  horrible  a design,  we 
would  attribute  the  continued  violation  of  the  laws,  and 
even  this  last  enormous  attack  upon  the  vital  principles 
of  the  constitution,  to  an  ill-advised  unworthy  personal 
resentment.  From  one  false  step  you  have  been  betrayed 
into  another;  and  as  the  cause  was  unworthy  of  you, 
your  ministers  were  determined  that  the  prudence  of 
the  execution  should  correspond  with  the  wisdom  and 
dignity  of  the  design.  They  have  reduced  you  to  the 
necessity  of  choosing  out  of  a variety  of  difficulties ; to 
a situation  so  unhappy,  that  you  can  neither  do  wrong 
without  ruin,  nor  right  without  affliction.  These 
worthy  servants  have  undoubtedly  given  you  many 
singular  proofs  of  their  abilities.  Not  contented  with 
making  Mr  Wilkes  a man  of  importance,  they  have 
judiciously  transferred  the  question  from  the  rights  and 
interests  of  one  man,  to  the  most  important  rights  and 
interests'  of  the  people ; and  forced  your  subjects  from 
wishing  well  to  the  cause  of  an  individual,  to  unite  with 
him  in  their  own.  Let  them  proceed  as  they  have 
begun,  and  your  majesty  need  not  doubt  that  the 
catastrophe  will  do  no  dishonour  to  the  conduct  of  the 
piece. 

222 

The  circumstances  to  which  you  are  reduced  will 
not  admit  of  a compromise  with  the  English  nation. 
Undecisive  qualifying  measures  will  disgrace  your 
government  still  more  than  open  violence ; and  without 
'satisfying  the  people,  will  excite  their  contempt.  They 
have  too  much  understanding  and  spirit  to  accept  of  an 
indirect  satisfaction  for  a direct  injury.  Nothing  less 
than  a repeal  as  formal  as  the  resolution*  itself,  can 
heal  the  wound  which  has  been  given  to  the  constitu- 
tion ; nor  will  anything  less  be  accepted.  I can  readily 
believe  that  there  is  an  influence  sufficient  to  recall  that 
pernicious  vote.  The  House  of  Commons  undoubtedly 
consider  their  duty  to  the  crown  as  paramount  to  all 
other  obligations.  To  us  they  are  indebted  for  only  an 
accidental  existence,  and  have  justly  transferred  their 
gratitude  from  their  parents  to  their  benefactors ; from 
those  who  gave  them  birth  to  the  minister  from  whose 
benevolence  they  derive  the  comforts  and  pleasures  of 
their  political  life;  who  has  taken  the  tenderest  care 
of  their  infancy,  and  relieves  their  necessities  without 
offending  their  delicacy.  But  if  it  were  possible  for 
their  integrity  to  be  degraded  to  a condition  so  vile  and 
abject,  that,  compared  with  it,  the  present  estimation 
they  stand  in  is  a state  of  honour  and  respect,  consider, 
sir,  in  what  manner  you  will  afterwards  proceed.  Can 
you  conceive  that  the  people  of  this  country  will  long 
submit  to  be  governed  by  so  flexible  a House  of  Com- 
mons ? It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  human  society  that 
any  form  of  government  in  such  circumstances  can  long 
be  preserved.  In  ours,  the  general  contempt  of  the 
people  is  as  fatal  as  their  detestation.  Such,  I am 
persuaded,  would  be  the  necessary  effect  of  any  base 
concession  made  by  the  present  House  of  Commons  ; 
and,  as  a qualifying  measure  would  not  be  accepted,  it 
remains  for  you  to  decide  whether  you  will,  at  any 
hazard,  support  a set  of  men  who  have  reduced  you  to 
this  unhappy  dilemma,  or  whether  you  will  gratify 
the  united  wishes  of  the  whole  people  of  England  by 
dissolving  the  parliament. 

Taking  it  for  granted,  as  I do  very  sincerely,  that  you 
have  personally  no  design  against  the  constitution,  nor 
any  view  inconsistent  with  the  good  of  your  subjects,  I 
think  you  cannot  hesitate  long  upon  the  choice  which  it 
equally  concerns  your  interest  and  your  honour  to  adopt. 
On  one  side,  you  hazard  the  affections  of  all  your  Eng- 
lish subjects;  you  relinquish  every  hope  of  repose  to 
yourself,  and  you  endanger  the  establishment  of  your 
family  for  ever.  All  this  you  venture  for  no  object 
whatever,  or  for  such  an  object  as  it  would  be  an  affront 
to  you  to  name.  Men  of  sense  will  examine  your  con- 
duct with  suspicion ; while  those  who  are  incapable  of 
comprehending  to  what  degree  they  are  injured,  afflict 
you  with  clamours  equally  insolent  and  unmeaning. 
Supposing  it  possible  that  no  fatal  struggle  should 
ensue,  you  determine  at  once  to  be  unhappy,  without 
the  hope  of  a compensation  either  from  interest  or 
ambition.  If  an  English  king  be  hated  or  despised,  he 
must  be  unhappy ; arid  this,  perhaps,  is  the  only  poli- 
tical truth  which  he  ought  to  be  convinced  of  without 
experiment.  But  if  the  English  people  should  no 
longer  confine  their  resentment  to  a submissive  repre- 
sentation of  their  wrongs ; if,  following  the  glorious 
example  of  their  ancestors,  they  should  no  longer  appeal 
to  the  creature  of  the  constitution,  but  to  that  high 
Being  who  gave  them  the  rights  of  humanity,  whose 
gifts  it  were  sacrilege  to  surrender,  let  me  ask  you, 
sir,  upon  what  part  of  your  subjects  would  you  rely  for 
assistance  ? 

The  people  of  Ireland  have  been  uniformly  plundered 
and  oppressed.  In  return,  they  give  you  every  day 
fresh  marks  of  their  resentment.  They  despise  the 
miserable  governor  you  have  sent  them,  because  he  is 
the  creature  of  Lord  Bute ; nor  is  it  from  any  natural 

* Of  the  House  of  Commons,  on  the  subject  of  the  Middlesex 
election. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JUNIUS. 


confusion  in  their  ideas  that  they  are  so  ready  to 
confound  the  original  of  a king  with  the  disgraceful 
representation  of  him. 

The  distance  of  the  colonies  would  make  it  impossible 
for  them  to  take  an  active  concern  in  your  affairs,  even 
if  they  were  as  well  affected  to  your  government  as 
they  once  pretended  to  be  to  your  person.  They  were 
ready  enough  to  distinguish  between  you  and  your 
ministers.  They  complained  of  an  act  of  the  legis- 
lature, but  traced  the  origin  of  it  no  higher  than  to 
the  servants  of  the  crown ; they  pleased  themselves 
with  the  hope  that  their  sovereign,  if  not  favourable 
to  their  cause,  at  least  was  impartial.  The  decisive 
personal  part  you  took  against  them  has  effectually 
banished  that  first  distinction  from  their  minds.*  They 
consider  you  as  united  with  your  servants  against 
America;  and  know  how  to  distinguish  the  sovereign 
and  a venal  parliament  on  one  side,  from  the  real 
sentiments  of  the  English  people  on  the  other.  Looking 
forward  to  independence,  they  might  possibly  receive 
you  for  their  king ; but  if  ever  you  retire  to  America, 
be  assured  they  will  give  you  such  a covenant  to  digest 
as  the  presbytery  of  Scotland  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  offer  to  Charles  II.  They  left  their  native  land  in 
search  of  freedom,  and  found  it  in  a desert.  Divided 
as  they  are  into  a thousand  forms  of  polity  and  religion, 
there  is  one  point  in  which  they  all  agree ; they  equally 
detest  the  pageantry  of  a king,  and  the  supercilious 
hypocrisy  of  a bishop. 

It  is  not,  then,  from  the  alienated  affections  of  Ireland 
or  America  that  you  can  reasonably  look  for  assistance  : 
still  less  from  the  people  of  England,  who  are  actually 
contending  for  their  rights,  and  in  this  great  question 
are  parties  against  you.  You  are  not,  however,  desti- 
tute of  every  appearance  of  support ; you  have  all  the 
Jacobites,  nonjurors,  Roman  Catholics,  and  Tories  of 
this  country ; and  all  Scotland,  without  exception. 
Considering  from  what  family  you  are  descended,  the 
choice  of  your  friends  has  been  singularly  directed ; 
and  truly,  sir,  if  you  had  not  lost  the  Whig  interest  of 
England,  I should  admire  your  dexterity  in  turning  the 
hearts  of  your  enemies.  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  place 
any  confidence  in  men  who,  before  they  are  faithful  to 
you,  must  renounce  every  opinion,  and  betray  every  prin- 
ciple, both  in  church  and  state,  which  they  inherit  from 
their  ancestors,  and  are  confirmed  in  by  their  education ; 
whose  numbers  are  so  inconsiderable,  that  they  have 
long  since  been  obliged  to  give  up  the  principles  and 
language  which  distinguish  them  as  a party,  and  to 
fight  under  the  banners  of  their  enemies  ? Their  zeal 
begins  with  hypocrisy,  and  must  conclude  in  treachery. 
At  first,  they  deceive ; at  last,  they  betray. 

As  to  the  Scotch,  I must  suppose  your  heart  and 
understanding  so  biased  from  your  earliest  infancy  in 
their  favour,  that  nothing  less  than  your  own  misfortunes 
can  undeceive  you.  You  will  not  accept  of  the  uniform 
experience  of  your  ancestors ; and  when  once  a man  is 
determined  to  believe,  the  very  absurdity  of  the  doctrine 
confirms  him  in  his  faith.  A bigoted  understanding 
can  draw  a proof  of  attachment  to  the  house  of  Hanover 
from  a notorious  zeal  for  the  house  of  Stuart ; and  find 
an  earnest  of  future  loyalty  in  former  rebellions. 
Appearances  are,  however,  in  their  favour ; so  strongly 
indeed,  that  one  would  think  they  had  forgotten  that 
you  are  their  lawful  king,  and  had  mistaken  you  for  a 
pretender  to  the  crown.  Let  it  be  admitted,  then,  that 
the  Scotch  are  as  sincere  in  their  present  professions,  as 

* In  the  king’s  speech  of  8th  November  1768,  it  was  declared 
* that  the  spirit  of  faction  had  broken  out  afresh  in  some  of 
the  colonies,  and  in  one  of  them  proceeded  to  acts  of  violence 
and  resistance  to  the  execution  of  the  laws ; that  Boston  was 
in  a state  of  disobedience  to  all  law  and  government,  and  had 
proceeded  to  measures  subversive  of  the  constitution,  and 
attended  with  circumstances  that  manifested  a disposition  to 
throw  off  their  dependence  on  Great  Britain.’ 


if  you  were  in  reality  not  an  Englishman,  but  a Briton 
of  the  north ; you  would  not  be  the  first  prince  of  their 
native  country  against  whom  they  have  rebelled,  nor  the 
first  whom  they  have  basely  betrayed.  Have  you  for- 
gotten, sir,  or  has  your  favourite  concealed  from  you, 
that  part  of  our  history  when  the  unhappy  Charles  (and 
he,  too,  had  private  virtues)  fled  from  the  open  avowed 
indignation  of  his  English  subjects,  and  surrendered 
himself  at  discretion  to  the  good  faith  of  his  own' 
countrymen?  Without  looking  for  support  in  their 
affections  as  subjects,  he  applied  only  to  their  honour 
as  gentlemen  for  protection.  They  received  him,  as 
they  would  your  majesty,  with  bows,  and  smiles,  and 
falsehood ; and  kept  him  till  they  had  settled  their 
bargain  with  the  English  parliament ; then  basely  sold 
their  native  king  to  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies.  This, 
sir,  was  not  the  act  of  a few  traitors,  but  the  deliberate 
treachery  of  a Scotch  parliament,  representing  the  nation. 
A wise  prince  might  draw  from  it  two  lessons  of  equal 
utility  to  himself : on  one  side  he  might  learn  to  dread 
the  undisguised  resentment  of  a generous  people  who 
dare  openly  assert  their  rights,  and  who  in  a just  cause 
are  ready  to  meet  their  sovereign  in  the  field ; on  the 
other  side,  he  would  be  taught  to  apprehend  something 
far  more  formidable — a fawning  treachery,  against 
which  no  prudence  can  guard,  no  courage  can  defend. 
The  insidious  smile  upon  the  cheek  would  warn  him  of 
the  canker  in  the  heart. 

From  the  uses  to  which  one  part  of  the  army  has 
been  too  frequently  applied,  you  have  some  reason  to 
expect  that  there  are  no  services  they  would  refuse. 
Here,  too,  we  trace  the  partiality  of  your  understanding. 
You  take  the  sense  of  the  army  from  the  conduct  of  the 
Guards,  with  the  same  justice  with  which  you  collect 
the  sense  of  the  people  from  the  representations  of  the 
ministry.  Your  marching  regiments,  sir,  will  not  make 
the  Guards  their  example  either  as  soldiers  or  subjects. 
They  feel  and  resent,  as  they  ought  to  do,  that  invari- 
able undistinguishing  favour  with  which  the  Guards 
are  treated ; while  those  gallant  troops,  by  whom  every 
hazardous,  every  laborious  service  is  performed,  are 
left  to  perish  in  garrisons  abroad,  or  pine  in  quarters 
at  home,  neglected  and  forgotten.  If  they  had  no  sense 
of  the  great  original  duty  they  owe  their  country,  their 
resentment  would  operate  like  patriotism,  and  leave 
your  cause  to  be  defended  by  those  on  whom  you  have 
lavished  the  rewards  and  honours  of  their  profession. 
The  prsetorian  bands,  enervated  and  debauched  as  they 
were,  had  still  strength  enough  to  awe  the  Roman 
populace ; but  when  the  distant  legions  took  the  alarm, 
they  marched  to  Rome  and  gave  away  the  empire. 

On  this  side,  then,  whichever  way  you  turn  your  eyes, 
you  see  nothing  but  perplexity  and  distress.  You  may 
detdhnine  to  support  the  very  ministry  who  have  reduced 
your  affairs  to  this  deplorable  situation  ; you  may  shelter 
yourself  under  the  forms  of  a parliament,  and  set  your 
people  at  defiance ; but  be  assured,  sir,  that  such  a 
resolution  would  be  as  imprudent- as  it  would  be  odious. 
If  it  did  not  immediately  shake  your  establishment,  it 
would  rob  you  of  your  peace  of  mind  for  ever. 

On  the  other,  how  different  is  the  prospect ! how  easy, 
how  safe  and  honourable  is  the  path  before  you  ! The 
English  nation  declare  they  are  grossly  injured  by  their 
representatives,  and  solicit  your  majesty  to  exert  your 
lawful  prerogative,  and  give  them  an  opportunity  of 
recalling  a trust  which  they  find  has  been  scandalously 
abused.  You  are  not  to  be  told  that  the  power  of  the 
House  of  Commons  is  not  original;  but  delegated  to 
them  for  the  welfare  of  the  people,  from  whom  they 
received  it.  A question  of  right  arises  between  the 
constituent  and  the  representative  body.  By  what 
authority  shall  it  be  decided?  Will  your  majesty 
interfere  in  a question  in  which  you  have  properly  no 
immediate  concern  ? It  would  be  a step  equally  odious 
and  unnecessary.  Shall  the  Lords  be  called  upon  to 
determine  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  Commons? 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


They  cannot  do  it  without  a flagrant  breach  of  the 
constitution.  Or  will  you  refer  it  to  the  judges?  They 
have  often  told  your  ancestors  that  the  law  of  parlia- 
ment is  above  them.  What  party,  then,  remains,  but 
to  leave  it  to  the  people  to  determine  for  themselves  ? 
They  alone  are  injured ; and  since  there  is  no  superior 
power  to  which  the  cause  can  be  referred,  they  alone 
ought  to  determine. 

I do  not  mean  to  perplex  you  with  a tedious  argu- 
ment upon  a subject  already  so  discussed,  that  inspira- 
tion could  hardly  throw  a new  light  upon  it.  There  are, 
however,  two  points  of  view  in  which  it  particularly 
imports  your  majesty  to  consider  the  late  proceedings 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  By  depriving  a subject 
of  his  birthright,  they  have  attributed  to  their  own 
vote  an  authority  equal  to  an  act  of  the  whole  legis- 
lature ; and  though,  perhaps,  not  with  the  same  motives, 
have  strictly  followed  the  example  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment, which  first  declared  the  regal  office  useless,  and 
soon  after,  with  as  little  ceremony,  dissolved  the  House 
of  Lords.  The  same  pretended  power  which  robs  an 
English  subject  of  his  birthright,  may  rob  an  English 
king  of  his  crown.  In  another,  view,  the  resolution  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  apparently  not  so  dangerous 
to  your  majesty,  is  still  more  alarming  to  your  people. 
Not  contented  with  divesting  one  man  of  his  right,  they 
have  arbitrarily  conveyed  that  right  to  another.  They 
have  set  aside  a return  as  illegal,  without  daring  to 
censure  those  officers  who  were  particularly  apprised 
of  Mr  Wilkes’s  incapacity — not  only  by  the  declaration 
of  the  house,  but  expressly  by  the  writ  directed  to 
them — and  who  nevertheless  returned  him  as  duly 
elected.  They  have  rejected  the  majority  of  votes, 
the  only  criterion  by  which  our  laws  judge  of  the 
sense  of  the  people;  they  have  transferred  the  right 
of  election  from  the  collective  to  the  representative 
body ; and  by  these  acts,  taken  separately  or  together, 
they  have  essentially  altered  the  original  constitution 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Versed  as  your  majesty 
undoubtedly  is  in  the  English  history,  it  cannot  easily 
escape  you  how  much  it  is  your  interest,  as  well  as  your 
duty,  to  prevent  one  of  the  three  estates  from  encroach- 
ing upon  the  province  of  the  other  two,  or  assuming  the 
authority  of  them  all.  When  once  they  have  departed 
from  the  great  constitutional  line  by  which  all  their 
proceedings  should  be  directed,  who  will  answer  for 
their  future  moderation?  or  what  assurance  will  they 
give  you,  that  when  they  have  trampled  upon  their 
equals,  they  will  submit  to  a superior?  Your  majesty 
may  learn  hereafter  how  nearly  the  slave  and  the  tyrant 
are  allied. 

Some  of  your  council,  more  candid  than  the  rest, 
admit  the  abandoned  profligacy  of  the  present  House 
of  Commons,  but  oppose  their  dissolution  upon*  an 
opinion  (I  confess  not  very  unwarrantable)  that  their 
successors  would  be  equally  at  the  disposal  of  the 
treasury.  I cannot  persuade  myself  that  the  nation 
will  have  profited  so  little  by  experience.  But  if  that 
opinion  were  well  founded,  you  might  then  gratify  our 
wishes  at  an  easy  rate,  and  appease  the  present  clamour 
against  your  government,  without  offering  any  material 
injury  to  the  favourite  cause  of  corruption. 

You  have  still  an  honourable  part  to  act.  The 
affections  of  your  subjects  may  still  be  recovered.  But 
before  you  subdue  their  hearts,  you  must  gain  a noble 
victory  over  your  own.  Discard  those  little  personal 
resentments  which  have  too  long  directed  your  public 
conduct.  Pardon  this  man*  the  remainder  of  his 
punishment ; and  if  resentment  still  prevails,  make  it 
— what  it  should  have  been  long  since — an  act  not  of 

* Mr  Wilkes,  who  was  then  under  confinement  in  the  King’s 
Bench,  on  a sentence  of  a fine  of  a thousand  pounds,  and 
twenty-two  months’  imprisonment  (from  the  18th  of  June  1768), 
for  the  publication  of  the  North  Briton  No.  45,  and  the  Essay 
on  Woman. 

224 


mercy,  but  of  contempt.  He  will  soon  fall  back  into 
*his  natural  station — a silent  senator,  and  hardly  sup- 
porting the  weekly  eloquence  of  a newspaper.  The 
gentle  breath  of  peace  would  leave  him  on  the  surface, 
neglected  and  unremoved ; it  is  only  the  tempest  that 
lifts  him  from  his  place. 

Without  consulting  your  minister,  call  together  your 
whole  council.  Let  it  appear  to  the  public  that  you 
can  determine  and  act  for  yourself.  Come  forward  to 
your  people;  lay  aside  the  wretched  formalities  of  a 
king,  and  speak  to  your  subjects  with  the  spirit  of 
a man,  and  in  the  language  of  a gentleman.  Tell  them 
you  have  been  fatally  deceived  : the  acknowledgment 
will  be  no  disgrace,  but  rather  an  honour,  to  your 
understanding.  Tell  them  you  are  determined  to 
remove  every  cause  of  complaint  against  your  govern- 
ment ; that  you  will  give  your  confidence  to  no  man 
that  does  not  possess  the  confidence  of  your  subjects ; 
and  leave  it  to  themselves  to  determine,  by  their 
conduct  at  a future  election,  whether  or  not  it  be  in 
reality  the  general  sense  of  the  nation,  that  their 
rights  have  been  arbitrarily  invaded  by  the  present 
House  of  Commons,  and  the  constitution  betrayed. 
They  will  then  do  justice  to  their  representatives  and 
to  themselves. 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  they  are  con- 
veyed in,  may  be  offensive,  perhaps,  because  they  are 
new  to  you.  Accustomed  to  the  language  of  courtiers, 
you  measure  their  affections  by  the  vehemence  of  their 
expressions : and  when  they  only  praise  you  indirectly, 
you  admire  their  sincerity.  But  this  is  not  a time  to 
trifle  with  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  sir,  who 
tell  you  that  you  have  many  friends  whose  affections 
are  founded  upon  a principle  of  personal  attachment. 
The  first  foundation  of  friendship  is  not  the  power  of 
conferring  benefits,  but  the  equality  with  which  they 
are  received,  and  may  be  returned.  The  fortune  which 
made  you  a king,  forbade  you  to  have  a friend;  it  is 
a law  of  nature,  -which  cannot  be  violated  with  impu- 
nity. The  mistaken  prince  who  looks  for  friendship 
will  find  a favourite,  and  in  that  favourite  the  ruin  of 
his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  house  of 
Hanover,  not  from  a vain  preference  of  one  family  to 
another,  but  from  a conviction  that  the  establishment 
of  that  family  was  necessary  to  the  support  of  their 
civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  sir,  is  a principle 
of  allegiance  equally  solid  and  rational ; fit  for  English- 
men to  adopt,  and  well  worthy  of  your  majesty’s  encour- 
agement. We  cannot  long  be  deluded  by  nominal 
distinctions.  The  name  of  Stuart  of  itself  is  only  con- 
temptible : armed  with  the  sovereign  authority,  their 
principles  are  formidable.  The  prince  who  imitates 
their  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  example; 
and  while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his 
title  to  the  crown,  should  remember  that  as  it  was 
acquired  by  one  revolution,  it  may  be  lost  by  another. 


JOHN  HORNE  TOOKE. 

As  a philologist  or  grammarian,  John  Horne 
Tooke  (1736-1812)  is  known  in  literature,  but 
his  chief  celebrity  arises  from  his  political  and 
social  character.  He  was  the  son  of  Mr  Horne,  a 
wealthy  London  poulterer,  and  hence  the  punning 
answer  made  to  his  schoolfellows-  who  asked  what 
his  father  was.  ‘A  Turkey  merchant,’  was  the 
boy’s  reply.  John  Horne  was  well  educated — first 
at  Westminster,  then  at  Eton,  and  afterwards  at 
St  John’s  College,  Cambridge.  His  father  designed 
him  for  the  church,  and  he  took  orders,  but  dislik- 
ing the  clerical  profession,  he  studied  law  at  the 
Middle  Temple.  He  travelled  in  France  and  Italy 
as  travelling  tutor,  first  to  a son  of  Elwes  the 
miser,  and  secondly  to  a Mr  Taylor  of  Surrey ; 


Miscellaneous  writers. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DE  LOLME. 


and  having  cast  off  the  clerical  character  in  these 
continental  tours,  he  never  again  resumed  it.  He 
became  an  active  politician  and  supporter  of  John 
Wilkes,  in  favour  of  whom  he  wrote  an  anonymous 
pamphlet  in  1765.  In  1770,  he  distinguished 
himself  by  the  part  he  took  in  a memorable  public 
event.  The  king  (George  III.),  having  from  the 
throne  censured  an  address  presented  by  the  city 
authorities,  the  latter  waited  upon  the  sovereign 
with  another  ‘ humble  address,’  remonstrance,  and 
petition,  reiterating  their  request  for  the  dissolu- 
tion of  parliament  and  the  dismissal  of  ministers. 
They  were  again  repulsed,  the  king  stating  that 
he  would  consider  such  a use  of  his  prerogative  as 
dangerous  to  the  interests  and  constitution  of  the 
country.  Horne  Tooke,  anticipating  such  a recep- 
tion, suggested  to  his  friend,  Mr  Beckford,  the 
lord  mayor,  the  idea  of  a reply  to  the  sovereign; 
a measure  unexampled  in  our  history.  When  the 
lord  mayor  had  retired  from  the  royal  presence, 
‘I  saw  Beckford,’  said  Tooke,  ‘just  after  he  came 
from  St  James’s.  I asked  him  what  he  had  said 
to  the  king ; and  he  replied,  that  he  had  been  so 
confused,  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  had  said. 
“But,”  cried  I,  “ your  speech  must  be  sent  to  the 
papers ; I ’ll  write  it  for  you.”  ’ He  did  so ; it  was 
printed  and  diffused  over  the  kingdom,  and  was 
engraved  on  the  pedestal  of  a statue  of  Beckford 
erected  in  Guildhall.*  This  famous  unspoken 
speech,  the  composition  of  Horne  Tooke,  is  as 
follows : 

Most  Gracious  Sovereign — Will  your  majesty  be 
pleased  so  far  to  condescend  as  to  permit  the  mayor  of 
your  loyal  city  of  London  to  declare  in  your  royal 
presence,  on  behalf  of  his  fellow-citizens,  how  much  the 
bare  apprehension  of  your  majesty’s  displeasure  would, 
at  all  times,  affect  their  minds  ? The  declaration  of 
that  displeasure  has  already  filled  them  with  inexpres- 
sible anxiety,  and  with  the  deepest  affliction.  Permit 
me,  sire,  to  assure  your  majesty,  that  your  majesty  has 
not  in  all  your  dominions  any  subjects  more  faithful, 
more  dutiful,  or  more  affectionate  to  your  majesty’s 
person  or  family,  or  more  ready  to  sacrifice  their  lives 
and  fortunes  in  the  maintenance  of  the  true  honour  and 
dignity  of  your  crown.  We  do,  therefore,  with  the 
greatest  humility  and  submission,  most  earnestly  suppli- 
cate your  majesty,  that  you  will  not  dismiss  us  from 
your  presence  without  expressing  a more  favourable 
opinion  of  your  faithful  citizens,  and  without  some 
comfort,  without  some  prospect,  at  least  of  redress. 
Permit  me,  sire,  further  to  observe  that  whoever  has 
already  dared,  or  shall  hereafter  endeavour,  to  alienate 
your  majesty’s  affections  from  your  loyal  subjects  in 
general,  and  from  the  city  of  London  in  particular,  and 
to  withdraw  your  confidence  in,  and  regard  for  your 
people,  is  an  enemy  to  your  majesty’s  person  and  family, 
a violator  of  the  public  peace,  and  a betrayer  of  our 
happy  constitution  as  it  was  established  at  the  glorious 
and  necessary  revolution. 

There  seems  little  to  excite  popular  enthusiasm 
in  this  address,  but  it  had  the  appearance  of  ‘ beard- 
ing the  king  upon  the  throne,’  and  the  nation  was 
then  in  a state  of  political  ferment.  Horne  Tooke’s 
subsequent  quarrel  with  Wilkes  and  controversy 
with  J unius  are  well  known.  In  the  latter,  he  was* 
completely  and  eminently  successful.  He  had  ere 
this  formally  severed  himself  from  the  church  (1773), 
and  again  taken  to  the  study  of  the  law'.  Ilis 
spirited  opposition  to  an  enclosure  bill,  which  it  was 
attempted  to  hurry  through  parliament,  procured 

* The  best  account  of  this  political  manoeuvre  is  given  in 
the  Recollections  of  Samuel  Rogers , 1856. 


him  the  favour  of  a wealthy  client,  Mr  Tooke  of 
Burley,  from  whom  he  inherited  a fortune  of  about 
£8000,  and  whose  surname  of  Tooke  he  afterwards 
assumed.  To  this  connection  we  must  also  ascribe 
part  of  the  title  of  his  greatest  work,  Epea  Pteroenta , 
or  the  Diversions  of  Purley.  So  early  as  1778,  Tooke 
had  addressed  a Letter  to  Mr  Dunning  on  the  rudi- 
ments of  grammar,  and  the  principles  there  laid  down 
were  followed  up  and  treated  at  length  in  the  Diver - | 

sions,  of  which  the  first  part  appeared  in  1786,  and  j 
a second  part  in  1805.  Wit,  politics,  metaphysics, 
etymology,  and  grammar  are  curiously  mingled  in. 
this  work.  The  chief  object  of  its  author  was  an 
attempt  to  prove  that  all  the  parts  of  speech, 
including  those  which  grammarians  considered  as 
expletives  and  unmeaning  particles,  may  be  resolved 
into  nouns  and  verbs.  As  respects  the  English 
language,  he  was  considered  to  have  been  successful ; 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  northern  languages,  na 
less  than  his  liveliness  and  acuteness,  was  highly 
commended.  But  his  idea  that  the  etymological 
history  of  words  is  a true  guide,  both  as  to  the 
present  import  of  the  words  themselves,  and  as  to 
the  nature  of  those  things  which  they  are  intended 
to  signify,  is  a fanciful  and  fallacious  assumption,  ji 
However  witty  and  well  informed  as  an  etymol- 
ogist, Horne  Tooke  was  meagre  in  definition  and 
metaphysics.  He  diverted  himself  and  friends,  with 
philosophical  studies,  but  made  politics  and  social  i 
pleasure  the  real  business  of  his  life — thus  reminding  ; 
us  more  of  the  French  savans  of  the  last  century 
than  of  any  class  of  English  students  or  authors. 

In  1794  Horne  Tooke  was  tried  for  high  treason — 
accused  with  Hardy,  Thelwall,  and  others  of  con- 
spiring and  corresponding  with  the  French  Conven- 
tion to  overthrow  the  English  constitution.  His 
trial  excited  intense  interest,  to  which  the  eloquence 
of  Erskine,  his  counsel,  has  given  something  more 
than  temporary  importance.  It  lasted  several  days, 
and  ended  in  his  acquittal.  For  a short  time  Horne-  i 
Tooke  sat  in  parliament,  as  member  for  Old  Sarum, 
but  did  not  distinguish  himself  as  a legislator  or 
debater.  His  latter  years  were  spent  in  a sort  of 
lettered  retirement  at  Wimbledon,  entertaining  his 
friends  to  Sunday  dinners  and  quiet  parties,  and 
delighting  them  with  his  lively  and  varied  conver-  j 
sation— often  more  amusing  and  pungent  than 
delicate  or  correct. 


DE  LOLME. 

The  Constitution  of  England , or  an  Account  of  ; 
the  English  Government , by  M.  De  Lolme,  was 
recommended  by  Junius  ‘as  a performance  deep,, 
solid,  and  ingenious.’  The  author  was  a native  of  i 
Geneva,  who  had  studied  the  law.  His  work  on 
the  English  constitution  was  first  published:  in 
Holland,  in  the  French  language.  The  English 
edition,  enlarged  and  dedicated  by  the  author  to 
King  George  III.,  appeared  in  1775.  De  Lolme 
wrote  several  slight  political  treatises,  and  expected 
to  be  patronised  by  the  British  government.  In 
this  he  was  disappointed;  and  his  circumstances 
were  so  reduced,  that  he  was  glad  to  accept  of 
relief  from  the  Literary  Fund.  He  left  England,, 
and  died  in  Switzerland  in  1807,  aged  sixty-two. 
The  praise  of  Junius  has  not  been  confirmed  by 
the  present  generation,  for  De  Lolme’s  work  has 
fallen  into  neglect.  He  evinces  considerable  acute- 
ness in  tracing  and  pointing  out  the  distinguishing  ! 
features  of  our  constitution;  but  his  work  is 
scarcely  entitled  to  the  appellation  of  ‘solid;’  his 
admiration  is  too  excessive  and  undistinguishing  to 
be  always  just.  Of  the  ease  and  spirit  with  which 

225 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 

this  foreigner  wrote  our  language,  we  give  one 
specimen,  a correct  remark  on  the  freedom  with 
which  Englishmen  complain  of  the  acts  of  their 
government : 

[Popular  Agitation  in  England .] 

The  agitation  of  the  popular  mind  is  not  in  England 
what  it  would  be  in  other  states ; it  is  not  the  symptom 
of  a profound  and  general  discontent,  and  the  forerunner 
of  violent  commotions.  Foreseen,  regulated,  even  hoped 
for  by  the  constitution,  this  agitation  animates  all  parts 
of  the  state,  and  is  to  be  considered  only  as  the  bene- 
ficial vicissitude  of  the  seasons.  The  governing  power 
being  dependent  on  the  nation,  is  often  thwarted ; but 
so  long  as  it  continues  to  deserve  the  affection  of  the 
people,  it  can  never  be  endangered.  Like  a vigorous 
tree,  which  stretches  its  branches  far  and  wide,  the 
slightest  breath  can  put  it  in  motion ; but  it  acquires 
and  exerts  at  every  moment  a new  degree  of  force, 
and  resists  the  winds  by  the  strength  and  elasticity  of 
its  fibres  and  the  depth  of  its  roots.  In  a word,  what- 
ever revolutions  may  at  times  happen  among  the 
persons  who  conduct  the  public  affairs  in  England,  they 
never  occasion  the  shortest  interruption  of  the  power  of 
the  laws,  or  the  smallest  diminution  of  the  security  of 
individuals.  A man  who  should  have  incurred  the  enmity 
of  the  most  powerful  men  in  the  state — what  do  I say  ? 
— though  he  had,  like  another  Yatinius,  drawn  upon 
himself  the  united  detestation  of  all  parties,  might, 
under  the  protection  of  the  laws,  and  by  keeping 
within  the  bounds  required  by  them,  continue  to  set 
both  his  enemies  and  the  whole  nation  at  defiance. 

THE  EARL  OP  CHATHAM. 

A series  of  letters,  written  at  this  time,  has  been 
published.  The  collection  is  inferior  in  literary 
value,  but  its  author  was  one  of  the  greatest  men 
of  his  age — perhaps  the  first  of  English  orators  and 
statesmen.  We  allude  to  a volume  of  letters  written 
by  the  Earl  of  Chatham  to  his  nephew,  Thomas 
Pitt,  Lord  Camelford.  This  work  contains  much 
excellent  advice  as  to  life  and  conduct,  a sincere 
admiration  of  classical  learning,  and  great  kindli- 
ness of  domestic  feeling  and  affection.  Another 
collection  of  the  correspondence  of  Lord  Chatham 
was  made  and  published  in  1841,  in  four  volumes. 
Some  light  is  thrown  on  contemporary  history  and 
public  events  by  this  correspondence ; but  its  prin- 
cipal value  is  of  a reflex  nature,  derived  from  our 
interest  in  all  that  relates  to  the  lofty  and  com- 
manding intellect  which  shaped  the  destinies  of 
Europe.  William  Pitt  was  born  on  the  15th  of 
November  1708.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  whence 
he  removed  to  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  He  was 
afterwards  a cornet  in  the  Blues!  His  military 
career,  however,  was  of  short  duration ; for,  before 
he  was  quite  twenty-one,  he  had  a seat  in  parlia- 
ment. His  talents  for  debate  were  soon  conspicuous ; 
and  on  the  occasion  of  a bill  for  registering  seamen 
in  1740,  he  made  his  memorable  reply  to  Mr 
Walpole,  who  had  taunted  him  on  account  of  his 
youth.  This  burst  of  youthful  ardour  has  been 
immortalised  by  Dr  Johnson,  who  then  reported  the 
parliamentary  debates  for  the  Gentleman’ s Magazine. 
Johnson  was  no  laborious  or  diligent  note-taker; 
he  often  had  merely  verbal  communications  of  the 
sentiments  of  the  speakers,  which  he  imbued  with 
his  own  energy,  and  coloured  with  his  peculiar 
style  and  diction.  Pitt’s  reply  to  Walpole  may 
therefore  be  considered  the  composition  of  Johnson, 
founded  on  some  note  or  statement  of  the  actual 
speech ; yet  we  are  tempted  to  transcribe  it,  on 
account  of  its  celebrity  and  its  eloquence. 

226 

[Speech  of  Chatham  on  "being  taunted  on  Account  of 
Youth.] 

Sir — The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a young  man, 
which  the  honourable  gentleman  has,  with  such  spirit 
and  decency,  charged  upon  me,  I shall  neither  attempt 
to  palliate  nor  deny,  but  content  myself  with  wishing 
that  I may  be  one  of  those  whose  follies  may  cease  with 
their  youth,  and  not  of  that  number  who  are  ignorant 
in  spite  of  experience.  Whether  youth  can  be  imputed 
to  any  man  as  a reproach,  I will  not,  sir,  assume  the 
province  of  determining  ; but  surely  age  may  become 
justly  contemptible,  if  the  opportunities  which  it  brings 
have  passed  away  without  improvement,  and  vice 
appears  to  prevail  when  the  passions  have  subsided. 
The  wretch  who,  after  having  seen  the  consequences  of 
a thousand  errors,  continues  still  to  blunder,  and  whose 
age  has  only  added  obstinacy  to  stupidity,  is  surely  the 
object  either  of  abhorrence  or  contempt,  and  deserves 
not  that  his  gray  hairs  should  secure  him  from  insult. 
Much  more,  sir,  is  he  to  be  abhorred  who,  as  he  has 
advanced  in  age,  has  receded  from  virtue,  and  become 
more  wicked  with  less  temptation ; who  prostitutes 
himself  for  money  which  he  cannot  enjoy,  and  spends 
the  remains  of  his  life  in  the  ruin  of  his  country.  But 
youth,  sir,  is  not  my  only  crime  ; I have  been  accused 
of  acting  a theatrical  part.  A theatrical  part  may 
either  imply  some  peculiarities  of  gesture,  or  a dissimu- 
lation of  my  real  sentiments,  and  an  adoption  of  the 
opinions  and  language  of  another  man. 

In  the  first  sense,  sir,  the  charge  is  too  trifling  to  be 
confuted,  and  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned  that  it 
may  be  despised.  I am  at  liberty,  like  every  other  man, 
to  use  my  own  language  ; and  though,  perhaps,  I may 
have  some  ambition  to  please  this  gentleman,  I shall 
not  lay  myself  under  any  restraint,  nor  very  solicitously 
copy  his  diction  or  his  mien,  however  matured  by  age, 
or  modelled  by  experience.  But  if  any  man  shall,  by 
charging  me  with  theatrical  behaviour,  imply  that  I 
utter  any  sentiments  but  my  own,  I shall  treat  him  as 
a calumniator  and  a villain  ; nor  shall  any  protection 
shelter  him  from  the  treatment  he  deserves.  I shall, 
on  such  an  occasion,  without  scruple,  trample  upon  all 
those  forms  with  which  wealth  and  dignity  intrench 
themselves ; nor  shall  anything  but  age  restrain  my 
resentment ; age,  which  always  brings  one  privilege, 
that  of  being  insolent  and  supercilious,  without  punish- 
ment. But  with  regard,  sir,  to  those  whom  I have 
offended,  I am  of  opinion  that  if  I had  acted  a borrowed 
part,  I should  have  avoided  their  censure  ; the  heat 
that  offended  them  is  the  ardour  of  conviction,  and  that 
zeal  for  the  service  of  my  country  which  neither  hope  nor 
fear  shall  influence  me  to  suppress.  I will  not  sit  uncon- 
cerned while  my  liberty  is  invaded,  nor  look  in  silence 
upon  public  robbery.  I will  exert  my  endeavours,  at 
whatever  hazard,  to  repel  the  aggressor,  and  drag  the 
thief  to  justice,  whoever  may  protect  him  in  his  villainy, 
and  whoever  may  partake  of  his  plunder. 

We  need  not  follow  the  public  career  of  Pitt, 
which  is,  in  fact,  a part  of  the  history  of  England 
during  a long  and  agitated  period.  His  style  of 
oratory  was  of  the  highest  class,  rapid,  vehement, 
and  overpowering,  and  it  was  adorned  by  all  the 
graces  of  action  and  delivery.  His  public  conduct 
was  singularly  pure  and  disinterested,  considering 
the  venality  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived  ; but  as 
a statesman,  he  was  often  inconsistent,  haughty, 
and  impracticable.  His  acceptance  of  a peerage  (in 
1766)  hurt  his  popularity  with  the  nation,  who 
loved  and  reverenced  him  as  ‘ the  great  commoner;’ 
but  he  still  ‘shook  the  senate’  with  the  resistless 
appeals  of  his  eloquence.  His  speech— delivered 
wrhen  he  was  upwards  of  sixty,  and  broken  down 
and  enfeebled  by  disease — against  the  employment 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  EARL  OP  CHATHAM. 

of  Indians  in  the  war  with  America,  is  too  charac- 
teristic, too  noble,  to  be  omitted: 

[Speech  of  Chatham  against  the  Employment  of  Indians 
in  the  War  with  America.] 

I cannot,  my  lords,  I will  not,  join  in  congratulation 
on  misfortune  and  disgrace.  This,  my  lords,  is  a peril- 
ous and  tremendous  moment;  it  is  not  a time  for 
adulation  ; the  smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  save  us 
in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is  now  necessary  to 
instruct  the  throne  in  the  language  of  truth.  We  must, 
if  possible,  dispel  the  delusion  and  darkness  which 
envelop  it,  and  display,  in  its  full  danger  and  genuine 
colours,  the  ruin  which  is  brought  to  our  doors.  Can 
ministers  still  presume  to  expect  support  in  their  infa- 
tuation ? Can  parliament  be  so  dead  to  their  dignity  and 
duty,  as  to  give  their  support  to  measures  thus  obtruded 
and  forced  upon  them  ; measures,  my  lords,  which  have 
reduced  this  late  flourishing  empire  to  scorn  and  con- 
tempt ? But  yesterday,  and  England  might  have  stood 
against  the  world : now,  none  so  poor  to  do  her  reverence  ! 
The  people  whom  we  at  first  despised  as  rebels,  but 
whom  we  now  acknowledge  as  enemies,  are  abetted  against 
you,  supplied  with  every  military  store,  have  their 
interest  consulted,  and  their  ambassadors  entertained, 
by  your  inveterate  enemy ; and  ministers  do  not,  and 
dare  not,  interpose  with  dignity  or  effect.  The  desperate 
state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in  part  known.  No  man 
more  highly  esteems  and  honours  the  English  troops 
than  I do  ; I know  their  virtues  and  their  valour ; I 
know  they  can  achieve  anything  but  impossibilities  ; 
and  I know  that  the  conquest  of  English  America  is 
an  impossibility.  You  cannot,  my  lords,  you  cannot 
conquer  America.  What  is  your  present  situation 
there  ? We  do  not  know  the  worst ; but  we  know 
that  in  three  campaigns  we  have  done  nothing  and 
suffered  much.  You  may  swell  every  expense,  accumu- 
late every  assistance,  and  extend  your  traffic  to  the 
shambles  of  every  German  despot ; your  attempts  will 
be  for  ever  vain  and  impotent — doubly  so,  indeed,  from 
this  mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely ; for  it  irritates, 
to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  adver- 
saries, to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of 
rapine  and  plunder,  devoting  them  and  their  possessions 
to  the  rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty.  If  I were  an 
American,  as  I am  an  Englishman,  while  a foreign  troop 
was  landed  in  my  country,  I never  would  lay  down  my 
arms  : Never,  never,  never  ! But,  my  lords,  who  is  the 
man  that,  in  addition  to  the  disgraces  and  mischiefs  of 
the  war,  has  dared  to  authorise  and  associate  to  our 
arms  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  of  the  savage ; 
to  call  into  civilised  alliance  the  wild  and  inhuman 
inhabitant  of  the  woods ; to  delegate  to  the  merciless 
Indian  the  defence  of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage  the 
horrors  of  his  barbarous  war  against  our  brethren  ? 
My  lords,  these  enormities  cry  aloud  for  redress  and 
punishment.  But,  my  lords,  this  barbarous  measure 
has  been  defended,  not  only  on  the  principles  of  policy 
and  necessity,  but  also  on  those  of  morality;  ‘for  it  is 
perfectly  allowable,’  says  Lord  Suffolk,  ‘to  use  all  the 
means  which  God  and  nature  have  put  into  our  hands.’ 

I am  astonished,  I am  shocked,  to  hear  such  principles 
confessed  ; to  hear  them  avowed  in  this  house  or  in 
this  country.  My  lords,  I did  not  intend  to  encroach 
so  much  on  your  attention  ; but  I cannot  repress 
my  indignation — I feel  myself  impelled  to  speak.  My 
lords,  we  are  called  upon  as  members  of  this  house, 
as  men,  as  Christians,  to  protest  against  such  horrible 
barbarity  ! That  God  and  nature  have  put  into  our 
hands  ! What  ideas  of  God  and  nature  that  noble  lord 
may  entertain,  I know  not;  but  I know  that  such 
detestable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent  to  religion 
and  humanity.  What ! to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction 
of  God  and  nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian 
scalping-knife ! to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing, 

murdering,,  devouring,  drinking  the  blood  of  his 
mangled  victims  ! Such  notions  shock  every  precept 
of  morality,  every  feeling  of  humanity,  every  sentiment 
of  honour.  These  abominable  principles,  and  this  more 
abominable  avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  decisive 
indignation.  I call  upon  that  right  reverend,  and  this 
most  learned  bench,  to  vindicate  the  religion  of  their 
God,  to  support  the  justice  of  their  country.  I call 
upon  the  bishops  to  interpose  the  unsullied  sanctity  of 
their  lawn ; upon  the  judges  to  interpose  the  purity  of 
their  ermine,  to  save  us  from  this  pollution.  I call  upon 
the  honour  of  your  lordships  to  reverence  the  dignity  of 
your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain  your  own.  I call  upon 
the  spirit  and  humanity  of  my  country  to  vindicate  the 
national  character.  I invoke  the  Genius  of  the  Con- 
stitution. From  the  tapestry  that  adorn  these  walls, 
the  immortal  ancestor  of  this  noble  lord  frowns  with 
indignation  at  the  disgrace  of  his  country.  In  vain 
did  he  defend  the  liberty  and  establish  the  religion  of 
Britain  against  the  tyranny  of  Rome,  if  these  worse 
than  popish  cruelties  and  inquisitorial  practices  are  en- 
dured among  us.  To  send  forth  the  merciless  cannibal, 
thirsting  for  blood ! against  whom  ? your  Protestant 
brethren  ! to  lay  waste  their  country,  to  desolate  their 
dwellings,  and  extirpate  their  race  and  name  by 
the  aid  and  instrumentality  of  these  horrible  hell- 
hounds of  war  ! Spain  can  no  longer  boast  pre-emi- 
nence in  barbarity.  She  armed  herself  with  blood- 
hounds to  extirpate  the  wretched  natives  of  Mexico  ; 
we,  more  ruthless,  loose  these  dogs  of  war  against  our 
countrymen  in  America,  endeared  to  us  by  every  tie 
that  can  sanctify  humanity.  I solemnly  call  upon  your 
lordships,  and  upon  every  order  of  men  in  the  state, 
to  stamp  upon  this  infamous  procedure  the  indelible 
stigma  of  the  public  abhorrence.  More  particularly  I 
call  upon  the  holy  prelates  of  our  religion  to  do  away 
this  iniquity  ; let  them  perform  a lustration,  to  purify 
the  country  from  this  deep  and  deadly  sin.  My  lords, 

I am  old  and  weak,  and  at  present  unable  to  say  more ; 
but  my  feelings  and  indignation  were  too  strong  to 
have  said  less.  I could  not  have  slept  this  night  in  my 
bed,  nor  even  reposed  my  head  upon  my  pillow,  without 
giving  vent  to  my  eternal  abhorrence  of  such  enormous 
and  preposterous  principles. 

The  last  public  appearance  and  death  of  Lord 
Chatham  are  thus  described  by  Relsham,  in  his 
History  of  Great  Britain : 

The  mind  feels  interested  in  the  minutest  circum- 
stances relating  to  the  last  day  of  the  public  life  of  this 
renowned  statesman  and  patriot.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
rich  suit  of  black  velvet,  with  a full  wig,  and  covered 
up  to  the  knees  in  flannel.  On  his  arrival  in  the  house, 
he  refreshed  himself  in  the  lord  chancellor’s  room, 
where  he  stayed  till  prayers  were  over,  and  till  he 
was  informed  that  business  was  going  to  begin.  He 
was  then  led  into  the  house  by  his  son  and  son-in-law, 
Mr  William  Pitt  and  Lord  Viscount  Mahon,  all  the 
lords  standing  up  out  of  respect,  and  making  a lane  for 
him  to  pass  to  the  earl’s  bench,  he  bowing  very  grace- 
fully to  them  as  he  proceeded.  He  looked  pale  and 
much  emaciated,  but  his  eye  retained  all  its  native  fire  ; 
which,  joined  to  his  general  deportment,  and  the  atten- 
tion of  the  house,  formed  a spectacle  very  striking  and 
impressive. 

When  the  Duke  of  Richmond  had  sat  down,  Lord 
Chatham  rose,  and  began  by  lamenting  ‘ that  his  bodily 
infirmities  had  so  long  and  at  so  important  a crisis 
prevented  his  attendance  on  the  duties  of  parliament. 
He  declared  that  he  had  made  an  effort  almost  beyond 
the  powers  of  his  constitution  to  come  down  to  the 
house  on  this  day,  perhaps  the  last  time  lie  should 
ever  be  able  to  enter  its  walls,  to  express  the  indignation 
he  felt  at  the  idea  which  he  understood  was  gone  forth 
of  yielding  up  the  sovereignty  of  America.  “My  Lords,” 
continued  he,  “I  rejoice  that  the  grave  has  not  closed 

FROM  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  T0  1800. 


upon  me,  that  I am  still  alive  to  lift  up  my  voice 
against  the  dismemberment  of  this  ancient  and  noble 
monarchy.  Pressed  down  as  I am  by  the  load  of  infir- 
mity, I am  little  able  to  assist  my  country  in  this  most 
perilous  conjuncture ; but,  my  lords,  while  I have  sense 
and  memory,  I never  will  consent  to  tarnish  the  lustre 
of  this  nation  by  an  ignominious  surrender  of  its  rights 
and  fairest  possessions.  Shall  a people,  so  lately  the 
terror  of  the  world,  now  fall  prostrate  before  the  house 
of  Bourbon  ? It  is  impossible  ! In  God’s  name,  if  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  declare  either  for  peace  or 
war,  and  if  peace  cannot  be  preserved  with  honour, 
why  is  not  war  commenced  without  hesitation  ? I am 
i not,  I confess,  well  informed  of  the  resources  of  this 
kingdom,  but  I trust  it  has  still  sufficient  to  maintain 
its  just  rights,  though  I know  them  not.  Any  state, 
my  lords,  is  better  than  despair.  Let  us  at  least  make 
one  effort,  and  if  we  must  fall,  let  us  fall  like  men.’ 

The  Duke  of  Richmond,  in  reply,  declared  himself 
to  be  * totally  ignorant  of  the  means  by  which  we  were 
to  resist  with  success  the  combination  of  America  with 
the  house  of  Bourbon.  He  urged  the  noble  lord  to  point 
out  any  possible  mode,  if  he  were  able  to  do  it,  of 
making  the  Americans  renounce  that  independence  of 
which  they  were  in  possession.  His  Grace  added,  that 
if  he  could  not,  no  man  could;  and  that  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  change  his  opinion  on  the  noble  lord’s 
authority,  unsupported  by  any  reasons  but  a recital  of 
the  calamities  arising  from  a state  of  things  not  in  the 
power  of  this  country  now  to  alter.’ 

Lord  Chatham,  who  had  appeared  greatly  moved 
during  the  reply,  made  an  eager  effort  to  rise  at  the 
conclusion  of  it,  as  if  labouring  with  some  great  idea, 
and  impatient  to  give  full  scope  to  his  feelings;  but 
before  he  could  utter  a word,  pressing  his  hand  on  his 
bosom,  he  fell  down  suddenly  in  a convulsive  fit.  The 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  Lord  Temple,  and  other  lords 
near  him,  caught  him  in  their  arms.  The  house  was 
immediately  cleared;  and  his  lordship  being  carried 
into  an  adjoining  apartment,  the  debate  was  adjourned. 
Medical  assistance  being  obtained,  his  lordship  in  some 
degree  recovered,  and  was  conveyed  to  his  favourite 
villa  of  Hayes,  in  Kent,  where,  after  lingering  some  few 
weeks,  he  expired  May  11,  1778,  in  the  seventieth  year 
of  his  age. 

Grattan,  the  Irish  orator,  has  drawn  the  character 
of  Lord  Chatham  with  such  felicity  and  vigour  of 
style,  that  it  will  ever  be  preserved,  if  only  for  its 
composition.  The  glittering  point  and  antithesis  of 
his  thoughts  and  language  have  seldom  been  united 
to  such  originality  and  force : 

The  secretary  stood  alone.  Modern  degeneracy  had 
not  reached  him.  Original  and  unaccommodating,  the 
features  of  his  character  had  the  hardihood  of  anti- 
quity. His  august  mind  overawed  majesty;  and  one 
of  his  sovereigns  thought  royalty  so  impaired  in  his 
presence,  that  he  conspired  to  remove  him,  in  order  to 
be  relieved  from  his  superiority.  No  state  chicanery, 
i no  narrow  system  of  vicious  politics,  sunk  him  to  the 
J vulgar  level  of  the  great ; but,  overbearing,  persuasive, 
and  impracticable,  his  object  was  England,  his  ambition 
was  fame.  Without  dividing,  he  destroyed  party ; 
without  corrupting,  he  made  a venal  age  unanimous. 
France  sunk  beneath  him.  With  one  hand  he  smote 
the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  wielded  in  the  other  the 
democracy  of  England.  The  sight  of  his  mind  was 
infinite ; and  his  schemes  were  to  affect,  not  England, 
not  the  present  age  only,  but  Europe  and  posterity. 
Wonderful  were  the  means  by  which  these  schemes 
were  accomplished  ; always  seasonable,  always  adequate, 
the  suggestions  of  an  understanding  animated  by  ardour 
and  enlightened  by  prophecy. 

The  ordinary  feelings  which  make  life  amiable  and 
indolent  were  unknown  to  him.  No  domestic  difficulties, 
228 


no  domestic  weakness,  reached  him;  but  aloof  from 
the  sordid  occurrences  of  life,  and  unsullied  by  its 
intercourse,  he  came  occasionally  into  our  system  to 
counsel  and  to  decide. 

A character  so  exalted,  so  strenuous,  so  various,  so 
authoritative,  astonished  a corrupt  age,  and  the  treasury 
trembled  at  the  name  of  Pitt  through  all  the  classes  of 
venality.  Corruption  imagined,  indeed,  that  she  had 
found  defects  in  this  statesman,  and  talked  much  of  the 
inconsistency  of  his  glory,  and  much  of  the  ruin  of  his 
victories ; but  the  history  of  his  country,  and  the 
calamities  of  the  enemy,  answered  and  refuted  her. 
Nor  were  his  political  abilities  his  only  talents:  his 
eloquence  was  an  era  in  the  senate,  peculiar  and  spon- 
taneous, familiarly  expressing  gigantic  sentiments  and 
instinctive  wisdom ; not  like  the  torrent  of  Demosthenes, 
or  the  splendid  conflagration  of  Tully ; it  resembled 
sometimes  the  thunder,  and  sometimes  the  music  of  the 
spheres.  Like  Murray,  he  did  not  conduct  the  under- 
standing through  the  painful  subtlety  of  argumentation ; 
nor  was  he,  like  Townsend,  for  ever  on  the  rack  of 
exertion;  but  rather  lightened  upon  the  subject,  and 
reached  the  point  by  the  flashings  of  the  mind,  which, 
like  those  of  his  eye,  were  felt,  but  could  not  be  followed. 
Upon  the  whole,  there  was  in  this  man  something  that 
could  create,  subvert,  or  reform;  an  understanding,  a 
spirit,  and  an  eloquence  to  summon  mankind  to  society, 
or  to  break  the  bonds  of  slavery  asunder,  and  to  rule 
the  wilderness  of  free  minds  with  unbounded  authority ; 
something  that  could  establish  or  overwhelm  empire, 
and  strike  a blow  in  the  world  that  should  resound 
through  the  universe. 

SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 

Sir  Willi  aim  Blackstone’s  Commentaries  on  the 
Laws  of  England , published  in  1765,  exhibit  a 
logical  and  comprehensive  mind,  and  a correct  taste 
in  composition.  They  formed  the  first  attempt  to 
popularise  legal  knowledge,  and  were  eminently 
successful.  Junius  and  others  have  attacked  their 
author  for  leaning  too  much  to  the  side  of  pre- 
rogative, and  abiding  rather  by  precedents  than  by 
sense  and  justice ; yet  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
when  Blackstone  was  once  advocating  what  was 
considered  servile  obedience,  he  was  answered  from 
his  own  book ! The  Commentaries  have  not  been 
supplanted  by  any  subsequent  work  of  the  same 
kind,  but  various  additions  and  corrections  have 
been  made  by  eminent  lawyers  in  late  editions. 
Blackstone  thus  sums  up  the  relative  merits  of  an 
elective  and  hereditary  monarchy : ‘It  must  be 
owned,  an  elective  monarchy  seems  to  be  the  most 
obvious,  and  best  suited  of  any  to  the  rational  prin- 
ciples of  government  and  the  freedom  of  human 
nature ; and  accordingly,  we  find  from  history  that, 
in  the  infancy  and  first  rudiments  of  almost  every 
state,  the  leader,  chief-magistrate,  or  prince,  hath 
usually  been  elective.  And  if  the  individuals  who 
compose  that  state  could  always  continue  true  to 
first  principles,  uninfluenced  by  passion  or  prejudice, 
unassailed  by  corruption,  and  unawed  by  violence, 
elective  succession  were  as  much  to  be  desired  in  a 
kingdom  as  in  other  inferior  communities.  The 
best,  the  wisest,  and  the  bravest  man  would  then  be 
sure  of  receiving  that  crown  which  his  endowments 
have  merited ; and  the  sense  of  an  unbiassed 
majority  would  be  dutifully  acquiesced  in  by  the 
few  who  were  of  different  opinions.  But  history  and 
observation  will  inform  us  that  elections  of  every 
kind,  in  the  present  state  of  human  nature,  are  too 
frequently  brought  about  by  influence,  partiality, 
and  artifice ; and  even  where  the  case  is  otherwise, 
these  practices  will  be  often  suspected,  and  as  con- 
stantly charged  upon  the  successful,  by  a splenetic 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 


disappointed  minority.  This  is  an  evil  to  which  all 
societies  are  liable ; as  well  those  of  a private  and 
domestic  kind,  as  the  great  community  of  the  public, 
which  regulates  and  includes  the  rest.  But  in  the 
former  there  is  this  advantage,  that  such  suspicions, 
if  false,  proceed  no  further  than  jealousies  and 
murmurs,  which  time  will  effectually  suppress ; 
and,  if  true,  the  injustice  may  be  remedied  by  legal 
means,  by  an  appeal  to  those  tribunals  to  which 
every  member  of  society  has  (by  becoming  such) 
virtually  engaged  to  submit.  Whereas  in  the  great 
and  independent  society  which  every  nation  com- 
poses, there  is  no  superior  to  resort  to  but  the  law 
of  nature ; no  method  to  redress  the  infringements 
of  that  law  but  the  actual  exertion  of  private  force. 
As,  therefore,  between  two  nations  complaining  of 
mutual  injuries,  the  quarrel  can  only  be  decided  by 
the  law  of  arms,  so  in  one  and  the  same  nation, 
when  the  fundamental  principles  of  their  common 
union  are  supposed  to  be  invaded,  and  more  especi- 
ally when  the  appointment  of  their  chief-magistrate 
is  alleged  to  be  unduly  made,  the  only  tribunal  to 
which  the  complainants  can  appeal  is  that  of  the 
God  of  battles ; the  only  process  by  which  the 
appeal  can  be  carried  on  is  that  of  a civil  and 
intestine  war.  A hereditary  succession  to  the  crown 
is  therefore  now  established  in  this  and  most  other 
countries,  in  order  to  prevent  that  periodical  blood- 
shed and  misery  which  the  history  of  ancient 
imperial  Rome,  and  the  more  modern  experience  of 
Poland  and  Germany,  may  shew  us  are  the  conse- 
quences of  elective  kingdoms.’ 

[On  the  Right  of  Property.] 

[From  Blackstone’s  Commentaries.'] 

In  the  beginning  of  the  world,  we  are  informed  by 
holy  writ,  the  all-bountiful  Creator  gave  to  man 
* dominion  over  all  the  earth,  and  over  the  fish  of  the 
sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  every  living 
thing  that  moveth  upon  the  earth.’  This  is  the  only 
true  and  solid  foundation  of  man’s  dominion  over 
external  things,  whatever  aiiy  metaphysical  notions  may 
have  been  started  by  fanciful  writers  upon  this  subject. 
The  earth,  therefore,  and  all  things  therein,  are  the 
general  property  of  all  mankind,  exclusive  of  other 
beings,  from  the  immediate  gift  of  the  Creator.  And 
while  the  earth  continued  bare  of  inhabitants,  it  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  all  was  in  common  among 
them,  and  that  every  one  took  from  the  public  stock  to 
his  own  use  such  things  as  his  immediate  necessities 
required. 

These  general  notions  of  property  were  then  sufficient 
to  answer  all  the  purposes  of  human  life ; and  might, 
perhaps,  still  have  answered  them,  had  it  been  possible 
for  mankind  to  have  remained  in  a state  of  primeval 
simplicity ; as  may  be  collected  from  the  manners  of 
many  American  nations,  when  first  discovered  by  the 
Europeans ; and  from  the  ancient  method  of  living 
among  the  first  Europeans  themselves,  if  we  may  credit 
either  the  memorials  of  them  preserved  in  the  golden 
age  of  the  poets,  or  the  uniform  accounts  given  by  his- 
torians of  those  times  wherein  erant  omnia  communia 
et  indivisa  omnibus , veluti  unum  cunctis  patrimonium 
esset.  Not  that  this  communion  of  good  seems  ever  to 
have  been  applicable,  even  in  the  earliest  ages,  to  aught 
but  the  substance  of  the  thing,  nor  could  be  extended 
to  the  use  of  it.  For,  by  the  law  of  nature  and  reason, 
he  who  first  began  to  use  it  acquired  therein  a kind  of 
transient  property,  that  lasted  so  long  as  he  was  using 
it,  and  no  longer;  or,  to  speak  with  greater  precision, 
the  right  of  possession  continued  for  the  same  time  only 
that  the  act  of  possession  lasted.  Thus  the  ground  was 
in  common,  and  no  part  of  it  was  the  permanent 
property  of  any  man  in  particular ; yet,  whoever  was  in 


the  occupation  of  any  determinate  spot  of  it,  for  rest, 
for  shade,  or  the  like,  acquired  for  the  time  a sort  of 
ownership,  from  which  it  would  have  been  unjust,  and 
contrary  to  the  law  of  nature,  to  have  driven  him  by 
force ; but  the  instant  that  he  quitted  the  use  or  occu- 
pation of  it,  another  might  seize  it  without  injustice. 
Thus,  also  a vine  or  other  tree  might  be  said  to  be  in 
common,  as  all  men  were  equally  entitled  to  its  produce ; 
and  yet  any  private  individual  might  gain  the  sole 
property  of  the  fruit,  which  he  had  gathered  for  his  own 
repast ; a doctrine  well  illustrated  by  Cicero,  who  com- 
pares the  world  to  a great  theatre,  which  is  common  to 
the  public,  and  yet  the  place  which  any  man  has  taken 
is  for  the  time  his  own. 

But  when  mankind  increased  in  number,  craft,  and 
ambition,  it  became  necessary  to  entertain  conceptions 
of  more  permanent  dominion ; and  to  appropriate  to 
individuals  not  the  immediate  use  only,  but  the  very 
substance  of  the  thing  to  be  used.  Otherwise,  innumer- 
able tumults  must  have  arisen,  and  the  good  order  of 
the  world  been  continually  broken  and  disturbed,  while 
a variety  of  persons  were  striving  who  should  get  the 
first  occupation  of  the  same  thing,  or  disputing  which  of 
them  had  actually  gained  it.  As  human  life  also  grew 
more  and  more  refined,  abundance  of  conveniences  were 
devised  to  render  it  more  easy,  commodious,  and  agree- 
able, as  habitations  for  shelter  and  safety,  and  raiment 
for  warmth  and  decency.  But  no  man  would  be  at  the 
trouble  to  provide  either,  so  long  as  he  had  only  a 
usufructuary  property  in  them,  which  was  to  cease  the 
instant  that  he  quitted  possession ; if,  as  soon  as  he 
walked  out  of  his  tent,  or  pulled  off  his  garment,  the 
next  stranger  who  came  by  would  have  a right  to 
inhabit  the  one,  and  to  wear  the  other.  In  the  case  of 
habitations,  in  particular,  it  was  natural  to  observe,  that 
even  the  brute  creation,  to  whom  everything  else  was  in 
common,  maintained  a kind  of  permanent  property  in 
their  dwellings,  especially  for  the  protection  of  their 
young;  that  the  birds  of  the  air  had  nests,  and  the 
beasts  of  the  field  had  caverns,  the  invasion  of  which 
they  esteemed  a very  flagrant  injustice,  and  would 
sacrifice  their  lives  to  preserve  them.  Hence  a property 
was  soon  established  in  every  man’s  house  and  home- 
stall,  which  seem  to  have  been  originally  mere  temporary 
huts  or  movable  cabins,  suited  to  the  design  of  Provi- 
dence for  more  speedily  peopling  the  earth,  and  suited 
to  the  wandering  life  of  their  owners,  before  any  exten- 
sive property  in  the  soil  or  ground  was  established. 
And  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  movables  of  every 
kind  became  sooner  appropriated  than  the  permanent 
substantial  soil ; partly  because  they  were  more  suscep- 
tible of  a long  occupance,  which  might  be  continued  for 
months  together  without  any  sensible  interruption,  and 
at  length  by  usage  ripen  into  an  established  right ; but 
principally  because  few  of  them  could  be  fit  for  use,  till 
improved  and  meliorated  by  the  bodily  labour  of  the 
occupant;  which  bodily  labour,  bestowed  upon  any 
subject  which  before  lay  in  common  to  all  men,  is 
universally  allowed  to  give  the  fairest  and  most  reason- 
able title  to  an  exclusive  property  therein. 

The  article  of  food  was  a more  immediate  call,  and 
therefore  a more  early  consideration.  Such  as  were  not 
contented  with  the  spontaneous  product  of  the  earth, 
sought  for  a more  solid  refreshment  in  the  flesh  of 
beasts,  which  they  obtained  by  hunting.  But  the 
frequent  disappointments  incident  to  that  method  of 
provision,  induced  them  to  gather  together  such  animals 
as  were  of  a more  tame  and  sequacious  nature  ; and  to 
establish  a permanent  property  in  their  flocks  and 
herds,  in  order  to  sustain  themselves  in  a less  precarious 
manner,  partly  by  the  milk  of  the  dams,  and  partly  by 
the  flesh  of  the  young.  The  support  of  these  their 
cattle  made  the  article  of  water  also  a very  important 
point.  And  therefore  the  book  of  Genesis  (the  most 
venerable  monument  of  antiquity,  considered  merely 
with  a view  to  history)  will  furnish  us  with  frequent 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


instances  of  violent  contentions  concerning  wells,  the 
exclusive  property  of  which  appears  to  have  been  estab- 
lished in  the  first  digger  or  occupant,  even  in  such  places 
where  the  ground  and  herbage  remained  yet  in  common. 
Thus  we  find  Abraham,  who  was  but  a sojourner, 
asserting  his  right  to  a well  in  the  country  of  Abimelech, 
and  exacting  an  oath  for  his  security,  ‘ because  he  had 
digged  that  Veil.’  And  Isaac,  about  ninety  years  after- 
wards, reclaimed  this  his  father’s  property ; and  after 
much  contention  with  the  Philistines,  was  suffered  to 
enjoy  it  in  peace. 

All  this  while  the  soil  and  pasture  of  the  earth 
remained  still  in  common  as  before,  and  open  to 
every  occupant ; except  perhaps  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  towns,  where  the  necessity  of  a sole  and  exclusive 
property  in  lands  (for  the  sake  of  agriculture)  was 
earlier  felt,  and  therefore  more  readily  complied  with. 
Otherwise,  when  the  multitude  of  men  and  cattle  had 
consumed  every  convenience  on  one  spot  of  ground,  it 
was  deemed  a natural  right  to  seize  upon  and  occupy 
such  other  lands  as  would  more  easily  supply  their 
necessities.  This  practice  is  still  retained  among  the 
wild  and  uncultivated  nations  that  have  never  been 
formed  into  civil  states,  like  the  Tatars  and  others 
in  the  East,  where  the  climate  itself,  and  the  boundless 
extent  of  their  territory,  conspire  to  retain  them  still  in 
the  same  savage  state  of  vagrant  liberty  which  was 
universal  in  the  earliest  ages,  and  which  Tacitus  informs 
us  continued  among  the  Germans  till  the  decline  of  the 
Eoman  empire.  We  have  also  a striking  example  of 
| the  same  kind  in  the  history  of  Abraham  and  his 
nephew  Lot.  When  their  joint  substance  became  so  great 
that  pasture  and  other  conveniences  grew  scarce,  the 
natural  consequence  was  that  a strife  arose  between 
their  servants,  so  that  it  was  no  longer  practicable  to 
dwell  together.  This  contention  Abraham  thus  endea- 
voured to  compose : ‘ Let  there  be  no  strife,  I pray 
thee,  between  thee  and  me.  Is  not  the  whole  land 
before  thee  ? Separate  thyself,  I pray  thee,  from  me : 
if  thou  wilt  take  the  left  hand,  then  I will  go  to  the 
right ; or  if  thou  depart  to  the  right  hand,  then  I will 
go  to  the  left.’  This  plainly  implies  an  acknow- 
ledged right  in  either  to  occupy  whatever  ground  he 
pleased,  that  was  not  pre-occupied  by  other  tribes. 

‘ And  Lot  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  beheld  all  the  plain  of 
Jordan,  that  it  was  well  watered  everywhere,  even  as  the 
garden  of  the  Lord.  Then  Lot  chose  him  all  the  plain 
of  Jordan ; and  Lot  journeyed  east,  and  Abraham  dwelled 
in  the  land  of  Canaan.’ 

Upon  the  same  principle  was  founded  the  right  of 
migration,  or  sending  colonies  to  find  out  new  habita- 
tions. when  the  mother-country  was  overcharged  with 
inhabitants  ; which  was  practised  as  well  by  the  Phoe- 
nicians and  Greeks,  as  the  Germans,  Scythians,  and 
other  northern  people.  And  so  long  as  it  was  confined 
to  the  stocking  and  cultivation  of  desert,  uninhabited 
countries,  it  kept  strictly  within  the  limits  of  the  law  of 
nature.  But  how  far  the  seizing  on  countries  already 
peopled,  and  driving  out  or  massacring  the  innocent 
and  defenceless  natives,  merely  because  they  differed 
from  their  invaders  in  language,  in  religion,  in  customs, 
in  government,  or  in  colour;  how  far  such  a conduct 
i was  consonant  to  nature,  to  reason,  or  to  Christianity, 
i deserved  well  to  be  considered  by  those  who  have 
i rendered  their  names  immortal  by  thus  civilising 
I mankind. 

As  the  world  by  degrees  grew  more  populous,  it  daily 
j became  more  difficult  to  find  out  new  spots  to  inhabit, 

| without  encroaching  upon  former  occupants;  and,  by 
! constantly  occupying  the  same  individual  spot,  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  were  consumed,  and  its  spontaneous 
produce  destroyed,  without  any  provision  for  a future 
supply  or  succession.  It  therefore  became  necessary  to 
I pursue  some  regular  method  of  providing  a constant 
subsistence;  and  this  necessity  produced,  or  at  least 
promoted  and  encouraged,  the  art  of  agriculture,  by  a 
230 


regular  connection  and  consequence;  introduced  and 
established  the  idea  of  a more  permanent  property  in 
the  soil  than  had  hitherto  been  received  and  adopted. 
It  was  clear  that  the  earth  would  not  produce  her 
fruits  in  sufficient  quantities,  without  the  assistance  of 
tillage;  but  who  would  be  at  the  pains  of  tilling  it, 
if  another  might  watch  an  opportunity  to  seize  upon 
and  enjoy  the  product  of  his  industry,  art,  and  labour  ? 
Had  not,  therefore,  a separate  property  in  lands,  as 
movables,  been  vested  in  some  individuals,  the  world 
must  have  continued  a forest,  and  men  have  been  mere 
animals  of  prey ; which,  according  to  some  philosophers, 
is  the  genuine  state  of  nature.  "Whereas  now — so 
graciously  has  Providence  interwoven  our  duty  and  our 
happiness  together — the  result  of  this  very  necessity 
has  been  the  ennobling  of  the  human  species,  by  giving 
it  opportunities  of  improving  its  rational  faculties,  as 
well  as  of  exerting  its  natural.  Necessity  begat  pro- 
perty ; and,  in  order  to  insure  that  property,  recourse 
was  had  to  civil  society,  which  brought  along  with  it  a 
long  train  of  inseparable  concomitants — states,  govern- 
ment, laws,  punishments,  and  the  public  exercise  of 
religious  duties.  Thus  connected  together,  it  was  found 
that  a part  only  of  society  was  sufficient  to  provide,  by 
their  manual  labour,  for  the  necessary  subsistence  of 
all;  and  leisure  was  given  to  others  to  cultivate  the 
human  mind,  to  invent  useful  arts,  and  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  science. 

The  only  question  remaining  is,  how  this  property 
became  actually  vested ; or  what  it  is  that  gave  a man 
an  exclusive  right  to  retain  in  a permanent  manner 
that  specific  land  which  before  belonged  generally  to 
everybody,  but  particularly  to  nobody  ? And  as  we 
before  observed,  that  occupancy  gave  the  right  to  the 
temporary  use  of  the  soil,  so  it  is  agreed  upon  all  hands 
that  occupancy  gave  also  the  original  right  to  the  per- 
manent property  in  the  substance  of  the  earth  itself, 
which  excludes  every  one  else  but  the  owner  from  the 
use  of  it.  There  is,  indeed,  some  difference  among 
the  writers  on  natural  law  concerning  the  reason  why 
occupancy  should  convey  this  right,  and  invest  one  with 
this  absolute  property;  Grotius  and  Puffendorf  insist- 
ing that  this  right  of  occupancy  is  founded  upon  a tacit 
and  implied  assent  of  all  mankind,  that  the  first  occu- 
pant should  become  the  owner ; and  Barbeyrac,  Titius, 
Mr  Locke,  and  others,  holding  that  there  is  no  such 
implied  assent,  neither  is  it  necessary  that  there  should 
be ; for  that  the  very  act  of  occupancy  alone  being  a 
degree  of  bodily  labour,  is,  from  a principle  of  natural 
justice,  without  any  consent  or  compact,  sufficient  of 
itself  to  gain  a title ; a dispute  that  savours  too  much 
of  nice  and  scholastic  refinement ! However,  both  sides 
agree  in  this,  that  occupancy  is  the  thing  by  which  the 
title  was  in  fact  originally  gained ; every  man  seizing  to 
his  own  continued  use  such  spots  of  ground  as  he  found 
most  agreeable  to  his  own  convenience,  provided  he 
found  them  unoccupied  by  any  one  else. 


DR  ADAM  SMITH. 

Dr  Adam  Smith’s  Wealth  of  Nations,  published 
in  1776,  laid  the  foundation  of  the  science  of 
political  economy.  Some  of  its  leading  principles 
had  been  indicated  by  Hobbes  and  Locke;  Hume 
in  his  essays  had  also  stated  some  curious  results 
respecting  wealth  and  trade ; and  several  French 
writers  had  made  considerable  advances  towards  the 
formation  of  a system.  Smith,  however,  after  a 
labour  of  ten  years,  produced  a complete  system  of 
political  economy;  and  the  execution  of  his  work 
evinces  such  indefatigable  research,  so  much  saga- 
city, learning,  and  information,  derived  from  arts 
and  manufactures,  no  less  than  from  books,  that  the 
Wealth  of  Nations  must  always  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  greatest  works  in  political  philosophy  which 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  AD  AM  FERGUSON — LORD  MONBODDO. 


the  world  has  produced.  Its  leading  principles,  as 
enumerated  by  its  best  and  latest  commentator,  Mr 
M‘Culloch,  may  be  thus  summed  up : ‘ He  shewed 
that  the  only  source  of  the  opulence  of  nations  is 
labour;  that  the  natural  wish  to  augment  our  for- 
tunes and  rise  in  the  world  is  the  cause  of  riches 
being  accumulated.  He  demonstrated  that  labour 
is  productive  of  wealth,  when  employed  in  manufac- 
tures and  commerce,  as  well  as  when  it  is  employed 
in  the  cultivation  of  land;  he  traced  the  various 
means  by  which  labour  may  be  rendered  most 
effective ; and  gave  a most  admirable  analysis  and 
exposition  of  the  prodigious  addition  made  to  its 
efficacy  by  its  division  among  different  individuals 
and  countries,  and  by  the  employment  of  accumu- 
lated wealth  or  capital  in  industrious  undertakings. 
He  also  shewed,  in  opposition  to  the  commonly 
received  opinions  of  the  merchants,  politicians,  and 
statesmen  of  his  time,  that  wealth  does  not  consist 
in  the  abundance  of  gold  and  silver,  but  in  the 
abundance  of  the  various  necessaries,  conveniences, 
and  enjoyments  of  human  life ; that  it  is  in  every 
case  sound  policy  to  leave  individuals  to  pursue 
their  own  interest  in  their  own  way ; that,  in 
prosecuting  branches  of  industry  advantageous  to 
themselves,  they  necessarily  prosecute  such  as  are 
at  the  same  time  advantageous  to  the  public ; and 
that  every  regulation  intended  to  force  industry 
into  particular  channels,  or  to  determine  the  species 
of  commercial  intercourse  to  be  carried  on  between 
different  parts  of  the  same  country,  or  between 
distant  and  independent  countries,  is  impolitic  and 
pernicious.’  * Though  correct  in  his  fundamental 
positions,  Dr  Smith  has  been  shewn  to  be  guilty  of 
several  errors.  He  does  not  always  reason  correctly 
from  the  principles  he  lays  down ; and  some  of  his 
distinctions— as  that  between  the  different  classes  of 
society  as  productive  and  unproductive  consumers — 
have  been  shewn,  by  a more  careful  analysis  and 
observation,  to  be  unfounded.  But  these  defects  do 
not  touch  the  substantial  merits  of  the  work,  ‘ which 
produced,’  says  Mackintosh,  ‘ an  immediate,  general, 
and  irrevocable  change  in  some  of  the  most  import- 
ant parts  of  the  legislation  of  all  civilised  states. 
In  a few  years  it  began  to  alter  laws  and  treaties, 
and  has  made  its  way,  throughout  the  convulsions 
of  revolution  and  conquest,  to  a due  ascendant  over 
the  minds  of  men,  with  far  less  than  the  average 
obstructions  of  prejudice  and  clamour,  which  choke 
the  channels  through  which  truth  flows  into  prac- 
tice.’ In  this  work,  as  in  his  Moral  Sentiments , Dr 
Smith  is  copious  and  happy  in  his  illustrations. 
The  following  account  of  the  advantages  of  the 
division  of  labour  is  very  finely  written : 

[The  Division  of  Labour .] 

Observe  the  accommodation  of  the  most  common 
artificer  or  day-labourer  in  a civilised  and  thriving 
country,  and  you  will  perceive  that  the  number  of 
people,  of  whose  industry  a part,  though  but  a small 
part,  has  been  employed  in  procuring  him  this  accom- 
modation, exceeds  all  computation.  The  woollen  coat, 
for  example,  which  covers  the  day-labourer,  as  coarse 
and  rough  as  it  may  appear,  is  the  produce  of  the  joint 
labour  of  a great  multitude  of  workmen.  The  shepherd, 
the  sorter  of  the  wool,  the  wool-comber  or  carder,  the 
dyer,  the  scribbler,  the  spinner,  the  weaver,  the  fuller, 
the  dresser,  with  many  others,  must  all  join  their  different 
arts  in  order  to  complete  even  this  homely  production. 
How  many  merchants  and  carriers,  besides,  must  have 
been  employed  in  transporting  the  materials  from  some 
of  those  workmen  to  others,  who  often  live  in  a very 

* M'Culloch’a  Principles  of  Political  Economy  t p.  67. 


distant  part  of  the  country  ! How  much  commerce 
and  navigation  in  particular,  how  many  ship-builders, 
sailors,  sail-makers,  rope-makers,  must  have  been 
employed  in  order  to  bring  together  the  different  drugs 
made  use  of  by  the  dyer,  which  often  come  from  the 
remotest  corners  of  the  world  ! What  a variety  of 
labour,  too,  is  necessary  in  order  to  produce  the  tools  of 
the  meanest  of  those  workmen  ! To  say  nothing  of 
such  complicated  machines  as  the  ship  of  the  sailor,  the 
mill  of  the  fuller,  or  even  the  loom  of  the  weaver,  let  us 
consider  only  what  a variety  of  labour  is  requisite  in 
order  to  form  that  very  simple  machine,  the  shears  with 
which  the  shepherd  clips  the  wool.  The  miner,  the 
builder  of  the  furnace  for  smelting  the  ore,  the  feller  of 
the  timber,  the  burner  of  the  charcoal  to  be  made  use 
of  in  the  smelting-house,  the  brickmaker,  the  brick- 
layer, the  workmen  who  attend  the  furnace,  the  mill- 
wright, the  forger,  the  smith,  must  all  of  them  join 
their  different  arts  in  order  to  produce  them.  Were  we 
to  examine  in  the  same  manner  all  the  different  parts 
of  his  dress  and  household  furniture,  the  coarse  linen 
shirt  which  he  weai-s  next  his  skin,  the  shoes  which 
cover  his  feet,  the  bed  which  he  lies  on,  and  all  the 
different  parts  which  compose  it,  the  kitchen-grate  at 
which  he  prepares  his  victuals,  the  coals  which  he 
makes  use  of  for  that  purpose,  dug  from  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  and  brought  to  him,  perhaps,  by  a long  sea 
and  a long  land  carnage,  all  the  other  utensils  of  his 
kitchen,  all  the  furniture  of  his  table,  the  knives  and 
forks,  the  earthen  or  pewter  plates  upon  which  he 
serves  up  and  divides  his  victuals,  the  different  hands 
employed  in  preparing  his  bread  and  his  beer,  the  glass 
window  which  lets  in  the  heat  and  the  light,  and  keeps 
out  the  wind  and  the  rain,  with  all  the  knowledge  and 
art  requisite  for  preparing  that  beautiful  and  happy 
invention,  without  which  these  northern  parts  of  the 
world  could  scarce  have  afforded  a very  comfortable 
habitation,  together  with  the  tools  of  all  the  different 
workmen  employed  in  producing  those  different  con- 
veniences ; if  we  examine,  I say,  all  these  things,  and 
consider  what  a variety  of  labour  is  employed  about 
each  of  them,  we  shall  be  sensible  that,  without  the 
assistance  and  co-operation  of  many  thousands,  the  very 
meanest  person  in  a civilised  country  could  not  be  pro- 
vided, even  according  to,  what  we  very  falsely  imagine, 
the  easy  and  simple  manner  in  which  he  is  commonly 
accommodated.  Compared,  indeed,  with  the  more  extra- 
vagant luxury  of  the  great,  his  accommodation  must  no 
doubt  appear  extremely  simple  and  easy;  and  yet  it 
may  be  true,  perhaps,  that  the  accommodation  of  a 
European  prince  does  not  always  so  much  exceed  that 
of  an  industrious  and  frugal  peasant,  as  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  latter  exceeds  that  of  many  an  African 
king,  the  absolute  masters  of  the  lives  and  liberties  of 
ten  thousand  naked  savages. 


ADAM  FERGUSON — LORD  MONBODDO. 

Dr  Adam  Ferguson  (1724-1816),  son  of  the 
minister  of  Logierait,  in  Perthshire,  was  educated 
at  St  Andrews : removing  to  Edinburgh,  he  became 
an  associate  of  Dr  Robertson,  Blair,  Home,  &c. 
In  1744,  he  entered  the  42d  regiment  as  chaplain, 
and  continued  in  that  situation  till  1757,  when  he 
resigned  it,  and  became  tutor  in  the  family  of  Lord 
Bute.  He  was  afterwards  professor  of  natural 
philosophy  and  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh.  In  1778,  he  went  to  America  as 
secretary  to  the  commissioners  appointed  to  nego- 
tiate with  the  revolted  colonies : on  his  return,  he 
resumed  the  duties  of  his  professorship.  His  latter 
days  were  spent  in  ease  and  affluence  at  St  Andrews, 
where  he  died  at  the  patriarchal  age  of  ninety-three. 
The  works  of  Dr  Ferguson  are,  The  History  of  Civil 
Society , published  in  1766;  Institutes  of  Moral 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


Philosophy , 1769;  A Reply  to  Dr  Price  on  Civil  and 
Religious  Liberty , 1776;  The  History  of  the  Progress 
and  Termination  of  the  Roman  Republic , 1783 ; and 
Principles  of  Moral  and  Political  Science , 1792.  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  who  was  personally  acquainted  with 
Ferguson,  supplies  some  interesting  information  as 
to  the  latter  years  of  this  venerable  professor, 
whom  he  considered  the  most  striking  example  of 
the  stoic  philosopher  which  could  be  seen  in  modern 
days.  He  had  a shock  of  paralysis  in  the  sixtieth 
year  of  his  life,  from  which  period  he  became  a 
strict  Pythagorean  in  his  diet,  eating  nothing  but 
vegetables,  and  drinking  only  water  or  milk.  The 
deep  interest  which  he  took  in  the  French  war  had 
long  seemed  to  be  the  main  tie  which  connected  him 
with  passing  existence ; and  the  news  of  Waterloo 
acted  on  the  aged  patriot  as  a nunc  dimittis.  From 
that  hour  the  feeling  that  had  almost  alone  given  him 
energy  decayed,  and  he  avowedly  relinquished  all 
desire  for  prolonged  life.  Of  Ferguson’s  History  of 
Civil  Society,  Gray  the  poet  remarks:  ‘There  are 
uncommon  strains  of  eloquence  in  it;  and  I was 
surprised  to  find  not  one  single  idiom  of  his  country 
(I  think)  in  the  whole  work.  His  application  to 
the  heart  is  frequent,  and  often  successful.  His 
love  of  Montesquieu  and  Tacitus  has  led  him  into  a 
manner  of  writing  too  short-winded  and  sententious, 
which  those  great  men,  had  they  lived  in  better 
times,  and  under  a better  government,  would  have 
avoided.’  This  remark  is  true  of  all  Ferguson’s 
writings ; his  style  is  too  succinct  and  compressed. 
His  Roman  History,  however,  is  a valuable  com- 
pendium, illustrated  by  philosophical  views  and 
reflections. 

Lord  Monboddo’s  Essay  on  the  Origin  and  Progress 
of  Language,  published  in  1771-3  and  6,  is  one  of 
those  singular  works  which  at  once  provoke  study 
and  ridicule.  The  author  was  a man  of  real  learn- 
ing and  talents,  but  a humorist  in  character  and 
opinions.  He  was  an  enthusiast  in  Greek  liter- 
ature and  antiquities,  and  a worshipper  of  Homer. 
So  far  did  he  carry  this,  that,  finding  carriages  were 
not  in  use  among  the  ancients,  he  never  would  enter 
one,  but  made  all  his  journeys  to  London — which 
he  visited  once  a year — and  other  places  on  horse- 
back, and  continued  the  practice  till  he  was  upwards 
of  eighty.  He  said  it  was  a degradation  of  the 
genuine  dignity  of  human  nature  to  be  dragged  at 
the  tail  of  a horse  instead  of  mounting  upon  his  back ! 
The  eccentric  philosopher  was  less  careful  of  the 
dignity  of  human  nature  in  some  of  his  opinions. 
He  gravely  maintains  in  his  Essay  that  men  were 
originally  monkeys,  in  which  condition  they 
remained  for  ages  destitute  of  speech,  reason,  and 
social  affections.  They  gradually  improved,  accord- 
ing to  Monboddo’s  theory,  as  geologists  say  the 
earth  was  changed  by  successive  revolutions ; but 
he  contends  that  the  orang-outangs  are  still  of  the 
human  species,  and  that  in  the  Bay  of  Bengal  there 
exists  a nation  of  human  beings  with  tails  like 
monkeys,  which  had  been  discovered  a hundred  and 
thirty  years  before  by  a Swedish  skipper.  When 
Sir  Joseph  Banks  returned  from  Botany  Bay, 
Monboddo  inquired  after  the  long-tailed  men,  and, 
according  to  Dr  Johnson,  was  not  pleased  that  they 
had  not  been  found  in  all  his  peregrinations.  All 
the  moral  sentiments  and  domestic  affections  were, 
according  to  this  whimsical  philosopher,  the  result 
of  art,  contrivance,  and  experience,  as  much  as 
writing,  ship-building,  or  any  other  mechanical 
invention ; and  hence  he  places  man,  in  his  natural 
state,  below  beavers  and  sea-cats,  which  he  terms 
social  and  political  animals ! The  laughable  absur  - 
dity of  these  doctrines  must  have  protected  their  | 
232 


author  from  the  fulminations  of  the  clergy,  who 
} were  then  so  eager  to  attack  all  the  metaphysical 
opponents  of  revealed  religion.  In  1779,  Monboddo 
; published  an  elaborate  work  on  ancient  metaphysics, 

! in  three  volumes  quarto,  which,  like  his  former 
! publication,  is  equally  learned  and  equally  whim- 
1 sical.  After  a life  of  study  and  paradox,  discharging 
his  duties  as  a lord  of  session  with  uprightness 
and  integrity,  and  much  respected  in  private  for 
i his  amiable  dispositions,  James  Burnet,  Lord 
| Monboddo,  died  in  Edinburgh  May  26,  1799,  at  the 
advanced  age  of  eighty-five. 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 

Horace  Walpole,  the  author  of  the  Castle  of 
Otranto,  already  noticed,  would  have  held  but  an 
insignificant  place  in  British  literature,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  his  Correspondence  and  Memoirs,  those 
pictures  of  society  and  manners,  compounded  of  wit 
and  gaiety,  shrewd  observation,  sarcasm,  censorious- 
ness, high  life,  and  sparkling  language.  His  situa- 
tion and  circumstances  were  exactly  suited  to  his 
character  and  habits.  He  had  in  early  life  travelled 
with  his  friend  Gray,  the  poet,  and  imbibed  in  Italy 
a taste  for  antiquity  and  the  arts,  fostered,  no  doubt, 
by  the  kindred  genius  of  Gray,  who  delighted  in 
ancient  architecture  and  in  classic  pursuits.  He  next 
tried  public  life,  and  sat  in  parliament  for  twenty- 
six  years.  This  added  to  Ms  observation  of  men 
and  manners,  but  without  increasing  his  reputation, 
for  Horace  Walpole  was  no  orator  or  statesman. 
His  aristocratic  habits  prevented  him  from  courting 
distinction  as  a general  author,  and  he  accordingly 
commenced  collecting  antiques,  building  a baronial 
castle,  and  chronicling  in  secret  his  opinions  and 
impressions  of  his  contemporaries.  His  income, 
from  sinecure  offices  and  private  sources,  was  about 
£4000  per  annum ; and,  as  he  was  never  married, 
his  fortune  enabled  him,  under  good  management 
and  methodical  arrangement,  to  gratify  his  tastes 
as  a virtuoso.  When  thirty  years  old,  he  had  pur- 
chased some  land  at  Twickenham,  near  London,  and 
here  he  commenced  improving  a small  house,  which 
by  degrees  swelled  into  a feudal  castle,  with  turrets, 
towers,  galleries,  and  corridors,  windows  of  stained 
glass,  armorial  bearings,  and  all  the  other  appropri- 
ate insignia  of  a Gothic  baronial  mansion.  Who  lias 
not  heard  of  Strawberry  Hill — that  ‘little  plaything 
house,’  as  Walpole  styled  it,  in  which  were  gathered 
curiosities  of  all  descriptions,  works  of  art,  rare 
editions,  valuable  letters,  memorials  of  virtue  and 
of  vice,  of  genius,  beauty,  taste,  and  fashion, 
mouldered  into  dust ! This  valuable  collection  was 
in  1842  scattered  to  the  winds — dispersed  at  a 
public  sale.  The  delight  with  which  Walpole 
contemplated  his  suburban  retreat,  is  evinced  in 
many  of  his  letters.  In  one  to  General  Conway — 
the  only  man  he  seems  ever  to  have  really  loved  or 
regarded — he  runs  on  in  this  enthusiastic  manner : 


[Strawberry  Hill.] 

You  perceive  that  I have  got  into  a new  camp,  and 
have  left  my  tub  at  Windsor.  It  is  a little  plaything 
house  that  I have  got  out  of  this  Chevenix’s  shop  [Straw- 
berry Hill  had  been  occupied  by  Mrs  Chevenix,  a toy- 
woman  !],  and  is  the  prettiest  bauble  you  ever  saw.  It 
is  set  in  enamelled  meadows,  with  filigree  hedges — 

A small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 

And  little  fishes  wave  their  wings  of  gold. 

Two  delightful  roads,  that  you  would  call  dusty,  supply 
me  continually  with  coaches  and  chaises ; and  barges,  as 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


solemn  as  barons  of  the  Exchequer,  move  under  my 
window.  Richmond  Hill  and  Ham  Walks  hound  my 
prospect ; but,  thank  God ! the  Thames  is  between  me 
and  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry.  Dowagers,  as  plenty 
as  flounders,  inhabit  all  around ; and  Pope’s  ghost  is 
just  now  skimming  under  my  window  by  a most  poetical 
moonlight. 

The  literary  performances  with  which  Walpole 
varied  his  life  at  Strawberry  Hill  are  all  character- 
istic of  the  man.  In  1758  appeared  his  Catalogue  of 
Royal  and  Noble  Authors;  in  1761  his  Anecdotes  of 
Painting  in  England;  in  1765  his  Castle  of  Otranto ; 
and  in  1767  his  Historic  Doubts  as  to  the  character 
and  person  of  Richard  III.  He  left  for  publication 
Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  George  II.,  and  a large 
collection  of  copies  of  his  letters ; and  he  printed  at 
his  private  press — for  among  the  collections  at 
Strawberry  Hill  was  a small  printing  establishment 
— his  tragedy  of  the  Mysterious  Mother.  A collec- 
tion of  his  letters  was  printed  in  1841,  in  six 
volumes,  and  various  additions  have  since  been 
made.  A complete  collection  of  the  whole,  chrono- 
logically arranged,  and  edited  by  Mr  Peter  Cunning- 
ham, was  published  in  1857-9  in  nine  volumes.  The 
writings  of  Walpole  are  all  ingenious  and  entertain- 
ing, and  though  his  judgments  on  men  and  books 
or  passing  events  are  often  inaccurate,  and  never 
profound,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  amused  by 
the  liveliness  of  his  style,  his  wit,  his  acuteness, 
and  even  his  malevolence.  ‘Walpole’s Letters,’  says 
Lord  Macaulay,  ‘are  generally  considered  as  his  best 
performances,  and,  we  think,  with  reason.  His  faults 
are  far  less  offensive  to  us  in  his  correspondence 
than  in  his  books.  His  wild,  absurd,  and  ever- 
changing  opinions  of  men  and  things  are  easily 
pardoned  in  familiar  letters.  His  bitter  scoffing 
depreciating  disposition  does  not  shew  itself  in  so 
unmitigated  a manner  as  in  his  Memoirs.  A 
writer  of  letters  must  be  civil  and  friendly  to  his 
correspondent  at  least,  if  to  no  other  person.’  The 
variety  of  topics  introduced  is  no  doubt  one  cause  of 
the  charm  of  these  compositions,  for  every  page  and 
almost  every  sentence  turns  up  something  new,  and 
the  whim  of  the  moment  is  ever  with  Walpole  a 
subject  of  the  greatest  importance.  The  peculiarity 
of  his  information,  his  private  scandal,  his  anecdotes 
of  the  great,  and  the  constant  exhibition  of  his  own 
tastes  and  pursuits,  furnish  abundant  amusement  to 
the  reader.  Another  Horace  Walpole,  like  another 
Boswell,  the  world  has  not  supplied,  and  probably 
never  will. 

[. Politics  and  Evening  Parties .] 

To  Sir  Horace  Mann— 1745. 

When  I receive  your  long  letters,  I am  ashamed : 
mine  are  notes  in  comparison.  How  do  you  contrive  to 
roll  out  your  patience  into  two  sheets  ? You  certainly 
don’t  love  me  better  than  I do  you ; and  yet  if  our  loves 
were  to  be  sold  by  the  quire,  you  would  have  by  far  the 
more  magnificent  stock  to  dispose  of.  I can  only  say 
that  age  has  already  an  effect  on  the  vigour  of  my  pen ; 
none  on  yours : it  is  not,  I assure  you,  for  you  alone, 
but  my  ink  is  at  low  water-mark  for  all  my  acquaint- 
ance. My  present  shame  arises  from  a letter  of  eight 
sides,  of  December  8th,  which  I received  from  you  last 
post. 

It  is  not  being  an  upright  senator  to  promise  one’s 
vote  beforehand,  especially  in  a m on ey- matte r ; but  I 
believe  so  many  excellent  patriots  have  just  done  the 
same  thing,  that  I shall  venture  readily  to  engage  my 
pi'omise  to  you,  to  get  you  any  sum  for  the  defence  of 
Tuscany — why,  it  is  to  defend  you  and  my  own  country ! | 


my  own  palace  in  Via  de  Santo  Spirito,1  my  own 
princess  epuisee,  and  all  my  family ! I shall  quite  make 
interest  for  you : nay,  I would  speak  to  our  new  ally, 
and  your  old  acquaintance,  Lord  Sandwich,  to  assist  in 
it ; but  I could  have  no  hope  of  getting  at  his  ear,  for  he 
has  put  on  such  a first-rate  tie-wig,  on  his  admission  to 
the  Admiralty  board,  that  nothing  without  the  lungs  of 
a boatswain  can  ever  think  to  penetrate  the  thickness 
of  the  curls.  I think,  however,  it  does  honour  to  the 
dignity  of  ministers : when  he  was  but  a patriot,  his 
wig  was  not  of  half  its  present  gravity.  There  are  no 
more  changes  made : all  is  quiet  yet ; but  next  Thursday 
the  parliament  meets  to  decide  the  complexion  of  the 
session.  My  Lord  Chesterfield  goes  next  week  to 
Holland,  and  then  returns  for  Ireland. 

The  great  present  disturbance  in  politics  is  my  Lady 
Granville’s  assembly ; which  I do  assure  you  distresses 
the  Pelhams  infinitely  more  than  a mysterious  meeting 
of  the  States  would,  and  far  more  than  the  abrupt 
breaking  up  of  the  Diet  at  Grodno.  She  had  begun  to 
keep  Tuesdays  before  her  lord  resigned,  which  now  she 
continues  with  greater  zeal.  Her  house  is  very  fine,  she 
very  handsome,  her  lord  very  agreeable  and  extra- 
ordinary ; and  yet  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  wonders  that 
people  will  go  thither.  He  mentioned  to  my  father  my 
going  there,  who  laughed  at  him  ; Cato ’s  a proper 
person  to  trust  with  such  a childish  jealousy ! Harry 
Fox  says:  ‘Let  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  open  his  own 
house,  and  see  if  all  that  come  thither  are  his  friends.’ 
The  fashion  now  is  to  send  cards  to  the  women, 
and  to  declare  that  all  men  are  welcome  without 
being  asked.  This  is  a piece  of  ease  that  shocks  the 
prudes  of  the  last  age.  You  can’t  imagine  how  my 
Lady  Granville  shines  in  doing  honours ; you  know  she 
is  made  for  it.  My  lord  has  new-furnished  his  mother’s 
apartment  for  her,  and  has  given  her  a magnificent  set 
of  dressing-plate ; he  is  very  fond  of  her,  and  she  as 
fond  of  his  being  so. 

You  will  have  heard  of  Marshal  Belleisle’s  being 
made  a prisoner  at  Hanover : the  world  will  believe  it  was 
not  by  accident.  He  is  sent  for  over  hither : the  first 
thought  was  to  confine  him  to  the  Tower,  but  that  is 
contrary  to  the  politesse  of  modern  war : they  talk  of 
sending  him  to  Nottingham,  where  Tallard  was.  I am 
sure,  if  he  is  prisoner  at  large  anywhere,  we  could 
not  have  a worse  inmate  ! so  ambitious  and  intriguing 
a man,  who  was  author  of  this  whole  war,  will  be  no 
bad  general  to  be  ready  to  head  the  Jacobites  on  any 
insurrection.2 

I can  say  nothing  more  about  young  Gardiner,  but 
that  I don’t  think  my  father  at  all  inclined  now  to  have 
any  letter  written  for  him.  Adieu  ! 

[The  Scottish  Rebellion.'] 

[To  the  same— Nov.  15,  1745.] 

I told  you  in  my  last  what  disturbance  there  had  been 
about  the  new  regiments ; the  affair  of  rank  was  again 
disputed  on  the  report  till  ten  at  night,  and  carried  by 
a majority  of  twenty-three.  The  king  had  been  per- 
suaded to  appear  for  it,  though  Lord  Granville  made  it 
a party-point  against  Mr  Pelham.  Winnington  did  not 
speak.  I was  not  there,  for  I could  not  vote  for  it,  and 
yielded  not  to  give  any  hindrance  to  a public  measure — 
or  at  least  what  was  called  so — just  now.  The  prince 
acted  openly,  and  influenced  his  people  against  it ; but 
it  only  served  to  let  Mr  Pelham  see  what,  like  every- 
thing else,  he  did  not  know — how  strong  he  is.  The 

1 The  street  in  Florence  where  Mr  Mann  lived. 

2 Belleisle  and  his  brother,  who  had  been  sent  by  tho  king 
of  France  on  a mission  to  the  king  of  Prussia,  were  detained, 
while  changing  horses,  at  Elbengerode,  and  from  thence  con- 
veyed to  England ; where,  refusing  to  give  their  parole  in  the 
mode  it  was  required,  they  were  confined  in  Windsor  Castle. 

233 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


king  will  scarce  speak  to  him,  and  he  cannot  yet  get 
Pitt  into  place. 

The  rebels  are  come  into  England : for  two  days  we 
believed  them  near  Lancaster,  but  the  ministry  now  own 
that  they  don’t  know  if  they  have  passed  Carlisle. 
Some  think  they  will  besiege  that  town,  which  has  an 
old  wall,  and  all  the  militia  in  it  of  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland ; but  as  they  can  pass  by  it,  I don’t  see 
why  they  should  take  it,  for  they  are  not  strong  enough 
to  leave  garrisons.  Several  desert  them  as  they  advance 
south ; and  altogether,  good  men  and  bad,  nobody 
believes  them  ten  thousand.  By  their  marching  west- 
ward to  avoid  Wade,  it  is  evident  that  they  are  not 
strong  enough  to  fight  him.  They  may  yet  retire  back 
into  their  mountains,  but  if  once  they  get  to  Lancaster, 
their  retreat  is  cut  off;  for  Wade  will  not  stir  from 
Newcastle  till  he  has  embarked  them  deep  into  England, 
and  then  he  will  be  behind  them.  He  has  sent  General 
Handasyde  from  Berwick  with  two  regiments  to  take 
possession  of  Edinburgh.  The  rebels  are  certainly  in  a 
very  desperate  situation : they  dared  not  meet  Wade ; 
and  if  they  had  waited  for  him,  their  troops  would  have 
deserted.  Unless  they  meet  with  great  risings  in  their 
favour  in  Lancashire,  I don’t  see  what  they  can  hope, 
except  from  a continuation  of  our  neglect.  That, 
indeed,  has  nobly  exerted  itself  for  them.  They  were 
suffered  to  march  the  whole  length  of  Scotland,  and 
take  possession  of  the  capital,  without  a man  appearing 
against  them.  Then  two  thousand  men  sailed  to  them, 
to  run  from  them.  Till  the  flight  of  Cope’s  army,  Wade 
was  not  sent.  Two  roads  still  lay  into  England,  and 
till  they  had  chosen  that  which  Wade  had  not  taken,  no 
army  was  thought  of  being  sent  to  secure  the  other. 
Now  Ligonier,  with  seven  old  regiments,  and  six  of  the 
new,  is  ordered  to  Lancashire ; before  this  first  division 
of  the  army  could  get  to  Coventry,  they  are  forced  to 
order  it  to  halt,  for  fear  the  enemy  should  be  up  with  it 
before  it  was  all  assembled.  It  is  uncertain  if  the  rebels 
will  march  to  the  north  of  Wales,  to  Bristol,  or  towards 
London.  If  to  the  latter,  Ligonier  must  fight  them; 
if  to  either  of  the  other,  which  I hope,  the  two  armies 
may  join  and  drive  them  into  a corner,  where  they  must 
all  perish.  They  cannot  subsist  in  Wales  but  by  being 
supplied  by  the  papists  in  Ireland.  The  best  is,  that 
we  are  in  no  fear  from  France ; there  is  no  preparation 
for  invasions  in  any  of  their  ports.  Lord  Clancarty,1 
a Scotchman  of  great  parts,  but  mad  and  drunken,  and 
whose  family  forfeited  £90,000  a year  for  King  James, 
is  made  vice-admiral  at  Brest.  The  Duke  of  Bedford 
goes  in  his  little  round  person  with  his  regiment ; he 
now  takes  to  the  land,  and  says  he  is  tired  of  being  a 
pen-and-ink  man.  Lord  Gower  insisted,  too,  upon  going 
with  his  regiment,  but  is  laid  up  with  the  gout. 

With  the  rebels  in  England,  you  may  imagine  we  have 
no  private  news,  nor  think  of  foreign.  From  this  account 
you  may  judge  that  our  case  is  far  from  desperate, 
though  disagreeable.  The  prince,2  while  the  princess 
lies-in,  has  taken  to  give  dinners,  to  which  he  asks  two 
of  the  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  two  of  the  maids  of 
honour,  &c.,  by  turns,  and  five  or  six  others.  He  sits  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  drinks  and  harangues  to  all  this 
medley  till  nine  at  night ; and  the  other  day,  after 
the  affair  of  the  regiments,  drank  Mr  Fox’s  health 
in  a bumper,  with  three  huzzas,  for  opposing  Mr 
Pelham — 

* Si  qua  fata  aspera  rumpas, 

Tu  Marcellus  eris ! * 

You  put  me  in  pain  for  my  eagle,  and  in  more  for 
the  Chutes,  whose  zeal  is  very  heroic,  but  very  ill  placed. 
I long  to  hear  that  all  my  Chutes  and  eagles  are  safe  out 
of  the  Pope’s  hands  ! Pray,  wish  the  Suares’s  joy  of  all 
their  espousals.  Does  the  princess  pray  abundantly  for 

1 Donagh  Maccarty,  Earl  of  Clancarty,  was  an  Irishman, 
and  not  a Scotchman. 

2 Ferdinand  of  Wales. 

234 


her  friend  the  Pretender?  Is  she  extremely  abattue 
with  her  devotion  ? and  does  she  fast  till  she  has  got  a 
violent  appetite  for  supper?  And  then,  does  she  eat  so 
long,  that  old  Sarrasin  is  quite  impatient  to  go  to  cards 
again  ? Good-night ! I intend  you  shall  still  be  resident 
from  King  George. 

P.  S. — I forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  other  day  I con- 
cluded the  ministry  knew  the  danger  was  all  over ; for 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  ventured  to  have  the  Pretender’s 
declaration  burnt  at  the  Royal  Exchange. 

Nov.  22, 1745. 

For  these  two  days  we  have  been  expecting  news  of  a 
battle.  Wade  marched  last  Saturday  from  Newcastle, 
and  must  have  got  up  with  the  rebels  if  they  stayed  for 
him,  though  the  roads  are  exceedingly  bad,  and  great 
quantities  of  snow  have  fallen.  But  last  night  there 
was  some  notice  of  a body  of  rebels  being  advanced  to 
Penrith.  We  were  put  into  great  spirits  by  a heroic 
letter  from  the  mayor  of  Carlisle,  who  had  fired  on  the 
rebels  and  made  them  retire ; he  concluded  with  saying : 
‘And  so  I think  the  town  of  Carlisle  has  done  his 
majesty  more  service  than  the  great  city  of  Edinburgh, 
or  than  all  Scotland  together.’  But  this  hero,  who  was 
grown  the  whole  fashion  for  four-and-twenty  hours, 
had  chosen  to  stop  all  other  letters.  The  king  spoke 
of  him  at  his  levee  with  great  encomiums ; Lord  Stair 
said  : ‘Yes,  sir,  Mr  Patterson  has  behaved  very  bravely.’ 
The  Duke  of  Bedford  interrupted  him : ‘ My  lord,  his 
name  is  not  Patterson ; that  is  a Scotch  name : his 
name  is  Pattinson .’  But,  alack ! the  next  day  the 
rebels  returned,  having  placed  the  women  and  children 
of  the  country  in  wagons  in  front  of  their  army,  and 
forcing  the  peasants  to  fix  the  scaling-ladders.  The 
great  Mr  Pattinson,  or  Patterson — for  now  his  name 
may  be  which  one  pleases — instantly  surrendered  the 
town,  and  agreed  to  pay  two  thousand  pounds  to  save  it 
from  pillage. 

[ London  Earthquakes  and  London  6os«p.] 

[To  the  same— March  11,  1750.] 

Portents  and  prodigies  are  grown  so  frequent. 

That  they  have  lost  their  name. — Dryden. 

My  text  is  not  literally  true;  but  as  far  as  earth- 
quakes go  towards  lowering  the  price  of  wonderful 
commodities,  to  be  sure  we  are  overstocked.  We  have 
had  a second,  much  more  violent  than  the  first;  and 
you  must  not  be  surprised  if,  by  next  post,  you  hear  of 
a burning  mountain  sprung  up  in  Smithfield.  In  the 
night  between  Wednesday  and  Thursday  last — exactly  a 
month  since  the  first  shock — the  earth  had  a shivering 
fit  between  one  and  two,  but  so  slight,  that  if  no  more 
had  followed,  I don’t  believe  it  would  have  been  noticed. 
I had  been  awake,  and  had  scarce  dozed  again — on  a 
sudden  I felt  my  bolster  lift  up  my  head ; I thought 
somebody  was  getting  from  under  my  bed,  but  soon 
found  it  was  a strong  earthquake,  that  lasted  near  half 
a minute,  with  a violent  vibration  and  great  roaring.  I 
rang  my  bell;  my  servant  came  in,  frightened  out  of 
his  senses : in  an  instant  we  heard  all  the  windows  in 
the  neighbourhood  flung  up.  I got  up  and  found  people 
running  into  the  streets,  but  saw  no  mischief  done : 
there  has  been  some ; two  old  houses  flung  down,  several 
chimneys,  and  much  china-ware.  The  bells  rung  in 
several  houses.  Admiral  Knowles,  who  has  lived  long 
in  Jamaica,  and  felt  seven  there,  says  this  was  more 
violent  than  any  of  them : Francesco  prefers  it  to  the 
dreadful  one  at  Leghorn.  The  wise  say,  that  if  we  have 
not  rain  soon,  we  shall  certainly  have  more.  Several 
people  are  going  out  of  town,  for  it  has  nowhere  reached 
above  ten  miles  from  London : they  say  they  are  not 
frightened,  but  that  it  is  such  fine  weather,  ‘ Lord ! one 
can’t  help  going  into  the  country!’  The  only  visible 
effect  it  has  had  was  on  the  Ridotto,  at  which,  being  the 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HANNAH  MORE. 


following  night,  there  were  hut  four  hundred  people. 
A parson  who  came  into  White’s  the  morning  of  earth- 
quake the  first,  and  heard  bets  laid  on  whether  it  was 
an  earthquake  or  the  blowing  up  of  powder-mills,  went 
away  exceedingly  scandalised,  and  said  : ‘ I protest  they 
are  such  an  impious  set  of  people,  that  I believe  if  the 
last  trumpet  was  to  sound  they  would  bet  puppet-show 
against  Judgment.’  If  we  get  any  nearer  still  to  the 
torrid  zone,  I shall  pique  myself  on  sending  you  a present 
of  cedrati  and  orange-flower  water;  I am  already 
planning  a ierreno  for  Strawberry  Hill. 

The  Middlesex  election  is  carried  against  the  court : 
the  Prince  in  a green  frock — and  I won’t  swear  but  in 
a Scotch  plaid  waistcoat — sat  under  the  park- wall  in 
his  chair,  and  hallooed  the  voters  on  to  Brentford. 
The  Jacobites  are  so  transported,  that  they  are  opening 
subscriptions  for  all  boroughs  that  shall  be  vacant — 
this  is  wise ! They  will  spend  their  money  to  carry  a 
few  more  seats  in  a parliament  where  they  will  never 
have  the  majority,  and  so  have  none  to  carry  the 
general  elections.  The  omen,  however,  is  bad  for 
Westminster;  the  high-bailiff  went  to  vote  for  the 
opposition. 

I now  jump  to  another  topic : I find  all  this  letter 
will  be  detached  scraps ; I can’t  at  all  contrive  to  hide 
the  seams.  But  I don’t  care.  I began  my  letter  merely 
to  tell  you  of  the  earthquake,  and  I don’t  pique  myself 
upon  doing  any  more  than  telling  you  what  you  would 
be  glad  to  have  told  you.  I told  you,  too,  how  pleased 
I was  with  the  triumphs  of  another  old  beauty,  our 
friend  the  princess.1  Bo  you  know,  I have  found  a 
history  that  has  great  resemblance  to  hers ; that  is,  that 
will  be  very  like  hers,  if  hers  is  but  like  it.  I will  tell 
it  you  in  as  few  words  as  I can.  Madame  la  Marechale 
de  l’Hopital  was  the  daughter  of  a sempstress;2  a 
young  gentleman  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  was  going  to 
be  married  to  her,  but  the  match  was  broken  off.  An 
old  fermier-gbn&ral,  who  had  retired  into  the  province 
where  this  happened,  hearing  the  story,  had  a curiosity 
to  see  the  victim ; he  liked  her,  married  her,  died,  and 
left  her  enough  not  to  care  for  her  inconstant.  She 
came  to  Paris,  where  the  Marechal  de  l’Hopital  married 
her  for  her  riches.  After  the  marechal’s  death,  Casimir, 
the  abdicated  king  of  Poland,  who  was  retired  into 
France,  fell  in  love  with  the  marechale,  and  privately 
married  her.  If  the  event  ever  happens,  I shall  certainly 
travel  to  Nancy,  to  hear  her  talk  of  rna  belle  fille  la 
Heine  de  France.  What  pains  my  Lady  Pomfret  would 
take  to  prove3  that  an  abdicated  king’s  wife  did  not 
take  place  of  an  English  countess ; and  how  the  princess 
herself  would  grow  still  fonder  of  the  Pretender4  for  the 
similitude  of  his  fortune  with  that  of  le  Roi  mon  marif 
Her  daughter,  Mirepoix,  was  frightened  the  other  night 
with  Mrs  Nugent’s  calling  out,  un  voleur/  un  voleur! 
The  ambassadress  had  heard  so  much  of  robbing,  that 
she  did  not  doubt  but  dans  ce  pais  cy , they  robbed  in 
the  middle  of  an  assembly.  It  turned  out  to  be  a thief 
in  the  candle / Good-night ! 

1 The  Princess  Craon,  who,  it  had  been  reported,  was  to 
marry  Stanislaus  Leczinsky,  Duke  of  Lorraine  and  ex-king  of 
Poland,  whose  daughter,  Maria  Leczinsky,  was  married  to 
Louis  XV.,  king  of  France. 

2 This  is  the  story  of  a woman  named  Mary  Mignot.  She 
was  near  marrying  a young  man  of  the  name  of  La  Gardie, 
who  afterwards  entered  the  Swedish  service,  and  became  a 
field-marshal  in  that  country.  Her  first  husband  was,  if  I 
mistake  not,  a procureur  of  Grenoble ; her  second  was  the 
Marechal  de  l’Hdpital ; and  her  third  is  supposed  to  have  been 
Casimir,  the  ex-king  of  Poland,  who  had  retired,  after  his 
abdication,  to  the  monastery  of  St  Germain  des  Prfes.  It  does 
not,  however,  appear  certain  whether  Casimir  actually  married 
her  or  not. 

3 Lady  Pomfret  and  Princess  Craon  did  not  visit  at  Florence, 
upon  a dispute  of  precedence. 

4 The  Pretender,  when  in  Lorraine,  lived  in  Prince  Craon’s 

house. 


MRS  MONTAGU  AND  MRS  OHAPONE. 

Mrs  Elizabeth  Montagu  (1720-1800)  and  Mrs 
Hester  Chapone  (1727-1801)  were  ladies  of  learn- 
ing and  ability,  holding — particularly  the  former — 
a prominent  place  in  the  literary  society  of  the 
period.  Mrs  Montagu  was  left  a widow  with  a 
large  fortune,  and  her  house  became  the  popular 
resort  of  persons  of  both  sexes  distinguished  for 
rank,  classical  taste,  and  literary  talent.  Numerous 
references  to  this  circle  will  be  found  in  Boswell’s 
Johnson , in  the  Life  of  Dr  Beattie , the  works  of 
Hannah  More,  &c.  Mrs  Montagu  was  authoress  of 
a work  highly  popular  in  its  day,  Essay  on  the 
Writings  and  Genius  of  Shakspeare , compared  with  the 
Greek  and  French  Dramatic  Poets , with  some  Remarks 
upon  the  Misrepresentations  of  M.  de  Voltaire , 1769. 
This  essay  is  now  chiefly  valued  as  shewing  the 
low  state  of  poetical  and  Shakspearean  criticism  at 
the  time  it  was  written.  Voltaire’s  theory  of  art 
then  found  many  admirers,  and  though  Mrs  Montagu 
undertook  the  defence  of  the  great  dramatist,  it  was 
in  a patronising,  apologetic  tone.  Her  work,  how- 
ever, has  many  excellent  and  ingenious  observations. 
Beattie  said  of  Mrs  Montagu:  ‘I  have  known 
several  ladies  eminent  in  literature,  but  she  excelled 
them  all ; and  in  conversation  she  had  more  wit 
than  any  other  person,  male  or  female,  whom  I have 
ever  known.’  Mrs  Chapone’s  principal  work  is 
Letters  on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind,  1773.  Two 
years  afterwards  she  published  a volume  of  Miscel- 
lanies in  Prose  and  Verse.  All  her  writings  are 
distinguished  for  their  piety  and  good  sense. 


HANNAH  MORE. 

Hannah  More  adopted  fiction  as  a means  of 
conveying  religious  instruction.  She  can  scarcely 


£e  said  to  have  been  ever  1 free  of  the  corporation  ’ 
of  novelists;  nor  would  she  perhaps  have  cared 
much  to  owe  her  distinction  solely  to  her  connec- 
tion with  so  motley  and  various  a band.  Hannah 

235 


FROM  1760 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


withdrew  from  the  fascinations  of  London  society, 
the  theatres  and  opera,  in  obedience  to  what  she 
considered  the  call  of  duty,  and  we  suspect  Tom  Jones 
and  Peregrine  Piclde  would  have  been  as  unworthy 
in  her  eyes.  This  excellent  woman  was  one  of  five 
daughters,  children  of  Jacob  More,  who  taught  a 
school  in  the  village  of  Stapleton,  in  Gloucestershire, 
where  Hannah  was  bom  in  the  year  1745.  The 
family  afterwards  removed  to  Bristol,  and  there 
Hannah  attracted  the  attention  and  patronage  of 
Sir  James  Stonehouse,  who  had  been  many  years  a 
physician  of  eminence,  but  afterwards  took  orders 
and  settled  at  Bristol.  In  her  seventeenth  year 
she  published  a pastoral  drama,  The  Search  after 
Happiness , which  in  a short  time  went  through 
three  editions.  Next  year  she  brought  out  a 
tragedy,  The  Inflexible  Captive.  In  1773  or  1774 
she  made  her  entrance  into  the  society  of  London, 
and  was  domesticated  with  Garrick,  who  proved  one 
of  her  kindest  and  steadiest  friends.  She  was 
received  with  favour  by  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Burke, 
&c.  Her  sister  has  thus  described  her  first  interview 
with  the  great  English  moralist  of  the  eighteenth 
century : 

[.fVrsf  Interview  with  Johnson .] 

We  have  paid  another  visit  to  Miss  Reynolds;  she 
had  sent  to  engage  Dr  Percy — Percy’s  Collection , now 
you  know  him — quite  a sprightly  modem,  instead  of  a 
rusty  antique,  as  I expected ; he  was  no  sooner  gone 
than  the  most  amiable  and  obliging  of  women,  Miss 
Reynolds,  ordered  the  coach  to  take  us  to  Dr  Johnson’s 
very  own  house:  yes,  Abyssinian  Johnson!  Dictionary 
Johnson ! Ramblers,  Idlers,  and  Irene  Johnson ! Can 
you  picture  to  yourselves  the  palpitation  of  our  hearts  as 
we  approached  his  mansion  ? The  conversation  turned 
upon  a new  work  of  his  just  going  to  the  press — the  Tour 
to  the  Hebrides — and  his  old  friend  Richardson.  Mrs 
Williams,  the  blind  poet,  who  lives  with  him,  was  intro- 
duced to  us.  She  is  engaging  in  her  manners,  her 
conversation  lively  and  entertaining.  Miss  Reynolds 
told  the  doctor  of  all  our  rapturous  exclamations  on 
the  road.  He  shook  his  scientific  head  at  Hannah,  and 
said  ‘she  was  a silly  thing!’  When  our  visit  was 
ended,  he  called  for  his  hat,  as  it  rained,  to  attend  us 
down  a very  long  entry  to  our  coach,  and  not  Rasselas 
could  have  acquitted  himself  more  en  cavalier.  We 
are  engaged  with  him  at  Sir  Joshua’s  on  Wednesday 
evening — what  do  you  think  of  us  ? I forgot  to  mention, 
that  not  finding  Johnson  in  his  little  parlour  when  we 
came  in,  Hannah  seated  herself  in  his  great  chair, 
hoping  to  catch  a little  ray  of  his  genius : when  he 
heard  it,  he  laughed  heartily,  and  told  her  it  was  a 
chair  on  which  he  never  sat.  He  said  it  reminded  him 
of  Boswell  and  himself  when  they  stopped  a night,  as 
they  imagined,  where  the  weird  sisters  appeared  to 
Macbeth.  The  idea  so  worked  on  their  enthusiasm, 
that  it  quite  deprived  them  of  rest.  However,  they 
learned  the  next  morning,  to  their  mortification,  that 
they  had  been  deceived,  and  were  quite  in  another 
part  of  the  country. 

In  a subsequent  letter  (1776),  after  the  publication 
of  Hannah’s  poem,  Sir  Eldred  of  the  Bower,  the  same 
lively  writer  says : 

If  a wedding  should  take  place  before  our  return, 
don’t  be  surprised — between  the  mother  of  Sir  Eldred 
and  the  father  of  my  much -loved  Irene ; nay,  Mrs 
Montagu  says  if  tender  words  are  the  precursors  of 
connubial  engagements,  we  may  expect  great  things,  i 
for  it  is  nothing  but  ‘child,’  ‘little  fool,’  ‘love,’  and 
‘ dearest.’  After  much  critical  discourse,  he  turns 
round  to  me,  and  with  one  of  his  most  amiable  looks, 
236 


to  1800. 

which  must  be  seen  to  form  the  least  idea  of  it,  he 
says : ‘ I have  heard  that  you  are  engaged  in  the  useful 
and  honourable  employment  of  teaching  young  ladies.’ 
Upon  which,  with  all  the  same  ease,  familiarity,  and 
confidence  we  should  have  done  had  only  our  own  dear 
Dr  Stonehouse  been  present,  we  entered  upon  the  history 
of  our  birth,  parentage,  and  education  ; shewing  how 
we  were  born  with  more  desires  than  guineas,  and  how, 
as  years  increased  our  appetites,  the  cupboard  at  home 
began  to  grow  too  small  to  gratify  them ; and  how,  with 
a bottle  of  water,  a bed,  and  a blanket,  we  set  out  to 
seek  our  fortunes;  and  how  we  found  a great  house 
with  nothing  in  it ; and  how  it  was  like  to  remain  so 
till,  looking  into  our  knowledge-boxes,  we  happened  to 
find  a little  laming , a good  thing  when  land  is  gone,  or 
rather  none  ; and  so  at  last,  by  giving  a little  of  this 
little  laming  to  those  who  had  less,  we  got  a good  store 
of  gold  in  return ; but  how,  alas ! we  wanted  the  wit 
to  keep  it.  ‘ I love  you  both,’  cried  the  inamorato — * I 
love  you  all  five.  I never  was  at  Bristol — I will  come 
on  purpose  to  see  you.  What ! five  women  live  happily 
together  ! I will  come  and  see  you — I have  spent  a 
happy  evening — I am  glad  I came — God  for  ever  bless 
you  ! you  live  lives  to  shame  duchesses.’  He  took  his 
leave  with  so  much  warmth  and  tenderness,  we  were 
quite  affected  at  his  manner.  If  Hannah’s  head  stands 
proof  against  all  the  adulation  and  kindness  of  the 
great  folks  here,  why,  then,  I will  venture  to  say 
nothing  of  this  kind  will  hurt  her  hereafter.  A literary 
anecdote : Mrs  Medalle — Sterne’s  daughter — sent  to  all 
the  correspondents  of  her  deceased  father,  begging  the 
letters  which  he  had  written  to  them;  among  other  j 
wits,  she  sent  to  Wilkes  with  the  same  request.  He  ! 
sent  for  answer,  that  as  there  happened  to  be  nothing  1 
extraordinary  in  those  he  had  received,  he  had  burnt  or 
lost  them.  On  which  the  faithful  editor  of  her  father’s 
works  sent  back  to  say,  that  if  Mr  Wilkes  would  be  so 
good  as  to  write  a few  letters  in  imitation  of  her  father's 
style,  it  would  do  just  as  well,  and  she  would  insert 
them. 

In  1777,  Garrick  brought  out  Miss  More’s  tragedy 
of  Percy  at  Drury  Lane,  where  it  was  acted  seven- 
teen nights  successively.  Her  theatrical  profits 
amounted  to  £600,  and  for  the  copyright  of  the 
play  she  got  £150  more.  Two  legendary  poems,  Sir 
Eldred  of  the  Bower,  and  The  Bleeding  Rock , formed 
her  next  publication.  In  1779,  the  third  and  last 
tragedy  of  Hannah  More  was  produced;  it  was 
entitled  The  Fatal  Falsehood,  but  was  acted  only 
three  nights.  At  this  time,  she  had  the  misfortune 
to  lose  her  friend  Mr  Garrick  by  death,  an  event  of 
which  she  has  given  some  interesting  particulars 
in  her  letters. 


[ Death  and  Character  of  Garrick .] 

From  Dr  Cadogan’s  I intended  to  have  gone  to  the 
Adelphi,  but  found  that  Mrs  Garrick  was  at  that 
moment  quitting  her  house,  while  preparations  were 
making  for  the  last  sad  ceremony:  she  very  wisely 
fixed  on  a private  friend’s  house  for  this  purpose,  where 
she  could  be  at  her  ease.  I got  there  just  before  her ; 
she  was  prepared  for  meeting  me;  she  ran  into  my 
arms,  and  we  both  remained  silent  for  some  minutes ; 
at  last  she  whispered : ‘ I have  this  moment  embraced 
his  coffin,  and  you  come  next’  She  soon  recovered 
herself,  and  said  with  great  composure  : ‘ The  goodness 
of  God  to  me  is  inexpressible ; I desired  to  die,  but  it 
is  his  will  that  I should  live,  and  he  has  convinced  me 
he  will  not  let  my  life  be  quite  miserable,  for  he  gives 
astonishing  strength  to  my  body,  and  grace  to  my  heart ; 
neither  do  I deserve,  but  I am  thankful  for  both.’  She 
thanked  me  a thousand  times  for  such  a real  act  of 
friendship,  and  bade  me  be  comforted,  for  it  was  God’s 


MISCELLANEOUS  writers. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HANNAH  MORE. 


will.  She  told  me  they  had  just  returned  from  Althorp, 
Lord  Spencer’s,  where  he  had  been  reluctantly  dragged, 
for  he  had  felt  unwell  for  some  time ; but  during  his 
visit  he  was  often  in  such  fine  spirits,  that  they  could 
not  believe  he  was  ill.  On  his  return  home,  he  appointed 
Cadogan  to  meet  him,  who  ordered  him  an  emetic, 
the  warm  bath,  and  the  usual  remedies,  but  with  very 
little  effect.  On  the  Sunday,  he  was  in  good  spirits  and 
free  from  pain ; but  as  the  suppression  still  continued, 
Dr  Cadogan  became  extremely  alarmed,  and  sent  for 
Pott,  Heberden,  and  Schomberg,  who  gave  him  up 
the  moment  they  saw  him.  Poor  Garrick  stared  to  see 
his  room  full  of  doctors,  not  being  conscious  of  his  real 
state.  No  change  happened  till  the  Tuesday  evening, 
when  the  surgeon  who  was  sent  for  to  blister  and  bleed 
him  made  light  of  his  illness,  assuring  Mrs  Garrick  that 
he  would  be  well  in  a day  or  two,  and  insisted  on  her 
going  to  lie  down.  Towards  morning,  she  desired  to  be 
called  if  there  was  the  least  change.  Every  time  that 
she  administered  the  draughts  to  him  in  the  night,  he 
always  squeezed  her  hand  in  a particular  manner,  and 
spoke  to  her  with  the  greatest  tenderness  and  affection. 
Immediately  after  he  had  taken  his  last  medicine,  he 
softly  said : ‘ 0 dear  ! ’ and  yielded  up  his  spirit  with 
a groan,  and  in  his  perfect  senses.  His  behaviour 
during  the  night  was  all  gentleness  and  patience,  and 
he  frequently  made  apologies  to  those  about  him  for  the 
trouble  he  gave  them.  On  opening  him,  a stone  was 
found  that  measured  five  inches  and  a half  round 
one  way,  and  four  and  a half  the  other ; yet  this  was 
not  the  immediate  cause  of  his  death ; his  kidneys  were 
quite  gone.  I paid  a melancholy  visit  to  the  coffin 
yesterday,  where  I found  room  for  meditation  till  the 
mind  ‘burst  with  thinking.’  His  new  house  is  not  so 
pleasant  as  Hampton,  nor  so  splendid  as  the  Adelphi, 
but  it  is  commodious  enough  for  all  the  wants  of  its 
inhabitant ; and  besides,  it  is  so  quiet  that  he  never 
will  be  disturbed  till  the  eternal  morning,  and  never 
till  then  will  a sweeter  voice  than  his  own  be  heard. 
May  he  then  find  mercy  ! They  are  preparing  to  hang 
the  house  with  black,  for  he  is  to  lie  in  state  till 
Monday.  I dislike  this  pageantry,  and  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  disembodied  spirit  must  look  with 
contempt  upon  the  farce  that  is  played  over  its  miserable 
relics.  But  a splendid  funeral  could  not  be  avoided,  as 
he  is  to  be  laid  in  the  Abbey  with  such  illustrious  dust, 
and  so  many  are  desirous  of  testifying  their  respect  by 
attending.  I can  never  cease  to  remember  with  affec- 
tion and  gratitude  so  warm,  steady,  and  disinterested 
a friend ; and  I can  most  truly  bear  this  testimony  to 
his  memory,  that  I never  witnessed  in  any  family  more 
decorum,  propriety,  and  regularity,  than  in  his ; where 
I never  saw  a card,  nor  even  met — except  in  one  instance 
— a person  of  his  own  profession  at  his  table,  of  which 
Mrs  Garrick,  by  her  elegance  of  taste,  her  correctness  of 
manners,  and  very  original  turn  of  humour,  was  the 
brightest  ornament.  All  his  pursuits  and  tastes  were 
so  decidedly  intellectual,  that  it  made  the  society,  and 
the  conversation  which  was  always  to  be  found  in  his 
circle,  interesting  and  delightful. 

In  1782,  Miss  More  presented  to  the  world  a 
volume  of  Sacred  Dramas , with  a poem  annexed, 
entitled  Sensibility.  All  her  works  were  successful, 
and  Johnson  said  he  thought  her  the  best  of  the 
female  versifiers.  The  poetry  of  Hannah  More  is 
now  forgotten,  but  Percy  is  a good  play,  and  it  is 
clear  that  the  authoress  might  have  excelled  as  a 
dramatic  writer,  had  she  devoted  herself  to  that 
difficult  species  of  composition.  In  1786,  she  pub- 
lished another  volume  of  verse,  Florio , a Tale  for 
Fine  Gentlemen  and  Fine  Ladies ; and  The  Bas  Bleu , 
or  Conversation.  The  latter — which  Johnson  compli- 
mented as  ‘ a great  performance  ’ — was  an  elaborate 
eulogy  on  the  Bas  Bleu  Club,  a literary  assembly 


that  met  at  Mrs  Montagu’s.*  The  following  couplets 
have  been  quoted  and  remembered  as  terse  and 
pointed : 

In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find, 

All  think  their  little  set  mankind. 

Small  habits  well  pursued  betimes, 

May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes. 

Such  lines  mark  the  good  sense  and  keen  observa- 
tion of  the  writer,  and  these  qualities  Hannah  now 
resolved  to  devote  exclusively  to  high  objects.  The 
gay  life  of  the  fashionable  world  had  lost  its  charms, 
and,  having  published  her  Bas  Bleu , she  retired  to 
a small  cottage  and  garden  near  Bristol,  where  her 
sisters  kept  a flourishing  boarding-school.  Her  first 
prose  publication  was  Thoughts  on  the  Importance  of 
the  Manners  of  the  Great  to  General  Society , produced 
in  1788.  This  was  followed  in  1791  by  an  Estimate 
of  the  Religion  of  the  Fashionable  World.  As  a means 
of  counteracting  the  political  tracts  and  exertions  of 
the  Jacobins  and  levellers,  Hannah  More,  in  1794, 
wrote  a number  of  tales,  published  monthly  under 
the  title  of  The  Cheap  Repository , which  attained  to 
a sale  of  about  a million  each  number.  Some  of  the 
little  stories — as  the  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain — 
are  well  told,  and  contain  striking  moral  and  reli- 
gious lessons.  With  the  same  object,  our  authoress 
published  a volume  called  Village  Politics.  Her 
other  principal  works  are — Strictures  on  the  Modern 
System  of  Female  Education , 1799  ; Hints  towards 
Forming  the  Character  of  a Young  Princess , 1805 ; 
Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a Wife , comprehending  Observa- 
tions on  Domestic  Habits  and  Manners , Religion  and 
Morals , two  volumes,  1809 ; Practical  Piety , or  the 
Influence  of  the  Religion  of  the  Heart  on  the  Conduct 
of  Life , two  volumes,  1811 ; Christian  Morals , two 
volumes,  1812;  Essay  on  the  Character  and  Writings 
of  St  Paul,  two  volumes,  1815 ; and  Moral  Sketches 
of  Prevailing  Opinions  and  Manners,  Foreign  and 
Domestic , with  Reflections  on  Prayer , 1819.  The 
collection  of  her  works  is  comprised  in  eleven 
volumes  octavo.  The  work  entitled  Hints  towards 
Forming  the  Character  of  a Young  Princess,  was 
written  with  a view  to  the  education  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte,  on  which  subject  the  advice  and  assist- 
ance of  Hannah  More  had  been  requested  by  Queen 
Charlotte.  Of  Ccelebs,  we  are  told  that  ten  editions 
were  sold  in  one  year— a remarkable  proof  of  the 
popularity  of  the  work.  The  tale  is  admirably 
written,  with  a fine  vein  of  delicate  irony  and  sar- 
casm, and  some  of  the  characters  are  well  depicted, 
but,  from  the  nature  of  the  story,  it  presents  few 
incidents  or  embellishments  to  attract  ordinary 
novel-readers.  It  has  not  inaptly  been  styled  ‘a 
dramatic  sermon.’  Of  the  other  publications  of  the 
authoress,  we  may  say,  with  one  of  her  critics,  ‘ it 
would  be  idle  in  us  to  dwell  on  works  so  well  known 
as  the  Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of  the  Great , the 
Essay  on  the  Religion  of  the  Fashionable  World,  and 
so  on,  which  finally  established  Miss  More’s  name 
as  a great  moral  writer,  possessing  a masterly  com- 
mand over  the  resources  of  our  language,  and 
devoting  a keen  wit  and  a lively  fancy  to  the  best 
and  noblest  of  purposes.’  In  her  latter  days,  there 

* These  meetings  were  called  the  Blue  Stocking  Club,  in 
consequence  of  one  of  the  most  admired  of  the  members,  Mr 
Benjamin  Stillingfleet,  always  wearing  blue  stockings.  The 
appellation  soon  became  general  as  a name  for  pedantic  or 
ridiculous  literary  ladies.  Hannah  More’s  poem  proceeds  on 
the  mistake  of  a foreigner,  who,  hearing  of  the  Blue  Stocking 
Club,  translated  it  literally  * Bas  Bleu.’  Byron  wrote  a light 
satirical  sketch  of  the  Blues  of  his  day— the  frequenters  of  the 
London  saloons— but  it  is  unworthy  of  his  genius. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


was  perhaps  a tincture  of  unnecessary  gloom  or 
severity  in  her  religious  views  ; yet,  when  we  recol- 
lect her  unfeigned  sincerity  and  practical  benevolence 
— her  exertions  to  instruct  the  poor  miners  and 
cottagers— and  the  untiring  zeal  with  which  she 
laboured,  even  amidst  severe  bodily  infirmities,  to 
inculcate  sound  principles  and  intellectual  cultiva- 
tion, from  the  palace  to  the  cottage,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  rank  her  among  the  best  benefactors  of 
mankind. 

The  great  success  of  the  different  works  of  our 
authoress  enabled  her  to  live  in  ease,  and  to  dis- 
pense charities  around  her.  Her  sisters  also  secured 
a competency,  and  they  all  lived  together  at  Barley 
Grove,  a property  of  some  extent  which  they  pur- 
chased and  improved.  ‘From  the  day  that  the 
school  was  given  up,  the  existence  of  the  whole 
sisterhood  appears  to  have  flowed  on  in  one  uniform 
current  of  peace  and  contentment,  diversified  only 
by  new  appearances  of  Hannah  as  an  authoress,  and 
the  ups  and  downs  which  she  and  the  others  met 
with  in  the  prosecution  of  a most  brave  and  humane 
experiment — namely,  their  zealous  effort  to  extend 
the  blessings  of  education  and  religion  among  the 
inhabitants  of  certain  villages  situated  in  a wild 
country  some  eight  or  ten  miles  from  their  abode, 
who,  from  a concurrence  of  unhappy  local  and  tem- 
porary circumstances,  had  been  left  in  a state  of 
ignorance  hardly  conceivable  at  the  present  day.’  * 
These  exertions  were  ultimately  so  successful,  that 
the  sisterhood  had  the  gratification  of  witnessing  a 
yearly  festival  celebrated  on  the  hills  of  Cheddar, 
where  above  a thousand  children,  with  the  members 
of  female  clubs  of  industry — also  established  by 
them — after  attending  church-service,  were  regaled 
at  the  expense  of  their  benefactors.  Hannah  More 
died  on  the  7th  of  September  1833,  aged  eighty- 
eight.  She  had  made  about  £30,000  by  her  writings, 
and  she  left,  by  her  will,  legacies  to  charitable  and 
religious  institutions  amounting  to  £10,000. 

In  1834,  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Correspondence 
of  Mrs  Hannah  More , by  William  Roberts,  Esq., 
were  published  in  four  volumes.  In  these  we  have 
a full  account  by  Hannah  herself  of  her  London  life, 
and  many  interesting  anecdotes. 


SAMUEL  AND  WILLIAM  HENRY  IRELAND. 

Samuel  Ireland,  a dealer  in  scarce  books, 
prints,  &c.,  was  author  of  several  picturesque  tours, 
illustrated  by  aquatinta  engravings ; but  is  chiefly 
remarkable  as  having  been  made  by  his  son,  a 
youth  of  eighteen,  the  unconscious  instrument  of 
giving  to  the  world  a variety  of  Shakspearean 
forgeries.  William  Henry  Ireland  (1777-1834) 
was  articled  to  a conveyancer  in  New  Inn,  and,  like 
Chatterton,  began  early  to  imitate  ancient  writings. 
His  father  was  morbidly  anxious  to  discover  some 
scrap  of  Shakspeare’s  handwriting,  and  this  set 
the  youth  to  manufacture  a number  of  documents, 
which  he  pretended  to  have  accidentally  met  with 
at  the  house  of  a gentleman  of  fortune.  ‘ Amongst 
a mass  of  family  papers,’  says  the  elder  Ireland, 
‘ the  contracts  between  Sliakspeare,  Lowine,  and 
Condelle,  and  the  lease  granted  by  him  and 
Hemynge  to  Michael  Fraser,  which  was  first  found, 
were  discovered;  and  soon  afterwards  the  deed  of 
gift  to  William  Henry  Ireland  (described  as  the 
friend  of  Shakspeare,  in  consequence  of  his  having 
saved  his  life  on  the  river  Thames),  and  also  the 
deed  of  trust  to  John  Hemynge,  were  discovered. 
In  pursuing  this  search,  he  (his  son)  was  so  fortu- 

*  Quarterly  Review,  1834. 

238 


nate  as  to  meet  with  some  deeds  very  material  to 
the  interests  of  this  gentleman,  and  such  as  estab- 
lished beyond  all  doubt  his  title  to  a considerable 
property;  deeds  of  which  this  gentleman  was  as 
ignorant  as  he  was  of  his  having  in  his  possession 
any  of  the  manuscripts  of  Shakspeare.  In  return 
for  this  service,  added  to  the  consideration  that  the 
young  man  bore  the  same  name  and  arms  with  the 
person  who  saved  the  life  of  Shakspeare,  this  gentle- 
man promised  him  everything  relative  to  the  present 
subject,  that  had  been,  or  should  be  found,  either  in 
town  or  at  his  house  in  the  country.  A&  this  house 
the  principal  part  of  the  papers,  together  with  a 
great  variety  of  books,  containing  his  manuscript 
notes,  and  three  manuscript  plays,  with  part  of 
another,  were  discovered.’  These  forged  documents 
included,  besides  the  deeds,  a Protestant  Confession 
of  Faith  by  Shakspeare,  letters  to  Anne  Hathaway, 
the  Earl  of  Southampton,  and  others,  a new  version 
of  King  Lear , and  one  entire  original  drama,  entitled 
Vortigern  and  Rowena.  Such  a treasure  was 
pronounced  invaluable,  and  the  manuscripts  were 
exhibited  at  the  elder  Ireland’s  house,  in  Norfolk 
Street.  A controversy  arose  as  to  the  genuineness 
of  the  documents,  in  which  Malone  took  a part, 
proving  that  they  were  forged ; but  the  productions 
found  many  admirers  and  believers.  They  were 
published  by  subscription,  in  a large  and  splendid 
volume,  and  Vortigern  was  brought  out  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  John  Kemble  acting  the  principal 
character.  Kemble,  however,  was  not  to  be  duped 
by  the  young  forger,  being  probably,  as  Sir  Walter 
Scott  remarks,  warned  by  Malone.  The  representa- 
tion of  the  play  completely  broke  up  the  imposture. 
The  structure  and  language  of  the  piece  were  so 
feeble,  clumsy,  and  extravagant,  that  no  audience 
could  believe  it  to  have  proceeded  from  the  immortal 
dramatist.  As  the  play  proceeded,  the  torrent  of 
ridiculous  bombast  swelled  to  such  a height  as  to 
bear  down  critical  patience ; and  when  Kemble 
uttered  the  line, 

And  when  this  solemn  mockery  is  o’er, 

the  pit  rose  and  closed  the  scene  with  a discordant 
howl.  We  give  what  was  considered  the  ‘ most 
sublime  passage  ’ in  Vortigern : 

O sovereign  Death ! 

That  hast  for  thy  domain  this  world  immense ; 
Church-yards  and  charnel-houses  are  thy  haunts, 

And  hospitals  thy  sumptuous  palaces ; 

And  when  thou  wouldst  be  merry,  thou  dost  choose 
The  gaudy  chamber  of  a dying  king. 

Oh,  then  thou  dost  wide  ope  thy  bony  jaws, 

And  with  rude  laughter  and  fantastic  tricks, 

Thou  clapp’ st  thy  rattling  fingers  to  thy  sides; 

With  icy  hand  thou  tak’st  him  by  the  feet, 

And  upward  so  till  thou  dost  reach  his  heart, 

And  wrapt  him  in  the  cloak  of  lasting  night. 

So  impudent  and  silly  a fabrication  was  perhaps 
never  before  thrust  upon  public  notice.  The  young 
adventurer,  foiled  in  this  attempt,  attempted  to  earn 
distinction  as  a novelist  and  dramatist,  but  utterly 
failed.  In  1805,  he  published  a confession  of  the 
Shakspearean  forgery,  An  Authentic  Account  of  the 
Shakspeare  Manuscripts,  in  which  he  makes  this 
declaration : * I solemnly  declare,  first,  that  my 
father  was  perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  whole 
affair,  believing  the  papers  most  firmly  the  produc- 
tions of  Shakspeare.  Secondly,  that  I am  myself 
both  the  author  and  writer,  and  had  no  aid  from 
any  soul  living,  and  that  I should  never  have  gone 
so  far,  but  that  the  world  praised  the  papers  so 
much,  and  thereby  flattered  my  vanity.  Thirdly, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WORKS  ON  TASTE,  ETC. 


SIR  J.  REYNOLDS — REV.  G.  WHITE. 


that  any  publication  which  may  appear  tending  to 
prove  the  manuscripts  genuine,  or  to  contradict 
what  is  here  stated,  is  false ; this  being  the  true 
account.’  Several  other  novels,  some  poems,  and 
attempts  at  satire  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  Ireland, 
but  they  are  unworthy  of  notice,  and  the  last  thirty 
years  of  the  life  of  this  industrious  but  unprincipled 
litterateur  were  passed  in  obscurity  and  poverty. 


should  have  * lived  and  laboured  for  nearly  half  a 
century,  and  yet  have  left  little  or  nothing  to  the 
world  that  was  truly  and  originally  his  own.’ 

WORKS  ON  TASTE,  NATURAL  HISTORY, 
AND  ANTIQUITIES. 


EDMUND  MALONE — RICHARD  PORSON. 

Edmund  Malone  (1741-1812),  who  was  con- 
spicuous in  the  detection  and  exposure  of  Ireland’s 
forgeries,  was  an  indefatigable  dramatic  critic  and 
commentator,  as  well  as  a zealous  literary  anti- 
quary. He  edited  Shakspeare  (1790),  wrote  memoirs 
of  Dryden,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  W.  Gerard  Hamil- 
ton, &c. ; was  the  friend  of  Goldsmith,  Burke,  and 
Johnson,  and  still  more  emphatically  the  friend  of 
Johnson’s  biographer,  Boswell;  and  in  nearly  all 
literary  questions  for  half  a century,  he  took  a 
lively  interest,  and  was  always  ready  with  notes 
or  illustrations.  Mr  Malone  was  the  son  of  an 
Irish  judge,  and  born  in  Dublin.  After  studying  at 
Trinity  College,  he  repaired  to  London,  was  entered 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  and  called  to  the  bar  in  1767. 
His  life,  however,  was  devoted  to  literature,  in 
which  he  was  a useful  and  delighted  pioneer. 

The  fame  of  English  scholarship  and  classical 
criticism  descended  from  Bentley  to  Porson. 
Richard  Porson  (1759-1808)  was  in  1793  unani- 
mously elected  professor  of  Greek  in  the  university 
of  Cambridge.  Besides  many  fugitive  and  miscel- 
laneous contributions  to  classical  journals,  Porson 
edited  and  annotated  the  first  four  plays  of  Euripides, 
which  appeared  separately  between  1797  and  1801. 
He  collected  the  Harleian  manuscript  of  the  Odyssey 
for  the  Grenville  edition  of  Homer  (1800),  and 
corrected  the  text  of  Aeschylus  and  part  of  Herodotus. 
After  his  death,  his  Adversaria , or  Notes  and  Emenda- 
tions of  the  Greek  Poets , were  published  by  Pro- 
fessor Monk  and  Mr  J.  C.  Blomfield — afterwards 
bishop  of  London — and  his  Tracts  and  Miscellaneous 
Criticisms  were  collected  and  published  by  the 
Rev.  T.  Kidd.  Porson,  as  a Greek  critic,  has  never 
perhaps  been  excelled.  He  rose  from  a humble 
station— his  father  was  a parish-clerk  in  Norfolk — 
solely  by  his  talents  and  early  proficiency ; his 
memory  was  prodigious,  almost  unexampled,  and 
his  acuteness  and  taste  in  Greek  literature  were 
unerring.  The  habits  of  this  great  scholar  were, 
however,  fatal  to  his  success  in  life.  He  was  as 
intemperate  as  Sheridan,  careless  of  the  usual  forms 
and  courtesies  of  society,  and  impracticable  in 
ordinary  affairs.  His  love  of  drink  amounted  to  a 
passion,  or  rather  disease.  Hi3  redeeming  qualities 
besides  his  scholastic  acquirements  and  natural 
talents,  were  his  strict  integrity  and  love  of  truth. 
Many  of  his  pointed  sayings  were  remembered  by 
his  friends.  Being  on  one  occasion  informed  that 
Southey  considered  his  poem  of  Madoc  as  likely  to 
be  a valuable  possession  to  his  family,  Porson 
answered : ‘ Madoc  will  be  read — when  Homer  and 
Virgil,  are  forgotten.’  The  ornate  style  of  Gibbon 
was  his  aversion:  ‘There  could  not,’  he  said,  ‘be  a 
better  exercise  for  a school-boy  than  to  turn  a page 
of  The  Decline  and  Fall  into  English .’  He  disliked 

reading  folios,  ‘because,’  said  he,  ‘we  meet  with  so 
few  mile-stones  ’ — that  is,  we  have  such  long  inter- 
vals between  the  turning  over  of  the  leaves.  On 
the  whole,  though  Porson  was  a critic  of  the  highest 
order,  and  though  conceding  to  classical  literature 
all  the  respect  that  can  be  claimed  for  it,  we  must 
lament,  with  one  of  his  friends,  that  such  a man 


Several  interesting  and  valuable  treatises  on 
subjects  of  Taste,  Natural  History,  and  Antiquities, 
were  published  about  this  time,  and  had  considerable 
influence. 

The  Discourses  on  Painting , by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  (1723-1792),  are  elegant  and  agreeable 
compositions,  containing  a variety  of  literary  illus- 
tration, and  suggestive  thought,  but  they  are  not 
always  correct  or  definite  in  their  criticism  and 
rules  for  artists.  Sir  Joshua  was  elected  president 
of  the  Royal  Academy  on  its  institution  in  1769, 
and  from  that  time  to  1790,  he  delivered  fifteen 
lectures  or  discourses  on  the  principles  and  practice 
of  painting.  The  readers  of  Johnson  and  Gold- 
smith need  not  be  told  how  much  Reynolds  was 
beloved  and  respected  by  his  associates,  while  his 
exquisite  taste  and  skill  as  a portrait-painter  have 
preserved  to  us,  as  Macaulay  remarks,  ‘ the  thought- 
ful foreheads  of  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and 
the  sweet  smiles  of  many  noble  matrons.’ 

Thomas  Pennant  (1726-1798)  commenced  in 
1761  a body  of  British  zoology,  originally  published 
in  four  volumes  folio,  and  afterwards  gave  to  the 
world  treatises  on  quadrupeds,  birds,  arctic  zoology, 
and  other  departments  of  natural  science.  He  made 
tours  into  Scotland  and  Wales,  of  which  he  pub- 
lished copious  accounts ; but  though  a lively  and 
pleasant  traveller,  and  diligent  antiquary,  Pennant 
was  neither  correct  nor  profound.  The  popularity 
of  his  works  stimulated  others,  and  had  the  effect  of 
greatly  promoting  the  extension  of  his  favourite 
studies. 

Francis  Grose  (1731-1791)  was  a still  more 
superficial  antiquary,  but  voluminous  writer.  He 
published  the  Antiquities  of  England  and  Wales , in 
eight  volumes,  the  first  of  which  appeared  in  1773, 
and  the  Antiquities  of  Scotland,  in  two  volumes, 
published  in  1790.  To  this  work  Burns  contributed 
his  Tam  o’  Shanter,  which  Grose  characterised  as  a 
‘ pretty  poem  ! ’ He  wrote  also  treatises  on  ancient 
armour  and  weapons,  military  antiquities,  &c. 

Richard  Gough  (1735-1809)  was  a celebrated 
topographer  and  antiquary.  His  British  Topography , 
Sepulchral  Monuments  of  Great  Britain , his  enlarged 
edition  of  Camden’s  Britannia,  and  various  other 
works,  evince  great  research  and  untiring  industry. 
His  valuable  collection  of  books  and  manuscripts  he 
bequeathed  to  the  Bodleian  Library,  Oxford. 

The  Rev.  Gilbert  White  (1720-1793)  published 
a series  of  letters  addressed  by  him  to  Pennant 
and  Daines  Barrington,  descriptive  of  the  natural 
objects  and  appearances  of  the  parish  of  Selborne 
in  Hampshire.  White  was  rector  of  this  parish, 
and  had  spent  in  it  the  greater  part  of  his  life, 
engaged  in  literary  occupations  and  the  study  of 
nature.  His  minute  and  interesting  facts,  the 
entire  devotion  of  the  amiable  author  to  his  subject, 
and  the  easy  elegance  and  simplicity  of  his  style, 
render  White’s  history  a universal  favourite— some- 
thing like  Izaak  Walton’s  book  on  angling,  which 
all  admire,  and  hundreds  have  endeavoured  to  copy. 
The  retired  naturalist  was  too  full  of  facts  and 
observations  to  have  room  for  sentimental  writing, 
yet  in  sentences  like  the  following — however  humble 
be  the  theme — we  may  trace  no  common  power  of 
picturesque  painting. 


from  1760  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1800. 


[The  Rooks  Returning  to  their  iVesfs.] 

The  evening  proceedings  and  manoeuvres  of  the  roots 
are  curious  and  amusing  in  the  autumn.  Just  before 
dusk,  they  return  in  long  strings  from  the  foraging  of 
the  day,  and  rendezvous  by  thousands  over  Selborne- 
down,  where  they  wheel  round  in  the  air,  and  sport  and 
dive  in  a playful  manner,  all  the  while  exerting  their 
voices,  and  making  a loud  cawing,  which,  being  blended 
and  softened  by  the  distance  that  we  at  the  village  are 
below  them,  becomes  a confused  noise  or  chiding;  or 
rather  a pleasing  murmur,  very  engaging  to  the  imagi- 
nation, and  not  unlike  the  cry  of  a pack  of  hounds  in 
hollow  echoing  woods,  or  the  rushing  of  the  wind  in  tall 
trees,  or  the  tumbling  of  the  tide  upon  a pebbly  shore. 
When  this  ceremony  is  over,  with  the  last  gleam  of  day 
they  retire  for  the  night  to  the  deep  beechen  woods  of 
Tisted  and  Ropley.  We  remember  a little  girl,  who, 
as  she  was  going  to  bed,  used  to  remark  on  such  an 
occurrence,  in  the  true  spirit  of  physico -theology,  that 
the  rooks  were  saying  their  prayers ; and  yet  this  child 
was  much  too  young  to  be  aware  that  the  Scriptures 
have  said  of  the  Deity,  that  ‘he  feedeth  the  ravens 
who  call  upon  him.’ 

The  migration  of  the  swallows,  the  instincts  of  ani- 
mals, the  blossoming  of  flowers  and  plants,  and  the 
humblest  phenomena  of  ever-changing  nature,  are 
recorded  by  Gilbert  White  in  the  same  earnest  and 
unassuming  manner. 

Joseph  Ritson  (1752-1803),  a zealous  literary 
antiquary  and  critic,  was  indefatigable  in  his  labours 
to  illustrate  English  literature,  particularly  the 
neglected  ballad-strains  of  the  nation.  He  pub- 
lished in  1783  a valuable  collection  of  English 
songs ; in  1790,  Ancient  Songs,  from  the  time  of  Henry 
III.  to  the  Revolution;  in  1792,  Pieces  of  Ancient 
Popular  Poetry;  in  1794,  A Collection  of  Scottish 
Songs ; in  1795,  A Collection  of  all  the  Ancient  Poems, 
&c.,  relating  to  Robin  Hood,  &c.  Ritson  was  a faith- 
ful and  acute  editor,  profoundly  versed  in  literary 
antiquities,  but  of  a jealous  irritable  temper,  which 
kept  him  in  a state  of  constant  warfare  with  his 
brother-collectors.  He  was  in  diet  a strict  Pytha- 
gorean, and  wrote  a treatise  against  the  use  of 
animal  food.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  writing  to  his 
friend  Mr  Ellis  in  1803,  remarks:  ‘Poor  Ritson 
is  no  more.  All  his  vegetable  soups  and  puddings 
have  not  been  able  to  avert  the  evil  day,  which,  I 
understand,  was  preceded  by  madness.’  Scott  has 
borne  ample  testimony  to  the  merits  of  this  unhappy 
gleaner  in  the  by-paths  of  literature. 

Among  works  on  the  subject  of  taste  and  beauty, 
in  which  philosophical  analysis  and  metaphysics 
are  happily  blended  with  the  graces  of  refined 
thought  and  composition,  a high  place  must  be 
assigned  to  the  writings  of  the  Rev.  William 
Gilpin  (1724-1804)  and  Sir  Uvedale  Price 
(1747-1829).  The  former  was  author  of  Remarks 
on  Forest  Scenery,  and  Observations  on  Picturesque 
Beauty,  as  connected  with  the  English  lakes  and  the 
Scottish  Highlands.  As  vicar  of  Boldre,  in  the 
New  Forest,  Hampshire,  Mr  Gilpin  was  familiar 
with  the  characteristics  of  forest  scenery,  and  his 
work  on  this  subject  (1791)  is  equally  pleasing  and 
profound — a storehouse  of  images  and  illustrations 
of  external  nature,  remarkable  for  their  fidelity  and 
beauty,  and  an  analysis  ‘ patient  and  comprehensive, 
with  no  feature  of  the  chilling  metaphysics  of  the 
schools.*  His  Remarks  on  Forest  Scenery  consist  of  a 
description  of  the  various  kinds  of  trees.  ‘ It  is  no 
exaggerated  praise,’  he  says,  ‘to  call  a tree  the 
grandest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  the  productions 
240 


of  the  earth.  In  the  former  of  these  epithets  nothing 
contends  with  it,  for  we  consider  rocks  and  moun- 
tains as  part  of  the  earth  itself.  And  though  among 
inferior  plants,  shrubs,  and  flowers,  there  is  great 
beauty,  yet  when  we  consider  that  these  minuter 
productions  are  chiefly  beautiful  as  individuals,  and 
are  not  adapted  to  form  the  arrangement  of  com- 
position in  landscape,  nor  to  receive  the  effect  of 
light  and  shade,  they  must  give  place  in  point  of 
beauty — of  picturesque  beauty  at  least — to  the  form, 
and  foliage,  and  ramification  of  the  tree.  Thus  the 
splendid  tints  of  the  insect,  however  beautiful,  must 
yield  to  the  elegance  and  proportion  of  animals 
which  range  in  a higher  class.’  Having  described 
trees  as  individuals,  he  considers  them  under  their 
various  combinations,  as  clumps,  park-scenery,  the 
copse,  glen,  grove,  the  forest,  &c.  Their  permanent 
and  incidental  beauties  in  storm  and  sunshine,  and 
through  all  the  seasons,  are  afterwards  delineated  in 
the  choicest  language,  and  with  frequent  illustration 
from  the  kindred  pages  of  the  poets ; and  the  work 
concludes  with  an  account  of  the  English  forests 
and  their  accompaniments — lawns,  heaths,  forest 
distances,  and  sea-coast  views;  with  their  proper 
appendages,  as  wild  horses,  deer,  eagles,  and  other 
picturesque  inhabitants.  As  a specimen  of  Gilpin’s 
manner — though  a very  inadequate  one — we  subjoin 
his  account  of  the  effects  of  the  sun,  ‘ an  illustrious 
family  of  tints,’  as  fertile  sources  of  incidental 
beauty  among  the  woods  of  the  forest: 

[Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Woods.] 

The  first  dawn  of  day  exhibits  a beautiful  obscurity. 
When  the  east  begins  just  to  brighten  with  the  reflec- 
tions only  of  effulgence,  a pleasing  progressive  light, 
dubious  and  amusing,  is  thrown  over  the  face  of  things. 
A single  ray  is  able  to  assist  the  picturesque  eye,  which 
by  such  slender  aid  creates  a thousand  imaginary  forms, 
if  the  scene  be  unknown,  and  as  the  light  steals  gradu- 
ally on,  is  amused  by  correcting  its  vague  ideas  by  the 
real  objects.  What  in  the  confusion  of  twilight  perhaps 
seemed  a stretch  of  rising  ground,  broken  into  various 
parts,  becomes  now  vast  masses  of  wood  and  an  extent 
of  forest. 

As  the  sun  begins  to  appear  above  the  horizon, 
another  change  takes  place.  What  was  before  only 
form,  being  now  enlightened,  begins  to  receive  effect. 
This  effect  depends  on  two  circumstances — the  catching 
lights  which  touch  the  summits  of  every  object,  and 
the  mistiness  in  which  the  rising  orb  is  commonly 
enveloped. 

The  effect  is  often  pleasing  when  the  sun  rises  in 
unsullied  brightness,  diffusing  its  ruddy  light  over 
the  upper  parts  of  objects,  which  is  contrasted  by  the 
deeper  shadows  below ; yet  the  effect  is  then  only 
transcendent  when  he  rises  accompanied  by  a train  of 
vapours  in  a misty  atmosphere.  Among  lakes  and 
mountains,  this  happy  accompaniment  often  forms  the 
most  astonishing  visions,  and  yet  in  the  forest  it  is 
nearly  as  great.  With  what  delightful  effect  do  we 
sometimes  see  the  sun’s  disk  just  appear  above  a woody 
hill,  or,  in  Shakspeare’s  language, 

Stand  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain’s  top, 

and  dart  his  diverging  rays  through  the  rising  vapour. 
The  radiance,  catching  the  tops  of  the  trees  as  they 
hang  midway  upon  the  shaggy  steep,  and  touching 
here  and  there  a few  other  prominent  objects,  imper- 
ceptibly mixes  its  ruddy  tint  with  the  surrounding 
mists,  setting  on  fire,  as  it  were,  their  upper  parts, 
while  their  lower  skirts  are  lost  in  a dark  mass  of 
varied  confusion,  in  which  trees  and  ground,  and 
radiance  and  obscurity,  are  all  blended  together.  When 
the  eye  is  fortunate  enough  to  catch  the  glowing  instant 


■works  on  taste,  ETC.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  u.  price — rev.  a.  alison. 


—for  it  is  always  a vanishing  scene — it  furnishes  an 
idea  worth  treasuring  among  the  choicest  appearances  of 
nature.  Mistiness  alone,  we  have  observed,  occasions 
a confusion  in  objects  which  is  often  picturesque  ; but 
the  glory  of  the  vision  depends  on  the  glowing  lights 
which  are  mingled  with  it. 

Landscape-painters,  in  general,  pay  too  little  atten- 
tion to  the  discriminations  of  morning  and  evening. 
"We  are  often  at  a loss  to  distinguish  in  pictures  the 
rising  from  the  setting  sun,  though  their  characters 
are  very  different  both  in  the  lights  and  shadows.  The 
ruddy  lights,  indeed,  of  the  evening  are  more  easily 
distinguished,  but  it  is  not  perhaps  always  sufficiently 
observed  that  the  shadows  of  the  evening  are  much 
less  opaque  than  those  of  the  morning.  They  may  be 
brightened  perhaps  by  the  numberless  rays  floating  in 
the  atmosphere,  which  are  incessantly  reverberated  in 
every  direction,  and  may  continue  in  action  after  the 
sun  is  set;  whereas  in  the  morning  the  rays  of  the 
preceding  day  having  subsided,  no  object  receives  any 
light  but  from  the  immediate  lustre  of  the  sun.  What- 
ever becomes  of  the  theory,  the  fact  I believe  is  well 
•ascertained. 

The  incidental  beauties  which  the  meridian  sun 
•exhibits  are  much  fewer  than  those  of  the  rising  sun. 
In  summer  when  he  rides  high  at  noon,  and  sheds  his 
perpendicular  ray,  all  is  illumination ; there  is  no 
shadow  to  balance  such  a glare  of  light,  no  contrast  to 
■oppose  it.  The  judicious  artist,  therefore,  rarely  repre- 
sents his  objects  under  a vertical  sun.  And  yet  no 
species  of  landscape  bears  it  so  well  as  the  scenes  of 
the  forest.  The  tuftings  of  the  trees,  the  recesses 
among  them,  and  the  lighter  foliage  hanging  over  the 
darker,  may  all  have  an  effect  under  a meridian  sun. 
I speak  chiefly,  however,  of  the  internal  scenes  of  the 
forest,  which  bear  such  total  brightness  better  than 
any  other,  as  in  them  there  is  generally  a natural  gloom 
to  balance  it.  The  light  obstructed  by  close  intervening 
trees  will  rarely  predominate ; hence  the  effect  is  often 
fine.  A strong  sunshine  striking  a wood  through  some 
fortunate  chasm,  and  reposing  on  the  tuftings  of  a 
clump,  just  removed  from  the  eye,  and  strengthened  by 
! the  deep  shadows  of  the  trees  behind,  appears  to  great 
j advantage ; especially  if  some  noble  tree,  standing  on 
| the  foreground  in  deep  shadow,  flings  athwart  the  sky 
j its  dark  branches,  here  and  there  illumined  with  a 
| splendid  touch  of  light. 

In  an  open  country,  the  most  fortunate  circumstance 
: that  attends  a meridian  sun  is  cloudy  weather,  which 
I occasions  partial  lights.  Then  it  is  that  the  distant 
I forest  scene  is  spread  with  lengthened  gleams,  while 
the  other  parts  of  the  landscape  are  in  shadow;  the 
tuftings  of  trees  are  particularly  adapted  to  catch  this 
effect  with  advantage;  there  is  a richness  in  them 
from  the  strong  opposition  of  light  and  shade,  which 
is  wonderfully  fine.  A distant  forest  thus  illumined 
wants  only  a foreground  to  make  it  highly  picturesque. 

As  the  sun  descends,  the  effect  of  its  illumination 
becomes  stronger.  It  is  a doubt  whether  the  rising 
or  the  setting  sun  is  more  picturesque.  The  great 
beauty  of  both  depends  on  the  contrast  between 
splendour  and  obscurity.  But  this  contrast  is  pro- 
duced by  these  different  incidents  in  different  ways. 
The  grandest  effects  of  the  rising  sun  are  produced 
by  the  vapours  which  envelop  it — the  setting  sun 
rests  its  glory  on  the  gloom  which  often  accompanies 
its  parting  rays.  A depth  of  shadow  hanging  over 
the  eastern  hemisphere  gives  the  beams  of  the  setting 
sun  such  powerful  effect,  that  although  in  fact  they 
are  by  no  means  equal  to  the  splendour  of  a meridian 
sun,  yet  through  force  of  contrast  they  appear  superior. 
A distant  forest  scene  under  this  brightened  gloom  is 
particularly  rich,  and  glows  with  double  splendour. 
The  verdure  of  the  summer  leaf,  and  the  varied  tints 
of  the  autumnal  one,  are  all  lighted  up  with  the  most 
resplendent  colours. 

68 


The  internal  parts  of  the  forest  are  not  so  happily 
disposed  to  catch  the  effects  of  a setting  sun.  The 
meridian  ray,  we  have  seen,  may  dart  through  the 
openings  at  the  top,  and  produce  a picture,  but  the 
flanks  of  the  forest  are  generally  too  well  guarded 
against  its  horizontal  beams.  Sometimes  a recess 
fronting  the  west  may  receive  a beautiful  light,  spread- 
ing in  a lengthened  gleam  amidst  the  gloom  of  the 
woods  which  surround  it ; but  this  can  only  be  had  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  forest.  Sometimes  also  we  find 
in  its  internal  parts,  though  hardly  in  its  deep  recesses, 
splendid  lights  here  and  there  catching  the  foliage, 
which  though  in  nature  generally  too  scattered  to 
produce  an  effect,  yet,  if  judiciously  collected,  may  be 
beautiful  on  canvas. 

We  sometimes  also  see  in  a woody  scene  coruscations 
like  a bright  star,  occasioned  by  a sunbeam  darting 
through  an  eyelet-hole  among  the  leaves.  Many 
painters,  and  especially  Rubens,  have  been  fond  of 
introducing  this  radiant  spot  in  their  landscapes.  But 
in  painting,  it  is  one  of  those  trifles  which  produces 
no  effect,  nor  can  this  radiance  be  given.  In  poetry, 
indeed,  it  may  produce  a pleasing  image.  Shakspeare 
hath  introduced  it  beautifully,  where,  speaking  of  the 
force  of  truth  entering  a guilty  conscience,  he  compares 
it  to  the  sun,  which 

Fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines, 

And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole. 

It  is  one  of  those  circumstances  which  poetry  may  offer 
to  the  imagination,  but  the  pencil  cannot  well  produce 
to  the  eye. 

The  Essays  on  the  Picturesque , by  Sir  Uvedale 
Price,  were  designed  by  their  accomplished  author 
to  explain  and  enforce  the  reasons  for  studying  the 
works  of  eminent  landscape-painters,  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  their  art,  with  a view  to  the  improvement 
of  real  scenery,  and  to  promote  the  cultivation  of 
what  has  been  termed  landscape-gardening.  He 
examined  the  leading  features  of  modern  gardening, 
in  its  more  extended  sense,  on  the  general  principles 
of  painting,  and  shewed  how  much  the  character  of 
the  picturesque  has  been  neglected,  or  sacrificed  to 
a false  idea  of  beauty.  The  best  edition  of  these 
essays,  improved  by  the  author,  is  that  of  1810 ; but 
Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder  has  published  editions  of 
both  Gilpin  and  Price — the  latter  a very  handsome 
volume,  1842 — with  a great  deal  of  additional  matter. 
Besides  his  Essays  on  the  Picturesque,  Six  Uvedale  has 
written  essays  on  artificial  water,  on  house  decora- 
tions, architecture,  and  buildings — all  branches  of 
his  original  subject,  and  treated  with  the  same 
taste  and  elegance.  The  theory  of  the  author  is, 
that  the  picturesque  in  nature  has  a character 
separate  from  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful ; and 
in  enforcing  and  maintaining  this,  he  attacked  the 
style  of  ornamental  gardening  which  Mason  the 
poet  had  recommended,  and  Kent  and  Brown,  the 
great  landscape  improvers,  had  reduced  to  practice. 
Some  of  Price’s  positions  have  been  overturned  by 
Dugald  Stewart  in  his  Philosophical  Essays;  but 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  his  descriptions  must  ever 
render  his  work  interesting,  independently  altogether 
of  its  metaphysical  or  philosophical  distinctions.  His 
criticism  of  painters  and  paintings  is  equally  able 
and  discriminating;  and  by  his  works  wc  consider 
Sir  Uvedale  Price  has  been  highly  instrumental  in 
diffusing  those  just  sentiments  on  matters  of  taste, 
and  that  improved  style  of  landscape-gardening, 
which  so  eminently  distinguish  the  English  aris- 
tocracy of  the  present  times. 

The  Rev.  Archibald  Alison  published  in  1790 
Essays  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste , designed 
to  prove  that  material  objects  appear  beautiful  or 


from  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


sublime  in  consequence  of  their  association  with  our 
moral  feelings  and  affections.  The  objects  presented 
to  the  eye  generate  trains  of  thought  and  pleasing 
emotion,  and  these  constitute  our  sense  of  beauty. 
This  theory,  referring  all  our  ideas  of  beauty  to  the 
law  of  association,  has  been  disputed  and  condemned 
as  untenable,  but  part  of  Mr  Alison’s  reasoning  is 
just,  and  his  illustrations  and  language  are  particu- 
larly apposite  and  beautiful.  For  example,  he  thus 
traces  the  pleasures  of  the  antiquary: 


[Memorials  of  the  Past.'] 

Even  the  peasant,  whose  knowledge  of  former  times 
extends  but  to  a few  generations,  has  yet  in  his  village 
some  monuments  of  the  deeds  or  virtues  of  his  fore- 
fathers, and  cherishes  with  a fond  veneration  the  memo- 
rial of  those  good  old  times  to  which  his  imagination 
returns  with  delight,  and  of  which  he  loves  to  recount 
the  simple  tales  that  tradition  has  brought  him.  And 
what  is  it  that  constitutes  the  emotion  of  sublime 
delight,  which  every  man  of  common  sensibility  feels 
upon  his  first  prospect  of  Rome?  It  is  not  the  scene 
of  destruction  which  is  before  him.  It  is  not  the  Tiber, 
diminished  in  his  imagination  to  a paltry  stream,  flowing 
amidst  the  ruins  of  that  magnificence  which  it  once 
adorned.  It  is  not  the  triumph  of  superstition  over 
the  wreck  of  human  greatness,  and  its  monuments 
erected  upon  the  very  spot  where  the  first  honours 
of  humanity  have  been  gained.  It  is  ancient  Home 
which  fills  his  imagination.  It  is  the  country  of  Caesar, 
of  Cicero,  and  Virgil,  which  is  before  him.  It  is  the 
mistress  of  the  world  which  he  sees,  and  who  seems  to 
him  to  rise  again  from  her  tomb  to  give  laws  to  the 
universe.  All  that  the  labours  of  his  youth,  or  the 
studies  of  his  maturer  age,  have  acquired  with  regard 
to  the  history  of  this  great  people,  open  at  once  on  his 
imagination,  and  present  him  with  a field  of  high  and 
solemn  imagery  which  can  never  be  exhausted.  Take 
from  him  these  associations — conceal  from  him  that  it 
is  Eome  that  he  sees,  and  how  different  would  be  his 
emotion ! 


[The  Effect  of  Sounds  as  modified  hy  Association.] 

The  howl  of  the  wolf  is  little  distinguished  from  the 
howl  of  the  dog,  either  in  its  tone  or  in  its  strength ; but 
there  is  no  comparison  between  their  sublimity.  There 
are  few,  if  any,  of  these  sounds  so  loud  as  the  most  com- 
mon of  all  sounds,  the  lowing  of  a cow.  Yet  this  is  the 
very  reverse  of  sublimity.  Imagine  this  sound,  on  the 
contrary,  expressive  of  fierceness  or  strength,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  would  become  sublime.  The 
hooting  of  the  owl  at  midnight,  or  amid  ruins,  is  strik- 
ingly sublime ; the  same  sound  at  noon,  or  during  the 
day,  is  very  far  from  being  so.  The  scream  of  the  eagle 
is  simply  disagreeable  when  the  bird  is  either  tame  or 
confined  ; it  is  sublime  only  when  it  is  heard  amid  rocks 
and  deserts,  and  when  it  is  expressive  to  us  of  liberty 
and  independence,  and  savage  majesty.  The  neighing  of 
a war-horse  in  the  field  of  battle,  or  of  a young  untamed 
horse  when  at  large  among  mountains,  is  powerfully 
sublime.  The  same  sound  in  a cart-horse,  or  a horse 
in  the  stable,  is  simply  indifferent,  if  not  disagreeable. 
No  sound  is  more  absolutely  mean  than  the  grunting 
of  swine.  The  same  sound  in  the  wild  boar — an  animal 
remarkable  both  for  fierceness  and  strength — is  sublime. 
The  low  and  feeble  sounds  of  animals  which  are  generally 
considered  the  reverse  of  sublime,  are  rendered  so  by 
association.  The  hissing  of  a goose,  and  the  rattle  of 
a child’s  plaything,  are  both  contemptible  sounds ; but 
when  the  hissing  comes  from  the  mouth  of  a dangerous 
serpent,  and  the  noise  of  the  rattle  is  that  of  the  rattle- 
snake, although  they  do  not  differ  from  the  others  in 

intensity,  they  are  both  of  them  highly  sublime 

242 


There  is  certainly  no  resemblance,  as  sounds,  between  j 
the  noise  of  thunder  and  the  hissing  of  a serpent — 
between  the  growling  of  a tiger  and  the  explosion  of 
gunpowder — between  the  scream  of  the  eagle  and  the 
shouting  of  a multitude  ; yet  all  of  these  are  sublime. 

In  the  same  manner,  there  is  as  little  resemblance 
between  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-fold  bell  and  the 
murmuring  of  the  breeze — between  the  hum  of  the  beetle 
and  the  song  of  the  lark — between  the  twitter  of  the 
swallow  and  the  sound  of  the  curfew ; yet  all  these  are 
beautiful 

Mr  Alison  published  also  two  volumes  of  Sermons , j 
remarkable  for  elegance  of  composition.  He  was  j 
a prebendary  of  Salisbury  and  senior  minister  of  i 
the  Episcopal  Chapel,  Edinburgh — a man  of  most 
amiable  character  and  varied  accomplishments.  He  j 
died,  at  an  advanced  age,  in  1839. 


BIOGRAPHERS. 

The  French  have  cultivated  biography  with  more 
diligence  than  the  English;  but  much  has  been  done 
of  late  years  to  remedy  this  defect  in  our  national 
literature.  Individual  specimens  of  great  value  we 
have  long  possessed.  The  lives  of  Donne,  Wotton, 
Hooker,  and  Herbert,  by  Izaak  Walton,  are  entitled 
to  the  highest  praise  for  the  fulness  of  their 
domestic  details,  no  less  than  for  the  fine  simplicity 
and  originality  of  their  style.  The  Lives  of  the  Poets 
by  Johnson,  and  the  occasional  memoirs  by  Gold- 
smith, Mallet,  and  other  authors,  are  either  too 
general  or  too  critical  to  satisfy  the  reader  as 
representations  of  the  daily  life,  habits,  and  opinions 
of  those  whom  we  venerate  or  admire.  Mason’s 
life  of  Gray  was  a vast  improvement  on  former 
biographies,  as  the  interesting  and  characteristic 
correspondence  of  the  poet  and  his  literary  diary 
and  journals,  bring  him  personally  before  us  pur- 
suing the  silent  course  of  his  studies,  or  mingling 
occasionally  as  a retired  scholar  in  the  busy  world 
around  him.  The  success  of  Mason’s  bold  and  wise 
experiment  prompted  another  and  more  complete 
work — the  life  of  Dr  Johnson  by  Boswell.  James 
Boswell  (1740-1795)  was  by  birth  and  education  a 
gentleman  of  rank  and  station — the  son  of  a Scottish 
judge,  and  heir  to  an  ancient  family  and  estate.  He 
had  studied  for  the  bar,  but  being  strongly  impressed 
with  admiration  of  the  writings  and  character  of  Dr 
Johnson,  he  attached  himself  to  the  rugged  moralist, 
soothed  and  flattered  his  irritability,  submitted  to 
his  literary  despotism  and  caprice ; and,  sedulously 
cultivating  his  acquaintance  and  society  when- 
ever his  engagements  permitted,  he  took  faithful 
and  copious  notes  of  his  conversation.  In  1773 
he  accompanied  Johnson  to  the  Hebrides,  and 
after  the  death  of  the  latter,  he  published,  in 
1785,  his  journal  of  the  tour,  being  a record  of 
each  day’s  occurrences,  and  of  the  more  striking 
parts  of  Johnson’s  conversation.  The  work  was 
eminently  successful;  and  in  1791  Boswell  gave 
to  the  world  his  full-length  portrait  of  his  friend. 
The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson , LL.D.,  in  two  volumes 
quarto.  A second  edition  was  published  in  1794, 
and  the  author  was  engaged  in  preparing  a third 
when  he  died.  A great  number  of  editions  have 
since  been  printed,  the  latest  of  which  was  edited 
by  Mr  J.  W.  Croker.  Anecdotes  and  recollections 
of  Johnson  were  also  published  by  Mrs  Piozzi,  Sir 
John  Hawkins,  Malone,  Miss  Reynolds,  &c.  Bos- 
well had  awakened  public  curiosity,  and  shewn  how 
much  wit,  wisdom,  and  sagacity,  joined  to  real 
worth  and  benevolence,  were  concealed  under  the 


travellers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  macartney — bruce. 


personal  oddities  and  ungainly  exterior  of  Johnson. 
Never  was  there  so  complete  a portraiture  of  any 
single  individual.  The  whole  time  spent  hy  Boswell 
in  the  society  of  his  illustrious  friend  did  not 
amount  to  more  than  nine  months,  yet  so  diligent 
was  he  in  writing  and  inquiring — so  thoroughly 
did  he  devote  himself  to  his  subject,  that,  notwith- 
standing his  limited  opportunities,  and  his  mediocre 
abilities,  he  was  able  to  produce  what  all  mankind 
have  agreed  in  considering  the  best  biography  in 
existence.  Though  vain,  shallow,  and  conceited, 
Boswell  had  taste  enough  to  discern  the  racy  vigour 
and  richness  of  Johnson’s  conversation,  and  he  was 
observant  enough  to  trace  the  peculiarities  of  his 
character  and  temperament.  He  forced  himself  into 
society,  and  neglected  his  family  and  his  profession, 
to  meet  his  friend;  and  he  was  content  to  be  ridi- 
culed and  slighted,  so  that  he  could  thereby  add  one 
page  to  his  journal,  or  one  scrap  of  writing  to  his  col- 
lection. He  sometimes  sat  up  three  nights  in  a week 
to  fulfil  his  task,  and  hence  there  is  a freshness  and 
truth  in  his  notes  and  impressions  which  attest  their 
fidelity.  He  must  have  possessed  considerable 
dramatic  power  to  have  rendered  his  portraits  and 
dialogues  so  animated  and  varied.  His  work  intro- 
duces us  to  a great  variety  of  living  characters,  who 
speak,  walk,  and  think,  as  it  were,  in  our  presence ; 
and  besides  furnishing  us  with  useful,  affecting,  and 
ennobling  lessons  of  morality,  live  over  again  the 
past  for  the  delight  and  entertainment  of  countless 
generations  of  readers.  Boswell’s  convivial  habits 
hastened  his  death.  In  1856  a volume  of  letters 
addressed  by  Boswell  to  his  friend  the  Rev.  Mr 
Temple,  was  published,  and  illustrated  the  weakness 
and  vanity  of  his  character. 

With  a pardonable  and  engaging  egotism,  which 
forms  an  interesting  feature  in  his  character,  the 
historian  Gibbon  had  made  several  sketches  of  his 
own  life  and  studies.  Erom  these  materials,  and 
embodying  verbatim  the  most  valuable  portions, 
Lord  Sheffield  compiled  a memoir,  which  was 
published,  with  the  miscellaneous  works  of  Gibbon, 
in  1795.  A number  of  the  historian’s  letters  were 
also  included  in  this  collection;  but  the  most 
important  and  interesting  part  of  the  work  is  his 
journal  and  diary,  giving  an  account  of  his  literary 
occupations.  The  calm  unshrinking  perseverance 
and  untiring  energy  of  Gibbon  form  a noble  example 
to  all  literary  students ; and  where  he  writes  of  his 
own  personal  history  and  opinions,  his  lofty  philo- 
sophical style  never  forsakes  him.  Thus  he  opens 
his  slight  memoir  in  the  following  strain: 

1 A lively  desire  of  knowing  and  of  recording  our 
ancestors  so  generally  prevails,  that  it  must  depend 
on  the  influence  of  some  common  principle  in  the 
minds  of  men.  We  seemed  to  have  lived  in  the 
persons  of  our  forefathers : it  is  the  labour  and 
reward  of  vanity  to  extend  the  term  of  this  ideal 
longevity.  Our  imagination  is  always  active  to 
enlarge  the  narrow  circle  in  which  nature  has 
confined  us.  Eifty  or  a hundred  years  may  be 
allotted  to  an  individual,  but  we  step  forwards 
beyond  death  with  such  hopes  as  religion  and 
philosophy  will  suggest;  and  we  fill  up  the  silent 
vacancy  that  precedes  our  birth,  by  associating 
ourselves  to  the  authors  of  our  existence.  Our 
calmer  judgment  will  rather  tend  to  moderate  than 
to  suppress  the  pride  of  an  ancient  and  worthy  race. 
The  satirist  may  laugh,  the  philosopher  may  preach, 
but  reason  herself  will  respect  the  prejudices  and 
habits  which  have  been  consecrated  by  the  experi- 
ence of  mankind.’ 

Gibbon  states,  that  before  entering  upon  the 
perusal  of  a book,  he  wrote  down  or  considered 


what  he  knew  of  the  subject,  and  afterwards 
examined  how  much  the  author  had  added  to  his 
stock  of  knowledge.  A severe  test  for  some  authors ! 
Erom  habits  like  this  sprung  the  Decline  and  Fall. 

In  1800  Dr  James  Currie  (1756-1805)  published 
his  edition  of  the  works  of  Burns  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poet’s  family,  and  enriched  it  with  an  excellent 
memoir,  that  has  served  for  the  groundwork  of  many 
subsequent  lives  of  Burns.  The  candour  and  ability 
displayed  by  Currie  have  scarcely  been  sufficiently 
appreciated.  Such  a task  was  new  to  him,  and  was 
beset  with  difficulties.  He  believed  that  Burns’s  mis- 
fortunes arose  chiefly  from  his  errors — he  lived  at  a 
time  when  this  impression  was  strongly  prevalent — 
yet  he  touched  on  the  subject  of  the  poet’s  frailties 
with  delicacy  and  tenderness.  He  estimated  his 
genius  highly  as  a great  poet,  without  reference  to 
his  personal  position,  and  thus  in  some  measure 
anticipated  the  more  unequivocal  award  of  posterity. 
His  remarks  on  Scottish  poetry,  and  on  the  condition 
of  the  Scottish  peasantry,  appear  now  somewhat 
prolix  and  affected;  but  at  the  time  they  were 
written,  they  tended  to  interest  and  inform  the 
English  reader,  and  to  forward  the  author’s  bene- 
volent object  in  extending  the  sale  of  the  poet’s 
works.  By  his  generous  labours,  Dr  Currie  realised 
for  the  family  of  Burns  a sum  of  £1400. 


TRAVELLERS. 

MACARTNEY,  STAUNTON,  BRUCE,  MUNGO  PARK. 

The  growing  importance  of  our  trade  with  China 
suggested  a mission  to  the  imperial  court,  in  order  to 
obtain  some  extension  of  the  limits  within  which  the 
traffic  was  confined.  In  1792  an  embassy  was  formed 
on  a liberal  scale,  Lord  Macartney  (1737-1806) 
being  placed  at  its  head,  and  Sir  George  L.  Staunton 
(1737-1801)  being  secretary  of  legation  or  envoy- 
extraordinary.  These  two  able  diplomatists  and 
travellers  had  served  together  in  India,  Macartney 
as  governor  of  Madras,  and  Staunton  as  his  secretary. 
The  latter  negotiated  the  peace  with  Tippoo  Saib  in 
1784,  for  which  he  was  elevated  to  the  baronetcy, 
and  received  from  the  East  India  Company  a pension 
of  £500  a year.  The  mission  to  China  did  not  result 
in  securing  the  commercial  advantages  anticipated, 
but  the  Journal  published  by  Lord  Macartney,  and 
the  Authentic  Account  of  the  Embassy  by  Sir  George 
Staunton,  added  greatly  to  our  knowledge  of  the 
empire  and  people  of  China.  Sir  George’s  work 
was  in  two  volumes  quarto,  and  formed  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  novel  books  of  travels  in  the 
language.  It  was  read  with  great  avidity,  and 
translated  into  Erench  and  German. 

One  of  the  most  romantic  and  persevering  of  our 
travellers  was  James  Bruce  of  Kinnaird,  a Scottish 
gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  property,  who 
devoted  several  years  to  a journey  into  Abyssinia 
to  discover  the  sources  of  the  river  Nile.  The  foun- 
tains of  celebrated  rivers  have  led  to  some  of  our 
most  interesting  exploratory  expeditions.  Super- 
stition has  hallowed  the  sources  of  the  Nile  and  the 
Ganges,  and  the  mysterious  Niger  long  wooed  our 
adventurous  travellers  into  the  sultry  plains  of 
Africa.  The  inhabitants  of  mountainous  countries 
still  look  with  veneration  on  their  principal  streams, 
and  as  they  roll  on  before  them,  connect  them  in 
imagination  with  the  ancient  glories  or  traditional 
legends  of  their  native  land.  Bruce  partook  largely 
of  this  feeling,  and  was  a man  of  an  ardent  enthu- 
siastic temperament.  He  was  born  at  Kinnaird 
House,  in  the  county  of  Stirling,  on  the  14th  of 
December  1730,  and  was  intended  for  the  legal 


: from  1760 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1800. 


profession.  He  was  averse,  however,  to  the  study 
of  the  law,  and  entered  into  business  as  a wine- 
merchant  in  London.  Being  led  to  visit  Spain  and 
Portugal,  he  was  struck  with  the  architectural  ruins 
and  chivalrous  tales  of  the  Moorish  dominion,  and 
applied  himself  diligently  to  the  study  of  Eastern 
antiquities  and  languages.  On  his  return  to  England 
he  became  known  to  the  government,  and  it  was 
| proposed  that  he  should  make  a journey  to  Barbary, 

! which  had  been  partially  explored  by  Dr  Shaw.  At 
I the  same  time,  the  consulship  of  Algiers  became 
! vacant,  and  Bruce  was  appointed  to  the  office.  He 
j left  England,  and  arrived  at  Algiers  in  1762.  Above 
! six  years  were  spent  by  our  traveller  at  Algiers  and 
| in  various  travels — during  which  he  surveyed  and 
■sketched  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  and  Baalbec — and  it 
was  not  till  June  1768  that  he  reached  Alexandria. 

' From  thence  he  proceeded  to  Cairo,  and  embarked 
J on  the  Nile.  He  arrived  at  Gondar,  the  capital  of 

• Abyssinia,  and  after  some  stay  there,  he  set  out  for 
| the  sources  of  Bahr-el-Azrek,  under  an  impression 

that  this  was  the  principal  branch  of  the  Nile.  The 
j spot  was  at  length  pointed  out  by  his  guide — a j 
! hillock  of  green  sod  in  the  middle  of  a watery  plain,  j 
I The  guide  counselled  him  to  pull  off  his  shoes,  as 
J the  people  were  all  pagans,  and  prayed  to  the  river 
as  if  it  were  God. 

‘ Half  undressed  as  I was,’  continues  Bruce,  ‘ by  the 
j loss  of  my  sash,  and  throwing  off  my  shoes,  I ran  down 
i the  hill  towards  the  hillock  of  green  sod,  which  was 
| about  two  hundred  yards  distant ; the  whole  side  of 
| the  hill  was  thick  grown  with  flowers,  the  large  bulbous 
| roots  of  which  appearing  above  the  surface  of  the 
: ground,  and  their  skins  coming  off  on  my  treading  upon 
them,  occasioned  me  two  very  severe  falls  before  I 
| reached  the  brink  of  the  marsh.  I after  this  came  to 
' the  altar  of  green  turf,  which  was  apparently  the  work 
; of  art,  and  I stood  in  rapture  above  the  principal  foun- 
i tain,  which  rises  in  the  middle  of  it.  It  is  easier  to 

• guess  than  to  describe  the  situation  of  my  mind  at  that 
; moment — standing  in  that  spot  which  had  baffled  the 
; genius,  industry,  and  inquiry  of  both  ancients  and 
: modems  for  the  course  of  near  three  thousand  years, 
i Kings  had  attempted  this  discovery  at  the  head  of 

' armies,  and  each  expedition  was  distinguished  from  j 
i the  last  only  by  the  difference  of  numbers  which  had  | 
perished,  and  agreed  alone  in  the  disappointment  which  ! 
j had  uniformly,  and  without  exception,  followed  them 
j all.  Fame,  riches,  and  honour  had  been  held  out  for  a 
J series  of  ages  to  every  individual  of  those  myriads  these 
I princes  commanded,  without  having  produced  one  man 
I eapable  of  gratifying  the  curiosity  of  his  sovereign,  or 
' wiping  off  this  stain  upon  the  enterprise  and  abilities  of 
; mankind,  or  adding  this  desideratum  for  the  encourage- 

• ment  of  geography.  Though  a mere  private  Briton,  I 
j triumphed  here,  in  my  own  mind,  over  kings  and  their 

armies  ! and  every  comparison  was  leading  nearer 
and  nearer  to  presumption,  when  the  place  itself  where 
j I stood,  the  object  of  my  vainglory,  suggested  what 
depressed  my  short-lived  triumph.  I was  but  a few 
j minutes  arrived  at  the  sources  of  the  Nile,  through 
j numberless  dangers  and  sufferings,  the  least  of  which 
| would  have  overwhelmed  me  but  for  the  continual  j 
goodness  and  protection  of  Providence  : I was,  however, 

I but  then  half  through  my  journey,  and  all  those  dangers 
through  which  I had  already  passed  awaited  me  on  my 
return ; I found  a despondency  gaining  ground  fast,  and 
j blasting  the  crown  of  laurels  which  I had  too  rashly 
, woven  for  myself.’ 

After  several  adventures  in  Abyssinia,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  received  high  personal  distinc-  j 
j tions  from  the  king,  Bruce  obtained  leave  to  depart.  . 
j He  returned  through  the  great  deserts  of  Nubia  ' 

| into  Egypt,  encountering  the  severest  hardships  | 
244 


and  dangers  from  the  sand-floods  and  simoom  | 
of  the  desert,  and  his  own  physical  sufferings  and  ! 
exhaustion. 

It  was  not  until  seventeen  years  after  his  return  | 
that  Bruce  published  his  travels.  Parts  had  been  ! 
made  public,  and  were  much  ridiculed.  Even  j 
Johnson  doubted  whether  he  had  ever  been  in  1 
Abyssinia  ! The  work  appeared  in  1790,  in  five  I 
large  quarto  volumes,  with  another  volume  of  plates. 
The  strangeness  of  the  author’s  adventures  at  the 
court  at  Gondar,  the  somewhat  inflated  style  of  ' 
the  narrative,  and  the  undisguised  vanity  of  the  j 
traveller,  led  to  a disbelief  of  his  statements,  and  | 
numerous  lampoons  and  satires,  both  in  prose  and 


Staircase  at  Kinnaird  flouse,  Stirlingshire— Scene  of 
Bruce’s  Fatal  Accident. 

verse,  were  directed  against  him.  The  really 
honourable  and  superior  points  of  Bruce’s  char- 
acter— such  as  his  energy  and  daring,  his  various 
knowledge  and  acquirements,  and  his  disinterested 
zeal  in  undertaking  such  a journey  at  his  own 
expense — were  overlooked  in  this  petty  war  of  the 
wits.  Bruce  felt  their  attacks  keenly  ; but  he  was 
a proud-spirited  man,  and  did  not  deign  to  reply  to 
pasquinades  impeaching  his  veracity.  He  survived 
his  publication  only  four  years.  The  foot  which 
had  trod  without  failing  the  deserts  of  Nubia, 
slipped  one  evening  in  his  own  staircase,  while 
handing  a lady  to  her  carriage,  and  he  died  in 
consequence  of  the  injury  then  received,  April  16, 
1794.  A second  edition  of  the  Travels,  edited  by 
Dr  Alexander  Murray — an  excellent  Oriental  scholar 
— was  published  in  1805,  and  a third  in  1813. 
The  style  of  Bruce  is  prolix  and  inelegant,  though 
occasionally  energetic.  He  seized  upon  the  most 
prominent  points,  and  coloured  them  highly.  The 
general  accuracy  of  his  work  has  been  confirmed 
from  different  quarters.  Mu  Hexbt  Salt,  the  next 
European  traveller  in  Abyssinia,  twice  penetrated 
into  the  interior  of  the  country — in  1805  and  1810 
— but  without  reaching  so  far  as  Bruce.  This 
gentleman  confirms  the  historical  parts  of  Bruce’s 
narrative ; and  Mr  Nathaniel  Pearce — who 
resided  many  years  in  Abyssinia,  and  was  engaged 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MUNGO  PARK. 


by  Salt — verifies  one  of  Bruce’s  most  extraordinary 
statements — the  practice  of  the  Abyssinians  of  eat- 
ing raw  meat  cut  out  of  a living  cow ! This  was 
long  ridiculed  and  disbelieved,  though  in  reality  it 
is  not  much  more  barbarous  than  the  custom  of 
the  poor  Highlanders  in  Scotland  of  bleeding  their 
cattle  in  winter  for  food.  Pearce  witnessed  the 
operation : a cow  was  thrown  down,  and  two  pieces 
of  flesh,  weighing  about  a pound,  cut  from  the 
buttock,  after  which  the  wounds  were  sewed  up, 
and  plastered  over  with  cow-dung.  Dr  Clarke  and 
other  travellers  have  borne  testimony  to  the  correct- 
ness of  Bruce’s  drawings  and  maps.  The  only 
disingenuousness  charged  against  our  traveller  is 
his  alleged  concealment  of  the  fact,  that  the  Nile, 
whose  sources  have  been  in  all  ages  an  object  of 
curiosity,  was  the  Bahr-el-Abiad,  or  White  River, 
flowing  from  the  west,  and  not  the  Bahr-el-Azrek, 
or  Blue  River,  which  descends  from  Abyssinia,  and 
which  he  explored.  It  seems  also  clear  that  Paez, 
the  Portuguese  traveller,  had  long  previously 
visited  the  source  of  the  Bahr-el-Azrek. 

Next  in  interest  and  novelty  to  the  travels  of 
Bruce  are  those  of  Mungo  Park  in  Central  Africa. 
Mr  Park  was  born  at  Eowlshiels,  near  Selkirk, 
on  the  10th  of  September  1771.  He  studied  medi- 
cine, and  performed  a voyage  to  Bencoolen  in  the 
capacity  of  assistant-surgeon  to  an  East  Indiaman. 
The  African  Association,  founded  in  1778  for  the 
purpose  of  promoting  discovery  in  the  interior  of 
Africa,  had  sent  out  several  travellers  — John 
Ledyard,  Lucas,  and  Major  Houghton  — all  of 
whom  had  died.  Park,  however,  undeterred  by 
these  examples,  embraced  the  society’s  offer,  and 
set  sail  in  May  1795.  On  the  21st  of  June  following 
he  arrived  at  Jillifree,  on  the  banks  of  the  Gambia. 
He  pursued  his  journey  towards  the  kingdom  of 
Bambarra,  and  saw  the  great  object  of  his  mission, 
the  river  Niger  flowing  towards  the  east.  The 
sufferings  of  Park  during  his  journey,  the  various 
incidents  he  encountered,  his  captivity  among  the 
Moors,  and  his  description  of  the  inhabitants,  their 
manners,  trade,  and  customs,  constitute  a narrative 
of  the  deepest  interest.  The  traveller  returned  to 
England  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  year  1797, 
when  all  hope  of  him  had  been  abandoned,  and  in 
1799  he  published  his  travels.  The  style  is  simple 
and  manly,  and  replete  with  a fine  moral  feeling. 
One  of  his  adventures — which  had  the  honour  of 
being  turned  into  verse  by  the  Duchess  of  Devon- 
shire— is  thus  related.  The  traveller  had  reached 
the  town  of  Sego,  the  capital  of  Bambarra,  and 
wished  to  cross  the  river  towards  the  residence  of 
the  king : 

I waited  more  than  two  hours  without  having  an 
opportunity  of  crossing  the  river,  during  which  time 
the  people  who  had  crossed  carried  information  to 
Mansong,  the  king,  that  a white  man  was  waiting  for  a 
passage,  and  was  coming  to  see  him.  He  immediately 
sent  over  one  of  his  chief  men,  who  informed  me  that 
the  king  could  not  possibly  see  me  until  he  knew  what 
had  brought  me  into  his  country ; and  that  I must  not 
presume  to  cross  the  river  without  the  king’s  permis- 
sion. He  therefore  advised  me  to  lodge  at  a distant 
village,  to  which  he  pointed,  for  the  night,  and  said  that 
in  the  morning  he  would  give  me  further  instructions 
how  to  conduct  myself.  This  was  very  discouraging. 
However,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  I set  off  for  the 
village,  where  I found,  to  my  great  mortification,  that 
no  person  would  admit  me  into  his  house.  I was 
regarded  with  astonishment  and  fear,  and  was  obliged 
to  sit  all  day  without  victuals  in  the  shade  of  a tree ; 
and  the  night  threatened  to  be  very  uncomfortable — 
for  the  wind  rose,  and  there  was  great  appearance  of  a 


heavy  rain — and  the  wild  beasts  are  so  very  numerous 
in  the  neighbourhood,  that  I should  have  been  under 
the  necessity  of  climbing  up  the  tree  and  resting 
amongst  the  branches.  About  sunset,  however,  as  I 
was  preparing  to  pass  the  night  in  this  manner,  and 
had  turned  my  horse  loose  that  he  might  graze  at 
liberty,  a woman,  returning  from  the  labours  of  the 
field,  stopped  to  observe  me,  and  perceiving  that  I 
was  weary  and  dejected,  inquired  into  my  situation, 
which  I briefly  explained  to  her ; whereupon,  with  looks 
of  great  compassion,  she  took  up  my  saddle  and  bridle, 
and 'told  me  to  follow  her.  Having  conducted  me  into 
her  hut,  she  lighted  up  a lamp,  spread  a mat  on  the 
floor,  and  told  me  I might  remain  there  for  the  night: 
Finding  that  I was  very  hungry,  she  said  she  would 
procure  me  something  to  eat.  She  accordingly  went 
out,  and  returned  in  a short  time  with  a very  fine 
fish,  which,  having  caused  to  be  half  broiled  upon 
some  embers,  she  gave  me  for  supper.  The  rites  of 
hospitality  being  thus  performed  towards  a stranger  in 
distress,  my  worthy  benefactress — pointing  to  the  mat, 
and  telling  me  I might  sleep  there  without  apprehen- 
sion— called  to  the  female  part  of  her  family,  who  had 
stood  gazing  on  me  all  the  while  in  fixed  astonishment, 
to  resume  their  task  of  spinning  cotton,  in  which  they 
continued  to  employ  themselves  great  part  of  the  night. 
They  lightened  their  labour  by  songs,  one  of  which  was 
composed  extempore,  for  I was  myself  the  subject  of 
it.  It  was  sung  by  one  of  the  young  women,  the  rest 
joining  in  a sort  of  chorus.  The  air  was  sweet  and 
plaintive,  and  the  words,  literally  translated,  were 
these : ‘ The  winds  roared,  and  the  rains  fell.  The 
poor  white  man,  faint  and  weary,  came  and  sat  under 
our  tree.  He  has  no  mother  to  bring  him  milk — no 
wife  to  grind  his  corn.  Chorus. — Let  us  pity  the 

white  man — no  mother  has  he,’  &c.  Trifling  as  this 
recital  may  appear  to  the  reader,  to  a person  in  my 
situation  the  circumstance  was  affecting  in  the  highest 
degree.  I was  oppressed  by  such  unexpected  kindness, 
and  sleep  fled  from  my  eyes.  In  the  morning  I pre- 
sented my  compassionate  landlady  with  two  of  the  four- 
brass  buttons  which  remained  on  my  waistcoat — the 
only  recompense  I could  make  her. 

His  fortitude  under  suffering,  and  the  natural 
piety  of  his  mind,  are  beautifully  illustrated  by  an 
incident  related  after  he  had  been  robbed  and 
stript  of  most  of  his  clothes  at  a village  near  Kooma: 

After  the  robbers  were  gone,  I sat  for  some  time 
looking  around  me  with  amazement  and  terror. 
Whichever  way  I turned,  nothing  appeared  but  danger 
and  difficulty.  I saw  myself  in  the  midst  of  a vast- 
wilderness,  in  the  depth  of  the  rainy  season,  naked 
and  alone,  surrounded  by  savage  animals,  and  men 
still  more  savage.  I was  five  hundred  miles  from  the 
nearest  European  settlement.  All  these  circumstances, 
crowded  at  once  on  my  recollection,  and  I confess  that 
my  spirits  began  to  fail  me.  I considered  my  fate  as 
certain,  and  that  I had  no  alternative  but  to  lie  down 
and  perish.  The  influence  of  religion,  however,  aided 
and  supported  me.  I reflected  that  no  human  prudence 
or  foresight  could  possibly  have  averted  my  present 
sufferings.  I was  indeed  a stranger  in  a strange  land, 
yet  I was  still  under  the  protecting  eye  of  that  Provi- 
dence who  has  condescended  to  call  himself  the 
stranger’s  friend.  At  this  moment,  painful  as  my 
reflections  were,  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  a small 
moss  in  fructification  irresistibly  caught  my  eye.  I 
mention  this  to  shew  from  what  trifling  circumstances 
the  mind  will  sometimes  derive  consolation  ; for  though 
the  whole  plant  was  not  larger  than  the  top  of  one  of 
my  fingers,  I could  not  contemplate  the  delicate  con- 
formation of  its  roots,  leaves,  and  capsula,  without 
admiration.  Can  that  Being,  thought  I,  who  planted, 
watered,  and  brought  to  perfection,  in  this  obscure 
part  of  the  world,  a thing  which  appears  of  so  small 


Fnoir  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OP 


to  1830. 


importance,  look  -with  unconcern  upon  the  situation 
and  sufferings  of  creatures  formed  after  his  own  image  ? 
Surely  not.  Reflections  like  these  would  not  allow  me 
to  despair.  I started  up,  and,  disregarding  both  hunger 
and  fatigue,  travelled  forwards,  assured  that  relief  was 
at  hand ; and  I was  not  disappointed.  In  a short  time 
I came  to  a small  village,  at  the  entrance  of  which  I 
overtook  the  two  shepherds  who  had  come  with  me 
from  Kooma.  They  were  much  surprised  to  see  me; 
for  they  said  they  never  doubted  that  the  Foulahs, 
when  they  had  robbed,  had  murdered  me.  Departing 
from  this  village,  we  travelled  over  several  rocky  ridges, 
and  at  sunset  arrived  at  Sibidooloo,  the  frontier  town 
of  the  kingdom  of  Handing. 

Park  had  discovered  the  Niger — or  Joliba,  or 
Quorra — flowing  to  the  east,  and  thus  set  at  rest 
the  doubts  as  to  its  direction  in  the  interior  of 
Africa.  He  was  not  satisfied,  however,  but  longed 
to  follow  up  his  discovery  by  tracing  it  to  its 
termination.  For  some  years  he  was  constrained 


to  remain  at  home,  and  he  followed  his  profession 
of  a surgeon  in  the  town  of  Peebles.  He  embraced 
a second  offer  from  the  African  Association,  and 
arrived  at  Goree  on  the  28th  of  March  1805.  Before 
he  saw  the  Niger  once  more  ‘rolling  its  immense 
stream  along  the  plain,’  misfortunes  had  thickened 
around  him.  His  expedition  consisted  originally  of 
forty-four  men;  now,  only  seven  remained.  He 
built  a boat  at  Sansanding  to  prosecute  his  voyage 
down  the  river,  and  entered  it  on  the  17th  of 
November  1805,  with  the  fixed  resolution  to  discover 
the  termination  of  the  Niger,  or  to  perish  in  the 
attempt.  The  party  had  sailed  several  days,  when, 
on  passing  a rocky  part  of  the  river  named  Boussa, 
the  natives  attacked  them,  and  Park,  and  one  of 
his  companions  (Lieutenant  Martyn)  were  drowned 
while  attempting  to  escape  by  swimming.  The 
letters  and  journals  of  the  traveller  had  been  sent 
by  him  to  Gambia  previous  to  his  embarking  on 
the  fatal  voyage,  and  a narrative  of  the  journey 
compiled  from  them  was  published  in  1815. 


w 

CONCLUSION  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  GEORGE  III.  AND  REIGN  OF  GEORGE  IY. 

FROM  1 800  TO  1830. 


HE  new  century  brought  with 
it  several  illustrious  names,  and 
accelerated  progress  in  every 
department  of  literature.  In 
poetry,  the  period  was  pre-emi- 
nently distinguished,  and  is  the 
only  one  which  challenges  com- 
parison, in  any  degree,  with  the 
brilliant  Elizabethan  age.  In  fiction, 
or  imaginative  invention,  the  name 
of  Scott  is  inferior  only  to  that  of 
^ Shakspeare ; in  criticism,  a new  era  may 

he  dated  from  the  establishment  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review  ; and  in  historical  composition,  if  we  have 
no  Hume  or  Gibbon,  we  have  the  results  of  valuable 
and  diligent  research.  Truth  and  nature  have  been 
more  truly  and  devoutly  worshipped,  and  real  excel- 
lence more  highly  prized.  It  has  been  feared  by 
some  that  the  principle  of  utility,  which  is  recog- 
nised as  one  of  the  features  of  the  present  age,  and 
the  progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  would  be  fatal 
to  the  higher  efforts  of  imagination,  and  diminish 
the  territories  of  the  poet.  This  seems  a ground- 
less fear.  It  did  not  damp  the  ardour  of  Scott  or 
Byron,  or  the  fancy  of  Moore,  and  it  has  not  pre- 
vented the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  from  gradually 
working  its  way  into  public  favour.  If  we  have  not 
the  chivalry  and  romance  of  the  Elizabethan  age, 
we  have  the  ever-living  passions  of  human  nature 
and  the  wide  theatre  of  the  world,  now  accurately 
known  and  discriminated,  as  a field  for  the  exercise 
! of  genius.  We  have  the  benefit  of  all  past 
knowledge  and  literature  to  exalt  our  standard  of 
j imitation  and  taste,  and  a more  sure  reward  in  the 
encouragement  and  applause  of  a populous  and 
i enlightened  nation.  ‘ The  literature  of  England,’ 
246 


says  Shelley,  ‘has  arisen,  as  it  were,  from  a new 
birth.  In  spite  of  the  low-thoughted  envy  which 
would  undervalue  contemporary  merit,  cur  own  will  j 
be  a memorable  age  in  intellectual  achievements, 
and  we  live  among  such  philosophers  and  poets  as 
surpass  beyond  comparison  any  who  have  appeared 
since  the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  companion, 
and  follower  of  the  awakening  of  a great  people  to 
work  a beneficial  change  in  opinion  or  institution, 
is  poetry.  At  such  periods  there  is  an  accumula- 
tion of  the  power  of  communicating  and  receiving 
intense  and  impassioned  conceptions  respecting 
man  and  nature.  The  persons  in  whom  this  power 
resides,  may  often,  as  far  as  regards  many  portions 
of  their  nature,  have  little  apparent  correspondence 
with  that  spirit  of  good  of  which  they  are  the 
ministers.  But  even  whilst  they  deny  and  abjure, 
they  are  yet  compelled  to  serve  the  power  which  is 
seated  on  the  throne  of  their  own  soul.  It  is 
impossible  to  read  the  compositions  of  the  most 
celebrated  writers  of  the  present  day,  without  being 
j startled  with  the  electric  life  which  burns  within 
their  words.  They  measure  the  circumference  and 
sound  the  depths  of  human  nature  with  a compre- 
hensive and  all-penetrating  spirit,  and  they  are 
themselves  perhaps  the  most  sincerely  astonished 
at  its  manifestations,  for  it  is  less  their  spirit  than 
the  spirit  of  the  age.  Poets  are  the  hierophants  of 
an  unapprehended  inspiration;  the  mirrors  of  the 
gigantic  shadows  which  futurity  casts  upon  the 
present ; the  words  which  express  what  they  under- 
stand not ; the  trumpets  which  sing  to  battle,  and 
feel  not  what  they  inspire;  the  influence  which  is 
I moved  not,  but  moves.  Poets  are  the  unacknow- 
! ledged  legislators  of  the  world.’ 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS, 


POETS. 

Before  the  great  lights  come  prominently  on  the 
horizon,  there  are  some  of  their  precursors  deserving 
of  notice.  And  first  for  some  poetesses,  who  each 
enjoyed  considerable  popularity  in  the  higher  circles 
of  society  at  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

MP.S  OPIE — MRS  HUNTER — MRS  GRANT — 
MRS  TIGHE. 

Mrs  Amelia  Opie  (1769-1853)  was  the  daughter 
of  a popular  physician,  Dr  Alderson,  of  Norwich, 
and  widow  of  John  Opie,  the  celebrated  artist.  In 
1802  she  published  . a volume  of  miscellaneous 
poems,  characterised  by  a simple  and  placid  tender- 
ness. She  is  more  celebrated  for  her  novels — to  be 
afterwards  noticed — and  for  her  general  literary 
merits  and  association  with  all  the  eminent  persons 
of  her  day. — Mrs  John  Hunter  (1742-1821)  was 
a retired  but  highly  accomplished  lady,  sister  of 
Sir  Everard  Home,  and  wife  of  John  Hunter,  the 
celebrated  surgeon.  Having  written  several  copies 
of  verses,  which  were  extensively  circulated,  and 
some  songs  that  even  Haydn  had  married  to 
immortal  music,  Mrs  Hunter  was  induced,  in  1806, 
to  collect  her  pieces  and  commit  them  to  the  press. 
— Mrs  Anne  Grant  (1754-1838)  in  1803  published 
a volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  chiefly  in  illus- 
tration of  the  people  and  manners  of  the  Scottish 
Highlands.  She  was  widow  of  the  minister  of 
Laggan  in  Inverness-shire.  Mrs  Grant  was  author 
of  several  interesting  prose  works.  She  wrote 
Letters  from  the  Mountains , giving  a description  of 
Highland  scenery  and  manners,  with  which  she  was 
conversant  from  her  residence  in  the  country ; also 
Memoirs  of  an  American  Lady  (1810) ; and  Essays  on 
the  Superstitions  of  the  Highlanders , which  appeared 
in  1811.  The  writings  of  this  lady  display  a lively 
and  observant  fancy,  and  considerable  powers  of 
landscape-painting.  They  first  drew  attention  to 
the  more  striking  and  romantic  features  of  the 
Scottish  Highlands,  afterwards  so  fertile  a theme 
for  the  genius  of  Scott. 

An  Irish  poetess,  Mrs  Mary  Tighe  (1773-1810), 
evinced  a more  passionate  and  refined  imagination 
than  any  of  her  tuneful  sisterhood.  Her  poem  of 
Psyche , founded  on  the  classic  fable  related  by 
Apuleius,  of  the  loves  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  or  the 
allegory  of  Love  and  the  Soul,  is  characterised  by  a 
graceful  voluptuousness  and  brilliancy  of  colouring 
rarely  excelled.  It  is  in  six  cantos,  and  wants  only 
a little  more  concentration  of  style  and  description 
to  be  one  of  the  best  poems  of  the  period.  Mrs 
Tighe  was  daughter  of  the  Rev.  W.  Blackford, 
county  of  Wicklow.  Her  history  seems  to  be 
little  known,  unless  to  private  friends;  but  her 
early  death,  after  six  years  of  protracted  suffering, 
has  been  commemorated  by  Moore,  in  his  beautiful 
lyric — 

I saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime. 

We  subjoin  some  selections  from  the  works  of 
each  of  the  above  ladies : 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale. 

[From  Mrs  Opie’s  Poems.] 

‘Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy’s  sake, 

And  hear  a helpless  orphan’s  tale; 

Ah  ! sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake  ; 

’Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 


MRS  OPIE— MRS  HUNTER. 


Yet  I was  once  a mother’s  pride, 

And  my  brave  father’s  hope  and  joy ; 

But  in  the  Nile’s  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

‘ Poor  foolish  child ! how  pleased  was  I 
When  news  of  Nelson’s  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 

To  force  me  home,  my  mother  sought ; 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy  ; 

For  with  my  father’s  life  ’twas  bought, 

And  made  me  a poor  orphan  boy. 

‘ The  people’s  shouts  were  long  and  loud, 

My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears  ; 
“Rejoice  ! rejoice  !”  still  cried  the  crowd  ; 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears. 

“ Why  are  you  crying  thus,”  said  I, 

“ While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joy  ? ” 
She  kissed  me — and  with  such  a sigh ! 

She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

“ What  is  an  orphan  boy?”  I cried, 

As  in  her  face  I looked,  and  smiled ; 

My  mother  through  her  tears  replied  : 

“ You’ll  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  child  !” 
And  now  they ’ve  tolled  my  mother’s  knell, 
And  I’m  no  more  a parent’s  joy  ; 

O lady,  I have  learned  too  well 
What  ’tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

‘ Oh,  were  I by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide— 

Trust  me,  I mean  to  earn  my  bread ; 

The  sailor’s  orphan  boy  has  pride. 

Lady,  you  weep  ! — ha  ! — this  to  me  ? 

You’ll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents  ! look,  and  see 
Your  happy,  happy,  orphan  boy !’ 

Song. 

[From  the  same.] 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades 

New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find  f 
Yet  sometimes  deign,  ’midst  fairer  maids, 

To  think  on  her  thou  leav’st  behind. 

Thy  love,  thy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share, 

Must  never  be  my  happy  lot ; 

But  thou  mayst  grant  this  humble  prayer, 
Forget  me  not ! forget  me  not  ! 

Yet,  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 
Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be, 

Heed  not  the  wish  I now  express, 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  on  me  : 

But  oh ! if  grief  thy  steps  attend, 

If  want,  if  sickness  be  thy  lot, 

And  thou  require  a soothing  friend, 

Forget  me  not  ! forget  me  not  ! 

Song. 

[From  Mrs  Ilunter’s  Poems.] 

The  season  comes  when  first  we  met, 

But  you  return  no  more ; 

Why  cannot  I the  days  forget, 

Which  time  can  ne’er  restore  ? 

O days  too  sweet,  too  bright  to  last, 

Are  you  indeed  for  ever  past  ? 

The  fleeting  shadows  of  delight, 

In  memory  I trace ; 

In  fancy  stop  their  rapid  flight, 

And  all  the  past  replace : 

But,  ah  ! I wake  to  endless  woes, 

And  tears  the  fading  visions  close ! 

247 


FKOM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Song. 

[From  the  same.] 

0 tuneful  voice  ! I still  deplore 

Those  accents  which,  though  heard  no  more, 

Still  vibrate  on  my  heart ; 

In  echo’s  cave  I long  to  dwell, 

And  still  would  hear  the  sad  farewell, 

When  we  were  doomed  to  part. 

Bright  eyes,  0 that  the  task  were  mine 
To  guard  the  liquid  fires  that  shine, 

And  round  your  orbits  play ; 

To  watch  them  with  a vestal’s  care, 

And  feed  with  smiles  a light  so  fair, 

That  it  may  ne’er  decay ! 

The  Death-song , Written  for , and  Adapted  to , an 
Original  Indian  Air. 

[From  the  same.] 

The  sun  sets  in  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day, 

But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away. 

Begin,  you  tormentors ! your  threats  are  in  vain, 

For  the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 

Bemember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow, 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low. 

Why  so  slow?  Do  you  wait  till  I shrink  from  the 
pain  ? 

No ; the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay, 

And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your  nation  away. 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast ; you  exult  in  my  pain  ; 

But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

I go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone, 

His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son ; 

Death  comes,  like  a friend,  to  relieve  me  from  pain  ; 
And  thy  son,  0 Alknomook ! has  scorned  to  complain. 

To  my  Daughter , on  being  separated  from  her  on  her 
Marriage. 

[From  the  same.] 

Dear  to  my  heart  as  life’s  warm  stream 
Which  animates  this  mortal  clay, 

For  thee  I court  the  waking  dream, 

And  deck  with  smiles  the  future  day ; 

And  thus  beguile  the  present  pain 
With  hopes  that  we  shall  meet  again. 

Yet,  will  it  be  as  when  the  past 

Twined  every  joy,  and  care,  and  thought, 

And  o’er  our  minds  one  mantle  cast 
Of  kind  affections  finely  wrought  ? 

Ah  no  ! the  groundless  hope  were  vain, 

For  so  we  ne’er  can  meet  again ! 

May  he  who  claims  thy  tender  heart 
Deserve  its  love,  as  I have  done ! 

For,  kind  and  gentle  as  thou  art, 

If  so  beloved,  thou  ’rt  fairly  won. 

Bright  may  the  sacred  torch  remain, 

And  cheer  thee  till  we  meet  again  ! 

[ The  Lot  of  Thousands .] 

[From  the  same.] 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart. 

By  secret  sorrow  close  concealed, 

We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  must  not  be  revealed. 

248 


to  1830. 


’Tis  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep ; 

To  speak  when  one  would  silent  be ; 

To  wake  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep, 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast, 

To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet. 

Where  disappointment  cannot  come  J 
And  time  guides  with  unerring  feet 
The  weary  wanderers  home. 

[On  a Sprig  of  Heath."] 

[From  Mrs  Grant’s  Poems.] 

Flower  of  the  waste  ! the  heath-fowl  shuns 
For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood — 

To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs, 

Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food ; 

Her  young  forsake  her  downy  plumes, 

To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flower  of  the  desert  though  thou  art ! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountain  free, 

The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart, 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee ; 

The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets, 

And  draws  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets^ 

Gem  of  the  heath ! whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o’er  the  lonely  moor ; 

Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume, 

Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure, 

Both  valour’s  crest  and  beauty’s  bower 
Oft  hast  thou  decked,  a favourite  flower. 

Flower  of  the  wild ! whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain’s  side, 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris’  bow, 

Nor  garden’s  artful  varied  pride, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets  could  cheer,. 

Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart ! thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seem  to  breathe ; 

To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  wild, 

And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath, 
Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires, 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  requires. 

Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land! 

Alas,  when  distant  far  more  dear ! 

When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand, 

Looks  homeward  through  the  blinding  tear, 
How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore, 

That  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more ! 

[The  Highland  Poor.] 

[From  Mrs  Grant’s  poem  of  The  Highlander.] 

Where  yonder  ridgy  mountains  bound  the  scene, 
The  narrow  opening  glens  that  intervene 
Still  shelter,  in  some  lowly  nook  obscure, 

One  poorer  than  the  rest — where  all  are  poor  ; 
Some  widowed  matron,  hopeless  of  relief, 

Who  to  her  secret  breast  confines  her  grief ; 
Dejected  sighs  the  wintry  night  away, 

And  lonely  muses  all  the  summer  day : 

Her  gallant  sons,  who,  smit  with  honour’s  charms, 
Pursued  the  phantom  Fame  through  war’s  alarms, 
Return  no  more  ; stretched  on  Hindostan’s  plain, 
Or  sunk  beneath  the  unfathomable  main ; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


In  vain  her  eyes  the  watery  waste  explore 
For  heroes — fated  to 'return  no  more  ! 

Let  others  bless  the  morning’s  Reddening  beam, 

Foe  to  her  peace — it  breaks  the  illusive  dream 
That,  in  their  prime  of  manly  bloom  confest, 
Restored  the  long-lost  warriors  to  her  breast ; 

And  as  they  strove,  with  smiles  of  filial  love, 

Their  widowed  parent’s  anguish  to  remove, 

Through  her  small  casement  broke  the  intrusive  day, 
And  chased  the  pleasing  images  away ! 

No  time  can  e’er  her  banished  joys  restore, 

For  ah ! a heart  once  broken  heals  no  more. 

The  dewy  beams  that  gleam  from  pity’s  eye, 

The  ‘ still  small  voice  ’ of  sacred  sympathy, 

In  vain  the  mourner’s  sorrows  would  beguile, 

Or  steal  from  weary  woe  one  languid  smile ; 

Yet  what  they  can  they  do — the  scanty  store, 

So  often  opened  for  the  wandering  poor, 

To  her  each  cottager  complacent  deals, 

While  the  kind  glance  the  melting  heart  reveals  ; 
And  still,  when  evening  streaks  the  west  with  gold, 
The  milky  tribute  from  the  lowing  fold 
With  cheerful  haste  officious  children  bring, 

And  every  smiling  flower  that  decks  the  spring : 

Ah  ! little  know  the  fond  attentive  train, 

That  spring  and  flowerets  smile  for  her  in  vain : 

Yet  hence  they  learn  to  reverence  modest  woe, 

And  of  their  little  all  a part  bestow. 

Let  those  to  wealth  and  proud  distinction  born, 

With  the  cold  glance  of  insolence  and  scorn 
Regard  the  suppliant  wretch,  and  harshly  grieve 
The  bleeding  heart  their  bounty  would  relieve  : 

Far  different  these  ; while  from  a bounteous  heart 
With  the  poor  sufferer  they  divide  a part ; 

Humbly  they  own  that  all  they  have  is  given 
A boon  precarious  from  indulgent  Heaven : 

And  the  next  blighted  crop  or  frosty  spring, 
Themselves  to  equal  indigence  may  bring. 


[From  Mrs  Tighe’s  1 Psyche.’’] 

[The  marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  in  the  Palace  of  Love. 
Psyche  afterwards  gazes  on  Love  while  asleep,  and  is  banished 
from  the  Island  of  Pleasure.] 

She  rose,  and  all  enchanted  gazed 
On  the  rare  beauties  of  the  pleasant  scene : 
Conspicuous  far,  a lofty  palace  blazed 
Upon  a sloping  bank  of  softest  green ; 

A fairer  edifice  was  never  seen ; 

The  high-ranged  columns  own  no  mortal  hand, 

But  seem  a temple  meet  for  Beauty’s  queen ; 

Like  polished  snow  the  marble  pillars  stand, 

In  grace-attempered  majesty,  sublimely  grand. 

Gently  ascending  from  a silvery  flood, 

Above  the  palace  rose  the  shaded  hill, 

The  lofty  eminence  was  crowned  with  wood, 

And  the  rich  lawns,  adorned  by  nature’s  skill, 

The  passing  breezes  with  their  odours  fill ; 

Here  ever-blooming  groves  of  orange  glow, 

And  here  all  flowers,  which  from  their  leaves  distil 
Ambrosial  dew,  in  sweet  succession  blow, 

And  trees  of  matchless  size  a fragrant  shade  bestow. 

The  sun  looks  glorious  ’mid  a sky  serene, 

And  bids  bright  lustre  sparkle  o’er  the  tide ; 

The  clear  blue  ocean  at  a distance  seen, 

Bounds  the  gay  landscape  on  the  western  side, 
While  closing  round  it  with  majestic  pride, 

The  lofty  rocks  ’mid  citron  groves  arise ; 

* Sure  some  divinity  must  here  reside,’ 

As  tranced  in  some  bright  vision,  Psyche  cries, 

And  scarce  believes  the  bliss,  or  trusts  her  charmed 
eyes. 


MRS  TIGHE. 


When  lo ! a voice  divinely  sweet  she  hears, 

From  unseen  lips  proceeds  the  heavenly  sound ; 

‘ Psyche  approach,  dismiss  thy  timid  fears, 

At  length  his  bride  thy  longing  spouse  has  found, 
And  bids  for  thee  immortal  joys  abound; 

For  thee  the  palace  rose  at  his  command, 

For  thee  his  love  a bridal  banquet  crowned ; 

He  bids  attendant  nymphs  around  thee  stand, 
Prompt  every  wish  to  serve — a fond  obedient 
band.’ 

Increasing  wonder  filled  her  ravished  soul, 

For  now  the  pompous  portals  opened  wide, 

There,  pausing  oft,  with  timid  foot  she  stole 
Through  halls  high-domed,  enriched  with  sculp- 
tured pride, 

While  gay  saloons  appeared  on  either  side, 

In  splendid  vista  opening  to  her  sight ; 

And  all  with  precious  gems  so  beautified, 

And  furnished  with  such  exquisite  delight, 

That  scarce  the  beams  of  heaven  emit  such  lustre 
bright. 

The  amethyst  was  there  of  violet  hue, 

And  there  the  topaz  shed  its  golden  ray, 

The  chrysoberyl,  and  the  sapphire  blue 
As  the  clear  azure  of  a sunny  day, 

Or  the  mild  eyes  where  amorous  glances  play ; 

The  snow-white  jasper,  and  the  opal’s  flame, 

The  blushing  ruby,  and  the  agate  gray, 

And  there  the  gem  which  bears  his  luckless  name 
Whose  death,  by  Phoebus  mourned,  insured  him 
deathless  fame. 

There  the  green  emerald,  there  cornelians  glow, 

And  rich  carbuncles  pour  eternal  light, 

With  all  that  India  and  Peru  can  shew, 

Or  Labrador  can  give  so  flaming  bright 
To  the  charmed  mariner’s  half-dazzled  sight : 

The  coral-paved  baths  with  diamonds  blaze ; 

And  all  that  can  the  female  heart  delight 
Of  fair  attire,  the  last  recess  displays, 

And  all  that  luxury  can  ask,  her  eye  surveys. 

Now  through  the  hall  melodious  music  stole, 

And  self-prepared  the  splendid  banquet  stands, 
Self-poured  the  nectar  sparkles  in  the  bowl, 

The  lute  and  viol,  touched  by  unseen  hands, 

Aid  the  soft  voices  of  the  choral  bands ; 

O’er  the  full  board  a brighter  lustre  beams 
Than  Persia’s  monarch  at  his  feast  commands  : 

For  sweet  refreshment  all  inviting  seems 
To  taste  celestial  food,  and  pure  ambrosial  streams. 

But  when  meek  eve  hung  out  her  dewy  star, 

And  gently  veiled  with  gradual  hand  the  sky, 

Lo  ! the  bright  folding  doors  retiring  far, 

Display  to  Psyche’s  captivated  eye 

All  that  voluptuous  ease  could  e’er  supply 

To  soothe  the  spirits  in  serene  repose : 

Beneath  the  velvet’s  purple  canopy, 

Divinely  formed,  a downy  couch  arose, 

While  alabaster  lamps  a milky  light  disclose. 

Once  more  she  hears  the  hymeneal  strain ; 

Far  other  voices  now  attune  the  lay : 

The  swelling  sounds  approach,  awhile  remain, 

And  then  retiring,  faint  dissolved  away ; 

The  expiring  lamps  emit  a feebler  ray, 

And  soon  in  fragrant  death  extinguished  lie  : 

Then  virgin  terrors  Psyche’s  soul  dismay, 

When  through  the  obscuring  gloom  she  nought  can 

spy, 

But  softly  rustling  sounds  declare  some  being  nigh. 

24'J 


FROM  1800 


Oh,  you  for  whom  I write  ! whose  hearts  can  melt 
At  the  soft  thrilling  voice  whose  power  you  prove, 
You  know  what  charm,  unutterably  felt, 

Attends  the  unexpected  voice  of  love  : 

Above  the  lyre,  the  lute’s  soft  notes  above, 

With  sweet  enchantment  to  the  soul  it  steals, 

And  bears  it  to  Elysium’s  happy  grove  ; 

You  best  can  tell  the  rapture  Psyche  feels, 

When  Love’s  ambrosial  lip  the  vows  of  Hymen  seals. 

*’Tis  he,  ’tis  my  deliverer ! deep  imprest 
Upon  my  heart  those  sounds  I well  recall,’ 

The  blushing  maid  exclaimed,  and  on  his  breast 
A tear  of  trembling  ecstasy  let  fall. 

But,  ere  the  breezes  of  the  morning  call 
Aurora  from  her  purple,  humid  bed. 

Psyche  in  vain  explores  the  vacant  hall ; 

Her  tender  lover  from  her  arms  is  fled, 

While  sleep  his  downy  wings  had  o’er  her  eyelid: 
spread. 

The  Lily. 

[Bv  Mrs  Tighe.] 

How  withered,  perished  seems  the  form 
Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 

Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm, 

It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace, 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds, 

Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 
What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  • 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest, 

Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
The  undelighting  slighted  thing ; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep, 

In  silence  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Oh  ! many  a stormy  night  shall  close 
In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth, 

While  still,  in  undisturbed  repose, 

Uninjured  lies  the  future  birth : 

And  Ignorance,  with  sceptic  eye, 

Hope’s  patient  smile  shall  wondering  view : 

Or  mock  her  fond  credulity, 

As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew. 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear ! 

The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come ; 

The  promised  verdant  shoot  appear, 

And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  0 virgin  queen  of  spring  ! 

Shalt,  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed. 

Bursting  thy  green  sheath’s  silken  string, 

Unveil  thy  charms,  and  perfume  shed  ; 

Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white, 

Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave, 

And  thy  soft  petals’  silvery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfettered  wave. 

So  Faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust 
Where  humble  Sorrow  loves  to  lie, 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust. 

And  watch  with  patient,  cheerful  eye ; 

£50 


TO  1830. 


And  bear  the  long,  cold  wintry  night, 
And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom ; 
And  wait  till  Heaven’s  reviving  light. 
Eternal  spring ! shall  burst  the  gloom. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

Robert  Bloomfield,  author  of  The  Farmer's  Boy , 
and  other  poems  illustrative  of  English  rural  life 
and  customs,  was  bom  at  Honington,  near  Bury  St 
Edmunds,  Suffolk,  in  the  year  1766.  His  father,  a 
tailor,  died  whilst  the  poet  was  a child,  and  he  was 
placed  under  his  uncle,  a farmer.  Here  he  remained 


Robert  Bloomfield. 


only  two  years,  being  too  weak  and  diminutive  for 
field-labour,  and  he  was  taken  to  London  by  an  elder 
brother,  and  brought  up  to  the  trade  of  a shoemaker. 
His  two  years  of  country  service,  and  occasional 
visits  to  his  friends  in  Suffolk,  were  of  inestimable 
importance  to  him  as  a poet,  for  they  afforded 
materials  for  his  Farmer's  Boy , and  gave  a freshness 
and  reality  to  his  descriptions.  It  was  in  the  shoe- 
maker’s garret,  however,  that  his  poetry  was  chiefly 
composed ; and  the  merit  of  introducing  it  to  the 
world  belongs  to  Mr  Capel  Lofft,  a literary  gentle- 
man residing  at  Troston,  near  Bury,  to  whom  the 
manuscript  was  shewn,  after  being  rejected  by 
several  London  booksellers.  Mr  Lofft  warmly 
befriended  the  poet,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  his  prognostications  of  success  fully  verified. 
At  this  time  Bloomfield  was  thirty-two  years  of 
age,  was  married,  and  had  three  children.  The 
Farmer's  Boy  immediately  became  popular ; the 
Duke  of  Grafton  patronised  the  poet,  settling  on 
him  a small  annuity,  and  through  the  influence  of 
this  nobleman,  he  was  appointed  to  a situation  in 
the  Seal-office.  In  1810,  Bloomfield  published  a 
collection  of  Rural  Tales , which  fully  supported  his 
reputation;  and  to  these  were  afterwards  added 
Wild  Floicers,  Hazlewood  Hall , a village  drama,  and 
Mayday  with  the  Muses.  The  last  was  published  in 
the  year  of  his  death,  and  opens  with  a fine  burst  of 
poetical,  though  melancholy  feeling. 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 


0 for  the  strength  to  paint  my  joy  once  more ! 

That  joy  I feel  when  winter’s  reign  is  o’er; 

When  the  dark  despot  lifts  his  hoary  brow, 

And  seeks  his  polar  realm’s  eternal  snow : 

Though  bleak  November’s  fogs  oppress  my  brain, 
Shake  every  nerve,  and  struggling  fancy  chain ; 
Though  time  creeps  o’er  me  with  his  palsied  hand, 
And  frost-like  bids  the  stream  of  passion  stand. 

The  worldly  circumstances  of  the  author  seem  to 
have  been  such  as  to  confirm  the  common  idea  as 
to  the  infelicity  of  poets.  His  situation  in  the  Seal- 
office  was  irksome  and  laborious,  and  he  was  forced 
to  resign  it  from  ill-health.  He  engaged  in  the 
bookselling  business,  but  was  unsuccessful.  In  his 
latter  years  he  resorted  to  making  Aeolian  harps, 
which  he  sold  among  his  friends.  We  have  been 
informed  by  the  poet’s  son — a modest  and  intelligent 
man,  a printer — that  Mr  Rogers  exerted  himself  to 
procure  a pension  for  Bloomfield,  and  Mr  Southey 
also  took  much  interest  in  his  welfare ; but  his  last 
days  were  embittered  by  ill-health  and  poverty.  So 
severe  were  the  sufferings  of  Bloomfield  from  con- 
tinual headache  and  nervous  irritability,  that  fears 
were  entertained  for  his  reason,  when,  happily,  death 
stepped  in,  and  released  him  from  ‘ the  world’s  poor 
strife.’  He  died  at  Shefford,  in  Bedfordshire,  on 
the  19th  of  August  1823.  The  first  remarkable 
feature  in  the  poetry  of  this  humble  bard  is  the 
easy  smoothness  and  correctness  of  his  versification. 
His  ear  was  attuned  to  harmony,  and  his  taste  to 
the  beauties  of  expression,  before  he  had  learned 
anything  of  criticism,  or  had  enjoyed  opportunities 
for  study.  This  may  be  seen  from  the  opening  of 
his  principal  poem : 

0 come,  blest  Spirit ! whatsoe’er  thou  art, 

Thou  kindling  warmth  that  hover’ st  round  my  heart ; 
Sweet  inmate,  hail ! thou  source  of  sterling  joy, 

That  poverty  itself  can  not  destroy, 

Be  thou  my  Muse,  and  faithful  still  to  me, 

Retrace  the  steps  of  wild  obscurity. 

No  deeds  of  arms  my  humble  lines  rehearse ; 

No  Alpine  wonders  thunder  through  my  verse, 

The  roaring  cataract,  the  snow-topt  hill, 

Inspiring  awe  till  breath  itself  stands  still : 

Nature’s  sublimer  scenes  ne’er  charmed  mine  eyes, 

Nor  science  led  me  through  the  boundless  skies; 

From  meaner  objects  far  my  raptures  flow : 

0 point  these  raptures ! bid  my  bosom  glow, 

And  lead  my  soul  to  ecstasies  of  praise 
For  all  the  blessings  of  my  infant  days ! 

Bear  me  through  regions  where  gay  Fancy  dwells ; 

But  mould  to  Truth’s  fair  form  what  memory  tells. 

Live,  trifling  incidents,  and  grace  my  song, 

That  to  the  humblest  menial  belong : 

To  him  whose  drudgery  unheeded  goes, 

His  joys  unreckoned,  as  his  cares  or  woes : 

Though  joys  and  cares  in  every  path  are  sown, 

And  youthful  minds  have  feelings  of  their  own, 
Quick-springing  sorrows,  transient  as  the  dew, 
Delights  from  trifles,  trifles  ever  new. 

’Twas  thus  with  Giles,  meek,  fatherless,  and  poor, 
Labour  his  portion,  but  he  felt  no  more ; 

No  stripes,  no  tyranny  his  steps  pursued, 

His  life  was  constant  cheerful  servitude ; 

Strange  to  the  world,  he  wore  a bashful  look, 

The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book ; 

And  as  revolving  seasons  changed  the  scene 
From  heat  to  cold,  tempestuous  to  serene, 

Through  every  change  still  varied  his  employ, 

Yet  each  new  duty  brought  its  share  of  joy. 

It  is  interesting  to  contrast  the  cheerful  tone  of 
Bloomfield’s  descriptions  of  rural  life  in  its  hardest 


and  least  inviting  forms,  with  those  of  Crabbe,  also 
a native  of  Suffolk.  Both  are  true,  but  coloured 
with  the  respective  peculiarities,  in  their  style  of 
observation  and  feeling,  of  the  two  poets.  Bloom- 
field describes  the  various  occupations  of  a farm-boy  j 
in  seed-time,  at  harvest,  tending  cattle  and  sheep,  | 


Austin’s  Farm,  the  early  residence  of  Bloomfield. 


and  other  occupations.  In  his  tales,  he  embodies 
more  moral  feeling  and  painting,  and  his  incidents 
are  pleasing  and  well  arranged.  His  want  of  vigour 
and  passion,  joined  to  the  humility  of  his  themes,  is 
perhaps  the  cause  of  his  being  now  little  read  ; but 
he  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and  faithful  of 
our  national  poets. 

[Turnip-sowing — Wheat  Ripening — Sparroios — Insects 
— The  Slcy-lark — Reaping , <tc. — Harvest  Field.'] 

The  farmer’s  life  displays  in  every  part 
A moral  lesson  to  the  sensual  heart. 

Though  in  the  lap  of  plenty,  thoughtful  still, 

He  looks  beyond  the  present  good  or  ill ; 

Nor  estimates  alone  one  blessing’s  worth, 

From  changeful  seasons,  or  capricious  earth  ! 

But  views  the  future  with  the  present  hours, 

And  looks  for  failures  as  he  looks  for  showers ; 

For  casual  as  for  certain  want  prepares, 

And  round  his  yard  the  reeking  haystack  rears ; 

Or  clover,  blossomed  lovely  to  the  sight, 

His  team’s  rich  store  through  many  a wintry  night. 
What  though  abundance  round  his  dwelling  spreads, 
Though  ever  moist  his  self-improving  meads 
Supply  his  dairy  with  a copious  flood, 

And  seem  to  promise  unexhausted  food ; 

That  promise  fails  when  buried  deep  in  snow, 

And  vegetative  juices  cease  to  flow. 

For  this  his  plough  turns  up  the  destined  lands, 
Whence  stormy  winter  draws  its  full  demands; 

For  this  the  seed  minutely  small  he  sows, 

Whence,  sound  and  sweet,  the  hardy  turnip  grows. 


from  1S00  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


But  how  unlike  to  April’s  closing  days  ! 

High  climbs  the  sun  and  darts  his  powerful  rays ; 
Whitens  the  fresh-drawn  mould,  and  pierces  through 
The  cumbrous  clods  that  tumble  round  the  plough. 
O’er  heaven’s  bright  azure,  hence  with  joyful  eyes 
The  farmer  sees  dark  clouds  assembling  rise ; 

Borne  o’er  his  fields  a heavy  torrent  falls, 

And  strikes  the  earth  in  hasty  driving  squalls. 

‘ Bight  welcome  down,  ye  precious  drops,’  he  cries ; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  partial  blessing  flies. 

‘ Boy,  bring  the  harrows,  try  how  deep  the  rain 
Has  forced  its  way.’  He  comes,  but  comes  in  vain ; 
Dry  dust  beneath  the  bubbling  surface  lurks, 

And  mocks  his  pains  the  more  the  more  he  works. 
Still,  ’midst  huge  clods,  he  plunges  on  forlorn, 

That  laugh  his  harrows  and  the  showers  to  scorn. 
E’en  thus  the  living  clod,  the  stubborn  fool, 

Besists  the  stormy  lectures  of  the  school, 

Till  tried  with  gentler  means,  the  dunce  to  please, 
His  head  imbibes  right  reason  by  degrees ; 

As  when  from  eve  till  morning’s  wakeful  hour, 

Light  constant  rain  evinces  secret  power, 

And,  ere  the  day  resumes  its  wonted  smiles, 

Presents  a cheerful  easy  task  for  Giles. 

Down  with  a touch  the  mellow  soil  is  laid, 

And  yon  tall  crop  next  claims  his  timely  aid ; 
Thither  well  pleased  he  hies,  assured  to  find 
Wild  trackless  haunts,  and  objects  to  his  mind. 

Shut  up  from  broad  rank  blades  that  droop  below, 
The  nodding  wheat-ear  forms  a graceful  bow, 

With  milky  kernels  starting  full  weighed  down, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  hath  tinged  its  head  with  brown : 
There  thousands  in  a flock,  for  ever  gay, 

Loud  chirping  sparrows  welcome  in  the  day, 

And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon  the  bending  corn. 

Giles  with  a pole  assails  their  close  retreats, 

And  round  the  grass-grown  dewy  border  beats, 

On  either  side  completely  overspread, 

Here  branches  bend,  there  corn  o’erstoops  his  head. 
Green  covert  hail  1 for  through  the  varying  year 
No  hours  so  sweet,  no  scene  to  him  so  dear. 

Here  Wisdom’s  placid  eye  delighted  sees 
His  frequent  intervals  of  lonely  ease, 

And  with  one  ray  his  infant  soul  inspires, 

J ust  kindling  there  her  never-dying  fires. 

Whence  solitude  derives  peculiar  charms, 

And  heaven-directed  thought  his  bosom  warms. 

Just  where  the  parting  bough’s  light  shadows  play, 
Scarce  in  the  shade,  nor  in  the  scorching  day, 
Stretched  on  the  turf  he  lies,  a peopled  bed, 

Where  swarming  insects  creep  around  his  head. 

The  small  dust-coloured  beetle  climbs  with  pain 
O’er  the  smooth  plantain-leaf,  a spacious  plain  ! 
Thence  higher  still,  by  countless  steps  conveyed, 

He  gains  the  summit  of  a shivering  blade, 

And  flirts  his  filmy  wings,  and  looks  around, 

Exulting  in  his  distance  from  the  ground. 

The  tender  speckled  moth  here  dancing  seen, 

The  vaulting  grasshopper  of  glossy  green, 

And  all  prolific  Summer’s  sporting  train, 

Their  little  lives  by  various  powers  sustain. 

But  what  can  unassisted  vision  do  ? 

What  but  recoil  where  most  it  would  pursue ; 

His  patient  gaze  but  finish  with  a sigh, 

When  Music  waking  speaks  the  skylark  nigh. 

Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerily  sings, 

And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downy  wings ; 
Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up,  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  his  way. 

Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends, 

And  forms  a friendly  telescope,  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light, 

And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight, 

That  oft  beneath  a light  cloud  sweeps  along, 

Lost  for  a while,  yet  pours  the  varied  song ; 

252 


The  eye  still  follows,  and  the  cloud  moves  by, 

Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky ; 

His  form,  his  motion,  undistinguished  quite, 

Savo  when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light ; 

E’en  then  the  songster  a mere  speck  became, 

Gliding  like  fancy’s  bubbles  in  a dream, 

The  gazer  sees ; but  yielding  to  repose, 

Unwittingly  his  jaded  eyelids  close. 

Delicious  sleep  ! From  sleep  who  could  forbear, 

With  guilt  no  more  than  Giles,  and  no  more  care ; 
Peace  o’er  his  slumbers  waves  her  guardian  wing. 

Nor  Conscience  once  disturbs  him  with  a sting ; 

He  wakes  refreshed  from  every  trivial  pain, 

And  takes  his  pole,  and  brushes  round  again. 

Its  dark-green  hue,  its  sicklier  tints  all  fail, 

And  ripening  harvest  rustles  in  the  gale. 

A glorious  sight,  if  glory  dwells  below, 

Where  heaven’s  munificence  makes  all  things  shew, 
O’er  every  field  and  golden  prospect  found, 

That  glads  the  ploughman’s  Sunday-morning’s  round  j 
When  on  some  eminence  he  takes  his  stand, 

To  judge  the  smiling  produce  of  the  land. 

Here  Vanity  slinks  back,  her  head  to  hide ; 

What  is  there  here  to  flatter  human  pride  ? 

The  towering  fabric,  or  the  dome’s  loud  roar, 

And  steadfast  columns  may  astonish  more, 

Where  the  charmed  gazer  long  delighted  stays, 

Yet  traced  but  to  the  architect  the  praise ; 

Whilst  here  the  veriest  clown  that  treads  the  sod. 
Without  one  scruple  gives  the  praise  to  God ; 

And  twofold  joys  possess  his  raptured  mind, 

From  gratitude  and  admiration  joined. 

Here,  ’midst  the  boldest  triumphs  of  her  worth. 
Nature  herself  invites  the  reapers  forth ; 

Dares  the  keen  sickle  from  its  twelvemonth’s  rest, 
And  gives  that  ardour  which  in  every  breast 
From  infancy  to  age  alike  appears, 

When  the  first  sheaf  its  plumy  top  uprears. 

No  rake  takes  here  what  Heaven  to  all  bestows — 
Children  of  want,  for  you  the  bounty  flows  ! 

And  every  cottage  from  the  plenteous  store 
Beceives  a burden  nightly  at  its  door. 

Hark  ! where  the  sweeping  scythe  now  rips  along  ; 
Each  sturdy  mower,  emulous  and  strong, 

Whose  writhing  form  meridian  heat  defies, 

Bends  o’er  his  work,  and  every  sinew  tries ; 

Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his  feet, 

But  spares  the  rising  clover,  short  and  sweet. 

Come  Health  ! come  Jollity  ! light-footed  come ; 

Here  hold  your  revels,  and  make  this  your  home. 

Each  heart  awaits  and  hails  you  as  its  own  ; 

Each  moistened  brow  that  scorns  to  wear  a frown  : 
The  unpeopled  dwelling  mourns  its  tenants  strayed  r 
E’en  the  domestic  laughing  dairymaid 
Hies  to  the  field  the  general  toil  to  share. 

Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  his  elbow-chair, 

His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and  his  ease, 

And  braves  the  sultry  beams,  and  gladly  sees 
His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team  abroad, 

The  ready  group  attendant  on  his  word 
To  turn  the  swath,  the  quivering  load  to  rear, 

Or  ply  the  busy  rake  the  land  to  clear. 

Summer’s  light  garb  itself  now  cumbrous  grown. 

Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade  throws  down  : 
Where  oft  the  mastiff  skulks  with  half-shut  eye, 

And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing  by ; 

While  unrestrained  the  social  converse  flows, 

And  every  breast  Love’s  powerful  impulse  knows, 

And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic  grace 
Confess  the  presence  of  a pretty  face. 

Rosy  Hannah. 

A spring,  o’erhung  with  many  a flower, 

The  gray  sand  dancing  in  its  bed, 

Embanked  beneath  a hawthorn  bower, 

Sent  forth  its  waters  near  my  head. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 


A rosy  lass  approached  my  view ; 

I caught  her  blue  eyes’  modest  beam ; 

The  stranger  nodded  ‘ How-d’ye-do  ?’ 

And  leaped  across  the  infant  stream. 

The  water  heedless  passed  away ; 

With  me  her  glowing  image  stayed ; 

I strove,  from  that  auspicious  day, 

To  meet  and  bless  the  lovely  maid. 

I met  her  where  beneath  our  feet 

Through  downy  moss  the  wild  thyme  grew ; 

Nor  moss  elastic,  flowers  though  sweet, 

Matched  Hannah’s  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

I met  her  where  the  dark  woods  wave, 

And  shaded  verdure  skirts  the  plain ; 

And  when  the  pale  moon  rising  gave 
New  glories  to  her  rising  train. 

From  her  sweet  cot  upon  the  moor, 

Our  plighted  vows  to  heaven  are  flown ; 

Truth  made  me  welcome  at  her  door, 

And  rosy  Hannah  is  my  own. 

[Lines  addressed  to  my  Children .] 

[Occasioned  by  a visit  to  Wbittlebury  Forest,  Northamptonshire, 
in  August  1800.] 

Genius  of  the  forest  shades, 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear ; 

A stranger  trod  thy  lonely  glades, 

Amidst  thy  dark  and  bounding  deer ; 

Inquiring  childhood  claims  the  verse, 

0 let  them  not  inquire  in  vain ; 

Be  with  me  while  I thus  rehearse 
The  glories  of  thy  silvan  reign. 

Thy  dells  by  wintry  currents  worn, 

Secluded  haunts,  how  dear  to  me  ! 

From  all  but  nature’s  converse  borne, 

No  ear  to  hear,  no  eye  to  see. 

Their  honoured  leaves  the  green  oaks  reared, 

And  crowned  the  upland’s  graceful  swell ; 

While  answering  through  the  vale  was  heard 
Each  distant  heifer’s  tinkling  bell. 

Hail,  greenwood  shades,  that,  stretching  far, 

Defy  e’en  summer  s noontide  power, 

When  August  in  his  burning  car 

Withholds  the  clouds,  withholds  the  shower. 

The  deep-toned  low  from  either  hill, 

Down  hazel  aisles  and  arches  green — 

The  herd’s  rude  tracks  from  rill  to  rill — 

Roared  pchoing  through  the  solemn  scene. 

From  my  charmed  heart  the  numbers  sprung, 
Though  birds  had  ceased  the  choral  lay ; 

I poured  wild  raptures  from  my  tongue, 

And  gave  delicious  tears  their  way. 

Then,  darker  shadows  seeking  still, 

Where  human  foot  had  seldom  strayed, 

I read  aloud  to  every  hill 

Sweet  Emma’s  love,  ‘ the  Nut-brown  Maid.’ 

Shaking  his  matted  mane  on  high, 

' The  gazing  colt  would  raise  his  head, 

Or  timorous  doe  would  rushing  fly, 

And  leave  to  me  her  grassy  bed ; 

Where,  as  the  azure  sky  appeared 
Through  bowers  of  ever-varying  form, 

’Midst  the  deep  gloom  methought  I heard 
The  daring  progress  of  the  storm. 

How  would  each  sweeping  ponderous  bough 
Resist,  when  straight  the  whirlwind  cleaves, 

Dashing  in  strengthening  eddies  through 
A roaring  wilderness  of  leaves  ? 


How  would  the  prone  descending  shower 
From  the  green  canopy  rebound  ? 

How  would  the  lowland  torrents  pour  ? 

How  deep  the  pealing  thunder  sound  ? 

But  peace  was  there : no  lightnings  blazed ; 

No  clouds  obscured  the  face  of  heaven  ; 

Down  each  green  opening  while  I gazed, 

My  thoughts  to  home  and  you  were  given. 

Oh,  tender  minds  ! in  life’s  gay  morn, 

Some  clouds  must  dim  your  coming  day ; 

Yet  bootless,  pride  and  falsehood  scorn, 

And  peace  like  this  shall  cheer  your  way. 

Now,  at  the  dark  wood’s  stately  side, 

Well  pleased  I met  the  sun  again ; 

Here  fleeting  fancy  travelled  wide ; 

My  seat  was  destined  to  the  main. 

For  many  an  oak  lay  stretched  at  length, 

Whose  trunks — with  bark  no  longer  sheathed — 
Had  reached  their  full  meridian  strength 
Before  your  father’s  father  breathed  ! 

Perhaps  they  ’ll  many  a conflict  brave, 

And  many  a dreadful  storm  defy ; 

Then,  groaning  o’er  the  adverse  wave, 

Bring  home  the  flag  of  victory. 

Go,  then,  proud  oaks ; we  meet  no  more  ! 

Go,  grace  the  scenes  to  me  denied, 

The  white  cliffs  round  my  native  shore, 

And  the  loud  ocean’s  swelling  tide. 

i Genius  of  the  forest  shades,’ 

Sweet  from  the  heights  of  thy  domain, 

When  the  gray  evening  shadow  fades, 

To  view  the  country’s  golden  grain ; 

To  view  the  gleaming  village  spire 

’Midst  distant  groves  unknown  to  me — 

Groves  that,  grown  bright  in  borrowed  fire, 

Bow  o’er  the  peopled  vales  to  thee. 

Where  was  thy  elfin  train,  that  play 

Round  Wake’s  huge  oak,  their  favourite  tree, 
Dancing  the  twilight  hours  away? 

Why  were  they  not  revealed  to  me  ? 

Yet,  smiling  fairies  left  behind, 

Affection  brought  you  all  to  view ; 

To  love  and  tenderness  resigned, 

My  heart  heaved  many  a sigh  for  you. 

When  morning  still  unclouded  rose, 

Refreshed  with  sleep  and  joyous  dreams, 

Where  fruitful  fields  with  woodlands  close, 

I traced  the  births  of  various  streams. 

From  beds  of  clay,  here  creeping  rills, 

Unseen  to  parent  Ouse,  would  steal ; 

Or,  gushing  from  the  northward  hills, 

Would  glitter  through  Tove’s  winding  dale. 

But  ah  ! ye  cooling  springs,  farewell ! 

Herds,  I no  more  your  freedom  share ; 

But  long  my  grateful  tongue  shall  tell 
What  brought  your  gazing  stranger  there. 

‘ Genius  of  the  forest  shades,’ 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear  ; 

But  dreams  still  lengthen  thy  long  glades, 

And  bring  thy  peace  and  silence  here. 

[Description  of  a Blind  Youth.'] 

For  from  his  cradle  he  had  never  seen 
Soul-cheering  sunbeams,  or  wild  nature’s  green. 
But  all  life’s  blessings  centre  not  in  sight ; 

For  Providence,  that  dealt  him  one  long  night, 

Had  given,  in  pity,  to  the  blooming  boy 
Feelings  more  exquisitely  tuned  to  joy. 

253 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Fond  to  excess  was  he  of  all  that  grew  ; 

The  morning  blossom  sprinkled  o’er  with  dew, 

Across  his  path,  as  if  in  playful  freak, 

Would  dash  his  brow  and  weep  upon  his  cheek  ; 

Each  varying  leaf  that  brushed  where’er  he  came, 
Pressed  to  his  rosy  lip  he  called  by  name  ; 

He  grasped  the  saplings,  measured  every  bough, 
Inhaled  the  fragrance  that  the  spring’s  months  throw 
Profusely  round,  till  his  young  heart  confessed 
That  all  was  beauty,  and  himself  was  blessed. 

Yet  when  he  traced  the  wide  extended  plain, 

Or  clear  brook  side,  he  felt  a transient  pain ; 

The  keen  regret  of  goodness,  void  of  pride, 

To  think  he  could  not  roam  without  a guide. 

May-day  with  the  Mines. 

[ Banquet  of  an  English  Squire .] 

Then  came  the  jovial  day,  no  streaks  of  red 
O’er  the  broad  portal  of  the  morn  were  spread, 

But  one  high-sailing  mist  of  dazzling  white, 

A screen  of  gossamer,  a magic  light, 

Doomed  instantly,  by  simplest  shepherd’s  ken, 

To  reign  a while,  and  be  exhaled  at  ten. 

O’er  leaves,  o’er  blossoms,  by  his  power  restored, 
Forth  came  the  conquering  sun,  and  looked  abroad; 
Millions  of  dew-drops  fell,  yet  millions  hung, 

Like  words  of  transport  trembling  on  the  tongue, 

Too  strong  for  utterance.  Thus  the  infant  boy, 

With  rosebud  cheeks,  and  features  tuned  to  joy, 
Weeps  while  he  struggles  with  restraint  or  pain  ; 

But  change  the  scene,  and  make  him  laugh  again, 

His  heart  rekindles,  and  his  cheek  appears 
A thousand  times  more  lovely  through  his  tears. 
From  the  first  glimpse  of  day,  a busy  scene 
Was  that  high-swelling  lawn,  that  destined  green, 
Which  shadowless  expanded  far  and  wide, 

The  mansion’s  ornament,  the  hamlet’s  pride ; 

To  cheer,  to  order,  to  direct,  contrive, 

Even  old  Sir  Ambrose  had  been  up  at  five  ; 

There  his  whole  household  laboured  in  his  view — 

But  light  is  labour  where  the  task  is  new. 

Some  wheeled  the  turf  to  build  a grassy  throne 
Bound  a huge  thorn  that  spread  his  boughs  alone, 
Kough-rined  and  bold,  as  master  of  the  place ; 

Five  generations  of  the  Higham  race 
Had  plucked  his  flowers,  and  still  he  held  his  sway, 
Waved  his  white  head,  and  felt  the  breath  of  May. 
Some  from  the  green-house  ranged  exotics  round, 

To  bask  in  open  day  on  English  ground : 

And  ’midst  them  in  a line  of  splendour  drew 
Long  wreaths  and  garlands  gathered  in  the  dew. 

Some  spread  the  snowy  canvas,  propped  on  high 
O’er  sheltering  tables  with  their  whole  supply ; 

Some  swung  the  biting  scythe  with  merry  face, 

And  cropped  the  daisies  for  a dancing  space  ; 

Some  rolled  the  mouldy  barrel  in  his  might, 

From  prison  darkness  into  cheerful  light, 

And  fenced  him  round  with  cans ; and  others  bore 
The  creaking  hamper  with  its  costly  store ; 

Well  corked,  well  flavoured,  and  well  taxed,  that  came 
From  Lusitanian  mountains  dear  to  fame, 

Whence  Gama  steered,  and  led  the  conquering  way 
To  eastern  triumphs  and  the  realms  of  day. 

A thousand  minor  tasks  filled  every  hour, 

Till  the  sun  gained  the  zenith  of  his  power, 

When  every  path  was  thronged  with  old  and  young, 
And  many  a skylark  in  his  strength  upsprung 
To  bid  them  welcome.  Not  a face  was  there 
But,  for  May-day  at  least,  had  banished  care ; 

No  cringing  looks,  no  pauper  tales  to  tell, 

No  timid  glance — they  knew  their  host  too  well — 
Freedom  was  there,  and  joy  in  every  eye : 

Such  scenes  were  England’s  boast  in  days  gone  by. 
Beneath  the  thorn  was  good  Sir  Ambrose  found, 

His  guests  an  ample  crescent  formed  around ; 

254 


Nature’s  own  carpet  spread  the  space  between, 

Where  blithe  domestics  plied  in  gold  and  green. 

The  venerable  chaplain  waved  his  wand, 

And  silence  followed  as  he  stretched  his  hand : 

The  deep  carouse  can  never  boast  the  bliss, 

The  animation  of  a scene  like  this. 

At  length  the  damasked  cloths  were  whisked  away 
Like  fluttering  sails  upon  a summer’s  day ; 

The  heyday  of  enjoyment  found  repose; 

The  worthy  baronet  majestic  rose. 

They  viewed  him,  while  his  ale  was  filling  round. 

The  monarch  of  his  own  paternal  ground. 

His  cup  was  full,  and  where  the  blossoms  bowed 
Over  his  head,  Sir  Ambrose  spoke  aloud, 

Nor  stopped  a dainty  form  or  phrase  to  culL 
His  heart  elated,  like  his  cup  was  full : 

‘ Full  be  your  hopes,  and  rich  the  crops  that  fall ; 
Health  to  my  neighbours,  happiness  to  alL’ 

Dull  must  that  clown  be,  dull  as  winter’s  sleet, 

Who  would  not  instantly  be  on  his  feet : 

An  echoing  health  to  mingling  shouts  give  place, 

‘ Sir  Ambrose  Higham  and  his  noble  race  ! ’ 

May-day  with  the  Muses. 

[ The  Soldier’s  Home.'] 

[c  The  topic  is  trite,  but  in  Mr  Bloomfield’s  hands  it  almost  1 
assumes  a character  of  novelty.  Burns’s  Soldier’s  Return  is 
not,  to  our  taste,  one  whit  superior.’— Professor  Wilson.] 

My  untried  Muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume, 

Nor  strut  in  arms — farewell  my  cap  and  plume ! 

Brief  be  my  verse,  a task  within  my  power ; 

I tell  my  feelings  in  one  happy  hour : 

But  what  an  hour  was  that ! when  from  the  main 
I reached  this  lovely  valley  once  again ! 

A glorious  harvest  filled  my  eager  sight, 

Half  shocked,  half  waving  in  a flood  of  light ; 

On  that  poor  cottage  roof  where  I was  bom, 

The  sun  looked  down  as  in  life’s  early  mom. 

I gazed  around,  but  not  a soul  appeared  ; 

I listened  on  the  threshold,  nothing  heard  ; 

I called  my  father  thrice,  but  no  one  came ; 

It  was  not  fear  or  grief  that  shook  my  frame. 

But  an  o’erpowering  sense  of  peace  and  home, 

Of  toils  gone  by,  perhaps  of  joys  to  come. 

The  door  invitingly  stood  open  wide  ; 

I shook  my  dust,  and  set  my  staff  aside. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air, 

And  take  possession  of  my  father’s  chair  ! 

Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 

Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 

Cut  forty  years  before ! The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a shock 
I never  can  forget.  A short  breeze  sprung, 

And  while  a sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue, 

Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind, 

And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the  wind ; 

Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down  they  went. 

And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.  That  instant  came 
A robin  on  the  threshold ; though  so  tame, 

At  first  he  looked  distrustful,  almost  shy, 

And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye, 

And  seemed  to  say — past  friendship  to  renew — 

‘ Ah  ha ! old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ? ’ 

Through  the  room  ranged  the  imprisoned  humble  bee. 
And  bombed,  and  bounced,  and  struggled  to  be  free ; 
Dashing  against  the  panes  with  sullen  roar, 

That  threw  their  diamond  sunlight  on  the  floor ; 

That  floor,  clean  sanded,  where  my  fancy  strayed, 

O’er  undulating  waves  the  broom  had  made ; 

Beminding  me  of  those  of  hideous  forms 
That  met  us  as  we  passed  the  Cape  of  Storms, 

"Where  high  and  loud  they  break,  and  peace  comes 
never ; 

They  roll  and  foam,  and  roll  and  foam  for  ever. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LEYDEN, 


POETS. 


But  here  was  peace,  that  peace  which  home  can 
yield ; 

The  grasshopper,  the  partridge  in  the  field, 

And  ticking  clock,  were  all  at  once  become 
The  substitute  for  clarion,  fife,  and  drum. 

While  thus  I mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 

On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window  sill, 

I deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 

And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there, 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 

Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose ; 

My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose ; 

I could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  years, 

But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 

Then,  like  a fool,  confused,  sat  down  again, 

And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain ; 

I raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost, 

And  glory’s  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 

On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I mused, 

And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  I saw,  two  voices  heard, 

One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a child’s  appeared. 

In  stepped  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 

And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 

Close  by  him  stood  a little  blue-eyed  maid ; 

And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said  : 

* Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again. 

This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from  Spain.’ 
The  child  approached,  and  with  her  fingers  light, 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 

But  why  thus  spin  my  tale — thus  tedious  be  ? 

Happy  old  soldier  ! what ’s  the  world  to  me  ! 

JOHN  LEYDEN. 

J ohn  Leyden,  a distinguished  oriental  scholar  as 
well  as  poet,  was  a native  of  Denholm,  Roxburgh- 
shire. He  was  the  son  of  humble  parents,  but  the 
ardent  Borderer  fought  his  way  to  learning  and 
celebrity.  His  parents  seeing  his  desire  for  instruc- 
tion, determined  to  educate  him  for  the  church, 
and  he  was  entered  of  Edinburgh  College  in  1790, 
in  the  fifteenth  year  of  his  age.  He  made  rapid 
progress ; was  an  excellent  Latin  and  Greek 
scholar,  and  acquired  also  the  French,  Spanish, 
Italian,  and  German,  besides  studying  the  Hebrew, 
Arabic,  and  Persian.  He  became  no  mean  pro- 
ficient in  mathematics  and  various  branches  of 
science.  Indeed,  every  difficulty  seemed  to  vanish 
before  his  commanding  talents,  his  retentive 
memory,  and  robust  application.  His  college 
vacations  were  spent  at  home ; and  as  his  father’s 
cottage  afforded  him  little  opportunity  for  quiet  and 
seclusion,  he  looked  out  for  accommodations  abroad. 
‘In  a wild  recess,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘in  the 
den  or  glen  which  gives  name  to  the  village  of 
Denholm,  he  contrived  a sort  of  furnace  for  the 
purpose  of  such  chemical  experiments  as  he  was 
adequate  to  performing.  But  his  chief  place  of 
retirement  was  the  small  parish  church,  a gloomy 
and  ancient  building,  generally  believed  in  the 
neighbourhood  to  be  haunted.  To  this  chosen 
place  of  study,  usually  locked  during  week-days, 
Leyden  made  entrance  by  means  of  a window, 
read  there  for  many  hours  in  the  day,  and  depo- 
sited his  books  and  specimens  in  a retired  pew.  It 
was  a well-chosen  spot  of  seclusion,  for  the  kirk 
— excepting  during  divine  service — is  rather  a 
place  of  terror  to  the  Scottish  rustic,  and  that  of 
Cavers  was  rendered  more  so  by  many  a tale  of 
ghosts  and  witchcraft,  of  which  it  was  the  supposed 
scene,  and  to  which  Leyden,  partly  to  indulge  his 
humour,  and  partly  to  secure  his  retirement, 
contrived  to  make  some  modern  additions.  The 


nature  of  his  abstruse  studies,  some  specimens  of 
natural  history,  as  toads  and  adders,  left  exposed 
in  their  spirit-phials,  and  one  or  two  practical  jests 
played  off  upon  the  more  curious  of  the  peasantry, 
rendered  his  gloomy  haunt  not  only  venerated  by 
the  wise,  but  feared  by  the  simple  of  the  parish/ 
From  this  singular  and  romantic  study,  Leyden 
sallied  forth,  with  his  curious  and  various  stores*  ( 
to  astonish  his  college  associates.  He  already 
numbered  among  his  friends  the  most  distinguished 
literary  and  scientific  men  of  Edinburgh.  On  the- 
expiration  of  his  college  studies,  Leyden  accepted 
the  situation  of  tutor  to  the  sons  of  Mr  Campbell  j 
of  Fairfield,  whom  he  accompanied  to  the  univer- 
sity of  St  Andrews.  There  he  pursued  his  own 
researches  connected  with  oriental  learning,  and 
in  1799,  published  a sketch  of  the  Discoveries  and 
Settlements  of  the  Europeans  in  Northern  and  Western 
Africa.  He  wrote  also  various  copies  of  verses 
and  translations  from  the  northern  and  oriental 
languages,  which  he  published  in  the  Edinburgh 
Magazine.  In  1800,  Leyden  was  ordained  for  the 
church.  He  continued,  however,  to  study  and 
compose,  and  contributed  to  Lewis’s  Tales  of 
Wonder  and  Scott’s  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border. 

So  ardent  was  he  in  assisting  the  editor  of  the 
Minstrelsy , that  he  on  one  occasion  walked  between 
forty  and  fifty  miles,  and  back  again,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  visiting  an  old  person  who  possessed  an 
ancient  historical  ballad.  His  next  publication 
was  a new  edition  of  the  Complaynt  of  Scotland , an 
ancient  work  written  about  1548,  which  Leyden 
enriched  with  a preliminary  dissertation,  notes, 
and  a glossary.  He  also  undertook  the  manage- 
ment, for  one  year,  of  the  Scots  Magazine.  His 
strong  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries  induced 
his  friends  to  apply  to  government  for  some 
appointment  for  him  connected  with  the  learning 
and  languages  of  the  east.  The  only  situation  which 
they  could  procure  was  that  of  surgeon’s  assistant ; 
and  in  five  or  six  months,  by  incredible  labour, 
Leyden  qualified  himself,  and  obtained  his  diploma. 
‘The  sudden  change  of  his  profession,’  says  Scott, 

‘ gave  great  amusement  to  some  of  his  friends.’  In 
December  1802,  Leyden  was  summoned  to  join  the 
Christmas  fleet  of  Indiamen,  in  consequence  of  his 
appointment  as  assistant-surgeon  on  the  Madras 
establishment.  He  finished  his  poem,  the  Scenes  of  ; 
Infancy , descriptive  of  his  native  vale,  and  left  j 
Scotland  for  ever.  After  his  arrival  at  Madras,  the 
health  of  Leyden  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
remove  to  Prince  of  Wales  Island.  He  resided  there 
for  some  time,  visiting  Sumatra  and  the  Malayan 
peninsula,  and  amassing  the  curious  information  | 
concerning  the  language,  literature,  and  descent  of 
the  Indo-Chinese  tribes,  which  afterwards  enabled 
him  to  lay  a most  valuable  dissertation  before  the 
Asiatic  Society  at  Calcutta.  Leyden  quitted  Prince 
of  Wales  Island,  and  was  appointed  a professor  in 
the  Bengal  College.  This  was  soon  exchanged  for 
a more  lucrative  appointment,  namely,  that  of  a 
judge  in  Calcutta.  His  spare  time  was,  as  usual, 
devoted  to  oriental  manuscripts  and  antiquities. 

‘ I may  die  in  the  attempt,’  he  wrote  to  a friend, 
‘but  if  I die  without  surpassing  Sir  William  Jones 
a hundredfold  in  oriental  learning,  let  never  a tear 
for  me  profane  the  eye  of  a Borderer.’  The  pos- 
sibility of  an  early  death  in  a distant  land  often 
crossed  the  mind  of  the  ambitious  student.  In  his 
Scenes  of  Infancy , he  expresses  his  anticipation 
of  such  an  event  in  a passage  of  great  melody  and 
pathos : 

The  silver  moon  at  midnight  cold  and  still, 

Looks,  sad  and  silent,  o’er  yon  western  hill ; 

255 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


While  large  and  pale  the  ghostly  structures  grow, 
Reared  on  the  confines  of  the  world  below. 

Is  that  dull  sound  the  hum  of  Teviot’s  stream  ? 

Is ‘that  blue  light  the  moon’s,  or  tomb-fire’s  gleam? 
By  which  a mouldering  pile  is  faintly  seen, 

The  old  deserted  church  of  Hazeldean, 

Where  slept  my  fathers  in  their  natal  clay, 

Till  Teviot’s  waters  rolled  their  bones  away  ? 

Their  feeble  voices  from  the  stream  they  raise — 

‘ Rash  youth  ! unmindful  of  thy  early  days, 

Why  didst  thou  quit  the  peasant’s  simple  lot? 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  peasant’s  turf -built  cot, 

The  ancient  graves  where  all  thy  fathers  lie, 

And  Teviot’s  stream  that  long  has  murmured  by  ? 
And  we — when  death  so  long  has  closed  our  eyes, 
How  wilt  thou  bid  us  from  the  dust  arise, 

And  bear  our  moulderihg  bones  across  the  main, 
From  vales  that  knew  our  lives  devoid  of  stain  ? 

Rash  youth ! beware,  thy  home-bred  virtues  save, 
And  sweetly  sleep  in  thy  paternal  grave.’ 

In  1811,  Leyden  accompanied  the  governor- 
general  to  Java.  ‘His  spirit  of  romantic  adventure,’ 
says  Scott,  ‘ led  him  literally  to  rush  upon  death ; 
for,  with  another  volunteer  who  attended  the 
expedition,  he  threw  himself  into  the  surf,  in  order 
to  be  the  first  Briton  of  the  expedition  who  should 
set  foot  upon  Java.  When  the  success  of  the 
well-concerted  movements  of  the  invaders  had 
given  them  possession  of  the  town  of  Batavia, 
Leyden  displayed  the  same  ill-omened  precipita- 
tion, in  his  haste  to  examine  a library,  or  rather  a 
i warehouse  of  hooks,  in  which  many  Indian  manu- 
scripts of  value  were  said  to  he  deposited.  A library 
in  a Dutch  settlement  was  not,  as  might  have  been 
i expected,  in  the  best  order ; the  apartment  had 
j not  been  regularly  ventilated,  and  either  from  this 
circumstance,  or  already  affected  by  the  fatal  sick- 
ness peculiar  to  Batavia,  Leyden,  when  he  left 
the  place,  had  a fit  of  shivering,  and  declared  the 
atmosphere  was  enough  to  give  any  mortal  a fever. 
The  presage  was  too  just:  he  took  his  bed,  and 
died  in  three  days  (August  28,  1811),  on  the  eve 
of  the  battle  which  gave  Java  to  the  British 
empire.’  The  Poetical  Remains  of  Leyden  were 
published  in  1819,  with  a Memoir  of  his  Life,  by 
| the  Rev.  James  Morton.  Sir  John  Malcolm  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott  both  honoured  his  memory  with 
notices  of  his  life  and  genius.  The  Great  Minstrel 
has  also  alluded  to  his  untimely  death  in  his  Lord  of 
the  Isles: 

Scarba’s  Isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Still  rings  to  Corrievreckan’s  roar, 

And  lonely  Colonsay ; 

Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more, 

His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o’er, 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains ; 

Quenched  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore, 

That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour  : 

A distant  and  a deadly  shore 
Has  Leyden’s  cold  remains. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a ballad  by  Leyden,  entitled 
The  Mermaid , the  scene  of  which  is  laid  at  Corrie- 
vreckan,  and  which  was  published  with  another, 
The  Gout  of  Keeldar , in  the  Border  Minstrelsy.  His 
longest  poem  is  his  Scenes  of  Infancy , descriptive 
of  his  native  vale  of  Teviot.  His  versification  is 
soft  and  musical ; he  is  an  elegant  rather  than  a 
forcible  poet.  His  ballad  strains  are  greatly  superior 
to  his  Scenes  of  Infancy.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has 
praised  the  opening  of  The  Mermaid,  as  exhibiting  a 
power  of  numbers  which,  for  mere  melody  of  sound, 
has  seldom  been  excelled  in  English  poetry. 

256 


Sonnet  on  Sabbath  Mom. 

With  silent  awe  I hail  the  sacred  morn, 

That  scarcely  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ; 

A soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 

A graver  murmur  echoes  from  the  hill, 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn ; 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a tone  less  shrill 
Hail,  light  serene  ! hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 

The  sky  a placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; - 
The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  drowsy  wings  in  dead  repose; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move : 

So  soft  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose ! * 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin, 

[Written  in  Cherical,  Malabar.} 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 

How  can  I love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I have  bought  so  dear? 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal’s  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  cheer. 

By  Cherical’s  dark  wandering  streams, 

Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a child, 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden’s  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendships  smiled, 
Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade  ! 

The  perished  bliss  of  youth’s  first  prime, 

That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 

Revives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 

I haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean’s  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  ! thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 

A gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer  : 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a tear, 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine ; 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a fear  ! 

I cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I left  a heart  that  loved  me  true  ! 

I crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart ; the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Ha ! com’st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 

A wanderer’s  banished  heart  forlorn, 

Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  was  borne  ? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 

To  memory’s  fond  regrets  the  prey ; 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I scorn  ! 

Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay ! 

* Jeffrey  considered  ( Edinburgh  Review,  1805)  that  Grahame  J 
borrowed  the  opening  description  in  his  Sabbath  from  the  I 
above  sonnet  by  Leyden.  The  images  are  common  to  poetry,  1 
besides  being  congenial  to  Scottish  habits  and  feelings. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LEYDEN. 


P0ET8. 


The  Mermaid. 

On  J ura’s  heath  how  sweetly  swell 
The  murmurs  of  the  mountain  bee ! 
How  softly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura’s  shore,  its  parent  sea  ! 

But  softer  floating  o’er  the  deep, 

The  Mermaid’s  sweet  sea-soothing  lay, 
That  charmed  the  dancing  waves  to  sleep, 
Before  the  hark  of  Colonsay. 

Aloft  the  purple  pennons  wave, 

As,  parting  gay  from  Crinan’s  shore, 
From  Morven’s  wars,  the  seamen  brave 
Their  gallant  chieftain  homeward  bore. 

In  youth’s  gay  bloom,  the  brave  Macphail 
Still  blamed  the  lingering  bark’s  delay  : 
For  her  he  chid  the  flagging  sail, 

The  lovely  maid  of  Colonsay. 

‘ And  raise,’  he  cried,  ‘ the  song  of  love, 
The  maiden  sung  with  tearful  smile, 
When  first,  o’er  Jura’s  hills  to  rove, 

We  left  afar  the  lonely  isle ! 

“ When  on  this  ring  of  ruby  red 
Shall  die,”  she  said,  “ the  crimson  hue, 
Know  that  thy  favourite  fair  is  dead, 

Or  proves  to  thee  and  love  untrue.”  ’ 

Now,  lightly  poised,  the  rising  oar 
Disperses  wide  the  foamy  spray, 

And  echoing  far  o’er  Crinan’s  shore, 
Resounds  the  song  of  Colonsay  : 

‘ Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze, 

Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 

Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowy  seas, 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  gale ! 

‘ Where  the  wave  is  tinged  with  red, 

And  the  russet  sea-leaves  grow, 

Mariners,  with  prudent  dread, 

Shun  the  shelving  reefs  below. 

1 As  you  pass  through  Jura’s  sound, 

Bend  your  course  by  Scarba’s  shore ; 
Shun,  0 shun,  the  gulf  profound, 

Where  Corrievreckan’s  surges  roar ! 

‘ If  from  that  unbottomed  deep, 

With  wrinkled  form  and  wreathed  train, 
O’er  the  verge  of  Scarba’s  steep, 

The  sea-snake  heave  his  snowy  mane, 

‘ Unwarp,  unwind  his  oozy  coils, 

Sea-green  sisters  of  the  main, 

And  in  the  gulf  where  ocean  boils, 

The  unwieldy  wallowing  monster  chain. 

‘ Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze, 

Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 

Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowed  seas, 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  gale !’ 

Thus  all  to  soothe  the  chieftain’s  woe, 

Far  from  the  maid  he  loved  so  dear, 

The  song  arose,  so  soft  and  slow, 

He  seemed  her  parting  sigh  to  hear. 

The  lonely  deck  he  paces  o’er, 

Impatient  for  the  rising  day, 

And  still  from  Crinan’s  moonlight  shore, 
He  turns  his  eyes  to  Colonsay. 

69 


The  moonbeams  crisp  the  curling  surge, 

That  streaks  with  foam  the  ocean  green  ; 
While  forward  still  the  rowers  urge 
Their  course,  a female  form  was  seen. 

That  sea-maid’s  form,  of  pearly  light, 

Was  whiter  than  the  downy  spray, 

And  round  her  bosom,  heaving  bright, 

Her  glossy  yellow  ringlets  play. 

Borne  on  a foamy  crested  wave, 

She  reached  amain  the  bounding  prow, 

Then  clasping  fast  the  chieftain  brave, 

She,  plunging,  sought  the  deep  below. 

Ah  ! long  beside  thy  feigned  bier, 

The  monks  the  prayer  of  death  shall  say, 
And  long  for  thee,  the  fruitless  tear, 

Shall  weep  the  maid  of  Colonsay  ! 

But  downward  like  a powerless  corse, 

The  eddying  waves  the  chieftain  bear ; 

He  only  heard  the  moaning  hoarse 
Of  waters  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

The  murmurs  sink  by  slow  degrees, 

No  more  the  waters  round  him  rave ; 

Lulled  by  the  music  of  the  seas, 

He  lies  within  a coral  cave. 

In  dreamy  mood  reclines  he  long, 

Nor  dares  his  tranced  eyes  unclose, 

Till,  warbling  wild,  the  sea-maid’s  song 
Far  in  the  crystal  cavern  rose. 

Soft  as  that  harp’s  unseen  control, 

In  morning  dreams  which  lovers  hear, 
Whose  strains  steal  sweetly  o’er  the  soul, 

But  never  reach  the  waking  ear. 

As  sunbeams  through  the  tepid  air, 

When  clouds  dissolve  the  dews  unseen, 

Smile  on  the  flowers  that  bloom  more  fair, 

And  fields  that  glow  with  livelier  green — 

So  melting  soft  the  music  fell ; 

It  seemed  to  soothe  the  fluttering  spray — 

‘ Say,  heard’ st  thou  not  these  wild  notes  swell? 
Ah  ! ’tis  the  song  of  Colonsay.’  * * 

Roused  by  that  voice  of  silver  sound, 

From  the  paved  floor  he  lightly  sprung, 

And  glancing  wild  his  eyes  around 

Where  the  fair  nymph  her  tresses  wrung, 

No  form  he  saw  of  mortal  mould ; 

It  shone  like  ocean’s  snowy  foam  ; 

Her  ringlets  waved  in  living  gold, 

Her  mirror  crystal,  pearl  the  comb. 

Her  pearly  comb  the  siren  took, 

And  careless  bound  her  tresses  wild ; 

Still  o’er  the  mirror  stole  her  look, 

As  on  the  wondering  youth  she  smiled. 

Like  music  from  the  greenwood  tree, 

Again  she  raised  the  melting  lay ; 

‘ Fair  warrior,  wilt  thou  dwell  with  me, 

And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay  ? 

‘ Fair  is  the  crystal  hall  for  me 

With  rubies  and  with  emeralds  set ; 

And  sweet  the  music  of  the  sea 

Shall  sing,  when  we  for  love  are  met. 

257 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

1 How  sweet  to  dance  with  gliding  feet 
Along  the  level  tide  so  green, 

Responsive  to  the  cadence  sweet 

That  breathes  along  the  moonlight  scene ! 

‘ I feel  my  former  soul  return, 

It  kindles  at  thy  cold  disdain ; 
And  has  a mortal  dared  to  spurn 
A daughter  of  the  foamy  main  !’ 

‘ And  soft  the  mnsic  of  the  main 
Rings  from  the  motley  tortoise-shell* 
While  moonbeams  o’er  the  watery  plain 
Seem  trembling  in  its  fitful  swelL 

She  fled,  around  the  crystal  cave 

The  rolling  waves  resume  their  road ; 
On  the  broad  portal  idly  rave, 

But  enter  not  the  nymph’s  abode. 

‘ How  sweet,  when  billows  heave  their  head, 
And  shake  their  snowy  crests  on  high, 
Serene  in  Ocean’s  sapphire-bed 
Beneath  the  tumbling  surge  to  lie ; 

And  many  a weary  night  went  by, 

As  in  the  lonely  cave  he  lay ; 

And  many  a sun  rolled  through  the  sky, 
And  poured  its  beams  on  Colonsay. 

‘ To  trace,  with  tranquil  step,  the  deep, 
Where  pearly  drops  of  frozen  dew 
In  concave  shells  unconscious  sleep, 

Or  shine  with  lustre,  silvery  blue  ! 

And  oft  beneath  the  silver  moon, 

He  heard  afar  the  Mermaid  sing ; 
And  oft  to  many  a meting  tune, 

The  shell-formed  lyres  of  ocean  ring. 

‘ Then  all  the  summer  sun,  from  far, 
Pour  through  the  wave  a softer  ray ; 
While  diamonds  in  a bower  of  spar, 

At  eve  shall  shed  a brighter  day. 

And  when  the  moon  went  down  the  sky, 

Still  rose,  in  dreams,  his  native  plain, 

And  oft  he  thought  his  love  was  by, 

And  charmed  him  with  some  tender  strain  : 

‘ Nor  stormy  wind,  nor  wintry  gale, 
That  o’er  the  angry  ocean  sweep, 
Shall  e’er  our  coral  groves  assail, 
Calm  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

And  heart-sick,  oft  he  waked  to  weep, 
When  ceased  that  voice  of  silver  sound, 
And  thought  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep 
That  walled  his  crystal  cavern  round. 

‘ Through  the  green  meads  beneath  the  sea, 
Enamoured  we  shall  fondly  stray — 

Then,  gentle  warrior,  dwell  with  me. 

And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay  !* 

But  still  the  ring,  of  ruby  red, 
Retained  its  vivid  crimson  hue, 
And  each  despairing  accent  fled," 
To  find  his  gentle  love  so  true. 

‘ Though  bright  thy  locks  of  glistering  gold, 
Fair  maiden  of  the  foamy  main  ! 

Thy  life-blood  is  the  water  cold, 

While  mine  beats  high  in  every  vein : 

When  seven  long  lonely  months  were  gone, 
The  Mermaid  to  his  cavern  came, 

No  more  misshapen  from  the  zone, 

But  like  a maid  of  mortal  frame. 

‘ If  I,  beneath  thy  sparry  cave, 

Should  in  thy  snowy  arms  recline, 
Inconstant  as  the  restless  wave, 

My  heart  would  grow  as  cold  as  thine.’ 

‘ 0 give  to  me  that  ruby  ring, 

That  on  thy  finger  glances  gay, 

And  thou  shalt  hear  the  Mermaid  sing 
The  song  thou  lov’st  of  Colonsay.’ 

As  cygnet  down,  proud  swelled  her  breast, 
Her  eye  confessed  the  pearly  tear : 

His  hand  she  to  her  bosom  pressed, 

‘ Is  there  no  heart  for  rapture  here  ? 

* This  ruby  ring,  of  crimson  grain, 

Shall  on  thy  finger  glitter  gay, 

If  thou  wilt  bear  me  through  the  main 
Again  to  visit  Colonsay.’ 

‘ These  limbs,  sprung  from  the  lucid  sea. 
Does  no  warm  blood  their  currents  fill, 
No  heart-pulse  riot,  wild  and  free, 

To  joy,  to  love’s  delicious  thrill?* 

‘ Except  thou  quit  thy  former  love, 
Content  to  dwell  for  aye  with  me, 

Thy  scorn  my  finny  frame  might  move 
To  tear  thy  limbs  amid  the  sea.’  * * 

‘ Though  all  the  splendour  of  the  sea 
Around  thy  faultless  beauty  shine, 
That  heart,  that  riots  wild  and  free, 
Can  hold  no  sympathy  with  mine. 

He  grasps  the  Mermaid’s  scaly  sides, 
As  with  broad  fin  she  oars  her  way ; 
Beneath  the  silent  moon  she  glides, 
That  sweetly  sleeps  on  Colonsay. 

‘ These  sparkling  eyes,  so  wild  and  gay, 

They  swim  not  in  the  light  of  love ; 

The  beauteous  maid  of  Colonsay, 

Her  eyes  are  milder  than  the  dove !’  * * 

Proud  swells  her  heart ! she  deems  at  last 
To  lure  him  with  her  silver  tongue, 
And,  as  the  shelving  rocks  she  passed, 

She  raised  her  voice,  and  sweetly  sung. 

‘Dwell  here  alone  !’  the  Mermaid  cried, 

‘ And  view  far  off  the  sea-nymphs  play ; 
The  prison  wall,  the  azure  tide, 

Shall  bar  thy  steps  from  Colonsay. 

In  softer,  sweeter  strains  she  sung, 

Slow  gliding  o’er  the  moonlight  bay, 
When  light  to  land  the  chieftain  sprung, 
To  hail  the  maid  of  Colonsay. 

‘Whene’er,  like  ocean’s  scaly  brood, 
I cleave  with  rapid  fin  the  wave, 
Far  from  the  daughter  of  the  flood, 
Conceal  thee  in  this  coral  cave. 
258 

0 sad  the  Mermaid’s  gay  notes  fell, 
And  sadly  sink  remote  at  sea  ! 

So  sadly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura’s  shore,  its  parent  sea. 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


And  ever  as  the  year  returns, 

The  charm-hound  sailors  know  the  day ; 
For  sadly  still  the  Mermaid  mourns 
The  lovely  chief  of  Colonsay. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Henry  Kirke  White,  a young  poet,  who  has 
accomplished  more  by  the  example  of  his  life  than 
by  his  writings,  was  a native  of  Nottingham,  where 
he  was  born  on  the  21st  of  August  1785.  His 
father  was  a butcher — an  ‘ungentle  craft,’  which, 
however,  has  had  the  honour  of  giving  to  England 
one  of  its  most  distinguished  churchmen,  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  and  the  two  poets,  Akenside  and  White. 


Birthplace  of  H.  K.  White,  Nottingham. 


Henry  was  a rhymer  and  a student  from  his  earliest 
years.  He  assisted  at  his  father’s  business  for  some 
time,  but  in  his  fourteenth  year  was  put  apprentice 
to  a stocking- weaver.  Disliking,  as  he  said,  ‘the 
thought  of  spending  seven  years  of  his  life  in  shining 
and  folding  up  stockings,  he  wanted  something  to 
occupy  his  brain,  and  he -felt  that  he  should  be 
wretched  if  he  continued  longer  at  this  trade,  or 
indeed  in  anything  except  one  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessions.’ He  was  at  length  placed  in  an  attorney’s 
office,  and  applying  his  leisure  hours  to  the  study  of 
languages,  he  was  able,  in  the  course  of  ten  months, 
to  read  Horace  with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made 
some  progress  in  Greek.  At  the  same  time  he 
acquired  a knowledge  of  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Por- 
tuguese, and  even  applied  himself  to  the  acquisition 
of  some  of  the  sciences.  His  habits  of  study  and 
application  were  unremitting.  A London  magazine, 
called  the  Monthly  Preceptor , having  proposed 
prize-themes  for  the  youth  of  both  sexes,  Henry 
became  a candidate,  and  while  only  in  his  fifteenth 
year,  obtained  a silver  medal  for  a translation  from 
Horace ; and  the  following  year  a pair  of  twelve- 
inch  globes  for  an  imaginary  tour  from  London  to 
Edinburgh.  He  next  became  a correspondent  in 
the  Monthly  Mirror , and  was  introduced  to  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr  Capel  Lofft  and  of  Mr  Hill,  the 


proprietor  of  the  above  periodical.  Their  encourage- 
ment induced  him  to  prepare  a volume  of  poems  for 
the  press,  which  appeared  in  1808.  The  longest 
piece  in  the  collection  is  a descriptive  poem  in  the 
style  of  Goldsmith,  entitled  Clifton  Grove,  which 
shews  a remarkable  proficiency  in  smooth  and 
elegant  versification  and  language.  In  his  preface 
to  the  volume,  Henry  had  stated  that  the  poems 
were  the  production  of  a youth  of  seventeen, 
published  for  the  purpose  of  facilitating  his  future 
studies,  and  enabling  him  ‘ to  pursue  those  inclin- 
ations which  might  one  day  place  him  in  an 
honourable  station  in  the  scale  of  society.’  Such 
a declaration  should  have  disarmed  the  severity  of 
criticism ; but  the  volume  was  contemptuously 
noticed  in  the  Monthly  Review,  and  Henry  felt  the 
most  exquisite  pain  from  the  unjust  and  ungenerous 
critique.  Eortunately,  the  volume  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Mr  Southey,  who  wrote  to  the  young  poet 
to  encourage  him,  and  other  friends  sprung  up  to 
succour  his  genius,  and  procure  for  him  what  was 
the  darling  object  of  his  ambition,  admission  to  the 
University  of  Cambridge.  His  opinions  for  some 
time  inclined  to  deism,  without  any  taint  of  im- 
morality ; but  a fellow-student  put  into  his  hands 
Scott’s  Force  of  Truth,  and  he  soon  became  a decided 
convert  to  the  spirit  and  doctrines  of  Christianity. 
He  resolved  upon  devoting  his  life  to  the  promul- 
gation of  them,  and  the  Rev.  Mr  Simeon,  Cambridge, 
procured  for  him  a sizarship  at  St  John’s  College. 
This  benevolent  clergyman  further  promised,  with 
the  aid  of  a friend,  to  supply  him  with  £30  annually, 
and  his  own  family  were  to  furnish  the  remainder 
necessary  for  him  to  go  through  college.  Poetry  was 
now  abandoned  for  severer  studies.  He  competed 
for  one  of  the  university  scholarships,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  term  was  pronounced  the  first  man  of 
his  year.  ‘Twice  he  distinguished  himself  in  the 
following  year,  being  again  pronounced  first  at  the 
great  college  examination,  and  also  one  of  the  three 
best  theme-writers,  between  whom  the  examiners 
could  not  decide.  The  college  offered  him,  at  their 
expense,  a private  tutor  in  mathematics  during  the 
long  vacation ; and  Mr  Catton — his  tutor — by  pro- 
curing for  him  exhibitions  to  the  amount  of  £66 
per  annum,  enabled  him  to  give  up  the  pecuniary 
assistance  which  he  had  received  from  Mr  Simeon 
and  other  friends.’  * This  distinction  was  purchased 
at  the  sacrifice  of  health  and  life.  ‘Were  I,’  he 
said,  ‘to  paint  Fame  crowning  an  under-graduate 
after  the  senate-house  examination,  I would  repre- 
sent him  as  concealing  a death’s-head  under  the 
mask  of  beauty.’  He  went  to  London  to  recruit  his 
shattered  nerves  and  spirits ; but  on  his  return  to 
college,  he  was  so  completely  ill  that  no  power  of 
medicine  could  save  him.  He  died  on  the  19th  of 
October  1806.  Mr  Southey  continued  his  regard 
for  White  after  his  untimely  death.  He  wrote  a 
sketch  of  his  life,  and  edited  his  Remains,  which 
proved  to  be  highly  popular,  passing  through  a 
great  number  of  editions.  A tablet  to  Henry’s 
memory,  with  a medallion  by  Chantrey,  was  placed 
in  All  Saints’  Church,  Cambridge,  by  a young 
American  gentleman,  Mr  Francis  Boot  of  Boston, 
and  bearing  the  following  inscription — so  expressive 
of  the  tenderness  and  regret  universally  felt  towards 
the  poet — by  Professor  Smyth : 

Warm  with  fond  hope  and  learning’s  sacred  flame, 

To  Granta’s  bowers  the  youthful  poet  came ; 

Unconquered  powers  the  immortal  mind  displayed, 

But  worn  with  anxious  thought,  the  frame  decayed. 

* Southey’s  Memoir  prefixed  to  Remains  of  H.  K.  White. 

259 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Pale  o’er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retired, 

The  martyr  student  faded  and  expired. 

Oh  ! genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere, 

Too  early  lost  midst  studies  too  severe  ! 

Foremost  to  mourn  was  generous  Southey  seen, 

He  told  the  tale,  and  shewed  what  White  had  been ; 
Nor  told  in  vain.  Far  o’er  the  Atlantic  wave 
A wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  poet’s  grave  : 

On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name, 

And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 

Byron  has  also  consecrated  some  beautiful  lines  to 
the  memory  of  White.  Mr  Southey  considers  that 
the  death  of  the  young' poet  is  to  be  lamented  as 
a loss  to  English  literature.  To  society,  and  parti- 
cularly to  the  church,  it  was  a greater  misfortune. 
The  poetry  of  Henry  was  all  written  before  his 
twentieth  year,  and  hence  should  not  be  severely 
judged.  If  compared,  however,  with  the  strains 
of  Cowley  or  Chatterton  at  an  earlier  age,  it  will 
be  seen  to  be  inferior  in  this,  that  no  indications 
are  given  of  great  future  genius.  There  are  no 
seeds  or  traces  of  grand  conceptions  and  designs, 
no  fragments  of  wild  original  imagination,  as  in  the 
‘marvellous  boy’  of  Bristol.  His  poetry  is  fluent 
and  correct,  distinguished  by  a plaintive  tenderness 
and  reflection,  and  pleasing  powers  of  fancy  and 
description.  Whether  force  and  originality  would 
have  come  with  manhood  and  learning,  is  a point 
which,  notwithstanding  the  example  of  Byron — a 
very  different  mind — may  fairly  be  doubted.  It  is 
enough,  however,  for  Henry  Kirke  White  to  have 
afforded  one  of  the  finest  examples  on  record  of 
youthful  talent  and  perseverance  devoted  to  the 
purest  and  noblest  objects. 

To  an  Early  Primrose. 

Mild  offspring  of  a dark  and  sullen  sire ! 

Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  questioned  Winter’s 
sway, 

And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 

Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity ; in  some  lone  walk 
Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows, 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 
Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

Sonnet. 

What  art  thou,  Mighty  One  ! and  where  thy  seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands, 
And  thou  dost  hear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet ; 

Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 
Thou  guid’st  the  northern  storm  at  night’s  dead 
noon, 

Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 

Disturb’ st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 

260 


In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
Dost  thou  repose  ? or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger’s  hungry  brood  ? 
Vain  thought ! the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 

The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner’s  wandering  eye. 

Hark  ! hark ! to  Grod  the  chorus  breaks, 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark ; 

The  ocean  yawned — and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a star  arose, 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease  ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers’  thrall, 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored — my  perils  o’er, 

I ’ll  sing,  first  in  night’s  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore, 

The  Star — the  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 


A Hymn  for  Family  Worship. 

0 Lord  ! another  day  is  flown, 

And  we,  a lonely  band, 

Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a listening  ear 
To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 

Thou  wilt ! for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 
The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray ; 

For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  are  we  less  than  they  ? 

0 let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease ; 

And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 
Thine  everlasting  peace ! 

Thus  chastened,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A flock  by  Jesus  led; 

The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine  i 
In  glory  on  our  head. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet, 
And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


The  Christiad. 

[Concluding  stanzas,  -written  shortly  before  his  death.] 

Thus  far  have  I pursued  my  solemn  theme, 

With  self -rewarding  toil ; thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
The  lyre  which  I in  early  days  have  strung ; 

And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress ; and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus’  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o’er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard 
no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 

Oh  ! Thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ; 

One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 

I am  a youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 

And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 

Ere  I with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I am 
free. 


JAMES  GRAHAME. 

The  Rev.  James  Grahame  was  born  in  Glasgow 
in  the  year  1765.  He  studied  the  law,  and  practised 
at  the  Scottish  bar  for  several  years,  but  afterwards 


JAMES  GRAHAME. 

o f Scotland,  and  British  Georgies,  all  in  blank  verse. 
The  Sabbath  is  the  best  of  his  productions,  and  the 
Georgies  the  least  interesting ; for  though  the  latter 
contains  some  fine  descriptions,  the  poet  is  too 
minute  and  too  practical  in  his  rural  lessons.  The 
amiable  personal  feelings  of  the  author  constantly 
appear.  He  thus  warmly  and  tenderly  apostrophises 
his  native  country : 

How  pleasant  came  thy  rushing,  silver  Tweed  ! 

Upon  my  ear,  when,  after  roaming  long 
In  southern  plains,  I ’ve  reached  thy  lovely  bank  ! 
How  bright,  renowned  Sark  ! thy  little  stream, 

Like  ray  of  columned  light  chasing  a shower, 

Would  cross  my  homeward  path ; how  sweet  the  sound, 
When  I,  to  hear  the  Doric  tongue’s  reply, 

Would  ask  thy  well-known  name  ! 

And  must  I leave, 

Dear  land,  thy  bonny  braes,  thy  dales, 

Each  haunted  by  its  wizard  stream,  o’erhung 
With  all  the  varied  charms  of  bush  and  tree  ? 

And  must  I leave  the  friends  of  youthful  years, 

And  mould  my  heart  anew,  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a foreign  land, 

And  learn  to  love  the  music  of  strange  tongues  ! 

Yes,  I may  love  the  music  of  strange  tongues, 

And  mould  my  heart  anew  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a foreign  land : 

But  to  my  parched  mouth’s  roof  cleave  this  tongue, 

My  fancy  fade  into  the  yellow  leaf, 

And  this  oft-pausing  heart  forget  to  throb, 

If,  Scotland,  thee  and  thine  I e’er  forget. 


James  Grabamc. 

took  orders  in  the  Church  of  England,  and  was  suc- 
cessively curate  of  Shipton,  in  Gloucestershire,  and 
of  Sedgefield,  in  the  county  of  Durham.  Ill  health 
compelled  him  to  abandon  his  curacy  when  his 
virtues  and  talents  had  attracted  notice  and  rendered 
him  a popular  and  useful  preacher ; and  on  revisit- 
ing Scotland,  he  died  on  the  14  th  of  September  1811. 
The  works  of  Grahame  consist  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scotland,  a dramatic  poem  published  in  1801 ; The  ! 
Sabbath,  Sabbath  Walks , Biblical  Pictures , The  Birds  \ 


An  anecdote  is  related  of  the  modest  poet  connected 
with  the  publication  of  The  Sabbath,  which  affords 
an  interesting  illustration  of  his  character.  He  had 
not  prefixed  his  name  to  the  work,  nor  acquainted 
his  family  with  the  secret  of  its  composition,  and 
taking  a copy  of  the  volume  home  with  him  one 
day,  he  left  it  on  the  table.  His  wife  began  reading 
it,  while  the  sensitive  author  walked  up  and  down 
the  room;  and  at  length  she  broke  out  into  praise 
of  the  poem,  adding:  ‘Ah,  James,  if  you  could  but 
produce  a poem  like  this!’  The  joyful  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  being  the  author  was  then  made,  no 
doubt  with  the  most  exquisite  pleasure  on  both 
sides.  Grahame  in  some  respects  resembles  Cowper. 
He  has  no  humour  or  satire,  it  is  true,  but  the 
same  powers  of  close  and  happy  observation  which 
the  poet  of  Olney  applied  to  English  scenery,  were 
directed  by  Grahame  to  that  of  Scotland,  and  both 
were  strictly  devout  and  national  poets.  There  is 
no  author,  excepting  Burns,  whom  an  intelligent 
Scotsman,  resident  abroad,  would  read  with  more 
delight  than  Grahame.  The  ordinary  features  of 
the  Scottish  landscape  he  portrays  truly  and 
distinctly,  without  exaggeration,  and  often  impart- 
ing to  his  descriptions  a feeling  of  tenderness  or 
solemnity.  He  has,  however,  many  poor  prosaic 
lines,  and  his  versification  generally  wants  ease  and 
variety.  He  was  content  with  humble  things ; but 
he  paints  the  charms  of  a retired  cottage-life,  the 
sacred  calm  of  a Sabbath  morning,  a walk  in  the 
fields,  or  even  a bird’s  nest,  with  such  unfeigned 
delight  and  accurate  observation,  that  the  reader  is 
constrained  to  see  and  feel  with  his  author,  to 
rejoice  in  the  elements  of  poetry  and  meditation 
that  are  scattered  around  him,  existing  in  the 
humblest  objects,  and  in  those  humane  and  pious 
sentiments  which  impart  to  external  nature  a moral 
interest  and  beauty.  The  religion  of  Grahame  was 
not  sectarian ; he  was  equally  impressed  with  the 
lofty  ritual  of  the  English  church,  and  the  simple 
liill-worship  of  the  Covenanters.  He  is  sometimes 
gloomy  in  his  seriousness,  from  intense  religious 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

anxiety  or  sympathy  with  his  fellow-men  suffering 
under  oppression  or  misfortune,  but  he  has  less  of 
this  harsh  fruit, 

Picked  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 

than  his  brother-poet  Cowper.  His  prevailing  tone 
! is  that  of  implicit  trust  in  the  goodness  of  God,  and 
| enjoyment  in  his  creation. 

[From  the  Sabbath .] 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 

-Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labour,  hushed 

The  ploughbo/s  whistle  and  the  milkmaid’s  song. 

The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 

That  yester-mom  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 

The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the  hill. 

Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 

To  him  who  wanders  o’er  the  upland  leas, 

The  black-bird’s  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ; the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen ; 
i While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 

O’ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o’er  yon  village  broods : 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests ; the  anvil’s  din 
Hath  ceased ; all,  all  around  is  quietness. 

Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe.  The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large ; 

And,  as  his  stiff  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls, 

His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath  ! thee  I hail,  the  poor  man’s  day. 

On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter’s  cold 
And  summer’s  heat  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves ; 

With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God — not  thanks  of  form, 

A word  and  a grimace,  but  reverently, 

With  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  ! thee  I hail,  the  poor  man’s  day : 

The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air  pure  from  the  city’s  smoke ; 

While  wandering  slowly  up  the  river-side, 

He  meditates  on  Him  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough. 

As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  the  roots ; and  while  he  thus  surveys 
With  elevated  joy  each  rural  charm, 

He  hopes — yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope — 

To  reach  those  realms  where  Sabbath  never  ends. 

But  now  his  steps  a welcome  sound  recalls  : 

Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  ancient  pile, 

Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe  : 

Slowly  the  throng  moves  o’er  the  tomb-paved  ground ; 
The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
With  pain,  and  eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well  pleased ; 
These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 
The  house  of  God — these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 

A glow  of  gladness  feel ; with  silent  praise 
They  enter  in ; a placid  stillness  reigns, 

Until  the  man  of  God,  worthy  the  name, 

Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 

The  stated  portion  reads.  A pause  ensues. 

The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder-notes, 

262 

Then  swells  into  a diapason  full : 

The  people  rising  sing,  ‘ with  harp,  with  harp, 

And  voice  of  psalms ; ’ harmoniously  attuned 
The  various  voices  blend ; the  long-drawn  aisles, 

At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 

And  now  the  tubes  a softened  stop  controls ; 

In  softer  harmony  the  people  join, 

While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band, 

Recall  the  soul  from  adoration’s  trance, 

And  fill  the  eye  with  pity’s  gentle  tears. 

Again  the  organ-peal,  loud,  rolling,  meets 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  quire.  Sublime 
A thousand  notes,  symphoniously  ascend, 

As  if  the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soaring  heavenward  : afar  they  float, 

Wafting  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  man’s  couch : 

Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close, 

Yet  thinks  he  hears  it  still : his  heart  is  cheered  ; 
He  smiles  on  death ; but  ah  ! a wish  will  rise — 

‘ Would  I were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof  ! 

No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow ; 

My  heart  would  sing ; and  many  a Sabbath-day 
My  steps  should  thither  turn  ; or,  wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  where  wild-flowers  blow, 

There  would  I bless  His  name  who  led  me  forth 
From  death’s  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  those  sweets — 
Who  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye.’ 

It  is  not  only  in  the  sacred  fane 
That  homage  should  be  paid  to  the  Most  High ; 

There  is  a temple,  one  not  made  with  hands, 

The  vaulted  firmament.  Far  in  the  woods, 

Almost  beyond  the  sound  of  city  chime, 

At  intervals  heard  through  the  breezeless  air ; 

When  not  the  limberest  leaf  is  seen  to  move, 

Save  where  the  linnet  lights  upon  the  spray ; 

Where  not  a flow’ret  bends  its  little  stalk, 

Save  when  the  bee  alights  upon  the  bloom — 

There,  rapt  in  gratitude,  in  joy,  and  love, 

The  man  of  God  will  pass  the  Sabbath  noon ; 

Silence  his  praise : his  disembodied  thoughts, 

Loosed  from  the  load  of  words,  will  high  ascend 
Beyond  the  empyreal. 

Nor  yet  less  pleasing  at  the  heavenly  throne, 

The  Sabbath  service  of  the  shepherd-boy ! 

In  some  lone  glen,  where  every  sound  is  lulled 
To  slumber,  save  the  tinkling  of  the  rill, 

Or  bleat  of  lamb,  or  hovering  falcon’s  cry, 

Stretched  on  the  sward,  he  reads  of  Jesse’s  son ; 

Or  sheds  a tear  o’er  him  to  Egypt  sold, 

And  wonders  why  he  weeps : the  volume  closed, 
With  thyme-sprig  laid  between  the  leaves,  he  sings 
The  sacred  lays,  his  weekly  lesson  conned 
With  meikle  care  beneath  the  lowly  roof, 

Where  humble  lore  is  learnt,  where  humble  worth 
Pines  unrewarded  by  a thankless  state. 

Thus  reading,  hymning,  all  alone,  unseen, 

The  shepherd-boy  the  Sabbath  holy  keeps, 

Till  on  the  heights  he  marks  the  straggling  bands 
Returning  homeward  from  the  house  of  prayer. 

In  peace  they  home  resort.  Oh,  blissful  days  ! 

When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills. 

Far  other  times  our  fathers’  gandsires  knew, 

A virtuous  race  to  godliness  devote. 

What  though  the  sceptic’s  scorn  hath  dared  to  soil 
The  record  of  their  fame ! What  though  the  men 
Of  worldly  minds  have  dared  to  stigmatise 
The  sister-cause,  Religion  and  the  Law, 

With  Superstition’s  name  ! — yet,  yet  their  deeds, 
Their  constancy  in  torture  and  in  death — 

These  on  tradition’s  tongue  still  live,  these  shall 
On  history’s  honest  page  be  pictured  bright 
To  latest  times.  Perhaps  some  bard,  whose  muse 
Disdains  the  servile  strain  of  fashion’s  quire, 

May  celebrate  their  unambitious  names. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy,  every  hour 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  GRAHAME. 


They  stood  prepared  to  die,  a people  doomed 
To  death — old  men,  and  youths,  and  simple  maids. 
With  them  each  day  was  holy ; but  that  morn 
On  which  the  angel  said  : ‘ See  where  the  Lord 
Was  laid,’  joyous  arose — to  die  that  day 
Was  bliss.  Long  ere  the  dawn,  by  devious  ways, 

O’er  hills,  through  woods,  o’er  dreary  wastes,  they 
sought 

The  upland  moors,  where  rivers,  there  but  brooks, 
Dispart  to  different  seas.  Fast  by  such  brooks 
A little  glen  is  sometimes  scooped,  a plat 
With  greensward  gay,  and  flowers  that  strangers  seem 
Amid  the  heathery  wild,  that  all  around 
Fatigues  the  eye  : in  solitudes  like  these 
Thy  persecuted  children,  Scotia,  foiled 
A tyrant’s  and  a bigot’s  bloody  laws ; 

There,  leaning  on  his  spear — one  of  the  array 
That  in  the  times  of  old  had  scathed  the  rose 
On  England’s  banner,  and  had  powerless  struck 
The  infatuate  monarch  and  his  wavering  host, 

Yet  ranged  itself  to  aid  his  son  dethroned — 

The  lyart  veteran  heard  the  word  of  God 
By  Cameron  thundered,  or  by  Renwick  poured 
In  gentle  stream  : then  rose  the  song,  the  loud 
Acclaim  of  praise ; the  wheeling  plover  ceased 
Her  plaint ; the  solitary  place  was  glad. 

And  on  the  distant  cairns,  the  watcher’s  ear 
Caught  doubtfully  at  times  the  breeze-borne  note. 

But  years  more  gloomy  followed,  and  no  more 
The  assembled  people  dared,  in  face  of  day, 

To  worship  God,  or  even  at  the  dead 
Of  night,  save  when  the  wintry  storm  raved  fierce, 
And  thunder-peals  compelled  the  men  of  blood 
To  couch  within  their  dens ; then  dauntlessly 
The  scattered  few  would  meet,  in  some  deep  dell 
By  rocks  o’er-canopied,  to  hear  the  voice, 

Their  faithful  pastor’s  voice : he  by  the  gleam 
Of  sheeted  lightning  oped  the  sacred  book, 

And  words  of  comfort  spake  : over  their  souls 
His  accents  soothing  came — as  to  her  young 
The  heath-fowl’s  plumes,  when  at  the  close  of  eve 
She  gathers  in  mournful  her  brood  dispersed 
By  murderous  sport,  and  o’er  the  remnant  spreads 
Fondly  her  wings,  close  nestling  ’neath  her  breast 
They  cherished  cower  amid  the  purple  blooms. 

* * * * 

0 Scotland  ! much  I love  thy  tranquil  dales ; 

But  most  on  Sabbath  eve,  when  low  the  sun 
Slants  through  the  upland  copse,  ’tis  my  delight, 
Wandering  and  stopping  oft,  to  hear  the  song 
Of  kindred  praise  arise  from  humble  roofs ; 

Or  when  the  simple  service  ends,  to  hear 
The  lifted  latch,  and  mark  the  gray-haired  man, 

The  father  and  the  priest,  walk  forth  alone 
Into  his  garden-plat  or  little  field, 

To  commune  with  his  God  in  secret  prayer — 

To  bless  the  Lord,  that  in  his  downward  years 
His  children  are  about  him  : sweet,  meantime, 

The  thrush  that  sings  upon  the  aged  thorn, 

Brings  to  his  view  the  days  of  youthful  years, 

When  that  same  aged  thorn  was  but  a bush. 

Nor  is  the  contrast  between  youth  and  age 
To  him  a painful  thought ; he  joys  to  think 
His  journey  near  a close ; heaven  is  his  home. 

* # * * 

And  he  who  cried  to  Lazarus  ‘Come  forth  !’ 

Will,  when  the  Sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 

Call  forth  the  dead,  and  reunite  the  dust — 
Transformed  and  purified — to  angel  souls. 

Ecstatic  hope  ! belief  ! conviction  firm  ! 

How  grateful  ’tis  to  recollect  the  time 
When  hope  arose  to  faith  ! Faintly  at  first 
The  heavenly  voice  is  heard.  Then  by  degrees 
Its  music  sounds  perpetual  in  the  heart. 

Thus  he,  who  all  the  gloomy  winter  long 
Has  dwelt  in  city  crowds,  wandering  afield 


Betimes  on  Sabbath  morn,  ere  yet  the  spring 
Unfold  the  daisy’s  bud,  delighted  hears 
The  first  lark’s  note,  faint  yet,  and  short  the  song, 
Checked  by  the  chill  ungenial  northern  breeze ; 

But,  as  the  sun  ascends,  another  springs, 

And  still  another  soars  on  loftier  wing, 

Till  all  o’erhead,  the  joyous  choir  unseen, 

Poised  welkin-high,  harmonious  fills  the  air, 

As  if  it  were  a link  ’tween  earth  and  heaven. 

[. A Spring  Sabbath  Walk] 

Most  earnest  was  his  voice  ! most  mild  his  look, 

As  with  raised  hands  he  blessed  his  parting  flock. 

He  is  a faithful  pastor  of  the  poor ; 

He  thinks  not  of  himself ; his  Master’s  words, 

‘ Feed,  feed  my  sheep,’  are  ever  at  his  heart, 

The  cross  of  Christ  is  aye  before  his  eyes. 

Oh,  how  I love  with  melted  soul  to  leave 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  wander  in  the  fields 
Alone ! What  though  the  opening  spring  be  chill ! , 
What  though  the  lark,  checked  in  his  airy  path, 

Eke  out  his  song,  perched  on  the  fallow  clod, 

That  still  o’ertops  the  blade  ! What  though  no  branch 
Have  spread  its  foliage,  save  the  willow  wand, 

That  dips  its  pale  leaves  in  the  swollen  stream ! 

What  though  the  clouds  oft  lower  ! their  threats  but  end 
In  sunny  showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 
Of  moss-couched  violet,  or  interrupt 
The  merle’s  dulcet  pipe — melodious  bird  ! 

He,  hid  behind  the  milk-white  sloe-thorn  spray — 
Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf — 

Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook  to  which  my  steps 
Have  brought  me,  hardly  conscious  where  I roamed, 
Unheeding  where — so  lovely,  all  around, 

The  works  of  God,  arrayed  in  vernal  smile  ! 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing  I prolong 
My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 
Emblaze,  with  upward-slanting  ray,  the  breast 
And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark, 
Descending  vocal  from  her  latest  flight, 

While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star — 

The  harbinger  of  chill  night’s  glittering  host — 

Sweet  redbreast,  Scotia’s  Philomela,  chants 
In  desultory  strains  his  evening-hymn. 

[A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk] 

Delightful  is  this  loneliness ; it  calms 
My  heart : pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms 
That  throw  across  the  stream  a moveless  shade. 

Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks ; 

How  peaceful  every  sound  ! — the  ring-dove’s  plaint, 
Moaned  from  the  forest’s  gloomiest  retreat, 

While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 

Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest, 
And  from  the  root-sprigs  trills  her  ditty  clear — 

The  grasshopper’s  oft-pausing  chirp — the  buzz, 
Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee, 

That  soon  as  loosed  booms  with  full  twang  away — 
The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal 
Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 
A glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring ; or  from  above, 

Some  feathered  dam,  purveying  ’mong  the  boughs, 
Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 
Bears  off  the  prize.  Sad  emblem  of  man’s  lot ! 

He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf 
(Where  safe  and  happily  he  might  have  lurked) 

Elate  upon  ambition’s  gaudy  wings, 

Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and  worse, 

Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream, 

And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  ’scape, 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Buoyant  he  flutters  hut  a little  while, 

Mistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky 
For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 

Now,  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source 
Among  the  hills,  its  runnel  by  degrees 
Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a tinkle. 

Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 

Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble  shoots, 

With  brier  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray, 
That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I mount 
Into  the  open  air  : grateful  the  breeze 
That  fans  my  throbbing  temples ! smiles  the  plain 
Spread  wide  below  : how  sweet  the  placid  view  ! 

But,  oh ! more  sweet  the  thought,  heart-soothing 
thought, 

That  thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 
Of  toil  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale, 

Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 

And  blessing  him  who  gave  the  Sabbath-day. 

Yes  ! my  heart  flutters  with  a freer  throb. 

To  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 
Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 
The  coolness  of  the  day’s  decline,  to  see 
His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a boon 
Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Again  I turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
The  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discerned, 
Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  with  ferny  leaves, 

And  thinly  strewed  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 

Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the  glens, 
Each  mountain’s  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 
Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
The  shepherd’s  shadow  thrown  athwart  the  chasm, 

As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 

How  deep  the  hush ! the  torrent’s  channel  dry, 
Presents  a stony  steep,  the  echo’s  haunt. 

But  hark  a plaintive  sound  floating  along  ! 

’Tis  from  yon  heath-roofed  shieling ; now  it  dies 
Away,  now  rises  full ; it  is  the  song 
Which  He,  who  listens  to  the  hallelujahs 
I Of  choiring  seraphim,  delights  to  hear ; 

It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
Of  venerable  age,  of  guileless  youth, 

In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicker- door.  Behold  the  man  ! 

The  grandsire  and  the  saint ; his  silvery  locks 
Beam  in  the  parting  ray ; before  him  lies, 

Upon  the  smooth-cropt  sward,  the  open  book, 

His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever-new  delight ; 

While  heedless  at  a side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 

[An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk.] 

When  homeward  bands  their  several  ways  disperse, 

I love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 

Of  rest,  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tomb, 

And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 

Sad  sighs  the  wind  that  from  these  ancient  elms 
Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  withered  grass  : 
The  sere  and  yellow  wreaths,  with  eddying  sweep, 

Fill  up  the  furrows  ’tween  the  hillocked  graves. 

But  list  that  moan  ! ’tis  the  poor  blind  man’s  dog, 
His  guide  for  many  a day,  now  come  to  mourn 
The  master  and  the  friend — conjunction  rare  ! 

A man,  indeed,  he  was  of  gentle  soul, 

Though  bred  to  brave  the  deep  : the  lightning’s  flash 
Had  dimmed,  not  closed,  his  mild  but  sightless  eyes. 
He  was  a welcome  guest  through  all  his  range — 

It  was  not  wide — no  dog  would  bay  at  him  : 

Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way, 

And  lead  him  to  a sunny  seat,  and  climb 
His  knee,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales. 

Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 
261 


The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship : 

And  I have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 
Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 

Peace  to  thy  spirit,  that  now  looks  on  me 
Perhaps  with  greater  pity  than  I felt 
To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 

But  let  me  quit  this  melancholy  spot, 

And  roam  where  nature  gives  a parting  smile. 

As  yet  the  blue-bells  linger  on  the  sod 

That  copse  the  sheepfold  ring;  and  in  the  woods 

A second  blow  of  many  flowers  appears, 

Flowers  faintly  tinged,  and  breathing  no  perfume. 
But  fruits,  not  blossoms,  form  the  woodland  wreath 
That  circles  Autumn’s  brow.  The  ruddy  haws 
Now  clothe  the  half -leafed  thorn;  the  bramble 
bends 

Beneath  its  jetty  load ; the  hazel  hangs 
With  auburn  bunches,  dipping  in  the  stream 
That  sweeps  along,  and  threatens  to  o’erflow 
The  leaf -strewn  banks : oft,  statue-like,  I gaze, 

In  vacancy  of  thought,  upon  that  stream, 

And  chase,  with  dreaming  eye,  the  eddying  foam, 
Or  rowan’s  clustered  branch,  or  harvest  sheaf, 
Borne  rapidly  adown  the  dizzying  flood. 

[A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk.] 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene  ! deep,  deep 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath  day — 

Not  even  a footfall  heard.  Smooth  are  the  fields, 
Each  hollow  pathway  level  with  the  plain : 

Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that  here  and  there 
Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 
High-ridged  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 
The  powdered  key-stone  of  the  churchyard  porch. 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell ; the  tombs  lie  buried ; 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  flickering  fall  is  o’er : the  clouds  disperse, 
And  shew  the  sun,  hung  o’er  the  welkin’s  verge, 
Shooting  a bright  but  ineffectual  beam 
On  all  the  sparkling  waste.  Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire. 

Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 

A noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 

How  beautiful  the  plain  stretched  far  below, 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood  ! 

But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 
To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned, 

Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine, 

Among  yon  rocky  fells  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold  ? 

There  silence  dwells  profound ; or  if  the  cry 
Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  hush, 

The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep-sunk  dell. 

No  foot-print,  save  the  covey’s  or  the  flock’s, 

Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 

Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts, 
Nor  linger  there  too  long : the  wintry  day 
Soon  closes ; and  full  oft  a heavier  fall, 

Heaped  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  sheltered  glen, 
While,  gurgling  deep  below,  the  buried  rill 
Mines  for  itself  a snow-coved  way  ! Oh,  then, 

Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  spot, 
And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill’s  stormy  side, 
Where  night-winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift  away : 
So  the  great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  flock 
From  faithless  pleasures,  full  into  the  storms 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast, 

Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 
Bedimmed  with  showers;  then  to  the  pastures 
green 

He  brings  them  where  the  quiet  waters  glide, 

The  stream  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABBE, 


POETS. 


The  Impressed  Sailor-boy. 

[From  the  Birds  of  Scotland.] 

Low  in  a glen, 

Down  which  a little  stream  had  furrowed  deep, 
’Tween  meeting  birchen  boughs,  a shelvy  channel 
And  brawling  mingled  with  the  western  tide ; 

Far  up  that  stream,  almost  beyond  the  roar 
Of  storm-bulged  breakers,  foaming  o’er  the  rocks 
With  furious  dash,  a lowly  dwelling  lurked, 
Surrounded  by  a circlet  of  the  stream. 

Before  the  wattled  door,  a greensward  plat, 

With  daisies  gay,  pastured  a playful  lamb ; 

A pebbly  path,  deep  worn,  led  up  the  hill, 

Winding  among  the  trees,  by  wheel  untouched, 

Save  when  the  winter  fuel  was;  brought  home — 

One  of  the  poor  man’s  yearly  festivals. 

On  every  side  it  was  a sheltered  spot, 

So  high  and  suddenly  the  woody  steeps 
Arose.  One  only  way,  downward  the  stream, 

Just  o’er  the  hollow,  ’tween  the  meeting  boughs, 

The  distant  wave  was  seen,  with  now  and  then 
The  glimpse  of  passing  sail ; but  when  the  breeze 
Crested  the  distant  wave,  this  little  nook 
Was  all  so  calm,  that,  on  the  limberest  spray, 

The  sweet  bird  chanted  motionless,  the  leaves 
At  times  scarce  fluttering.  Here  dwelt  a pair, 

Poor,  humble,  and  content ; one  son  alone, 

Their  William,  happy  lived  at  home  to  bless 
Their  downward  years ; he,  simple  youth, 

With  boyish  fondness,  fancied  he  could  love 
A seaman’s  life,  and  with  the  fishers  sailed, 

To  try  their  ways  far  ’mong  the  western  isles, 

Far  as  St  Kilda’s  rock- walled  shore  abrupt, 

O’er  which  he  saw  ten  thousand  pinions  wheel 
Jlonfused,  dimming  the  sky : these  dreary  shores 
Gladly  he  left — he  had  a homeward  heart : 

No  more  his  wishes  wander  to  the  waves. 

But  still  he  loves  to  cast  a backward  look, 

And  tell  of  all  he  saw,  of  all  he  learned ; 

Of  pillared  Staffa,  lone  Iona’s  isle, 

Where  Scotland’s  kings  are  laid ; of  Lewis,  Skye, 

And  of  the  mainland  mountain-circled  lochs ; 

And  he  would  sing  the  rowers  timing  chant 
And  chorus  wild.  Once  on  a summer’s  eve, 

When  low  the  sun  behind  the  Highland  hills 
Was  almost  set,  he  sung  that  song  to  cheer 
The  aged  folks ; upon  the  inverted  quern 
The  father  sat ; the  mother’s  spindle  hung 
Forgot,  and  backward  twirled  the  half-spun  thread  ; 
Listening  with  partial,  well-pleased  look,  she  gazed 
Upon  her  son,  and  inly  blessed  the  Lord 
That  he  was  safe  returned.  Sudden  a noise 
Bursts  rushing  through  the  trees ; a glance  of  steel 
Dazzles  the  eye,  and  fierce  the  savage  band 
Glare  all  around,  then  single  out  their  prey. 

In  vain  the  mother  clasps  her  darling  boy ; 

In  vain  the  sire  offers  their  little  all : 

William  is  bound ; they  follow  to  the  shore, 

Implore,  and  weep,  and  pray ; knee-deep  they  stand, 
And  view  in  mute  despair  the  boat  recede. 


To  My  Son. 

Twice  has  the  sun  commenced  his  annual  round, 
Since  first  thy  footsteps  tottered  o’er  the  ground  ; 
Since  first  thy  tongue  was  tuned  to  bless  mine  ear, 
By  faltering  out  the  name  to  fathers  dear. 

Oh  ! nature’s  language,  with  her  looks  combined, 
More  precious  far  than  periods  thrice  refined  ! 

Oh  ! sportive  looks  of  love,  devoid  of  guile, 

I prize  you  more  than  beauty’s  magic  smile ; 

Yes,  in  that  face,  unconscious  of  its  charm, 

I gaze  with  bliss  unmingled  with  alarm. 


Ah,  no  ! full  oft  a boding  horror  flies 
Athwart  my  fancy,  uttering  fateful  cries. 

Almighty  Power ! his  harmless  life  defend, 

And,  if  we  part,  ’gainst  me  the  mandate  send. 

And  yet  a wish  will  rise — would  I might  live, 

Till  added  years  his  memory  firmness  give  ! 

For,  oh  ! it  would  a joy  in  death  impart 
To  think  I still  survived  within  his  heart ; 

To  think  he  ’ll  cast,  midway  the  vale  of  years, 

A retrospective  look  bedimmed  with  tears, 

And  tell,  regretful,  how  I looked  and  spoke ; 

What  walks  I loved,  where  grew  my  favourite  r ak  ; 
How  gently  I would  lead  him  by  the  hand ; 

How  gently  use  the  accent  of  command ; 

What  lore  I taught  him,  roaming  wood  and  wild, 

And  how  the  man  descended  to  the  child  ; 

How  well  I loved  with  him,  on  Sabbath  morn, 

To  hear  the  anthem  of  the  vocal  thorn, 

To  teach  religion,  unallied  to  strife, 

And  trace  to  him  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life. 

But  far  and  further  still  my  view  I bend, 

And  now  I see  a child  thy  steps  attend ; 

To  yonder  churchyard-wall  thou  tak’st-  thy  way, 
While  round  thee,  pleased,  thou  see’st  the  infant 
play ; 

Then  lifting  him,  while  tears  suffuse  thine  eyes, 
Pointing,  thou  tell’st  him,  ‘ There  thy  grandsire  lies.’ 

The  Thanlcsgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar. 

Upon  the  high,  yet  gently  rolling  wave, 

The  floating  tomb  that  heaves  above  the  brave, 

Soft  sighs  the  gale  that  late  tremendous  roared, 
Whelming  the  wretched  remnants  of  the  sword. 

And  now  the  cannon’s  peaceful  thunder  calls 
The  victor  bands  to  mount  their  wooden  walls, 

And  from  the  ramparts,  where  their  comrades  fell, 
The  mingled  strain  of  joy  and  grief  to  swell : 

Fast  they  ascend,  from  stem  to  stern  they  spread, 
And  crowd  the  engines  whence  the  lightnings  sped  : 
The  white-robed  priest  his  upraised  hands  extends ; 
Hushed  is  each  voice,  attention  leaning  bends ; 

Then  from  each  prow  the  grand  hosannas  rise, 

Float  o’er  the  deep,  and  hover  to  the  skies. 

Heaven  fills  each  heart ; yet  home  will  oft  intrude, 
And  tears  of  love  celestial  joys  exclude. 

The  wounded  man,  who  hears  the  soaring  strain, 

Lifts  his  pale  visage,  and  forgets  his  pain  ; 

While  parting  spirits,  mingling  with  the  lay, 

On  hallelujahs  wing  their  heavenward  way. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 

The  Rev.  George  Crabbe,  whom  Byron  has 
characterised  as  ‘ Nature’s  sternest  painter,  yet  the 
best,’  was  of  humble  origin,  and  born  at  Aldborough, 
in  Suffolk,  on  the  Christmas-eve  of  1754.  His 
father  was  collector  of  the  salt-duties,  or  salt-master, 
as  he  was  termed,  and  though  of  poor  circumstances 
and  violent  temper,  he  exerted  himself  to  give 
George  a superior  education.  It  is  pleasing  to  know 
that  the  old  man  lived  to  reap  his  reward,  in 
witnessing  the  celebrity  of  his  son,  and  to  transcribe, 
with  parental  fondness,  in  his  own  handwriting,  the  j 
poem  of  The  Library.  Crabbe  has  described  the  j 
unpromising  scene  of  liis  nativity  with  his  usual 
force  and  correctness : 

Lo  ! where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  i 
o’er, 

Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring  j 
poor; 

From  thence  a length  of  burning  sand  appears, 

Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered  ears ; 

Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 

Reign  o’er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted  rye  : 

265 


PROM  1800 


There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 

And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war ; 

There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 

There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil ; 

Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 

The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf ; 

O’er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a shade, 

And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade  ; 

With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 

And  a sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around. 

So  looks  the  nymph  whom  wretched  arts  adorn, 
Betrayed  by  man,  then  left  for  man  to  scorn ; 

Whose  cheek  in  vain  assumes  the  mimic  rose, 

While  her  sad  eyes  the  troubled  breast  disclose  ; 
Whose  outward  splendour  is  but  folly’s  dress, 

Exposing  most,  when  most  it  gilds  distress. 

The  poet  was  put  apprentice  in  his  fourteenth  year' 
to  a surgeon,  and  afterwards  practised  in  Aldborough;  j 
but  his  prospects  were  so  gloomy,  that  he  abandoned  1 
his  profession,  and  proceeded  to  London  as  a 
literary  adventurer.  His  whole  stock  of  money  j 
amounted  to  only  three  pounds.  Having  completed  i 
some  poetical  pieces,  he  offered  them  for  publication, 1 
but  they  were  rejected.  In  the  course  of  the  year, 
however,  he  issued  a poetical  epistle,  The  Candidate , 
addressed  to  the  authors  of  the  Monthly  Review.  It 


was  coldly  received,  and  his  publisher  failing  at  the 
same  time,  the  young  poet  was  plunged  into  great 
perplexity  and  want.  He  wrote  to  the  premier, 
Lord  North,  to  the  lord-chancellor  Thurlow,  and  to 
other  noblemen,  requesting  assistance ; but  in  no 
case  was  an  answer  returned.  At  length,  when  his 
affairs  were  desperate,  he  applied  to  Edmund  Burke, 
and  in  a modest  yet  manly  statement,  disclosed  to 
him  the  situation  in  which  he  stood.  Burke  received 
him  into  his  own  house,  and  exercised  towards 
him  the  most  generous  hospitality.  While  under 
his  happy  roof,  the  poet  met  Mr  Fox,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  others  of  the  statesman’s  distinguished 
266 


to  1830. 


friends.  In  the  same  year  (1781)  he  published  his 
poem  The  Library , which  was  favourably  noticed 
by  the  critics.  Lord  Thurlow— who  now,  as  in  the 


Birthplace  of  Crabbe. 


case  of  Cowper,  came  with  tardy  notice  and  ungrace- 
ful generosity — invited  him  to  breakfast,  and  at 
parting  presented  him  with  a bank-note  for  a 
hundred  pounds.  Crabbe  entered  into  sacred  orders, 
and  was  licensed  as  curate  to  the  rector  of  his  native 
parish  of  Aldborough.  In  a short  time,  Burke  pro- 
cured for  him  the  situation  of  chaplain  to  the  Duke 
of  Rutland  at  Belvoir  Castle.  This  was  a great 
advancement  for  the  poor  poet,  and  he  never  after- 
wards was  in  fear  of  want.  He  seems,  however,  to 
have  felt  all  the  ills  of  dependence  on  the  great, 
and  in  his  poem  of  The  Patron,  and  other  parts  of 
his  writings,  has  strongly  depicted  the  evils  of 
such  a situation.  In  1783  appeared  The  Village , 
which  had  been  seen  and  corrected  by  Johnson  and 
Burke.  Its  success  was  instant  and  complete. 
Some  of  the  descriptions  in  the  poem — as  that  of 
the  parish  workhouse — were  copied  into  all  the 
periodicals,  and  took  that  place  in  our  national 
literature  which  they  still  retain.  Thurlow  pre- 
sented him  with  two  small  livings  then  in  his  gift, 
telling  him  at  the  same  time,  with  an  oath,  that  he 
was  as  like  Parson  Adams  as  tAvelve  to  a dozen. 
The  poet  now  married  a young  lady  of  Suffolk,  the 
object  of  an  early  attachment,  and  taking  the  curacy 
of  Stathern,  adjoining  Belvoir  Castle,  he  ba,de 
adieu  to  the  ducal  mansion,  and  transferred  himself 
to  the  humble  parsonage  in  the  village.  Four 
happy  years  were  spent  in  this  retirement,  when  the 
poet  obtained  the  exchange  of  his  two  small  livings 
in  Dorsetshire  for  two  of  superior  value  in  the  vale 
of  Belvoir.  Crabbe  remained  silent  as  a poet  for 
many  years.  ‘ Out  of  doors,’  says  his  son,  ‘ he  had 
always  some  object  in  view — a flower,  or  a pebble, 
or  his  note-book  in  his  hand ; and  in  the  house,  if 
he  was  not  writing,  he  was  reading.  He  read  aloud 
very  often,  even  when  walking,  or  seated  by  the  side 
of  his  wife  in  the  huge  old-fashioned  one-horse 
chaise,  heavier  than  a modem  chariot,  in  which  they 
usually  were  conveyed  in  their  little  excursions,  and 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 


POETS. 


the  conduct'  of  which  he,  from  awkwardness  and 
absence  of  mind,  prudently  relinquished  to  my 
mother  on  all  occasions.’  In  1807  he  published  his 
Parish  Register , which  had  been  previously  sub- 
mitted to  Mr  Fox,  and  parts  of  this  poem — especi- 
ally the  story  of  Phoebe  Dawson — were  the  last  com- 
positions of  their  kind  that  * engaged  and  amused  the 
capacious,  the  candid,  the  benevolent  mind  of  this 
great  man.’  The  success  of  this  work  was  not  only 
decided,  but  nearly  unprecedented.  In  1810  he 
came  forward  with  The  Borough , a poem  of  the  same 
class,  and  more  connected  and  complete ; and  two 
years  afterwards  he  produced  his  Tales  in  Verse , 
containing  perhaps  the  finest  of  all  his  humble  but 
happy  delineations  of  life  and  character.  ‘The 
public  voice,’  says  his  biographer,  * was  again  highly 
favourable,  and  some  of  these  relations  were  .spoken 
of  with  the  utmost  warmth  of  commendation,  as, 
The  Parting  Hour,  The  Patron,  Edward  Shore,  and 
The  Confidant.’  In  1814,  the  Duke  of  Rutland 
appointed  him  to  the  living  of  Trowbridge,  in 
Wiltshire,  and  he  went  thither  to  reside.  His 
income  amounted  to  about  £800  per  annum,  a large 
portion  of  which  he  spent  in  charity.  He  still  con- 
tinued his  attachment  to  literature,  and  in  1817  and 
1818  was  engaged  on  his  last  great  work,  the  Tales 
of  the  Hall.  ‘ He  fancied  that  autumn  was,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  favourable  season  for  him  in  the 
composition  of  poetry ; but  there  was  something  in 
the  effect  of  a sudden  fall  of  snow  that  appeared  to 
stimulate  him  in  a very  extraordinary  manner.’  In 
1819,  the  Tales  were  published  by  Mr  Murray,  who, 
for  them  and  the  remaining  copyright  of  all  Crabbe’s 
previous  poems,  gave  the  munificent  sum  of  £3000. 
In  an  account  of  the  negotiation  for  the  sale  of  these 
copyrights,  written  by  Moore  for  the  life  of  his 
brother-poet,  we  have  the  following  amusing  illus- 
tration of  Crabbe’s  simplicity  of  manner : ‘ When  he 
received  the  bills  for  £3000,  we — Moore  and  Rogers 
— earnestly  advised  that  he  should,  without  delay, 
deposit  them  in  some  safe  hands  ; but  no — he  must 
“take  them  with  him  to  Trowbridge,  and  shew 
them  to  his  son  John.  They  would  hardly  believe 
in  his  good-luck  at  home  if  they  did  not  see  the 
bills.”  On  his  way  down  to  Trowbridge,  a friend  at 
Salisbury,  at  whose  house  he  rested — Mr  Everett, 
the  banker — seeing  that  he  carried  these  bills 
loosely  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  requested  to  be 
allowed  to  take  charge  of  them  for  him ; but  with 
equal  ill  success.  “ There  was  no  fear,”  he  said,  “ of 
his  losing  them,  and  he  must  shew  them  to  his  son 
John.’”  Another  poetical  friend,  Thomas  Campbell, 
who  met  him  at  this  time  in  London,  remarks  of 
him : ‘ His  mildness  in  literary  argument  struck  me 
with  surprise  in  so  stern  a poet  of  nature,  and  I 
could  not  but  contrast  the  unassumingness  of  his 
manners  with  the  originality  of  his  powers.  In 
what  may  be  called  the  ready-money  small-talk  of 
conversation,  his  facility  might  not  perhaps  seem 
equal  to  the  known  calibre  of  his  talents ; but  in 
the  progress  of  conversation,  I recollect  remarking 
that  there  was  a vigilant  shrewdness  that  almost 
eluded  you,  by  keeping  its  watch  so  quietly.’  This 
fine  remark  is  characteristic  of  Crabbe’s  genius,  as 
well  as  of  his  manners.  It  gathered  its  materials 
slowly  and  silently  with  intent  but  unobtrusive 
observation.  The  Tales  of  the  Hall  were  received 
with  that  pleasure  and  approbation  due  to  an  old 
and  established  favourite,  but  with  less  enthu- 
siasm than  some  of  his  previous  works.  In  1822, 
the  now  venerable  poet  paid  a visit  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott  in  Edinburgh ; and  it  is  worthy  of  remark, 
that,  as  to  the  city  itself,  he  soon  got  wearied  of 
the  New  Town,  but  could  amuse  himself  for  ever 


in  the  Old.  His  latter  years  were  spent  in  the 
discharge  of  his  clerical  duties,  and  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  social  intercourse.  His  attachment  to 
botany  and  geology  seemed  to  increase  with  age ; 
and  at  threescore  and  ten,  he  was  busy,  cheerful, 
and  affectionate.  His  death  took  place  at  Trow- 
bridge on  the  3d  of  February  1832,  and  his  parish- 
ioners erected  a monument  to  his  memory  in  the 
church  of  that  place,  where  he  had  officiated  for 
nineteen  years.  A complete  collection  of  his  works, 
with  some  new  pieces  and  an  admirable  memoir, 
was  published  in  1834  by  his  son,  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe. 

The  Village,  Parish  Register , and  shorter  tales  of 
Crabbe  are  his  most  popular  productions.  The 
Tales  of  the  Hall  are  less  interesting.  They  relate 
principally  to  the  higher  classes  of  society,  and  the 
poet  was  not  so  happy  in  describing  their  pecu- 
liarities as  when  supporting  his  character  of  the 
poet  of  the  poor.  Some  of  the  episodes,  however, 
are  in  his  best  style — Sir  Owen  Dale,  Ruth,  Ellen, 
and  other  stories,  are  all  marked  with  the  peculiar 
genius  of  Crabbe.  The  redeeming  and  distinguish- 
ing feature  of  that  genius  was  its  fidelity  to  nature, 
even  when  it  was  dull  and  unprepossessing.  His 
power  of  observation  and  description  might  be 
limited,  but  his  pictures  have  all  the  force  of  dram- 
atic representation,  and  may  be  compared  to  those 
actual  and  existing  models  which  the  sculptor  or 
painter  works  from,  instead  of  vague  and  general 
conceptions.  They  are  often  too  true,  and  human 
nature  being  exhibited  in  its  naked  reality,  with  all 
its  defects,  and  not  through  the  bright  and  alluring 
medium  of  romance  or  imagination,  our  vanity  is 
shocked,  and  our  pride  mortified.  His  anatomy  of 
character  and  passion  harrows  up  our  feelings,  and 
leaves  us  in  the  end  sad  and  ashamed  of  our 
common  nature.  The  personal  circumstances  and 
experience  of  the  poet  affected  the  bent  of  his 
genius.  He  knew  how  untrue 1 and  absurd  were  the 
pictures  of  rural  life  which  figured  in  poetry.  His 
own  youth  was  dark  and  painful — spent  in  low 
society,  amidst  want  and  misery,  irascible  gloom 
and  passion.  Latterly,  he  had  more  of  the  comforts 
and  elegances  of  social  life  at  his  command  than 
Cowper,  his  rival  as  a domestic  painter.  He  not 
only  could  have  ‘wheeled  his  sofa  round,’  ‘let  fall 
the  curtains,  and,  with  the  bubbling  and  loud  hiss- 
ing urn’  on  the  table,  ‘welcome  peaceful  evening 
in,’  but  the  amenities  of  refined  and  intellectual 
society  were  constantly  present  with  him,  or  at  his 
call.  Yet  he  did  not,  like  Cowper,  attempt  to 
describe  them,  or  to  paint  their  manifold  charms. 
When  he  took  up  his  pen,  his  mind  turned  to 
Aldborough  and  its  wild  amphibious  race — to  the 
parish  workhouse,  where  the  wheel  hummed  doleful 
through  the  day— to  erring  damsels  and  luckless 
swains,  the  prey  of  overseers  or  justices— or  to  the 
haunts  of  desperate  poachers  and  smugglers,  gipsies 
and  gamblers,  where  vice  and  misery  stalked  undis- 
guised in  their  darkest  forms.  He  stirred  up  the 
dregs  of  human  society,  and  exhibited  their  black- 
ness and  deformity,  yet  worked  them  into  poetry. 
Like  his  own  Sir  Richard  Monday,  he  never  forgot 
the  parish.  It  is  true  that  village-life  in  England  in 
its  worst  form,  with  the  old  poor  and  game  laws 
and  non-resident  clergy,  was  composed  of  various 
materials,  some  bright  and  some  gloomy,  and 
Crabbe  drew  them  all.  His  Isaac  Ashford  is  as 
honourable  to  the  lowly  English  poor  as  the  Jeanie 
Deans  or  Dandie  Dinmont  of  Scott  are  to  the 
Scottish  character.  IIi3  story  of  the  real  mourner, 
the  faithful  maid  who  watched  over  her  dying 
sailor,  is  a beautiful  tribute  to  the  force  and  purity 
of  humble  affection.  In  The  Farting  Hour  and  The 


Prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


Patron  are  also  passages  equally  honourable  to  the 
poor  and  middle  classes,  and  full  of  pathetic  and 
graceful  composition.  It  must  be  confessed,  how- 
ever, that  Crabbe  was  in  general  a gloomy  painter 
of  life — that  he  was  fond  of  depicting  the  unlovely 
and  unamiable— and  that,  either  for  poetic  effect  or 
from  painful  experience,  he  makes  the  bad  of  life 
predominate  over  the  good.  His  pathos  and  tender- 
ness are  generally  linked  to  something  coarse, 
startling,  or  humiliating — to  disappointed  hopes  or 
unavailing  sorrow — 

Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 

The  present’s  still  a cloudy  day. 

The  minuteness  with  which  he  dwells  on  such 
subjects  sometimes  makes  his  descriptions  tedious, 
and  apparently  unfeeling.  He  drags  forward  every 
defect,  every  vice  and  failing,  not  for  the  purpose  of 
educing  something  good  out  of  the  evil,  but,  as  it 
would  seem,  merely  for  the  purpose  of  completing 
the  picture.  In  his  higher  flights,  where  scenes  of 
strong  passion,  vice  or  remorse,  are  depicted,  Crabbe 
is  a moral  poet,  purifying  the  heart,  as  the  object  of 
tragedy  has  been  defined,  by  terror  and  pity,  and 
by  fearful  delineations  of  the  misery  and  desolation 
caused  by  unbridled  passion.  His  story  of  Sir 
Eustace  Grey  is  a domestic  tragedy  of  this  kind, 
related  with  almost  terrific  power,  and  with  lyrical 
energy  of  versification.  His  general  style  of  versifi- 
cation is  the  couplet  of  Pope — he  has  been  wittily 
called  ‘ Pope  in  worsted  stockings  ’ — but  less  flow- 
ing and  melodious,  and  often  ending  in  points  and 
quibbles.  Thus,  in  describing  his  cottage  furniture, 
he  says — 

No  wheels  are  here  for  either  wool  or  flax, 

But  packs  of  cards  made  up  of  sundry  packs. 

His  thrifty  housewife,  Widow  Goe,  falls  down  in 
sickness — 

Heaven  in  her  eye,  and  in  her  hand  her  keys. 

This  jingling  style  heightens  the  effect  of  his  humor- 
ous and  homely  descriptions ; but  it  is  too  much  of 
a manner,  and  mars  the  finer  passages.  Crabbe  has 
high  merit  as  a painter  of  English  scenery.  He  is 
here  as  original  and  forcible  as  in  delineating  char- 
acter. His  marine  landscapes  are  peculiarly  fresh 
and  striking ; and  he  invests  even  the  sterile  fens 
and  barren  sands  with  interest.  His  objects  are 
seldom  picturesque ; but  he  noted  every  weed  and 
plant — the  purple  bloom  of  the  heath,  the  dwarfish 
flowers  among  the  wild  gorse,  the  slender  grass  of 
the  sheep-walk,  and  even  the  pebbles,  sea- weed,  and 
shells  amid 

The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles  rolled. 

He  was  a great  lover  of  the  sea,  and  once,  as  his 
son  relates,  after  being  some  time  absent  from  it, 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  alone  sixty  miles  from 
his  house,  that  he  might  inhale  its  freshness  and 
gaze  upon  its  waters. 

[The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary.] 

[From  The  Village.] 

Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor, 
"Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door ; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapours  flagging,  play, 

And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day ; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents’  care ; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children’s  love,  dwell  there ; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 

Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed, 

Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears, 

And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood-fears ; 

263 


The  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they  ! 

The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 

Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive, 

Here  brought  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to  grieve, 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some  sad  chamber  flow. 
Mixed  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below ; 

Here  sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow  scan, 

And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man  : 

Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruined  age  provide, 

And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  scrap  from  pride ; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a sigh, 

And  pride  embitters  what  it  can’t  deny. 

Say  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes, 

Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose  ; 

Who  press  the  downy  couch,  while  slaves  advance 
With  timid  eye,  to  read  the  distant  glance ; 

Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 

To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease ; 

Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure, 
Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure ; 

How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 

Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die  ? 

How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that ’s  wretched  pave  the  way  for  death  ? 

Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam  divides, 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides ; 

Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are  seen, 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between ; 

Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patched,  gives  way 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day : 

Here,  on  a matted  flock,  with  dust  o’erspread, 

The  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head ; 

For  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies, 

Or  wipes  the  tear  that  stagnates  in  his  eyes ; 

No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  beguile, 

Or  promise  hope  till  sickness  wears  a smile. 

But  soon  a loud  and  hasty  summons  calls, 

Shakes  the  thin  roof,  and  echoes  round  the  walls ; 
Anon,  a figure  enters,  quaintly  neat, 

All  pride  and  business,  bustle  and  conceit, 

With  looks  unaltered  by  these  scenes  of  woe, 

With  speed  that,  entering,  speaks  his  haste  to  go ; 

He  bids  the  gazing  throng  around  him  fly, 

And  carries  fate  and  physic  in  his  eye  ; 

A potent  quack,  long  versed  in  human  ills, 

Who  first  insults  the  victim  whom  he  kills ; 

Whose  murderous  hand  a drowsy  bench  protect, 

And  whose  most  tender  mercy  is  neglect. 

Paid  by  the  parish  for  attendance  here, 

He  w'ears  contempt  upon  his  sapient  sneer ; 

In  haste  he  seeks  the  bed  where  misery  lies, 
Impatience  marked  in  his  averted  eyes ; 

And,  some  habitual  queries  hurried  o’er, 

Without  reply,  he  rushes  on  the  door ; 

His  drooping  patient,  long  inured  to  pain, 

And  long  unheeded,  knows  remonstrance  vain ; ' 

He  ceases  now  the  feeble  help  to  crave 
Of  man ; and  silent  sinks  into  the  grave. 

[ Isaac  Ashford , a Noble  Peasant .] 

[From  the  Parish  Register.] 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 

A noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 

Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean, 

His  truth  unquestioned  and  his  soul  serene  : 

Of  no  man’s  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  ; 

At  no  man’s  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed : 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace ; 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face ; 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approved, 
Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he  loved  ; 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 

And  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest  mind : 

Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on, 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 


Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy, 

Nor  knew  a joy  that  caused Teflection’s  sigh  ; 

A friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 
No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed — 

Bane  of  the  poor  ! it  wounds  their  weaker  mind 
To  miss  one  favour  which  their  neighbours  find — 
Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  pride  removed ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved  : 

I marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died, 

And  his  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  tried  ; 

The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrowed  cheek, 
Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

If  pride  were  his,  ’twas  not  their  vulgar  pride, 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride  ; 

Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed, 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed ; 

Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 
None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few: 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place, 

It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace ; 

A pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained, 

In  sturdy  hoys  to  virtuous  labours  trained ; 

Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  his  country’s  coast, 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 

Pride  in  a life  that  slander’s  tongue  defied, 

In  fact,  a noble  passion,  misnamed  pride. 

He  had  no  party’s  rage,  no  sect’ry’s  whim ; 
Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with  him ; 

True  to  his  church  he  came ; no  Sunday-shower 
Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour ; 

Nor  his  firm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect 
By  the  strong  glare  of  their  new  light  direct ; 

‘ On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I gaze, 

But  should  be  blind  and  lose  it  in  your  blaze.’ 

In  times  severe,  when  many  a sturdy  swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort  to  complain, 

Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own  would  hide, 
And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 

At  length  he  found,  when  seventy  years  were  run, 
His  strength  departed  and  his  labour  done ; 

When,  save  his  honest  fame,  he  kept  no  more ; 

But  lost  his  wife  and  saw  his  children  poor ; 

’Twas  then  a spark  of — say  not  discontent — 

Struck  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it  vent : 

‘ Kind  are  your  laws — ’tis  not  to  be  denied — 

That  in  yon  house  for  ruined  age  provide, 

And  they  are  just;  when  young,  we  give  you  all, 

And  then  for  comforts  in  our  weakness  call. 

Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be  fed, 

To  join  your  poor  and  eat  the  parish  bread? 

But  yet  I linger,  loath  with  him  to  feed 
Who  gains  his  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need : 

He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paupers  took, 

And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious  look  : 

On  some  old  master  I could  well  depend  ; 

See  him  with  joy,  and  thank  him  as  a friend ; 

But  ill  on  him  who  doles  the  day’s  supply, 

And  counts  our  chances  who  at  night  may  die : 

Yet  help  me,  Heaven  ! and  let  me  not  complain 
Of  what  befalls  me,  but  the  fate  sustain.’ 

Such  were  his  thoughts,  and  so  resigned  he  grew ; 
Daily  he  placed  the  workhouse  in  his  view  ! 

But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  was  his  fate, 

He  dropt  expiring  at  his  cottage-gate. 

I feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 

And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there ; 

I see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honoured  head ; 

No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight ; 

To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while, 

Till  Mister  Ashford  softened  to  a smile ; 

No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look  in  prayer, 

Nor  the  pure  faith — to  give  it  force — are  there  : * * 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I lament  no  more, 

A wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 


\Ph<xle  Dawson.'] 

[From  the  Parish  Register.] 

Two  summers  since,  I saw  at  Lammas  fair, 

The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossomed  there ; 

When  Phoebe  Dawson  gaily  crossed  the  green, 

In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen ; 

Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw,  admired, 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retired  ; 

The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  displayed, 

And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  conveyed  ; 

A native  skill  her  simple  robes  expressed, 

As  with  untutored  elegance  she  dressed ; 

The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a sight, 

And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 

Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gained, 

Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retained ; 

Envy  itself  could  no  contempt  display, 

They  wished  her  well,  whom  yet  they  wished  away ; 
Correct  in  thought,  she  judged  a servant’s  place 
Preserved  a rustic  beauty  from  disgrace ; 

But  yet  on  Sunday-eve,  in  freedom’s  hour, 

With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty’s  power ; 

When  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would  steal, 
That,  poor  or  rich,  a beauty  still  must  feel. 

At  length,  the  youth  ordained  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  pressed ; 

With  looks  less  timid  made  his  passion  known, 

And  pleased  by  manners,  most  unlike  her  own ; 

Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though  young ; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue ; 

By  trade  a tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade, 

He  served  the  squire,  and  brushed  the  coat  he  made ; 
Yet  now,  would  Phoebe  her  consent  afford, 

Her  slave  alone,  again  he  ’d  mount  the  board  ; 

With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent, 

And  growing  wealth  : she  sighed  and  looked  consent. 

Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the  green — 
Seen  by  but  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 

Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid — 

Led  by  the  lover,  walked  the  silent  maid  : 

Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they  many  a mile, 
Toyed  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  stile ; 

Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 

And  highly  coloured  what  he  strongly  drew, 

The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 

Dimmed  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears : 

Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till,  lingering  late, 

The  lover  loitered  at  the  master’s  gate ; 

There  he  pronounced  adieu  ! and  yet  would  stay, 

Till  chidden — soothed — entreated — forced  away  ! 

He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  complain, 

And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again ; 

When,  if  his  teasing  vexed  her  gentle  mind, 

The  grief  assumed  compelled  her  to  be  kind  ! 

For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kindness  crave, 

That  she  resented  first,  and  then  forgave, 

And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more 
Than  his  presumption  had  required  before  : 

Ah  ! fly  temptation,  youth ; refrain  ! refrain  ! 
Each  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming  swain  ! 
Lo  ! now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
And  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 

One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 

And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains ; 
Pinched  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
Whose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled ; 
Pale  her  parched  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low, 

And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow; 

Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she ’s  calm  again ; 

Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 

And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 

For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 

But  nearer  cause  her  anxious  soul  alarms ; 

269 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

With  water  burdened  then  she  picks  her  way, 

Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay ; 

Till,  in  mid-green,  she  trusts  a place  unsound, 

And  deeply  plunges  in  the  adhesive  ground ; 

Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes, 
While  hope  the  mind  as  strength  the  frame  forsakes ; 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows, 

Add  but  a drop,  it  instantly  o’erflows. 

And  now  her  path  but  not  her  peace  she  gains, 

Safe  from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her  pains ; 

Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door, 

And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor, 

She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits, 

And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits ; 

In  vain,  they  come,  she  feels  the  inflating  grief, 

That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief ; 

That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a soul  distressed, 

Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repressed ; 

The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  flies 
With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies ; 

Unfee’d,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys, 

Not  led  by  profit,  not  allured  by  praise ; 

And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 

She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 

Friend  of  distress ! the  mourner  feels  thy  aid, 

She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want,  and  care? 
’Tis  Phoebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  fair ; 

Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes, 

Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies : 
Compassion  first  assailed  her  gentle  heart 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom’s  smart : 

‘ And  then  his  prayers ! they  would  a savage  move, 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love 
But  ah  ! too  soon  his  looks  success  declared, 

Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage-rite  repaired ; 

The  faithless  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 

A captious  tyrant  or  a noisy  sot : 

If  present,  railing  till  he  saw  her  pained ; 

If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gained ; 

Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined, 

And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

Then  fly  temptation,  youth ; resist ! refrain  ! 

Nor  let  me  preach  for  ever  and  in  vain  ! 

[Dream  of  the  Condemned  Felon .] 

[From  The  Borough.'] 

Yes ! e’en  in  sleep  the  impressions  all  remain, 

He  hears  the  sentence  and  he  feels  the  chain ; 

He  sees  the  judge  and  jury  when  he  shakes, 

And  loudly  cries,  ‘ Not  guilty,’  and  awakes : 

Then  chilling  tremblings  o’er  his  body  creep, 

Till  worn-out  nature  is  compelled  to  sleep. 

Now  comes  the  dream  again  : it  shews  each  scene, 
With  each  small  circumstance  that  comes  between — 
The  call  to  suffering,  and  the  very  deed — 

There  crowds  go  with  him,  follow,  and  precede ; 

Some  heartless  shout,  some  pity,  all  condemn, 

While  he  in  fancied  envy  looks  at  them ; 

He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to  see, 

And  dreams  the  very  thirst  which  then  will  be ; 

A priest  attends — it  seems  the  one  he  knew 
In  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care  he  grew. 

At  this  his  terrors  take  a sudden  flight ; 

He  sees  his  native  village  with  delight ; 

The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he  once  arrayed 
His  youthful  person,  where  he  knelt  and  prayed ; 
Then,  too,  the  comforts  he  enjoyed  at  home, 

The  days  of  joy;  the  joys  themselves  are  come; 

The  hours  of  innocence,  the  timid  look 
Of  his  loved  maid,  when  first  her  hand  he  took 
And  told  his  hope  ; her  trembling  joy  appears, 

Her  forced  reserve,  and  his  retreating  fears. 

All  now  are  present — ’tis  a moment’s  gleam 
Of  former  sunshine — stay,  delightful  dream  ! 

270 

Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden  walk, 

Give  him  her  arm,  of  blessings  let  them  talk. 

Yes ! all  are  with  him  now,  and  all  the  while 
Life’s  early  prospects  and  his  Fanny’s  smile ; 

Then  come  his  sister  and  his  village  friend, 

And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  moments  spend 
Life  has  to  yield : no,  never  will  he  find 
Again  on  earth  such  pleasure  in  his  mind : 

He  goes  through  shrubby  walks  these  friends  among, 
Love  in  their  looks  and  honour  on  the  tongue ; 

Nay,  there’s  a charm  beyond  what  nature  shews, 

The  bloom  is  softer,  and  more  sweetly  glows ; 

Pierced  by  no  crime,  and  urged  by  no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts  require, 

They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus  proceed 
Through  the  green  lane,  then  linger  in  the  mead, 
Stray  o’er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple  bloom, 

And  pluck  the  blossom  where  the  wild-bees  hum  ; 
Then  through  the  broomy  bound  with  ease  they  pass, 
And  press  the  sandy  sheep-walk’s  slender  grass, 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the  gorse  are  spread, 
And  the  lamb  browses  by  the  linnet’s  bed ; _ 

Then  ’cross  the  bounding  brook  they  make  their  way 
O’er  its  rough  bridge,  and  there  behold  the  bay  ; 

The  ocean  smiling  to  the  fervid  sun, 

The  waves  that  faintly  fall,  and  slowly  run, 

The  ships  at  distance,  and  the  boats  at  hand  ; 

And  now  they  walk  upon  the  sea-side  sand, 

Counting  the  number,  and  what  kind  they  be, 

Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea ; 

Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they  behold 
The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles  rolled : 

The  timid  girls,  half  dreading  their  design, 

Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded  brine, 

And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which  spreading  flow, 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below ; 

With  all  those  bright  red  pebbles  that  the  sun 
Through  the  small  waves  so  softly  shines  upon ; 

And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  the  eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glittering  by ; 

Pearl  shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they  admire, 

And  will  arrange  above  the  parlour  fire. 

Tokens  of  bliss ! ‘ Oh,  horrible  ! a wave 

Roars  as  it  rises — save  me,  Edward,  save ! ’ 

She  cries.  Alas ! the  watchman  on  his  way 
Calls,  and  lets  in — truth,  terror,  qnd  the  day ! 

[Story  of  a Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble  Life.'] 
[From  The  Borough.] 

Yes,  there  are  real  mourners;  I have  seen 
A fair  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene ; 

Attention  through  the  day  her  duties  claimed, 

And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed ; 

Neatly  she  dressed,  nor  vainly  seemed  to  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect ; 

But  Avhen  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep, 

She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep : 

Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 

That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow’s  aid ; 

For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  youth, 

Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth  ; 

In  every  place  she  wandered  where  they ’d  been, 

And  sadly  sacred  held  the  parting  scene 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave — that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace  ; 

For  long  the  courtship  was,  and  he  would  say 
Each  time  he  sailed : ‘ This  once,  and  then  the  day ; ’ 
Yet  prudence  tarried,  but  when  last  he  went, 

He  drew  from  pitying  love  a full  consent. 

Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  the  care  she  took 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look ; 

White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck; 

And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know, 

Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow ; 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 


For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate’s  cold, 

Yet  saw  not  danger,  dangers  he’d  withstood, 

Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  in  his  cheek, 

And  he,  too,  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak ; 

For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 

With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 

He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a sigh 
A lover’s  message : ‘ Thomas,  I must  die; 

Would  I could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 

And  gazing  go  ! if  not,  this  trifle  take, 

And  say,  till  death  I wore  it  for  her  sake. 

Yes,  I must  die — blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on ! 
Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone ; 

Oh,  give  me  that ! and  let  me  not  despair — 

One  last  fond  look — and  now  repeat  the  prayer. 

He  had  his  wish,  and  more.  I will  not  paint 
The  lovers’  meeting : she  beheld  him  faint — 

With  tender  fears  she  took  a nearer  view, 

Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew ; 

He  tried  to  smile,  and  half  succeeding,  said : 

‘ Yes,  I must  die  ’ — and  hope  for  ever  fled. 

Still  long  she  nursed  him ; tender  thoughts  mean- 
time 

Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 

To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away ; 

With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 

Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head  ; 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer, 
Apart  she  sighed,  alone  she  shed  the  tear ; 

Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 

They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to  think, 
Yet  said  not  so — ‘ Perhaps  he  will  not  sink.’ 

A sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 

A sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard ; 

She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 

And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair ; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew, 

The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few ; 

Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 

But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all. 

When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear. 

He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  pressed, 
And  fondly  whispered : ‘ Thou  must  go  to  rest.’ 

‘ I go,’  he  said,  but  as  he  spoke  she  found 

His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound ; 

Then  gazed  affrightened,  but  she  caught  a last, 

A dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past. 

She  placed  a decent  stone  his  grave  above, 

Neatly  engraved,  an  offering  of  her  love  : 

For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead. 

She  would  have  grieved  had  they  presumed  to  spare 
The  least  assistance — ’twas  her  proper  care. 

Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 

Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit ; 

But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 

And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found ; 

Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ, 

While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 

[An  English  Fen — Gipsies .] 

[From  Tales— Lover’s  Journey.] 

On  either  side 

Is  level  fen,  a prospect  wild  and  wide, 

With  dikes  on  either  hand  by  ocean’s  self  supplied  : 
Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 

And  salt  the  springs  that  feed  the  marsh  between  : 


Beneath  an  ancient  bridge,  the  straitened  flood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud ; 

Near  it  a sunken  boat  resists  the  tide, 

That  frets  and  hurries  to  the  opposing  side ; 

The  rushes  sharp  that  on  the  borders  grow, 

Bend  their  brown  flowerets  to  the  stream  below, 
Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress  slow : 

Here  a grave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom, 

Nor  wears  a rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume ; 

The  few  dull  flowers  that  o’er  the  place  are  spread, 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed. 

Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom, 

Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume ; 

Here  the  dwarf  sallows  creep,  the  septfoil  harsh, 

And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh ; 

Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound, 

And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound ; 

Nor  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun ; 

Birds,  save  a watery  tribe,  the  district  shun, 

Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters  run. 

Again,  the  country  was  enclosed,  a wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side ; 

Where,  lo  ! a hollow  on  the  left  appeared, 

And  there  a gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  reared ; 

’Twas  open  spread  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 

And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 

When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat, 

The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet ; 

While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 

He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand ; 

Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 

Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try ; 

Sudden  a look  of  languor  he  descries, 

And  well -feigned  apprehension  in  her  eyes; 

Trained,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 
He  marked  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race, 

When  a light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  expressed 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast ; 

Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came, 

Who  seemed  offended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 
The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 
The  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller’s  face. 

Within  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh, 

Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire’s  supply, 

Watched  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected  by ; 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrowed  from  the  bed, 

And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 

In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dressed, 

Reclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 

In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remained, 

Of  vigour  palsied,  and  of  beauty  stained ; 

Her  bloodshot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
Were  wrathful  turned,  and  seemed  her  wants  to 
state, 

Cursing  his  tardy  aid.  Her  mother  there 
With  gipsy  state  engrossed  the  only  chair ; 

Solemn  and  dull  her  look ; with  such  she  stands, 

And  reads  the  milkmaid’s  fortune  in  her  hands, 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life ; assumed  through  years, 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears  ; 

With  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 

And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood. 

Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  grandsire  sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits ; 

Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done, 

And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  son, 

Who  half  supports  him,  he  with  heavy  glance 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance, 

And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years ; 

Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  deceit, 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat ; 

What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain, 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain, 

Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 

Without  a hope,  a comfort,  or  a friend  ! 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


[Gradual  Approaches  of  Age.] 

[From  Tales  of  the  Hall.] 

Six  years  Lad  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six, 

When  time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ; 

The  locks  once  comely  in  a virgin’s  sight, 

Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching  white ; 
The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began, 

And  Time’s  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man. 

I rode  or  walked  as  I was  wont  before, 

But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more ; 

A moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat  ; 

A walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 

I shewed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime, 

But  said  : ‘The  view  is  poor  ; we  need  not  climb.’ 

At  a friend’s  mansion  I began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlour  and  the  gay  glazed  bed : 

At  home  I felt  a more  decided  taste, 

And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 

I ceased  to  hunt ; my  horses  pleased  me  less — 

My  dinner  more ; I learned  to  play  at  chess. 

I took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
Was  disappointed  that  I did  not  shoot. 

My  morning  walks  I now  could  bear  to  lose, 

And  blessed  the  shower  that  give  me  not  to  choose  *. 
In  fact,  I felt  a languor  stealing  on ; 

The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone ; 

Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 

And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 

I loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose ; 

I numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose ; 

Told  the  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose. 

[S'on^r  of  the  Crazed  Maiden.] 

[From  the  same.] 

Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view 
About  my  room,  about  my  bed  ; 

But  morning  roses,  wet  with  dew, 

To  cool  my  burning  brow  instead ; 

As  flowers  that  once  in  Eden  grew, 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirits  shed, 

And  every  day  their  sweets  renew, 

Till  I,  a fading  flower,  am  dead. 

0 let  the  herbs  I loved  to  rear 

Give  to  my  sense  their  perfumed  breath ! 

Let  them  be  placed  about  my  bier, 

And  grace  the  gloomy  house  of  death. 

1 ’ll  have  my  grave  beneath  a hill, 

Where  only  Lucy’s  self  shall  know, 

Where  runs  the  pure  pellucid  rill 
Upon  its  gravelly  bed  below : 

There  violets  on  the  borders  blow, 

And  insects  their  soft  light  display, 

Till,  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow, 

The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 

That  is  the  grave  to  Lucy  shewn ; 

The  soil  a pure  and  silver  sand ; 

The  green  cold  moss  above  it  grown, 

Unplucked  of  all  but  maiden  hand. 

In  virgin  earth,  till  then  unturned, 

There  let  my  maiden  form  be  laid ; 

Nor  let  my  changed  clay  be  spurned, 

Nor  for  new  guest  that  bed  be  made. 

There  will  the  lark,  the  lamb,  in  sport, 

In  air,  on  earth,  securely  play : 

And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort, 

As  innocent,  but  not  so  gay. 

I will  not  have  the  churchyard  ground 
With  bones  all  black  and  ugly  grown, 

To  press  my  shivering  body  round, 

Or  on  my  wasted  limbs  be  thrown. 

272 


With  ribs  and  skulls  I will  not  sleep, 

In  clammy  beds  of  cold  blue  clay, 

Through  which  the  ringed  earth-worms  creep, 
And  on  the  shrouded  bosom  prey. 

I will  not  have  the  bell  proclaim 
When  those  sad  marriage  rites  begin, 

And  boys,  without  regard  or  shame, 

Press  the  vile  mouldering  masses  in. 

Say  not,  it  is  beneath  my  care — 

I cannot  these  cold  truths  allow ; 

These  thoughts  may  not  afflict  me  there, 

But  oh  ! they  vex  and  tease  me  now  ! 

Raise  not  a turf,  nor  set  a stone, 

That  man  a maiden’s  grave  may  trace, 

But  thou,  my  Lucy,  come  alone, 

And  let  affection  find  the  place  I 

[Sketches  of  Autumn.] 

[From  the  same.] 

It  was  a fair  and  mild  autumnal  sky, 

And  earth’s  ripe  treasures  met  the  admiring  eye, 

As  a rich  beauty  when  her  bloom  is  lost, 

Appears  with  more  magnificence  and  cost : 

The  wet  and  heavy  grass,  where  feet  had  strayed, 

Not  yet  erect,  the  wanderer’s  way  betrayed ; 

Showers  of  the  night  had  swelled  the  deepening  rill, 
The  morning  breeze  had  urged  the  quickening  mill ; 
Assembled  rooks  had  winged  their  seaward  flight, 

By  the  same  passage  to  return  at  night, 

While  proudly  o’er  them  hung  the  steady  kite, 

Then  turned  them  back,  and  left  the  noisy  throng, 
Nor  deigned  to  know  them  as  he  sailed  along. 

Long  yellow  leaves,  from  osiers,  strewed  around, 
Choked  the  dull  stream,  and  hushed  its  feeble  sound, 
While  the  dead  foliage  dropt  from  loftier  trees, 

Our  squire  beheld  not  with  his  wonted  ease ; 

But  to  his  own  reflections  made  reply, 

And  said  aloud : ‘ Yes ; doubtless  we  must  die.’ 

‘ We  must,’  said  Richard ; ‘ and  we  would  not  live 
To  feel  what  dotage  and  decay  will  give ; 

But  we  yet  taste  whatever  we  behold ; 

The  morn  is  lovely,  though  the  air  is  cold : 

There  is  delicious  quiet  in  this  scene, 

At  once  so  rich,  so  varied,  so  serene; 

Sounds,  too,  delight  us — each  discordant  tone 
Thus  mingled  please,  that  fail  to  please  alone ; 

This  hollow  wind,  this  rustling  of  the  brook, 

The  farm-yard  noise,  the  woodman  at  yon  oak — 

See,  the  axe  falls  ! — now  listen  to  the  stroke : 

That  gun  itself,  that  murders  all  this  peace, 

Adds  to  the  charm,  because  it  soon  must  cease.’ 


Cold  grew  the  foggy  morn,  the  day  was  brief, 

Loose  on  the  cherry  hung  the  crimson  leaf : 

The  dew  dwelt  ever  on  the  herb ; the  woods 
Roared  with  strong  blasts,  with  mighty  showers  the 
floods  : 

All  green  was  vanished  save  of  pine  and  yew, 

That  still  displayed  their  melancholy  hue ; 

Save  the  green  holly  with  its  berries  red, 

And  the  green  moss  that  o’er  the  gravel  spread. , 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

There  is  a poetry  of  taste  as  well  as  of  the  pas- 
sions, which  can  only  be  relished  by  the  intellectual 
classes,  but  is  capable  of  imparting  exquisite  plea- 
sure to  those  who  have  the  key  to  its  hidden 
mysteries.  It  is  somewhat  akin  to  that  delicate 
appreciation  of  the  fine  arts,  or  of  music,  which  in 
some  men  amounts  to  almost  a new  sense.  Mr 
Rogers,  author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Memory , was 
a votary  of  this  school  of  refinement.  We  have 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


POETS. 


everywhere  in  his  works  a classic  and  graceful 
beauty ; no  slovenly  or  obscure  lines ; fine  cabinet 
pictures  of  soft  and  mellow  lustre  ; and  occasionally 


trains  of  thought  and  association  that  awaken  or 
recall  tender  and  heroic  feelings.  His  diction  is 
clear  and  polished — finished  with  great  care  and 
scrupulous  nicety.  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  he  has  no  forcible  or  original  inven- 
tion, no  deep  pathos  that  thrills  the  soul,  and  no 
kindling  energy  that  fires  the  imagination.  In  his 
shadowy  poem  of  Columbus , he  seems  often  to  verge 
on  the  sublime,  but  does  not  attain  it.  His  late 
works  are  his  best.  Parts  of  Human  Life  possess 
deeper  feeling  than  are  to  be  found  in  the  Pleasures 
of  Memory;  and  in  the  easy  half-conversational 
sketches  of  his  Italy,  there  are  delightful  glimpses 
of  Italian  life,  and  scenery,  and  old  traditions.  The 
poet  was  an  accomplished  traveller,  a lover  of  the 
fair  and  good,  and  a worshipper  of  the  classic  glories 
of  the  past.  Samuel  Rogers  was  born  at  Stoke 
Newington,  one  of  the  suburbs  of  London,  on  the 
30  th  July  1763.  His  father  was  a banker  in  the 
city,  and  the  poet,  after  a careful  private  education, 
was  introduced  into  the  banking  establishment,  of 
which  he  continued  a partner  up  to  the  time  of  his 
death.  He  appeared  as  an  author  in  1786,  the 
same  year  that  witnessed  the  advent  of  Burns. 
The  production  of  Rogers  was  a thin  quarto  of  a 
few  pages,  an  Ode  to  Superstition , with  some  other 
Poems.  In  1792,  he  produced  the  Pleasures  of 
Memory ; in  1798,  his  Epistle  to  a Friend , with  other 
Poems;  in  1812,  Columbus;  and  in  1814,  Jacqueline , 
a tale,  published  in  conjunction  with  Byron’s 
Lara — 

Like  morning  brought  by  night. 

In  1819,  appeared  Human  Life , and  in  1822,  the 
first  part  of  Italy,  a descriptive  poem  in  blank  verse. 
Rogers  was  a careful  and  fastidious  writer.  In 
his  Table  Talk,  published  by  Mr  l)yce,  the  poet 
• 70 


is  represented  as  saying:  ‘I  was  engaged  on  the 
Pleasures  of  Memory  ■ for  nine  years ; on  Human 
Life  for  nearly  the  same  space  of  time ; and  Italy 
was  not  completed  in  less  than  sixteen  years.’  The 
collected  works  of  Mr  Rogers  have  been  published 
in  various  forms — one  of  them  containing  vignette 
engravings  from  designs  by  Stothard  and  Turner, 
and  forming  no  inconsiderable  trophy  of  British  art. 
The  poet  was  enabled  to  cultivate  his  favourite 
tastes,  to  enrich  his  house  in  St  James’s  Place  with 
some  of  the  finest  and  rarest  pictures,  busts,  books, 
gems,  and  other  articles  of  virtu,  and  to  entertain 
his  friends  with  a generous  and  unostentatious  hospi- 
tality. His  conversation  was  rich  and  various, 
abounding  in  critical  remarks,  shrewd  observation, 
and  interesting  personal  anecdote.  It  is  gratifying 
to  add  that  his  benevolence  was  equal  to  his  taste ; 
his  bounty  soothed  and  relieved  the  death-bed  of 
Sheridan,  and  was  exerted  to  a large  extent  annually 
in  behalf  of  suffering  or  unfriended  talent.  ‘ Genius 
languishing  for  want  of  patronage,’  says  Mr  Dyce, 

‘ was  sure  to  find  in  Mr  Rogers  a generous  patron. 
His  purse  Avas  ever  open  to  the  distressed:  of  the 
prompt  assistance  which  he  rendered  in  the  hour  of 
need  to  various  well-known  individuals,  there  is 
ample  record ; but  of  his  many  acts  of  kindness 
and  charity  to  the  wholly  obscure,  there  is  no 
memorial — at  least  on  earth.  The  taste  of  Mr 
Rogers  had  been  cultivated  to  the  utmost  refine- 
ment ; and,  till  the  failure  of  his  mental  powers,  a 
short  time  previous  to  his  death,  he  retained  that 


House  of  Mr  Rogers  in  St  James’s  Place. 


love  of  the  beautiful  which  was  in  him  a passion : 
when  more  than  ninety,  and  a close  prisoner  to  his 
chair,  he  still  delighted  to  watch  the  changing 
colours  of  the  evening  sky — to  repeat  passages  of 
his  favourite  poets,  or  to  dwell  on  the  merits  of  the 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830, 


great  painters  whose  works  adorned  his  walls.  By 
slow  decay,  and  without  any  suflering,  he  died  in 
St  James’s  Place,  18th  December  1855.’  The  poet 
bequeathed  three  of  his  pictures — a Titian,  a Guido, 
and  a Giorgione — to  the  National  Gallery.  The 
Titian  he  considered  the  most  valuable  in  his 
possession.  It  had  been  in  the  Orleans  Gallery, 
and  when  that  princely  collection  was  broken  up,  it 
was  sold  for  four  hundred  guineas.  Mr  Rogers, 
however,  gave  more  than  double  that  sum  for  it  in 
1828. 

It  was  as  a man  of  taste  and  letters,  as  a patron 
of  artists  and  authors,  and  as  the  friend  of  almost 
every  illustrious  man  that  has  graced  our  annals, 
for  the  last  half-century  and  more,  that  Mr  Rogers 
chiefly  challenged  the  public  attention.  At  his 
celebrated  breakfast-parties,  persons  of  almost  all 
classes  and  pursuits  were  found.  He  made  the 
morning  meal  famous  as  a literary  rallying-point ; 
and  during  the  London  season  there  was  scarcely  a 
day  in  which  from  four  to  six  persons  were  not 
assembled  at  the  hospitable  board  in  St  James’s 
Place.  There,  discussion  as  to  books  or  pictures, 
anecdotes  of  the  great  of  old,  some  racy  saying  of 
Sheridan,  Erskine,  or  Horne  Tooke,  some  social 
trait  of  Fox,  some  apt  quotation  or  fine  passage  read 
aloud,  some  incident  of  foreign  travel  recounted — all 
flowed  on  without  restraint,  and  charmed  the  hours 
till  mid-day.  A certain  quaint  shrewdness  and 
sarcasm,  though  rarely  taking  an  offensive  form, 
also  characterised  Rogers’s  conversation.  Many  of 
his  sayings  circulated  in  society  and  got  into  print. 
Some  one  said  that  Gaily  Knight  was  getting  deaf: 

‘ It  is  from  want  of  practice,’  remarked  Rogers,  Mr 
Knight  being  a great  speaker  and  bad  listener. 
The  late  Lord  Dudley  (Ward)  had  been  free  in  his 
criticisms  on  the  poet,  who  retaliated  with  that 
epigrammatic  couplet,  which  has  never  been  sur- 
passed— 

Ward  has  no  heart  they  say ; but  I deny  it ; 

He  has  a heart — he  gets  his  speeches  by  it. 

The  poet,  it  is  said,  on  one  occasion  tried  to  extort 
a confession  from  his  neighbour,  Sir  Philip  Francis, 
that  he  was  the  author  of  Junius,  but  Francis  gave 
a surly  rebuff,  and  Rogers  remarked  that  if  he  was 
not  Junius , he  was  at  least  Brutus.  We  may  remark 
that  the  poet’s  recipe  for  long  life  was,  ‘ temperance, 
the  bath  and  flesh-brush,  and  don’t  fret.’  The 
felicity  of  his  own  lot  he  has  thus  gracefully 
alluded  to: 

Nature  denied  him  much, 

But  gave  him  at  his  birth  what  most  he  values : 

A passionate  Jove  for  music,  sculpture,  painting, 

For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods, 

For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 

A setting  sun,  a lake  among  the  mountains, 

The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance, 

And,  what  transcends  them  all,  a noble  action. 

Italy. 

[ From  the  1 Pleasures  of  Memory.'] 

Twilight’s  soft  dews  steal  o’er  the  village  green, 

With  magic  tints  to  hai’monise  the  scene. 

Stilled  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 

And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 

Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales  and  legendary  lore. 

All,  all  are  fled  ; nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 

All,  all  are  fled  ; yet  still  I linger  here  ! 

What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ? 

274 


Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees. 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 

That  casement,  arched  with  ivy’s  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  conveyed. 

The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown  court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a simple  sport ; 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 

And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  revealed. 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely  sculptured  shield, 

The  martin’s  old  hereditary  nest. 

Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest ! 

* * * * 

Childhood’s  loved  group  revisits  every  scene, 

The  tangled  wood-walk  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live  ! 

Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  light  can  give. 

Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below. 

To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 

Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 

When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets  to  charm  ; 

Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage’s  precept  and  the  poet’s  song. 

What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 

When  o’er  the  landscape  Time’s  meek  twilight  steals  ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 

Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 

Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness  resigned, 

Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The  school’s  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  gray. 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 

Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the  lawn  : 

Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a pause  to  care. 

Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a tear, 

Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherished  here  ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions  and  romantic  dreams. 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  gipsy’s  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed; 

Gazed  on  her  sunburnt  face  with  silent  awe, 

Her  tattered  mantle  and  her  hood  of  straw ; 

Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o’er ; 

The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 

Imps  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlets  bred, 

From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ; 

Whose  dark  eyes  flashed  through  locks  of  blackest 
shade, 

When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bayed  : 

And  heroes  fled  the  sibyl’s  muttered  call, 

Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard  wall. 

As  o’er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 

And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 

How  throbbed  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 
fears, 

To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years  ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flushed  my  breast ; 
This  truth  once  known — to  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 

We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way — 

Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray — 

Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 

And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt : 

As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store, 

And  sighed  to  think  that  little  was  no  more, 

He  breathed  his  prayer,  ‘Long  may  such  goodness 
live ! ’ 

’Twas  all  he  gave — ’twas  all  he  had  to  give. 

* * * * 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 

From  Reason’s  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 

What  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned ! 

What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 

Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought; 

0 mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


The  adventurous  boy  that  asks  his  little  share, 

And  hies  from  home  with  many  a gossip’s  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 

And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 

The  smoke’s  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 

The  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep ; 
All  rouse  Reflection’s  sadly  pleasing  train, 

And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 

And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swelled  their  strange  expanse  of  sail ; 

So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu, 

Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 

And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 

Long  o’er  the  wave  a wistful  look  he  cast, 

Long  watched  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast ; 
Till  twilight’s  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 

And  fairy  forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 

So  Scotia’s  queen,  as  slowly  dawned  the  day, 

Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 

Her  eyes  had  blessed  the  beacon’s  glimmering  height, 
That  faintly  tipped  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 

But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portrayed 
Each  castled  cliff  and  brown  monastic  shade  : 

All  touched  the  talisman’s  resistless  spring, 

And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing  ! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire, 

As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror’s  truth. 

Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  patriot’s 

sigh ; 

This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 

For  this  young  Foscari,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 

When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 

To  sorrow’s  long  soliloquies  a prey, 

When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 

For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws ; 

Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hailed  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart ; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 

Aerial  forms  in  Tempe’s  classic  vale 

Glance  through  the  gloom  and  whisper  in  the  gale ; 

In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 

And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa’s  cell. 

’Twas  ever  thus.  Young  Ammon,  when  he  sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelides  fought, 

Sat  at  the  helm  himself.  No  meaner  hand 
Steered  through  the  waves,  and  when  he  struck  the 
land, 

Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 

Pelides-like,  he  leaped  the  first  ashore. 

’Twas  ever  thus.  As  now  at  Virgil’s  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom : 

So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 

On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime  ; 

When  at  his  feet  in  honoured  dust  disclosed, 

The  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 

And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung 
Where  once  a Plato  taught,  a Pindar  sung ; 

Who  now  but  meets  him  ipusing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruined  Tusculan’s  romantic  groves  ? 

In  Rome’s  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o’er  the  subject  soul? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives : 

We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives ! 

Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 

And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade  ! 

Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 

When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 


Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father’s  features  in  his  infant  face. 

The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 

Won  by  the  raptures  of  a game  at  play  ; 

He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 

Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  war  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace ; 

What  though  the  fiend’s  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 

Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 

And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity’s  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a foreign  shore, 
Condemned  to  climb  his  mountain-cliffs  no  more, 

If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild 
Which  on  those  cliffs  his  infant  hours  beguiled, 

Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

* * * * 

* Recall  the  traveller,  whose  altered  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm ; 

And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 

His  faithful  dog’s  already  at  his  feet ! 

Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Though  all  that  knew  him  know  his  face  no  more, 

His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 

With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech.  • 

And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 

Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly? 

The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 

These,  when  to  guard  Misfortune’s  sacred  grave, 

Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 

Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  blest  the  sight. 

Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies : 

’Tis  vain  ! through  ether’s  pathless  wild  she  goes, 

And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird ! thy  truth  shall  Harlem’s  walls  attest. 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 

When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 

With  looks  that  asked,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief, 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour  clung, 

To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 

’Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ; 

Alas  ! ’twas  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 

Crushed  by  her  meagre  hand  when  welcomed  from 
the  sky. 

Hark  ! the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  horn, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  mom. 

O’er  tliymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 

And  many  a stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 

’Tis  noon — ’tis  night.  That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 

Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 

Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  ! 

Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 

Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  Memory,  hail ! thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being’s  glorious  chain. 

* * * * 

As  the  stem  grandeur  of  a Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 

Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 

The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace 
Steal  from  each  year  a melancholy  grace  ! 

And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 

As  the  heart  opens  in  a foreign  land ; 

And,  with  a brother’s  warmth,  a brother’s  smile, 

The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle ; 


fro m 1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 

Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 

Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  viewed, 

However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 

But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 

With  every  claim  of  close  affinity ! 

* * * * 

Hail,  Memory,  hail ! in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 

And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway! 

Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone ; 

The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 

Lighter  than  air,  Hope’s  summer- visions  die, 

If  but  a fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 

If  but  a beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 

Lo,  Fancy’s  fairy  frost-work  melts  away  ! 

But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 

Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a well-spent  hour  ? 

These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a stream  of  living  light ; 

And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest ! 

[From  1 Human  Life.'] 

The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky, 

The  bees  have  hummed  their  noontide  lullaby ; 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village  bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn  hall  the  jests  resound  ; 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A few  short  years,  and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale  ; 

So  soon  the  child  a youth,  the  youth  a man, 

Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 

Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin  ; 

The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine ; 

And,  basking  in  the  chimney’s  ample  blaze, 

JMid  many  a tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 

The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 

‘ ’Twas  on  her  knees  he  sat  so  oft  and  smiled.’ 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ; and  hymns  be  sung, 

And  violets  scattered  round  ; and  old  and  young, 

In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green, 

Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene, 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side, 

Moves  in  her  virgin  veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas  ! nor  in  a distant  hour, 

Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower  ; 

When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weeping  heard  where  only  joy  has  been ; 

When,  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door, 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more, 

He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  human  life ; so  gliding  on, 

It  glimmers  like  a meteor,  and  is  gone  ! 

Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 

As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wonderous  change, 

As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 

Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire  ; 

As  any  sung  of  old,  in  hall  or  bower, 

To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight’s  witching  hour  ! 

* * * * 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared  ; 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a pang  endeared, 

And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry  ; 

O grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  ! 

He  comes — she  clasps  him.  To  her  bosom  pressed, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger  knows  ! 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shews  1 
276  


As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 

What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 

He  walks,  he  speaks.  In  many  a broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 

And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 

When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Locked  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue), 

As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 

And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 

How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 

Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart  ; 
Watch  o’er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 

And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a mother’s  love  ! 

But  soon  a nobler  task  demands  her  care. 

Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 

Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there  ! 

And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eye — now  many  a written  thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a lisping  sweet, 

His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavour  to  repeat. 

[Ginevra.] 

[From  Italy."] 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Bologna’s  bucket — in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandine — 

Stop  at  a palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 

Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 

Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 

And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 

Will  long  detain  thee ; through  their  arched  walks, 
Dim,  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 

And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song, 

Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 

That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat, 

Venturing  together  on  a tale  of  love, 

Read  only  part  that  day.  A summer  sun 
Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ; but,  ere  thou  go, 

Enter  the  house — prithee,  forget  it  not  — 

And  look  awhile  upon  a picture  there. 

’Tis  of  a lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 

The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race, 

Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I care  not. 

He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 

Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 

That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 

Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up, 

As  though  she  said  ‘ Beware  ! ’ Her  vest  of  gold 
’Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to 
foot, 

An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 

And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A coronet  of  pearls.  But  then  her  face, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a year  has  fled, 

Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 

An  oaken  chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm, 

But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture-stories  from  the  life  of  Christ ; 

A chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor. 

That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 

But  don’t  forget  the  picture  ; and  thou  wilt  not, 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child  ; from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  sire. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


Her  mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 

That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him  ? 
The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life, 

Still  as  she  grew,  for  ever  in  his  sight ; 

And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a bride, 

Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Boria, 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal-dress, 

She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 

Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum  ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ; but  at  the  bridal-feast, 
When  all  sat  down,  the  bride  was  wanting  there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  ! Her  father  cried, 

‘ ’Tis  but  to  make  a trial  of  our  love ! ’ 

And  filled  his  glass  to  all ; but  his  band  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
’Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 

Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 

But  now,  alas  ! she  was  not  to  be  found ; 

Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed 
But  that  she  was  not ! Wear y of  his  life, 

Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 

Orsini  lived ; and  long  mightst  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  be  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 

When  on  an  idle  day,  a day  of  search 
’Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ; and  ’twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 

‘ Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ? ’ 

’Twas  done  as  soon  as  said ; but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ; and  lo,  a skeleton, 

With  here  and  there  a pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 

A golden  clasp,  clasping  a shred  of  gold  ! 

All  else  had  perished — save  a nuptial-ring, 

And  a small  seal,  her  mother’s  legacy, 

Engraven  with  a name,  the  name  of  both, 

‘ Ginevra.’  There  then  had  she  found  a grave  ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy  the  happiest  of  the  happy ; 
When  a spring-lock  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  for  ever  ! 


An  Italian  Song. 

Bear  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 
Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 
To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 

That  breathe  a gale  of  fragrance  round, 

I charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute’s  romantic  sound  ; 

Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd’s  horn  at  break  of  day, 

The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 

The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade ; 

These  simple  joys  that  never  fail, 

Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


To  the  Butterfly. 

Child  of  the  sun  ! pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov’st  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold, 

Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy ! 

Yet  wert  thou  once  a worm,  a thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man  ; soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland — 1812. 

Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 

Ben  Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 

When,  Luss,  I left  thee  ; when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 

Thy  kirkyard  wall  among  the  trees, 

Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands ; 

That  dial  so  well-known  to  me ! 

Though  many  a shadow  it  had  shed, 

Beloved  sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away ; 

That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 

Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 

And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day ; 

That,  too,  the  deer’s  wild  covert  fled, 

And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead : 

While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 

Much  of  Rob  Roy  the  boatman  told ; 

His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee, 

His  cattle  ford  and  mountain  hold. 

Tarbat,1  thy  shore  I climbed  at  last ; 

And,  thy  shady  region  passed, 

Upon  another  shore  I stood, 

And  looked  upon  another  flood ; 2 
Great  Ocean’s  self  ! (’Tis  he  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills) ; 

Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 

Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground  ; 

And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 

As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell,  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 

As  o’er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew, 

The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 

And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 

Black  and  huge  above  the  tide ; 

The  cliffs  and  promontories  there, 

Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare ; 

Each  beyond  each,  with  giant  feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 

The  shattered  fortress,  whence  the  Bane 
Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rushed  in  vain, 
Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain ; 

All  into  midnight  shadow  sweep, 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep  ! 
Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendour,  and  the  oar, 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a sea  of  light ; 

Glad  sign  and  sure,  for  now  we  hail 
Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be, 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  Thee  ! 

0 blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too  ! 

Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Tolled  duly  on  the  desert  air, 

And  crosses  decked  thy  summits  blue. 

1 Signifying,  in  the  Gaelic  language,  an  isthmus. 

2 Loch  Long. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Oft  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 

Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 

Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men, 

Thy  beechen  grove  and  water-fall, 

Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail, 

And  her — the  Lady  of  the  Glen ! 

Pcestum.1 
[From  Italy.] 

They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea  ; 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not. 

The  seaman  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck, 

The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 

Points  to  the  work  of  magic,  and  moves  on. 

Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Temples  of  gods,  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 

Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for  justice ; 
And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused, 
And  here  the  judges  sat,  and  heard,  and  judged. 

All  silent  now,  as  in  the  ages  past, 

Trodden  under  foot,  and  mingled  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
j While,  by  some  spell  rendered  invisible, 

| Or,  if  approached,  approached  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remained 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a sepulchre, 

Waiting  the  appointed  time ! All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  nature  had  resumed  her  right, 

: And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced ; 

No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 

But  with  thick  ivy  hung,  or  branching  fern, 

Their  iron-brown  o’erspread  with  brightest  verdure  ! 

From  my  youth  upward  have  I longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground ; and  am  I here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 

And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 

Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 

Mountains  and  mountain -gulfs,  and,  half-way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 

A cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate, 

Where  once  a slave  withstood  a world  in  arms. 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals ; 

Sweet  as  when  Tully,  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost — 
Turning  to  thee,  divine  philosophy, 

Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul — 

Sailed  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago, 

For  Athens ; when  a ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Psestan  gardens,  slacked  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 

These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 
Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west, 

Well  might  he  dream  of  glory  ! Now,  coiled  up, 

The  serpent  sleeps  within  them ; the  she- wolf 
Suckles  her  young ; and  as  alone  I stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering, 

How  solemn  is  the  stillness  ! Nothing  stirs 
Save  the  shrill- voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing ; 

Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 

And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  spring, 

To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun’s  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a flood  of  light 

1 The  temples  of  Psestum  are  three  in  number,  and  have 
survived,  nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  the 
city.  Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them,  but  they  must  have 
existed  now  between  two  and  three  thousand  years. 

278 


Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries — 

Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 

Athwart  the  innumerable  columns  flung — 

In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 

Led  by  the  mighty  genius  of  the  place.1 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appeared, 

Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scattered  as  in  scorn  ; 

And  what  within  them  ? What  but  in  the  midst 
These  three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 

As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 

And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

To . 

Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly ; 

You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away ! 

There ’s  such  a charm  in  melancholy, 

I would  not,  if  I could,  be  gay. 

Oh,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I sigh, 

You  would  not  rob  me  of  a treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 

A Wish. 

Mine  be  a cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A bee-hive’s  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 

A willowy  brook,  that  turns  a mill, 

With  many  a fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 

And  share  my  meal,  a welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 

And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

On  a Tear. 

0 that  the  chemist’s  magic  art 
Could  crystallise  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 

A secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe’s  eye ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 

The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light, 

In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine ; 

More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 

Who  ever  fliest  to  bring  relief, 

When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage’s  and  the  poet’s  theme, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age  ; 

Thou  charm’ st  in  Fancy’s  idle  dream, 

In  Reason’s  philosophic  page. 

1 They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident  about 
the  middle  of  the  last  century. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


That  very  law  which  moulds  a tear, 

And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 

That  law  preserves  the  earth  a sphere, 

And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

William  Wordsworth,  the  greatest  of  meta- 
physical poets,  was  a native  of  Cockermouth,  in 
the  county  of  Cumberland,  where  he  was  born  on 
the  7th  of  April  1770.  His  parents  were  enabled  to 


bestow  upon  their  children  the  advantages  of  a 
complete  education.  His  father  was  law-agent  to 
i Sir  James  Lowther,  afterwards  Earl  of  Lonsdale, 
and  the  poet  and  his  brother — Dr  Christopher 
I Wordsworth,  long  master  of  Trinity  College — after 
j being  some  years  at  Hawkshead  School,  in  Lanca- 
! shire,  were  sent  to  the  university  of  Cambridge. 

William  was  entered  of  St  John’s  in  1787.  Having 
I finished  his  academical  course,  and  taken  his  degree, 
he  travelled  for  a short  time.  In  the  autumn  of 
, 1790,  he  accomplished  a tour  on  the  continent  in 

; company  with  a fellow-student,  Mr  Robert  Jones. 

I ‘We  went  staff  in  hand,’  he  said,  ‘without  knap- 
! sacks,  and  carrying  each  his  needments  tied  up  in 
• a pocket  handkerchief,  with  about  £20  apiece  in 
I our  pockets.’  With  this  friend,  Wordsworth  made 
I a tour  in  North  Wales  the  following  year,  after 
i taking  his  degree  in  college.  He  was  again  in 
i France  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1791,  and 
I remained  in  that  country  about  a twelvemonth.  lie 
I had  hailed  the  French  Revolution  with  feelings  of 
j enthusiastic  admiration. 

Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 

But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven. 

Few  poets  escaped  the  contagion.  Burns,  Coleridge, 
Southey,  and  Campbell,  all  felt  the  flame,  and 
looked  for  a new  era  of  liberty  and  happiness.  It 
was  long  ere  Wordsworth  abandoned  his  political 
theory.  His  friends  were  desirous  he  should  enter 


the  church,  but  his  republican  sentiments  and  the 
unsettled  state  of  his  mind  rendered  him  averse  to 
such  a step.  To  the  profession  of  the  law  he  was 
equally  opposed.  Poetry  was  to  be  the  sole  busi- 
ness of  his  life.  A young  friend,  Raisley  Calvert, 
dying  in  1795,  left  him  a sum  of  £900.  ‘Upon  the 
interest  of  the  £900,’  he  says,  ‘ £400  being  laid  out 
in  annuity,  with  £200  deducted  from  the  principal, 
and  £100,  a legacy  to  my  sister,  and  £100  more 
which  the  Lyrical  Ballads  brought  me,  my  sister  and 
I contrived  to  live  seven  years,  nearly  eight.’  A 
further  sum  of  about  £1000  came  to  him  as  part  of 
the  estate  of  his  father,  wrho  had  died  intestate ; and 
with  this  small  competence,  Wordsworth  devoted 
himself  to  study  and  seclusion.  He  first  appeared 
as  a poet  in  his  twenty- third  year,  1793.  The  title 
of  his  work  was  Descriptive  Sketches , which  was 
followed  the  same  year  by  the  Evening  Walk.  The 
walk  is  among  the  mountains  of  Westmoreland ; the 
sketches  refer  to  a tour  made  in  Switzerland  by  the 
poet  and  his  friend  Jones.  The  poetry  is  of  the 
style  of  Goldsmith;  but  description  predominates 
over  reflection.  Tfce  enthusiastic  dreams  of  liberty 
which  then  buoyed  up  the  young  poet,  appear  in 
such  lines  as  the  following : 

O give,  great  God,  to  freedom’s  waves  to  ride 
Sublime  o’er  conquest,  avarice,  and  pride  ; 

To  sweep  where  pleasure  decks  her  guilty  bowers, 

And  dark  oppression  builds  her  thick-ribbed  towers ; 
Give  them,  beneath  their  breast,  while  gladness  springs, 
To  brood  the  nations  o’er  with  Nile-like  wings  ; 

And  grant  that  every  sceptred  child  of  clay 
Who  cries,  presumptuous,  ‘ Here  their  tides  shall  stay,’ 
Swept  in  their  anger  from  the  affrighted  shore 
With  all  his  creatures  sink  to  rise  no  more  ! 

In  the  autumn  of  1795,  Wordsworth  and  his  sister 
were  settled  at  Racedown  Lodge,  near  Crewkerne 
in  Somersetshire,  where  they  were  visited  in  the 
summer  of  1797  by  Coleridge.  The  poets  were 
charmed  with  each  other’s  society,  and  became 
friends  for  life.  Wordsworth  has  described  Coleridge 
at  this  time  as 

A noticeable  man  with  large  gray  eyes, 

And  a pale  face  that  seemed  undoubtedly 
As  if  a blooming  face  it  ought  to  be ; 

Heavy  his  low-hung  lip  did  oft  appear 
Depressed  by  weight  of  musing  Phantasy ; 
Profound  his  forehead  was,  but  not  severe. 

The  poet  and  his  sister  next  moved  to  a residence 
near  Coleridge’s,  to  Alfoxden,  near  Nether  Stowey. 
At  this  place  many  of  Wordsworth’s  smaller  poems 
were  written,  and  also  a tragedy,  the  Borderers , 
which  he  attempted  to  get  acted  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  but  it  was  rejected.  In  1798,  appeared 
the  Lyrical  Ballads , to  which  Coleridge  contributed 
his  Ancient  Mariner.  A generous  provincial  book- 
seller, Joseph  Cottle  of  Bristol,  gave  thirty  guineas 
for  the  copyright  of  this  volume ; he  ventured  on  an 
impression  of  five  hundred  copies,  but  was  soon 
glad  to  dispose  of  the  largest  proportion  of  the  five 
iiundrcd  at  a loss,  to  a London  bookseller.  The 
ballads  were  designed  by  their  author  as  an  experi- 
ment how  far  a simpler  kind  of  poetry  than  that  in 
use  would  afford  permanent  interest  to  readers.  The 
humblest  subjects,  he  contended,  were  fit  for  poetry, 
and  the  language  should  be  that  ‘ really  used  by  men.’ 
The  fine  fabric  of  poetic  diction  which  generations 
of  the  tuneful  tribe  had  been  laboriously  rearing, 
he  proposed  to  destroy  altogether.  The  language  of 
humble  and  rustic  life,  arising  out  of  repeated 
experience  and  regular  feelings,  he  considered  to 
be  a more  permanent  and  far  more  philosophical 

OIO 


from  1800  CYCLOPiEDLA  OF  to  1830. 

language  than  that  which  is  frequently  substituted 
for  it  by  poets.  The  attempt  of  Wordsworth  was 
either  totally  neglected  or  assailed  with  ridicule. 
The  transition  from'  the  refined  and  sentimental 
school  of  verse,  with  select  and  polished  diction,  to 
such  themes  as  The  Idiot  Boy,  and  a style  of  com- 
position disfigured  by  colloquial  plainness,  and  by 
the  mixture  of  ludicrous  images  and  associations 
with  passages  of  tenderness  and  pathos,  wras  too 
violent  to  escape  ridicule  or  insure  general  success. 
It  was  often  impossible  to  tell  whether  the  poet 
meant  to  be  comic  or  tender,  serious  or  ludicrous ; 
while  the  choice  of  his  subjects  and  illustrations, 
instead  of  being  regarded  as  genuine  simplicity, 
had  an  appearance  of  silliness  or  affectation.  The 
faults  of  his  worst  ballads  were  so  glaring,  that 
they  overpowered,  at  least  for  a time,  the  simple 
natural  beauties,  the  spirit  of  gentleness  and 
humanity,  with  which  they  were  accompanied.  It 
was  a first  experiment,  and  it  was  made  without 
any  regard  for  existing  prejudices  or  feelings,  or 
any  wish  to  conciliate. 

In  1798,  Wordsworth,  his  sister,  and  Coleridge 
went  to  Germany,  the  latter  parting  from  them  at 
Hamburg,  and  going  to  Ratzeburg,  where  he  resided 
four  months ; while  the  Wordsworths  proceeded  to 
Goslar,  and  remained  there  about  half  a year.  On 
their  return  to  England,  they  settled  at  Grasmere, 
in  Westmoreland,  where  they  lived  for  eight  years. 
In  1800  he  reprinted  his  Lyrical  Ballads,  with  the 
addition  of  many  new  pieces,  the  work  now  forming 
two  volumes.  In  October  1802,  the  poet  was  married 
to  Mary  Hutchinson,  a lady  with  whom  he  had  been 
early  intimate,  and  on  whom  he  wrote,  in  the  third 
year  of  his  married  life,  the  exquisite  lines,  ‘ She  was 
a Phantom  of  Delight.’ 

She  came,  no  more  a Phantom  to  adorn 
A moment," but  an  inmate  of  the  heart, 

And  yet  a spirit  there  for  me  enshrined 
To  penetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low : 

Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 
Shines  in  the  brightest  of  ten  thousand  stars, 

And  the  meek  worm  that  feeds  her  lonely  lamp 
Couched  in  the  dewy  grass.* 

The  Prelude. 

In  1803,  accompanied  by  Coleridge  and  his  sister, 
Wordsworth  made  a tour  in  Scotland,  which  forms 
an  epoch  in  his  literary  history,  as  it  led  to  the 
production  of  some  of  his  most  popular  minor 
poems.  He  had  been  for  some  years  engaged  on 
a poem  in  blank  verse,  The  Prelude,  or  Growth  of  my 
own  Mind,  which  he  brought  to  a close  in  1805,  but 
it  was  not  published  till  after  his  death.  In  1805, 
also,  he  wrote  his  Waggoner,  not  published  till  1819. 
Since  Pope,  no  poet  has  been  more  careful  of  his 
fame  than  Wordsworth,  and  he  was  enabled  to 
practise  this  abstinence  in  publication  because,  like 
Pope,  he  was  content  with  moderate  means  and 
limited  desires.  His  circumstances,  however,  were 
at  this  time  so  favourable,  that  he  purchased  for 
£1000,  a small  cottage  and  estate  at  the  head  of 
Ulleswater.  Lord  Lonsdale  generously  offered  £800 
to  complete  this  purchase,  but  the  poet  accepted 
only  of  a/ourth  of  the  sum.  In  1807  appeared  two 
volumes  of  Poems  from  his  pen.  They  were  assailed 
with  all  the  severity  of  criticism,  but  it  was  seen 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  theory  of  the  poet,  he 
possessed  a vein  of  pure  and  exalted  description 

* This  respected  lady  died  at  Rydal  Mount,  January  17, 
1859.  For  some  years  her  powers  of  sight  had  entirely  failed 
her,  but  she  continued  cheerful  and  * bright,’  and  full  of 
conversational  power  as  in  former  days. 

280 

and  meditation  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel 
and  admire.  The  influence  of  nature  upon  man 
was  his  favourite  theme;  and  though  sometimes 
unintelligible  from  his  idealism,  he  was  also,  on 
other  occasions,  just  and  profound.  His  worship  of 
nature  was  ennobling  and  impressive.  In  1809  the 
poet  struck  out  into  a new  path.  He  came  forward 
as  a political  writer,  with  an  Essay  on  the  Conven- 
tion of  Cintra,  an  event  to  which  he  was  strongly 
opposed.  His  prose  was  as  unsuccessful  as  his 
poetry,  so  far  as  sale  was  concerned,  but  there  are 
fine  vigorous  passages  in  this  pamphlet,  and  Canning 
is  said  to  have  pronounced  it  the  most  eloquent 
production  since  the  days  of  Burke.  Wordsworth 
had  now  abandoned  his  republican  dreams,  and  was 
henceforward  conservative  of  all  time-honoured 
institutions  in  church  and  state.  His  views  were 
never  servile — they  were  those  of  a recluse  politician, 
honest  but  impracticable.  In  the  spring  of  1813 
occurred  Wordsworth’s  removal  from  Grasmere  to 
Rydal  Mount,  one  of  the  grand  events  of  his  life ; 
and  there  he  resided  for  the  long  period  of  thirty-  j 
seven  years — a period  of  cheerful  and  dignified  ' 
poetical  retirement — 

Long  have  I loved  what  I behold, 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers ; 

The  common  growth  of  mother-earth 
Suffices  me — her  tears,  her  mirth, 

Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

The  dragon’s  wing,  the  magic  ring, 

I shall  not  covet  for  my  dower, 

If  I along  that  lowly  way 

With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray, 

And  with  a soul  of  power. 

The  circle  of  liis  admirers  was  gradually  extend- 
ing, and  he  continued  to  supply  it  with  fresh 
materials  of  a higher  order.  In  1814  appeared  The ' 
Excursion,  a philosophical  poem  in  blank  verse,  by 
far  the  noblest  production  of  the  author,  and  con- 
taining passages  of  sentiment,  description,  and  pure 
eloquence,  not  excelled  by  any  living  poet,  while  its 
spirit  of  enlightened  humanity  and  Christian  bene- 
volence— extending  over  all  ranks  of  sentient  and 
animated  being — imparts  to  the  poem  a peculiarly 
sacred  and  elevated  character.  The  influence  of 
Wordsworth  on  the  poetry  of  his  age  has  thus  been 
as  beneficial  as  extensive.  He  turned  the  public- 
taste  from  pompous  inanity  to  the  study  of  man 
and  nature ; he  banished  the  false  and  exaggerated 
style  of  character  and  emotion  which  even  the 
genius  of  Byron  stooped  to  imitate ; and  he  enlisted 
the  sensibilities  and  sympathies  of  his  intellectual 
brethren  in  favour  of  the  most  expansive  and  kindly 
philanthropy.  The  pleasures  and  graces  of  his 
muse  are  all  simple,  pure,  and  lasting.  In  working 
out  the  plan  of  his  Excursion,  the  poet  has  not, 
however,  escaped  from  the  errors  of  Ins  early  poems. 
The  incongruity  or  want  of  keeping  in  most  of 
Wordsworth’s  productions  is  observable  in  this 
work.  The  principal  character  is  a poor  Scotch 
pedler,  who  traverses  the  mountains  in  company 
with  the  poet,  and  is  made  to  discourse,  with 
clerk-like  fluency, 

Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope. 

It  is  thus  that  the  poet  violates  the  conventional 
rules  of  poetry  and  the  realities  of  life  ; for  surely  it 
is  inconsistent  with  truth  and  probability  that  a 
profound  moralist  and  dialectician  should  be  found 
in  such  a situation.  In  his  travels  with  the  ‘Wan- 
derer,’ the  poet  is  introduced  to  a ‘ Solitary,’  who 
lives  secluded  from  the  world,  after  a life  of  busy 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


adventures  and  high  hope,  ending  in  disappointment 
and  disgust.  They  all  proceed  to  the  house  of 
the  pastor,  who — in  the  style  of  Crabbe’s  Parish 
Register — recounts  some  of  the  deaths  and  muta- 
tions that  had  taken  place  in  his  sequestered  valley ; 
and  with  a description  of  a visit  made  by  the  three 
to  a neighbouring  lake,  the  poem  concludes.  The 
Excursion  is  an  unfinished  work,  part  of  a larger 


poem,  The  Recluse , ‘having  for  its  principal  object 
the  sensations  and  opinions  of  a poet  living  in 
retirement.’  The  narrative  part  of  The  Excursion 
is  a mere  framework,  rude  and  unskilful,  for  a 
series  of  pictures  of  mountain  scenery  and  philo- 
sophical dissertations,  tending  to  shew  how  the 
external  world  is  adapted  to  the  mind  of  man,  and 
good  educed  out  of  evil  and  suffering. 


Eydal  Lake  and  Wordsworth’s  House. 


Within  the  soul  a faculty  abides, 

That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp,  and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness.  As  the  ample  moon 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a summer  even 
Rising  behind  a thick  and  lofty  grove, 

Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light 
In  the  green  trees ; and,  kindling  on  all  sides, 

Their  leafy  umbrage  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a substance  glorious  as  her  own, 

Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene ; like  power  abides 
In  man’s  celestial  spirit ; virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself — thus  feeds 
A calm,  a beautiful,  and  silent  fire, 

From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life; 

From  error,  disappointment — nay,  from  guilt ; 

And  sometimes — so  relenting  justice  wills — 

From  palpable  oppressions  of  despair. 

Book  IV. 

In  a still  loftier  style  of  moral  observation  on 
the  changes  of  life,  the  ‘ gray -haired  wanderer  ’ 
exclaims : . 

So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies, 

All  that  this  world  is  proud  of.  From  their  spheres 
The  stars  of  human  glory  are  cast  down ; 

Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings, 


Princes,  and  emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  palms 
Of  all  the  mighty,  withered  and  consumed  ! 

Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence 
Long  to  protect  her  own.  The  man  himself 
Departs ; and  soon  is  spent  the  line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  bodily  image,  in  the  mind, 

In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit, 

Did  most  resemble  him.  Degrees  and  ranks, 
Fraternities  and  orders — heaping  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old, 

And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirmed 
And  re -con  firmed — are  scoffed  at  with  a smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  desolation  aimed ; to  slow  decline 
These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow ; 

Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state 
Expire ; and  Nature’s  pleasant  robe  of  green, 
Humanity’s  appointed  shroud,  enwraps 
Their  monuments  and  their  memory. 

Book  VII. 

The  picturesque  parts  of  The  Excursion  are  full 
of  a quiet  and  tender  beauty  characteristic  of 
the  author.  We  subjoin  two  passages,  the  first 
descriptive  of  a peasant  youth,  the  hero  of  his 
native  vale : 

The  mountain  ash 
I No  eye  can  overlook,  when  ’mid  a grove 
Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head 

281 


fjrom  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 
Spring’s  richest  blossoms ; and  ye  may  have  marked 
By  a brook  side  or  solitary  tarn, 

How  she  her  station  doth  adorn.  The  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brightened  round  her.  In  his  native  vale, 

Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  youth  appear ; 

A sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 

By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature’s  hand 
Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.  As  old  bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  gods, 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form  ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade, 
Discovered  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 
Of  mortals — if  such  fables  without  blame 
May  find  chance  mention  on  this  sacred  ground — 

] So,  through  a simple  rustic  garb’s  disguise, 

And  through  the  impediment  of  rural  cares, 

In  him  revealed  a scholar’s  genius  shone ; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men’s  sight, 
i In  him  the  spirit  of  a hero  walked 

Our  unpretending  valley.  How  the  quoit 
Whizzed  from  the  stripling’s  arm ! If  touched  by 
him, 

The  inglorious  football  mounted  to  the  pitch 
Of  the  lark’s  flight,  or  shaped  a rainbow  curve 
Aloft  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field ! 

The  indefatigable  fox  had  learned 
To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 

With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 
Was  loath  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved, 

Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 
To  guard  the  royal  brood.  The  sailing  glede, 

The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe, 

The  sporting  sea-gull  dancing  with  the  waves, 

And  cautious  waterfowl  from  distant  climes, 

Fixed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  mere, 

Were  subject  to  young  Oswald’s  steady  aim. 

Book  rn. 

i The  peasant  youth,  with  others  in  the  vale,  roused 
1 by  the  cry  to  arms,  studies  the  rudiments  of  war, 
1 but  dies  suddenly  : 

To  him,  thus  snatched  away,  his  comrades  paid 
A soldier’s  honours.  At  his  funeral  hour 
Bright  was  the  sun,  the  sky  a cloudless  blue — 

A golden  lustre  slept  upon  the  hills ; 

And  if  by  chance  a stranger,  wandering  there, 

From  some  commanding  eminence  had  looked 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A glittering  spectacle ; but  every  face 
Was  pallid — seldom  hath  that  eye  been  moist 
With  tears  that  wept  not  then ; nor  were  the  few 
Who  from  their  dwellings  came  not  forth  to  join 
In  this  sad  service,  less  disturbed  than  we. 

They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 
Of  instantaneous  thunder  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  grave ; 

And  distant  mountains  echoed  with  a sound 
Of  lamentation  never  heard  before. 

A description  of  deafness  in  a peasant  would  seem 
to  be  a subject  hardly  susceptible  of  poetical  orna- 
ment ; yet,  by  contrasting  it  with  the  surrounding 
objects — the  pleasant  sounds  and  stir  of  nature — 
j and  by  his  vein  of  pensive  and  graceful  reflection, 
i Wordsworth  has  made  this  one  of  his  finest  pictures : 
Almost  at  the  root 

Of  that  tall  pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I sit  at  eve, 

Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a strong  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward,  there,  beneath 
2S2 

A plain  blue  stone,  a gentle  dalesman  lies, 

From  whom  in  early  childhood  was  withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.  He  grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in  loneliness  of  soul ; 

And  this  deep  mountain  valley  was  to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.  The  bird  of  dawn 
Did  never  rouse  this  cottager  from  sleep 
With  startling  summons  ; not  for  his  delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted  ; not  for  him 
Murmured  the  labouring  bee.  When  stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake 
Into  a thousand  thousand  sparkling  waves, 

Hocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud  on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty  crags, 

The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 

Was  silent  as  a picture  : evermore 

Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe’er  he  moved. 

Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 
Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 
Of  rural  labours ; the  steep  mountain  side 
Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog ; 

The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  swayed  ; 

And  the  ripe  com  before  his  sickle  fell 
Among  the  jocund  reapers. 

Book  VII. 

By  viewing  man  in  connection  with  external  nature,  j 
the  poet  blends  his  metaphysics  with  pictures  of  1 
life  and  scenery.  To  build  up  and  strengthen  the 
powers  of  the  mind,  in  contrast  to  the  operations 
of  sense,  was  ever  his  object.  Like  Bacon,  Words- 
worth would  rather  have  believed  all  the  fables  in 
the  Talmud  and  Alcoran,  than  that  this  universal 
frame  is  without  a mind — or  that  that  mind  does  not, 
by  its  external  symbols,  speak  to  the  human  heart. 
He  lived  under  the  ‘ habitual  sway  ’ of  nature. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

The  removal  of  the  poet  to  Eydal  was  marked 
by  an  incident  of  considerable  importance  in  his 
personal  history.  Through  the  influence  of  the 
Earl  of  Lonsdale,  he  was  appointed  distributor  of 
stamps  in  the  county  of  Westmoreland,  which  added 
greatly  to  his  income  without  engrossing  all  his 
time.  He  was  now  placed  beyond  the  frowns  of 
fortune — if  fortune  can  ever  be  said  to  have  frowned 
on  one  so  independent  of  her  smiles.  The  subse- 
quent works  of  the  poet  were  numerous.  The 
White  Doe  of  Rylstone , a romantic  narrative  poem, 
yet  coloured  with  his  peculiar  genius;  Sonnets  on 
the  River  Duddon;  The  Waggoner;  Peter  Bell; 
Ecclesiastical  Sketches;  Yairow  Revisited;  &c.  Having 
made  repeated  tours  in  Scotland  and  ou  the  conti- 
nent, the  poet  diversified  his  subjects  with  descrip- 
tions of  particular  scenes,  local  manners,  legends, 
and  associations.  The  whole  of  his  works  were 
arranged  by  their  author  according  to  their  respec- 
tive subjects ; as  Poems  referring  to  the  Period 
of  Childhood : Poems  founded  on  the  Affections ; 
Poems  of  the  Fancy ; Poems  of  the  Imagination,  &c. 
This  classification  is  often  arbitrary  and  capricious ; 
but  it  was  one  of  the  conceits  of  Wordsworth,  that 
his  poems  should  be  read  in  a certain  continuous 
order,  to  give  full  effect  to  his  system.  Thus  classi- 
fied and  published,  the  poet’s  works  formed  six 
volumes.  A seventh,  consisting  of  poems  written 
very  early  and  very  late  in  life — as  is  stated — and 
the  tragedy  which"  had  long  lain  past  the  author, 
were  added  in  1842.  The  tragedy  is  not  happy, 
for  Wordsworth  had  less  dramatic  power  than  any 
other  contemporary  poet.  In  the  drama,  however, 
both  Scott  and  Byron  failed ; and  Coleridge,  with 
his  fine  imagination  and  pictorial  expression,  was 
only  a shade  more  successful 

poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  wordsworth. 


The  latter  years  of  Wordsworth’s  life  were 
gladdened  by  his  increasing  fame,  by  academic 
honours  conferred  upon  him  by  the  universities  of 
Durham  and  Oxford,  by  his  appointment  to  the 
office  of  poet-laureate  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
Southey  in  1843,  and  by  a pension  from  the  crown 
of  £300  per  annum.  In  1847,  he  was  shaken  by 
a severe  domestic  calamity,  the  death  of  his  only 
daughter,  Dora,  Mrs  Quillinan.  This  lady  was 
worthy  of  her  sire.  Shortly  before  her  death  she 
published  anonymously  a Journal  of  a Residence  in 
Portugal , whither  she  had  gone  in  pursuit  of  health.* 
Having  attained  to  the  great  age  of  eighty,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  generally  robust  health  (most  of  his 
poems  were  composed  in  the  open  air),  Wordsworth 
died  on  the  23d  of  April  1850— the  anniversary  of 
St  George,  the  patron  saint  of  England — and  was 
interred  by  the  side  of  his  daughter  in  the  beautiful 
churchyard  of  Grasmere. 

One  of  the  most  enthusiastic  admirers  of  Words- 
worth was  Coleridge,  so  long  his  friend  and  asso- 
ciate, and  who  looked  up  to  him  with  a sort  of  filial 
veneration  and  respect.  He  has  drawn  his  poetical 
character  at  length  in  the  Biographia  Literaria , and 
if  we  consider  it  as  applying  to  the  higher  charac- 
teristics of  Wordsworth,  without  reference  to  the 
absurdity  or  puerility  of  some  of  his  early  fables, 
incidents,  and  language,  it  will  be  found  equally  just 
and  felicitous.  First , 1 An  austere  purity  of  language, 
both  grammatically  and  logically ; in  short,  a perfect 
appropriateness  of  the  words  to  the  meaning. 
Secondly , A correspondent  weight  and  sanity  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments  won,  not  from  books,  but 
from  the  poet’s  own  meditations.  They  are  fresh , 
and  have  the  dew  upon  them.  Even  throughout 
his  smaller  poems,  there  is  not  one  which  is  not 
rendered  valuable  by  some  just  and  original  reflec- 
tion. Thirdly , The  sinewy  strength  and  originality 
of  single  lines  and  paragraphs  , the  frequent  curiosa 
felicitas  of  his  diction.  Fourthly , The  perfect  truth 
of  nature  in  his  images  and  descriptions,  as  taken 
immediately  from  nature,  and  proving  a long  and 
genial  intimacy  with  the  very  spirit  which  gives  a 
physiognomic  expression  to  all  the  works  of  nature. 
Fifthly , A meditative  pathos,  a union  of  deep  and 
subtle  thought  with  sensibility : a sympathy  with 
man  as  man;  the  sympathy,  indeed,  of  a contem- 
plator  rather  than  a fellow-sufferer  and  co-mate 
(• spectator , baud  particeps'),  but  of  a contemplation 
from  whose  view  no  difference  of  rank  conceals  the 
sameness  of  the  nature;  no  injuries  of  wind  or 
, weather,  or  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly  disguise 
; the  human  face  divine.  Jjast,  and  pre-eminently,  I 
| challenge  for  this  poet  the  gift  of  imagination  in  the 
i highest  and  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  In  the  play 
of  fancy,  Wordsworth,  to  my  feelings,  is  always 
j graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite.  The  likeness  is 

* Mr  Edward  Quillinan,  son-in-law  of  Wordsworth,  was  a 
j native  of  Oporto,  but  was  educated  in  England.  He  was  one 
I of  Wordsworth’s  most  constant  admirers,  and  was  himself  a 
| poet  of  considerable  talent,  and  an  accomplished  scholar, 
j He  was  first  married  to  a daughter  of  Sir  Egerton  Brydges, 
j and  having  quitted  the  army,  he  settled  in  the  Lake  country. 

There  Mrs  Quillinan  died  by  an  unfortunate  accident— her 
| dress  having  caught  fire— and  left  two  daughters,  in  whom 
| the  Wordsworth  family  took  great  interest.  In  1841,  the 
intimacy  between  Dora  Wordsworth  and  Mr  Quillinan,  which 
i ‘ first  sprang  out  of  the  root  of  grief,’  was  crowned  by  their 
marriage.  She  lived  only  about  six  years  afterwards,  and 
Mr  Quillinan  himself  died  suddenly  in  1851.  A volume  of  his 
Poems  was  published  in  1853,  and  part  of  a translation  of  the 
Lusiad,  which  no  man  in  England  could  have  done  so  well. 
He  was  also  engaged  on  a translation  of  the  History  of 
Portugal  by  Senor  Herculano. 


occasionally  too  strange,  or  demands  too  peculiar  a 
point  of  view,  or  is  such  as  appears  the  creature  of 
predetermined  research,  rather  than  spontaneous 
presentation.  Indeed,  his  fancy  seldom  displays 
itself  as  mere  and  unmodified  fancy.  But  in  imagi- 
native power  he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers 
to  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  and  yet  in  a mind  per- 
fectly unborrowed,  and  his  own.  To  employ  his 
own  words,  which  are  at  once  an  instance  and  an 
illustration,  he  does  indeed,  to  all  thoughts  and  to 
all  objects — 

Add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 

The  consecration  and  the  poet’s  dream.’ 

The  fame  of  Wordsworth  was  daily  extending,  as 
we  have  said,  before  his  death.  The  few  ridiculous 
or  puerile  passages  which  excited  so  much  sarcasm, 
parody,  and  derision,  had  been  partly  removed  by 
himself,  or  were  by  his  admirers  either  quietly  over- 
looked, or  considered  as  mere  idiosyncrasies  of  the 
poet  that  provoked  a smile,  while  his  higher  attri- 
butes commanded  admiration,  and  he  had  secured  a 
new  generation  of  readers.  A tribe  of  worshippers, 
in  the  young  poets  of  the  day,  have  arisen  to  do  him 
homage,  and  in  some  instances  have  carried  the 
feeling  to  a sectarian  and  bigoted  excess.  Many  of  j 
his  former  depreciators  have  also  joined  the  ranks 
of  his  admirers — partly  because  in  his  late  works 
he  did  himself  more  justice  both  in  his  style  and 
subjects.  He  is  too  intellectual,  and  too  little 
sensuous,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Milton,  ever  to  become 
generally  popular,  unless  in  some  of  his  smaller 
pieces.  His  peculiar  sensibilities  cannot  be  relished 
by  all.  His  poetry,  however,  is  of  various  kinds. 
Forgetting  his  own  theory  as  to  the  proper  subjects  ! 
of  poetry,  he  ventured  on  the  loftiest  themes,  and  j 
in  calm  sustained  elevation  of  thought,  appropriate 
imagery,  and  intense  feeling,  he  often  reminds  the 
reader  of  the  sublime  strains  of  Milton.  His 
Laodamia,  the  Vernal  Ode , the  Ode  to  Lycoris  and 
Dion , are  pure  and  richly  classic  poems  in  concep- 
tion and  diction.  Many  of  his  sonnets  have  also  a 
chaste  and  noble  simplicity.  In  these  short  com- 
positions, his  elevation  and  power  as  a poet  are  per- 
haps more  remarkably  displayed  than  in  any  of  his 
other  productions.  They  possess  a winning  sweet- 
ness or  simple  grandeur,  without  the  most  distant 
approach  to  antithesis  or  straining  for  effect ; while 
that  tendency  to  prolixity  and  diffuseness  which 
characterise  his  longer  poems,  is  repressed  by  the 
necessity  for  brief  and  rapid  thought  and  concise 
expression,  imposed  by  the  nature  of  the  sonnet.  It 
is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Milton  alone  has 
surpassed — if  even  he  has  surpassed — some  of  the 
noble  sonnets  of  Wordsworth  dedicated  to  liberty 
and  inspired  by  patriotism. 

Sonnets. 

London, 1802. 

Milton  ! thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour ; 

England  hath  need  of  thee ; she  is  a fen 
Of  stagnant  waters ; altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men , 

Oh  ! raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens — majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness ; and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  didst  lay. 


?ROM  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  183Q. 


The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us. 

The  world  is  too  mucli  with  us ; late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 

Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a sordid  boon  ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.  Great  God  ! I ’d  rather  be 
A pagan  suckled  in  a creed  outworn  ; 

So  might  I,. standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3,  1803. 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  shew  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 

This  city  now  doth  like  a garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ; silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne’er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  ! the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

On  King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge. 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 

With  ill-matched  aims  the  architect  who  planned, 
Albeit  labouring  for  a scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  scholars  only,  this  immense 
And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence! 

Give  all  thou  canst ; high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely  calculated  less  or  more ; 

So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells, 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 
Lingering — and  -wandering  on,  as  loth  to  die ; 

Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

His  Intimations  of  Immortality , and  Lines  on  Tintern 
Abbey , are  the  finest  examples  of  liis  rapt  imagin- 
ative style,  blending  metaphysical  truth  with  diffuse 
gorgeous  description  and  metaphor.  His  simpler 
effusions  are  pathetic  and  tender.  He  has  little 
strong  passion ; but  in  one  piece,  Vaudracour  and 
Julia , he  has  painted  the  passion  of  love  with  more 
warmth  than  might  be  anticipated  from  his  abstract' 
idealism — 

His  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination  ; he  beheld 
A vision,  and  adored  the  thing  he  saw. 

Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him. 
Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring; 
Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements 
Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold ; 

The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a sainted  shrine ; 

Her  chamber  window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portals  of  the  dawn ; all  paradise 
Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a door, 

Let  itself  in  upon  him ; pathways,  walks, 

Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank, 
Surcharged  within  him — overblest  to  move 


Beneath  a sun  that  wakes  a weary  world 
To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares; 

A man  too  happy  for  mortality ! 

The  lovers  parted  under  circumstances  of  danger, 
but  had  a stolen  interview  at  night : 

Through  all  her  courts 
The  vacant  city  slept ; the  busy  winds, 

That  keep  no  certain  intervals  of  rest, 

Moved  not ; meanwhile  the  galaxy  displayed 
Her  fires,  that  like  mysterious  pulses  beat 
Aloft — momentous  but  uneasy  bliss  ! 

To  their  full  hearts  the  universe  seemed  hung 
On  that  brief  meeting’s  slender  filament ! 

This  is  of  the  style  of  Ford  or  Massinger.  Living 
mostly  apart  from  the  world,  and  nursing  with 
solitary  complacency  his  poetical  system,  and  all 
that  could  bear  upon  his  works  and  pursuits  as  a 
poet,  Wordsworth  fell  into  those  errors  of  taste  and 
that  want  of  discrimination  to  which  we  have 
already  alluded.  His  most  puerile  ballads  and 
attempts  at  humour  were  apparently  as  much 
prized  by  him,  and  classed  with  the  same  nicety 
and  care,  as  the  most  majestic  of  his  conceptions, 
or  the  most  natural  and  beautiful  of  his  descriptions. 
The  art  of  condensation  was  also  rarely  practised 
by  him.  But  if  the  poet’s  retirement  or  peculiar 
disposition  was  a cause  of  his  weakness,  it  was  also 
one  of  the  sources  of  his  strength.  It  left  him 
untouched  by  the  artificial  or  mechanical  tastes  of 
his  age ; it  gave  an  originality  to  his  conceptions 
and  to  the  whole  colour  of  his  thoughts;  and  it 
completely  imbued  him  with  that  purer  antique  life 
and  knowledge  of  the  phenomena  of  nature — the 
sky,  lakes,  and  mountains  of  his  native  district,  in 
all  their  tints  and  forms — which  he  has  depicted 
with  such  power  and  enthusiasm.  A less  compla- 
cent poet  would  have  been  chilled  by  the  long 
neglect  and  ridicule  he  experienced.  His  spirit 
was  self-supported,  and  his  genius,  at  once  observ- 
ant and  meditative,  was  left  to  shape  out  its  own 
creations,  and  extend  its  sympathies  to  that  world 
which  lay  beyond  his  happy  mountain  solitude. 

Lines. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold 
A rainbow  in  the  sky  : 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I am  a man ; 

So  be  it  when  I shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 

And  I could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


Lucy. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 

A maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A violet  by  a mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye ; 

Fair  as  a star  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


POETS.  • 


A Portrait. 

Slie  was  a phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a moment’s  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 

Like  twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A spirit,  yet  a woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 

A perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 

And  yet  a spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

[ Lines  Composed  a few  Miles  above  Tintern  Abbey  on 
Revisiting  the  Banks  of  the  IFye.] 

Five  years  have  passed ; five  summers,  with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters ; and  again  I hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain  springs 
With  a sweet  inland  murmur.  Once  again 
Bo  I behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

Which  on  a wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage  ground,  these  orchard  tufts, 
Which,  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.  Once  again  I see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild ; these  pastoral  farms 
Green  to  the  very  door ; and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence  from  among  the  trees, 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  hermit’s  cave,  where,  by  his  fire, 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

Though  absent  long, 

These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a landscape  to  a blind  man’s  eye  : 

But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  ’mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I have  owed  to  them, 

In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 

Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 

And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration — feelings,  too, 

Of  unremembered  pleasure ; such,  perhaps, 

As  may  have  had  no  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a good  man’s  life, 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 


Of  kindness  and  of  love.  Nor  less,  I trust, 
To  them  I may  have  owed  another  gift, 

Of  aspect  more  sublime ; that  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened ; that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a living  soul : 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 


Tintern  Abbey. 


If  this 

Be  but  a vain  belief,  yet,  oh  ! how  oft, 

In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight,  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 

How  oft  in  spirit  have  I turned  to  thee, 

0 sylvan  Wye  ! — thou  wanderer  through  the  woods — 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 

And  somewhat  of  a sad  perplexity, 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 

While  here  I stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.  And  so  I dare  to  hope, 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I was  when  first 

1 came  among  these  hills ; when,  like  a roe, 

I bounded  o’er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 

Wherever  nature  led  : more  like  a man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.  For  nature  then — 
The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by — 

To  me  was  all  in  all — I cannot  paint 
What  then  I was.  The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a passion ; the  tall  rock, 


FSOM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TO  1830. 


The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ; a feeling  and  a love 
That  had  no  need  of  a remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.  Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur  ; other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.  For  I have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I have  felt 
A presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ; a sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 

A motion  and  a spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.  Therefore  am  I still 
A lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ; of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive ; well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor,  perchance, 

If  I were  not  thus  taught,  should  I the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 

For  thou  art  with  me  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ; thou,  my  dearest  friend, 

My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.  Oh  ! yet  a little  while 
May  I behold  in  thee  what  I was  once, 

My  dear,  dear  sister ! And  this  prayer  I make, 
j Knowing  that  nature  never  did  betray 
j The  heart  that  loved  her ; ’tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy ; for  she  can  so  inform 
i The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Bash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e’er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee  : and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ; oh ! then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  wThat  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations  ! Nor,  perchance, 

If  I should  be  where  I no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together ; and  that  I,  so  long 

A worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came, 

286 


Unwearied  in  that  service  : rather  say 
With  warmer  love,  oh  ! with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.  Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake* 

Picture  of  Christmas-Eve. 

[Addressed  to  the  Rev.  Dr  Wordsworth,  with  Sonnets  to  the 
River  Duddon,  &c.l 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves : 

While,  smitten  by  a lofty  moon, 

The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 

Gave  back  a rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 

That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings  ; 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze, 

Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 

And  who  but  listened  ? till  was  paid 
Kespect  to  every  inmate’s  claim ; 

The  greeting  given,  the  music  played 
In  honour  of  each  household  name, 

Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 

And  ‘ merry  Christmas  ’ wished  to  all ! 

0 brother  ! I revere  the  choice 
That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills ; 

And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice  : 

Though  public  care  full  often  tills — 

Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil — 

A barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

* In  our  admiration  of  the  external  forms  of  nature,  the  mind 
is  redeemed  from  a sense  of  the  transitory,  which  so  often 
mixes  perturbation  with  pleasure;  and  there  is  perhaps  no  | 
feeling  of  the  human  heart  which,  being  so  intense,  is  at  the  ! 
same  time  so  composed.  It  is  for  this  reason,  amongst  others,  j 
that  it  is  peculiarly  favourable  to  the  contemplations  of  a poeti-  I 
cal  philosopher,  and  eminently  so  to  one  like  Mr  Wordsworth,  j 
in  whose  scheme  of  thought  there  is  no  feature  more  prominent 
than  the  doctrine,  that  the  intellect  should  be  nourished  by  the 
feelings,  and  that  the  state  of  mind  which  bestows  a gift  of 
genuine  insight,  is  one  of  profound  emotion  as  well  as  profound 
composure;  or,  as  Coleridge  has  somewhere  expressed  himself — 

Deep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

The  power  which  lies  in  the  beauty  of  nature  to  induce  this 
union  of  the  tranquil  and  the  vivid  is  described,  and  to  every 
disciple  of  Wordsworth  has  been,  as  much  as  is  possible, 
imparted  by  the  celebrated  Lines  Written  in  1798,  a fete  Miles 
above  Tintern  Abbey , in  which  the  poet,  having  attributed  to  j 
his  intermediate  recollections  of  the  landscape  then  revisited 
a benign  influence  over  many  acts  of  daily  life,  describes  the 
particulars  in  which  he  is  indebted  to  them.  * * The  im- 
passioned love  of  nature  is  interfused  through  the  whole  of  Mr 
Wordsworth’s  system  of  thought,  filling  up  all  interstices,  pene- 
trating all  recesses,  colouring  all  media,  supporting,  associat- 
ing, and  giving  coherency  and  mutual  relevancy  to  it  in  all  its 
parts.  Though  man  is  his  subject,  yet  is  man  never  presented 
to  us  divested  of  his  relations  with  external  nature.  Man  is 
the  text,  but  there  is  always  a running  commentary  of  natural 
phenomena.—  Quarterly  Reviexo  for  1834.  In  illustration  of  this 
remark,  every  episode  in  the  Excursion  might  also  be  cited 
(particularly  the  affecting  and  beautiful  tale  of  Margaret  in  the 
first  book) ; and  the  poems  of  the  Cumberland  Beggar , Michael , 
and  the  Fountain — the  last  unquestionably  one  of  the  finest  of 
the  ballads— are  also  striking  instances. 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ■william  Wordsworth. 

Yet,  would  that  thou,  with  me  and  mine, 

Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods ; 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite ; 

Had  built  a bower  upon  the  green, 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 

As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 

A true  revival  of  the  light ; 

An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Which  nature,  and  these  rustic  powers, 

In  simple  childhood  spread  through  ours  1 

Beneath  her  father’s  roof,  alone 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 

She  seemed  to  live ; her  thoughts  her  own ; 
Herself  her  own  delight ; 

On  these  expected  annual  rounds, 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay; 

Whether  the  rich  man’s  sumptuous  gate 

And,  passing  thus  the  livelong  day, 

Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds, 

She  grew  to  woman’s  height. 

Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

There  came  a youth  from  Georgia’s  shore — 

How  touching,  when  at  midnight  sweep 

A military  casque  he  wore, 
With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees ; 

To  hear — and  sink  again  to  sleep  ! 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark, 

And  made  a gallant  crest. 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 

Of  self-complacent  innocence ; 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung : 

The  mutual  nod — the  grave  disguise 

But  no  ! he  spake  the  English  tongue, 
And  bore  a soldier’s  name  ; 

And,  when  America  was  free 

Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o’er ; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 

For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more  ; 

He  ’cross  the  ocean  came. 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid  ! 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 

In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak  : 
While  he  was  yet  a boy, 

Ah  ! not  for  emerald  fields  alone, 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 

Than  fabled  Cytherea’s  zone 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 

Glittering  before  the  Thunderer’s  sight, 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared 

The  ground  where  we  wrere  born  and  reared  ! 

He  was  a lovely  youth  ! I guess 

Hail,  ancient  manners ! sure  defence, 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 
Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 
No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Remnants  of  love,  whose  modest  sense 

Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws ; 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Hail,  usages  of  pristine  mould, 

And  ye  that  guard  them,  mountains  old  ! 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought, 

Bear  with  me,  brother,  quench  the  thought 

And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear ; 

That  slights  this  passion  or  condemns  ; 

Such  tales  as  told  to  any  maid 

If  thee  fond  fancy  ever  brought 

By  such  a youth,  in  the  green  shade, 

From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 

And  Lambeth’s  venerable  towers 

To  humbler  streams  and  greener  bowers. 

He  told  of  girls — a happy  rout  ! 

Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 
Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days ; 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 

Moments — to  cast  a look  behind, 

Returning  with  a choral  song 

And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal. 
And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 

Their  blossoms,  through  a boundless  range 

Hence,  while  the  imperial  city’s  din 

Of  intermingling  hues ; 

Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 

With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 

A pleased  attention  I may  win 

They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 

To  agitations  less  severe, 

That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 
But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy. 

From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 

Ruth. 

High  as  a cloud,  high  overhead ! 

The  cypr'ess  and  her  spire ; 

Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 

Cover  a hundred  leagues,  and  seem 

Her  father  took  another  mate ; 

To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 

A slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake, 

Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill 

And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake, 

In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 

And  she  had  made  a pipe  of  straw, 

Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 

And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw 

Among  the  evening  clouds. 

287 

from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

‘ How  pleasant,’  then  lie  said,  ‘ it  were 
A fisher  or  a hunter  there, 

In  sunshine  or  through  shade 
To  wander  with  an  easy  mind, 

And  build  a household  fire,  and  find 
A home  in  every  glade ! 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 

For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

‘ What  days  and  what  bright  years ! Ah  me  ! 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  passed  in  quiet  bliss, 

And  all  the  while,’  said  he,  ‘ to  know 
That  we  were  in  a world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this ! ’ 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived, 

Those  wild  men’s  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a father’s  love  : 
‘ For  there,’  said  he,  ‘ are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires : 

A man  who,  without  self-control, 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

* Sweet  Ruth  ! and  could  you  go  with  me 
My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 

And  yet  he  with  no  feigned  delight 
Had  wooed  the  maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn : 

What  could  he  less  than  love  a maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  played? 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn ! 

e Beloved  Ruth  !’ — No  more  he  said. 
The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A solitary  tear : 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said  : 

‘ 0 Ruth  ! I have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain, 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 

I crossed  the  Atlantic  main. 

‘ And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 

We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A husband  and  a wife.’ 

Even  so  they  did ; and  I may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

‘ It  was  a fresh  and  glorious  world — 
A\banner  bright  that  shone  unfurled 
Before  me  suddenly : 

I looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains, 
To  live  at  liberty. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods, 

And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

‘ But  wherefore  speak  of  this  ? For  now, 
Dear  Ruth  ! with  thee,  I know  not  how, 

I feel  my  spirit  burn ; 

My  soul  from  darkness  is  released, 

Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 
The  morning  doth  return.’ 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 

This  stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
And,  with  his  dancing  crest, 

So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  west. 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  was  gone ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remained,  not  one — 
They  stirred  him  now  no  more  ; 

New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 
And  once  again  he  wished  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 
The  tumult  of  a tropic  sky, 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth — so  much  of  heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared. 

And  went  to  the  sea-shore ; 

But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 
Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 
Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 
Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A kindred  impulse,  seemed  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
The  workings  of  his  heart. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  ! — Such  pains  she  had. 
That  she  in  a half  year  was  mad, 

And  in  a prison  housed ; 

And  there,  with  many  a doleful  song 
Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 
She  fearfully  caroused. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers ; 

The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 

The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 

2S8 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May ; 

They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell ; 
And  a clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o’er  the  pebbles  play. 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a respite  to  her  pain ; 

She  from  her  prison  fled ; 

But  of  the  vagrant  none  took  thought ; 

And  where  it  liked  her  best,  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again ; 

The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free ; 

And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 

There  did  she  rest ; and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves — she  loved  them  still ; 

Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 
Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A barn  her  winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 
And  summer  days  is  gone — 

And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree — 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  ! hut  less 
Of  mind  than  body’s  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  pressed  by  want  of  food 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a roadside ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 

Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen -travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute, 

Or  thrown  away ; but  with  a flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers  : 

This  flute,  made  of  a hemlock  stalk, 

At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  passed  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild — 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turned 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourned, 

A young  and  happy  child ! 

Farewell ! and  when  thy  days  are  told, 
Ill-fated  Ruth,  in  hallowed  mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be  ; 

For  thee  a funeral-bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 
A Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

To  a Highland  Girl. 

[At  Inversneyd,  upon  Loch  Lomond.] 

Sweet  Highland  girl ! a very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  those  gray  rocks ; that  household  lawn  ; 
Those  trees,  a veil  just  half  withdrawn  ; 

This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 
A murmur  near  the  silent  lake; 

This  little  bay,  a quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode — 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


In  truth,  unfolding  thus,  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a dream ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

Y-et,  dream  or  vision  as  thou  art, 

I bless  thee  with  a human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers  ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I am  far  away : 

For  never  saw  I mien  or  face, 

In  which  more  plainly  I could  trace 
Benignity  and  homebred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scattered,  like  a random  seed, 

Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 

Thou  wear’st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a mountaineer  : 

A face  with  gladness  overspread  ! 

Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 

With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 

A bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0 happy  pleasure  ! here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress 
A shepherd,  thou  a shepherdess  ! 

But  I could  frame  a wish  for  thee 
More  like  a grave  reality : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a wave 
Of  the  wild  sea ; and  I would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 

Thy  elder  brother  I would  be — 

Thy  father — anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  ! that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 

Joy  have  I had;  and  going  hence, 

1 bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 

Then,  why  should  I be  loath  to  stir  ? 

I feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  girl ! from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I grow  old, 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 

As  I do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all ! 


Laodamia. 

‘ With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn, 

Yows  have  I made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired; 
And  from  the  infernal  gods,  ’mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I required : 
Celestial  pity  I again  implore  ; 

Restore  him  to  my  sight — great  Jove,  restore  !* 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands ; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  and  her  eye  expands ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows ; 
And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0 terror ! what  hath  she  perceived  ? — 0 joy ! 

What  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she  behold  ? 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 

His  vital  presence  ? his  corporeal  mould  ? 

It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — ’tis  he  ! 

And  a god  leads  him,  winged  Mercury ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake,  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear : ‘ Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy 
prayer, 

Laodamia ! that  at  Jove’s  command 
Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air ; 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours’  space ; 
Accept  the  gift ; behold  him  face  to  face  ! ’ 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen  her  lord  to  clasp, 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  reunite, 

And  reassume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

‘ Protesilaus,  lo  ! thy  guide  is  gone ! 

Confirm,  I pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice. 

This  is  our  palace — yonder  is  thy  throne ; 

Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread’ st  on  will  rejoice. 

Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon ; and  blest  a sad  abode.’ 

* Great  Jove,  Laodamia ! doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect.  Spectre  though  I be, 

1 am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain ; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

1 Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 
That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 
Should  die  : but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold  : 

A generous  cause  a victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 

A self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain.’ 

* Supreme  of  heroes ; bravest,  noblest,  best ! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I bewail  no  more, 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found’ st — and  I forgive  thee — here  thou  art — 
A nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

‘ But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 
That  thou  shouldst  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave. 
Bedundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

* No  spectre  greets  me — no  vain  shadow  this ; 

Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my  side  ! 

Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a second  time  thy  bride  ! ’ 

Jove  frowned  in  heaven  ; the  conscious  Parcse  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a Stygian  hue. 

* This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past ; 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.  Earth  destroys 
290 


Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains ; 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

‘ Be  taught,  0 faithful  consort,  to  control 
Bebellious  passion ; for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul ; 

A fervent,  not  ungovernable  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate ; and  meekly  mourn 
When  I depart,  for  brief  is  pay  sojourn.’ 

‘ Ah,  wherefore  ? Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 
Medea’s  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 

And  iEson  stood  a youth  ’mid  youthful  peers. 

‘ The  gods  to  us  are  merciful ; and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent ; for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 

And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman’s  breast. 

‘ But  if  thou  goest,  I follow.’  1 Peace !’  he  said ; 

She  looked  upon  him,  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled. 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 

Brought  from  a pensive  though  a happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal, 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ; 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Bevived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued. 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty ; more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a diviner  air, 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue.  ‘ 111,’  said  he, 

‘ The  end  of  man’s  existence  I discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night : 

* And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes — 

Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent — 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports ; or,  seated  in  the  tent, 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained — 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

‘ The  wished-for  wind  was  given : I then  revolved 
The  oracle  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
That,  of  a thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  ,-tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

‘ Yet  bitter,  ofttimes  bitter  was  the  pang, 

When  of  thy  loss  I thought,  beloved  wife  ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life  ; 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod — these  fountains, 
flowers ; 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


POETS. 


‘ But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry, 

“ Behold  they  tremble  ! haughty  their  array ; 

Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  !” 

In  soul  I swept  the  indignity  away  : 

Old  frailties  then  recurred  ; but  lofty  thought, 

In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

‘ And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow ; 

I counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

‘ Learn,  by  a mortal  yearning,  to  ascend — 

Seeking  a higher  object.  Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 

Eor  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven, 

That  self  might  be  annulled : her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a dream,  opposed  to  love.’ 

Aloud  she  shrieked  ; for  Hermes  reappears  ! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have  clung;  ’tis 
vain ; 

The  hours  are  past — too  brief  had  they  been  years; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 

Swift  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  gods  be  moved : 

She  who  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 
Of  lovers  that  in  reason’s  spite  have  loved, 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time 
Apart  from  happy  ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  ’mid  unfading  bowers. 

— Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o’erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 

As  fondly  he  believes.  Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died ; 

And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained, 

That  Ilium’s  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 

The  trees’  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight — 

A constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  a profound  thinker 
and  rich  imaginative  poet,  enjoyed  a high  reputation 
during  the  latter  years  of  his  life  for  his  colloquial 
eloquence  and  metaphysical  and  critical  powers,  of 
which  only  a few  fragmentary  specimens  remain. 
His  poetry  also  indicated  more  than  it  achieved. 
Visions  of  grace,  tenderness,  and  majesty  seem  ever 
to  have  haunted  him.  Some  of  these  he  embodied 
in  exquisite  verse;  but  he  wanted  concentration 
and  steadiness  of  purpose  to  avail  himself  suffi- 
ciently of  his  intellectual  riches.  A happier  destiny 
w as  also  perhaps  wanting ; for  much  of  Coleridge’s 
life  wras  spent  in  poverty  and  dependence,  amidst 
disappointment  and  ill-health,  and  in  the  irregu- 
larity caused  by  an  unfortunate  and  excessive  use 
of  opium,  which  tyrannised  over  him  for  many  years 
with  unrelenting  severity.  Amidst  daily  drudgery 
for  the  periodical  press,  and  in  nightly  dreams  dis- 
tempered and  feverish,  he  wasted,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  ‘ the  prime  and  manhood  of  his  intellect.’ 
The  poet  was  a native  of  Devonshire,  being  born  on 
the  20th  of  October  1772  at  Ottery  St  Mary,  of 
which  parish  his  father  was  vicar.  He  received  the 
principal  part  of  his  education  at  Christ’s  Hospital, 


where  he  had  Charles  Lamb  for  a school-fellow.  He 
describes  himself  as  being,  from  eight  to  fourteen, 

‘ a playless  day-dreamer,  a helluo  librorum ; ’ and  in 
this  instance,  ‘ the  child  was  father  of  the  man,’  for 
such  was  Coleridge  to  the  end  of  his  life.  A stranger 
whom  he  had  accidentally  met  one  day  on  the 
streets  of  London,  and  who  was  struck  with  his 
conversation,  made  him  free  of  a circulating  library, 
and  he  read  through  the  catalogue,  folios  and  all. 
At  fourteen,  he  had,  like  Gibbon,  a stock  of  eru- 
dition that  might  have  puzzled  a doctor,  and  a 
degree  of  ignorance  of  which  a school-boy  would 
have  been  ashamed.  He  had  no  ambition ; his 
father  was  dead,  and  he  actually  thought  of  appren- 
ticing himself  to  a shoemaker  who  lived  near  the 
school.  The  head-master,  Bowyer,  interfered,  and 
prevented  this  additional  honour  to  the  craft  of 
St  Crispin,  already  made  illustrious  by  Gifford  and 
Bloomfield.  Coleridge  became  deputy-Grecian,  or 
head-scholar,  and  obtained  an  exhibition  or  present- 
ation from  Christ’s  Hospital  to  Jesus’  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  remained  from  1791  to  1793. 
In  his  first  year  at  college  he  gained  the  Brown  gold- 
medal  for  the  Greek  ode ; next  year  he  stood  for  the 
Craven  scholarship,  but  lost  it ; and  in  1793  he  was 
again  unsuccessful  in  a competition  for  the  Greek 
ode  on  astronomy.  By  this  time  he  had  incurred 
some  debts,  not  amounting  to  £100;  but  this  so 
weighed  on  his  mind  and  spirits,  that  he  suddenly 
left  college,  and  went  to  London.  He  had  also 
become  obnoxious  to  his  superiors  from  his  attach- 
ment to  the  principles  of  the  French  Revolution. 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared, 

And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea, 
Stamped  her  strong  foot,  and  said  she  would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I hoped  and  feared  ! 

With  what  a joy  my  lofty  gratulation 
Unawed  I sang,  amid  a slavish  band  : 

And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a wizard’s  wand, 

The  monarchs  marched  in  evil  day, 

And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 

Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 
Had  swollen  the  patriot  emotion, 

And  flung  a magic  light  o’er  all  her  hills  and  groves, 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 
To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 

And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat ! 

For  ne’er,  0 Liberty  ! with  partial  aim 
I dimmed  thy  light,  or  damped  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  blessed  the  paeans  of  delivered  France, 

And  hung  my  head,  and  wept  at  Britain’s  name. 

France,  an  Ode. 

In  London,  Coleridge  soon  felt  himself  forlorn  and 
destitute,  and  he  enlisted  as  a soldier  in  the  15th, 
Elliot’s  Light  Dragoons.  ‘ On  his  arrival  at  the 
quarters  of  the  regiment,’  says  his  friend  and  bio- 
grapher, Mr  Gillman,  ‘ the  general  of  the  district 
inspected  the  recruits,  and  looking  hard  at  Coleridge, 
with  a military  air,  inquired : “ What ’s  your  name, 
sir?”  “ Comberbacli.”  (The  name  he  had  assumed.) 
“ What  do  you  come  here  for,  sir  ? ” as  if  doubting 
whether  he  had  any  business  there.  “ Sir,”  said 
Coleridge,  “for  what  most  other  persons  come — to 
be  made  a soldier.”  “Do  you  think,”  said  the 
general,  “you  can  run  a Frenchman  through  the 
body?”  “I  do  not  know,”  replied  Coleridge,  “as  I 
never  tried;  but  I’ll  let  a Frenchman  run  me 
through  the  body  before  I’ll  run  away.”  “That 
will  do,”  said  the  general,  and  Coleridge  was  turned 
into  the  ranks.’  The  poet  made  a poor  dragoon, 
and  never  advanced  beyond  the  awkward  squad. 
He  wrote  letters,  however,  for  all  his  comrades,  and 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


they  attended  to  his  horse  and  accoutrements. 
After  four  months’  service — December  1793  to  April 
1794 — the  history  and  circumstances  of  Coleridge 
became  known.  According  to  one  account,  he  had 
written  under  his  saddle  on  the  stable-wall  Eheu ! 
quam  infortunii  miserrimum  est  fuisse  felicem,  which 
led  to  inquiry  on  the  part  of  the  captain  of  his 
troop,  who  had  more  regard  for  the  classics  than 
Ensign  Norther  ton  in  Tom  Jones.  Another  account 
attributes  the  termination  of  his  military  career  to 
■a  chance  recognition  on  the  street.  His  family 


being  apprised  of  his  situation,  his  discharge  was 
obtained  on  the  10th  of  April  1794.*  He  seems 
then  to  have  set  about  publishing  his  Juvenile  Poems 
by  subscription,  and  while  at  Oxford  in  June  of  the 
same  year,  he  met  with  Southey,  and  an  intimacy 
immediately  sprung  up  between  them.  Coleridge  I 
was  then  an  ardent  republican  and  a Socinian— full  ; 
of  high  hopes  and  anticipations,  1 the  golden  exhal-  ; 
ations  of  the  dawn.’  In  conjunction  with  his  new 
friend  Southey,  with  Robert  Lovell,  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  Quaker,  George  Burnett,  a fellow-collegian 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


from  Somersetshire,  Robert  Allen,  then  at  Corpus 
Christi  College,  and  Edmund  Seaward,  of  a Here- 
fordshire family,  also  a fellow-collegian,  Coleridge 
planned  and  proposed  to  carry  out  a scheme  of 
emigration  to  America.  They  were  to  found  in  the 
New  World  a Pantisocracy,  or  state  of  society  in 
which  each  was  to  have  his  portion  of  work,  and 
their  wives — all  were  to  be  married — were  to  cook 
and  perform  domestic  offices,  the  poets  cultivating 
literature  in  their  hours  of  leisure,  with  neither 
king  nor  priest  to  mar  their  felicity.  ‘ From  build- 
ing castles  in  the  air,’  as  Southey  has  said,  ‘to 
framing  commonwealths  was  an  easy  transition.’ 
For  some  months  this  delusion  lasted;  but  funds 
were  wanting,  and  could  not  be  readily  raised. 
Southey  and  Coleridge  gave  a course  of  public 
lectures,  and  wrote  a tragedy  on  the  Fall  of  Robes- 
pierre, and  the  former  soon  afterwards  proceeding 
with  his  uncle  to  Spain  and  Portugal,  the  Pan- 
tisoeratic  scheme  was  abandoned.  Coleridge  and 
Southey  married  two  sisters — Lovell,  who  died  in 
292 


| the  following  year,  had  previously  been  married 
t to  a third  sister — ladies  of  the  name  of  Fricker, 

! amiable,  but  wholly  without  fortune. 

Coleridge,  still  ardent,  wrote  two  political  pamph- 
I lets,  concluding  ‘ that  truth  should  be  spoken  at  all 
times,  but  more  especially  at  those  times  when  to 
I speak  truth  is  dangerous.’  He  established  also  a 
periodical  in  prose  and  verse,  entitled  The  Watch- 
man,, with  the  motto,  ‘That  all  might  know  the 
truth,  and  that  the  truth  might  make  us  free.’ 
He  watched  in  vain.  Coleridge’s  incurable  want  of 
order  and  punctuality,  and  his  philosophical  theories, 
tired  out  and  disgusted  his  readers,  and  the  work 

* Miss  Mitford  states  that  the  arrangement  for  Coleridge’s 
discharge  was  made  at  her  father's  house  at  Reading.  Captain 
Ogle — in  whose  troop  the  poet  served— related  at  table  one 
day  the  story  of  the  learned  recruit,  when  it  was  resolved  to 
make  exertions  for  his  discharge.  There  would  have  been 
some  difficulty  in  the  case,  had  not  one  of  the  servants  waiting 
at  table  been  induced  to  enlist  in  his  place.  The  poet.  Miss 
Mitford  says,  never  forgot  her  father’s  zeal  in  the  cause. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  samuel  taylor  Coleridge, 


poets. 


was  discontinued  after  the  ninth  number.  Of  the 
Unsaleable  nature  of  this  publication,  he  relates  an 
amusing  illustration.  Happening  one  day  to  rise 
at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  he  observed  his 
servant-girl  putting  an  extravagant  quantity  of 
paper  into  the  grate,  in  order  to  light  the  fire,  and 
he  mildly  checked  her  for  her  wastefulness.  ‘La, 
sir,’  replied  Nanny,  ‘why,  it  is  only  Watchmen.’ 
He  went  to  reside  in  a cottage  at  Nether  Stowey, 
at  the  foot  of  the  Quantock  Hills — a rural  retreat 
which  he  has  commemorated  in  his  poetry : 

And  now,  beloved  Stowey  ! I behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  metliinks,  the  four  huge  elms 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend ; 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 

Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 

And  my  babe’s  mother  dwell  in  peace  ! With  light 

And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I tread. 

At  Stowey,  Coleridge  wrote  some  of  his  most 
beautiful  poetry — his  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year ; 
Fears  in  Solitude;  France , an  Ode;  Frost  at  Midnight; 
the  first  part  of  Christ ahel;  the  Ancient  Mariner; 
and  his  tragedy  of  Remorse.  The  luxuriant  fulness 
and  individuality  of  his  poetry  shew  that  he  was 
then  happy,  no  less  than  eager,  in  his  studies.  The 
two  or  three  years  spent  at  Stowey  seem  to  have 
been  at  once  the  most  felicitous  and  the  most  illus- 
trious of  Coleridge’s  literary  life.  He  had  estab- 
lished his  name  for  ever,  though  it  was  long  in 
struggling  to  distinction.  During  his  residence  at 
Stowey,  Coleridge  officiated  as  Unitarian  preacher 
at  Taunton,  and  afterwards  at  Shrewsbury.*  In 
1798,  the  ‘generous  and  munificent  patronage’  of 
Messrs  Josiah  and  Thomas  Wedgewood,  Stafford- 
shire, enabled  the  poet  to  proceed  to  Germany 
to  complete  his  education,  and  he  resided  there 
fourteen  months.  At  Ratzeburg  and  Gottingen  he 
acquired  a well-grounded  knowledge  of  the  German 
language  and  literature,  and  was  confirmed  in  his 
bias  towards  philosophical  and  metaphysical  studies. 
On  his  return  in  1800,  he  found  Southey  established 
at  Keswick,  and  Wordsworth  at  Grasmere.  He 
went  to  live  with  the  former,  and  there  his  opinions 

* Mr  Hazlitt  has  described  his  walking  ten  miles  in  a winter 
day  to  hear  Coleridge  preach.  ‘ When  I got  there,’  he  says, 

* the  organ  was  playing  the  100th  Psalm,  and  when  it  was  done, 
Mr  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out  his  text : “ He  departed  again 
into  a mountain  himself  alone.”  As  he  gave  out  this  text,  his 
i voice  rose  like  a stream  of  rich  distilled  perfumes;  and  when 
he  came  to  the  last  two  words,  which  he  pronounced  loud, 
deep,  and  distinct,  it  seemed  to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as 
if  the  sounds  had  echoed  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart, 
and  as  if  that  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence 
through  the  universe.  The  idea  of  St  John  came  into  my 
mind,  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt 
about,  and  whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild-honey.  The 
preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject  like  an  eagle  dallying 
with  the  wind.  The  sermon  was  upon  peace  and  war— upon 
church  and  state— not  their  alliance,  but  their  separation— on 
the  spirit  of  the  world  and  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  not  as  the 
same,  but  as  opposed  to  one  another.  He  talked  of  those  who 
had  inscribed  the  cross  of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with 
human  gore!  He  made  a poetical  and  pastoral  excursion — 
and  to  shew  the  fatal  effects  of  war,  drew  a striking  contrast 
between  the  simple  shepherd-boy  driving  his  team  afield,  or 
sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  piping  to  his  flock,  as  though  he 
should  never  be  old,  and  the  same  poor  country  lad,  crimped, 
kidnapped,  brought  into  town,  made  drunk  at  an  alehouse, 
turned  into  a wretched  drummer-boy,  with  his  hair  sticking 
on  end  with  powder  and  pomatum,  a long  cue  at  his  back,  and 
tricked  out  in  the  finery  of  the  profession  of  blood  : 

“ Such  were  the  notes  our  once  loved  poet  sung  : ” 

and,  for  myself,  I could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I had 
heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.’ 


underwent  a total  change.  The  Jacobin  became  a 
royalist,  and  the  Unitarian  a warm  and  devoted 
believer  in  the  Trinity.  In  the  same  year  he  pub- 
lished his  translation  of  Schiller’s  Wallenstein , into 
which  he  had  thrown  some  of  the  finest  graces  of  his 
own  fancy.  The  following  passage  may  be  considered 
a revelation  of  Coleridge’s  poetical  faith  aiid  belief, 
conveyed  in  language  picturesque  and  musical : 

Oh  ! never  rudely  will  I blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  ! ’Tis  not  merely 
The  human  being’s  pride  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 

Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 

Is  all  too  narrow : yea,  a deeper  import 
Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years, 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  love’s  world,  his  house,  his  birthplace  ; 
Delightedly  dwells  he  ’mong  fays,  and  talismans, 
And  spirits ; and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets , 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion , 

The  power , the  beauty , and  the  majesty , 

That  had  their  haunts  in  dale , or  piny  mountain , 
Or  forest , by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 

Or  chasms  and  watery  depths;  all  these  have  vanished.. 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a language ; still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend ; and  to  the  lover, 
Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down ; and  even  at  this  day 
’Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate’er  is  great, 

And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that’s  fair. 

The  lines  which  we  have  printed  in  Italics  are  an 
expansion  of  two  of  Schiller’s,  which  Mr  Hayward — 
another  German  poetical  translator — thus  literally 
renders : 

The  old  fable-existences  are  no  more ; 

The  fascinating  race  has  emigrated  (wandered  out  or 
away). 

As  a means  of  subsistence,  Coleridge  reluctantly 
consented  to  undertake  the  literary  and  political 
department  of  the  Morning  Post,  in  which  he 
supported  the  measures  of  government.  In  1804, 
we  find  him  in  Malta,  secretary  to  the  governor, 
Sir  Alexander  Ball.  He  held  this  office  only  nine 
months,  and,  after  a tour  in  Italy,  returned  to 
England  to  resume  his  precarious  labours  as  an 
author  and  lecturer.  The  desultory  irregular  habits 
of  the  poet,  caused  partly  by  his  addiction  to  opium, 
and  the  dreamy  indolence  and  procrastination 
which  marked  him  throughout  life,  seem  to  have 
frustrated  every  chance  and  opportunity  of  self- 
advancement. Living  again  at  Grasmere,  he  issued 
a second  periodical,  The  Friend,  which  extended  to 
twenty-seven  numbers.  The  essays  were  sometimes 
acute  and  eloquent,  but  as  often  rhapsodical,  imper- 
fect, and  full  of  German  mysticism.  In  1816, 
chiefly  at  the  recommendation  of  Lord  Byron, 
the  ‘ wild  and  wondrous  tale  ’ of  Christabel  was 
published.  The  first  part,  as  we  have  mentioned, 
was  written  at  Stowey  as  far  back  as  1797,  and 
a second  had  been  added  on  his  return  from 
Germany  in  1800.  The  poem  was  still  unfinished; 
but  it  would  have  been  almost  as  difficult  to  com- 
plete the  Faery  Queen,  as  to  continue  in  the  same 
spirit  that  witching  strain  of  supernatural  fancy 
and  melodious  verse.  Another  drama,  Zapoyla — 
founded  on  the  Winter's  Tale— was  published  by 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Coleridge  in  1818,  and,  -with  the  exception  of  some 
minor  poems,  completes  his  poetical  works.  He 
wrote  several  characteristic  prose  disquisitions — 
The  Statesman’s  Manual , or  the  Bible  the  Best  Guide 
to  Political  Skill  and  Foresight ; A Lay  Sermon 
(1816) ; A Second  Lay  Sermon , addressed  to  the 
Higher  and  Middle  Classes  on  the  existing  Distresses 
and  Discontents  (1817);  Biographia  Literaria , two 
volumes,  1817;  Aids  to  Reflection  (1825);  On  the 
Constitution  of  the  Church  and  State  (1830);  &c. 
He  meditated  a great  theological  and  philosophical 
work,  his  magnum  opus , on  ‘ Christianity  as  the  only 
revelation  of  permanent  and  universal  validity,’ 
which  was  to  ‘ reduce  all  knowledge  into  harmony  ’ 
— to  ‘ unite  the  insulated  fragments  of  truth,  and 
therewith  to  frame  a perfect  mirror.’  He  planned 
also  an  epic  poem  on  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem, 
which  he  considered  the  only  subject  now  remain- 
ing for  an  epic  poem ; a subject  which,  like  Milton’s 
Fall  of  Man,  should  interest  all  Christendom,  asr 
the  Homeric  War  of  Troy  interested  all  Greecd* 
‘Here,’  said  he,  ‘there  would  be  the  completion 
of  the  prophecies ; the  termination  of  the  first  ! 
revealed  national  religion  under  the  violent  assault 
of  paganism,  itself  the  immediate  forerunner  and  1 
condition  of  the  spread  of  a revealed  mundane  ! 
religion ; and  then  you  would  have  the  character 
of  the  Eoman  and  the  Jew:  and  the  awfulness,  the 
completeness,  the  justice.  I schemed  it  at  twenty- 
five,  but,  alas!  venturum  expectat .’  This  ambition 
to  execute  some  great  work,  and  his  constitutional  I 
infirmity  of  purpose,  which  made  him  defer  or  recoil 
from  such  an  effort,  he  has  portrayed  with  great 
beauty  and  pathos  in  an  address  to  Wordsworth, 
composed  after  the  latter  had  recited  to  him  a poem 
‘ on  the  growth  of  an  individual  mind : ’ 

Ah ! as  I listened  with  a heart  forlorn, 

The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew : 

And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 

Life’s  joy  rekindling  roused  a throng  of  pains — 

Keen  pangs  of  love,  awakening  as  a babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 

And  fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  hope ; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain  ; 

And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain ; 

And  all  which  I had  culled  in  wood- walks  wild, 

And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — but  flowers 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 

In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

These  were  prophetic  breathings,  and  should  be 
a warning  to  young  and  ardent  genius.  In  such 
magnificent  alternations  of  hope  and  despair,  and  in 
discoursing  on  poetry  and  philosophy — sometimes 
committing  a golden  thought  to  the  blank  leaf  of  a 
book  or  to  a private  letter,  but  generally  content 
with  oral  communication — the  poet’s  time  glided 
past.  He  had  found  an  asylum  in  the  house  of  a 
private  friend,  Mr  James  Gillman,  surgeon,  High- 
gate,  where  he  resided  for  the  last  nineteen  years  of 
his  life.  Here  he  was  visited  by  numerous  friends 
and  admirers,  who  were  happy  to  listen  to  his 
inspired  monologues,  which  he  poured  forth  with 
exhaustless  fecundity.  ‘We  believe,’  says  one  of 
these  rapt  and  enthusiastic  listeners,  ‘ it  has  not 
been  the  lot  of  any  other  literary  man  in  England, 
since  Dr  Johnson,  to  command  the  devoted 
admiration  and  steady  zeal  of  so  many  and  such 
widely  differing  disciples — some  of  them  having 
become,  and  others  being  likely  to  become,  fresh 
and  independent  sources  of  light  and  moral  action 
in  themselves  upon  the  principles  of  their  common 
294 


master.  One  half  of  these  affectionate  disciples 
have  learned  their  lessons  of  philosophy  from  the 
teacher’s  mouth.  He  has  been  to  them  as  an  old 
oracle  of  the  academy  or  Lyceum.  The  fulness,  the 
inwardness,  the  ultimate  scope  of  his  doctrines,  has 
never  yet  been  published  in  print,  and,  if  disclosed, 
it  has  been  from  time  to  time  in  the  higher  moments 


Mr  Gillman’s  House,  Highgate,  the  last  residence  of  Coleridge. 


of  conversation,  when  occasion,  and  mood,  and  per- 
son, begot  an  exalted  crisis.  More  than  once  has 
Mr  Coleridge  said  that,  with  pen  in  hand,  he  felt  a 
thousand  checks  and  difficulties  in  the  expression  of 
his  meaning ; but  that — authorship  aside — he  never 
found  the  smallest  hitch  or  impediment  in  the 
fullest  utterance  of  his  most  subtle  fancies  by  word 
of  mouth.  His  abstrusest  thoughts  became  rhyth- 
mical and  clear  when  chanted  to  their  own  music.’* 
Mr  Coleridge  died  at  Highgate  on  the  25th  of  July 
1834.  In  the  preceding  winter  he  had  written  the 
folio-wing  epitaph,  striking  from  its  simplicity  and 
humility,  for  himself : 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by  ! Stop,  child  of  God ! 

And  read  with  gentle  breast.  Beneath  this  sod 
A poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he — 

Oh  ! lift  a thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ! 

That  he,  who  many  a year,  with  toil  of  breath, 

Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death  ! 
Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 

He  asked  and  hoped  through  Christ — do  thou  the 
same. 

* Quarterly  Review,  vol.  Hi.  p.  5.  With  one  so  impulsive  as 
Coleridge,  and  liable  to  fits  of  depression  and  to  ill-health, 
these  appearances  must  have  been  very  unequal.  We  have 
known  three  men  of  genius,  all  poets,  who  frequently  listened 
to  him,  and  yet  described  him  as  generally  obscure,  pedantic, 
and  tedious.  In  his  happiest  moods  he  must,  however,  have 
been  great  and  overwhelming.  His  voice  and  countenance 
were  harmonious  and  beautiful. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


ROETS. 


Immediately  on  the  death  of  Coleridge,  several  com- 
pilations were  made  of  his  table-talk,  correspondence, 
and  literary  remainsr  His  fame  had  been  gradually 
extending,  and  public  curiosity  was  excited  with 
respect  to  the  genius  and  opinions  of  a man  who 
combined  such  various  and  dissimilar  powers,  and 
who. was  supposed  capable  of  any  task,  however 
gigantic.  Some  of  these  Titanic  fragments  are 
valuable — particularly  his  Shakspearean  criticism. 
They  attest  his  profound  thought  and  curious 
erudition,  and  display  his  fine  critical  taste  and 
discernment.  In  penetrating  into  and  embracing 
the  whole  meaning  of  a favourite  author — unfolding 
the  nice  shades  and  distinctions  of  thought,  charac- 
ter, feeling,  or  melody — darting  on  it  the  light  of 
his  own  creative  mind  and  suggestive  fancy — and 
perhaps  linking  the  whole  to  some  glorious  original 
conception  or  image,  Coleridge  stands  unrivalled. 
He  does  not  appear  as  a critic,  but  as  an  eloquent 
and  gifted  expounder  of  kindred  excellence  and 
genius.  He  seems  like  one  who  has  the  key  to 
every  hidden  chamber  of  profound  and  subtle 
thought  and  every  ethereal  conception.  We  cannot 
think,  however,  that  he  could  ever  have  built  up 
i a regular  system  of  ethics  or  criticism.  He  wanted 
I the  art  to  combine  and  arrange  his  materials.  He 
I was  too  languid  and  irresolute.  He  had  never 
, attained  the  art  of  writing  with  clearness  and 
! precision ; for  he  is  often  unintelligible,  turgid,  and 
| verbose,  as  if  he  struggled  in  vain  after  perspicacity 
and  method.  His  intellect  could  not  subordinate 
, the  * shaping  spirit  ’ of  his  imagination. 

The  poetical  works  of  Coleridge  have  been  col- 
! lected  and  published  in  three  volumes.  They  are 
j various  in  style  and  manner,  embracing  ode,  tragedy, 
and  epigram,  love  poems,  and  strains  of  patriotism 
and  superstition — a wild  witchery  of  imagination, 

: and,  at  other  times,  severe  and  stately  thought  and 
; intellectual  retrospection.  His  language  is  often 
rich  and  musical,  highly  figurative  and  ornate.  Many 
of  his  minor  poems  are  characterised  by  tenderness 
; and  beauty,  but  others  are  disfigured  by  passages  of 
| turgid  sentimentalism  and  puerile  affectation.  The 
most  original  and  striking  of  his  productions  is  his 
well-known  tale  of  The  Ancient  Mariner.  Accord- 
ing to  De  Quincey,  the  germ  of  this  story  is  con- 
tained in  a passage  of  Shelvocke,  one  of  the  classical 
circumnavigators  of  the  earth,  who  states  that  his 
second  captain,  being  a melancholy  man,  was  pos- 
sessed by  a fancy  that  some  long  season  of  foul 
weather  was  owing  to  an  albatross  which  had 
steadily  pursued  the  ship,  upon  which  he  shot  the  bird, 
but  without  mending  their  condition.  Coleridge 
makes  the  ancient  mariner  relate  the  circumstances 
j attending  his  act  of  inhumanity  to  one  of  three 
, wedding-guests  whom  he  meets  and  detains  on 
| his  way  to  the  marriage-feast.  ‘ He  holds  him  with 
! his  glittering  eye,’  and  invests  his  narration  with 
I a deep  preternatural  character  and  interest,  and 
j with  touches  of  exquisite  tenderness  and  energetic 
| description.  The  versification  is  irregular,  in  the 
j style  of  the  old  ballads,  and  most  of  the  action  of 
the  piece  is  unnatural ; yet  the  poem  is  full  of  vivid 
and  original  imagination.  ‘There  is  nothing  else 
| like  it,’  says  one  of  his  critics;  ‘it  is  a poem  by 
itself;  between  it  and  other  compositions,  in  pari 
materia , there  is  a chasm  which  you  cannot  overpass. 
The  sensitive  reader  feels  himself  insulated,  and  a sea 
of  wonder  and  mystery  flows  round  him  as  round 
the  spell-stricken  ship  itself.’  Coleridge  further 
illustrates  his  theory  of  the  connection  between  the 
material  and  the  spiritual  world  in  his  unfinished 
poem  of  Christabel , a romantic  supernatural  tale, 
filled  with  wild  imagery  and  the  most  remarkable 


modulation  of  verse.  The  versification  is  founded 
on  what  the  poet  calls  a new  principle — though  it 
was  evidently  practised  by  Chaucer  and  Shakspeare 
— namely,  that  of  counting  in  each  line  the  number 
of  accentuated  words,  not  the  number  of  syllables. 
‘ Though  the  latter,’  he  says,  ‘ may  vary  from  seven 
to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  accents  will  be  found 
to  be  only  four.’  This  irregular  harmony  delighted 
both  Scott  and  Byron,  by  whom  it  was  imitated. 
We  add  a brief  specimen : 

The  night  is  chill ; the  forest  bare ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady’s  cheek ; 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 

J esu  Maria  shield  her  well ! 

She  foldeth  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 

And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 

What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a damsel  bright, 

Dressed  in  a silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone : 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare ; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandalled  were ; 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I guess  ’twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

A finer  passage  is  that  describing  broken  friend- 
ships : 

Alas ! they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 

And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above ; 

And  life  is  thorny ; and  youth  is  vain  : 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I divine, 

With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 

Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart’s  best  brother : 

They  parted — ne’er  to  meet  again ! 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining ; 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder : 

A dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

This  metrical  harmony  of  Coleridge  exercises  a 
sort  of  fascination  even  when  it  is  found  united  to 
incoherent  images  and  absurd  conceptions.  Thus, 
in  Khubla  Khan , a fragment  written  from  recollec- 
tions of  a dream,  we  have  the  following  melodious 
rhapsody : 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. . 

It  was  a miracle  of  rare  device, 

A sunny  pleasure -dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


A damsel  with  a dulcimer 
In  a vision  once  I saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  deep  delight  ’t would  win  me, 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I would  build  that  dome  in  air, 

That  sunny  dome,  those  caves  of  ice  ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware ! Beware ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 

Weave  a circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  paradise. 

The  odes  of  Coleridge  are  highly  passionate  and 
elevated  in  conception.  That  on  France  was  con- 
sidered by  Shelley  to  be  the  finest  English  ode  of 
modern  times.  The  hymn  on  Chamouni  is  equally 
lofty  and  brilliant.  His  Genevieve  is  a pure  and 
exquisite  love-poem,  without  that  gorgeous  diffuse- 
ness which  characterises  the  odes,  yet  more  chastely 
and  carefully  finished,  and  abounding  in  the  delicate 
and  subtle  traits  of  his  imagination.  Coleridge  was 
deficient  in  the  rapid  energy  and  strong  passion 
necessary  for  the  drama.  The  poetical  beauty  of 
certain  passages  would  not,  on  the  stage,  atone  for 
the  paucity  of  action  and  want  of  interest  in  his  two 
plays,  though,  as  works  of  genius,  they  vastly  excel 
those  of  a more  recent  date  which  prove  highly 
successful  in  representation. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 

PART  i. 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three ; 

* By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp’st  thou  me  ? 

‘ The  bridegroom’s  doors  are  opened  wide, 

And  I am  next  of  kin ; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set ; 

Mayst  hear  the  merry  din.’ 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand ; 

‘ There  was  a ship,’  quoth  he. 

‘ Hold  off ; unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon ; * 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 

And  listens  like  a three-years’  child ; 

The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a stone, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner : 

‘ The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared. 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

‘ The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 

And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

29G 


‘ Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  ’ 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

Bed  as  a rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright- eyed  mariner : 

* And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong ; 

He  struck  with  his  o’ertaking  wings, 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

* With  sloping  masts  and  dripping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

‘ And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold ; 

And  ice  mast-high  came  floating  by 
As  green  as  emerald. 

‘ And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifls 
Did  send  a dismal  sheen  ; 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

‘ The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a swound ! 

‘ At  length  did  cross  an  albatross, 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 

As  if  it  had  been  a Christian  soul, 

We  hailed  it  in  God’s  name. 

‘ It  ate  the  food  it  ne’er  had  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  flew ; 

The  ice  did  split  with  a thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

‘ And  a good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind, 

The  albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner’s  hollo ! 

‘ In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white,. 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine. 

“ God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner, 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus ! 

Why  look’st  thou  so?”  With  my  cross-bow 
I shot  the  albatross. 


PART  II. 

‘ The  sun  nbw  rose  upon  the  right. 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


‘ And  the  good  south-wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow ; 

Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner’s  hollo  ! 

‘ And  I had  done  a hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  ’em  woe  ; 

For  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch,  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

‘ Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God’s  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist ; 

Then  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

’Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

‘ The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 
The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

* Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
’Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

‘ All  in  a hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  sun  at  noon 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

* Day  after  day,  day  after  day 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ? 

As  idle  as  a painted  ship 
Upon  a painted  ocean. 

‘Water,  water  every where, 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 

Water,  water  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

‘ The  very  deep  did  rot ; 0 Christ ! 

That  ever  this  should  be  ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

* About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a witch’s  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

‘ And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

‘And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

‘Ah,  well-a-day  ! what  evil  looks 
Had  I from  old  and  young  ! 

Instead  of  the  cross  the  albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

part  in. 

‘ There  passed  a weary  time.  Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A weary  time  ! a weary  time  t 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye  ! 

When  looking  westward  I beheld 
A something  in  the  sky. 


‘ At  first  it  seemed  a little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a mist ; 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A certain  shape,  I wist. 

‘ A speck,  a mist,  a shape,  I wist ! 

And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 

As  if  it  dodged  a water-sprite, 

It  plunged,  and  tacked,  and  veered. 

‘ With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ; 

I bit  my  arm,  I sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried  : “ A sail ! a sail !” 

‘ With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 

Gramercy  they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

“ See  ! see  ! ” I cried,  “ she  tacks  no  more, 

Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 

Without  a breeze,  without  a tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel.” 

‘ The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 

The  day  was  well-nigh  done, 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

‘ And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  bars — 
Heaven’s  mother  send  us  grace  ! — 

As  if  through  a dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

‘ Alas  ! thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud, 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ; 

Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

‘ Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a grate ; 

And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 

Is  that  a death,  and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  death  that  woman’s  mate  ? 

* Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold ; 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 

The  nightmare  Life-in-death  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man’s  blood  with  cold. 

‘ The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

“ The  game  is  done  ! I ’ve  won,  I ’ve  won  !” 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

‘ The  sun’s  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush  out, 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o’er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

‘ We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up ; 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip. 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman’s  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830, 


4 One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigb, 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

4 Four  times  fifty  living  men — 

And  I heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan — 

With  heavy  thump,  a lifeless  lump, 

They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

4 The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 

And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow.’ 


PART  IV. 

‘ I fear  thee,  ancient  mariner, 

I fear  thy  skinny  hand  1 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

%As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

4 1 fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.’ 

4 Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest, 

This  body  dropped  not  down. 

4 Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a wide  wide  sea ! 

And  never  a saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

4 The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on,  and  so  did  I. 

4 I looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

4 1 looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 

But  or  ever  a prayer  had  gushed, 

A wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

4 I closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
Lay  like  a load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

‘ The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they ; 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

4 An  orphan’s  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh ! more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a curse  in  a dead  man’s  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I could  not  die. 

4 The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  nowhere  did  abide  : 

Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a star  or  two  beside. 

‘ Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoarfrost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship’s  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A still  and  awful  red. 

298 


4 Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  the  water  snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 
And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

4 Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coiled  and  swam  ; and  every  track 
Was  a flash  of  golden  fire. 

4 0 happy  living  things  ! no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

A spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart* 
And  I blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I blessed  them  unaware. 

4 The  self-same  moment  I could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


part  v. 

4 0 sleep  ! it  is  a gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

4 The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I woke  it  rained. 

4 My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank ; 

Sure  I had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

4 1 moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 

I was  so  light — almost 
I thought  that  I had  died  in  sleep, 

And  was  a blessed  ghost. 

4 And  soon  I heard  a roaring  wind : 

It  did  not  come  anear ; 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

4 The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 

And  a hundred  fire-flags  sheen  ; 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

4 And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud ; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

4 The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side : 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a jag, 

A river  steep  and  wide. 

4 The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a groan. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUKE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


POETS. 


‘ They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a dream, 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

‘ The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on, 

Yet  never  a breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  ’gan  work  the  ropes 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a ghastly  crew. 

‘ The  body  of  my  brother’s  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 

The  body  and  I pulled  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  nought  to  me.’ 

‘ I fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  ! ’ 

‘ Be  calm  thou  wedding-guest ! 

’Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a troop  of  spirits  blest : 

‘ For  when  it  dawned,  they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

* Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  sun ; 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

t Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 

I heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air, 

With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

‘ And  now  ’twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a lonely  flute ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel’s  song, 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

* It  ceased ; yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A noise  like  of  a hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a quiet  tune. 

[The  ship  is  driven  onward,  but  at  length  the  curse  is 
finally  expiated.  A wind  springs  up  : 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a meadow-gale  of  spring— 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 

Yet  it  felt  like  a welcoming. 

The  mariner  sees  his  native  country.  The  angelic  spirits 
leave  the  dead  bodies,  and  appear  in  their  own  forms  of  light, 
each  waving  his  hand  to  the  shore.  A boat  with  a pilot  and 
hermit  on  board  approach  the  ship,  which  suddenly  sinks. 
The  mariner  is  rescued ; he  entreats  the  hermit  to  shrive  him, 
and  the  penance  of  life  falls  on  him.] 

* Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

‘ Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour 
That  agony  returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

, This  heart  within  me  burns. 

‘ I pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 

I have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I see, 

I know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 

To  him  my  tale  I teach. 


‘ What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaid's  singing  are  : 

And  hark ! the  little  vesper-bell 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

* 0 wedding-guest ! this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a wide  wide  sea  : 

So  lonely  ’twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

‘ 0 sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

’Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a goodly  company  ! 

‘ To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

* Farewell,  farewell ; but  this  I tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest : 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

‘ He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all.’ 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone  : and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom’s  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 

A sadder  and  a wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year  [1795]. 

i. 

Spirit  who  sweepest  the  wild  harp  of  time  ! 

It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 
Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear ! 

Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  heaven’s  unchanging  clime 
Long  when  I listened,  free  from  mortal  fear, 

With  inward  stillness,  and  submitted  mind ; 

When  lo  ! its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 

I saw  the  train  of  the  departing  year ! 

Starting  from  my  silent  sadness, 

Then  with  no  unholy  madness, 

Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 

I raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnised  his  flight. 

ii. 

Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb, 

From  the  prison’s  direr  gloom, 

From  Distemper’s  midnight  anguish ; 

And  thence,  where  Poverty  doth  waste  and  languish ; 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending, 

Love  illumines  manhood’s  maze ; 

Or  where,  o’er  cradled  infants  bending, 

Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze, 

Hither,  in  perplexed  dance, 

Ye  Woes  ! ye  young-eyed  Joys  ! advance  ! 

By  Time’s  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 

I bid  you  haste,  a mixed  tumultuous  band  ! 

299 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


From  every  private  bower, 

And  each,  domestic  hearth, 

Haste  for  one  solemn  hour ; 

And  with  a loud  and  yet  a louder  voice, 

O’er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth 
Weep  and  rejoice ! 

Still  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o’er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  hell  i 
And  now  advance  in  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  ! They,  too,  have  heard  thy  spell, 
They,  too,  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty ! 

m. 

I marked  Ambition  in  his  war-array ! 

I heard  the  mailed  monarch’s  troublous  cry — 
‘ Ah  ! wherefore  does  the  northern  conqueress  stay  ! 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way?’ 

Fly,  mailed  monarch,  fly  ! 

Stunned  by  Death’s  twice  mortal  mace, 

No  more  on  Murder’s  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye ! 
Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain ! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  Warsaw’s  plain  ! 

Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail’s  tower, 

When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

Fell  in  conquest’s  glutted  hour, 

’Mid  women’s  shrieks  and  infants’  screams  ! 

Spirits  of  the  uncofiined  slain, 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling, 

Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train, 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling ! 

The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom — 

Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance  like  death -fires  round  her  tomb ! 

Then  with  prophetic  song  relate 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer’s  fate ! 

IV. 

Departing  year ! ’twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  ! Where  alone, 

Voiceless  and  stem,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 

Aye  Memory  sits : thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 

With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 

Thou  storied’ st  thy  sad  hours  ! Silence  ensued, 
Deep  silence  o’er  the  ethereal  multitude, 

Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with  glories 
shone. 

Then,  his  eye  wild  ardours  glancing, 

From  the  choired  gods  advancing, 

The  Spirit  of  the  earth  made  reverence  meet, 

And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

v. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng 
Hushed  were  harp  and  song  : 

Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven — 
The  mystic  words  of  Heaven — 

Permissive  signal  make : 

The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  his  wings  and 
spake : 

‘ Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 
Love  and  uncreated  Light, 

By  the  Earth’s  unsolaced  groaning, 

Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might ! 

By  Peace  with  proffered  insult  scared, 

Masked  Hate  and  envying  Scorn  ! 

By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn  ! 

And  Hunger’s  bosom  to  the  frost- winds  bared  ! 

But  chief  by  Afric’s  wrongs, 

Strange,  horrible,  and  foul ! 

By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  “ full  of  gifts  and  lies  !” 

By  Wealth’s  insensate  laugh  ! by  Torture’s  howl ! 
Avenger,  rise ! 

For  ever  shall  the  thankless  island  scowl, 

300  


to  1830. 


Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 

Speak  ! from  thy  storm-black  heaven,  O speak  aloud  ! 
And  on  the  darkling  foe 

Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud ! 

O dart  the  flash  ! O rise  and  deal  the  blow  ! 

The  past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  future  cries  ! 

Hark  ! how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below  ! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  ! rise.’ 

VI. 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled ; 

Yet  still  I gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 

And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight, 

Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs ; 

My  ears  throb  hot ; my  eyeballs  start ; 

My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims ; 

Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 

And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  death ! 

No  stranger  agony  confounds 

The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 

When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead 
The  strife  is  o’er,  the  daylight  fled, 

And  the  night  wind  clamours  hoarse ! 

See  ! the  starting  wretch’s  head 
Lies  pillowed  on  a brother’s  corse  ! 

VII. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 

O Albion  ! O my  mother  isle  ! 

Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden’s  bowers, 

Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers ; 

Thy  grassy  uplands’  gentle  swells 
Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 
Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) ; 

And  Ocean,  ’mid  his  uproar  wild, 

Speaks  safety  to  his  island-child  ! 

Hence,  for  many  a fearless  age 
Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore  ! 

Nor  ever  proud  invader’s  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 

VIII. 

Abandoned  of  Heaven  ! mad  Avarice  thy  guide, 

At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 

’Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  cornfields  secure  thou  hast 
stood, 

And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  Famine  and  Blood  ! 

The  nations  curse  thee  ! They  with  eager  wondering 
Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a vulture,  scream ! 
Strange-eyed  Destruction ! who  with  many  a dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  upthundering 
Soothes  her  fierce  solitude ; yet  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount  or  red  volcanic  stream, 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

O Albion  ! thy  predestined  ruins  rise, 

The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap, 
Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  birds  of  warning  sing — 

And  hark  ! I hear  the  famished  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind  ! 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 

I,  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing, 

With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 

Have  wailed  my  country  with  a loud  lament. 

Now  I recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God’s  image,  sister  of  the  seraphim. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni. 

Hast  thou  a charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ? So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0 sovran  Blanc  ! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly ; but  thou,  most  awful  form  ! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 

How  silently ! Around  thee  and  above, 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 

An  ebon  mass ; methinks  thou  piercest  it, 

As  with  a wedge  ! But  when  I look  again, 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0 dread  and  silent  mount ! I gazed  upon  thee, 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought : entranced  in  prayer, 

1 worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life’s  own  secret  joy; 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul ! not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ! not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 

Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy.  Awake, 

Voice  of  sweet  song ! awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  ! 

O struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink  ! 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 

Thyself  earth’s  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  ! wake,  0 wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 

Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 

Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

For  ever  shattered,  and  the  same  for  ever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded — and  the  silence  came — 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  mountain’s  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a mighty  voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  ! silent  cataracts ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ? Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?  Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 

God  ! let  the  torrents,  like  a shout  of  nations, 

Answer  ! and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 

God  ! sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they,  too,  have  a voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle’s  nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 


Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Once  more,  hoar  mount ! with  thy  sky-pointing 
peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain  ! thou, 

That  as  I raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base, 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a vapoury  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0 ever  rise ; 

Rise,  like  a cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 

Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Great  Hierarch ! tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Love. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o’er  again  that  happy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I lay, 

Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o’er  the  scene, 

Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 

My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 

My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ! 

She  loves  me  best  whene’er  I sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I played  a soft  and  doleful  air, 

I sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

For  well  she  knew  I could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a burning  brand ; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I told  her  how  he  pined ; and  ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I sang  another’s  love, 

Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

And  she  forgave  me  that  I gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

801 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


But  when  I told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

But  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once, 

In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a fiend, 

This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 

He  leaped  amid  a murderous  band, 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land ; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasped  his  knees, 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a cave ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  away, 

When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
I A dying  man  he  lay ; 

His  dying  words — but  when  I reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve — 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 

An  undistinguishable  throng ; 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 

She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a dream 
I heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  she  stept  aside ; 

As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — - 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 

She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 

She  pressed  me  with  a meek  embrace, 

And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 

And  partly  ’twas  a bashful  art, 

That  I might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I calmed  her  fears ; and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 

And  so  I won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride  ! 

'[From  1 Frost  at  Midnight?] 

Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings  heard  in  this  deep  calm 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 

302 


My  babe  so  beautiful ! it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness  thus  to  look  at  thee, 

And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 

And  in  far  other  scenes ! For  I was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  ’mid  cloisters  dim, 

And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 

But  thou,  my  babe,  shalt  wander  like  a breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 

Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags : so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 

Great  universal  Teacher ! he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and,  by  giving,  making  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee. 

Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ; whether  the  evedrops  fall. 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

Love , Hope , and  Patience  in  Education. 

O’er  wayward  childhood  wouldst  thou  hold  firm  rule. 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces ; 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 

For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven’s  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it,  so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  education — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 

Methinks  I see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show, 

The  straitened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope, 

And  robes  that  touching  as  adown  they  flow, 

Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embossed  in  snow. 

0 part  them  never ! If  Hope  prostrate  lie, 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 

But  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive ; 

And  bending  o’er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 

And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother-dove, 

Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies ; 

Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to  Love.  I 
Yet  haply  there  will  come  a weary  day, 

When  overtasked  at  length 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 

Then  with  a statue’s  smile,  a statue’s  strength, 

Stands  the  mute  sister,  Patience,  nothing  loath, 

And  both  supporting,  does  the  work  of  both. 

Youth  and  Age. 

Yerse,  a breeze  ’mid  blossoms  straying, 

Where  Hope  clung  feeding  like  a bee — 

Both  were  mine  ! Life  went  a-Maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I was  young ! 

When  I was  young  ? Ah,  woful  when  ! 

Ah,  for  the  change  ’twixt  now  and  then ! 

This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 

This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 

O’er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 

How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along : 

Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 

On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 

That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 

That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide ! 

Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 

When  Youth  and  I lived  in’t  together. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


RET.  WILLIAM  LISLE  E0WLES. 


Flowers  are  lovely ; Love  is  flower-like ; 
Friendship  is  a sheltering  tree ; 

0 ! the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I was  old  ! 

Ere  I was  old  ? Ah,  wof ul  ere, 

Which  tells  me  Youth’s  no  longer  here ! 

0 Youth ! for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
’Tis  known  that  thou  and  I were  one ; 

I’ll  think  it  but  a fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  he  that  thou  art  gone  ! 

Thy  vesper-hell  hath  not  yet  tolled, 

And  thou  wert  aye  a masker  bold  ! 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1 see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 

This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  ; 

But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  f 
Life  is  but  thought ; so  think  I will 
That  Youth  and  I are  housemates  still. 

Dewdrops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 

Where  no  hope  is,  life’s  a warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old : 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave ; 

Like  some  poor  nigh -related  guest, 

That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed, 

Yet  hath  outstayed  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


Bowles  was  born  at  King’s-Sutton,  Northampton- 
shire, in  the  year  1762,  and  was  educated  first  at 
Winchester  school,  under  Joseph  Warton,  and  sub- 
sequently at  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  He  long 
held  the  rectory  of  Bremhill,  in  Wiltshire  (of 


Bremkill  Rectory,  in  Wiltshire. 


REV.  WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 

The  Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles  enjoys  the 
distinction  of  having  ‘delighted  and  inspired’  the 
genius  of  Coleridge.  His  first  publication  was  a 
small  volume  of  sonnets  published  in  1789,  to  which 
additions  were  made  from  time  to  time,  and  in 
1805  the  collection  had  reached  a ninth  edition. 
Various  other  poetical  works  proceeded  from  the 
pen  of  Mr  Bowles:  Coombe  Ellen  and  St  Michael's 
Mount , 1798 ; Battle  of  the  Nile , 1799 ; Sorrows  of 
Switzerland , 1801 ; Spirit  of  Discovery , 1805 ; The 
Missionary  of  the  Andes , 1815;  Days  Departed , 1828  ; 
St  John  in  Patmos,  1833 ; &c.  None  of  these  works 
can  be  said  to  have  been  popular,  though  all  of  them 
contain  passages  of  fine  descriptive  and  meditative 
verse.  Mr  Bowles  had  the  true  poetical  feeling  and 
imagination,  refined  by  classical  taste  and  acquire- 
ments. Coleridge  was  one  of  his  earliest  and  most 
devoted  admirers.  A volume  of  Mr  Bowles’s 
sonnets  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  enthusiastic 
young  poet,  converted  him  from  some  ‘ perilous 
errors’  to  the  love  of  a style  of  poetry  at  once 
tender  and  manly.  The  pupil  outstripped  his 
master  in  richness  and  luxuriance,  though  not  in 
elegance  or  correctness.  Mr  Bowles,  in  1806,  edited 
an  edition  of  Pope’s  works,  which,  being  attacked  by 
Campbell  in  his  Specimens  of  the  Poets,  led  to  a 
literary  controversy,  in  which  Lord  Byron  and 
others  took  a part.  Bowles  insisted  strongly  on 
descriptive  poetry  forming  an  indispensable  part  of 
the  poetical  character;  ‘every  rock,  every  leaf, 
every  diversity  of  hue  in  nature’s  variety.’  Camp- 
bell, on  the  other  hand,  objected  to  this  Dutch 
minuteness  and  perspicacity  of  colourin  g,  and  claimed 
for  the  poet  (what  Bowles  never  could  have  denied) 
nature,  moral  as  well  as  external,  the  poetry  of  the 
passions,  and  the  lights  and  shades  of  human 
manners.  In  reality,  Pope  occupied  a middle 
position,  inclining  to  the  artificial  side  of  life.  Mr 


which  George  Herbert  and  Norris  of  Bemerton 
had  also  been  incumbents),  and  from  1828  till 
his  death  in  1850,  he  was  a canon  residentiary  of 
Salisbury  Cathedral. 

Sonnets. 

To  Time. 

0 Time  ! who  know’st  a lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow’s  wound,  and  slowly  thence — 
Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense — 

The  faint  pang  stealest,  unperceived,  away  ; 

On  thee  I rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o’er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1 may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 

And  meet  life’s  peaceful  evening  with  a smile — 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day’s  departing  hour, 

Sings  in  the  sunbeam  of  the  transient  shower, 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while : 

Yet,  ah  ! how  much  must  that  poor  heart  endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,  a cure  ! 

Winter  Evening  at  Home. 

Fair  Moon  ! that  at  the  chilly  day’s  decline 
Of  sharp  December,  through  my  cottage  pane 
Dost  lovely  look,  smiling,  though  in  thy  wane ; 

In  thought,  to  scenes  serene  and  still  as  thine, 
Wanders  my  heart,  whilst  I by  turns  survey 
Thee  slowly  wheeling  on  thy  evening  way ; 

And  this  my  fire,  whose  dim,  unequal  light, 

Just  glimmering  bids  each  shadowy  image  fall 
Sombrous  and  strange  upon  the  darkening  wall, 
Ere  the  clear  tapers  chase  the  deepening  night ! 

Yet  thy  still  orb,  seen  through  the  freezing  haze, 
Shines  chlm  and  clear  without ; and  whilst  I gaze, 

I think  around  me  in  this  twilight  gloom, 

I but  remark  mortality’s  sad  doom  ; 

Whilst  hope  and  joy,  cloudless  and  soft,  appear 
In  the  sweet  beam  that  lights  thy  distant  sphere. 

303 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Hope. 

As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn, 

Weary  has  watched  the  lingering  night,  and  heard, 
Heartless,  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 
Salute  his  lonely  porch,  now  first  at  morn 
Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholy  bed  ; 

He  the  green  slope  and  level  meadow  views, 
Delightful  bathed  in  slow  ascending  dews ; 

Or  marks  the  clouds  that  o’er  the  mountain’s  head, 

In  varying  forms,  fantastic  wander  white ; 

Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song 
Heard  the  green  river’s  winding  marge  along, 

The  whilst  each  sense  is  steeped  in  still  delight : 
With  such  delight  o’er  all  my  heart  I feel 
Sweet  Hope  ! thy  fragrance  pure  and  healing  incense 
steal. 

[South  American  Scenery.'] 

Beneath  aerial  cliffs  and  glittering  snows, 

The  rush-roof  of  an  aged  warrior  rose, 

Chief  of  the  mountain  tribes ; high  overhead, 

The  Andes,  wild  and  desolate,  were  spread, 

Where  cold  Sierras  shot  their  icy  spires, 

And  Chilian  trailed  its  smoke  and  smouldering  fires. 

A glen  beneath — a lonely  spot  of  rest — 

Hung,  scarce  discovered,  like  an  eagle’s  nest. 

Summer  was  in  its  prime  ; the  parrot  flocks 
Darkened  the  passing  sunshine  on  the  rocks ; 

The  chrysomel  and  purple  butterfly, 

Amid  the  clear  blue  light,  are  wandering  by ; 

The  humming-bird,  along  the  myrtle  bowers, 

With  twinkling  wing  is  spinning  o’er  the  flowers  ; 

The  woodpecker  is  heard  with  busy  bill, 

The  mock-bird  sings — and  all  beside  is  still. 

And  look  ! the  cataract  that  bursts  so  high, 

As  not  to  mar  the  deep  tranquillity, 

The  tumult  of  its  dashing  fall  suspends, 

And,  stealing  drop  by  drop,  in  mist  descends  ; 
Through  whose  illumined  spray  and  sprinkling  dews, 
Shine  to  the  adverse  sun  the  broken  rainbow  hues. 

Checkering,  with  partial  shade,  the  beams  of  noon, 
And  arching  the  gray  rock  with  wild  festoon, 

Here,  its  gay  network  and  fantastic  twine, 

The  purple  cogul  threads  from  pine  to  pine, 

And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breathe, 

Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 

There,  through  the  trunks,  with  moss  and  lichens  white 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light, 

And  ’mid  the  cedar’s  darksome  bough,  illumes, 

With  instant  touch,  the  lori’s  scarlet  plumes. 

Sun-dial  in  a Churchyard. 

So  passes,  silent  o’er  the  dead,  thy  shade, 

Brief  Time  ! and  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
The  pleasing  pictures  of  the  present  fade, 

And  like  a summer  vapour  steal  away. 

And  have  not  they,  who  here  forgotten  lie — 

Say,  hoary  chronicler  of  ages  past — 

Once  marked  thy  shadow  with  delighted  eye, 

Nor  thought  it  fled — how  certain  and  how  fast  ? 

Since  thou  hast  stood,  and  thus  thy  vigil  kept, 

Noting  each  hour,  o’er  mouldering  stones  beneath 
The  pastor  and  his  flock  alike  have  slept, 

And  ‘ dust  to  dust  ’ proclaimed  the  stride  of  death. 

Another  race  succeeds,  and  counts  the  hour, 

Careless  alike  ; the  hour  still  seems  to  smile, 

As  hope,  and  youth,  and  life,  were  in  our  power ; 

So  smiling,  and  so  perishing  the  while. 

304 


I heard  the  village-bells,  with  gladsome  sound — 
When  to  these  scenes  a stranger  I drew  near — 
Proclaim  the  tidings  of  the  village  round, 

While  memory  wept  upon  the  good  man’s  bier. 

Even  so,  when  I am  dead,  shall  the  same  bells 
Bing  merrily  when  my  brief  days  are  gone ; 

While  still  the  lapse  of  time  thy  shadow  tells, 

And  strangers  gaze  upon  my  humble  stone ! 

Enough,  if  we  may  wait  in  calm  contend 
The  hour  that  bears  us  to  the  silent  sod ; 

Blameless  improve  the  time  that  Heaven  has  lent, 
And  leave  the  issue  to  thy  will,  0 God. 

The  Greenwich  Pensioners. 

When  evening  listened  to  the  dripping  oar, 

Forgetting  the  loud  city’s  ceaseless  roar, 

By  the  green  banks,  where  Thames,  with  conscious 
pride, 

Beflects  that  stately  structure  on  his  side, 

Within  whose  walls,  as  their  long  labours  close, 

The  wanderers  of  the  ocean  find  repose, 

We  wore  in  social  ease  the  hours  a^  ay, 

The  passing  visit  of  a summer’s  day. 

Whilst  some  to  range  the  breezy  hill  are  gone, 

I lingered  on  the  river’s  marge  alone ; 

Mingled  with  groups  of  ancient  sailors  gray, 

And  watched  the  last  bright  sunshine  steal  away. 

As  thus  I mused  amidst  the  various  train 
Of  toil-worn  wanderers  of  the  perilous  main, 

Two  sailors — well  I marked  them  (as  the  beam 
Of  parting  day  yet  lingered  on  the  stream, 

And  the  sun  sunk  behind  the  shady  reach) — 
Hastened  with  tottering  footsteps  to  the  beach. 

The  one  had  lost  a limb  in  Nile’s  dread  fight ; 

Total  eclipse  had  veiled  the  other’s  sight 
For  ever ! As  I drew  more  anxious  near, 

I stood  intent,  if  they  should  speak,  to  hear ; 

But  neither  said  a word  ! He  who  was  blind 
Stood  as  to  feel  the  comfortable  wind 
That  gently  lifted  his  gray  hair : his  face 
Seemed  then  of  a faint  smile  to  wear  the  trace. 

The  other  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  light 
Parting ; and  when  the  sun  had  vanished  quite, 
Methought  a starting  tear  that  Heaven  might  bless, 
Unfelt,  or  felt  with  transient  tenderness, 

Came  to  his  aged  eyes,  and  touched  his  cheek ! 

And  then,  as  meek  and  silent  as  before, 

Back  hand-in-hand  they  went,  and  left  the  shore. 

As  they  departed  through  the  unheeding  crowd, 

A caged  bird  sung  from  tbe  casement  loud ; 

And  then  I heard  alone  that  blind  man  say, 

‘ The  music  of  the  bird  is  sweet  to-day ! ’ 

I said,  ‘ 0 Heavenly  Father ! none  may  know 
The  cause  these  have  for  silence  or  for  woe  !’ 

Here  they  appear  heart-stricken  or  resigned 
Amidst  the  unheeding  tumult  of  mankind. 

There  is  a world,  a pure  unclouded  clime, 

Where  there  is  neither  grief,  nor  death,  nor  time ! 

Nor  loss  of  friends  ! Perhaps,  when  yonder  bell 
Beat  slow,  and  bade  the  dying  day  farewell, 

Ere  yet  the  glimmering  landscape  sunk  to  night, 

They  thought  upon  that  world  of  distant  light ; 

And  when  the  blind  man,  lifting  light  his  hair,  / 
Felt  the  faint  wind,  he  raised  a warmer  prayer ; 

Then  sighed,  as  the  blithe  bird  sung  o’er  his  head, 
‘No  morn  will  shine  on  me  till  I am  dead !’ 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY, 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

One  of  the  most  voluminous  and  learned  authors 
of  this  period  was  Robert  Southey,  LL.D.,  the 
poet-laureate.  A poet,  scholar,  antiquary,  critic, 
and  historian,  Mr  Southey  wrote  more  than  even 
Scott,  and  he  is  said  to  have  burned  more  verses 


between  his  twentieth  and  thirtieth  year  than  he 
published  during  his  whole  life.  His  time  was 
entirely  devoted  to  literature.  Every  day  and  hour 
had  its  appropriate  and  select  task  ; his  library  was 
his  world  within  which  he  was  content  to  range,  and 
his  books  were  his  most  cherished  and  constant 
companions.  In  one  of  his  poems,  he  says : 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed ; 

Around  me  I behold, 

Where’er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old : 

My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I converse  night  and  day. 

It  is  melancholy  to  reflect,  that  for  nearly  three 
years  preceding  his  death,  Mr  Southey  sat  among 
his  books  in  hopeless  vacuity  of  mind,  the  victim  of 
disease.  This  distinguished  author  was  a native  of 
Bristol,  the  son  of  a respectable  linen-draper  of  the 
same  name,  and  was  born  on  the  12th  of  August 
1774.  He  was  indebted  to  a maternal  uncle  for  most 
of  his  education.  In  his  fourteenth  year  he  was 
placed  at  Westminster  School,  where  he  remained 
between  three  and  four  years,  but  having  in  con- 
junction with  several  of  his  school-associates  set  on 
foot  a periodical  entitled  Tlte  Flagellant,  in  which  a 
sarcastic  article  on  corporal  punishment  appeared, 
the  head-master,  Dr  Vincent,  commenced  a pro- 
secution against  the  publisher,  and  Southey  was 
compelled  to  leave  the  school.  This  harsh  exercise 
of  authority  probably  had  considerable  effect  in 
disgusting  the  young  enthusiast  with  the  institu- 
tions of  his  country,  against  which  he  soon  arrayed 
72 


himself.  In  November  1792  he  was  entered  of 
Baliol  College,  Oxford.  He  had  then  distinguished 
himself  by  poetical  productions,  and  had  formed 
literary  plans  enough  for  many  years  or  many  lives. 
In  political  opinions  he  was  a democrat ; in  religious, 
a Unitarian ; consequently  he  could  not  take  orders 
in  the  church,  or  look  for  any  official  appointment. 
He  fell  in  with  Coleridge,  as  already  related,  and 
joined  in  the  plan  of  emigration.  His  academic 
career  was  abruptly  closed  in  1794.  The  same  year, 
he  published  a volume  of  poems  in  conjunction  with 
Mr  Robert  Lovell,  under  the  names  of  Moschus  and 
Bion.  About  the  same  time  he  composed  his  poem 
of  Wat  Tyler,  a revolutionary  brochure,  which  was 
long  afterwards  published  surreptitiously  by  a 
knavish  bookseller  to  annoy  its  author.  ‘In  my 
youth,’  he  says,  ‘when  my  stock  of  knowledge 
consisted  of  such  an  acquaintance  with  Greek  and 
Roman  history,  as  is  acquired  in  the  course  of  a 
scholastic  education;  when  my  heart  was  full  of 
poetry  and  romance,  and  Lucan  and  Akenside  were 
at  my  tongue’s  end,  I fell  into  the  political  opinions 
which  the  French  revolution  was  then  scattering 
throughout  Europe;  and  following  those  opinions 
with  ardour  wherever  they  led,  I soon  perceived  that 
inequalities  of  rank  were  a light  evil  compared  to 
the  inequalities  of  property,  and  those  more  fearful 
distinctions  which  the  want  of  moral  and  intellec- 
tual culture  occasions  between  man  and  man.  At 
that  time,  and  with  those  opinions,  or  rather  feelings 
(for  their  root  was  in  the  heart,  and  not  in  the  under- 
standing), I wrote  Wat  Tyler,  as  one  who  was 
impatient  of  all  the  oppressions  that  are  done  under 
the  sun.  The  subject  was  injudiciously  chosen,  and 
it  was  treated,  as  might  be  expected,  by  a youth  of 
twenty  in  such  times,  who  regarded  only  one  side  of 
the  question.’  The  poem,  indeed,  is  a miserable 
production,  and  was  harmless  from  its  very  inanity. 
Full  of  the  same  political  sentiments  and  ardour, 
Southey,  in  1793,  had  composed  his  Joan  of  Arc, 
an  epic  poem,  displaying  fertility  of  language  and 
boldness  of  imagination,  but  at  the  same  time  diffuse 
in  style,  and  in  many  parts  wild  and  incoherent. 
In  imitation  of  Dante,  the  young  poet  conducted  his 
heroine  in  a dream  to  the  abodes  of  departed  spirits, 
and  dealt  very  freely  with  the  ‘ murderers  of  man- 
kind,’ from  Nimrod  the  mighty  hunter,  down  to  the 
hero  conqueror  of  Agincourt : 

A huge  and  massy  pile — 

Massy  it  seemed,  and  yet  in  every  blast 
As  to  its  ruin  shook.  There,  porter  fit, 

Remorse  for  ever  his  sad  vigils  kept. 

Pale,  hollow-eyed,  emaciate,  sleepless  wretch, 

Inly  he  groaned,  or,  starting,  wildly  shrieked, 

Aye  as  the  fabric,  tottering  from  its  base, 

Threatened  its  fall — and  so,  expectant  still, 

Lived  in  the  dread  of  danger  still  delayed. 

They  entered  there  a large  and  lofty  dome, 

O’er  whose  black  marble  sides  a dim  drear  light 
Struggled  with  darkness  from  the  unfrequent  lamp. 
Enthroned  around,  the  Murderers  of  Mankind — 
Mcnarchs,  the  great ! the  glorious ! the  august ! 

Each  bearing  on  his  brow  a crown  of  fire — 

Sat  stern  and  silent.  Nimrod,  he  was  there, 

First  king,  the  mighty  hunter ; and  that  chief 
Who  did  belie  his  mother’s  fame,  that  so 
He  might  be  called  young  Ammon.  In  this  court 
Caesar  was  crowned — accursed  liberticide ; 

And  he  who  murdered  Tully,  that  cold  villain 
Octavius — though  the  courtly  minion’s  lyre 
Hath  hymned  his  praise,  though  Maro  sung  to  him, 
And  when  death  levelled  to  original  clay 
The  royal  carcass,  Flattery,  fawning  low, 

Fell  at  his  feet,  and  worshipped  the  new  god. 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


Titus  was  here,  the  conqueror  of  the  Jews, 

He,  the  delight  of  humankind  misnamed  ; 

Caesars  and  Soldans,  emperors  and  kings, 

Here  were  they  all,  all  who  for  glory  fought, 

Here  in  the  Court  of  Glory,  reaping  now 
The  meed  they  merited. 

As  gazing  round, 

The  Virgin  marked  the  miserable  train, 

A deep  and  hollow  voice  from  one  went  forth : 

‘ Thou  who  art  come  to  view  our  punishment, 

Maiden  of  Orleans ! hither  turn  thine  eyes ; 

For  I am  he  whose  bloody  victories 

Thy  power  hath  rendered  vain.  Lo  ! Iam  here, 

The  hero  conqueror  of  Agincourt, 

Henry*  of  England  1’ 

In  the  second  edition  of  the  poem,  published  in 
1798,  the  vision  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  and  every- 
thing miraculous,  was  omitted.  When  the  poem 
first  appeared,  its  author  was  on  his  way  to  Lisbon, 
j in  company  with  his  uncle,  Dr  Herbert,  chaplain  to 
the  factory  at  Lisbon.  Previous  to  his  departure 
| in  November  1795,  Mr  Southey  had  married  Miss 
j Edith  Fricker  of  Bristol,  sister  of  the  lady  with  whom 
Coleridge  united  himself;  and  immediately  after  the 
ceremony  they  parted.  ‘ My  mother,’  says  the  poet’s 
son  and  biographer,  ‘wore  her  wedding-ring  hung 
round  her  neck,  and  preserved  her  maiden  name 
until  the  report  of  the  marriage  had  spread  abroad.’ 
Cottle,  the  generous  Bristol  bookseller,  had  given 
Southey  money  to  purchase  the  ring.  The  poet  was 
six  months  with  his  uncle  in  Lisbon,  during  which 
time  he  had  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
Spanish  and  Portuguese  languages,  in  which  he 
afterwards  became  a proficient.  The  death  of  his 
brother-in-law  and  brother-poet,  Lovell,  occurred 
during  his  absence  abroad,  and  Southey  on  his 
return  set  about  raising  something  for  his  young 
friend’s  widow.  She  afterwards  found  a home 
with  Southey — one  of  the  many  generous  and 
affectionate  acts  of  his  busy  life.  In  1797  he 
published  his  Letters  from  Spain  and  Portugal , and 
j took  up  his  residence  in  London,  in  order  to  com- 
j mence  the  study  of  the  law.  A college-friend,  Mr 
C.  W.  W.  Wynn,  gave  him  an  annuity  of  £160, 

I which  he  continued  to  receive  until  1807,  when  he 
relinquished  it  on  obtaining  a pension  from  the 
crown  of  £200.  The  study  of  the  law  was  never 
a congenial  pursuit  with  Southey;  he  kept  his 
terms  at  Gray’s  Inn,  but  his  health  failed,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1800  he  again  visited  Portugal.  After 
a twelvemonth’s  residence  in  that  fine  climate,  he 
returned  to  England,  lived  in  Bristol  a short  time, 
and  then  made  a journey  into  Cumberland,  for  the 
double  purpose  of  seeing  the  lakes  and  visiting 
Coleridge,  who  was  at  that  time  residing  at  Greta 
j Hall,  Keswick — the  house  in  which  Southey  himself 
was  henceforth  to  spend  the  greater  portion  of  his 
| life.  A short  trial  of  official  life  also  awaited  him. 
j He  was  offered  and  accepted  the  appointment  of 
I private  secretary  to  Mr  Corry,  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  for  Ireland ; the  terms,  prudently  limited 
to  one  year,  being  a salary  of  about  £350,  English 
currency.  His  official  duties  were  more  nominal  than 
real,  but  Southey  soon  got  tired  of  the  light  bondage, 
and  before  half  of  the  stipulated  period  of  twelve 
months  was  over,  he  had  got,  as  he  said,  unsecretary- 
Jied,  and  was  entered  on  that  course  of  professional 
authorship  which  was  at  once  his  business  and 
delight.  In  the  autumn  of  1803,  he  was  again  at 
Greta  Hall,  Keswick.  While  in  Portugal,  Southey 
had  finished  a second  epic  poem,  Thalaba , the 
Destroyer , an  Arabian  fiction  of  great  beauty  and 
magnificence.  For  the  copyright  of  this  work  he 
306 


received  a hundred  guineas,  and  it  was  published 
in  1801.  The  sale  was  not  rapid,  but  three  hundred 
copies  being  sold  by  the  end  of  the  year,  its  recep- 
tion, considering  the  peculiar  style  of  the  poem,  was 
not  discouraging.  The  form  of  verse  adopted  by 
the  poet  in  this  work  is  irregular,  without  rhyme ; 
and  it  possesses  a peculiar  charm  and  rhythmical 
harmony,  though,  like  the  redundant  descriptions 
in  the  work,  it  becomes  wearisome  in  so  long  a 
poem.  The  opening  stanzas  convey  an  exquisite 
picture  of  a widowed  mother  wandering  over  the 
sands  of  the  East  during  the  silence  of  night : 


How  beautiful  is  night ! 

A dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain, 
Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  : 

In  full-orbed  glory,  yonder  moon  divine 
Bolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert-circle  spreads, 

Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 

IL  • 

Who,  at  this  untimely  hour, 

Wanders  o’er  the  desert  sands  ? 

No  station  is  in  view, 

Nor  palm-grove  islanded  amid  the  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child, 

The  widowed  mother  and  the  fatherless  boy, 

They,  at  this  untimely  hour, 

Wander  o’er  the  desert  sands. 

m. 

Alas ! the  setting  sun 
Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 

Hodeirah’s  wife  beloved, 

The  fruitful  mother  late, 

Whom,  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia  named, 

They  wished  their  lot  like  hers : 

She  wanders  o’er  the  desert  sands 
A wretched  widow  now, 

The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a race ; 

With  only  one  preserved, 

She  wanders  o’er  the  wilderness. 

IV. 

No  tear  relieved  the  burden  of  her  heart ; 

Stunned  with  the  heavy  wo£,  she  felt  like  one 
Half- wakened  from  a midnight  dream  of  blood. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 
Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears, 

And,  looking  up  to  her  fixed  countenance, 

Sob  out  the  name  of  Mother,  then  did  she 
Utter  a feeble  groan. 

At  length,  collecting,  Zeinab  turned  her  eyes 
To  Heaven,  exclaiming : ‘ Praised  be  the  Lord  ! 

He  gave,  He  takes  away ! 

The  Lord  our  God  is  good  !’ 

The  metre  of  'Thalaba , as  may  be  seen  from  this 
specimen,  has  great  power,  as  well  as  harmony, 
in  skilful  hands.  It  is  in  accordance  with  the 
subject  of  the  poem,  and  is,  as  the  author  himself 
remarks,  ‘the  Arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian 
tale.’  Southey  had  now  cast  off  his  revolutionary 
opinions,  and  his  future  writings  were  all  marked  by 
a somewhat  intolerant  attachment  to  church  and 
state.  He  established  himself  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  Greta,  near  Keswick,  subsisting  by  his  pen  and 
a pension  which  he  had  received  from  government. 
In  1804,  he  published  a volume  of  Metrical  Tales ; 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  bobert  sotjthet. 


and  in  1805,  Madoc,  an  epic  poem,  founded  on  a 
Welsh  story,  but  inferior  to  its  predecessors.  In 
1810,  appeared  his  greatest  poetical  work,  The  Curse 
of  Kehama , a poem  of  the  same  class  and  structure 
as  Thalaba,  but  in  rhyme.  With  characteristic 
egotism,  Mr  Southey  prefixed  to  The  Curse  of 
Kehama  a declaration  that  he  would  not  change 
a syllable  or  measure  for  any  one : 

Pedants  shall  not  tie  my  strains 
To  our  antique  poets’  veins. 

Kehama  is  a Hindoo  rajah,  who,  like  Dr  Faustus, 
obtains  and  sports  with  supernatural  power.  His 
adventures  are  sufficiently  startling,  and  afford  room 
for  the  author’s  striking  amplitude  of  description. 
‘The  story  is  founded,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
‘upon  the  Hindoo  mythology,  the  most  gigantic,  cum- 
brous, and  extravagant  system  of  idolatry  to  which 
temples  were  ever  erected.  The  scene  is  alter- 
nately laid  in  the  terrestrial  paradise,  under  the  sea 
— in  the  heaven  of  heavens— and  in  hell  itself. 
The  principal  actors  are,  a man  who  approaches 
almost  to  omnipotence ; another  labouring  under  a 
strange  and  fearful  malediction,  which  exempts  him 
from  the  ordinary  laws  of  nature ; a good  genius,  a 
sorceress,  and  a ghost,  with  several  Hindostan  deities 
of  different  ranks.  The  only  being  that  retains  the 
usual  attributes  of  humanity  is  a female,  who  is 
gifted  with  immortality  at  the  close  of  the  piece.’ 
Some  of  the  scenes  in  this  strangely  magnificent 
theatre  of  horrors  are  described  with  the  power 
of  Milton,  and  Scott  has  said  that  the  following 
account  of  the  approach  of  the  mortals  to  Padalon,  or 
the  Indian  Hades,  is  equal  in  grandeur  to  any  passage 
which  he  ever  perused : 

Far  other  light  than  that  of  day  there  shone 
Upon  the  travellers,  entering  Padalon. 

They,  too,  in  darkness  entering  on  their  way, 

But  far  before  the  car 
A glow,  as  of  a fiery  furnace  light, 

Filled  all  before  them.  ’Twas  a light  that  made 
Darkness  itself  appear 

A thing  of  comfort ; and  the  sight,  dismayed, 

Shrank  inward  from  the  molten  atmosphere. 

Their  way  was  through  the  adamantine  rock 
Which  girt  the  world  of  woe  : on  either  side 
Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 
Arched  the  long  passage ; onward  as  they  ride, 

With  stronger  glare  the  light  around  them  spread — 
And,  lo  ! the  regions  dread — 

The  world  of  woe  before  them  opening  wide, 

There  rolls  the  fiery  flood, 

Girding  the  realms  of  Padalon  around. 

A sea  of  flame,  it  seemed  to  be 
Sea  without  bound ; 

For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight 
Could  pierce  across  through  that  intensest  light. 

When  the  curse  is  removed  from  the  sufferer, 
Ladurlad,  and  he  is  transported  to  his  family  in 
the  Bower  of  Bliss,  the  poet  breaks  out  into  that 
apostrophe  to  Love  which  is  so  often  quoted,  but 
never  can  be  read  without  emotion : 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die. 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

In  heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 

Earthly,  these  passions  of  the  earth 
They  perish  where  they  had  their  birth. 

But  Love  is  indestructible, 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth, 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 


Too  oft  on  earth  a troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  the  harvest-time  of  Love  is  there. 

Oh  ! when  a mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 

For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight ! 

Besides  its  wonderful  display  of  imagination  and 
invention,  and  its  vivid  scene-painting,  The  Curse  of 
Kehama  possesses  the  recommendation  of  being  in 
manners,  sentiments,  scenery,  and  costume,  distinc- 
tively and  exclusively  Hindoo.  Its  author  was  too 
diligent  a student  to  omit  whatever  was  charac- 
teristic in  the  landscape  or  the  people.  Passing 
over  his  prose  works,  we  next  find  Mr  Southey 
appear  in  a native  poetical  dress  in  blank  verse. 
In  1814  he  published  Roderick , the  Last  of  the  Goths, 
a noble  and  pathetic  poem,  though  liable  also  to  the 
charge  of  redundant  description.  The  style  of  the 
versification  may  be  seen  from  the  following  account 
of  the  grief  and  confusion  of  the  aged  monarch, 
when  he  finds  his  throne  occupied  by  the  Moors 
after  his  long  absence : 

The  sound,  the  sight 
Of  turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  scimitar, 

And  tawny  skins,  awoke  contending  thoughts 
Of  anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the  Goth ; 

The  unaccustomed  face  of  humankind 
Confused  him  now — and  through  the  streets  he  went 
With  haggard  mien,  and  countenance  like  one 
Crazed  or  bewildered.  All  who  met  him  turned, 

And  wondered  as  he  passed.  One  stopped  him  short, 
Put  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desired, 

In  broken  Gothic  speech,  the  moon-struck  man 
To  bless  him.  With  a look  of  vacancy, 

Roderick  received  the  alms ; his  wandering  eye 
Fell  on  the  money,  and  the  fallen  king, 

Seeing  his  royal  impress  on  the  piece, 

Broke  out  into  a quick  convulsive  voice, 

That  seemed  like  laughter  first,  but  ended  soon 
In  hollow  groan  suppressed : the  Mussulman 
Shrunk  at  the  ghastly  sound,  and  magnified 
The  name  of  Allah  as  he  hastened  on. 

A Christian  woman,  spinning  at  her  door, 

Beheld  him — and  with  sudden  pity  touched, 

She  laid  her  spindle  by,  and  running  in, 

Took  bread,  and  following  after,  called  him  back — 
And,  placing  in  his  passive  hands  the  loaf, 

She  said,  Christ  Jesus  for  his  Mother’s  sake 
Have  mercy  on  thee  ! With  a look  that  seemed 
Like  idiocy,  he  heard  her,  and  stood  still, 

Staring  awhile ; then  bursting  into  tears, 

Wept  like  a child. 

Or  the  following  description  of  a moonlight  scene : 

IIow  calmly,  gliding  through  the  dark-blue  sky, 

The  midnight  moon  ascends  ! Her  placid  beams, 
Through  thinly  scattered  leaves,  and  boughs  grotesque, 
Mottle  with  mazy  shades  the  orchard  slope ; 

Here  o’er  the  chestnut’s  fretted  foliage,  gray 
And  massy,  motionless  they  spread ; here  shine 
Upon  the  crags,  deepening  with  blacker  night 
Their  chasms ; and  there  the  glittering  argentry 
Ripples  and  glances  on  the  confluent  streams. 

A lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 
Rests  on  the  hills ; and  oh  ! how  awfully, 

Into  that  deep  and  tranquil  firmament, 

The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  serene  ! 

The  watchman  on  the  battlements  partakes 

307 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


The  stillness  of  the  solemn  hour ; he  feels 
The  silence  of  the  earth ; the  endless  sound 
Of  flowing  water  soothes  him ; and  the  stars, 

Which  in  that  brightest  moonlight  well-nigh  quenched, 
Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 
Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen. 

Draw  on  with  elevating  influence 
Towards  eternity  the  attempered  mind. 

Musing  on  worlds  beyond  the  grave,  he  stands, 

And  to  the  Virgin  Mother  silently 
Breathes  forth  her  hymn  of  praise. 

Mr  Southey  having,  in  1813,  accepted  the  office  of 
poet-laureate,  composed  some  courtly  strains  that 
tended  little  to  advance  his  reputation.  His  Carmen 
Triumphale,  and  The  Vision  of  Judgment , provoked 
much  ridicule  at  the  time,  and  would  have  passed 


Southey’s  House. 


into  utter  oblivion,  if  Lord  Byron  had  not  published 
another  Vision  of  Judgment — one  of  the  most  power- 
ful, though  wild  and  profane  of  his  productions,  in 
which  the  laureate  received  a merciless  and  witty 
castigation,  that  even  his  admirers  admitted  to  be 
not  unmerited.  The  latest  of  our  author’s  poetical 
works  was  a volume  of  narrative  verse,  All  for  Love , 
and  The  Pilgrim  of  Compostella.  He  continued  his 
ceaseless  round  of  study  and  composition,  writing 
on  all  subjects,  and  filling  ream  after  ream  of  paper 
with  his  lucubrations  on  morals,  philosophy,  poetry, 
and  politics.  He  was  offered  a baronetcy  and  a seat 
in  parliament,  both  of  which  he  prudently  declined. 
His  fame  and  his  fortune,  he  knew,  could  only  be 
preserved  by  adhering  to  his  solitary  studies ; but 
these  were  too  constant  and  uninterrupted.  The 
poet  forgot  one  of  his  own  maxims,  that  ‘ frequent 
change  of  air  is  of  all  things  that  which  most  con- 
duces to  joyous  health  and  long  life.’  About  the 
year  1834,  his  wife,  the  early  partner  of  his  affec- 
tions, sank  into  a state  of  mental  imbecility,  ‘a 
pitiable  state  of  existence,’  in  which  she  continued 
for  about  three  years,  and  though  he  bore  up 
wonderfully  during  this  period  of  affliction,  his 
health  was  irretrievably  shattered.  In  about  a year 
and  a half  afterwards,  however,  he  married  a second 
808 


time,  the  object  of  his  choice  being  Miss  Caroline 
Bowles,  the  poetess.  ‘ My  spirits,’  he  says,  ‘ would 
hardly  recover  their  habitual  and  healthful  cheerful- 
ness, if  I had  not  prevailed  upon  Miss  Bowles  to 
share  my  lot  for  the  remainder  of  our  lives.  There 
is  just  such  a disparity  of  age  as  is  fitting  ; we  have 
been  well  acquainted  with  each  other  more  than 
twenty  years,  and  a more  perfect  conformity  of 
disposition  could  not  exist.’  Some  members  of  the 
poet’s  grown-up  family  seem  to  have  been  averse 
to  this  union,  but  the  devoted  attentions  of  the 
lady  and  her  exemplary  domestic  virtues  soothed 
the  few  remaining  years  of  the  poet’s  existence. 
Those  attentions  were  soon  painfully  requisite. 
Southey’s  intellect  became  clouded,  his  accustomed 
labours  wrere  suspended,  and  though  he  continued 
his  habit  of  reading,  the  power  of  comprehension 
was  gone.  * His  dearly  prized  books,’  says  his  son, 
‘ were  a pleasure  to  him  almost  to  the  end,  and  he 
would  walk  slowly  round  his  library  looking  at 
them,  and  taking  them  down  mechanically.’  Words- 
worth, writing  to  Lady  Frederick  Bentinck  in  July 
1840,  says,  that  on  visiting  his  early  friend,  he  did 
not  recognise  him  till  he  was  told.  ‘ Then  his  eyes 
flashed  for  a moment  with  their  former  brightness, 
but  he  sank  into  the  state  in  which  I had  found 
him,  patting  with  both  hands  his  books  affection- 
ately like  a child.’  Three  years  were  passed  in  this 
deplorable  condition,  and  it  was  a matter  of  satis- 
faction rather  than  regret  that  death  at  length 
stept  in  to  shroud  this  painful  spectacle  from  the 
eyes  of  affection  as  well  as  from  the  gaze  of  vulgar 
curiosity.  He  died  in  his  house  at  Greta  on  the 
21st  of  March  1843.  He  left  at  his  death  a sum  of 
about  £12,000,  to  be  divided  among  his  children, 
and  one  of  the  most  valuable  private  libraries  in  the 
kingdom.  The  life  and  correspondence  of  Southey 
have  been  published  by  his  son,  the  Rev.  Charles 
Cuthbert  Southey,  in  six  volumes.  In  this  work 
the  amiable  private  life  of  Southey — his  indefatig- 
able application,  his  habitual  cheerfulness  and  lively 
fancy,  and  his  steady  friendships,  and  true  gener- 
osity, are  strikingly  displayed.  The  only  draw- 
back is  the  poet’s  egotism,  which  was  inordinate, 
and  the  hasty  uncharitable  judgments  sometimes 
passed  on  his  contemporaries,  the  result  partly  of 
temperament  and  partly  of  his  seclusion  from 
general  society.  Southey  was  interred  in  the 
churchyard  of  Crosthwaite,  and  in  the  church  is  a 
marble  monument  to  his  memory,  a full-length 
recumbent  figure,  with  the  following  inscription  by 
Wordsworth  on  the  base  of  the  monument : 

Ye  vales  and  hills,  whose  beauty  hither  drew 
The  poet’s  steps,  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you 
His  eyes  have  closed ; and  ye,  loved  books,  no  more 
Shall  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore, 

To  works  that  ne’er  shall  forfeit  their  renown, 

Adding  immortal  labours  of  his  own ; 

Whether  he  traced  historic  truth  with  zeal 
For  the  state’s  guidance,  or  the  church’s  weal ; 

Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  Art, 

Informed  his  pen,  or  Wisdom  of  the  heart, 

Or  Judgments  sanctioned  in  the  patriot’s  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind. 

Large  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  find  a holier  nest. 

His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a cloud 
From  Skiddaw’s  top ; but  he  to  Heaven  was  vowed 
Through  a life  long  and  pure,  and  steadfast  faith 
Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death. 

Few  authors  have  written  so  mjich  and  so  well, 
with  so  little  real  popularity,  as  Mr  Southey.  Of  all 
his  prose  works,  admirable  as  they  are  in  purity  of 


foETs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Walter  savage  landor. 

style,  the  Life  of  Nelson  alone  is  a general  favourite. 
The  magnificent  creations  of  his  poetry — piled  up 
like  clouds  at  sunset,  in  the  calm  serenity  of  his 
capacious  intellect — have  always  been  duly  appre- 
ciated by  poetical  students  and  critical  readers ; 
but  by  the  public  at  large  they  are  neglected.  A 
late  attempt  to  revive  them,  by  the  publication  of 
the  whole  poetical  works  in  ten  uniform  and  cheap 
volumes,  has  only  shewn  that  they  are  unsuited  to 
the  taste  of  the  present  generation.  The  reason  of 
this  may  be  found  both  in  the  subjects  of  Southey’s 
poetry,  and  in  his  manner  of  treating  them.  His 
fictions  are  wild  and  supernatural,  and  have  no 
hold  on  human  affections.  Gorgeous  and  sublime  as 
some  of  his  images  and  descriptions  are,  they  ‘come 
like  shadows,  so  depart.’  They  are  too  remote,  too 
fanciful,  and  often  too  learned.  The  Grecian  my- 
thology is  graceful  and  familiar ; but  Mr  Southey’s 
Hindoo  superstitions  are  extravagant  and  strange. 
To  relish  them  requires  considerable  previous 
reading  and  research,  and  this  is  a task  which 
few  will  undertake.  The  dramatic  art  or  power 
of  vivid  delineation  is  also  comparatively  unknown 
to  Southey,  and  hence  the  dialogues  in  Madoc  and 
Roderick  are  generally  flat  and  uninteresting.  His 
observation  was  of  books,  not  nature.  Some  affec- 
tations of  style  and  expression  also  marred  the 
effect  of  his  conceptions,  and  the  stately  and  copious 
flow  of  his  versification,  unrelieved  by  bursts  of 
passion  or  eloquent  sentiment,  sometimes  becomes 
heavy  and  monotonous  in  its  uniform  smoothness 
and  dignity. 

The  Holly  Tree. 

0 reader ! hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly  tree  ? 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it,  well  perceives 
Its  glossy  leaves 

Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist’s  sophistries. 

Below,  a circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen ; 

No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 
Can  reach  to  wound  ; 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 

Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1 love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralise : 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly  tree 
Can  emblems  see 

Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a pleasant  rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I might  appear 
Harsh  and  austere, 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 
Reserved  and  rude, 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I ’d  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I know, 

Some  harshness  shew, 

All  vain  asperities  I day  by  day 
Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  he 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 

And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 
So  bright  and  green, 

The  holly  leaves  a sober  hue  display 
Less  bright  than  they, 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 

What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly  tree  ? 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 
The  thoughtless  throng, 

So  would  I seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 
More  grave  than  they, 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly  tree. 

Some  of  the  youthful  ballads  of  Southey  were 
extremely  popular.  His  Lord  William , Mary  the 
Maid  of  the  Lnn,  The  Well  of  St  Keyne , and  The  Old 
Woman  of  Berkeley , were  the  delight  of  most  young 
readers  fifty  years  since.  He  loved  to  sport  with 
subjects  of  diablerie ; and  one  satirical  piece  of  this 
kind,  The  Devil's  Thoughts , the  joint  production  of 
Southey  and  Coleridge,  had  the  honour  of  being 
ascribed  to  various  persons.  The  conception  of  the 
piece  was  Southey’s,  who  led  off  with  the  following 
opening  stanzas : 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A walking  the  devil  is  gone, 

To  visit  his  snug  little  farm  the  earth, 

And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 

And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  his  long  tail, 
As  a gentleman  switches  his  cane. 

But  the  best  and  most  piquant  verses  are  by 
Coleridge  : one  of  these  has  passed  into  a proverb : 

He  saw  a cottage  with  a double  coach-house, 

A cottage  of  gentility ; 

And  the  devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 
Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

This  gentleman,  the  representative  of  an  ancient 
family,  was  born  at  Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  on 
the  30th  of  January  1775.  He  was  educated  at 
Rugby  school,  whence  he  was  transferred  to  Trinity 
College,  Oxford.  His  first  publication  was  a small 
volume  of  poems,  dated  as  far  back  as  1795.  The 
poet  was  intended  for  the  army,  but,  like  Southey, 
he  imbibed  republican  sentiments,  and  for  that  cause 
declined  engaging  in  the  profession  of  arms.  His 
father  then  offered  him  an  allowance  of  £400  per 
annum,  on  condition  that  he  should  study  the  law, 
with  this  alternative,  if  he  refused,  that  his  income 
should  be  restricted  to  one-third  of  the  sum.  The 
independent  poet  preferred  the  smaller  income  with 
literature  as  his  companion.  He  must  soon,  how- 
ever, have  succeeded  to  the  family  estates,  for  in 
1806,  exasperated  by  the  bad  conduct  of  some  of 
his  tenants,  he  is  said  to  have  sold  possessions  in 
Warwickshire  and  Staffordshire,  and  pulled  down 
a handsome  house  he  had  built.  This  rash  impul- 
siveness will  be  found  pervading  his  literature  as 
well  as  his  life.  In  1808,  Mr  Landor  joined  the 
Spaniards  in  their  first  insurrectionary  movement, 
raising  a troop  at  his  own  expense,  and  contributing 
20,000  reals  to  aid  in  the  struggle.  In  1815,  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  Italy,  having  purchased  a 
villa  near  Florence.  There  he  lived  for  many  years, 
cultivating  art  and  literature,  but  he  again  returned 
to  England  and  settled  in  Bath.  The  early  poetical 
works  of  Landor,  were  collected  and  republished  in 
1831.  They  consist  of  Gebir,  a sort  of  epic  poem, 
originally  written  in  Latin  ( Gebirus , 1802);  Count 
Julian , a tragedy,  highly  praised  by  Southey ; and 
various  miscellaneous  poems,  to  which  he  continued 
almost  every  year  to  make  additions.  He  also 
‘cultivated  private  renown,’  as  Byron  said,  in  the 
1 309 

from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

shape  of  Latin  verses  and  essays,  for  which  the 
noble  poet  styled  him  the  ‘ deep-mouthed  Boeotian, 
Savage  Landor.’  This  satire,  however,  was  point- 
less ; for  as  a ripe  scholar,  imbued  with  the  spirit 
of  antiquity,  Mr  Landor  transcended  most  of  his 
contemporaries.  His  acquirements  and  genius  were 
afterwards  fully  displayed  in  his  Imaginary  Conver- 
sations, a series  of  dialogues  published  at  intervals 
between  1824  and  1846,  by  which  time  they  had 
amounted  to  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  in 
number,  ranging  over  all  history,  all  times,  and 
almost  all  subjects.  Mr  Landor’s  poetry  is  infe- 
rior to  his  prose.  In  Gebir  there  is  a fine  passage, 
amplified  by  Mr  Wordsworth  in  his  Excursion , 
which  describes  the  sound  which  sea-shells  seem  to 
make  when  placed  close  to  the  ear : 

And  I have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue ; 

Shake  one,  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 

And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 

And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 

In  Count  Julian,  Mr  Landor  adduces  the  following 
beautiful  illustration  of  grief : 

Wakeful  he  sits,  and  lonely  and  unmoved, 

Beyond  the  arrows,  views,  or  shouts  of  men ; 

As  oftentimes  an  eagle,  when  the  sun 
Throws  o’er  the  varying  earth  his  early  ray, 

Stands  solitary,  stands  immovable, 

Upon  some  highest  cliflj  and  rolls  his  eye, 

Clear,  constant,  unobservant,  unabased, 

In  the  cold  light. 

His  smaller  poems  are  mostly  of  the  same  meditative 
and  intellectual  character.  An  English  scene  is  thus 
described : 

Clifton,  in  vain  thy  varied  scenes  invite — 

The  mossy  bank,  dim  glade,  and  dizzy  height ; 

The  sheep  that  starting  from  the  tufted  thyme, 
Untune  the  distant  churches’  mellow  chime  ; 

As  o’er  each  limb  a gentle  horror  creeps, 

And  shake  above  our  heads  the  craggy  steeps, 
Pleasant  I ’ve  thought  it  to  pursue  the  rower, 

While  light  and  darkness  seize  the  changeful  oar, 
The  frolic  Naiads  drawing  from  below 
A net  of  silver  round  the  black  canoe, 

Now  the  last  lonely  solace  must  it  be 
To  watch  pale  evening  brood  o’er  land  and  sea, 
Then  join  my  friends,  and  let  those  friends  believe 
My  cheeks  are  moistened  by  the  dews  of  eve. 

The  Maid’s  Lament  is  a short  lyrical  flow  of 
picturesque  expression  and  pathos,  resembling  the 
j more  recent  effusions  of  Barry  Cornwall : 

I loved  him  not ; and'  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I feel  I am  alone. 

I checked  him  while  he  spoke ; yet  could  he  speak, 
Alas  ! I would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him : I now  would  give 
My  love  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 
’Twas  vain,  in  liol$  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  ! 

I waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ; but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosqm  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart : for  years 
Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  ! 

‘ Merciful  Hod ! ’ such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

‘ These  may  she  never  share !’ 

310 

Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 
Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 

Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard  gate 
His  name  and  life’s  brief  date. 

Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe’er  ye  be, 

And  oh ! pray,  too,  for  me  ! 

We  quote  one  more  chaste  and  graceful  fancy, 
entitled  Sixteen : 

In  Clementina’s  artless  mien 
Lucilla  asks  me  what  I see, 

And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me  ? 

Lucilla  asks  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I not  culled  as  sweet  before  ? 

Ah  yes,  Lucilla  ! and  their  fall 
I still  deplore. 

I now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven’s  own  fight, 

More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 

And  not  less  bright. 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever, 

And  Modesty,  who,  when  she  goes, 

Is  gone  for  ever. 

Mr  Landor  continued  to  write  beyond  his  eightieth 
year.  In  1851,  he  published  a pamphlet  entitled 
Popery,  British  and  Foreign,  and  about  tiffs  time  he 
contributed  largely  to  the  columns  of  the  Examiner 
weekly  journal.  Though  living  the  life  of  a recluse, 
he  was  an  acute  observer  of  public  events,  and 
an  eager  though  inconsistent  and  impracticable 
politician.  In  1853,  he  issued  a volume  of  essays 
and  poetical  pieces,  entitled  The  Last  Fruit  off  an  Old 
Tree;  and  in  1858,  another  volume  of  the  same 
kind,  called  Dry  Sticks  fagoted  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor.  For  certain  grossly  indecent  verses  and 
slanders  in  this  work,  directed  against  a lady  in 
Bath,  the  author  underwent  the  indignity  of  a trial 
for  defamation,  was  convicted,  and  amerced  in 
damages  to  the  amount  of  £1000.  Shortly  before 
this,  Mr  Landor  had  published  a declaration  that  of 
his  fortune  he  had  but  a small  sum  left,  with  which 
he  proposed  to  endow  the  widow  of  any  person  who 
should  assassinate  the  Emperor  of  the  French! 
Thus  poor,  old,  and  dishonoured,  Mr  Landor  again 
left  England — a spectacle  more  pitiable,  consider- 
ing his  high  intellectual  endowments,  his  early 
friendships,  and  his  once  noble  aspirations,  than 
any  other  calamity  recorded  in  our  literary  annals. 

The  writings  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  have 
been  said  to  ‘bear  the  stamp  of  the  old  mocking 
paganism.’  A moody  egotistic  nature,  ill  at  ease 
with  the  common  things  of  life,  has  flourished  up 
in  his  case  into  a most  portentous  crop  of  crotchets 
and  prejudices,  which,  regardless  of  the  reprobation 
of  his  fellow-men,  he  issues  forth  in  prodigious 
confusion,  often  in  language  offensive  in  the  last 
degree  to  good  taste.  Eager  to  contradict  whatever 
is  generally  received,  he  never  stops  to  consider  how 
far  his  own  professed  opinions  may  be  consistent 
with  each  other:  hence  he  contradicts  himself 
almost  as  often  as  he  does  others.  Jeffrey,  in  one 
of  his  most  brilliant  papers,  has  characterised  in 
happy  terms  the  class  of  minds  to  which  Mr  Landor 
belongs.  ‘The  work  before  us,’  says  he,  ‘is  an 
edifying  example  of  the  spirit  of  literary  Jacobinism 
— flying  at  all  game,  running  a-muck  at  all  opinions, 
and  at  continual  cross-purposes  with  its  own.  This 
spirit  admits  neither  of  equal  nor  superior,  follower 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


nor  precursor:  “it  travels  in  a road  so  narrow, 
where  but  one  goes  abreast.”  It  claims  a monopoly  of 
sense,  wit,  and  wisdom.  All  their  ambition,  all  their 
endeavour  is,  to  seem  wiser  than  the  whole  world 
besides.  They  hate  whatever  falls  short  of,  what- 
ever goes  beyond,  their  favourite  theories.  In  the 
one  case,  they  hurry  on  before  to  get  the  start  of 
you;  in  the  other,  they  suddenly  turn  back  to 
hinder  you,  and  defeat  themselves.  An  inordinate, 
restless,  incorrigible  self-love  is  the  key  to  all  their 
actions  and  opinions,  extravagances  and  meannesses, 
servility  and  arrogance.  Whatever  soothes  and 
pampers  this,  they  applaud;  whatever  wounds  or 
interferes  with  it,  they  utterly  and  vindictively 
abhor.  A general  is  with  them  a hero,  if  he  is 
unsuccessful  or  a traitor;  if  he  is  a conqueror 
in  the  cause  of  liberty,  or  a martyr  to  it,  he  is  a 
poltroon.  Whatever  is  doubtful,  remote,  visionary 
in  philosophy,  or  wild  and  dangerous  in  politics, 
they  fasten  upon  eagerly,  “ recommending  and 
insisting  on  nothing  less ; ” reduce  the  one  to  demon- 
stration, the  other  to  practice,  and  they  turn  their 
backs  upon  their,  own  most  darling  schemes,  and 
leave  them  in  the  lurch  immediately.’  When  the 
reader  learns  that  Mr  Landor  justifies  Tiberius  and 
Nero,  speaks  of  Pitt  as  a poor  creature,  and  Fox 
as  a charlatan,  declares  Aifieri  to  have  been  the 
greatest  man  in  Europe,  and  recommends  the 
Greeks,  in  their  struggles  with  the  Turks,  to  discard 
firearms,  and  return  to  the  use  of  the  bow,  he 
will  not  deem  this  general  description  far  from 
inapplicable  in  the  case.  And  yet  the  Imaginary 
Conversations  and  other  writings  of  Mr  Landor  are 
amongst  the  most  remarkable  prose  productions  of 
our  age,  written  in  pure  nervous  English,  and  full 
of  thoughts  which  fasten  themselves  on  the  mind, 
and  are  ‘a  joy  for  ever.’  It  would  require  many 
specimens  from  these  works  to  make  good  what  is 
here  said  for  and  against  their  author ; we  subjoin 
one,  affording  both  an  example  of  his  love  of  para- 
dox, and  of  the  extraordinary  beauties  of  thought 
and  expression  by  which  he  leads  us  captive. 

[Conversation  between  Lords  Chatham  and  Chesterfield .] 

Chesterfield.  It  is  true,  my  lord,  we  have  not  always 
been  of  the  same  opinion,  or,  to  use  a better,  truer,  and 
more  significant  expression,  of  the  same  side  in  politics ; 
yet  I never  heard  a sentence  from  your  lordship  which  I 
did  not  listen  to  with  deep  attention.  I understand 
that  you  have  written*  some  pieces  of  admonition  and 
advice  to  a young  relative ; they  are  mentioned  as  being 
truly  excellent ; I wish  I could  have  profited  by  them 
when  I was  composing  mine  on  a similar  occasion. 

Chatham.  My  lord,  you  . certainly  would  not  have 
done  it,  even  supposing  they  contained,  which  I am  far 
from  believing,  any  topics  that  could  have  escaped  your 
penetrating  view  of  manners  and  morals ; for  your  lord- 
ship  and  I set  out  diversely  from  the  very  threshold. 
Let  us,  then,  rather  hope  that  what  we  have  written, 
with  an  equally  good  intention,  may  produce  its  due 
effect ; which  indeed,  I am  afraid,  may  be  almost  as 
doubtful,  if  we  consider  how  ineffectual  were  the  cares 
and  exhortations,  and  even  the  daily  example  and  high 
renown,  of  the  most  zealous  and  prudent  men  on  the 
life  and  conduct  of  their  children  and  disciples.  Let  us, 
however,  hope  the  best  rather  than  fear  the  worst,  and 
believe  that  there  never  was  a right  thing  done  or  a wise 
one  spoken  in  vain,  although  the  fruit  of  them  may  not 
spring  up  in  the  place  designated  or  at  the  time 
expected. 

Chesterfield.  Pray,  if  I am  not  taking  too  great  a 
freedom,  give  me  the  outline  of  your  plan. 

Chatham.  Willingly,  my  lord ; but  since  a greater  man 
than  either  of  us  has  laid  down  a more  comprehensive 


one,  containing  all  I could  bring  forward,  would  it 
not  be  preferable  to  consult  it?  I differ  in  nothing 
from  Locke,  unless  it  be  that  I would  recommend  the 
lighter  as  well  as  the  graver  part  of  the  ancient  classics, 
and  the  constant  practice  of  imitating  them  in  early 
youth.  This  is  no  change  in  the  system,  and  no  larger 
an  addition  than  a woodbine  to  a sacred  grove. 

Chesterfield.  I do  not  admire  Mr  Locke. 

Chatham.  Nor  I — he  is  too  simply  grand  for  admira- 
tion— I contemplate  and  revere  him.  Equally  deep  and 
clear,  he  is  both  philosophically  and  grammatically  the 
most  elegant  of  English  writers. 

Chesterfield.  If  I expressed  by  any  motion  of  limb  or 
feature  my  surprise  at  this  remark,  your  lordship,  I 
hope,  will  pardon  me  a slight  and  involuntary  trans- 
gression of  my  own  precept.  I must  entreat  you,  before 
we  move  a step  further  in  our  inquiry,  to  inform  me 
whether  I am  really  to  consider  him  in  style  the  most 
elegant  of  our  prose  authors. 

Chatham.  Your  lordship  is  capable  of  forming  an 
opinion  on  this  point  certainly  no  less  correct  than 
mine. 

Chesterfield.  Pray,  assist  me. 

Chatham.  Education  and  grammar  are  surely  the  two 
driest  of  all  subjects  on  which  a conversation  can  turn ; 
yet  if  the  ground  is  not  promiscuously  sown,  if  what 
ought  to  be  clear  is  not  covered,  if  what  ought  to  be 
covered  is  not  bare,  and,  above  all,  if  the  plants  are  choice 
ones,  we  may  spend  a few  moments  on  it  not  unpleasantly. 
It  appears  then  to  me,  that  elegance  in  prose  composition 
is  mainly  this ; a just  admission  of  topics  and  of  words ; 
neither  too  many  nor  too  few  of  either;  enough  of 
sweetness  in  the  sound  to  induce  us  to  enter  and  sit 
still ; enough  of  illustration  and  reflection  to  change  the 
posture  of  our  minds  when  they  would  tire ; and  enough 
of  sound  matter  in  the  complex  to  repay  us  for  our 
attendance.  I could  perhaps  be  more  logical  in  my 
definition  and  more  concise ; but  am  I at  all  erroneous  ? 

Chesterfield.  I see  not  that  you  are. 

Chatham.  My  ear  is  well  satisfied  with  Locke : I find 
nothing  idle  or  redundant  in  him. 

Chesterfield.  But  in  the  opinion  of  you  graver  men, 
would  not  some  of  his  principles  lead  too  far  ? 

Chatham.  The  danger  is,  that  few  will  be  led  by 
them  far  enough : most  who  begin  with  him  stop  short, 
and,  pretending  to  find  pebbles  in  their  shoes,  throw 
themselves  down  upon  the  ground,  and  complain  of 
their  guide. 

Chesterfield.  What,  then,  can  be  the  reason  why 
Plato,  so  much  less  intelligible,  is  so  much  more  quoted 
and  applauded  ? 

Chatham.  The  difficulties  we  never  try  are  no  diffi- 
culties to  us.  Those  who  are  upon  the  summit  of  a 
mountain  know  in  some  measure  its  altitude,  by  com- 
paring it  with  all  objects  around ; but  those  who  stand 
at  the  bottom,  and  never  mounted  it,  can  compare  it 
with  few  only,  and  with  those  imperfectly.  Until  a 
short  time  ago,  I could  have  conversed  more  fluently 
about  Plato  than  I can  at  present ; I had  read  all  the 
titles  to  his  dialogues,  and  several  scraps  of  comment- 
ary; these  I have  now  forgotten,  and  am  indebted  to 
long  attacks  of  the  gout  for  what  I have  acquired 
instead. 

Chesterfield.  A very  severe  schoolmaster  ! I hope 
he  allows  a long  vacation. 

Chatham.  Severe  he  is  indeed,  and  although  he  sets 
no  example  of  regularity,  he  exacts  few  observances, 
and  teaches  many  things.  Without  him  I should 
have  had  less  patience,  less  learning,  less  reflection, 
less  leisure  ; in  short,  less  of  everything  but  of  sleep. 

Chesterfield.  Locke,  from  a deficiency  of  fancy,  is  not 
likely  to  attract  so  many  listeners  as  Plato. 

Chatham.  And  yet  occasionally  his  language  is  both 
metaphorical  and  rich  in  images.  In  fact,  all  our 
great  philosophers  have  also  this  property  in  a wonder- 
ful degree.  Not  to  speak  of  the  devotional,  in  whose 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


writings  one  might  expect  it,  we  find  it  abundantly 
in  Bacon,  not  sparingly  in  Hobbes,  the  next  to  him  in 
range  of  inquiry  and  potency  of  intellect.  And  wbat 
would  you  think,  my  lord,  if  you  discovered  in  the 
records  of  Newton  a sentence  in  the  spirit  of  Shakspeare  ? 

Chesterfield.  I should  look  upon  it  as  upon  a wonder, 
not  to  say  a miracle : Newton,  like  Barrow,  had  no 
feeling  or  respect  for  poetry. 

Chatham.  His  words  are  these  : ‘ I don’t  know  what 
I may  seem  to  the  world;  but  as  to  myself,  I seem  to 
have  been  only  like  a boy  playing  on  the  sea-shore,  and 
diverting  myself  in  now  and  then  finding  a smoother 
pebble  or  a prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  whilst  the 
great  ocean  of  Truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me.’ 

Chesterfield.  Surely  nature,  who  had  given  him  the 
volumes  of  her  greater  mysteries  to  unseal ; who  had 
bent  over  him  and  taken  his  hand,  and  taught  him  to 
decipher  the  characters  of  her  sacred  language;  who 
had  lifted  up  before  him  her  glorious  veil,  higher  than 
ever  yet  for  mortal,  that  she  might  impress  her  features 
and  her  fondness  on  his  heart,  threw  it  back  wholly  at 
these  words,  and  gazed  upon  him  with  as  much 
admiration  as  ever  he  had  gazed  upon  her. 

[Grandiloquent  Writing .] 

Magnificent  words,  and  the  pomp  and  procession  of 
stately  sentences,  may  accompany  genius,  but  are  not 
always  nor  frequently  called  out  by  it.  The  voice  ought 
not  to  be  perpetually,  nor  much,  elevated  in  the  ethic 
and  didactic,  nor  to  roll  sonorously,  as  if  it  issued 
from  a mask  in  the  theatre.  The  horses  in  the  plain 
under  Troy  are  not  always  kicking  and  neighing;  nor 
is  the  dust  always  raised  in  whirlwinds  on  the  banks 
of  Simois  and  Scamander;  nor  are  the  rampires  always 
in  a blaze.  Hector  has  lowered  his  helmet  to  the 
infant  of  Andromache,  and  Achilles  to  the  embraces  of 
Briseis.  I do  not  blame  the  prose-writer  who  opens 
his  bosom  occasionally  to  a breath  of  poetry ; neither, 
on  the  contrary,  can  I praise  the  gait  of  that  pedestrian 
who  lifts  up  his  legs  as  high  on  a bare  heath  as  in  a 
cornfield. 

[Milton.] 

As  the  needle  turns  away  from  the  rising  sun,  from 
the  meridian,  from  the  occidental,  from  regions  of 
fragrancy  and  gold  And  gems,  and  moves  with  unerring 
impulse  to  the  frosts  and  deserts  of  the  north,  so  Milton 
and  some  few  others,  in  politics,  philosophy,  and  religion, 
walk  through  the  busy  multitude,  wave  aside  the  impor- 
tunate trader,  and,  after  a momentary  oscillation  from 
external  agency,  are  found  in  the  twilight  and  in  the 
storm,  pointing  with  certain  index  to  the  pole-star  of 
immutable  truth.  * * I have  often  been  amused  at 
thinking  in  what  estimation  the  greatest  of  mankind 
were  holden  by  their  contemporaries.  Not  even  the 
most  sagacious  and  prudent  one  could  discover  much  of 
them,  or  could  prognosticate  their  future  course  in  the 
infinity  of  space  ! Men  like  ourselves  are  permitted  to 
stand  near,  and  indeed  in  the  very  presence  of  Milton  : 
what  do  they  see  ? dark  clothes,  gray  hair,  and  sightless 
eyes ! Other  men  have  better  things : other  men, 
therefore,  are  nobler!  The  stars  themselves  are  only 
bright  by  distance;  go  close,  and  all  is  earthy.  But 
vapours  illuminate  these;  from  the  breath  and  from 
the  countenance  of  God  comes  light  on  worlds  higher 
than  they ; worlds  to  which  he  has  given  the  forms  and 
names  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton.* 

* A very  few  of  Mr  Landor’s  aphorisms  and  remarks  may 
De  added : He  says  of  fame : * Fame,  they  tell  you,  is'  air ; 
but  without  air  there  is  no  life  for  any ; without  fame  there 
is  none  for  the  best.’  * The  happy  man,’  he  says,  ‘is  he  who 
distinguishes  the  boundary  between  desire  and  delight,  and 
stands  firmly  on  the  higher  ground;  he  who  knows  that 
pleasure  is  not  only  not  possession,  but  is  often  to  be  lost, 


EDWIN  ATHERSTONE. 

Edwin  Atherstone  is  author  of  The  Last  Days 
of  Herculaneum  (1821),  and  The  Fall  of  Nineveh 
(1828),  both  poems  in  blank  verse,  and  remarkable 
for  splendour  of  diction  and  copiousness  of  descrip- 
tion. The  first  is  founded  on  the  well-known 
destruction  of  the  city  of  Herculaneum  by  an 
eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius  in  the  first  year  of 
the  Emperor  Titus,  or  the  79th  of  the  Christian  era. 
Mr  Atherstone  has  followed  the  account  of  this 
awful  occurrence  given  by  the  younger  Pliny  in 
his  letters  to  Tacitus,  and  has  drawn  some  power- 
ful pictures  of  the  desolating  fire  and  its  attendant 
circumstances.  There  is  perhaps  too  much  of 
terrible  and  gloomy  painting,  yet  it  enchains  the 
attention  of  the  reader,  and  impresses  the  imagin- 
ation with  something  like  dramatic  force.  Mr 
Atherstone’s  second  subject  is  of  the  same  elevated 
cast : the  downfall  of  an  Asiatic  empire  afforded 
ample  room  for  his  love  of  strong  and  magnificent 
description,  and  he  has  availed  himself  of  this 
licence  so  fully,  as  to  border  in  many  passages  on 
extravagance  and  bombast. 

The  following  passage,  descriptive  of  the  splen- 
dour of  Sardanapalus’s  state,  may  be  cited  as  happy 
specimens  of  Mr  Atherstone’s  style : 

The  moon  is  clear — the  stars  are  coming  forth — 
The  evening  breeze  fans  pleasantly.  Retired 
"Within  his  gorgeous  hall,  Assyria’s  king 
Sits  at  the  banquet,  and  in  love  and  wine 
Revels  delighted.  On  the  gilded  roof 
A thousand  golden  lamps  their  lustre  fling, 

And  on  the  marble  walls,  and  on  the  throne 
Gem-bossed,  that  high  on  jasper-steps  upraised, 

Like  to  one  solid  diamond  quivering  stands. 
Sun-splendours  flashing  round.  In  woman’s  garb 
The  sensual  king  is  clad,  and  with  him  sit 
A crowd  of  beauteous  concubines.  They  sing, 

And  roll  the  wanton  eye,  and  laugh,  and  sigh. 

And  feed  his  ear  with  honeyed  flatteries, 

And  laud  him  as  a god.  * * 

Like  a mountain  stream, 

Amid  the  silence  of  the  dewy  eve 

Heard  by  the  lonely  traveller  through  the  vale, 

With  dream-like  murmuring  melodious, 

In  diamond  showers  a crystal  fountain  falls. 

* * Sylph-like  girls,  and  blooming  boys, 

Flower- crowned,  and  in  apparel  bright  as  spring, 
Attend  upon  their  bidding.  At  the  sign, 

From  bands  unseen,  voluptuous  music  breathes, 

Harp,  dulcimer,  and,  sweetest  far  of  all, 

Woman’s  mellifluous  voice. 

Through  all  the  city  sounds  the  voice  of  joy 
And  tipsy  merriment.  On  the  spacious  walls, 

That,  like  huge  sea-cliffs,  gird  the  city  in, 

Myriads  of  wanton  feet  go  to  and  fro  : 

Gay  garments  rustle  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Crimson,  and  azure,  purple,  green,  and  gold ; 

Laugh,  jest,  and  passing  whisper  are  heard  there ; 
Timbrel,  and  lute,  and  dulcimer,  and  song ; 

And  many  feet  that  tread  the  dance  are  seen, 

And  arms  upflung,  and  swaying  heads  plume-crowned. 
So  is  that  city  steeped  in  revelry. 

* * * * 

Then  went  the  king, 

Flushed  with  the  wine,  and  in  his  pride  of  power 

and  always  to  be  endangered  by  it.’  Of  light  wit  or  sarcasm, 
he  observes : * Quickness  is  amongst  the  least  of  the  mind’s 
properties.  I would  persuade  you  that  banter,  pun,  and 
quibble  are  the  properties  of  light  men  and  shallow  capa- 
cities ; that  genuine  humour  and  true  wit  require  a sound  and 
capacious  mind,  which  is  always  a grave  one.’ 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


Glorying ; and  with  his  own  strong  arm  upraised 
From  out  its  rest  the  Assyrian  banner  broad, 

Purple  and  edged  with  gold  ; and,  standing  then 
Upon  the  utmost  summit  of  the  mount — 

Round,  and  yet  round — for  two  strong  men  a task 
Sufficient  deemed — he  waved  the  splendid  flag, 
Bright  as  a meteor  streaming. 

At  that  sight 

The  plain  was  in  a stir  : the  helms  of  brass 
Were  lifted  up,  and  glittering  spear-points  waved, 
And  banners  shaken,  and  wide  trumpet  mouths 
Upturned ; and  myriads  of  bright-harnessed  steeds 
Were  seen  uprearing,  shaking  their  proud  heads; 
And  brazen  chariots  in  a moment  sprang, 

And  clashed  together.  In  a moment  more 
Up  came  the  monstrous  universal  shout, 

Like  a volcano’s  burst.  Up,  up  to  heaven 
The  multitudinous  tempest  tore  its  way, 

Rocking  the  clouds  : from  all  the  swarming  plain 
And  from  the  city  rose  the  mingled  cry, 

‘ Long  live  Sardanapalus,  king  of  kings  ! 

May  the  king  live  for  ever ! ’ Thrice  the  flag 
The  monarch  waved ; and  thrice  the  shouts  arose 
Enormous,  that  the  solid  walls  were  shook, 

And  the  firm  ground  made  tremble. 

Amid  the  far-off  hills, 

With  eye  of  fire,  and  shaggy  mane  upreared, 

The  sleeping  lion  in  his  den  sprang  up ; 

Listened  awhile — then  laid  his  monstrous  mouth 
Close  to  the  floor,  and  breathed  hot  roarings  out 
In  fierce  reply. 

* * * * 

He  comes  at  length — 

The  thickening  thunder  of  the  wheels  is  heard  : 

Upon  their  hinges  roaring,  open  fly 

The  brazen  gates  : sounds  then  the  tramp  of  hoofs — 

And  lo ! the  gorgeous  pageant,  like  the  sun, 

Flares  on  their  startled  eyes.  Four  snow-white  steeds, 
In  golden  trappings,  barbed  all  in  gold, 

Spring  through  the  gate ; the  lofty  chariot  then, 

Of  ebony,  with  gold  and  gems  thick  strewn, 

Even  like  the  starry  night.  The  spokes  were  gold, 
With  felloes  of  strong  brass ; the  naves  were  brass, 
With  burnished  gold  o’erlaid,  and  diamond  rimmed  ; 
Steel  were  the  axles,  in  bright  silver  case ; 

The  pole  was  cased  in  silver : high  aloft, 

Like  a rich  throne  the  gorgeous  seat  was  framed ; 

Of  ivory  part,  part  silver,  and  part  gold  : 

On  either  side  a golden  statue  stood  : 

Upon  the  right — and  on  a throne  of  gold — 

Great  Belus,  of  the  Assyrian  empire  first, 

And  worshipped  as  a god ; but,  on  the  left, 

In  a resplendent  car  by  lions  drawn, 

A goddess.  * * 

Behind  the  car, 

Full  in  the  centre,  on  the  ebon  ground, 

Flamed  forth  a diamond  sun ; on  either  side, 

A horned  moon  of  diamond  ; and  beyond 
The  planets,  each  one  blazing  diamond. 

Such  was  the  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb,  a poet,  and  a delightful  essayist, 
of  quaint  peculiar  humour  and  fancy,  was  born  in 
London  on  the  10th  February  1775.  His  father 
was  in  humble  circumstances,  servant  and  friend 
to  one  of  the  benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple ; but 
Charles  was  presented  to  the  school  of  Christ’s 
Hospital,  and  from  his  seventh  to  his  fifteenth  year 
he  was  an  inmate  of  that  ancient  and  munificent 
asylum.  Lamb  was  a nervous,  timid,  and  thought- 
ful boy : ‘ while  others  were  all  fire  and  play,  he 
stole  along  with  all  the  self-concentration  of  a 
monk.’  He  would  have  obtained  an  exhibition  at 


school,  admitting  him  to  college,  but  these  exhibi- 
tions were  given  under  the  implied  if  not  expressed 
condition  of  entering  into  the  church,  and  Lamb 
had  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  which  in  this  case 
proved  an  insuperable  obstacle.  In  1792  he  obtained 


Charles  Lamb. 


an  appointment  in  the  accountant’s  office  of  the 
East  India  Company,  residing  with  his  parents : and 
‘ on  their  death,’  says  Sergeant  Talfourd,  ‘ he  felt 
himself  called  upon  by  duty  to  repay  to  his  sister 
the  solicitude  with  which  she  had  watched  over  his 
infancy,  and  well,  indeed,  he  performed  it.  To 
her,  from  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  devoted  his 
existence,  seeking  thenceforth  no  connection  which 
could  interfere  with  her  supremacy  in  his  affections,  j 
or  impair  his  ability  to  sustain  and  to  comfort  her.’ 

A sad  tragedy  was  connected  with  the  early  history 
of  this  devoted  pair.  There  was  a taint  of  hereditary 
madness  in  the  family  ; Charles  had  himself,  at  the 
close  of  the  year  1795,  been  six  weeks  confined  in 
an  asylum  at  Hoxton,  and  in  September  of  the 
following  year,  Mary  Lamb,  in  a paroxysm  of 
insanity,  stabbed  her  mother  to  death  with  a knife 
snatched  from  the  dinner-table.  A verdict  of 
lunacy  was  returned  by  the  jury  who  sat  on  the 
coroner’s  inquest,  and  the  unhappy  young  lady  was 
placed  in  a private  asylum  at  Islington.  Reason 
was  speedily  restored.  ‘ My  poor  dear,  dearest 
sister,’  writes  Charles  Lamb  to  his  bosom-friend 
Coleridge,  ‘the  unhappy  and  unconscious  instru- 
ment of  the  Almighty’s  judgments  on  our  house, 
is  restored  to  her  senses ; to  a dreadful  sense  and 
recollection  of  what  has  past,  awful  to  her  mind 
and  impressive,  as  it  must  be,  to  the  end  of  life, 
but  tempered  with  religious  resignation  and  the 
reasonings  of  a sound  judgment,  which,  in  this  early 
stage,  knows  how  to  distinguish  between  a deed 
committed  in  a transient  fit  of  frenzy,  and  the 
terrible  guilt  of  a mother’s  murder.’  In  confine- 
ment, however,  Mary  Lamb  continued  until  the 
death  of  her  father,  an  imbecile  old  man ; and  then 
Charles  came  to  her  deliverance.  lie  satisfied  all 
parties  who  had  power  to  oppose  her  release,  by 
his  solemn  engagement  that  he  would  take  her 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPJEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


under  his  care  for  life,  and  he  kept  his  word.  ‘ For 
her  sake  he  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  love  and 
marriage;  and  with  an  income  of  scarcely  more 
than  <£100  a year,  derived  from  his  clerkship,  aided 
for  a little  while  by  the  old  aunt’s  small  annuity, 
set  out  on  the  journey  of  life  at  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  cheerfully,  with  his  beloved  companion, 
endeared  to  him  the  more  by  her  strange  calamity, 
and  the  constant  apprehension  of  the  recurrence  of 
the  malady  which  caused  it.’*  The  malady  did 
again  recur  at  intervals,  rendering  restraint  neces- 
sary, hut  Charles,  though  at  times  wayward  and 
prone  to  habits  of  excess — or  rather  to  over-sociality 
with  a few  tried  friends— seems  never  again  to  have 
relapsed  into  aberration  of  mind.  He  bore  his  trials 
meekly,  manfully,  and  with  prudence  as  well  as 
fortitude.  The  first  compositions  of  Lamb  were  in 
verse,  prompted,  probably,  by  the  poetry  of  his 
friend  Coleridge.  A warm  admiration  of  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists  led  him  to  imitate  their 
style  and  manner  in  a tragedy  named  John  Woodvil, 
which  was  published  in  1801,  and  mercilessly  ridi- 
culed in  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  a specimen  of 
the  rudest  state  of  the  drama.  There  is  much  that 
is  exquisite  both  in  sentiment  and  expression  in 
Lamb’s  play,  but  the  plot  is  certainly  meagre,  and 
the  style  had  then  an  appearance  of  affectation. 
The  following  description  of  the  sports  in  the  forest 
has  a truly  antique  air,  like  a passage  in  Heywood 
or  Shirley : 

To  see  the  sun  to  bed,  and  to  arise, 

Like  some  hot  amourist  with  glowing  eyes, 

Bursting  the  lazy  bonds  of  sleep  that  bound  him, 

"With  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him. 
Sometimes  the  moon  on  soft  night-clouds  to  rest, 

Like  beauty  nestling  in  a young  man’s  breast, 

And  all  the  winking  stars,  her  handmaids,  keep 
Admiring  silence  while  these  lovers  sleep. 

Sometimes  outstretched,  in  very  idleness, 

Nought  doing,  saying  little,  thinking  less, 

To  view  the  leaves,  thin  dancers  upon  air, 

Go  eddying  round ; and  small  birds  how  they  fare, 
When  mother  Autumn  fills  their  beaks  with  corn, 
Filched  from  the  careless  Amalthea’s  horn ; 

And  how  the  woods  berries  and  worms  provide, 
Without  their  pains,  when  earth  has  nought  beside 
To  answer  their  small  wants. 

To  view  the  graceful  deer  come  tripping  by, 

Then  stop  and  gaze,  then  turn,  they  know  not  why, 
Like  bashful  younkers  in  society. 

To  mark  the  structure  of  a plant  or  tree, 

And  all  fair  things  of  earth,  how  fair  they  be. 

In  1802  Lamb  paid  a visit  to  Coleridge  at  Keswick,  j 
and  clambered  up  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw.  Notwith- 
standing his  partiality  for  a London  life,  he  was 
deeply  struck  with  the  solitary  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  the  lakes.  ‘ Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,’  he  says, 

‘ are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all  than 
amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I turn  back  to  those  great 
places  where  I wandered  about  participating  in  their 
greatness.  I could  spend  a year,  two,  three  years 
among  them,  but  I must  have  a prospect  of  seeing 
Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I should 
mope  and  pine  away.’  A second  dramatic  attempt 
was  made  by  Lamb  in  1804.  This  was  a farce  en- 
titled Mr  H.,  which  was  accepted  by  the  proprietors 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and  acted  for  one  night ; but 
so  indifferently  received,  that  it  was  never  brought 
forward  afterwards.  ‘ Lamb  saw  that  the  case  was 
hopeless,  and  consoled  his  friends  with  a century  of 
puns  for  the  wreck  of  his  dramatic  hopes.’  In  1807 

* Final  Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb,  by  T.  N.  Talfourd. 

214 


he  published  a series  of  tales  founded  on  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare,  which  he  had  written  in  conjunction 
with  his  sister,  and  in  the  following  year  appeared 
his  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets  who  lived 
about  the  time  of  Shakspeare , a work  evincing  a 
thorough  appreciation  of  the  spirit  of  the  old 
dramatists,  and  a fine  critical  taste  in  analysing 
their  genius.  Some  of  his  poetical  pieces  were 
also  composed  about  this  time ; but  in  these  efforts 
Lamb  barely  indicated  his  powers,  which  were  not 
fully  displayed  till  the  publication  of  his  essays 
signed  Elia , originally  printed  in  the  London 
Magazine.  In  these  his  curious  reading,  nice 
observation,  and  poetical  conceptions,  found  a genial 
and  befitting  field.  ‘ They  are  all,’  says  his  bio- 
grapher, Sergeant  Talfourd,  ‘carefully  elaborated; 
yet  never  were  works  written  in  a higher  defiance 
to  the  t conventional  pomp  of  style.  A sly  hit,  a 
happy  pun,  a humorous  combination,  lets  the  light 
into  the  intricacies  of  the  subject,  and  supplies  the 
place  of  ponderous  sentences.  Seeking  his  materials 
for  the  most  part  in  the  common  paths  of  life — often 
in  the  humblest — he  gives  an  importance  to  every- 
thing, and  sheds  a grace  over  all.’  In  1825  Lamb 
was  emancipated  from  the  drudgery  of  his  situation 
as  clerk  in  the  India  House,  retiring  with  a hand- 
some pension,  which  enabled  him  to  enjoy  the 
comforts,  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  In  a 
letter  to  Wordsworth,  he  thus  describes  his  sensa- 
tions after  his  release  : ‘ I came  home  fob  ever  on 
Tuesday  week.  The  incomprehensibleness  of  my 
condition  overwhelmed  me.  It  was  like  passing 
from  life  into  eternity.  Every  year  to  be  as  long 
as  three ; that  is,  to  have  three  times  as  much  real 
time — time  that  is  my  own — in  it!  I wandered 
about  thinking  I was  happy,  but  feeling  I was  not. 
But  that  tumultuousness  is  passing  off,  and  I begin 
to  understand  the  nature  of  the  gift.  Holidays, 
even  the  annual  month,  were  always  uneasy  joys, 
with  their  conscious  fugitiveness,  the  craving  after 
making  the  most  of  them.  Now,  when  all  is  holi- 
day, there  are  no  holidays.  I can  sit  at  home,  in 
rain  or  shine,  without  a restless  impulse  for  walk- 
ings. I am  daily  steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it 
as  natural  to  me  to  be  my  own  master,  as  it  has 
been  irksome  to  have  had  a master.’  He  removed 
to  a cottage  near  Islington,  and  in  the  following 
summer,  went  with  his  faithful  sister  and  companion 
on  a long  visit  to  Enfield,  which  ultimately  led  to 
his  giving  up  his  cottage,  and  becoming  a constant 
resident  at  that  place.  There  he  lived  for  about 
five  years,  delighting  his  friends  with  his  corre- 
spondence and  occasional  visits  to  London,  displaying 
his  social  racy  humour  and  active  benevolence.  In 
1830  he  committed  to  the  press  a small  volume  of 
poems,  entitled  Album  Verses,  the  gleanings  of 
several*  years,  and  he  occasionally  sent  a contribu- 
tion to  some  literary  periodical.  In  December 
1834,  whilst  taking  his  daily  walk  on  the  London 
road,  he  stumbled  against  a stone,  fell,  and  slightly 
injured  his  face.  The  accident  appeared  trifling, 
but  erysipelas  in  the  face  came  on,  and  in  a few 
days  proved  fatal.  He  was  buried  in  the  church- 
yard at  Edmonton,  amidst  the  tears  and  regrets  of 
a circle  of  warmly  attached  friends,  and  his  memory 
was  consecrated  by  a tribute  from  the  muse  of 
Wordsworth.  His  sister  survived  till  1847.  A 
complete  edition  of  Lamb’s  works  has  been  published 
by  liis  friend  Mr  Moxon,  and  his  reputation  is  still 
on  the  increase.  For  this  he  is  mainly  indebted 
to  his  essays.  We  cannot  class  him  among  the 
favoured  sons  of  Apollo,  though  in  heart  and 
feeling  he  might  sit  with  the  proudest.  The 
peculiarities  of  his  style  were  doubtless  grafted  upon 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Charles  lamb. 


him  by  his  constant  study  and  lifelong  admiration 
of  the  old  English  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
Massinger,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Browne,  Fuller,  and 
others  of  the  elder  worthies  (down  to  Margaret, 
Duchess  of  Newcastle),  were  his  chosen  companions. 
He  knew  all  their  fine  sayings  and  noble  thoughts  ; 
and,  consulting  his  own  heart  after  his  hard  day’s 
plodding  at  the  India  House,  at  his  quiet  fireside 
(ere  his  reputation  was  established,  and  he  came  to 
be  ‘ over-companied  ’ by  social  visitors),  he  invested 
his  original  thoughts  and  fancies,  and  drew  up  his 
curious  analogies  and  speculations  in  a garb  similar 
to  that  wliich  his  favourites  wore.  Then  Lamb  was 
essentially  a town-man — a true  Londoner — fond  as 
Johnson  of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand — a fre- 
quenter of  the  theatre,  and  attached  to  social  habits, 
courtesies,  and  observances.  His  acute  powers  of 
observation  were  constantly  called  into  play,  and 
his  warm  sympathies  excited  by  the  shifting  scenes 
around  him.  His  kindliness  of  nature,  his  whims, 
puns,  and  prejudices,  give  a strong  individuality  to 
his  writings ; while  in  playful  humour,  critical  taste, 
and  choice  expression,  Charles  Lamb  may  be  con- 
sidered among  English  essayists  a genuine  and 
original  master.  # 

To  Hester. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 

Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 

Though  ye  among  a thousand  try, 

With  vain  endeavour. 

A month  or  more  she  hath  been  dead, 

Yet  cannot  I by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 

And  her  together. 

A springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 

That  flushed  her  spirit. 

I know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I shall  it  call : — if  ’twas  not  pride, 

It  was  a joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 

Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 

But  she  was  trained  in  Nature’s  school ; 

Nature  had  blest  her. 

A waking  eye,  a prying  mind, 

A heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 

A hawk’s  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour  ! gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 

Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a ray 
Hath  struck  a bliss  upon  the  day, 

A bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A sweet  forewarning  ? 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces. 

I have  had  playmates,  I have  had  companions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days  ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  been  laughing,  I have  been  carousing, 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom-cronies ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I loved  a love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I must  not  see  her; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  a friend,  a kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 

Like  an  ingrate  I left  my  friend  abruptly ; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood ; 

Earth  seemed  a desert  I was  bound  to  traverse, 

Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a brother, 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father’s  dwelling? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me ; all  are  departed 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

A Farewell  to  Tobacco. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I can  a passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a fit  expression  find, 

Or  a language  to  my  mind — 

Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant — 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  Great  Plant ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  : 

For  I hate,  yet  love  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I shew, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A constrained  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a mistress  than  a weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 

Bacchus’  black  servant,  negro  fine ; 

Sorcerer,  that  mak’st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 

And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 

More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
’Gainst  women  : thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way, 

While  thou  suck’st  the  lab’ ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a cloud  dost  bind  us, 

That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 

And  ill-fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 

Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us ; 

While  each  man,  through  thy  height’ ning 
steam, 

Does  like  a smoking  Etna  seem, 

And  all  about  us  does  express — 

Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress — ■ 

A Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a mist  dost  shew  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 

And,  for  those  allowed  features, 

Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 

Liken’st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 

Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 

Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 

Or,  who  first  loved  a cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.  But  what  art  thou, 

That  but  by  reflex  canst  shew 
What  his  deity  can  do, 

As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 


FROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 

Some  few  vapours  thou  mayst  raise, 

The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart, 

Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  bom, 

The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god’s  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 

These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 

Or  judge  of  thee  meant : only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 

And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne’er  presume ; 

Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sov’reign  to  the  brain  : 

Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 

Framed  again  no  second  smell. 

Boses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 

Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 

Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking’st  of  the  stinking  kind, 

Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 

Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison ; 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 

Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue ; 

Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
’Twas  but  in  a sort  I blamed  thee ; 

None  e’er  prospered  who  defamed  thee ; 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 

Such  as  perplexed  lovers  use 
At  a need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 

Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 

They  borrow  language  of  dislike ; 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 

Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 

And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 

Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 

Basilisk,  and  all  that’s  evil, 

Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 

Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more ; 
Friendly  Trait’ress,  loving  Foe — 

Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 

But  no  other  way  they  know 
A contentment  to  express, 

Borders  so  upon  excess, 

That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what’s  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow’s  at  the  height, 

Lose  discrimination  quite, 

And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 

To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 

On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 

Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 

Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

316 

For  I must — nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 

Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I must — leave  thee ; 

For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 

And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 

But  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A king’s  consort,  is  a queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state, 

Though  a widow,  or  divorced, 

So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 

The  old  name  and  style  retain, 

A right  Katherine  of  Spain ; 

And  a seat,  too,  ’mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys ; 

Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 

Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a neighbour’s  wife ; 

And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 

An  unconquered  Canaanite. 

The  following  are  selections  from  Lamb’s  Essays , 
which  contain  more  of  the  exquisite  materials  of 
poetry  than  his  short  occasional  verses. 

Dream-children — A Reverie. 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders, 
when  they  were  children ; to  stretch  their  imagination 
to  the  conception  of  a traditionary  great-uncle,  or  gran- 
dam,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that 
my  little  ones  crept  about  me  the  other  evening  to 
hear  about  their  great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived  : 
in  a great  house  in  Norfolk — a hundred  times  bigger  j 
than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived — which  had 
been  the  scene — so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed  in 
that  part  of  the  country — of  the  tragic  incidents  which 
they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of 
the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that  the  whole 
story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be 
seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  | 
of  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story  down  to  the  Bobin  t 
Bedbreasts,  till  a foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  : 
up  a marble  one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with  j 
no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her  dear  1 
mother’s  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  upbraiding,  i 
Then  I went  on  to  say  how  religious  and  how  good  j 
their  great-grandmother  Field  was,  how  beloved  and 
respected  by  everybody,  though  she  was  not  indeed  the 
mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had  only  the  charge  of 
it — and  yet  in  some  respects  she  might  be  said  to  be 
the  mistress  of  it  too — committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  | 
who  preferred  living  in  a newer  and  more  fashionable  j 
mansion  which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  ; 
adjoining  county;  but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a manner 
as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  j 
the  great  house  in  a sort  while  she  lived,  which  after-  1 
wards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and 
all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and  carried  away  to  the  i 
owner’s  other  house,  where  they  were  set  up,  and 
looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to  carry  away 
the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the  abbey,  and 
stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.’s  tawdry  gilt  drawing-room.  ; 
Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  ‘that  would  be 
foolish  indeed.’  And  then  I told  how,  when  she  came 
to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by  a concourse  of 
all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry  too,  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  many  miles  round,  to  shew  their  respect 
for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a good 
and  religious  woman;  so  good,  indeed,  that  she  knew 

poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Charles  iamb. 

all  the  Psalter  by  heart,  ay,  and  a great  part  of  the 
Testament  besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands. 
Then  I told  what  a tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their 
great-grandmother  Field  once  was ; and  how  in  her 
youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best  dancer.  Here  Alice’s 
little  right  foot  played  an  involuntary  movement,  till, 
upon  my  looking  grave,  it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I 
was  saying,  in  the  county,  till  a cruel  disease,  called  a 
cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain;  but  it 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop, 
but  they  were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so  good 
and  religious.  Then  I told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep 
by  herself  in  a lone  chamber  of  the  great  lone  house ; 
and  how  she  believed  that  an  apparition  of  two  infants 
was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down 
the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept ; but  she  said 
‘those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm;’  and  how 
frightened  I used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I had  my 
maid  to  sleep  with  me,  because  I was  never  half  so 
good  or  religious  as  she — and  yet  I never  saw  the 
infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eyebrows,  and 
tried  to  look  courageous.  Then  I told  how  good  she 
was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having  us  to  the  great 
house  in  the  holidays,  where  I,  in  particular,  used  to 
spend  many  hours  by  myself  in  gazing  upon  the  old 
busts  of  the  twelve  Csesars  that  had  been  emperors  of 
Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live 
again,  or  I to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them ; 
how  I never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about 
that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapestiy,  and  carved 
oaken  panels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out — 
sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens,  which 
I had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a 
solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me — and  how  the 
nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without  my 
ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because  they  were  forbidden 
fruit,  unless  now  and  then,  and  because  I had  more 
pleasure  in  strolling  about  among  the  old  melancholy- 
looking yew-trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red 
berries  and  the  fir  apples,  which  were  good  for  nothing 
but  to  look  at ; or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh  grass, 
with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me ; or  basking 
in  the  orangery,  till  I could  almost  fancy  myself  ripen- 
ing, too,  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that 
grateful  warmth ; or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted 
to  and  fro  in  the  fishpond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
with  here  and  there  a great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway 
down  the  water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their 
impertinent  friskings.  I had  more  pleasure  in  these 
busy-idle  diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavours  of 
peaches,  nectarines,  oranges,  and  such  like  common  baits 
of  children.  Here  J ohn  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the 
plate  a bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice, 
he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and  both  seemed 
willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as  irrelevant. 
Then,  in  somewhat  a more  heightened  tone,  I told  how, 
though  their  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her 
grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be 

said  to  love  their  uncle,  John  L , because  he  was  so 

handsome  and  spirited  a youth,  and  a king  to  the  rest 
of  us ; and,  instead  of  moping  about  in  solitary  corners, 
like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the  most  mettlesome 
horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than 
themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county 
in  a morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any 
out ; and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and  gardens 
too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent  up  within 
their  boundaries ; and  how  their  uncle  grew  up  to  man’s 
estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to  the  admiration 
of  everybody,  but  of  their  great-grandmother  Field 
most  especially ; and  how  he  used  to  carry  me  upon  his 
back  when  I was  a lame -footed  boy — for  he  was  a good 
bit  older  than  me — many  a mile  when  I could  not  walk 
for  pain  ; and  how,  in  after-life,  he  became  lame-footed 
too,  and  I did  not  always,  I fear,  make  allowances 

enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient  and  in  pain, 
nor  remember  sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had  been 
to  me  when  I was  lame-footed ; and  how,  when  he  died, 
though  he  had  not  been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  had  died  a great  while  ago,  such  a distance  there 
is  betwixt  life  and  death ; and  how  I bore  his  death,  as 
I thought,  pretty  well  at  first,  but  afterwards  it  haunted 
and  haunted  me ; and  though  I did  not  cry  or  take  it 
to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I think  he  would  have 
done  if  I had  died,  yet  I missed  him  all  day  long,  and 
knew  not  till  then  how  much  I had  loved  him.  I 
missed  his  kindness,  and  I missed  his  crossness,  and 
wished  him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with 
him — for  we  quarrelled  sometimes — rather  than  not 
have  him  again ; and  was  as  uneasy  without  him,  as  he, 
their  poor  uncle,  must  have  been  when  the  doctor  took 
off  his  limb.  Here  the  children  fell  a-crying,  and 
asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was 
not  for  Uncle  J ohn ; and  they  looked  up  and  prayed 
me  not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them 
some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I 
told  how,  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  some- 
times in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I courted  the  fair 
Alice  W — n ; and,  as  much  as  children  could  under- 
stand, I explained  to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty, 
and  denial  meant  in  maidens ; when  suddenly  turning  to 
Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes 
with  such  a reality  of  re-presentment,  that  I became  in 
doubt  which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose 
that  bright  hair  was ; and  while  I stood  gazing,  both  the 
children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding, 
and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful 
features  were  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which, 
without  speech,  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects 
of  speech:  ‘We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee;  nor  are 
we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum 
father.  We  are  nothing,  less  than  nothing,  and  dreams. 
We  are  only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait 
upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before 
we  have  existence  and  a name;’  and  immediately 
awaking,  I found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor 
arm-chair,  where  I had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful 
Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side — but  John  L.  (or  James 
Elia)  was  gone  for  ever. 

Poor  Relations. 

A poor  relation  is  the  most  irrelevant  thing  in 
nature,  a piece  of  impertinent  correspondency,  an 
odious  approximation,  a haunting  conscience,  a pre- 
posterous shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noontide  of  your 
prosperity,  an  unwelcome  remembrancer,  a perpetually 
recurring  mortification,  a drain  on  your  purse,  a more 
intolerable  dun  upon  your  pride,  a drawback  upon 
success,  a rebuke  to  your  rising,  a stain  in  your  blood, 
a blot  on  your  scutcheon,  a rent  in  your  garment, 
a death’s-head  at  your  banquet,  Agathocles’s  pot,  a 
Mordecai  in  your  gate,  a Lazarus  at  your  door,  a lion 
in  your  path,  a frog  in  your  chamber,  a fly  in  your 
ointment,  a mote  in  your  eye,  a triumph  to  your 
enemy,  an  apology  to  your  friends,  the  one  thing  not 
needful,  the  hail  in  harvest,  the  ounce  of  sour  in  a 
pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.  Your  heart  telleth  you, 

‘ That  is  Mr  .’  A rap  between  familiarity  and 

respect,  that  demands,  and  at  the  same  time  seems  to 
despair  of  entertainment.  He  entereth  smiling  and 
embarrassed.  He  holdeth  out  his  hand  to  you  to  shake, 
and  draweth  it  back  again.  He  casually  looketh  in 
about  dinner-time,  when  the  table  is  full.  He  offereth 
to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company,  but  is  induced, 
to  stay.  He  filleth  a chair,  and  your  visitor’s  two 
children  are  accommodated  at  a side-table.  He  never 
cometh  upon  open  days,  when  your  wife  says  with  some 

complacency : ‘ My  dear,  perhaps  Mr will  drop  in 

to-day.’  He  remembereth  birthdays,  and  professeth  he 

FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


is  fortunate  to  Lave  stumbled  upon  one.  He  declareth 
against  fish,  the  turbot  being  small,  yet  suffereth  himself 
to  be  importuned  into  a slice  against  his  first  resolu- 
tion. He  sticketh  by  the  port,  yet  will  be  prevailed 
upon  to  empty  the  remainder  glass  of  claret,  if  a 
stranger  press  it  upon  him.  He  is  a puzzle  to  the 
servants,  who  are  fearful  of  being  too  obsequious,  or 
not  civil  enough  to  him.  The  guests  think  ‘they  have 
seen  him  before.’  Every  one  speculateth  upon  his 
condition;  and  the  most  part  take  him  to  be  a tide- 
waiter.  He  calleth  you  by  your  Christian  name,  to 
imply  that  his  other  is  the  same  with  your  own.  He 
is  too  familiar  by  half,  yet  you  wish  he  had  less  diffi- 
dence. With  half  the  familiarity,  he  might  pass  for  a 
casual  dependent ; with  more  boldness,  he  would  be  in 
no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what  he  is.  He  is  too 
humble  for  a friend,  yet  taketh  on  him  more  state  than 
befits  a client.  He  is  a worse  guest  than  a country 
tenant,  inasmuch  as  he  bringeth  up  no  rent;  yet  ’tis 
odds,  from  his  garb  and  demeanour,  that  your  guests 
take  him  for  one.  He  is  asked  to  make  one  at  the 
whist-table ; refuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty,  and 
resents  being  left  out.  When  the  company  break  up, 
he  proffereth  to  go  for  a coach,  and  lets  the  servant 
go.  He  recollects  your  grandfather;  and  will  thrust 
in  some  mean  and  quite  unimportant  anecdote  of  the 
family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not  quite  so  flourish- 
ing as  ‘ he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now.’  He  reviveth  past 
situations,  to  institute  what  he  calleth  favourable  com- 
parisons. With  a reflecting  sort  of  congratulation  he 
will  inquire  the  price  of  your  furniture;  and  insults 
you  with  a special  commendation  of  your  window- 
curtains.  He  is  of  opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more 
elegant  shape;  but,  after  all,  there  was  something 
more  comfortable  about  the  old  tea-kettle,  which  you 
must  remember.  He  dare  say  you  must  find  a great 
convenience  in  having  a carriage  of  your  own,  and 
appealeth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth  if 
you  have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet ; and  did 
not  know  till  lately  that  such  and  such  had  been  the 
crest  of  the  family.  His  memory  is  unseasonable,  his 
compliments  perverse,  his  talk  a trouble,  his  stay  perti- 
nacious ; and  when  he  goeth  away,  you  dismiss  his  chair 
into  a corner  as  precipitately  as  possible,  and  feel 
fairly  rid  of  two  nuisances. 

There  is  a worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that  is  a 
female  poor  relation.  You  may  do  something  with 
the  other;  you  may  pass  him  off  tolerably  well;  but 
your  indigent  she-relative  is  hopeless.  ‘He  is  an  old 
humorist,’  you  may  say,  ‘and  affects  to  go  thread- 
bare. His  circumstances  are  better  than  folks  would 
take  them  to  be.  You  are  fond  of  having  a character 
at  your  table,  and  truly  he  is  one.’  But  in  the  indi- 
cations of  female'  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise. 
No  woman  dresses  below  herself  from  caprice.  The 
truth  must  out  without  shuffling.  ‘ She  is  plainly 

related  to  the  L s,  or  what  does  she  at  their  house  ! ’ 

She  is,  in  all  probability,  your  wife’s  cousin.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case.  Her  garb 
is  something  between  a gentlewoman  and  a beggar, 
yet  the  former  evidently  predominates.  She  is  most 
provokingly  humble,  and  ostentatiously  sensible  to  her 
inferiority.  He  may  require  to  be  repressed  sometimes 
— aliquando  sufflaminandns  erat — but  there  is  no 
raising  her.  You  send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and  she 

begs  to  be  helped  after  the  gentlemen.  Mr requests 

the  honour  of  taking  wine  with  her;  she  hesitates 
between  port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses  the  former 
because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  sir;  and  insists 
on  not  troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
keeper patronises  her.  The  children’s  governess  takes 
upon  her  to  correct  her  when  she  has  mistaken  the 
piano  for  a harpsichord. 

Richard  Amlet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a notable  in- 
stance of  the  disadvantages  to  which  this  chimerical 
notion  of  affinity  constituting  a claim  to  acquaintance 
318 


may  subject  the  spirit  of  a gentleman.  A little 
foolish  blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt  him  and  a lady 
with  a great  estate.  His  stars  are  perpetually  crossed 
by  the  malignant  maternity  of  an  old  woman,  who 
persists  in  calling  him  ‘her  son  Dick.’  But  she  has 
wherewithal  in  the  end  to  recompense  his  indignities, 
and  float  him  again  upon  the  brilliant  surface,  under  j 
which  it  had  been  her  seeming  business  and  pleasure 
all  along  to  sink  him.  All  men,  besides,  are  not  of 
Dick’s  temperament.  I knew  an  Amlet  in  real  life, 
who,  wanting  Dick’s  buoyancy,  sank  indeed.  Poor 

W was  of  my  own  standing  at  Christ’s,  a fine 

classic,  and  a youth  of  promise.  If  he  had  a blemish, 
it  was  too  much  pride;  but  its  quality  was  inoffen- 
sive ; it  was  not  of  that  sort  which  hardens  the  heart 
and  serves  to  keep  inferiors  at  a distance;  it  only 
sought  to  ward  off  derogation  from  itself.  It  was  the 
principle  of  self-respect  carried  as  far  as  it  could  go, 
without  infringing  upon  that  respect  which  he  would 
have  every  one  else  equally  maintain  for  himself..  He 
would  have  you  to  think  alike  with  him  on  this  topic. 
Many  a quarrel  have  I had  with  him  when  we  were 
rather  older  boys,  and  our  tallness  made  us  more 
obnoxious  to  observation  in  the  blue  clothes,  because 
I would  not  thread  the  alleys  and  blind  ways  of  the* 
town  with  him  to  elude  notice,  when  we  have  been 
out  together  on  a holiday  in  the  streets  of  this  sneer- 
ing and  prying  metropolis.  W went,  sore  with 

these  notions,  to  Oxford,  where  the  dignity  and  sweet- 
ness of  a scholar’s  life,  meeting  with  the  alloy  of  a 
humble  introduction,  wrought  in  him  a passionate 
devotion  to  the  place,  with  a profound  aversion  from 
the  society.  The  servitor’s  gown — worse  than  his  school 
array — clung  to  him  with  Nessian  venom.  He  thought 
himself  ridiculous  in  a garb  under  which  Latimer  must 
have  walked  erect ; and  in  which  Hooker  in  his  young 
days  possibly  flaunted  in  a vein  of  no  discommendable 
vanity.  In  the  depth  of  college  shades,  or  in  his  lonely 
chamber,  the  poor  student  shrunk  from  observation; 

He  found  shelter  among  books  which  insult  not,  and 
studies  that  ask  no  questions  of  a youth’s  finances. 

He  was  lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom  cared  for  look- 
ing out  beyond  his  domains.  The  healing  influenoe 
of  studious  pursuits  was  upon  him,  to  soothe  and  to 
abstract.  He  was  almost  a healthy  man,  when  the 
waywardness  of  his  fate  broke  out  against  him  with  a 

second  and  worse  malignity.  The  father  of  W 

had  hitherto  exercised  the  humble  profession  of  house- 

painter  at  N , near  Oxford.  A supposed  interest 

with  some  of  the  heads  of  colleges  had  now  induced  him 
to  take  up  his  abode  in  that  city,  with  the  hope  of  being 
employed  upon  some  public  works  which  were  talked  of. 
From  that  moment  I read  in  the  countenance  of  the 
young  man  the  determination  which  at  length  tore  him 
from  academical  pursuits  for  ever.  To  a person  unac- 
quainted with  our  universities,  the  distance  between  the 
gownsmen  and  the  townsmen,  as  they  are  called — the 
trading  part  of  the  latter  especially — is  carried  to  an 
excess  that  would  appear  harsh  and  incredible.  The 

temperament  of  W ’s  father  was  diametrically  the 

reverse  of  his  own.  Old  W was  a little,  busy, 

cringing  tradesman,  who,  with  his  son  upon  his  arm, 
would  stand  bowing  and  scraping,  cap  in  hand,  to 
anything  that  wore  the  semblance  of  a gown — insensible 
to  the  winks  and  opener  remonstrances  of  the  young 
man,  to  whose  chamber-fellow,  or  equal  in  standing, 
perhaps,  he  was  thus  obsequiously  and  gratuitously 
ducking.  Such  a state  of  things  could  not  last. 

W must  change  the  air  of  Oxford,  or  be  suffocated. 

He ’chose  the  former;  and  let  the  sturdy  moralist,  who 
strains  the  point  of  the  filial  duties  as  high  as  they  can 
bear,  censure  the  dereliction;  he  cannot  estimate  the 

struggle.  I stood  with  W , the  last  afternoon  I ever 

saw  him,  under  the  eaves  of  his  paternal  dwelling. 

It  was  in  the  fine  lane  leading  from  the  High  Street 
to  the  back  of  college,  where  W kept  his 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 


rooms.  He  seemed  thoughtful  and  more  reconciled. 
I ventured  to  rally  him — finding  him  in  a better  mood 
— upon  a representation  of  the  Artist  Evangelist,  which 
the  old  man,  whose  affairs  were  beginning  to  flourish, 
had  caused  to  be  set  up  in  a splendid  sort  of  frame  over 
his  really  handsome  shop,  either  as  a token  of  prosperity, 

or  badge  of  gratitude  to  his  saint.  W looked  up  at 

the  Luke,  and,  like  Satan,  ‘ knew  his  mounted  sign,  and 
fled.’  A letter  on  his  father’s  table  the  next  morning 
announced  that  he  had  accepted  a commission  in  a 
regiment  about  to  embark  for  Portugal.  He  was 
among  the  first  who  perished  before  the  walls  of  St 
Sebastian. 

I do  not  know  how,  upon  a subject  which  I began 
with  treating  half  seriously,  I should  have  fallen  upon 
a recital  so  eminently  painful ; but  this  theme  of  poor 
relationship  is  replete  with  so  much  matter  for  tragic 
as  well  as  comic  associations,  that  it  is  difficult  to  keep 
the  account  distinct  without  blending.  The  earliest 
impressions  which  I received  on  this  matter  are  certainly 
not  attended  with  anything  painful,  or  very  humiliating, 
in  the  recalling.  At  my  father’s  table — no  very  splendid 
one — was  to  be  found  every  Saturday  the  mysterious 
figure  of  an  aged  gentleman,  clothed  in  neat  black,  of  a 
sad  yet  comely  appearance.  His  deportment  was  of  the 
essence  of  gravity ; his  words  few  or  none ; and  I was 
not  to  make  a noise  in  his  presence.  I had  little  inclin- 
ation to  have  done  so — for  my  cue  was  to  admire  in 
silence.  A particular  elbow-chair  was  appropriated  to 
him,  which  was  in  no  case  to  be  violated.  A peculiar 
sort  of  sweet  pudding,  which  appeared  on  no  other 
occasion,  distinguished  the  days  of  his  coming.  I used 
to  think  him  a prodigiously  rich  man.  All  I could 
make  out  of  him  was,  that  he  and  my  father  had  been 
school-fellows  a world  ago  at  Lincoln,  and  that  he  came 
from  the  Mint.  The  Mint  I knew  to  be  a place  where 
all  the  money  was  coined,  and  I thought  he  was  the 
owner  of  all  that  money.  Awful  ideas  of  the  Tower 
twined  themselves  about  his  presence.  He  seemed 

above  human  infirmities  and  passions.  A sort  of 

melancholy  grandeur  invested  him.  From  some  inex- 
plicable doom  I fancied  him  obliged  to  go  about  in  an 
eternal  suit  of  mourning ; a captive — a stately  being  let 
out  of  the  Tower  on  Saturdays.  Often  have  I wondered 
at  the  temerity  of  my  father,  who,  in  spite  of  a habitual 
general  respect  which  we  all  in  common  manifested 
towards  him,  would  venture  now  and  then  to  stand  up 
against  him  in  some  argument  touching  their  youthful 
days.  The  houses  of  the  ancient  city  of  Lincoln  are 
divided,  as  most  of  my  readers  know,  between  the 
dwellers  on  the  hill  and  in  the  valley.  This  marked 
distinction  formed  an  obvious  division  between  the  boys 
who  lived  above  (however  brought  together  in  a common 
school)  and  the  boys  whose  paternal  residence  was  on 
the  plain — a sufficient  cause  of  hostility  in  the  code  of 
these  young  Grotiuses.  My  father  had  been  a leading 
mountaineer ; and  would  still  maintain  the  general 
superiority,  in  skill  and  hardihood,  of  the  above  boys — 
his  own  faction — over  the  below  boys — so  were  they 
called — of  which  party  his  contemporary  had  been  a 
chieftain.  Many  and  hot  were  the  skirmishes  on  this 
topic — the  only  one  upon  which  the  old  gentleman  was 
ever  brought  out — and  bad  blood  bred  ; even  sometimes 
almost  to  the  recommencement — so  I expected — of  actual 
hostilities.  But  my  father,  who  scorned  to  insist  upon 
advantages,  generally  contrived  to  turn  the  conversation 
upon  some  adroit  by-commendation  of  the  old  minster ; in 
the  general  preference  of  which,  before  all  other  cathedrals 
in  the  island,  the  dweller  on  the  bill  and  the  plain-born 
could  meet  on  a conciliating  level,  and  lay  down  their 
less  important  differences.  Once  only  I saw  the  old 
gentleman  really  ruffled,  and  I remember  with  anguish 
the  thought  that  came  over  me — ‘ perhaps  he  will  never 
come  here  again.’  He  had  been  pressed  to  take  another 
plate  of  the  viand  which  I have  already  mentioned  as 
the  indispensable  concomitant  of  his  visits.  He  had 


refused,  with  a resistance  amounting  to  rigour,  when  my 
aunt,  an  old  Lincolnian,  but  who  had  something  of  this, 
in  common  with  my  cousin  Bridget,  that  she  would 
sometimes  press  civility  out  of  season — uttered  the 
following  memorable  application : ‘ Do  take  another 
slice,  Mr  Billet,  for  you  do  not  get  pudding  every  day.’ 
The  old  gentleman  said  nothing  at  the  time — but  he 
took  occasion  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  when  some 
argument  had  intervened  between  them,  to  utter,  with 
an  emphasis  which  chilled  the  company,  and  which 
chills  me  now  as  I write  it — ‘ "Woman,  you  are  super- 
annuated.’ John  Billet  did  not  survive  long  after  the 
digesting  of  this  affront;  but  he  survived  long  enough 
to  assure  me  that  peace  was  actually  restored  ! and,  if  I 
remember  aright,  another  pudding  was  discreetly  substi- 
tuted in  the  place  of  that  which  had  occasioned  the 
offence.  He  died  at  the  Mint — anno  1781 — where  he 
had  long  held,  what  he  accounted,  a comfortable  inde- 
pendence ; and  with  five  pounds  fourteen  shillings  and 
a penny,  which  were  found  in  his  escritoire  after  his 
decease,  left  the  world,  blessing  God  that  he  had  enough, 
to  bury  him,  and  that  he  had  never  been  obliged  to  any 
man  for  a sixpence.  This  was— a Poor  Relation. 


WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 

William  Sotheby,  an  accomplished  scholar  and 
translator,  was  born  in  London  on  the  9th  of 
November  1757.  He  was  of  good  family,  and 
educated  at  Harrow  School.  At  the  age  of  seven- 
teen he  entered  the  army  as  an  officer  in  the  10th 
Dragoons.  He  quitted  the  army  in  the  year  1780, 
and  purchased  Bevis  Mount,  near  Southampton, 
where  he  continued  to  reside  for  the  next  ten  years. 
Here  Mr  Sotheby  cultivated  his  taste  for  literature, 
and  translated  some  of  the  minor  Greek  and  Latin 
poets.  In  1788,  he  made  a pedestrian  tour  through 
Wales,  of  which  he  wrote  a poetical  description,  pub- 
lished, together  with  some  odes  and  sonnets,  in  1789. 
In  1798,  he  published  a translation  from  the  Oberon  of 
Wieland,  which  greatly  extended  his  reputation,  and 
procured  him  the  thanks  and  friendship  of  the 
German  poet.  He  now  became  a frequent  competitor 
for  poetical  fame.  In  1799,  he  wrote  a poem  com- 
memorative of  the  battle  of  the  Nile ; in  1800, 
appeared  his  translation  of  the  Georgies  of  Virgil ; in 
1801,  he  produced  a Poetical  Epistle  on  the  Encourage- 
ment of  the  British  School  of  Painting ; and  in  1802, 
a tragedy  on  the  model  of  the  ancient  Greek 
drama,  entitled  Orestes.  He  next  devoted  himself 
to  the  composition  of  an  original  sacred  poem,  in 
blank  verse,  under  the  title  of  Saul,  which  appeared 
in  1807.  The  fame  of  Scott  induced  him  to  attempt 
the  romantic  metrical  style  of  narrative  and  des- 
cription ; and  in  1810,  he  published  Constance  de 
Castille , a poem  in  ten  cantos.  In  1814,  he  repub- 
lished his  Orestes , together  with  four  other  tragedies ; 
and  in  1815,  a second  corrected  edition  of  the 
Georgies.  A tour  on  the  continent  gave  occasion 
to  another  poetical  work,  Italy.  He  next  began 
a labour  which  he  had  long  contemplated,  the 
translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey , though  he  was 
upwards  of  seventy  years  of  age  before  he  entered 
upon  the  Herculean  task.  The  summer  and  autumn 
of  1829  were  spent  in  a tour  to  Scotland,  and  the 
following  verses,  written  in  a steam-boat  during  an 
excursion  to  Staffa  and  Iona,  shew  the  undiminished 
powers  of  the  veteran  poet : 

Staffa,  I scaled  thy  summit  lioar, 

I passed  beneath  thy  arch  gigantic, 

"Whose  pillared  cavern  swells  the  roar, 

When  thunders  on  thy  rocky  shore 
The  roll  of  the  Atlantic. 

811 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


That  hour  the  wind  forgot  to  rave, 

The  surge  forgot  its  motion, 

And  every  pillar  in  thy  cave 
Slept  in  its  shadow  on  the  wave, 

Unrippled  by  the  ocean. 

Then  the  past  age  before  me  came, 

When  ’mid  the  lightning’s  sweep, 

Thy  isle  with  its  basaltic  frame, 

And  every  column  wreathed  with  flame, 

Burst  from  the  boiling  deep. 

When  ’mid  Iona’s  wrecks  meanwhile 
O’er  sculptured  graves  I trod, 

Where  Time  had  strewn  each  mouldering  aisle 
O’er  saints  and  kings  that  reared  the  pile, 

I hailed  the  eternal  God  : 

Yet,  Staffa,  more  I felt  his  presence  in  thy  cave 
Than  where  Iona’s  cross  rose  o’er  the  western  wave. 

Mr  Sotheby’s  translation  of  the  Iliad  was  published 
in  1831,  and  was  generally  esteemed  spirited  and 
faithful.  The  Odyssey  he  completed  in  the  following 
year.  He  died  on  the  30th  of  December  1833,  in 
the  seventy-seventh  year  of  his  age.  The  original 
poetical  productions  of  Mr  Sotheby  have  not  been 
reprinted;  his  translations  are  the  chief  source  of 
his  reputation.  Wieland,  it  is  said,  was  charmed 
with  the  genius  of  his  translator ; and  the  rich 
beauty  of  diction  in  the  Oberon,  and  its  facility  of 
versification,  notwithstanding  the  restraints  imposed 
by  a difficult  measure,  were  eulogised  by  the  critics. 
In  his  tragedies,  Mr  Sotheby  displays  considerable 
warmth  of  passion  and  figurative  language,  but 
his  plots  are  ill  constructed.  Byron  said  of  Mr 
Sotheby,  that  he  imitated  everybody,  and  occasionally 
surpassed  his  models. 

[. Approach  of  Saul  and  his  Guards  against  the 
Philistines.'] 

Hark ! hark ! the  clash  and  clang 
Of  shaken  cymbals  cadencing  the  pace 
Of  martial  movement  regular ; the  swell 
Sonorous  of  the  brazen  trump  of  war ; 

Shrill  twang  of  harps,  soothed  by  melodious  chime 
Of  beat  on  silver  bars ; and  sweet,  in  pause 
Of  harsher  instrument,  continuous  flow 
Of  breath,  through  flutes,  in  symphony  with  song, 
Choirs,  whose  matched  voices  filled  the  air  afar 
With  jubilee  and  chant  of  triumph  hymn  ; 

And  ever  and  anon  irregular  burst 

Of  loudest  acclamation  to  each  host 

Saul’s  stately  advance  proclaimed.  Before  him,  youths 

In  robes  succinct  for  swiftness ; oft  they  struck 

Their  staves  against  the  ground,  and  warned  the  throng 

Backward  to  distant  homage.  Next,  his  strength 

Of  chariots  rolled  with  each  an  armed  band ; 

Earth  groaned  afar  beneath  their  iron  wheels  : 

Part  armed  with  scythe  for  battle,  part  adorned 
For  triumph.  Nor  there  wanting  a led  train 
Of  steeds  in  rich  caparison,  for  show 
Of  solemn  entry.  Round  about  the  king, 

Warriors,  his  watch  and  ward,  from  every  tribe 
Drawn  out.  Of  these  a thousand  each  selects, 

Of  size  and  comeliness  above  their  peers, 

Pride  of  their  race.  Radiant  their  armour : some 
In  silver  cased,  scale  over  scale,  that  played 
All  pliant  to  the  litheness  of  the  limb ; 

Some  mailed  in  twisted  gold,  link  within  link 
Flexibly  ringed  and  fitted,  that  the  eye 
Beneath  the  yielding  panoply  pursued, 

When  act  of  war  the  strength  of  man  provoked, 

The  motion  of  the  muscles,  as  they  worked 
In  rise  and  fall.  On  each  left  thigh  a sword 
Swung  in  the  ’broidered  baldric ; each  right  hand 
Grasped  a long-shadowing  spear.  Like  them,  their  chiefs 
320 


Arrayed ; save  on  their  shields  of  solid  ore, 

And  on  their  helm,  the  graver’s  toil  had  wrought 
Its  subtlety  in  rich  device  of  war ; 

And  o’er  their  mail,  a robe,  Punicean  dye, 

Gracefully  played ; where  the  winged  shuttle,  shot 
By  cunning  of  Sidonian  virgins,  wove 
Broidure  of  many-coloured  figures  rare. 

Bright  glowed  the  sun,  and  bright  the  burnished  mail 
Of  thousands,  ranged,  whose  pace  to  song  kept  time ; 
And  bright  the  glare  of  spears,  and  gleam  of  crests, 
And  flaunt  of  banners  flashing  to  and  fro 
The  noonday  beam.  Beneath  their  coming,  earth 
Wide  glittered.  Seen  afar,  amidst  the  pomp, 
Gorgeously  mailed,  but  more  by  pride  of  port 
Known,  and  superior  stature,  than  rich  trim 
Of  war  and  regal  ornament,  the  king, 

Throned  in  triumphal  car,  with  trophies  graced, 

Stood  eminent.  The  lifting  of  his  lance 
Shone  like  a sunbeam.  O’er  his  armour  flowed 
A robe,  imperial  mantle,  thickly  starred 
With  blaze  of  orient  gems ; the  clasp  that  bound 
Its  gathered  folds  his  ample  chest  athwart, 

Sapphire ; and  o’er  his  casque,  where  rubies  burnt, 

A cherub  flamed  and  waved  his  wings  in  gold. 

[Song  of  the  Virgins  Celebrating  the  Victory.] 

Daughters  of  Israel ! praise  the  Lord  of  Hosts ! 
Break  into  song ! With  harp  and  tabret  lift 
Your  voices  up,  and  weave  with  joy  the  dance ; 

And  to  your  twinkling  footsteps  toss  aloft 
Your  arms ; and  from  the  flash  of  cymbals  shake 
Sweet  clangour,  measuring  the  giddy  maze. 

Shout  ye  ! and  ye  ! make  answer,  Saul  hath  slain 
His  thousands ; David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

Sing  a new  song.  I saw  them  in  their  rage ; 

I saw  the  gleam  of  spears,  the  flash  of  swords, 

That  rang  against  our  gates.  The  warders’  watch 
Ceased  not.  Tower  answered  tower : a warning  voice 
Was  heard  without ; the  cry  of  woe  within  : 

The  shriek  of  virgins,  and  the  wail  of  her, 

The  mother,  in  her  anguish,  who  fore-wept, 

Wept  at  the  breast  her  babe  as  now  no  more. 

Shout  ye  ! and  ye ! make  answer,  Saul  hath  slain 
His  thousands ; David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

* * * * 

Such  the  hymned  harmony,  from  voices  breathed 
Of  virgin  minstrels,  of  each  tribe  the  prime 
For  beauty,  and  fine  form,  and  artful  touch 
Of  instrument,  and  skill  in  dance  and  song ; 

Choir  answering  choir,  that  on  to  Gibeah  led 
The  victors  back  in  triumph.  On  each  neck 
Played  chains  of  gold ; and,  shadowing  their  charms 
With  colour  like  the  blushes  of  the  morn, 

Robes,  gift  of  Saul,  round  their  light  limbs,  in  toss 
Of  cymbals,  and  the  many-mazed  dance, 

Floated  like  roseate  clouds.  Thus,  these  came  on 
In  dance  and  song ; then,  multitudes  that  swelled 
The  pomp  of  triumph,  and  in  circles  ranged 
Around  the  altar  of  Jehovah,  brought 
Freely  their  offerings ; and  with  one  accord 
Sang,  ‘ Glory,  and  praise,  and  worship  unto  God.* 

Loud  rang  the  exultation.  ’Twas  the  voice 
Of  a free  people  from  impending  chains . 

Redeemed ; a people  proud,  whose  bosom  beat 
With  fire  of  glory  and  renown  in  arms 
Triumphant.  Loud  the  exultation  rang. 

There,  many  a wife,  whose  ardent  gaze  from  far 
Singled  the  warrior  whose  glad  eye  gave  back 
Her  look  of  love.  There,  many  a grandsire  held 
A blooming  boy  aloft,  and  ’midst  the  array 
In  triumph,  pointing  with  his  staff,  exclaimed  : 

‘ Lo,  my  brave  son  ! I now  may  die  in  peace.’ 

There,  many  a beauteous  virgin,  blushing  deep, 
Flung  back  her  veil,  and,  as  the  warrior  came, 

Hailed  her  betrothed. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


LORD  THURLOW — THOMAS  MOORE. 


EDWARD  LORD  THURLOW. 

Edward  Hovell  Thurlow,  Lord  Thurlow  (1781- 
1829),  published  several  small  volumes  of  poetry: 
Select  Poems  (1821);  Poems  on  Several  Occasions; 
Angelica , or  the  Fate  of  Proteus  ; Arcita  and  Palamon, 
after  Chaucer;  &c.  Amidst  much  affectation  and 
bad  taste,  there  is  real  poetry  in  the  works  of  this 
nobleman.  He  was  a source  of  ridicule  and  sarcasm 
to  wits  and  reviewers— including  Moore  and  Byron 
— and  not  undeservedly;  yet  in  pieces  like  the 
following,  there  is  a freshness  of  fancy  and  feeling, 
and  a richness  of  expression,  that  resemble  Herrick 
or  Moore : 

Song  to  May. 

May  ! queen  of  blossoms, 

And  fulfilling  flowers, 

With  what  pretty  music 
Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 

Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 

Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 
In  the  green  bowers  ? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 

That  hast  the  golden  bee 
Ripened  with  fire ; 

And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters,  that  thee  adore, 

Filling  earth’s  grassy  floor 
With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 

Tame,  and  free  livers ; 

Doubt  not,  thy  music  too 
In  the  deep  rivers ; 

And  the  whole  plumy  flight, 

Warbling  the  day  and  night — 

Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 

See,  the  lark  quivers ! 

YvThen  with  the  jacinth 
Coy  fountains  are  tressed ; 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 
' Greenwoods  are  dressed, 

That  did  for  Tereus  pine ; 

Then  shall  our  songs  be  thine, 

To  whom  our  hearts  incline : 

May,  be  thou  blessed ! 


By  thy  broad  taper  I call  up  the  time 

When  Harold  on  the  bleeding  verdure  lay, 
Though  great  in  glory,  overstained  with  crime, 

And  fallen  by  his  fate  from  kingly  sway  ! 

On  bleeding  knights,  and  on  war-broken  arms, 

Torn  banners  and  the  dying  steeds  you  shone, 
When  this  fair  England,  and  her  peerless  charms, 
And  all,  but  honour,  to  the  foe  were  gone ! 

Here  died  the  king,  whom  his  brave  subjects  chose. 
But,  dying,  lay  amid  his  Norman  foes  ! 


THOMAS  MOORE. 

A rare  union  of  wit  and  sensibility,  of  high  powers 
of  imagination  and  extensive  learning,  is  exemplified 
in  the  poetical  -works  of  Thomas  Moore.  Mr 
Moore  was  a native  of  Dublin,  born  on  the  28tli  of 
May  1779.  He  early  began  to  rhyme,  and  a sonnet 
to  his  schoolmaster,  Mr  Samuel  Whyte,  written  in 
his  fourteenth  year,  Avas  published  in  a Dublin 
magazine,*  to  which  he  contributed  other  pieces. 


Sonnets. 

The  Summer,  the  divinest  Summer  burns, 

The  skies  are  bright  with  azure  and  with  gold ; 
The  mavis,  and  the  nightingale,  by  turns, 

Amid  the  woods  a soft  enchantment  hold : 

The  flowering  woods,  with  glory  and  delight, 
Their  tender  leaves  unto  the  air  have  spread ; 
The  wanton  air,  amid  their  alleys  bright, 

Doth  softly  fly,  and  a light  fragrance  shed  : 

The  nymphs  within  the  silver  fountains  play, 

The  angels  on  the  golden  banks  recline, 
Wherein  great  Flora,  in  her  bright  array, 

Hath  sprinkled  her  ambrosial  sweets  divine : 
Or,  else,  I gaze  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

0 Amoret ! and  think  these  sweets  have  place. 


0 Moon,  that  shinest  on  this  heathy  wild, 

And  light’ st  the  hill  of  Hastings  with  thy  ray, 
How  am  I with  thy  sad  delight  beguiled, 

How  hold  with  fond  imagination  play  ! 

73 


The  parents  of  our  poet  were  Roman  Catholics, 
a body  then  proscribed  and  depressed  by  penal 
enactments,  and  they  seem  to  have  been  of  the 
number  who,  to  use  his  own  words,  ‘hailed  the  first 
dazzling  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution  as  a 
signal  to  the  slave,  wherever  suffering,  that  the  day 
of  his  deliverance  was  near  at  hand.’  The  poet 
states  that  in  1792  he  was  taken  by  his  father  to 
one  of  the  dinners  given  in  honour  of  that  great 

* Mr  Whyte  was  also  the  teacher  of  Sheridan,  and  it  is 
curious  to  learn  that,  after  about  a year’s  trial,  Sherry  was 
pronounced,  both  by  tutor  and  parent,  to  be  an  incorrigible 
dunce  ! ‘At  the  time,’  says  Mr  Moore,  ‘ when  I first  began  to 
attend  his  school,  Mr  Whyte  still  continued,  to  the  no  small 
alarm  of  many  parents,  to  encourage  a taste  for  acting  among 
his  pupils.  In  this  line  I was  long  his  favourite  s/ioic-scliolar ; 
and  among  the  play-bills  introduced  in  his  volume,  to  illustrate 
the  occasions  of  his  own  prologues  and  epilogues,  there  is  one 
of  a play  got  up  in  the  year  1790,  at  Lady  Borrowes’s  private 
theatre  in  Dublin,  where,  among  the  items  of  the  evening’s 
entertainment,  is  “ An  Epilogue,  A Squeeze  to  SI  Paul's,  Master 
Moore.’’  ’ 

321 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


i event,  and  sat  upon  the  knee  of  the  chairman  while 
the  following  toast  was  enthusiastically  sent  round : 
‘May  the  breezes  from  France  fan  our  Irish  Oak 
into  verdure.’  Parliament  having,  in  1793,  opened 
the  university  to  Catholics,  young  Moore  was  sent 
to  college,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  classical 
| acquirements.  In  1799,  he  proceeded  to  London  to 
j study  law  in  the  Middle  Temple,  and  publish  by 
j subscription  a translation  of  Anacreon.  The  latter 
i appeared  in  the  following  year,  dedicated  to  the 
I Prince  of  Wales.  At  a subsequent  period,  Mr 
Moore  was  among  the  keenest  satirists  of  this 
prince,  for  which  he  has  been  accused  of  ingratitude ; 
hut  he  states  himself  that  the  whole  amount  of  his 
obligations  to  his  royal  highness  was  the  honour  of 
dining  twice  at  Carlton  House,  and  being  admitted 
to  a great  fete  given  by  the  prince  in  1811  on  his 
being  made  regent.  In  1801,  Moore  ventured  on  a 
| volume  of  original  verse,  put  forth  under  the 
: assumed  name  of  Thomas  Little — an  allusion  to  his 
! diminutive  stature.  In  these  pieces  the  warmth  of 
! the  young  poet’s  feelings  and  imagination  led  him 
j to  trespass  on  delicacy  and  decorum.  He  had  the 
| good  sense  to  be  ashamed  of  these  amatory  juvenilia, 
j and  genius  enough  to  redeem  the  fault.  His  offence 
did  not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  preferment.  In  1803 
! Mr  Moore  obtained  an  official  situation  at  Bermuda, 
j the  duties  of  which  were  discharged  by  a deputy ; 
j and  this  subordinate  proving  unfaithful,  the  poet 
suffered  pecuniary  losses  and  great  embarrassment. 
Its  first  effect,  however,  was  two  volumes  of  poetry, 

I a series  of  Odes  and  Epistles , published  in  1806,  and 
i written  during  an  absence  of  fourteen  months  from 
I Europe,  while  the  author  visited  Bermuda.  The 
descriptive  sketches  in  this  work  are  remarkable 
i for  their  fidelity,  no  less  than  their  poetical  beauty, 
j The  style  of  Moore  was  now  formed,  and  in  all  his 
I writings  there  is  nothing  finer  than  the  opening 
| epistle  to  Lord  Strangford,  written  on  board  ship  by 
! moonlight : 

Sweet  Moon  ! if,  like  Crotona’s  sage, 

By  any  spell  my  hand  could  dare 
To  make  thy  disk  its  ample  page, 

And  write  my  thoughts,  my  wishes  there ; 
How  many  a friend  whose  careless  eye 
Now  wanders  o’er  that  starry  sky, 

Should  smile  upon  thy  orb  to  meet 
The  recollection  kind  and  sweet, 

The  reveries  of  fond  regret, 

The  promise  never  to  forget, 

And  all  my  heart  and  soul  would  send 
To  many  a dear-loved,  distant  friend. 

* * * * 

Even  now,  delusive  hope  will  steal 
Amid  the  dark  regrets  I feel, 

Soothing  as  yonder  placid  beam 

Pursues  the  murmurers  of  the  deep, 

And  lights  them  with  consoling  gleam, 

And  smiles  them  into  tranquil  sleep. 

Oh  ! such  a blessed  night  as  this 
I often  think  if  friends  were  near, 

How  should  we  feel  and  gaze  with  bliss 
Upon  the  moon-bright  scenery  here  ! 

The  sea  is  like  a silvery  lake, 

And  o’er  its  calm  the  vessel  glides, 

Gently,  as  if  it  feared  to  wake 
The  slumber  of  the  silent  tides, 

The  only  envious  cloud  that  lowers 
Hath  hung  its  shade  on  Pico’s  height, 

„ Where  dimly  ’mid  the  dusk  he  towers, 

And,  scowling  at  this  heaven  of  light, 

Exults  to  see  the  infant  storm 
Cling  darkly  round  his  giant  form  ! 

322 


Mr  Moore  now  became  a satirist,  attempting  first 
the  grave  serious  style,  in  which  he  failed,  but 
succeeding  beyond  almost  any  other  poet  in  light 
satire,  verses  on  the  topics  of  the  day,  lively  and 
pungent,  with  abundance  of  humorous  and  witty 
illustration.  The  man  of  the  world,  the  scholar, 
and  the  poetical  artist,  are  happily  blended  in  his 
satirical  productions,  with  a rich  and  playful  fancy. 
His  Twopenny  Post-hag , The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris , 
Fables  for  the  Holy  Alliance , and  numerous  small 
pieces  written  for  the  newspapers,  to  serve  the 
cause  of  the  Whig  or  liberal  party,  are  not  excelled 
in  their  own  peculiar  walk  by  any  satirical  com- 
positions in  the  language.  It  is  difficult  to  select 
a specimen  of  these  exquisite  productions ; but  the 
following  contains  a proportion  of  the  wit  and 
poignancy  distributed  over  all.  It  appeared  at  a 
time  when  an  abundance  of  mawkish  reminiscences 
and  memoirs  had  been  showered  from  the  press, 
and  bore  the  title  of  Literary  Advertisement : 

Wanted — Authors  of  all  work  to  job  for  the  season, 

No  matter  which  party,  so  faithful  to  neither; 

Good  hacks,  who,  if  posed  for  a rhyme  or  a reason, 

Can  manage,  like  *******  [Southey],  to  do  without 
either. 

If  in  jail,  all  the  better  for  out-of-door  topics ; 

Your  jail  is  for  travellers  a charming  retreat; 

They  can  take  a day’s  rule  for  a trip  to  the  Tropics, 
And  sail  round  the  world,  at  their  ease,  in  the 
Fleet. 

For  a dramatist,  too,  the  most  useful  of  schools — 

He  can  study  high-life  in  the  King’s  Bench  com- 
munity ; 

Aristotle  could  scarce  keep  him  more  within  rules , 

And  of  place  he,  at  least,  must  adhere  to  the  unity. 

Any  lady  or  gentleman  come  to  an  age 

To  have  good  ‘Reminiscences’  (threescore  or  higher), 

Will  meet  with  encouragement — so  much  per  page, 

And  the  spelling  and  grammar  both  found  by  the  | 
buyer. 

No  matter  with  what  their  remembrance  is  stocked, 

So  they  ’ll  only  remember  the  quantum  desired ; 

Enough  to  fill  handsomely  Two  Volumes  oct., 

Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that ’s  required. 

They  may  treat  us,  like  Kelly,  with  old  jeu  cPesprits, 
Like  Dibdin,  may  tell  of  each  fanciful  frolic ; 

Or  kindly  infoi'm  us,  like  Madame  Genlis, 

That  ginger-beer  cakes  always  give  them  the  colic. 

* * * * 

• 

Funds,  Physic,  Corn,  Poetry,  Boxing,  Romance, 

All  excellent  subjects  for  turning  a penny ; 

To  write  upon  all  is  an  author’s  sole  chance 

For  attaining  at  last  the  least  knowledge  of  any. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  his  title  is  good, 

The  material  within  of  small  consequence  is ; 

Let  him  only  write  fine,  and  if  not  understood, 

Why — that ’s  the  concern  of  the  reader,  not  his. 

Nota  Bene — an  Essay,  now  printing,  to  shew 

That  Horace,  as  clearly  as  words  could  express  it, 

Was  for  taxing  the  Fundholders,  ages  ago, 

When  he  wrote  thus — ‘Quodcunque  in  Fund  is, 
assess  it.’* 

* According  to  the  common  readihg,  * Quodcunque  infundis, 
acescit.’  [A  punning  travesty  of  a maxim,  Ep.  ii.,  b.  i., 
which  Francis  renders — ‘ For  tainted  vessels  sour  what  they 
contain.’] 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  MOOEE. 


As  early  as  1806,  Mr  Moore  entered  upon  his 
noble  poetical  and  patriotic  task — writing  lyrics  for 
the  ancient  music  of  his  native  country.  His  Irish 
Songs  displayed  a fervour  and  pathos  not  found  in 
his  earlier  works,  with  the  most  exquisite  melody 
and  purity  of  diction.  An  accomplished  musician 
himself,  it  was  the  effort,  he  relates,  to  translate 
into  language  the  emotions  and  passions  which 
music  appeared  to  him  to  express,  that  first  led 
to  his  writing  any  poetry  worthy  of  the  name. 

‘ Dryden,’  he  adds,  ‘ has  happily  described  music  as 
being  “ inarticulate  poetry : ” and  I have  always  felt, 
in  adapting  words  to  an  expressive  air,  that  I was 
bestowing  upon  it  the  gift  of  articulation,  and  thus 
enabling  it  to  speak  to  others  all  that  was  conveyed, 
in  its  wordless  eloquence,  to  myself.’  Part  of  the 
inspiration  must  also  be  attributed  to  national 
feelings.  The  old  airs  were  consecrated  to  recollec- 
tions of  the  ancient  glories,  the  valour,  beauty,  or 
sufferings  of  Ireland,  and  became  inseparably  con- 
nected with  such  associations.  Of  the  Irish  Melodies , 
in  connection  with  Mr  Moore’s  songs,  ten  parts 
were  published.  Without  detracting  from  the 
merits  of  the  rest,  it  appears  to  us  very  forcibly, 
that  the  particular  ditties  in  which  he  hints  at 
the  woes  of  his  native  country,  and  transmutes  into 
verse  the  breathings  of  its  unfortunate  patriots,  are 
the  most  real  in  feeling,  and  therefore  the  best. 
This  particularly  applies  to  When  he  who  adores 
thee;  Oh , blame  not  the  bard;  and  Oh,  breathe  not 
his  name;  the  first  of  which,  referring  evidently 
to  the  fate  of  Mr  Emmett,  is  as  follows  : 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrow  behind, 

Oh,  say,  wilt  thou  weep  when  they  darken  the  fame 
Of  a life  that  for  thee  was  resigned  ? 

Yes,  weep  ! and,  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  the  decree ; 

For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee ! 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love, 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine ; 

In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine ! 

Oh,  blessed  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 
The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see ; 

But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give, 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee  ! 

Next  to  the  patriotic  songs  stand  those  in  which 
a moral  reflection  is  conveyed  in  that  metaphorical 
form  which  only  Moore  has  been  able  to  realise  in 
lyrics  for  music — as  in  the  following  exquisite 
example : 

I saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A bark  o’er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  : 

I came,  when  the  sun  o’er  that  beach  was  declining — 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

Ah  ! such  is  the  fate  of  our  life’s  early  promise, 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known  : 
Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from 
us, 

And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  black  shore  alone. 

Ne’er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ; 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back,  the  wild  freshness  of 
morning,  ' 

Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  evening’s  best 
light. 


Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment’s  returning, 
When  passion  first  waked  a new  life  through  his 
frame, 

And  his  soul — like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in 
burning — 

Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  Love’s  exquisite  flame  ! 

In  1817  Mr  Moore  produced  his  most  elaborate 
poem,  Lalla  Rookh,  an  oriental  romance,  the  accuracy 
of  which,  as  regards  topographical,  antiquarian,  and 
characteristic  details,  has  been  vouched  by  numer- 
ous competent  authorities.  The  poetry  is  brilliant 
and  gorgeous — rich  to  excess  with  imagery  and 
ornament — and  oppressive  from  its  very  sweetness 
and  splendour.  Of  the  four  tales  which,  connected 
by  a slight  narrative,  like  the  ballad  stories  in  Hogg’s 
Queen's  Wake,  constitute  the  entire  poem,  the  most 
simple  is  Paradise  and  the  Peri,  and  it  is  the  one 
most  frequently  read  and  remembered.  Still,  the 
first — The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan — though 
improbable  and  extravagant  as  a fiction,  is  a poem 
of  great  energy  and  power.  The  genius  of  the  poet 
moves  with  grace  and  freedom  under  his  load  of 
Eastern  magnificence,  and  the  reader  is  fascinated 
by  his  prolific  fancy,  and  the  scenes  of  loveliness  and 
splendour  which  are  depicted  with  such  vividness 
and  truth.  Ilazlitt  says  that  Moore  should  not  have 
written  Lalla  Rookh,  even  for  three  thousand  guineas 
— the  price  understood  to  be  paid  by  the  booksellers 
for  the  copyright.  But  if  not  a great  poem,  it  is  a 
marvellous  work  of  art,  and  contains  paintings  of 
local  scenery  and  manners,  unsurpassed  for  fidelity 
and  picturesque  effect.  The  patient  research  and 
extensive  reading  required  to  gather  the  materials, 
would  have  damped  the  spirit  and  extinguished  the 
fancy  of  almost  any  other  poet.  It  was  amidst  the 
snows  of  two  or  three  Derbyshire  winters,  he  says, 
while  living  in  a lone  cottage  among  the  fields,  that 
he  was  enabled,  by  that  concentration  of  thought 
which  retirement  alone  gives,  to  call  up  around  him 
some  of  the  sunniest  of  those  Eastern  scenes  which 
have  since  been  welcomed  in  India  itself  as  almost 
native  to  its  clime.  The  poet  was  a diligent  student, 
and  his  oriental  reading  was  ‘as  good  as  riding 
on  the  back  of  a cqmel.’  The  romance  of  Vathek 
alone  equals  Lallh  Rookh,  among  English  fictions,  in 
local  fidelity  and  completeness  as  an  Eastern  tale. 
Some  touches  of  sentiment  and  description  have  the 
grace  and  polish  of  ancient  cameos.  Thus  of 
retired  beauty : 

Oh,  what  a pure  and  sacred  thing 
Is  Beauty  curtained  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 
One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 

Unseen  by  man’s  disturbing  eye — 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea, 

Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 
Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity.  * * 

A soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling, 
Religion’s  softened  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a glow  of  such  mild  hue, 

So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 

As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere. 

Or  this  picture  of  nature  after  a summer  storm, 
closing  with  a rich  voluptuous  simile : 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour  when  storms  are  gone ; 

When  warring  winds  have  died  away, 

And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 

32n 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity — 

Fresh  as  if  Day  again  were  born, 

Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn  ! 

When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn, 

And  scattered  at  the  whirlwind’s  will 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 

Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 

In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm — 

And  every  drop  the  thunder  showei’s 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flowers 
Sparkles,  as  ’twere  that  lightning  gem 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  bom  of  them  ! 

When  ’stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 

There  blow  a thousand  gentle  airs, 

And  each  a different  perfume  bears — 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 

And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs : 

When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 

In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 

And  even  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers’  hearts,  when  newly  blest, 

Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest. 

As  true  and  picturesque,  and  more  profound  in 
feeling,  is  the  poet’s  allusion  to  the  fickleness  of 
love : 

Alas — how  light  a cause  may  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  has  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a sunny  hour  fall  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 

A something  light  as  air — a look, 

A word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken — 

Oh  ! love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A breath,  a touch  like  this  has  shaken — 

And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin ; 

And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship’s  smiling  day ; 

And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A tenderness  round  all  they  said ; 

Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 

The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone. 

j After  the  publication  of  his  work,  the  poet  set  off 
| with  Mr  Rogers  on  a visit  to  Paris.  The  ‘ groups 
of  ridiculous  English  who  were  at  that  time  swarm- 
ing in  all  directions  throughout  France,’  supplied 
the  materials  for  his  satire,  entitled  The  Fudge 
Family  in  Paris , which,  in  popularity,  and  the  run 
of  successive  editions,  kept  pace  with  Lalla  Rookh. 
In  1819  Mr  Moore  made  another  journey  to  the 
continent  in  company  with  Lord  John  Russell,  and 
this  furnished  his  Rhymes  on  the  Road,  a series  of 
trifles  often  graceful  and  pleasing,  but  so  conversa- 
tional and  unstudied,  as  to  be  little  better — to  use 
his  own  words — than  ‘prose  fringed  -with  rhyme.’ 
From  Paris  the  poet  and  his  companion  proceeded 
by  the  Simplon  to  Italy.  Lord  John  took  the 
route  to  Genoa,  and  Mr  Moore  went  on  a visit  to 
Lord  Byron  at  Venice.  On  his  return  from  this 
memorable  tour,  the  poet  took  up  his  abode  in 
Paris,  where  he  resided  till  about  the  close  of  the 
year  1822.  He  had  become  involved  in  pecuniary 
difficulties  by  the  conduct  of  the  person  who  acted 
as  his  deputy  at  Bermuda.  His  friends  pressed 
forward  with  eager  kindness  to  help  to  release  him 
— one  offering  to  place  £500  at  his  disposal ; but  he 
324 


came  to  the  resolution  of  ‘ gratefully  declining  their 
offers,  and  endeavouring  to  work  out  his  deliverance 
by  his  own  efforts.’  In  September  1822  he  was 
informed  that  an  arrangement  had  been  made,  and 
that  he  might  with  safety  return  to  England.  The 
amount  of  the  claims  of  the  American  merchants 
had  been  reduced  to  the  sum  of  one  thousand 
guineas,  and  towards  the  payment  of  this  the 
uncle  of  his  deputy — a rich  London  merchant — 
had  been  brought  to  contribute  £300.  The  Marquis 
of  Lansdowne  immediately  deposited  in  the  hands 
of  a banker  the  remaining  portion  (£750),  which 
was  soon  repaid  by  the  grateful  bard,  who,  in  the 
June  following,  on  receiving  his  publisher’s  account, 
found  £1000  placed  to  his  credit  from  the  sale  of 
the  Loves  of  the  Angels,  and  £500  from  the  Fables  of 
the  Holy  Alliance.  The  latter  were  partly  written 
while  Mr  Moore  was  at  Venice  with  Lord  Byron, 
and  were  published  under  the  nom  de  guerre  of 
Thomas  Brown.  The  Loves  of  the  Angels  was 
written  in  Paris.  The  poem  is  founded  on  ‘the 
Eastern  story  of  the  angels  Harut  and  Marut,  and 
the  Rabbinical  fictions  of  the  loves  of  Uzziel  and 
Shamchazai,’  with  which  Mr  Moore  shadowed  out 
‘ the  fall  of  the  soul  from  its  original  purity — the 
loss  of  light  and  happiness  which  it  suffers  in  the 
pursuit  of  this  world’s  perishable  pleasures — and 
the  punishments  both  from  conscience  and  divine 
justice  with  which  impurity,  pride,  and  presump- 
tuous inquiry  into  the  awful  secrets  of  heaven  are 
sure  to  be  visited.’  The  stories  of  the  three  angels 
are  related  with  graceful  tenderness  and  passion, 
but  with  too  little  of  ‘ the  angelic  air  ’ about  them. 
He  afterwards  contributed  a great  number  of  poli- 
tical squibs  to  the  Times  newspaper — witty  sarcastic 
effusions,  for  which  he  was  paid  at  the  rate  of  about 
£400  per  annum ! His  latest  imaginative  work  was 
The  Epicurean,  an  Eastern  tale,  in  prose,  but  full 
of  the  spirit  and  materials  of  poetry ; and  forming, 
perhaps,  his  highest  and  best  sustained  flight  in  the 
regions  of  pure  romance.  His  lives  of  Sheridan  and 
Byron  we  shall  afterwards  allude  to  in  the  list  of 
biographical  writers.  Thus,  remarkable  for  industry, 
genius,  and  acquirements,  Mr  Moore’s  career  was 
one  of  high  honour  and  success.  No  poet  was 
more  universally  read,  or  more  courted  in  society 
by  individuals  distinguished  for  rank,  literature,  or 
public  service.  His  political  friends,  when  in  office, 
rewarded  him  with  a pension  of  £300  per  annum, 
and  as  his  writings  were  profitable  as  well  as 
popular,  his  latter  days  might  have  been  spent  in 
comfort,  without  the  anxieties  of  protracted  author- 
ship. He  resided  in  a cottage  in  Wiltshire,  but 
■was  too  often  in  London,  in  those  gay  and  brilliant 
circles  which  he  enriched  with  his  wit  and  genius. 
In  1841-42  he  gave  to  the  world  a complete  collec- 
tion of  his  poetical  works  in  ten  volumes,  to  which 
are  prefixed  some  interesting  literary  and  personal 
details.  Latterly,  the  poet’s  mind  gave  way,  and  he 
sank  into  a state  of  imbecility,  from  which  he  was 
released  by  death,  February  26,  1852. 

Moore  left  behind  him  copious  memoirs,  journal, 
and  correspondence,  which,  by  the  poet’s  request, 
were  after  his  death  placed  for  publication  in  the 
hands  of  his  illustrious  friend,  Lord  John  Russell. 
By  this  posthumous  work,  a sum  of  £3000  was 
realised  for  Moore’s  widow.  The  journal  disap- 
pointed the  public.  Slight  personal  details,  brief 
anecdotes  and  witticisms,  with  records  of  dinner- 
parties, visits,  and  fashionable  routs,  fill  the  bulk  of 
eight  printed  volumes.  His  friends  were  affectionate 
and  faithful,  always  ready  to  help  him  in  his  diffi- 
culties, and  his  publishers  appear  to  have  treated  him 
with  great  liberality.  He  was  constantly  drawing 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


upon  them  to  meet  emergencies,  and  his  drafts 
■were  always  honoured.  Money  was  offered  to  him 
on  all  hands,  but  his  independent  spirit  and  joyous 
temperament,  combined  with  fits  of  close  applica- 
tion, and  the  brilliant  success  of  all  his  works, 
poetical  and  prosaic,  enabled  him  to  work  his  way 


Moore's  Cottage,  near  Devizes. 


out  of  every  difficulty.  Goldsmith  was  not  more 
potent  in  raising  money,  and  melting  the  hearts  of 
booksellers.  Lord  John  Russell  admits  that  the 
defect  of  Moore’s  journal  is,  that  while  he  is  at 
great  pains  to  put  in  writing  the  stories  and  the 
jokes  he  hears,  he  seldom  records  a serious  discus- 
sion, or  notices  the  instructive  portions  of  the 
conversations  in  which  he  bore  a part.  To  do  this 
would  have  required  great  time  and  constant  atten- 
tion. Instead  of  an  admired  and  applauded  talker, 
the  poet  must  have  become  a silent  and  patient 
listener,  and  have  possessed  Boswell’s  servility  of 
spirit  and  complete  devotion  to  his  hero  and  subject. 
Moore  said  that  it  was  in  higli-life  one  met  the  best 
society.  Ilis  friend  Rogers  disputed  the  position: 
and  we  suspect  it  will  be  found  that,  however  agree- 
able such  company  may  be  occasionally,  literary 
men  only  find  real  society  among  their  equals. 
Moore  loved  high-life,  sought  after  it,  and  from 
his  genius,  fame,  and  musical  talents  was  courted 
by  the  titled  and  the  great.  Too  much  of  his  time 
was  frittered  away  in  fashionable  parties.  Such  a 
glittering  career  is  dangerous.  The  noble  and 
masculine  mind  of  Burns  was  injured  by  similar 
patronage;  and  in  recent  times  a man  of  great 
powers,  Theodore  Ilooke,  was  ruined  by  it.  Another 
feature  in  Moore’s  journal  is  his  undisguised  vanity, 
which  overflows  on  all  occasions.  He  is  never  tired 
of  recording  the  compliments  paid  to  his  talents. 
But  Lord  John  Russell  has  justly  characterised  this 
weakness  in  Moore  as  being  wholly  free  from  envy. 
It  never  took  the  shape  of  depreciating  others  that 
his  own  superiority  might  become  conspicuous. 
‘His  love  of  praise  was  joined  with  the  most  gener- 
ous and  liberal  dispensation  of  praise  to  others — he 
relished  the  works  of  Byron  and  Scott  as  if  he  had 
been  himself  no  competitor  for  fame  with  them.’ 
Ill  success  might  have  tinctured  the  poet’s  egotism 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE. 


with  bitterness,  but  this  he  never  knew ; and  such  a 
feeling  could  not  have  remained  long  with  a man 
so  constitutionally  genial  and  light-hearted. 

When  time  shall  have  destroyed  the  remembrance 
of  Moore’s  personal  qualities,  and  removed  his  works 
to  a distance,  to  be  judged  of  by  their  fruit  alone, 
the  want  most  deeply  felt  will  be  that  of  simplicity 
and  genuine  passion.  He  has  worked  little  in  the 
durable  and  permanent  materials  of  poetry,  but  has 
spent  his  prime  in  enriching  the  stately  structure 
with  exquisite  ornaments,  foliage,  flowers,  and  gems. 
Yet  he  often  throws  into  his  gay  and  festive  verses, 
and  his  fanciful  descriptions,  touches  of  pensive  and 
mournful  reflection,  which  strike  by  their  truth  and 
beauty,  and  by  the  force  of  contrast.  Indeed,  one 
effect  of  the  genius  of  Moore  has  been,  to  elevate 
the  feelings  and  occurrences  of  ordinary  life  into 
poetry,  rather  than  dealing  with  the  lofty  abstract 
elements  of  the  art.  The  combinations  of  his  wit 
are  wonderful.  Quick,  subtle,  and  varied,  ever 
suggesting  new  thoughts  or  images,  or  unexpected 
turns  of  expression — now  drawing  resources  from 
classical  literature  or  the  ancient  fathers — now 
diving  into  the  human  heart,  and  now  skimming 
the  fields  of  fancy — the  wit  or  imagination  of 
Moore  (for  they  are  compounded  together)  is  a 
true  Ariel,  ‘ a creature  of  the  elements,’  that  is 
ever  buoyant  and  full  of  life  and  spirit.  His  very 
satires  ‘give  delight  and  hurt  not.’  They  are 
never  coarse,  and  always  witty.  When  stung  by 
an  act  of  oppression  or  intolerance,  he  could  be 
bitter  or  sarcastic  enough ; but  some  lively  thought 
or  sportive  image  soon  crossed  his  path,  and  he 
instantly  followed  it  into  the  open  and  genial  region 
where  he  loved  most  to  indulge.  He  never  dipt  his 
pen  in  malignity.  For  an  author  who  has  written 
so  much  as  Moore  on  the  subject  of  love  and  the 
gay  delights  of  good-fellowship,  it  was  scarce  pos- 
sible to  be  always  natural  and  original.  Some  of 
his  lyrics  and  occasional  poems,  accordingly,  present 
far-fetched  metaphors  and  conceits,  with  which  they 
often  conclude,  like  the  final  flourish  or  pirouette  of 
a stage-dancer.  He  exhausted  the  vocabulary  of 
rosy  lips  and  sparkling  eyes,  forgetting  that  true 
passion  is  ever  direct  and  simple — ever  concentrated 
and  intense,  whether  bright  or  melancholy.  This 
defect,  however,  pervades  only  part  of  his  songs, 
and  those  mostly  written  in  his  youth.  The  Irish 
Melodies  are  full  of  true  feeling  and  delicacy.  By 
universal  consent,  and  by  the  sure  test  of  memory, 
these  national  strains  are  the  most  popular  and  the 
most  likely  to  be  immortal  of  all  Moore’s  works. 
They  are  musical  almost  beyond  parallel  in  words — 
graceful  in  thought  and  sentiment — often  tender, 
pathetic,  and  heroic — and  they  blend  poetical  and 
romantic  feelings  with  the  objects  and  sympathies 
of  common  life  in  language  chastened  and  refined, 
yet  apparently  so  simple  that  every  trace  of  art  has 
disappeared.  The  songs  are  read  and  remembered 
by  all.  They  are  equally  the  delight  of  the  cottage 
and  the  saloon,  and,  in  the  poet’s  own  country,  are 
sung  with  an  enthusiasm  that  will  long  be  felt 
in  the  hour  of  festivity,  as  well  as  in  periods  of 
suffering  and  solemnity,  by  that  imaginative  and 
warm-hearted  people. 


jonN  nooKnAM  frerk. 

In  1817,  Mr  Murray  published  a small  poetical 
volume  under  the  eccentric  title  of  Prospectus  and 
Specimen  of  an  intended  National  Work,  by  William 
and  Robert  Whistlecraft , of  Stowmarket  in  Suffolk, 
Harness  and  Collar  Makers.  Intended  to  comprise  the 
most  Interesting  Particulars  relating  to  King  Arthur 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


| and  his  Round  Table.  The  world  was  surprised  to 
find,  under  this  odd  disguise,  a happy  imitation  of 
the  Pulci  and  Casti  school  of  the  Italian  poets.  The 
brothers  Whistlecraft  formed,  it  was  quickly  seen, 
but  the  mask  of  some  elegant  and  scholarly  wit 
belonging  to  the  higher  circles  of  society,  who  had 
chosen  to  amuse  himself  in  comic  verse,  without 
incurring  the  responsibilities  of  declared  authorship. 
To  two  cantos  published  in  the  above  year,  a third 
and  fourth  were  soon  after  added.  The  poem  opens 
with  a feast  held  by  King  Arthur  at  Carlisle  amidst 
his  knights,  who  are  thus  introduced : 

They  looked  a manly  generous  generation ; 

Beards,  shoulders,  eyebrows,  broad,  and  square,  and 
thick, 

Their  accents  firm  and  loud  in  conversation, 

Their  eyes  and  gestures  eager,  sharp,  and  quick, 
Shewed  them  prepared,  on  proper  provocation, 

To  give  the  lie,  pull  noses,  stab  and  kick ; 

And  for  that  very  reason  it  is  said 
They  were  so  very  courteous  and  well-bred. 

In  a valley  near  Carlisle  lived  a race  of  giants ; 
and  this  place  is  finely  described  : 

Huge  mountains  of  immeasurable  height 
Encompassed  all  the  level  valley  round 
With  mighty  slabs  of  rock,  that  sloped  upright, 

An  insurmountable  and  enormous  mound. 

The  very  river  vanished  out  of  sight, 

Absorbed  in  secret  channels  under  ground ; 

That  vale  was  so  sequestered  and  secluded, 

All  search  for  ages  past  it  had  eluded. 

A rock  was  in  the  centre,  like  a cone, 

Abruptly  rising  from  a miry  pool, 

Where  they  beheld  a pile  of  massy  stone, 

Which  masons  of  the  rude  primeval  school 
Had  reared  by  help  of  giant  hands  alone, 

With  rocky  fragments  unreduced  by  rule  : 

Irregular,  like  nature  more  than  art, 

Huge,  rugged,  and  compact  in  every  part. 

A wild  tumultuous  torrent  raged  around, 

Of  fragments  tumbling  from  the  mountain’s  height ; 
The  whistling  clouds  of  dust,  the  deafening  sound, 
The  hurried  motion  that  amazed  the  sight, 

The  constant  quaking  of  the  solid  ground, 

Environed  them  with  phantoms  of  affright ; 

Yet  with  heroic  hearts  they  held  right  on, 

Till  the  last  point  of  their  ascent  was  won. 

j The  giants  having  attacked  and  carried  off  some 
ladies  on  their  journey  to  court,  the  knights  deem 
i it  their  duty  to  set  out  in  pursuit ; and  in  due  time 
I they  overcome  these  grim  personages,  and  relieve 
I the  captives  from  the  castle  in  which  they  had  been 
I immured : 

The  ladies  ? — They  were  tolerably  well, 

At  least  as  well  as  could  have  been  expected : 

Many  details  I must  forbear  to  tell ; 

Their  toilet  had  been  very  much  neglected ; 

But  by  supreme  good-luck  it  so  befell, 

That  when  the  castle’s  capture  was  effected, 

When  those  vile  cannibals  were  overpowered, 

Only  two  fat  duennas  were  devoured. 

This  closes  the  second  canto.  The  third  opens  in 
the  following  playful  strain : 

I ’ve  a proposal  here  from  Mr  Murray. 

He  offers  handsomely — the  money  down ; 

My  dear,  you  might  recover  from  your  flurry, 

In  a nice  airy  lodging  out  of  town, 

At  Croydon,  Epsom,  anywhere  in  Surrey ; 

If  every  stanza  brings  us  in  a crown, 

I think  that  I might  venture  to  bespeak 
A bedroom  and  front-parlour  for  next  week. 


Tell  me,  my  dear  Thalia,  what  you  think ; 

Your  nerves  have  undergone  a sudden  shock ; 

Your  poor  dear  spirits  have  begun  to  sink ; 

On  Banstead  Downs  you ’d  muster  a new  stock, 

And  I ’d  be  sure  to  keep  away  from  drink, 

And  always  go  to  bed  by  twelve  o’clock. 

We  ’ll  travel  down  there  in  the  morning  stages ; 

Our  verses  shall  go  down  to  distant  ages. 

And  here  in  town  we  ’ll  breakfast  on  hot  rolls, 

And  you  shall  have  a better  shawl  to  wear ; 

These  pantaloons  of  mine  are  chafed  in  holes ; 

By  Monday  next  I ’ll  compass  a new  pair : 

Come  now,  fling  up  the  cinders,  fetch  the  coals, 

And  take  away  the  things  you  hung  to  air ; 

Set  out  the  tea-things,  and  bid  Phoebe  bring 
The  kettle  up.  Arms  and  the  Monies  I sing. 

Near  the  valley  of  the  giants  was  an  abbey,  con- 
taining fifty  friars,  ‘ fat  and  good,’  who  keep  for 
a long  time  on  good  terms  with  their  neighbours. 
Being  fond  of  music,  the  giants  would  sometimes 
approach  the  sacred  pile,  attracted  by  the  sweet 
sounds  that  issued  from  it ; and  here  occurs  a 
beautiful  piece  of  description : 

Oft  that  wild  untutored  race  would  draw, 

Led  by  the  solemn  sound  and  sacred  light, 

Beyond  the  bank,  beneath  a lonely  shaw, 

To  listen  all  the  livelong  summer  night, 

Till  deep,  serene,  and  reverential  awe 
Environed  them  with  silent  calm  delight, 
Contemplating  the  minster’s  midnight  gleam, 
Reflected  from  the  clear  and  glassy  stream. 

But  chiefly,  when  the  shadowy  moon  had  shed 
O’er  woods  and  waters  her  mysterious  hue, 

Their  passive  hearts  and  vacant  fancies  fed 
With  thoughts  and  aspirations  strange  and  new, 

Till  their  brute  souls  with  inward  working  bred 
Dark  hints  that  in  the  depths  of  instinct  grew 
Subjective — not  from  Locke’s  associations, 

Nor  David  Hartley’s  doctrine  of  vibrations. 

Each  was  ashamed  to  mention  to  the  others 
One  half  of  all  the  feelings  that  he  felt, 

Yet  thus  far  each  would  venture  : ‘ Listen,  brothers, 
It  seems  as  if  one  heard  Heaven’s  thunders  melt 
In  music !’ 

Unfortunately,  this  happy  state  of  things  is  broken 
up  by  the  introduction  of  a ring  of  bells  into  the 
abbey,  a kind  of  music  to  which  the  giants  had  an 
insurmountable  aversion : 

The  solemn  mountains  that  surrounded 
The  silent  valley  where  the  convent  lay, 

With  tintinnabular  uproar  were  astounded 
When  the  first  peal  burst  forth  at  break  of  day  : 
Feeling  their  granite  ears  severely  wounded, 

They  scarce  knew  what  to  think  or  what  to  say  ; 

And — though  large  mountains  commonly  conceal 
Their  sentiments,  dissembling  what  they  feel, 

Yet — Cader-Gribbrish  from  his  cloudy  throne 
To  huge  Loblommon  gave  an  intimation 
Of  this  strange  rumour,  with  an  awful  tone, 
Thundering  his  deep  surprise  and  indignation ; 

The  lesser  hills,  in  language  of  their  own, 

Discussed  the  topic  by  reverberation ; 

Discoursing  with  their  echoes  all  day  long, 

Their  only  conversation  was,  ‘ ding-dong.’ 

These  giant  mountains  inwardly  were  moved. 

But  never  made  an  outward  change-  of  place ; 

Not  so  the  mountain  giants  (as  behoved 
A more  alert  and  locomotive  race) ; 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  john  hookham  frere. 

Hearing  a clatter  which  they  disapproved, 

They  ran  straight  forward  to  besiege  the  place, 

With  a discordant  universal  yell, 

Like  house-dogs  howling  at  a dinner-hell. 

This  is  evidently  meant  as  a good-humoured  satire 
against  violent  personifications  in  poetry.  Mean- 
while a monk,  Brother  John  by  name,  who  had 
opposed  the  introduction  of  the  bells,  has  gone  in 
a fit  of  disgust  with  his  brethren  to  amuse  himself 
with  the  rod  at  a neighbouring  stream.  Here 
occurs  another  beautiful  descriptive  passage : 

A mighty  current,  unconfined  and  free, 

Ran  wheeling  round  beneath  the  mountain’s  shade, 
Battering  its  wave-worn  base ; but  you  might  see 
On  the  near  margin  many  a watery  glade, 

Becalmed  beneath  some  little  island’s  lee, 

All  tranquil  and  transparent,  close  embayed ; 

Reflecting  in  the  deep  serene  and  even 

Each  flower  and  herb,  and  every  cloud  of  heaven ; 

The  painted  kingfisher,  the  branch  above  her, 

Stand  in  the  steadfast  mirror  fixed  and  true ; 

Anon  the  fitful  breezes  brood  and  hover, 

Freshening  the  surface  with  a rougher  hue ; 

Spreading,  withdrawing,  pausing,  passing  over, 

Again  returning  to  retire  anew : 

So  rest  and  motion  in  a narrow  range, 

Feasted  the  sight  with  joyous  interchange. 

Brother  John,  placed  here  by  mere  chance,  is 
apprised  of  the  approach  of  the  giants  in  time  to 
run  home  and  give  the  alarm.  Amidst  the  prepar- 
ations for  defence,  to  which  he  exhorts  his  brethren, 
the  abbot  dies,  and  John  is  elected  to  succeed  him. 
A stout  resistance  is  made  by  the  monks,  whom 
their  new  superior  takes  care  to  feed  well  by  way 
of  keeping  them  in  heart,  and  the  giants  at  length 
withdraw  from  the  scene  of  action : 

And  now  the  gates  are  opened,  and  the  throng 
Forth  issuing,  the  deserted  camp  survey ; 

‘ Here  Murdomack,  and  Mangonel  the  strong, 

And  Gorbuduc  were  lodged,’  and  ‘ here,’  they  say, 

‘ This  pigsty  to  Poldavy  did  belong ; 

Here  Bundleback,  and  here  Phigander  lay.’ 

They  view  the  deep  indentures,  broad  and  round, 
Which  mark  their  postures  squatting  on  the  ground. 

Then  to  the  traces  of  gigantic  feet, 

Huge,  wide  apart,  with  half-a-dozen  toes  ; 

They  track  them  on,  till  they  converge  and  meet — 

An  earnest  and  assurance  of  repose — 

Close  at  the  ford ; the  cause  of  this  retreat 
They  all  conjecture,  but  no  creature  knows ; 

It  was  ascribed  to  causes  multifarious, 

To  saints,  as  Jerome,  George,  and  Januarius, 

To  their  own  pious  founder’s  intercession, 

To  Ave-Maries,  and  our  Lady’s  psalter ; 

To  news  that  Friar  John  was  in  possession, 

To  new  wax-candles  placed  upon  the  altar, 

To  their  own  prudence,  valour,  and  discretion ; 

To  relics,  rosaries,  and  holy-water ; 

To  beads  and  psalms,  and  feats  of  arms — in  short, 
There  was  no  end  of  their  accounting  for ’t. 

It  finally  appears  that  the  pagans  have  retired  in 
order  to  make  the  attack  upon  the  ladies,  which 
had  formerly  been  described — no  bad  burlesque  of 
the  endless  episodes  of  the  Italian  romantic  poets. 

It  was  soon  discovered  that  the  author  of  this 
clever  jeu  d' esprit  was  the  Right  Honourable  John 
Hookham  Frere,  a person  of  high  political  conse- 
quence, who  had  been  employed  a few  years  before 
by  the  British  government  to  take  charge  of  diplo- 
matic transactions  in  Spain  in  connection  with  the 

army  under  General  Sir  John  Moore.  The  Whistle- 
craft  poetry  was  carried  no  further  ; but  the  peculiar 
stanza  (the  ottava  rima  of  Italy),  and  the  sarcastic 
pleasantry,  formed  the  immediate  exemplar  which 
guided  Byron  when  he  wrote  his  Beppo  and  Don 
Juan ; and  one  couplet — 

Adown  thy  slope,  romantic  Ashbourn,  glides 
The  Derby  dilly,  carrying  six  insides — 

became  at  a subsequent  period  the  basis  of  an 
allusion  almost  historical  in  importance,  with 
reference  to  a small  party  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
Thus  the  national  poem  attained  a place  of  some 
consequence  in  our  modern  literature.  It  is  only  to 
be  regretted  that  the  poet,  captivated  by  indolence 
or  the  elegances  of  a luxurious  taste,  gave  no  further 
specimen  of  his  talents  to  the  world. 

For  many  years  Mr  Frere  resided  in  Malta,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a handsome  pension,  conferred  for 
diplomatic  services,  of  £1516  per  annum,  and  at 
Malta  he  died  on  the  7th  January  1846,  aged 
seventy-seven.  In  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
there  are  some  particulars  respecting  the  meeting  of 
the  declining  novelist  with  his  friend,  the  author  of 
Whistlecraft.  We  there  learn  from  Scott,  that  the 
remarkable  war- song  upon  the  victory  at  Brunnen- 
burg,  which  appears  in  Mr  Ellis’s  Specimens  of 
Ancient  English  Poetry , and  might  pass  in  a court  of 
critics  as  a genuine  composition  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  was  written  by  Mr  Frere  while  an  Eton 
school-boy,  as  an  illustration  on  one  side  of  the  cele- 
brated Rowley  controversy.  We  are  also  informed 
by  Mrs  John  Davy,  in  her  diary,  quoted  by  Mr 
Lockhart,  that  Sir  Walter  on  this  occasion 1 repeated 
a pretty  long  passage  from  his  version  of  one  of  the 
romances  of  the  Cid — published  in  the  appendix  to 
Southey’s  quarto — and  seemed  to  enjoy  a spirited 
charge  of  the  knights  therein  described  as  much  as 
he  could  have  done  in  his  best  days,  placing  his 
walking-stick  in  rest  like  a lance,  “to  suit  the 
action  to  the  word.”’  It  will  not,  we  hope,  be 
deemed  improper  that  we  redeem  from  comparative 
obscurity  a piece  of  poetry  so  much  admired  by 
Scott : 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open, 

and  forth  at  once  they  rushed, 

The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  hosts 

back  to  the  camp  were  pushed ; 

The  camp  was  all  in  tumult, 

and  there  was  such  a thunder 
Of  cymbals  and  of  drums, 

as  if  earth  would  cleave  in  sunder.* 
There  you  might  see  the  Moors 

arming  themselves  in  haste, 

And  the  two  main  battles 

how  they  were  forming  fast ; 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mixt, 

a countless  troop  and  vast. 

The  Moors  are  moving  forward, 

the  battle  soon  must  join, 

‘ My  men  stand  here  in  order, 

ranged  upon  a line  ! 

Let  not  a man  move  from  his  rank 
before  I give  the  sign.’ 

Pero  Bermuez  heard  the  word, 

but  he  could  not  refrain, 

He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand, 

he  gave  his  horse  the  rein ; 

‘ You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there, 
the  thickest  of  the  foes, 

Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid, 

for  there  your  banner  goes  ! 

Let  him  that  serves  and  honours  it, 

shew  the  duty  that  he  owes.’ 

327 

from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  T0  1830. 


Earnestly  the  Cid  called  out, 

‘ For  heaven’s  sake  he  still ! ’ 
Bermuez  cried,  ‘ I cannot  hold,’ 
so  eager  was  his  will. 

He  spurred  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on 
amid  the  Moorish  rout : 

They  strove  to  win  the  banner, 

and  compassed  him  about. 

Had  not  his  armour  been  so  true, 

he  had  lost  either  life  or  limb ; 
The  Cid  called  out  again, 

‘For  heaven’s  sake  succour  him  ! 
Their  shields  before  their  breasts, 
forth  at  once  they  go, 

Their  lances  in  the  rest 

levelled  fair  and  low ; 

Their  banners  and  their  crests 
waving  in  a row, 

Their  heads  all  stooping  down 

towards  the  saddle  bow. 

The  Cid  was  in  the  midst, 

his  shout  was  heard  afar : 

‘ I am  Bui  Diaz, 

the  champion  of  Bivar ; 

Strike  amongst  them,  gentlemen, 

for  sweet  mercies’  sake  !’ 

There  where  Bermuez  fought 

amidst  the  foe  they  brake ; 

Three  hundred  bannered  knights, 
it  was  a gallant  show ; 

Three  hundred  Moors  they  killed, 
a man  at  every  blow  : 

When  they  wheeled  and  turned, 

as  many  more  lay  slain, 

You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances, 
and  level  them  again. 

There  you  might  see  the  breastplates, 

how  they  were  cleft  in  twain, 
And  many  a Moorish  shield 

lie  scattered  on  the  plain. 

The  pennons  that  were  white 

marked  with  a crimson  stain, 

The  horses  running  wild 

whose  riders  had  been  slain. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Thomas  Campbell  was  born  in  the  city  of 
Glasgow,  July  27,  1777.  He  was  of  a good  Highland 
family,  the  Campbells  of  Kirnan,  in  Argyleshire, 
who  traced  their  origin  from  the  first  Norman  lord 
of  Lochawe.  The  property,  however,  had  passed 
from  the  ancient  race,  and  the  poet’s  father  carried 
on  business  in  Glasgow  as  a merchant  or  trader 
with  Virginia.  He  was  unsuccessful,  and  in  his 
latter  days  subsisted  on  some  small  income  derived 
from  a merchants’  society  and  provident  institution, 
aided  by  his  industrious  wife,  who  received  into 
their  house  as  boarders  young  men  attending  col- 
lege. Thomas  received  a good  education,  and  was 
distinguished  at  the  university,  particularly  for  his 
translations  from  the  Greek.  The  Greek  professor, 
John  Young,  pronounced  his  translation  of  part  of 
the  Clouds  of  Aristophanes  the  best  version  that 
had  ever  been  given  in  by  any  student.  He  had 
previously  received  a prize  for  an  English  poem,  an 
Essay  on  the  Origin  of  Evil,  modelled  on  the  style  of 
Pope.  Other  poetical  pieces,  written  between  his 
fourteenth  and  sixteenth  year,  evince  Campbell’s 
peculiar  delicacy  of  taste  and  select  poetical  diction. 
He  became  tutor  in  a family  resident  in  the  island 
of  Mull,  and  about  this  time  met  with  his  ‘ Caroline 
of  the  West,’  the  daughter  of  a minister  of  Inverary. 
The  winter  of  1795  saw  him  again  in  Glasgow,  attend- 
ing college,  and  supporting  himself  by  private  tuition. 

328 


Next  year  he  was  some  time  tutor  in  the  family  of 
Mr  Downie  of  Appin,  also  in  the  Highlands ; and 
this  engagement  completed,  he  repaired  to  Edin- 
burgh, hesitated  between  the  church  and  the  law 
as  a profession,  but  soon  abandoning  all  hopes  of 
either,  he  employed  himself  in  private  teaching  and 
in  literary  work  for  the  booksellers.  Poetry  was 


not  neglected,  and  in  April  1799  appeared  his 
Pleasures  of  Hope.  The  copyright  was  sold  for  £60 ; 
but  for  some  years  the  publishers  gave  the  poet  £50 
on  every  new  edition  of  two  thousand  copies,  and 
allowed  him,  in  1803,  to  publish  a quarto  subscrip- 
tion-copy, by  which  he  realised  about  £1000.  It  was 
in  a ‘dusky  lodging’  in  Alison  Square,  Edinburgh, 
that  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  was  composed;  and  the 
fine  opening  simile  was  suggested  by  the  scenery  of 
the  Firth  of  Forth  as  seen  from  the  Calton  Hill. 
The  poem  was  instantly  successful.  The  volume 
went  through  four  editions  in  a twelvemonth.  It 
captivated  all  readers  by  its  varying  and  exquisite 
melody,  its  polished  diction,  and  the  vein  of  gener- 
ous and  lofty  sentiment  which  seemed  to  embalm 
and  sanctify  the  entire  poem.  The  touching  and 
beautiful  episodes  with  which  it  abounds  con- 
stituted also  a source  of  deep  interest;  and  in 
picturing  the  horrors  of  war,  and  the  infamous 
partition  of  Poland,  the  poet  kindled  up  into  a 
strain  of  noble  indignant  zeal  and  prophet-like 
inspiration. 

Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  time  ! 

Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a crime ; 

Found  not  a generous  friend,  a pitying  foe, 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career  : 
Hope  for  a season  bade  the  world  farewell, 

And  freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there ; 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


On  Prague’s  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 

His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below. 

The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a way, 

Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 

Hark  ! as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 

A thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 

Earth  shook,  red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 

And  conscious  nature  shuddered  at  the  cry  ! 

Traces  of  juvenility  may  be  found  in  the  Plea- 
sures of  Hope — a want  of  connection  between  the 
different  parts  of  the  poem,  some  florid  lines  and 
imperfect  metaphors  ; but  such  a series  of  beautiful 
and  dazzling  pictures,  so  pure  and  elevated  a tone 
of  moral  feeling,  and  such  terse,  vigorous,  and 
polished  versification,  were  never  perhaps  before 
found  united  in  a poem  written  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  Shortly  after  its  publication,  Mr  Campbell 
visited  the  continent.  He  sailed  from  Leith  for 
Hamburg  on  the  1st  of  June  1800  ; and  proceeding 
from  thence  to  Ratisbon,  witnessed  the  decisive 
action  which  gave  Ratisbon  to  the  French.  The 
poet  stood  with  the  monks  of  the  Scottish  college 
of  St  James,  on  the  ramparts  near  the  monastery, 
while  a charge  of  Klenau’s  cavalry  was  made  upon 
the  French.  He  saw  no  other  scenes  of  actual 
warfare,  but  made  various  excursions  into  the  inte- 
rior, and  was  well  received  by  General  Moreau  and  | 
the  other  French  officers.  It  has  been  generally 
supposed  that  Campbell  was  present  at  the  battle 
of  Hohenlinden,  but  it  was  not  fought  until  some 
weeks  after  he  had  left  Bavaria.  During  his  resi- 
dence on  the  Danube  and  the  Elbe,  the  poet  wrote 
some  of  his  exquisite  minor  poems,  which  were 
published  in  the  Morning  Chronicle  newspaper.  The 
first  of  these  was  the  Exile  of  Erin , which  was 
suggested  by  an  incident  like  that  which  befell 
Smollett  at  Boulogne — namely,  meeting  with  a 
party  of  political  exiles  who  retained  a strong  love 
of  their  native  country.  Campbell’s  ‘ Exile  ’ was  a 
person  named  Anthony  M‘Cann,  who,  with  Hamilton 
Rowan  and  others,  had  been  concerned  in  the  Irish 
rebellion.  So  jealous  was  the  British  government 
of  that  day,  that  the  poet  was  suspected  of  being  a 
spy,  and  on  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  was  subjected 
to  an  examination  by  the  sheriff,  but  which  ended 
in  a scene  of  mirth  and  good-humour.  Shortly 
afterwards,  Campbell  was  received  by  Lord  Minto 
as  a sort  of  secretary  and  literary  companion — a 
situation  which  his  temper  and  somewhat  demo- 
cratic independence  of  spirit  rendered  uncongenial, 
and  which  did  not  last  long.  In  this  year  (1802) 
he  composed  LochieVs  Warning  and  Hohenlinden — 
the  latter  one  of  the  grandest  battle-pieces  in 
miniature  that  ever  was  drawn.  In  a few  verses, 
flowing  like  a choral  melody,  the  poet  brings  before 
us  the  silent  midnight  scene  of  engagement  wrapt 
in  the  snows  of  winter,  the  sudden  arming  for  the 
battle,  the  press  and  shout  of  charging  squadrons, 
the  flashing  of  artillery,  and  the  final  scene  of 
death : 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet; 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a soldier’s  sepulchre  ! 

LochieVs  Warning  being  read  in  manuscript  to  Sir 
Walter,  then  Mr  Scott,  he  requested  a perusal  of  it 
himself,  and  then  repeated  the  whole  from  memory 
— a striking  instance  of  the' great  minstrel’s  powers 
of  recollection,  which  was  related  to  us  by  Mr 
Campbell  himself.  In  1803  the  poet  repaired  to 
London,  and  devoted  himself  to  literature  as  a pro- 
fession. He  resided  for  some  time  with  his  friend, 


Mr  Telford,  the  celebrated  engineer.  Telford  con- 
tinued his  regard  for  the  poet  throughout  a long  life, 
and  remembered  him  in  his  will  by  a legacy  of  £500.* 
Mr  Campbell  wrote  several  papers  for  the  Edinburgh 
Encyclopaedia — of  which  Telford  had  some  share — 
including  poetical  biographies,  an  account  of  the 


Alison  Square,  Edinburgh. 


drama,  &c.  He  also  compiled  Annals  of  Great  Britain 
from  the  Accession  of  George  III.  to  the  Peace  of 
Amiens,  in  three  volumes.  Such  compilations  can 
only  be  considered  in  the  light  of  mental  drudgery ; 

| but  Campbell,  like  Goldsmith,  could  sometimes 
impart  grace  and  interest  to  task-work.  In  1806, 
through  the  influence  of  Mr  Fox,  the  government 
granted  a pension  to  the  poet — a well-merited 
tribute  to  the  author  of  those  national  strains,  Ye 
Mariners  of  England , and  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic. 
In  1809  was  published  his  second  great  poem, 
Gertrude  of  Wyoming , a Pennsylvanian  Tale.  The 

* A similar  amount  was  bequeathed  to  Mr  Southey,  and, 
with  a good-luck  which  one  would  wish  to  see  always  attend 
poets’  legacies,  the  sums  were  more  than  doubled  in  conse- 
quence of  the  testatoi-  s effects  far  exceeding  what  he  believed 
to  be  their  value.  Thomas  Telford  (1755-1834)  was  himself  a 
rhymster  in  his  youth.  Fie  was  born  on  poetic  ground, 
amidst  the  scenes  of  old  Scottish  song,  green  hills,  and  the 
other  adjuncts  of  a landscape  of  great  sylvan  and  pastoral 
beauty.  Eslcdale,  his  native  district— where  he  lived  till  nearly 
twenty,  first  as  a shepherd,  and  afterwards  as  a stone  mason — 
was  also  the  birthplace  of  Armstrong  and  Mickle.  Telford 
wrote  a poem  descriptive  of  this  classic  dale,  but  it  is  only  a 
feeble  paraphrase  of  Goldsmith.  He  addressed  an  epistle  to 
Burns,  part  of  which  is  published  by  Currie.  These  boyish 
studies  and  predilections  contrast  strangely  with  the  severer 
pursuits  of  his  after-years  as  a mathematician  and  engineer. 
In  his  original  occupation  of  a stone-mason,  cutting  names  on 
tombstones  (in  which  he  excelled,  as  did  also  Hugh  Miller), 
we  can  fancy  him  cheering  his  solitary  labours  with  visions 
of  literary  eminence ; but  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  him  at 
the  same  time  dreaming  of  works  like  the  Menai  Bridge  or 
the  Bont-cy-sylte  aqueduct  in  Wales.  He  had,  however, 
received  an  early  architectural  or  engineering  bias  by  poring 
over  the  plates  and  descriptions  in  ltollin’s  history,  which  he 
read  by  his  mother's  fireside,  or  in  the  open  air  while  herding 
sheep.  Telford  was  a liberal-minded  and  benevolent  man. 

329 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830.  j 

subsequent  literary  labours  of  Mr  Campbell  were 
only,  as  regards  his  poetical  fame,  subordinate 
efforts.  The  best  of  them  were  contributed  to  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine , which  he  edited  for  ten 
years  (from  1820  to  1830);  and  one  of  these  minor 
poems,  the  Last  Man , may  be  ranked  among  his 
greatest  conceptions  : it  is  like  a sketch  by  Michael 
Angelo  or  Rembrandt.  Previous  to  this  time  the 
poet  had  visited  Paris  in  company  with  Mrs 
Siddons  and  John  Kemble,  and  enjoyed  the  sculp- 
tured forms  and  other  works  of  art  in  the  Louvre 
with  such  intensity,  that  they  seemed  to  give  his 
mind  a new  sense  of  the  harmony  of  art — a new 
visual  power  of  enjoying  beauty.  ‘Every  step  of 
approach,’  he  says,  ‘to  the  presence  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere,  added  to  my  sensations,  and  all  recollec- 
tions of  his  name  in  classic  poetry  swarmed  on  my 
mind  as  spontaneously  as  the  associations  that  are 
conjured  up  by  the  sweetest  music.’  In  1818  he 
again  visited  Germany,  and  on  his  return  the 
following  year,  he  published  his  Specimens  of  the 
British  Poets , with  biographical  and  critical  notices, 
in  seven  volumes.  The  justness  and  beauty  of  his 
critical  dissertations  have  been  universally  admitted ; 
some  of  them  are  perfect  models  of  chaste  yet 
animated  criticism.  In  1820  Mr  Campbell  delivered 
a course  of  lectures  on  poetry  at  the  Surrey  Insti- 
tution ; in  1821  he  published  Theodric , and  other 
Poems;  and,  though  busy  in  establishing  the  London 
University,  he  was,  in  1827,  honoured  with  the 
graceful  compliment  of  being  elected  lord  rector  of 
the  university  of  his  native  city.  This  distinction 
was  continued  and  heightened  by  his  re-election  the 
two  following  years.  He  afterwards  made  a voyage 
to  Algiers,  of  which  he  published  an  account ; and 
in  1812  he  appeared  again  as  a poet.  This  work 
was  a slight  narrative  poem,  unworthy  of  his 
fame,  entitled  The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe.  Among  the 
literary  engagements  of  his  latter  years,  was  a Life 
of  Mrs  Siddons,  and  a Life  of  Petrarch.  In  the 
summer  of  1813,  he  fixed  his  residence  at  Boulogne, 
but  his  health  was  by  this  time  much  impaired,  and 
he  died  the  following  summer,  June  15,  1811.  He 
was  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey,  his  funeral 
being  attended  by  some  of  the  most  eminent  noble- 
men and  statesmen  of  the  day,  with  a numerous 
body  of  private  friends.  In  1819  a selection  from 
his  correspondence,  with  a candid  and  an  able  life  of 
the  poet,  was  published  by  his  affectionate  friend  and 
literary  executor,  Dr  Beattie,  himself  the  author  of 
various  works,  and  of  some  pleasing  and  picturesque 
poetry. 

The  genius  and  taste  of  Campbell  resemble  those 
of  Gray.  He  displays  the  same  delicacy  and  purity 
of  sentiment,  the  same  vivid  perception  of  beauty 
and  ideal  loveliness,  equal  picturesqueness  and 
elevation  of  imagery,  and  the  same  lyrical  and 
concentrated  power  of  expression.  The  diction  of 
both  is  elaborately  choice  and  select.  Campbell  has 
greater  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  pathos,  springing 
from  deep  moral  feeling,  and  a refined  sensitiveness 
of  nature.  Neither  can  be  termed  boldly  original  or 
inventive,  but  they  both  possess  sublimity — Gray 
in  his  two  magnificent  odes,  and  Campbell  in 
his  war-songs  or  lyrics,  which  form  the  richest 
offering  ever  made  by  poetry  at  the  shrine  of 
patriotism.  The  general  tone  of  his  verse  is  calm, 
uniform,  and  mellifluous — a stream  of  mild  harmony 
and  delicious  fancy  flowing  through  the  bosom- 
scenes  of  life,  with  images  scattered  separately,  like 
flowers,  on  its  surface,  and  beauties  of  expression 
interwoven  with  it — certain  words  and  phrases  of 
magical  power — which  never  quit  the  memory.  His 
style  rises  and  falls  gracefully  with  his  subject,  but 
330 

without  any  appearance  of  imitative  harmony  or 
direct  resemblance.  In  his  highest  pulse  of  excite- 
ment, the  cadence  of  his  verse  becomes  deep  and 
strong,  without  losing  its  liquid  smoothness ; the 
stream  expands  to  a flood,  but  never  overflows  the 
limits  prescribed  by  a correct  taste  and  regulated 
magnificence.  The  Pindaric  flights  of  Gray  justified 
bolder  and  more  rapid  transitions.  Description  is 
not  predominant  in  either  poet,  but  is  adopted  as 
an  auxiliary  to  some  deeper  emotion  or  sentiment. 
Campbell  seems,  however,  to  have  sympathised 
more  extensively  with  nature,  and  to  have  studied 
her  phenomena  more  attentively  than  Gray.  His 
residence  in  the  Highlands,  in  view  of  the  sea  and 
wild  Hebrides,  had  given  expansiveness  as  well  as 
intensity  to  his  solitary  contemplations.  His  sym- 
pathies are  also  more  widely  diversified  with  respect 
to  the  condition  of  humanity,  and  the  hopes  and 
prospects  of  society.  With  all  his  classic  predilec- 
tions, he  was  not — as  he  has  himself  remarked  of 
Crabbe — a laudator  temporis  acti,  but  a decided  lover 
of  later  times.  Age  never  quenched  his  zeal  for 
public  freedom  or  for  the  unchained  exercise  of  the 
human  intellect ; and,  with  equal  consistency  in 
tastes  as  in  opinions,  he  was  to  the  last  meditating 
a work  on  Greek  literature,  by  which,  fifty  years 
before,  he  first  achieved  distinction. 

Many  can  date  their  first  love  of  poetry  from 
their  perusal  of  Campbell.  In  youth,  the  Pleasures 
of  Hope  is  generally  preferred.  Like  its  elder 
brother,  the  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  the  poem  is 
full  of  visions  of  romantic  beauty  and  unchecked 
enthusiasm — 

The  bloom  of  young  Desire,  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

In  riper  years,  when  the  taste  becomes  matured, 
Gertrude  of  Wyoming  rises  in  estimation.  Its 
beautiful  home-scenes  go  more  closely  to  the  heart, 
and  its  delineation  of  character  and  passion  evinces 
a more  luxuriant  and  perfect  genius.  The  por- 
trait of  the  savage  chief  Outalissi  is  finished  with 
inimitable  skill  and  truth : 

Far  differently  the  mute  Oneyda  took 

His  calumet  of  peace  and  cup  of  joy ; 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look ; 

A soul  that  pity  touched,  but  never  shook ; 

Trained  from  his  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier 

The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 

Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 

A stoic  of  the  woods — a man  without  a tear. 

The  loves  of  Gertrude  and  Waldegrave,  the  patri- 
archal Albert,  and  the  sketches  of  rich  sequestered 
Pennsylvanian  scenery,  also  shew  the  finished  art  of 
the  poet.  The  concluding  description  of  the  battle,  i 
and  the  death  of  the  heroine,  are  superior  to  any- 
thing in  the  Pleasures  of  Hope;  and  though  the  plot  | 
is  simple,  and  occasionally  obscure — as  if  the  fastidi- 
ousness of  the  poet  had  made  him  reject  the  ordi- 
nary materials  of  a story — the  poem  has  altogether 
so  much  of  the  dramatic  spirit,  that  its  characters 
are  distinctly  and  vividly  impressed  on  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  and  the  valley  of  Wyoming,  with  its 
green  declivities,  lake,  and  forest,  instantly  takes 
its  place  among  the  imperishable  treasures  of  the 
memory.  The  poem  of  O’Connor’s  Child  is  another 
exquisitely  finished  and  pathetic  tale.  The  rugged 
and  ferocious  features  of  ancient  feudal  manners 
and  family  pride  are  there  displayed  in  connection  ; 
with  female  suffering,  love,  and  beauty,  and  with  the  , 
romantic  and  warlike  colouring  suited  to  the  country 
and  the  times.  It  is  full  of  antique  grace  and 
passionate  energy — the  mingled  light  and  gloom  of  | 

poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  Campbell. 


the  wild  Celtic  character  and  imagination.  Recol- 
lecting the  dramatic  effect  of  these  tales,  and  the 
power  evinced  in  Lochiel  and  the  naval  odes,  we 
cannot  hut  regret  that  Campbell  did  not,  in  his  days 
of  passion,  venture  into  the  circle  of  the  tragic  drama, 
a field  so  well  adapted  to  his  genius,  and  essayed  by 
nearly  all  his  great  poetical  contemporaries. 

Elegy  Written  in  Mull. 

The  tempest  blackens  on  the  dusky  moor, 

And  billows  lash  the  long-resounding  shore ; 

In  pensive  mood,  I roam  the  desert  ground, 

And  vainly  sigh  for  scenes  no  longer  found. 

0 whither  fled  the  pleasurable  hours 

That  chased  each  care  and  fired  the  Muse’s  powers  ? — 

The  classic  haunts  of  youth,  for  ever  gay, 

Where  mirth  and  friendship  cheered  the  close  of  day ; 
The  well-known  valleys  where  I wont  to  roam ; 

The  native  sports,  the  nameless  joys  of  home? 

Far  different  scenes  allure  my  wondering  eye — 

The  white  wave  foaming  to  the  distant  sky ; 

The  cloudy  heavens,  unblest  by  summer’s  smile, 

The  sounding  storm  that  sweeps  the  rugged  isle — 

The  chill,  bleak  summit  of  eternal  snow — 

The  wide,  wild  glen — the  pathless  plains  below  ; 

The  dark-blue  rocks  in  barren  grandeur  piled  ; 

The  cuckoo  sighing  to  the  pensive  wild. 

Far  different  these  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  grassy  banks  of  Clutha’s  winding  shore ; 

Her  sloping  vales,  with  waving  forests  lined, 

Her  smooth  blue  lakes,  unruffled  by  the  wind. 

Hail,  happy  Clutha ! glad  shall  I survey 
Thy  gilded  turrets  from  the  distant  way  ! 

Thy  sight  shall  cheer  the  weary  traveller’s  toil, 

And  joy  shall  hail  me  to  my  native  soil. 

June  1795. 

[Picture  of  Domestic  Love .] 

[From  the  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 

Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover’s  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 

With  peace  embosomed  in  Idalian  bowers ! 

Remote  from  busy  life’s  bewildered  way, 

O’er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway; 

Free  on  the  sunny  slope  or  winding  shore, 

With  hermit-steps  to  wander  and  adore  ! 

There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 

Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears, 

To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky, 

And  muse  on  nature  with  a poet’s  eye  ! 

And  when  the  sun’s  last  splendour  lights  the  deep, 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep, 
When  fairy  harps  the  Hesperian  planet  hail, 

And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 

His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o’er  the  narrow  dell ; 

Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green  ; 

No  circling  hills*  his  ravished  eye  to  bound, 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean  blazing  all  around  ! 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tower  dimly  burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns ; 

But  pauses  oft  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away  ; 

And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awdiile, 

To  watch  the  dying  notes,  and  start,  and  smile  ! 

Let  winter  come  ! let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep ; 
Though  boundless  snows  the  withered  heath  deform, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm, 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 

With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ! 


And  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o’er, 

The  ice-chained  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 

How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 

Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall ! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  love’s  familiar  tone, 

The  kind  fair  friend  by  nature  marked  his  own  ; 

And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 

Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 

Since  when  her  empire  o’er  his  heart  began — 

Since  first  he  called  her  his  before  the  holy  man  ! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 

And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home  ; 

And  let  the  half -uncurtained  window  hail 
Some  wayworn  man  benighted  in  the  vale  ! 

Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 

As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky ; 

While  fiery  hosts  in  heaven’s  wide  circle  play, 

And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  Milky- way ; 

Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 

Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour ; 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile 
A generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a smile  ! 

[Death  of  Gertrude .] 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seemed  the  tower, 
That  like  a giant  standard-bearer  frowned 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 

Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 
With  embrasure  embossed  and  armour  crowned, 

And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin, 

Wove  like  a diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  ; 

Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a distant  scene, 

A scene  of  death  ! where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 

And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow ; 

And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 

Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow : 

There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country’s  woe! 

The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 

Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave’s  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild 
alarm  ! 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu  ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners  flew ; 
Ah  ! who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous  deeds, 
Gleamed  like  a basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 

The  ambushed  foeman’s  eye — his  volley  speeds, 

And  Albert,  Albert  falls ! the  dear  old  father  bleeds ! 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror,  Gertrude  swooned ; 

Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 

Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  father’s  wound, 
These  drops  ? 0 God  ! the  life-blood  is  her  own  ! 

And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave’s  bosom  thrown — 

‘ Weep  not,  0 love  !’  she  cries,  ‘ to  see  me  bleed ; 

Thee,  Gertrude’s  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven’s  peace  commiserate ; for  scarce  I heed 
These  wounds;  yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death 
indeed ! 

‘ Clasp  me  a little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate  ! while  I can  feel  thy  dear  caress; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh  ! think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe’s  excess, 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  ! by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I am  laid  in  dust ! 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


‘ Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I depart, 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven ; for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 

No ! I shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

‘Half  could  I bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 

If  I had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge.  But  shall  there  then  be  none, 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life’s  last  pulses  run, 

A sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom’s  love  ! to  die  beholding  thee  !’ 

Hushed  were  his  Gertrude’s  lips  ! but  still  their  bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die  ! and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 

Ah,  heart ! where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 

And  features  yet  that  spoke  a soul  more  fair. 

Mute,  gazing,  agonising  as  he  knelt — 

Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  some  friendly  words ; but  knew  not  what 
they  were. 

For  now  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child  arrives 
A faithful  band.  With  solemn  rites  between, 

’Twas  sung  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 

And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 

Touched  by  the  music  and  the  melting  scene, 

Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd — 

Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  passed  each  much-loved  shroud — 
While  woman’s  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolved  aloud. 

Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell  o’er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth ; 

Prone  to  the  dust  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth ; him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth, 

His  woodland  guide  : but  words  had  none  to  soothe 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation’s  name ; 

Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o’er  the  youth, 

He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came, 
Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  his  shuddering  frame  ! 

‘And  I could  weep,’  the  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  begun ; 

‘ But  that  I may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father’s  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe  ! 

For,  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath, 

To-morrow  Areouski’s  breath, 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death, 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 

The  foeman’s  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! 

‘ But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 
By  milder  genii  o’er  the  deep, 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man’s  heaven 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father’s  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle’s  eve, 

Lamenting,  take  a mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 

Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight ! 

332 


‘ To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die. 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled, 

Ah  ! whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  i 
Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers ; 
Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours ; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers  : 

And  should  we  thither  roam, 

Its  echoes  and  its  empty  tread 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead  ! 

‘ Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 
Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed, 
And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah  ! there,  in  desolation  cold, 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 

Where  grass  o’ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 
And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp ; for  there 
The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair  !• 

‘ But  hark,  the  trump  ! to-morrow  thou 
In  glory’s  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears  : 

Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father’s  awful  ghost  appears 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 

He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 

He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 

The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi’s  soul ; 

Because  I may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief !’ 

Ye  Marina's  of  England. 

Ye  mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a thousand  years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe  ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  ocean  was  their  grave  ; 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o’er  the  mountain- waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  floods  below, 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 
When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger’s  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


Then,  then,  ye  ocean -warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ! 


Battle  of  the  Baltic. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day’s  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark’s  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O’er  the  deadly  space  between. 

‘ Hearts  of  oak  !’  our  captains  cried ; when  each 
gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


Again  ! again  ! again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  : 
Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  bailed  them  o’er  the  wave  : 

‘ Ye  are  brothers  ! ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England’s  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King.’ 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day. 
While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O’er  a wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  liglii 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities’  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 


And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 

Full  many  a fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts  ! to  Britain’s  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died  ; 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  ; * 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o’er  their  grave 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 
And  the  mermaid’s  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave  ! t 


Hohenlinden. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 

And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 

When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 

Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 

And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 

And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden’s  hills  of  stained  snow, 

And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

’Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 

Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.  On,  ye  brave, 

Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 

Wave,  Munich  ! all  thy  banners  wave, 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry. 

* Captain  Riou,  styled  by  Lord  Nelson  the  gallant  and  the 
good. 

f The  first  draft  of  the  above  noble  poem  was  sent  to  Scott 
in  1805,  and  consists  of  thirty  stanzas— all  published  in 
Beattie’s  Life  of  Campbell.  The  piece  was  greatly  improved 
by  the  condensation,  but  the  following  omitted  verses  on  the 
English  sailors  are  striking  : 

Not  such  a mind  possessed 
England’s  tar ; 

’Twas  the  love  of  noble  game 
Set  his  oaken  heart  on  flume, 

For  to  him  ’twas  all  the  same— 

Sport  and  war. 

All  hands  and  eyes  on  watch 
As  they  keep — 

By  their  motion  light  as  wings, 

By  each  step  that  haughty  springs, 

You  might  know  them  for  the  kings 
Of  the  deep. 

CC3 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet ; 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a soldier’s  sepulchre.* 

[ From  1 The  Last  Man?] 

All  worldly  shapes  shalt  melt  in  gloom — 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 

Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 
Its  immortality ! 

I saw  a vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulf  of  time  ! 

I saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  creation’s  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  sun’s  eye  had  a sickly  glare, 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan ; 

The  skeletons  of  nations  were 
Around  that  lonely  man  ! 

Some  had  expired  in  fight — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands — 

In  plague  and  famine  some : 

Earth’s  cities  had  no  sound  or  tread, 

And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 
To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 

That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a storm  passed  by ; 

Saying : ‘ We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  sun ; 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

’Tis  mercy  bids  thee  go. 

For  thou,  ten  thousand  thousand  years, 

Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

* * * 

‘ This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 
That  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 

Yet  think  not,  sun,  it  shall  be  dim, 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 

No  ! it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

‘By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 

Who  captive  led  captivity, 

Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  death  ! ’ 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  author  of  The  Monk , 
was  born  in  London  in  the  year  1773.  His  father 
was  deputy-secretary  in  the  War-office — a lucrative 
situation — and  was  owner  also  of  extensive  West 
Indian  possessions.  Matthew  was  educated  at 
Westminster  School,  where  he  was  more  remark- 
able for  his  love  of  theatrical  exhibitions  than  for 
his  love  of  learning.  On  leaving  Westminster,  he 

* Originally  this  last  lino  stood : 

* Shall  mark  the  soldier’s  cemetery.’ 

Other  verbal  alterations  were  made,  for  Campbell,  like  Pope, 
was  fond  of  retouching  his  pieces,  and  generally  for  the  better. 
He  had  early  tried  the  measure  in  which  Hohenlinden  is 
written.  In  his  sixteenth  year  (1793),  he  composed  some 
verses  on  the  Queen  of  France  (Marie  Antoinette),  which 
commence  thus : 

‘Behold!  where  Gallia’s  captive  queen, 

With  steady  eye  and  look  serene, 

In  life’s  last  awful— awful  scene, 

Slow  leaves  her  sad  captivity.’ 

334 


was  entered  of  Christ  Church  College,  Oxford,  but 
remained  only  a short  period,  being  sent  to  Germany 
with  the  view  of  acquiring  a knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage of  that  country.  When  a child,  Lewis  had 
pored  over  Glanville  on  Witches,  and  other  books 
of  diablerie;  and  in  Germany  he  found  abundant 
food  of  the  same  description.  Romance  and  the 
drama  were  his  favourite  studies ; and  whilst  resi- 
dent abroad,  he  composed  his  story  of  The  Monk , 
a work  more  extravagant  in  its  use  of  supernatural 
machinery  than  any  previous  English  tale  of  modern 
times,  and  disfigured  with  passages  of  great  licen- 
tiousness. The  novel  was  published  in  1795,  and 
attracted  much  attention.  A prosecution,  it  is  said, 
was  threatened  on  account  of  the  peccant  scenes 
and  descriptions ; to  avert  which,  Lewis  pledged 
himself  to  recall  the  printed  copies,  and  to  recast 
the  work  in  another  edition.  The  author  continued 
through  life  the  same  strain  of  marvellous  and 
terrific  composition — now  clothing  it  in  verse,  now 
infusing  it  into  the  scenes  of  a drama,  and  at  other 
times  expanding  it  into  regular  tales.  His  Feudal 
Tyrants,  Romantic  Tales , his  Tales  of  Terror^  and 
Tales  of  Wonder , and  his  numerous  plays,  all  bespeak 
the  same  parentage  as  The  Monk,  and  none  of  them 
excel  it.  His  best  poetry,  as  well  as  prose,  is  to  be 
found  in  this  novel ; for,  like  Mrs  Radcliffe,  Lewis 
introduced  poetical  compositions  into  his  tales ; and 
his  ballads  of  Alonzo  the  Brave  and  Durandarte  were 
as  attractive  as  any  of  the  adventures  of  Ambrosio 
the  monk.  Flushed  with  the  brilliant  success  of 
his  romance,  and  fond  of  distinction  and  high 
society,  Lewis  procured  a seat  in  parliament,  and 
was  returned  for  the  borough  of  Hindon.  He  found 
himself  disqualified  by  nature  for  playing  the  part 
of  an  orator  or  politician ; and  though  he  retained 
his  seat  till  the  dissolution  of  parliament,  he  never 
attempted  to  address  the  house.  The  theatres 
offered  a more  attractive  field  for  his  genius ; and 
his  play  of  The  Castle  Spectre , produced  in  1797, 
was  applauded  as  enthusiastically  and  more  uni- 
versally than  his  romance.  Connected  with  his 
dramatic  fame  a very  interesting  anecdote  is  related 
in  the  Memoirs  and  Correspondence  of  Lewis,  pub- 
lished in  1839.  It  illustrates  his  native  benevolence, 
which,  amidst  all  the  frivolities  of  fashionable  life, 
and  the  excitement  of  misapplied  talents,  was  a 
conspicuous  feature  in  his  character : 

‘ Being  one  autumn  on  his  way  to  participate  in 
the  enjoyments  of  the  season  with  the  rest  of  the 
fashionable  world  at  a celebrated  watering-place,  he 
passed  through  a small  country  town,  in  which 
chance  occasioned  his  temporary  sojourn : here  also 
were  located  a company  of  strolling  players,  whose 
performance  he  one  evening  witnessed.  Among 
them  was  a young  actress,  whose  benefit  was  on 
the  tapis,  and  who,  on  hearing  of  the  arrival  of  a 
person  so  talked  of  as  Monk  Lewis,  waited  upon 
him  at  the  inn,  to  request  the  very  trifling  favour 
of  an  original  piece  from  his  pen.  The  lady  pleaded 
in  terms  that  urged  the  spirit  of  benevolence  to 
advocate  her  cause  in  a heart  never  closed  to  such 
appeal.  Lewis  had  by  him  at  that  time  an  unpub- 
lished trifle,  called  The  Hindoo  Bride , in  which  a 
widow  was  immolated  on  the  funeral  pile  of  her 
husband.  The  subject  was  one  well  suited  to 
attract  a country  audience,  and  he  determined  thus 
to  appropriate  the  drama.  The  delighted  suppliant 
departed  all  joy  and  gratitude  at  being  requested 
to  call  for  the  manuscript  the  next  day.  Lewis, 
however,  soon  discovered  that  he  had  been  reckon- 
ing without  his  host,  for,  on  searching  the  travel- 
ling-desk which  contained  many  of  his  papers,  The 
Bride  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  having,  in  fact, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 


been  left  behind  in  town.  Exceedingly  annoyed 
by  this  circumstance,  which  there  was  no  time  to 
remedy,  the  dramatist  took  a pondering  stroll 

through  the  rural  environs  of  B . A sudden 

shower  obliged  him  to  take  refuge  within  a huck- 
ster’s shop,  where  the  usual  curtained  half-glass 
door  in  the  rear  opened-  to  an  adjoining  apart- 
ment; from  this  room  he  heard  two  voices  in 
earnest  conversation,  and  in  one  of  them  recognised 
that  of  his  theatrical  petitioner  of  the  morning, 
apparently  replying  to  the  feebler  tones  of  age  and 
infirmity.  “ There  now,  mother,  always  that  old 
story— when  I ’ve  just  brought  such  good  news  too 
— after  I ’ve  had  the  face  to  call  on  Mr  Monk  Lewis, 
and  found  him  so  different  to  what  I expected ; so 
good-humoured,  so  affable,  and  willing  to  assist 
me.  I did  not  say  a word  about  you,  mother ; for 
though  in  some  respects  it  might  have  done  good, 
I thought  it  would  seem  so  like  a begging  affair ; 
so  I merely  represented  my  late  ill-success,  and  he 
promised  to  give  me  an  original  drama,  which  he 
had  with  him,  for  my  benefit.  I hope  he  did  not 
think  me  too  bold ! ” “I  hope  not,  Jane,”  replied 
the  feeble  voice ; “ only  don’t  do  these  things  again 
without  consulting  me;  for  you  don’t  know  the 

world,  and  it  may  be  thought  ” The  sun  just 

then  gave  a broad  hint  that  the  shower  had  ceased, 
and  the  sympathising  author  returned  to  his  inn, 
and  having  penned  the  following  letter,  ordered 
post-horses,  and  despatched  a porter  to  the  young 
actress  with  the  epistle : 

“Madam — I am  truly  sorrow  to  acquaint  you  that 
my  Hindoo  Bride  has  behaved  most  improperly — 
in  fact,  whether  the  lady  has  eloped  or  not,  it  seems 
she  does  not  choose  to  make  her  appearance,  either 
for  your  benefit  or  mine : and  to  say  the  truth,  I 
don’t  at  this  moment  know  where  to  find  her.  I 
take  the  liberty  to  jest  upon  the  subject,  because  I 
really  do  not  think  you  will  have  any  cause  to  regret 
her  non-appearance ; having  had  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  your  very  admirable  performance  of  a far 
superior  character,  in  a style  true  to  nature,  and 
which  reflects  upon  you  the  highest  credit.  I allude 
to  a most  interesting  scene,  in  which  you  lately 
sustained  the  character  of  ‘The  Daughter!’  Brides 
of  all  denominations  but  too  often  prove  their 
empire  delusive ; but  the  character  you  have  chosen 
will  improve  upon  every  representation,  both  in  the 
estimation  of  the  public  and  the  satisfaction  of  your 
own  excellent  heart.  For  the  infinite  gratification 
I have  received/  I must  long  consider  myself  in 
your  debt.  Trusting  you  will  permit  the  enclosed 
(fifty  pounds)  in  some  measure  to  discharge  the 
same,  I remain,  madam — with  sentiments  of  respect 
and  admiration — your  sincere  well-wisher — M.  G. 
Lewis.”  ’ 

In  1801,  appeared  Lewis’s  Tales  of  Wonder.  A 
ghost  or  a witch  was,  he  said,  a sine  qua  non  ingre- 
dient in  all  the  dishes  of  which  he  meant  to  compose 
his  hobgoblin  repast,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  contributed 
to  it  some  of  his  noble  ballads.  Scott  met  Lewis  in 
Edinburgh  in  1798,  and  so  humble  were  then  his 
own  aspirations,  and  so  brilliant  the  reputation  of 
the  ‘Monk,’  that  he  declared,  thirty  years  afterwards, 
he  never  felt  such  elation  as  when  Lewis  asked  him 
to  dine  with  him  at  his  hotel ! Lewis  schooled  the 
great  poet  on  his  incorrect  rhyme,  and  proved  him- 
self, as  Scott  says,  ‘a  martinet  in  the  accuracy 
of  rhymes  and  numbers.’  Sir  Walter  has  recorded 
that  Lewis  was  fonder  of  great  people  than  he  ought 
to  have  been,  either  as  a man  of  talent  or  as  a man 
of  fashion.  ‘ He  had  always,’,  he  says,  ‘ dukes  and 
duchesses  in  his  mouth,  and  was  pathetically  fond 
of  any  one  that  had  a title : you  would  have  sworn 


he  had  been  a parvenu  of  yesterday ; yet  he  had 
lived  all  his  life  in  good  society.’*  Yet  Scott 
regarded  Lewis  with  no  small  affection.  ‘ He  was,’ 
added  he,  ‘one  of  the  kindest  and  best  creatures 
that  ever  lived.  His  father  and  mother  lived 
separately.  Mr  Lewis  allowed  his  son  a handsome 
income,  but  reduced  it  by  more  than  one-half  when 
he  found  that  he  paid  his  mother  a moiety  of  it. 
Mat.  restricted  himself  in  all  his  expenses,  and 
shared  the  diminished  income  with  her  as  before. 
He  did  much  good  by  stealth,  and  was  a most  gener- 
ous creature.’  The  sterling  worth  of  his  character 
has  been  illustrated  by  the  publication  of  his  cor- 
respondence, which,  slumbering  twenty  years  after 
his  death,  first  disclosed  to  the  public  the  calm  good 
sense,  discretion,  and  right  feeling  which  were  con- 
cealed by  the  exaggerated  romance  of  his  writings, 
and  his  gay  and  frivolous  appearance  and  manners. 
The  death  of  Lewis’s  father  made  the  poet  a man  of 
independent  fortune.  He  succeeded  to  considerable 
plantations  in  the  West  Indies,  besides  a large  sum 
of  money ; and  in  order  to  ascertain  personally  the 
condition  of  the  slaves  on  his  estate,  he  sailed  for 
the  West  Indies  in  1815.  Of  this  voyage  he  wrote 
a narrative,  and  kept  journals,  forming  the  most 
interesting  and  valuable  production  of  his  pen.  The 
manner  in  which  the  negroes  received  him  on  his 
arrival  amongst  them  he  thus  describes : 

‘ As  soon  as  the  carriage  entered  my  gates,  the 
uproar  and  confusion  which  endued  sets  all  descrip- 
tion at  defiance.  The  works  were  instantly  all 
abandoned ; everything  that  had  life  came  flocking 
to  the  house  from  all  quarters ; and  not  only  the 
men,  and  the  women,  and  the  children,  but,  “ by  a 
bland  assimilation,”  the  hogs,  and  the  dogs,  and  the 
geese,  and  the  fowls,  and  the  turkeys,  all  came 
hurrying  along  by  instinct,  to  see  what  could  pos- 
sibly be  the  matter,  and  seemed  to  be  afraid  of 
arriving  too  late.  Whether  the  pleasure  of  the 
negroes  was  sincere,  may  be  doubted ; but,  certainly, 
it  was  the  loudest  that  I ever  witnessed : they  all 
talked  together,  sang,  danced,  shouted,  and,  in  the 
violence  of  their  gesticulations,  tumbled  over  each 
other,  and  rolled  about  upon  the  ground.  Twenty 
voices  at  once  inquired  after  uncles  and  aunts,  and 
grandfathers  and  great-grandmothers  of  mine,  who 
had  been  buried  long  before  I was  in  existence,  and 
whom,  I verily  believe,  most  of  them  only  knew  by 
tradition.  One  woman  held  up  her  little  naked 
black  child  to  me,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear — “ Look 
massa,  look  here ! him  nice  lilly  neger  for  massa ! ” 
Another  complained — “ So  long  since  none  come  see 

* Of  this  weakness  Byron  records  an  amusing  instance : 

‘ Lewis,  at  Oatlands,  was  observed  one  morning  to  have  his  eyes 
red  and  his  air  sentimental : being  asked  why,  he  replied,  that 
when  people  said  anything  kind  to  him  it  affected  him  deeply, 
“ and  just  now  the  Duchess  (of  York)  has  said  something 

so  kind  to  me,  that” Here  tears  began  to  flow.  “ Never 

mind,  Lewis,”  said  Colonel  Armstrong  to  him — “never  mind 
— don’t  cry —she  could  not  mean  it.”  ’ Lewis  was  of  extremely 
diminutive  stature.  ‘ I remember  a picture  of  him,’  says  Scott, 

‘ by  Saunders,  being  handed  round  at  Dalkeith  House.  The 
artist  had  ingeniously  flung  a dark  folding  mantle  around  the 
form,  under  which  was  half  hid  a dagger,  a dark  lantern,  or 
some  such  cut-throat  appurtenance.  With  all  this,  the  fea- 
tures were  preserved  and  ennobled.  It  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  into  that  of  Henry  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  who,  hearing  the 
general  voice  affirm  that  it  was  very  like— said  aloud  : “Like 
Mat.  Lewis  1 Why,  that  picture’s  like  a Man  !”  He  looked, 
and  lo  ! Mat.  Lewis’s  head  was  at  his  elbow.  This  boyishness 
went  through  life  with  him.  Ho  was  a child,  and  a spoiled 
child— but  a child  of  high  imagination,  and  so  ho  wasted  him- 
self on  ghost-stories  and  German  romances.  He  had  the  finest 
ear  for  the  rhythm  of  verse  I ever  met  with— finer  than 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


we,  massa ; good  massa  come  at  last.”  As  for  the 
i old  people,  they  were  all  in  one  and  the  same  story : 
; now  they  had  lived  once  to  see  massa,  they  were 
ready  for  dying  to-morrow — “ them  no  care.”  The 
| shouts,  the  gaiety,  the  wild  laughter,  their  strange 
1 and  sudden  bursts  of  singing  and  dancing,  and  several 
old  women,  wrapped  up  in  large  cloaks,  their  heads 
j bound  round  with  different-coloured  handkerchiefs, 

, leaning  on  a staff,  and  standing  motionless  in  the 
I middle  of  the  hubbub,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon 
1 the  portico  which  I occupied,  formed  an  exact  coun- 
i terpart  of  the  festivity  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth. 

I Nothing  could  be  more  odd  or  more  novel  than  the 
whole  scene ; and  yet  there  was  something  in  it  by 
! which  I could  not  help  being  affected.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  consciousness  that  all  these  human  beings 
j were  my  slaves.’ 

Lewis  returned  to  England  in  1816,  but  went 
back  to  Jamaica  the  following  year.  He  found  that 
i his  attorney  had  grossly  mismanaged  his  property, 

; being  generally  absent  on  business  of  his  own,  and 
i intrusting  the  whole  to  an  overseer,  who  was  of  a 
i tyrannical  disposition.  Having  adjusted  his  affairs, 

1 the  ‘Monk’  embarked  on  his  return  home.  The 
I climate,  however,  had  impaired  his  health,  and  he 
i died  of  fever  while  the  ship  was  passing  through  the 
, Gulf  of  Florida,  in  July  1818.  Lewis  may  thus  be 
said  to  have  fallen  a martyr  to  his  love  of  justice 
and  humanity,  and  the  circumstance  sheds  a lustre 
on  his  memory  far  surpassing  mere  literary  fame. 


Durandarte  and  Belcrma. 

Sad  and  fearful  is  the  story 
Of  the  Eoncevalles  fight : 

On  those  fatal  plains  of  glory 
Perished  many  a gallant  knight 

There  fell  Durandarte  ; never 
Verse  a nobler  chieftain  named; 

He,  before  his  lips  for  ever 
Closed  in  silence,  thus  exclaimed  : 

‘ Oh,  Belerma ! oh,  my  dear  one, 

For  my  pain  and  pleasure  bom ; 

Seven  long  years  I served  thee,  fair  one, 
Seven  long  years  my  fee  was  scorn. 

‘ And  when  now  thy  heart,  replying 
To  my  wishes,  bums  like  mine, 

Cmel  fate,  my  bliss  denying, 

Bids  me  every  hope  resign. 

‘ Ah ! though  young  I fall,  believe  me, 
Death  would  never  claim  a sigh ; 

’Tis  to  lose  thee,  ’tis  to  leave  thee, 
Makes  me  think  it  hard  to  die  ! 

‘ Oh  ! my  cousin,  Montesinos, 

By  that  friendship  firm  and  dear, 

Which  from  youth  has  lived  between  us, 
Now  my  last  petition  hear. 

‘When  my  soul,  these  limbs  forsaking, 
Eager  seeks  a purer  air, 

From  my  breast  the  cold  heart  taking, 
Give  it  to  Belerma-’ s care. 

* Say,  I of  my  lands  possessor 
Named  her  with  my  dying  breath ; 

Say,  my  lips  I oped  to  bless  her, 

Ere  they  closed  for  ave  in  death : 

336 


‘ Twice  a week,  too,  how  sincerely 
I adored  her,  cousin,  say  ; 

Twice  a week,  for  one  who  dearly 
Loved  her,  cousin,  bid  her  pray. 

‘ Montesinos,  now  the  hour 
Marked  by  fate  is  near  at  hand  ; 

Lo  ! my  arm  has  lost  its  power  ; 

Lo  ! I drop  my  trusty  brand. 

‘ Eyes,  which  forth  beheld  me  going, 
Homewards  ne’er  shall  see  me  hie  ; 
Cousin,  stop  those  tears  o'erflowing, 
Let  me  on  thy  bosom  die. 

‘ Thy  kind  hand  my  eyelids  closing, 
Yet  one  favour  I implore — 

Pray  thou  for  my  soul's  reposing, 
When  my  heart  shall  throb  no  more. 

‘ So  shall  J esus,  still  attending, 
Gracious  to  a Christian’s  vow, 
Pleased  accept  my  ghost  ascending, 
And  a seat  in  heaven  allow.’ 

Thus  spoke  gallant  Durandarte ; 

Soon  his  brave  heart  broke  in  twain. 
Greatly  joyed  the  Moorish  party 
That  the  gallant  knight  was  slain. 

Bitter  weeping,  Montesinos 
Took  from  him  his  helm  and  glaive ; 
Bitter  weeping,  Montesinos 
Dug  his  gallant  cousin’s  grave. 

To  perform  his  promise  made,  he 
Cut  the  heart  from  out  the  breast* 
That  Belerma,  wretched  lady  ! 

Might  receive  the  last  bequest. 

Sad  was  Montesinos’  heart,  he 
Felt  distress  his  bosom  rend. 

‘ Oh ! my  cousin,  Durandarte, 

Woe  is  me  to  view  thy  end  ! 

4 Sweet  in  manners,  fair  in  favour, 
Mild  in  temper,  fierce  in  fight, 
Warrior  nobler,  gentler,  braver, 
Never  shall  behold  the  light. 

‘ Cousin,  lo  ! my  tears  bedew  thee ; 
How  shall  I thy  loss  survive  ? 
Durandarte,  he  who  slew  thee, 
Wherefore  left  he  me  alive?’ 


Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogine. 

A warrior  so  bold,  and  a virgin  so  bright, 
Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green ; 

They  gazed  on  each  other  with  tender  delight : 
Alonzo  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight — 
The  maiden’s,  the  Fair  Imogine. 

‘And,  oh  !’  said  the  youth,  ‘since  to-morrow  I go 
To  fight  in  a far  distant  land, 

Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow, 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 
On  a wealthier  suitor  your  hand  ! ’ 

4 Oh  ! hush  these  suspicions,’  Fair  Imogine  said, 

4 Offensive  to  love  and  to  me ; 

For,  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 

I swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your  stead 
Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


‘ If  e’er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside, 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 

God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and  pride, 
Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my  side, 

May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as  bride, 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave  !’ 

To  Palestine  hastened  the  hero  so  bold, 

His  love  she  lamented  him  sore ; 

But  scarce  had  a twelvemonth  elapsed,  when,  behold  ! 
A baron,  all  covered  with  jewels  and  gold, 

Arrived  at  Fair  Imogine’s  door. 

His  treasures,  his  presents,  his  spacious  domain, 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows ; 

He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewildered  her  brain ; 

He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain, 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  blest  by  the  priest ; 

The  revelry  now  was  begun ; 

The  tables  they  groaned  with  the  weight  of  the  feast, 
Nor  yet  had  the  laughter  and  merriment  ceased, 

When  the  bell  at  the  castle  tolled — one. 

Then  first  with  amazement  Fair  Imogine  found 
A stranger  was  placed  by  her  side  : 

His  air  was  terrific ; he  uttered  no  sound — 

He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not  around — 
But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 

His  visor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his  height, 

His  armour  was  sable  to  view ; 

All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hushed  at  his  sight ; 
The  dogs,  as  they  eyed  him,  drew  back  in  affright ; 

The  lights  in  the  chamber  burned  blue ! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appeared  to  dismay ; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear ; 

At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she  trembled — ‘I 
pray, 

Sir  knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you  would  lay, 

And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer.’ 

The  lady  is  silent ; the  stranger  complies — 

His  visor  he  slowly  unclosed ; 

Oh,  God  ! what  a sight  met  Fair  Imogine’s  eyes ! 
What  words  can  express  her  dismay  and  surprise 
When  a skeleton’s  head  was  exposed ! 

All  present  then  uttered  a terrified  shout, 

All  turned  with  disgust  from  the  scene  ; 

The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms  they  crept  out, 
And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples  about, 

While  the  spectre  addressed  Imogine  : 

‘Behold  me,  thou  false  one,  behold  me  !’  he  cried ; 

‘ Remember  Alonzo  the  Brave  ! 

God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood  and  pride, 
My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy  side  ; 
Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee  as  bride, 

And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave  ! ’ 

Thus  saying,  his  arms  round  the  lady  he  wound, 

While  loudly  she  shrieked  in  dismay ; 

Then  sunk  with  his  prey  through  the  wide-yawning 
ground, 

Nor  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found, 

Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 

Not  long  lived  the  baron  ; and  none,  since  that  time, 
To  inhabit  the  castle  presume  ; 

For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime, 

There  Imogine  suffers  the  pain  of  her  crime, 

And  moyrns  her  deplorable  doom. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


At  midnight,  four  times  in  each  year,  does  her  sprite, 
When  mortals  in  slumber  are  bound, 

Arrayed  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white, 

Appear  in  the  hall  with  the  skeleton  knight, 

And  shriek  as  he  whirls  her  around  ! 

While  they  drink  out  of  sculls  newly  torn  from  the 
grave, 

Dancing  round  them  the  spectres  are  seen ; 

Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible  stave 
They  howl : ‘ To  the  health  of  Alonzo  the  Brave, 

And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Imogine  !’ 

The  Hours. 

Ne’er  were  the  zephyrs  known  disclosing 
More  sweets,  than  when  in  Tempe’s  shades 
They  waved  the  lilies,  where  reposing, 

Sat  four-and-twenty  lovely  maids. 

Those  lovely  maids  were  called  ‘ the  Hours,’ 

The  charge  of  Virtue’s  flock  they  kept ; 

And  each  in  turn  employed  her  powers 
To  guard  it  while  her  sisters  slept. 

False  Love,  how  simple  souls  thou  cheatest ! 

In  myrtle  bower  that  traitor  near 
Long  watched  an  Hour — the  softest,  sweetest — 

The  evening  Hour,  to  shepherds  dear. 

In  tones, so  bland  he  praised  her  beauty; 

Such  melting  airs  his  pipe  could  play, 

The  thoughtless  Hour  forgot  her  duty, 

And  fled  in  Love’s  embrace  away. 

Meanwhile  the  fold  was  left  unguarded  ; 

The  wolf  broke  in,  the  lambs  were  slain ; 

And  now  from  Virtue’s  train  discarded, 

With  tears  her  sisters  speak  their  pain. 

Time  flies,  and  still  they  weep ; for  never 
The  fugitive  can  time  restore  ; 

An  Hour  once  fled,  has  fled  for  ever, 

And  all  the  rest  shall  smile  no  more ! 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh 
— ‘ mine  own  romantic  town’ — on  the  15th  of  August 
1771.  His  father  was  a respectable  writer  to  the 
Signet : his  mother,  Anne  Rutherford,  was  daughter 
of  a physician  in  extensive  practice,  and  professor 
of  medicine  in  the  university  of  Edinburgh.  By’ 
both  parents  the  poet  was  remotely  connected 
with  some  respectable  ancient  Scottish  families — a 
circumstance  gratifying  to  his  feelings  of  nationality, 
and  to  his  imagination.  Delicate  health,  arising 
chiefly  from  lameness,  led  to  his  being  placed  under 
the  charge  of  some  relations  in  the  country;  and 
when  a mere  child,  yet  old  enough  to  receive 
impressions  from  country  life  and  border  stories, 
he  resided  with  his  grandfather  at  Sandy-Knowe, 
a romantic  situation  a few  miles  from  Kelso.  The 
ruined  tower  of  Smailholm — the  scene  of  Scott’s 
ballad,  The  Eve  of  St  John — was  close  to  the  farm, 
and  beside  it  were  the  Eildon  Hills,  the  river  Tweed, 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  and  other  poetical  and  historical 
objects, 'all  enshrined  in  the  lonely  contemplative 
boy’s  fancy  and  recollection.  He  afterwards  resided 
with  another  relation  at  Kelso,  and  here,  at  the  age 
of  thirteen,  he  first  read  Percy’s  Iieliques,  in  an 
antique  garden,  under  the  shade  of  a huge  platanus, 
or  oriental  plane-tree.  This  work  had  as  great 
an  effect  in  making  him  a poet  as  Spenser  had 
on  Cowley,  but  with  Scott  the  seeds  were  long  in 

337 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


germinating.  Previous  to  this,  he  had  indeed  tried 
his  hand  at  verse.  The  following,  among  other  lines, 
were  discovered  wrapped  up  in  a cover  inscribed  by 
Dr  Adam  of  the  High  School,  ‘Walter  Scott,  July  j 
1783 : ’ 

On  the  Setting  Sun. 

Those  evening  clouds,  that  setting  ray, 

And  beauteous  tints,  serve  to  display 
Their  great  Creator’s  praise ; 

Then  let  the  short-lived  thing  called  man, 

Whose  life ’s  comprised  within  a span, 

To  him  his  homage  raise. 

We  often  praise  the  evening  clouds, 

And  tints  so  gay  and  bold, 

But  seldom  think  upon  our  God, 

Who  tinged  these  clouds  with  gold. 

The  religious  education  of  Scott  may  be  seen  in 
this  effusion:  his  father  was  a rigid  Presbyterian. 


The  youthful  poet  passed  through  the  High  School 
and  university  of  Edinburgh,  and  made  some  profi- 
ciency in  Latin,  and  in  the  classes  of  ethics,  moral 
j philosophy,  and  history.  He  had  an  aversion  to 
Greek,  and  we  may  perhaps  regret,  with  Bulwer, 
that  he  refused  ‘ to  enter  into  that  chamber  in  the 
magic  palace  of  literature  in  which  the  sublimes  t 
relics  of  antiquity  are  stored.’  He  knew  generally, 
but  not  critically,  the  German,  French,  Italian,  and 
Spanish  languages.  He  was  an  insatiable  reader, 
and  during  a long  illness  in  his  youth,  stored  his 
mind  with  a vast  variety  of  miscellaneous  knowledge. 
Komances  were  among  his  chief  favourites,  and  he 
had  great  facility  in  inventing  and  telling  stories. 
He  also  collected  ballads  from  his  earliest  years. 
Scott  was  apprenticed  to  his  father  as  a writer,  after 
which  he  studied  for  the  bar,  and  put  on  his  gown 
in  his  twenty-first  year.  His  health  was  now  vigor- 
ous and  robust,  and/  he  made  frequent  excursions 
into  the  country,  which  he  pleasantly  denominated 


Sir  Walter  Scott. 


J raids.  The  knowledge  of  rural  life,  character, 
traditions,  and  anecdotes,  which  he  picked  up  in 
these  rambles,  formed  afterwards  a valuable  mine  to 
him,  both  as  a poet  and  novelist.  His  manners  were 
easy  and  agreeable,  and  he  was  always  a welcome 
guest.  Scott  joined  the  Tory  party ; and  when  the 
dread  of  an  invasion  agitated  the  country,  he 
became  one  of  a band  of  volunteers,  ‘ brothers  true,’ 
in  which  he  held  the  rank  of  quarter-master.  His 
exercises  as  a cavalry  officer,  and  the  jovialties  of 
ass 


the  mess-room,  occupied  much  of  his  time  ; but  he 
still  pursued,  though  irregularly,  his  literary  studies, 
and  an  attachment  to  a Perthshire  lady — though 
ultimately  unfortunate — tended  still  more  strongly 
to  prevent  his  sinking  into  idle  frivolity  or  dissipa- 
tion. Henry  Mackenzie,  the  ‘ Man  of  Feeling,’  had 
introduced  a taste  for  German  literature  into  the 
intellectual  classes  of  his  native  city,  and  Scott  was 
one  of  its  most  eager  and  ardent  votaries.  In  1796 
he  published  translations  of  Burger’s  Lenore  and 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  Walter  scott. 

The  Wild  Huntsman , ballads  of  singular  wildness  and 
power.  Next  year,  while  fresh  from  his  first-love 
disappointment,  he  was  prepared,  like  Romeo,  to 
‘take  some  new  infection  to  his  eye,’  and  meeting 
at  Gilsland,  a watering-place  in  Cumberland,  with  a 
young  lady  of  Frencty  parentage,  Charlotte  Margaret 
Carpenter,  he  paid  his  addresses  to  her,  was  accepted, 
and  married  on  the  24th  of  December.  Miss 
Carpenter  had  some  fortune,  and  the  young  couple 
retired  to  a cottage  at  Lasswade,  where  they  seem 
to  have  enjoyed  sincere  and  unalloyed  happiness. 
The  ambition  of  Scott  was  now  fairly  wakened — his 
lighter  vanities  all  blown  away.  His  life  hence- 
forward was  one  of  severe  but  cheerful  study  and 
application.  In  1799,  appeared  his  translation  of 
Goethe’s  tragedy,  Goetz  von  Berlichingen , and  the 
same  year  he  obtained  the  appointment  of  sheriff  of 
Selkirkshire,  worth  £300  per  annum.  Scott  now 
paid  a series  of  visits  to  Liddesdale,  for  the  purpose 
of  collecting  the  ballad  poetry  of  the  Border,  an 
object  in  which  he  was  eminently  successful.  In 
1802,  the  result  appeared  in  his  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border , which  contained  upwards  of  forty 
pieces  never  before  published,  and  a large  quantity 
of  prose  illustration,  in  which  might  have  been  seen 
the  germ  of  that  power  which  he  subsequently 
developed  in  his  novels.  A third  volume  was 
added  next  year,  containing  some  imitations  of  the 
old  minstrels  by  the  poetical  editor  and  his  friends. 
It  required  little  sagacity  to  foresee  that  Walter 
Scott  was  now  to  be  a great  name  in  Scotland.  His 
next  task  was  editing  the  metrical  romance  of  Sir 
Tristrem,  supposed  to  be  written  by  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  or  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  who  flourished 
about  the  year  1280.  The  antiquarian  knowledge 
of  Scott,  and  his  poetical  taste,  were  exhibited  in 
the  dissertations  which  accompanied  this  work, 
and  the  imitation  of  the  original  which  was  added 
to  complete  the  romance.  At  length,  in  January 
1805,  appeared  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel , which 
instantly  stamped  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
living  poets.  His  legendary  lore,  his  love  of  the 
chivalrous  and  supernatural,  and  his  descriptive 
| powers,  were  fully  brought  into  play ; and  though 
j he  afterwards  improved  in  versatility  and  freedom, 
he  achieved  nothing  which  might  not  have  been 
predicted  from  this  first  performance.  His  concep- 
tion of  the  Minstrel  was  inimitable,  and  won  all 
hearts— even  those  who  were  indifferent  to  the 
supernatural  part  of  the  tale,  and  opposed  to  the 
irregularity  of  the  ballad  style.  The  unprecedented 
success  of  the  poem  inclined  Scott  to  relax  any 
exertions  he  had  ever  made  to  advance  at  the  bar, 
although  his  cautious  disposition  made  him  at  all 
times  fear  to  depend  over-much  upon  literature, 
lie  had  altogether  a clear  income  of  about  £1000 
per  annum ; but  his  views  stretched  beyond  this 
easy  competence ; he  Avas  ambitious  of  founding  a 
family  that  might  vie  with  the  ancient  Border 
names  he  venerated,  and  to  attain  this,  it  was 
necessary  to  become  a landed  proprietor,  and  to 
practise  a liberal  and  graceful  hospitality.  Well 
was  he  fitted  to  adorn  and  dignify  the  character ! 
But  his  ambition,  though  free  from  any  tinge  of 
sordid  acquisition,  proved  a snare  for  his  strong 
good  sense  and  penetration.  Scott  and  his  family 
had  gone  to  reside  at  Ashestiel,  a beautiful  residence 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  as  it  was  necessary  for 
him,  in  his  capacity  of  sheriff,  to  live  part  of  the 
year  in  the  county  of  Selkirk.  Shortly  after  the 
publication  of  the  Lay , he  entered  into  partnership 
with  his  old  school-fellow,  James  Ballantync,  then 
rising  into  extensive  business  as  a printer  in  Edin- 
burgh. The  copartnery  was  kept  a secret,  and  few 

things  in  business  that  require  secrecy  are  prosper- 
ous or  beneficial.  The  establishment,  upon  which 
was  afterwards  ingrafted  a publishing  business, 
demanded  large  advances  of  money,  and  Scott’s 
name  became  mixed  up  with  pecuniary  transactions 
and  losses  to  a great  amount.  In  1806,  the  power- 
ful friends  of  the  poet  procured  him  the  appointment 
of  one  of  the  principal  clerkships  of  the  Court  of 
Session,  worth  about  £1300  per  annum ; but  the 
emoluments  were  not  received  by  Scott  until  six 
years  after  the  date  of  his  appointment,  when  his 
predecessor  died.  In  his  share  of  the  printing 
business,  and  the  certainty  of  his  clerkship,  the 
poet  seemed,  however,  to  have  laid  up— in  addi- 
tion to  his  literary  gains  and  his  sheriffdom— an 
honourable  and  even  opulent  provision  for  his  family. 

In  1808,  appeared  his  great  poem  of  Marmion , the 
most  magnificent  of  his  chivalrous  tales,  and  the 
same  year  he  published  his  edition  of  Dryden.  In 

1810,  appeared  The  Lady  of  the  Lake , which  was  still 
more  popular  than  either  of  its  predecessors ; in 

1811,  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick;  in  1813,  Rolceby , 
and  The  Bridal  of  Triermain ; in  1814,  The  Lord  of 
the  Isles ; in  1815,  The  Field  of  Waterloo;  and  in 
1817,  Harold  the  Dauntless.  Some  dramatic  pieces, 
scarcely  worthy  of  his  genius,  were  also  written 
during  this  busy  period.  It  could  not  be  concealed, 
that  the  later  works  of  the  Great  Minstrel  were  infe- 
rior to  his  early  ones.  His  style  was  now  familiar, 
and  the  world  had  become  tired  of  it.  Byron  had  \ 
made  his  appearance,  and  the  readers  of  poetry  j 
were  bent  on  the  new  worship.  Scott,  however,  j 
was  too  dauntless  and  intrepid,  and  possessed  of  i 
too  great  resources,  to  despond  under  this  reverse. 
‘As  the  old  mine  gave  symptoms  of  exhaustion,’ 
says  Bulwer,  ‘ the  new  njine,  ten  times  more  affluent, 
at  least  in  the  precious  metals,  was  discovered ; and 
just  as  in  Rokeby  and  Triermain  the  Genius  of  the  I 
Ring  seemed  to  flag  in  its  powers,  came  the  more  i 
potent  Genius  of  the  Lamp  in  the  shape  of  Waverley .’  j 
The  long  and  magnificent  series  of  his  prose  fictions 
we  shall  afterwards  advert  to.  They  were  poured 
forth  even  more  prodigally  than  his  verse,  and  for 
seventeen  years — from  1814  to  1831 — the  world 
hung  with  delight  on  the  varied  creations  of  the 
potent  enchanter.  Scott  had  now  removed  from  his 
pleasant  cottage  at  Ashestiel : the  territorial  dream 
was  about  to  be  realised.  In  1811,  he  purchased  a 
hundred  acres  of  moorland  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed,  near  Melrose.  The  neighbourhood  was  full 
of  historical  associations,  but  the  spot  itself  was 
bleak  and  bare.  Four  thousand  pounds  were 
expended  on  this  purchase : and  the  interesting  and 
now  immortal  name  of  Abbotsford  was  substituted 
for  the  very  ordinary  one  of  Cartley  Hole.  Other 
purchases  of  land  followed,  generally  at  prices 
considerably  above  their  value — Kaeside,  £4100 ; 
Outfield  of  Toftfield,  £6000;  Toftfield,  and  parks, 
£10,000 ; Abbotslea,  £3000 ; field  at  Langside, 
£500 ; Shearing  Flat,  £3500  ; Broomilees,  £4200  ; 
Short  Acres  and  Scrabtree  Park,  £700  ; &c.  From 
these  farms  and  pendicles  was  formed  the  estate  of 
Abbotsford.  In  planting  and  draining,  about  £5000 
were  expended ; and  in  erecting  the  mansion-house 
— that  ‘ romance  of  stone  and  mortar,’  as  it  has  been 
termed — and  constructing  the  garden,  &c.,  a sum 
not  less  than  £20,000  was  spent.  In  his  baronial 
residence  the  poet  received  innumerable  visitors — 
princes,  peers,  and  poets — men  of  all  ranks  and 
grades.  His  mornings  were  devoted  to  composition 
— for  he  had  long  practised  the  invaluable  habit  of 
early  rising — and  the  rest  of  the  day  to  riding  among 
his  plantations,  and  entertaining  his  guests  and 
family.  The  honour  of  the  baronetcy  was  conferred 

339 

FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


upon  him  in  1820,  by  George  IV.,  who  had  taste 
enough  to  appreciate  cordially  his  genius.  Never, 
certainly,  had  literature  done  more  for  any  of  its 
countless  votaries,  ancient  or  modern.  Shakspeare 
had  retired  early  on  an  easy  competency,  and  also 
become  a rural  squire;  but  his  gains  must  have 
been  chiefly  those  of  the  theatrical  manager,  not  of 
the  poet.  Scott’s  splendour  was  purely  the  result  of 
his  pen : to  this  he  owed  his  acres,  his  castle,  and  his 
means  of  hospitality.  His  official  income  was  but  as 
a feather  in  the  balance.  Who  does  not  wish  that 
the  dream  had  continued  to  the  end  of  his  life  ? It 


to  1830. 


was  suddenly  and  painfully  dissolved.  The  com- 
mercial distresses  of  1825-6  fell  upon  publishers 
as  on  other  classes,  and  the  bankruptcy  of  Constable 
involved  the  poet  in  losses  and  engagements  to  the 
amount  ofoabout  £60,000.  His  wealth,  indeed,  had 
been  almost  wholly  illusory ; for  he  had  been  paid 
for  his  works  chiefly  by  bills,  and  these  ultimately 
proved  valueless.  In  the  management  of  his  pub- 
lishing-house, Scott’s  sagacity  seems  to  have  forsaken 
him : unsaleable  works  were  printed  in  thousands ; 
and  while  these  losses  were  yearly  accumulating,  the 
princely  hospitalities  of  Abbotsford  knew  no  check 


Abbotsford. 


or  pause.  Heavy  was  the  day  of  reckoning — terrible 
the  reverse;  for  when  the  spell  broke  in  January 
1826,  it  was  found  that,  including  the  Constable 
engagements,  Scott,  under  the  commercial  denom- 
ination of  James  Baflantyne  and  Co.,  owed  £117,000. 
If  this  was  a blot  in  the  poet’s  scutcheon,  never,  it 
might  be  said,  did  man  make  nobler  efforts  to  redeem 
the  honour  of  his  name.  He  would  listen  to  no  over- 
tures of  composition  with  his  creditors — his  only 
demand  was  for  time.  He  ceased  4 doing  the  honours 
for  all  Scotland,’  sold  off  his  Edinburgh  house,  and 
taking  lodgings  there,  laboured  incessantly  at  his 
literary  tasks.  ‘ The  fountain  was  awakened  from  j 
its  inmost  recesses,  as  if  the  spirit  of  affliction  had 
troubled  it  in  his  passage.’  In  four  years  he  had 
realised  for  his  creditors  no  less  than  £70,000. 

English  literature  presents  two  memorable  and 
striking  events  which  have  never  been  paralleled  in 
any  other  nation.  The  first  is,  Milton  advanced  in 
years,  blind,  and  in  misfortune,  entering  upon  the 
composition  of  a great  epic  that  was  to  determine 
his  future  fame,  and  hazard  the  glory  of  his  country 
in  competition  with  what  had  been  achieved  in  the 
classic  ages  of  antiquity.  The  counterpart  to  this 
noble  picture  is  Walter  Scott,  at  nearly  the  same 
age,  his  private  affairs  in  ruin,  undertaking  to 
liquidate,  by  intellectual  labours  alone,  a debt  of 
£117,000.  Both  tasks  may  be  classed  with  the 
moral  sublime  of  life.  Glory,  pure  and  unsullied, 
was  the  ruling  aim  and  motive  of  Milton ; honour 

340 


! and  integrity  formed  the  incentives  to  Scott. 
Neither  shrunk  from  the  steady  prosecution  of  his 
gigantic  self-imposed  labour.  But  years  rolled  on, 
seasons  returned  and  passed  away,  amidst  public 
cares  and  private  calamity,  and  the  pressure  of 
increasing  infirmities,  ere  the  seed  sown  amidst 
clouds  and  storms  was  white  in  the  field.  In  six 
years  Milton  had  realised  the  object  of  his  hopes 
and  prayers  by  the  completion  of  Paradise  Lost. 
His  task  was  done ; the  field  of  glory  was  gained ; 
he  held  in  his  hand  his  passport  to  immortality. 
In  six  years  Scott  had  nearly  reached  the  goal  of 
j his  ambition.  He  had  ranged  the  wide  fields  of 
romance,  and  the  public  had  liberally  rewarded 
their  illustrious  favourite.  The  ultimate  prize  was 
within  view,  and  the  world  cheered  him  on,  eagerly 
anticipating  his  triumph;  but  the  victor  sank 
exhausted  on  the  course.  He  had  spent  his  life  in 
the  struggle.  The  strong  man  was  bowed  down, 
and  his  living  honour,  genius,  and  integrity,  were 
extinguished  by  delirium  and  death. 

In  February  1830,  Scott  had  an  attack  of  paralysis. 
He  continued,  however,  to  write  several  hours  every 
day.  In  April  1831,  he  sufiered  a still  more  severe 
attack ; and  he  was  prevailed  upon,  as  a means  of 
withdrawing  him  from  mental  labour,  to  undertake 
a foreign  tour.  The  Admiralty  furnished  a ship  of 
war,  and  the  poet  sailed  for  Malta  and  Naples.  At 
the  latter  place  he  resided  from  the  17th  of  Decem- 
ber 1831  to  the  16th  of  April  following.  He  still 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


laboured  at  unfinished  romances,  but  his  mind  was 
in  ruins.  From  Naples  the  poet  went  to  Rome. 
On  the  11th  of  May,  he  began  his  return  homewards, 
and  reached  London  on  the  13th  of  J une.  Another 
attack  of  apoplexy,  combined  with  paralysis,  had 
laid  prostrate  his  powers,  and  he  was  conveyed  to 
Abbotsford  a helpless  and  almost  unconscious  wreck. 
He  lingered  on  for  some  time,  listening  occasionally 
to  passages  read  to  him  from  the  Bible,  and  from 
his  favourite  author  Crabbe.  Once  he  tried  to  write, 
but  his  fingers  would  not  close  upon  the  pen.  He 
never  spoke  of  his  literary  labours  or  success.  At 
times  his  imagination  was  busy  preparing  for  the 
reception  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  Abbotsford  ; 
at  other  times  he  was  exercising  the  functions  of  a 
Scottish  judge,  as  if  presiding  at  the  trial  of  mem- 
bers of  his  own  family.  His  mind  never  appeared 
to  wander  in  its  delirium  towards  those  works  which 
had  filled  all  Europe  with  his  fame.  This  we  learn 
from  undoubted  authority,  and  the  fact  is  of  interest 
in  literary  history.  But  the  contest  was  soon  to  be 
over ; ‘ the  plough  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  fur- 
row.’ ‘About  half-past  one,  f.m.,’  says  Mr  Lock- 
hart, ‘on  the  21st  of  September  1832,  Sir  Walter 
breathed  his  last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his  children. 
It  was  a beautiful  day — so  warm  that  every  window 
was  wide  open — and  so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound 
of  all  others  most  delicious  to  his  ear,  the  gentle 
ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles,  was  distinctly 
audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his  eldest 
son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes.’ 

Call  it  not  vain ; they  do  not  err 
Who  say,  that  when  the  poet  dies, 

Mute  nature  mourns  her  worshipper, 

And  celebrates  his  obsequies ; 

Who  say  tall  cliff  and  cavern  lone 
For  the  departed  bard  make  moan ; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill ; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil ; 

Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh, 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groans,  reply ; 

And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

The  novelty  and  originality  of  Scott’s  style  of 
poetry,  though  exhausted  by  himself,  and  debased 
by  imitators,  formed  his  first  passport  to  public 
favour  and  applause.  The  English  reader  had  to 
go  back  to  Spenser  and  Chaucer  ere  he  could  find 
so  knightly  and  chivalrous  a poet,  or  such  paintings 
of  antique  manners  and  institutions.  The  works  of 
the  elder  worthies  were  also  obscured  by  a dim  and 
obsolete  phraseology;  while  Scott,  in  expression, 
sentiment,  and  description,  could  be  read  and  under- 
stood by  all.  The  perfect  clearness  and  transparency 
of  his  style  is  one  of  his  distinguishing  features ; and 
it  was  further  aided  by  his  peculiar  versification. 
Coleridge  had  exemplified  the  fitness  of  the  octo- 
syllabic measure  for  romantic  narrative  poetry,  and 
parts  of  his  Christabel  having  been  recited  to  Scott, 
he  adopted  its  wild  rhythm  and  harmony,  joining 
j to  it  some  of  the  abruptness  and  irregularity  of  the 
old-ballad  metre.  In  his  hands  it  became  a powerful 
and  flexible  instrument,  whether  for  light  narrative 
and  pure  description,  or  for  scenes  of  tragic  wildness 
and  terror,  such  as  the  trial  and  death  of  Constance 
in  Marmion,  or  the  swell  and  agitation  of  a battle- 
field. The  knowledge  and  enthusiasm  requisite  for 
a chivalrous  poet  Scott  possessed  in  an  eminent 
degree.  He  was  an  early  worshipper  of  ‘hoar 
antiquity.’  He  was  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers 
! — thirty-four  years  of  age— when  the  Lay  was  pub- 
lished, and  was  perhaps  better  informed  on  such 


subjects  than  any  other  man  living.  Border  story 
and  romance  had  been  the  study  and  the  passion  of 
his  whole  life.  In  writing  Marmion  and  Ivanhoe , or 
in  building  Abbotsford,  he  was  impelled  by  a natural 
and  irresistible  impulse.  The  baronial  castle,  the 
court  and  camp — the  wild  Highland  chase,  feud, 
and  foray — the  antique  blazonry,  and  institutions 
of  feudalism,  were  constantly  present  to  his  thoughts 
and  imagination.  Then,  his  powers  of  description 
were  unequalled — certainly  never  surpassed.  His 
landscapes,  his  characters  and  situations,  were  all 
real  delineations  ; in  general  effect  and  individual 
details,  they  were  equally  perfect.  None  of  his 
contemporaries  had  the  same  picturesqueness,  fancy, 
or  invention ; none  so  graphic  in  depicting  manners 
and  customs ; none  so  fertile  in  inventing  incidents ; 
none  so  fascinating  in  narrative,  or  so  various  and 
powerful  in  description.  His  diction  was  proverb- 
ially careless  and  incorrect.  Neither  in  prose  nor 
poetry  was  Scott  a polished  writer.  He  looked  only 
at  broad  and  general  effects ; his  words  had  to  make 
pictures,  not  melody.  Whatever  could  be  grouped 
and  described,  whatever  was  visible  and  tangible, 
lay  within  his  reach.  Below  the  surface  he  had  less 
power.  The  language  of  the  heart  was  not  his 
familiar  study ; the  passions  did  not  obey  his  call. 
The  contrasted  effects  of  passion  and  situation  he 
could  portray  vividly  and  distinctly — the  sin  and 
suffering  of  Constance,  the  remorse  of  Marmion  and 
Bertram,  the  pathetic  character  of  Wilfrid,  the 
knightly  grace  of  Fitz- James,  and  the  rugged 
virtues  and  savage  death  of  Roderick  Dhu,  are  all 
fine  specimens  of  moral  painting.  Byron  has  nothing 
better,  and  indeed  the  noble  poet  in  some  of  his  tales 
copied  or  paraphrased  the  sterner  passages  of  Scott. 
But  even  in  these  gloomy  and  powerful  traits  of 
his  genius,  the  force  lies  in  the  situation,  not  in  the 
thoughts  and  expression.  There  are  no  talismanic 
words  that  pierce  the  heart  or  usurp  the  memory ; 
none  of  the  impassioned  and  reflective  style  of 
Byron,  the  melodious  pathos  of  Campbell,  or  the 
profound  sympathy  of  Wordsworth.  The  great 
strength  of  Scott  undoubtedly  lay  in  the  prolific 
richness  of  his  fancy,  and  the  abundant  stores  of  his 
memory,  that  could  create,  collect,  and  arrange  such 
a multitude  of  scenes  and  adventures;  that  could 
find  materials  for  stirring  and  romantic  poetry  in 
the  most  minute  and  barren  antiquarian  details ; 
and  that  could  reanimate  the  past,  and  paint  the 
present,  in  scenery  and  manners  with  a vivid- 
ness and  energy  unknown  since  the  period  of 
Homer. 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  is  a Border  story  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  related  by  a minstrel,  the  last 
of  his  race.  The  character  of  the  aged  minstrel, 
and  that  of  Margaret  of  Branksome,  are  very  finely 
drawn  ; . Deloraine,  a coarse  Border  chief,  or  moss- 
trooper, is  also  a vigorous  portrait ; and  in  the 
description  of  the  march  of  the  English  army,  the 
personal  combat  with  Musgrave,  and  the  other 
feudal  accessories  of  the  piece,  we  have  finished 
pictures  of  the  olden  time.  The  goblin  page  is  no 
favourite  of  ours,  except  in  so  far  as  it  makes  the 
story  more  accordant  with  the  times  in  which  it  is 
placed.  The  introductory  lines  to  each  canto  form 
an  exquisite  setting  to  the  dark  feudal  tale,  and 
tended  greatly  to  cause  the  popularity  of  the  poem. 
The  minstrel  is  thus  described : 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 

The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 

His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 

Seemed  to  have  known  a better  day ; 

The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 

Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he 
Who  sung  of  border  chivalry ; 

For,  well-a-day ! their  date  was  fled ; 

His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 

And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 

Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 

No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 

He  caroled,  light  as  lark  at  morn ; 

No  longer,  courted  and  caressed, 

High  placed  in  hall,  a welcome  guest, 

He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 

The  unpremeditated  lay : 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone ; 

A stranger  filled  the  Stuarts’  throne ; 

The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 

Had  called  his  harmless  art  a crime. 

A wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 

And  tuned,  to  please  a peasant’s  ear, 

The  harp  a king  had  loved  to  hear. 

Not  less  picturesque  are  the  following  passages, 
which  instantly  became  popular : 

[ Description  of  Melrose  Abbey.] 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light’s  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower ; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o’er  the  dead  man’s  grave, 
Then  go — but  go  alone  the  while — 

Then  view  St  David’s  ruined  pile ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  ! . . . . 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone, 

Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined ; 

Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy’s  hand 
’Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand, 

In  many  a freakish  knot,  had  twined ; 

Then  framed  a spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 

And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 

The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 

Shewed  many  a prophet  and  many  a saint, 
Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed : 

Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross  of  red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  apostate’s  pride. 

The  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  pane, 

And  threw  on  the  pavement  a bloody  stain. 


[Love  of  Country.] 

Breathes  there  a man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 

Whose  heart  hath  ne’er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a foreign  strand  ! 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well : 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 

High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

842 


Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unsung. 

0 Caledonia ! stem  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires ! what  mortal  hand 
Can  e’er  untie  the  filial  band 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ! 

Still  as  I view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left ; 
And  thus  I love  them  better  still, 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow’s  streams  still  let  me  stray, 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way ; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break. 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 

The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Marmion  is  a tale  of  Flodden  Field,  the  fate  of 
the  hero  being  connected  with  that  memorable 
engagement.  The  poem  does  not  possess  the  unity 
and  completeness  of  the  Lay , but  if  it  has  greater 
faults,  it  has  also  greater  beauties.  Nothing  can  be 
more  strikingly  picturesque  than  the  two  opening 
stanzas  of  this  romance : 

Day  set  on  Norham’s  castled  steep, 

And  Tweed’s  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot’s  mountains  lone  ; 

The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 

The  loophole  grates  where  captives  weep, 

The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 

The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 

Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky. 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height ; 

Their  armour,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 

Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

St  George’s  banner,  broad  and  gay, 

Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 
Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung ; 

The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 

The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred ; 

Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 

Timing  his  footsteps  to  a march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard, 

Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 

Some  ancient  border-gathering  song. 

The  same  minute  painting  of  feudal  times  charac- 
terises both  poems,  but  by  a strange  oversight — soou 
seen  and  regretted  by  the  author — the  hero  is  made 
to  commit  the  crime  of  forgery,  a crime  unsuited  to 
a chivalrous  and  half-civilised  age.  The  battle  of 
Flodden,  and  the  death  of  Marmion,  are  among 
Scott’s  most  spirited  descriptions.  The  former  is 
related  as  seen  from  a neighbouring  hill ; and  the 
progress  of  the  action — the  hurry,  impetuosity,  and 
confusion  of  the  fight  below,  as  the  different  armies 
rally  or  are  repulsed — is  given  with  such  animation, 
that  the  whole  scene  is  brought  before  the  reader 
with  the  vividness  of  reality.  The  first  tremendous 
onset  is  thus  dashed  off,  with  inimitable  power,  by 
the  mighty  minstrel : 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


[Battle  of  Flodden .] 

‘ But  see  ! look  up — on  Flodden  bent, 

The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent.’ 

And  sudden  as  he  spoke, 

From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 

All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke ; 

Yolumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 

The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland’s  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 

Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 

Announced  their  march ; their  tread  alone, 

At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a stifled  hum, 

Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 
King  James  did  rushing  come. 

Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes, 

Until  at  weapon-point  they  close. 

They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 

With  sword- sway  and  with  lance’s  thrust ; 

And  such  a yell  was  there, 

Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 

As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air.  .... 

Long  looked  the  anxious  squires ; their  eye 
■Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 

And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears ; 

And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 

As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 

Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 

The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 

And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave, 

Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see : 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain ; 

Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain ; 

Fell  England’s  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 

Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 

[Evening  fell  on  the  deadly  struggle,  and  the  spectators  were 
forced  from  the  agitating  scene.] 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath, 

More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 

The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 

In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed : 

Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep, 

To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep, 

That  fought  around  their  king. 

But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 

Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring ; 

The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 

Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 

No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight; 

Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 

Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 

Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O’er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 

Then  skilful  Surrey’s  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 

As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands 
Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 

Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 

Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low, 

They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow, 

When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow, 
Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


Tweed’s  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a broken  band, 

Disordered,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 

To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 

To  tell  red  Flodden’s  dismal  tale, 

And  raise  the  universal  wail. 

Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 

Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong : 

Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 
Of  Flodden’s  fatal  field, 

Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland’s  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

The  hero  receives  his  death-wound,  and  is  borne  off 
the  field.  The  description,  detached  from  the  context, 
loses  much  of  its  interest ; but  the  mingled  effects  of 
mental  agony  and  physical  suffering,  of  remorse  and 
death,  on  a bad  but  brave  spirit  trained  to  war,  is 
described  with  true  sublimity : 

[Death  of  Marmion .] 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  ’gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : 

‘ Where ’s  Harry  Blount  ? Fitz-Eustace  where  ? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 

Redeem  my  pennon — charge  again  ! 

Cry — “Marmion  to  the  rescue !” — Vain ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 
That  shout  shall  ne’er  be  heard  again ! 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England’s  : — fly; 

To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring ; 

Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. 

Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie : 

Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field ; 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield : 

Edmund  is  down — my  life  is  reft ; 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 

Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire — 

With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 

Full  upon  Scotland’s  central  host, 

Or  victory  and  England ’s  lost. 

Must  I bid  twice  ? Hence,  varlets  ! fly  ! 

Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die.’ 

They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a lowly  moan, 

And  half  he  murmured : ‘ Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 

Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !’ 

0,  woman ! in  our  hours  of  ease, 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A ministering  angel  thou ! 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 

When,  with  the  baron’s  casque,  the  maid 
To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 

Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 

The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 

She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel’s  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew ; 

For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide, 

Where  raged  the  war,  a dark  red  tide 
Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 

Where  shall  she  turn  ! — behold  her  mark 
A little  fountain-cell, 

Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark, 

In  a stone  basin  fell. 

343 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 

HBrtnfe,  ircarg.  pilgrim,  tfrtitfe.  antr.  prap, 
jfov  tlje.  feiulr.  soul.  of.  J&gtul.  ©rep. 

S2Hi)o.  built,  tips.  cross,  antr,  kocll. 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  hack  she  hied, 

And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 
A monk  supporting  Marmion’s  head  ; 

A pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 

And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave — 

‘ Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,’  he  said, 

Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head?’ 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose — 

‘ Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I must  redress  her  woes. 

Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 

Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clai'e  !’ 

‘Alas !’  she  said,  ‘the  while — 

0 think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 

In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle.’ 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide, 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

‘Then  it  was  truth  !’ — he  said — ‘ I knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. 

I would  the  fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a day ! 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 

It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 

Curse  on  yon  base  marauder’s  lance, 

And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 

A sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand.’ 

Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 

Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labour  Clara  bound, 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound  : 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  church’s  prayers ; 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A lady’s  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 

‘ In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying , 

Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  the 
dying!' 

So  the  notes  rung ; 

‘ Avoid  thee,  fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand, 

Shake  not  the  dying  sinner’s  sand  ! 

0 look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer’s  grace  divine  ; 

0 think  on  faith  and  bliss ! 

By  many  a death-bed  I have  been, 

And  many  a sinner’s  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this.’ 

The  war,  that  for  a space  did  fail, 

Now  trebly  thundering,  swelled  the  gale. 

And — Stanley ! was  the  cry  ; 

A light  on  Marmion’s  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 

With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  ‘ Victory  ! 

Charge,  Chester,  charge  ! On,  Stanley,  on  !’ 

Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

We  may  contrast  with  this  the  silent  and  appalling 
death-scene  of  Roderick  Dhu,  in  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake.  The  savage  chief  expires  while  listening  to 
344 


a tale  chanted  by  the  bard  or  minstrel  of  his 
clan : 

At  first,  the  chieftain  to  his  chime 
With  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time ; 

That  motion  ceased ; yet  feeling  strong, 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song : 

At  length  no  more  his  deafened  ear 
The  minstrel’s  melody  can  hear ; 

His  face  grows  sharp ; his  hands  are  clenched, 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched, 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy  : 

Thus  motionless  and  moanless  drew 
His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  is  more  richly  picturesque 
than  either  of  the  former  poems,  and  the  plot  is 
more  regular  and  interesting.  ‘The  subject,’  says 
Sir  James  Mackintosh,  ‘is  a common  Highland 
irruption ; but  at  a point  where  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Lowlands  affords  the  best  contrast  of  manners 
— where  the  scenery  affords  the  noblest  subject  of 
description — and  where  the  wild  clan  is  so  near  to 
the  court,  that  their  robberies  can  be  connected 
with  the  romantic  adventures  of  a disguised  king, 
an  exiled  lord,  and  a high-born  beauty.  The  whole 
narrative  is  very  fine.’  It  was  the  most  popular  of 
the  author’s  poems : in  a few  months  twenty 
thousand  copies  were  sold,  and  the  district  where 
the  action  of  the  poem  lay  was  visited  by  countless 
thousands  of  tourists.  With  this  work  closed  the 
great  popularity  of  Scott  as  a poet.  Rokeby , a tale 
of  the  English  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  was  con- 
sidered a failure,  though  displaying  the  utmost  art 
and  talent  in  the  delineation  of  character  and 
passion.  Don  Roderick  is  vastly  inferior  to  Rokeby  ; 
and  Harold  and  Triermain  are  but  faint  copies  of 
the  Gothic  epics,  however  finely  finished  in  some  of 
the  tender  passages.  The  Ijord  of  the  Isles  is  of  a 
higher  mood.  It  is  a Scottish  story  of  the  days  of 
Bruce,  and  has  the  characteristic  fire  and  animation 
of  the  minstrel,  when,  like  Rob  Roy,  he  has  his  foot 
on  his  native  heath.  Bannockburn  may  be  com- 
pared with  Flodden  Field  in  energy  of  description, 
though  the  poet  is  sometimes  lost  in  the  chronicler 
and  antiquary.  The  interest  of  the  tale  is  not  well 
sustained  throughout,  and  its  chief  attraction  con- 
sists in  the  descriptive  powers  of  the  author,  who, 
besides  his  feudal  halls  and  battles,  has  drawn  the 
magnificent  scenery  of  the  West  Highlands — the 
cave  of  Staffa,  and  the  dark  desolate  grandeur  of 
the  Coriusk  lakes  and  mountains — with  equal  truth 
and  sublimity.  The  lyrical  pieces  of  Scott  are  often 
'very  happy.  The  old  ballad  strains  may  be  said  to 
have  been  his  original  nutriment  as  a poet,  and  he 
is  consequently  often  warlike  and  romantic  in  his 
songs.  But  he  lias  also  gaiety,  archness,  and  tender- 
ness, and  if  he  does  not  touch  deeply  the  heart,  he 
never  fails  to  paint  to  the  eye  and  imagination. 

Young  Lochinvar. 

[From  Marmion.] 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 

Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapon  had  none. 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone  ! 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar ! 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone. 
He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was  none — 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netlierby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


For  a laggard  in  love,  and  a dastard  in  war, 


Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

’Mong  bride’s-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all ! 
Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a word : 

‘ 0 come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war? 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?’ 

* I long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide — 
And  now  am  I come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  be  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar.’ 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ; the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a smile  on  her  lips  and  a tear  in  her  eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar — 
‘Now  tread  we  a measure  !’  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a hall  such  a galliard  did  grace  ! 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 
plume, 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  ‘ ’Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar !’ 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger 
stood  near, 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

‘ She  is  won  ! we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow!’  quoth  young 
Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  ’mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 
clan; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 
ran ; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did  they  see ! 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e’er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 

Coronach. 

[From  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.] 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 

Like  a summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 

The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 

But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory ; 

The  autumn  winds  rushing, 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 

But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,1 
Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 

1 Or  con  i : the  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game  usually 

lies. 


Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  atod  for  ever ! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu. 

[Written  for  Campbell’s  Albyn’s  Anthology , 1816.] 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 

Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 

Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  Commons  ! 

Come  from  deep,  glen,  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky; 

The  war-pipe  and  pennon 
Are  at  Inverlochy. 

Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 
True  heart  that  wears  one ; 

Come  every  steel  blade,  and 
Strong  hand  that  bears  one ! 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 

Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar. 

Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges ; 

Come  with  your  fighting-gear, 
Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 
Forests  are  rended : 

Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 
Navies  are  stranded. 

Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster : 

Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather ! 

Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 

Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 
Forward  each  man  set ; 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  thq  onset ! 

[Time.] 

[From  the  Antiquary.] 

Why  sitt’st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall, 

Thou  aged  carle  so  stem  and  gray  ? 

Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall, 

Or  ponder  how  it  passed  away  ? 

‘Know’st  thou  not  me?’  the  Deep  Voice  cried, 
‘ So  long  enjoyed,  so  oft  misused — 

Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride, 

Desired,  neglected,  and  accused  ? 

‘ Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 

Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away ; 

And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax, 

Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 

‘ Redeem  mine  hours — the  space  is  brief — 
While  in  my  glass  the  sand-grains  shiver. 

And  measureless  thy  joy  or  grief, 

When  Time  and  thou  shalt  part  for  ever  ! 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


[Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid.] 
[From  Ivanhoe.] 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  father’s  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 

By  night,  Arabia’s  crimsoned  sands 
Ketumed  the  fiery  column’s  glow. 


the  development  of  his  plftt,  and  the  chivalrous 
machinery  of  his  Gothic  tales,  is  seldom  personally 
present  to  the  reader.  Byron  delighted  in  self- 
portraiture, and  could  stir  the  depths  of  the  human 
heart.  His  philosophy  of  life  was  false  and  perni- 
cious ; but  the  splendour  of  the  artist  concealed  the 
deformity  of  his  design.  Parts  were  so  nobly 
finished,  that  there  was  enough  for  admiration  to 
rest  upon,  without  analysing  the  whole.  He  con- 
ducted his  readers  through  scenes  of  surpassing 


There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen ; 

And  Zion’s  daughters  poured  their  lays, 
With  priest’s  and  warrior’s  voice  between. 

No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone ; 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 

Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 

Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A burning  and  a shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams, 

The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentile’s  scorn ; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 

But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I will  not  prize ; 

A contrite  heart,  a humble  thought, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


[Song  from  the  Pirate .] 

Love  wakes  and  weeps 
While  Beauty  sleeps ! 

0 for  music’s  softest  numbers, 

To  prompt  a theme 
For  Beauty’s  dream, 

Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers ! 

Through  groves  of  palm 
Sigh  gales  of  balm, 

Fire-flies  on  the  air  are  wheeling ; 
While  through  the  gloom 
Comes  soft  perfume, 

The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

0 wake  and  live ! 

No  dreams  can  give 
A shadowed  bliss  the  real  excelling ; 
No  longer  sleep, 

From  lattice  peep, 

And  list  the  tale  that  love  is  telling ! 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON. 

Scott  retreated  from  poetry  into  the  wide  and 
open  field  of  prose  fiction  as  the  genius  of  Byron 
began  to  display  its  strength  and  fertility.  A new, 
or  at  least  a more  finished,  nervous,  and  lofty  style 
of  poetry  was  introduced  by  the  noble  author,  who 
was  as  much  a mannerist  as  Scott,  but  of  a different 
school.  He  excelled  in  painting  the  strong  and 
gloomy  passions  of  our  nature,  contrasted  with 
feminine  softness  and  delicacy.  Scott,  intent  upon 


beauty  and  splendour — by  haunted  streams  and 
mountains,  enriched  with  the  glories  of  ancient 
poetry  and  valour ; but  the  same  dark  shadow  was 
ever  by  his  side — the  same  scorn  and  mockery  of 
human  hopes  and  ambition.  The  sententious  force 
and  elevation  of  his  thoughts  and  language,  his 
eloquent  expression  of  sentiment,  and  the  mournful 
and  solemn  melody  of  his  tender  and  pathetic  pas- 
sages, seemed,  however,  to  do  more  than  atone  for 
his  want  .of  moral  truth  and  reality.  The  man  and 
the  poe£  were  so  intimately  blended,  and  the 
spectacle  presented  by  both  was  so  touching, 
mysterious,  and  lofty,  that  Byron  concentrated  a 
degree  of  interest  and  anxiety  on  his  successive  public 
appearances,  which  no  author  ever  before  was  able 
to  boast.  Scott  had  created  the  public  taste  for 
animated  poetry,  and  Byron,  taking  advantage  of 
it,  soon  engrossed  the  whole  field.  For  a few  years 
it  seemed  as  if  the  world  held  only  one  great  poet. 
The  chivalry  of  Scott,  the  philosophy  of  Words- 
worth, the  abstract  theory  and  imagination  of 
Southey,  and  even  the  lyrical  beauties  of  Moore 
and  Campbell,  were  for  a time  eclipsed  by  this 
new  and  greater  light.  The  rank,  youth,  and  mis- 
fortunes of  Byron,  his  exile  from  England,  the 
mystery  which  he  loved  to  throw  around  his  history 
and  feelings,  the  apparent  depth  of  his  sufferings 
and  attachments,  and  his  very  misanthropy  and 
scepticism — relieved  by  bursts  of  tenderness  and 
pity,  and  by  the  incidental  expression  of  high  and 
holy  feelings — formed  a combination  of  personal 
circumstances  in  aid  of  the  legitimate  effects  of  his 
passionate  and  graceful  poetry,  which  is  unparalleled 


POETS. 


LORD  BYRON. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


in  the  history  of  modern  literature.  Such  a result 
is  even  more  wonderful  than  the  laurelled  honours 
awarded  to  Yirgil  and  Petrarch,  if  we  consider  the 
difference  between  ancient  and  modern  manners, 
and  the  temperament  of  the  northern  nations 
compared  with  that  of  the  ‘ sunny  south.’  Has  the 
spell  yet  broke  ? Has  the  glory  faded  into  ‘ the 
common  light  of  day?’  Undoubtedly  the  later 
writings  of  the  noble  bard  helped  to  dispel  the 
illusion.  To  competent  observers,  these  works  added 
to  the  impression  of  Byron’s  powers  as  an  original 
poet,  but  they  tended  to  exorcise  the  spirit  of 
romance  from  his  name  and  history ; and  what  Don 
Juan  failed  to  effect,  was  accomplished  by  the 
biography  of  Moore.  His  poetry,  however,  must 
always  have  a powerful  effect  on  minds  of  poetical 
and  warm  sensibilities.  If  it  is  a ‘ rank  unweeded 
garden,’  it  also  contains  glorious  fruits  and  plants 
of  celestial  seed.  The  art  of  the  poet  will  be  a study 


for  the  ambitious  few ; his  genius  will  be  a source 
of  wonder  and  delight  to  all  who  love  to  contem- 
plate the  workings  of  human  passion,  in  solitude 
and  society,  and  the  rich  effects  of  taste  and 
imagination. 

The  incidents  of  Byron’s  life  may  be  briefly 
related.  He  was  born  in  Holies  Street,  London,  on 
the  22d  of  January  1788,  the  only  son  of  Captain 
John  Byron  of  the  Guards,  and  Catherine  Gordon 
of  Gight,  an  Aberdeenshire  heiress.  The  lady’s 
fortune  was  soon  squandered  by  her  profligate  hus- 
band, and  she  retired  to  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to 
bring  up  her  son  on  a reduced  income  of  about  £130 
per  annum.  The  little  lame  boy,  endeared  to  all  in 
spite  of  his  mischief,  succeeded  his  grand-uncle, 
William  Lord  Byron,  in  his  eleventh  year ; and  the 
happy  mother  sold  off  her  effects — which  realised 
just  £74,  17s.  4d. — and  left  Aberdeen  for  Newstead 
Abbey.  The  seat  of  the  Byrons  was  a large  and 


Newstead  Abbey. 


ancient,  but  dilapidated  structure,  founded  as  a 
priory  in  the  twelfth  century  by  Henry  II.,  and 
situated  in  the  midst  of  the  fertile  and  interesting 
district  once  known  as  Sherwood  Forest.  On  the 
dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  it  was  conferred  by 
Henry  VIII.  on  Sir  J ohn  Byron,  steward  of  Man- 
chester and  Rochdale,  who  converted  the  venerable 
convent  into  a castellated  mansion.  The  family 
was  ennobled  by  Charles  L,  in  consequence  of  high 
and  honourable  services  rendered  to  the  royal  cause 
during  the  Civil  War.  On  succeeding  to  the  title, 
Byron  was  put  to  a private  school  at  Dulwich,  and 
from  thence  he  was  sent  to  Harrow.  During  his 
minority,  the  estate  was  let  to  another  party,  but 
its  youthful  lord  occasionally  visited  the  seat  of  his 
ancestors ; and  whilst  there  in  1803,  he  conceived  a 
passion  for  a young  lady  in  the  neighbourhood,  who, 
under  her  name  of  Mary  Chaworth,  has  obtained  a 
poetical  immortality.  So  early  as  his  eighth  year, 
Byron  fell  in  love  with  a simple  Scottish  maiden, 
Mary  Duff ; and  hearing  of  her  marriage,  several 
years  afterwards,  was,  he  says,  like  a thunder-stroke 


to  him.  He  had  also  been  captivated  with  a boyish 
love  for  his  cousin,  Margaret  Parker,  ‘one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings,’  who  died  about 
a year  or  two  afterwards.  He  was  fifteen  when  he 
met  Mary  Chaworth,  and  ‘conceived  an  attach- 
ment which,  young  as  he  was  even  then  for  such 
a feeling,  sunk  so  deep  into  his  mind  as  to  give  a 
colour  to  all  his  future  life.’  The  father  of  the 
lady  had  been  killed  in  a duel  by  Lord  Byron,  the 
eccentric  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  and  the  union  of 
the  young  peer  with  the  heiress  of  Annesley  Hall 
‘would,’  said  Byron,  ‘have  healed  feuds  in  which 
blood  had  been  shed  by  our  fathers ; it  would  have 
joined  lands  broad  and  rich ; it  would  have  joined  at 
least  one  heart,  and  two  persons  not  ill-matched  in 
years — she  was  two  years  my  elder — and — and — 
and — what  has  been  the  result  ? ’ Mary  Chawortli 
saw  little  in  the  lame  boy,  and  became  the  betrothed 
of  another.  They  had  one  parting  interview  in  the 
following  year,  which,  in  his  poem  of  the  Dream , 
Byron  has  described  in  the  most  exquisite  colours 
of  descriptive  poetry. 

347 


fhom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


I saw  two  beings  in  tbe  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a hill ; a gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  ’twere  the  cape  of  a long  ridge  of  such, 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base 
But  a most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 

These  two,  a maiden  and  a youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her ; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon’s  verge, 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 

And  that  was  shining  on  him. 

This  boyish  idolatry  nursed  the  spirit  of  poetry  in 
Byron’s  mind.  He  was  recalled,  however,  from  his 
day-dreams  and  disappointment,  by  his  removal  to 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  October  1805.  At 
Harrow  he  had  been  an  idle  irregular  scholar, 
though  he  eagerly  devoured  all  sorts  of  learning, 
excepting  that  which  was  prescribed  for  him ; and 
at  Cambridge  he  pursued  the  same  desultory  course 
of  study.  In  1807  appeared  his  first  volume  of 
poetry,  printed  at  Newark,  under  the  title  of 
Hours  of  Idleness.  There  were  indications  of  genius 
in  the  collection,  but  many  errors  of  taste  and 
judgment.  The  vulnerable  points  were  fiercely 
assailed,  the  merits  overlooked,  in  a short  critique 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review — understood  to  be  written 
by  Lord  Brougham — and  the  young  poet  replied 
by  his  vigorous  satire,  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers , which  disarmed,  if  it  did  not  discomfit, 
his  opponent.  While  his  name  was  thus  rising  in 
renown,  Byron  left  England  for  a course  of  foreign 
travel,  and  in  two  years  visited  the  classic  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  resided  some  time  in  Greece 
and  Turkey.  In  the  spring  of  1812  appeared  the 
two  first  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  the  fruit  of  his 
foreign  wanderings,  and  his  splendidly  enriched  and 
matured  poetical  taste.  ‘ I awoke  one  morning,’  he 
said,  ‘ and  found  myself  famous.’  A rapid  succes- 
sion of  eastern  tales  followed — the  Giaour  and  the 
Bride  of  Abydos  in  1813 ; the  Corsair  and  Lara  in 
1814.  In  the  Childe,  he  had  shewn  his  mastery 
over  the  complicated  Spenserian  stanza:  in  these 
he  adopted  the  heroic  couplet,  and  the  lighter  .verse 
of  Scott,  with  equal  freedom  and  success.  No  poet 
had  ever  more  command  of  the  stores  of  the  English 
language.  At  this  auspicious  and  exultant  period, 
Byron  was  the  idol  of  the  gay  circles  of  London. 
He  indulged  in  all  their  pleasures  and  excesses — 
studying  by  fits  and  starts  at  midnight,  to  main- 
tain the  splendour  of  his  reputation.  Satiety  and 
disgust  succeeded  to  this  round  of  heartless  pleasures, 
and  in  a better  mood,  though  without  any  fixed 
attachment,  he  proposed  and  was  accepted  in 
marriage  by  a northern  heiress,  Miss  Milbanke, 
daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke,  a baronet  in  the 
county  of  Durham.  The  union  cast  a shade  on  his 
hitherto  bright  career.  A twelvemonth’s  extrava- 
gance, embarrassments,  and  misunderstandings, 
dissolved  the  union,  and  the  lady  retired  to  the 
country  seat  of  her  parents  from  the  discord  and 
perplexity  of  her  own  home.  She  refused,  like  the 
wife  of  Milton,  to  return,  and  the  world  of  England 
318 


seemed  to  applaud  her  resolution.  One  child — after- 
wards Countess  of  Lovelace — was  the  fruit  of  this 
unhappy  marriage.  Before  the  separation  took 
place,  Byron’s  muse,  which  had  been  lulled  or 
deadened  by  the  comparative  calm  of  domestic  life, 
was  stimulated  to  activity  by  his  deepening  mis- 
fortunes, and  he  produced  the  Siege  of  Corinth 
and  Parisina.  Miserable,  reckless,  yet  conscious 
of  his  own  newly  awakened  strength,  Byron  left 
England — 

Once  more  upon  the  waters,  yet  once  more ! — 

and  visiting  France  and  Brussels,  pursued  his  course 
along  the  Rhine  to  Geneva.  Here,  in  six  months, 
he  had  composed  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold , 
and  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon.  His  mental  energy 
gathered  force  from  the  loneliness  of  his  situation, 
and  his  disgust  with  his  native  country.  The 
scenery  of  Switzerland  and  Italy  next  breathed 
its  inspiration : Manfred  and  the  Lament  of  Tasso 
were  produced  in  1817.  In  the  following  year, 
whilst  residing  chiefly  at  Venice,  and  making  one 
memorable  visit  to  Rome,  he  completed  Childe 
Harold,  and  threw  off  his  light  humorous  poem  of 
Beppo,  the  first-fruits  of  the  more  easy  and  genial 
manners  of  the  continent  on  his  excitable  tempera- 
ment. At  Venice,  and  afterwards  at  Ravenna, 
Byron  resided  till  1821,  writing  various  works — 
Mazeppa , the  first  five  cantos  of  Don  Juan , and 
his  dramas  of  Marino  Faliero,  Sardanapalus , the 
Two  Foscari,  Werner,  Cain,  the  Deformed  Trans- 
formed, &c.  The  year  1822  he  passed  chiefly  at 
Pisa,  continuing  Don  Juan , which  ultimately 
extended  to  fifteen  cantos.  We  have  not  touched 
on  his  private  history  or  indulgences.  At  Venice 
he  plunged  into  the  grossest  excesses,  and  associated 
(says  Shelley)  with  ‘ wretches  who  seemed  almost  to 
have  lost  the  gait  and  physiognomy  of  man.’  From 
this  state  of  debasement  he  was  partly  rescued  by 
an  attachment  to  a young  Romagnese  lady  of  twenty, 
recently  married  to  an  old  and  wealthy  noble- 
man, Count  Guiccioli.  The  licence  of  Italian 
manners  permitted  the  intercourse  until  the  lady 
took  the  bold  step  of  deserting  her  husband.  She 
was  then  thrown  upon  Byron,  and  they  continued  to 
live  together  until  the  poet  departed  for  Greece.  His 
genius  had  begun  to  1 pale  its  fire : ’ his  dramas  were 
stiff,  declamatory,  and  undramatic;  and  the  suc- 
cessive cantos  of  Don  Juan  betrayed  the  downward 
course  of  the  poet’s  habits.  The  wit  and  knowledge 
of  that  wonderful  poem — its  passion,  variety,  and 
originality — were  now  debased  with  inferior  matter ; 
and  the  world  saw  with  rejoicing  the  poet  break  away 
from  his  Circean  enchantments,  and  enter  upon  a 
new  and  nobler  field  of  exertion.  He  had  sympa- 
thised deeply  with  the  Italian  Carbonari  in  their 
efforts  for  freedom,  but  a still  more  interesting 
country  and  people  claimed  his  support.  His  youth- 
ful travels  and  poetical  enthusiasm  still  endeared  j 
the  ‘ blue  Olympus  ’ to  his  recollection,  and  in  the 
summer  of  1823  he  set  sail  for  Greece,  to  aid  in  the 
struggle  for  its  independence.  His  arrangements 
I were  made  with  judgment,  as  well  as  generosity. 

! Byron  knew  mankind  well,  and  his  plans  for  the 
recovery  and  regeneration  of  Greece  evinced  a spirit 
of  patriotic  freedom  and  warm  sympathy  with  the 
oppressed,  happily  tempered  with  practical  wisdom 
and  discretion.  He  arrived,  after  some  danger  and 
delay,  at  Missolonghi,  in  Western  Greece,  on  the 
4th  of  January  1824.  All  was  discord  and  confusion 
; — a military  mob  and  contending  chiefs — turbulence, 
rapacity,  and  fraud.  In  three  months  he  had  done 
much,  by  his  influence  and  money,  to  compose 
| differences,  repress  cruelty,  and  introduce  order. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  BYRON. 


His  fluctuating  and  uncertain  health,  however,  gave 
way  under  so  severe  a discipline.  On  the  9th  of 
April  he  was  overtaken  by  a heavy  shower  whilst 
taking  his  daily  ride,  and  an  attack  of  fever  and 
rheumatism  followed.  Prompt  and  copious  bleeding 
might  have  subdued  the  inflammation,  but  to  this 
remedy  Byron  was  strongly  opposed.  It  was  at 
length  resorted  to  after  seven  days  of  increasing 
fever,  but  the  disease  was  then  too  powerful  for 
remedy.  The  patient  sank  into  a state  of  lethargy, 
and,  though  conscious  of  approaching  death,  could 
only  mutter  some  indistinct  expressions  about  his 
wife,  his  sister,  and  child.  He  lay  insensible  for 
twenty-four  hours,  and,  opening  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  shut  them  for  ever,  and  expired  on  the 
evening  of  the  19th  of  April  1824.  The  people  of 
Greece  publicly  mourned  for  the  irreparable  loss 
they  had  sustained,  and  the  sentiment  of  grief  was 
soon  conveyed  to  the  poet’s  native  country,  where 
his  name  was  still  a talisman,  and  his  early  death 
was  felt  by  all  as  a personal  calamity.  The  body 
of  Byron  was  brought  to  England,  and  after  lying 
in  state  in  London,  was  interred  in  the  family  vault 
in  the  village  church  of  Hucknall,  near  Newstead. 

Byron  has  been  sometimes  compared  with  Burns. 
Death  and  genius  have  levelled  mere  external 
distinctions,  and  the  peer  and  peasant  stand  on 


Lord  Byron’s  Tomb. 


the  same  elevation,  to  meet  the  gaze  and  scrutiny 
of  posterity.  Both  wrote  directly  from  strong 
personal  feelings  and  impulses ; both  were  the 
slaves  of  irregular,  uncontrolled  passion,  and  the 
prey  of  disappointed  hopes  and  constitutional  melan- 
choly ; and  both  died,  after  a life  of  extraordinary 
intellectual  activity  and  excitement,  at  nearly  the 
same  age.  We  allow  for  the  errors  of  Burns’s 
position,  and  Byron’s  demands  a not  less  tender  and 
candid  construction.  Neglected  in  his  youth — 
thwarted  in  his  first  love — left  without  control 
or  domestic  influence  when  his  passions  were 
strongest — 

Lord  of  himself,  that  heritage  of  woe — 


intoxicated  with  early  success  and  the  incense  of 
almost  universal  admiration,  his  irregularities  must 
be  regarded  more  with  pity  than  reprehension. 
After  his  unhappy  marriage,  the  picture  is  clouded 
with  darker  shadows.  The  wild  licence  of  his  con- 
tinental life  it  would  be  impossible  to  justify.  His 
excesses  became  habitual,  and  impaired  both  his 
genius  and  his  strength.  He  struggled  on  with 
untamed  pride  and  trembling  susceptibility,  but  he 
had  almost  exhausted  the  springs  of  his  poetry  and 
his  life ; and  it  is  too  obvious  that  the  pestilential 
climate  of  Missolonghi  only  accelerated  an  event 
which  a few  years  must  have  consummated  in 
Italy. 

The  genius  of  Byron  was  as  versatile  as  it  was 
energetic.  Childe  Harold  and  Hon  Juan  are  perhaps 
the  greatest  poetical  works  of  this  century,  and 
in  the  noble  poet’s  tales  and  minor  poems  there  is 
a grace,  an  interest,  and  romantic  picturesqueness, 
that  render  them  peculiarly  fascinating  to  youthful 
readers.  The  Giaour  has  passages  of  still  higher 
description  and  feeling — particularly  that  fine  burst 
on  modern  Greece  contrasted  with  its  ancient  glory, 
and  the  exquisitely  pathetic  and  beautiful  compari- 
son of  the  same  country  to  the  human  frame  bereft 
of  life : 


[Picture  of  Modern  Greece .] 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o’er  the  dead, 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled — 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress — 

Before  decay’s  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers, 

And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that ’s  there — 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek — 

And — 'but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not — wins  not — weeps  not — now, 

And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow, 

Whose  touch  thrills  with  mortality, 

And  curdles  to  the  gazer’s  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon — 

Yes — but  for  these — and  these  alone — 

Some  moments — ay — one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant’s  power, 

So  fair — so  calm — so  softly  sealed 
The  first — last  look — by  death  revealed  ! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 

’Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start — for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — 
Expression’s  last  receding  ray, 

A gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  ! 

Spark  of  that  flame — perchance  of  heavenly  birth — 
Which  gleams — but  warms  no  more  its  cherished 
earth ! 


The  Prisoner  of  Cliillon  is  also  natural  and  affecting : 
the  story  is  painful  and  hopeless,  but  it  is  told  with 
inimitable  tenderness  and  simplicity.  The  reality 
of  the  scenes  in  Don  Juan  must  strike  every  reader. 
Byron,  it  is  well  known,  took  pains  to  colie 
materials.  1 1 is  account  of  the  shipwreck^P 
from  narratives  of  actual  occurren<jJ?s^^?5^ 
Grecian  pictures,  feasts,  dresses,  ancr  hfsi^ay  p 
times,  arc  literal  transcripts  from  life.  Color 
thought  the  character  of  Lambro,  and  cspe^ial^yrtji^ 


eri«l$r 

lcf$g1 


A) 


K 


FROil  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


description  of  his  return,  the  finest  of  all  Byron's 
efforts ; it  is  more  dramatic  and  lifelike  than  any 
other  of  his  numerous  paintings.  Haidee  is  also  the 
most  captivating  of  all  his  heroines.  His  Gulnares 
and  Medoras,  his  Corsairs  and  dark  mysterious 
personages — 

Linked  with  one  virtue  and  a thousand  crimes — 

are  monstrosities  in  nature,  and  do  not  possess  one 
i tithe  of  the  interest  or  permanent  poetical  beauty 
that  centres  in  the  lonely  residence  in  the  Cyclades. 

' The  English  descriptions  in  Juan  are  greatly 
inferior.  There  is  a palpable  falling  off  in  poetical 
power,  and  the  peculiar  prejudices  and  forced  ill- 
natured  satire  of  the  poet  are  brought  prominently 
forward.  Yet  even  here  we  have  occasionally  a 
flash  of  the  early  light  that  ‘led  astray.’  The 
sketch  of  Aurora  Baby  is  graceful  and  interesting 
— compared  with  Haidee,  it  is  something  like 
j Eielding’s  Amelia  coming  after  Sophia  Western — 
and  Newstead  Abbey  is  described  with  a clearness 
: and  beauty  not  unworthy  the  author  of  Childe 
; Harold.  The  Epicurean  philosophy  of  the  Childe  is 
i visible  in  every  page  of  Don  Juan,  but  it  is  no  longer 
; grave,  dignified,  and  misanthropical : it  is  mixed  up 
■with  wit,  humour,  the  keenest  penetration,  and  the 
most  astonishing  variety  of  expression,  from  collo- 
quial carelessness  and  ease,  to  the  highest  and 
deepest  tones  of  the  lyre.  The  poet  has  the  power 
of  Mephistophiles  over  the  scenes  and  passions 
of  human  life  and  society — disclosing  their  secret 
workings,  and  stripping  them  of  all  conventional 
allurements  and  disguises.  Unfortunately,  his  know- 
ledge is  more  of  evil  than  of  good.  The  distinctions 
! between  virtue  and  vice  had  been  broken  down  or 
| obscured  in  his  own  mind,  and  they  are  undistin- 
j guishable  in  Don  Juan.  Early  sensuality  had 
j tainted  his  whole  nature.  He  portrays  generous 
emotions  and  moral  feelings — distress,  suffering, 
j and  pathos — and  then  dashes  them  with  burlesque 
j humour,  wild  profanity,  and  unseasonable  mockery. 
In  Childe  Harold  we  have  none  of  this  moral 
anatomy,  or  its  accompanying  licentiousness ; but 
there  is  abundance  of  scorn  and  defiance  of  the 
ordinary  pursuits  and  ambition  of  mankind.  The 
fairest  portions  of  the  earth  are  traversed  in  a spirit 
of  bitterness  and  desolation  by  one  satiated  with 
pleasure,  contemning  society,  the  victim  of  a dreary 
' and  hopeless  scepticism.  Such  a character  would 
have  been  repulsive  if  the  poem  had  not  been 
j adorned  with  the  graces  of  animated  description  and 
! original  and  striking  sentiment.  The  poet’s  sketches 
j of  Spanish  and  Grecian  scenery,  and  his  glimpses  of 
the  life  and  manners  of  the  classic  mountaineers, 
are  as  true  as  were  ever  transferred  to  canvas ; 
and  the  meditations  of  the  Pilgrim  on  the  particular 
events  which  adorned  or  cursed  the  soil  he  trod,  are 
marked  with  fervour  and  sublimity.  Thus  on  the 
field  of  Albuera,  he  conjures  up  an  image  of  war, 
one  of  the  noblest  creations  in  poetry : 

[Image  of  TFar.] 

Hark ! heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful 
note? 

Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 

Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 

Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 

Tyrants  and  tyrant^.’  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 

The  bale-fires  flash  on  high ; — from  rock  to  rock 

Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe ; 

Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 

Bed  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the 
shock. 

350 


Lo  ! where  the  giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 

His  blood-red  tresses  deepening  in  the  sun, 

With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 

And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon. 

Bestless  it  rolls,  now  fixed,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done ; 
For  on  this  mom  three  potent  nations  meet, 

To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet. 

In  surveying  the  ruins  of  Athens,  the  spirit  of 
Byron  soars  to  its  loftiest  flight,  picturing  its  fallen 
glories,  and  indulging  in  the  most  touching  and 
magnificent  strain  of  his  sceptical  philosophy. 


[Ancient  Greece .] 

Ancient  of  days  ! august  Athena ! where, 

Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ? thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 
that  were : 

First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory’s  goal, 

They  won,  and  passed  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 

A school-boy’s  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour ! 

The  warrior’s  weapon,  and  the  sophist’s  stole, 

Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o’er  each  mouldering 
tower. 

Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of 
power. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  ! approach  you  here  ! 
Come,  but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn  : 

Look  on  this  spot — a nation’s  sepulchre  ! 

Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 

Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn  : 
’Twas  Jove’s — ’tis  Mahomet’s — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 

Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built 
on  reeds. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 

Is ’t  not  enough,  unhappy  thing ! to  know 
Thou  art  2 Is  this  a boon  so  kindly  given. 

That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go. 

Thou  know'st  not,  reck’st  not,  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  ? 
Begard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies : 

That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homiliest. 

Or  burst  the  vanished  hero’s  lofty  mound : 

Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps : 

He  fell,  and  falling,  nations  mourned  around ; 

But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 

Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appeared,  as  records  tell 
Bemove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scattered  heaps : 

Is  that  a temple  where  a god  may  dwell  ? 

Why,  even  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shattered  cell. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruined  wall, 

Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 

Yes,  this  was  once  ambition’s  airy  hall. 

The  dome  of  thought,  the  palace  of  the  soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre  eyeless  hole, 

The  gay  recess  of  wisdom  and  of  wit, 

And  passion’s  host,  that  never  brooked  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 

People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit? 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena’s  wisest  son  ! 

‘ All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known.* 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  BYRON. 


POETS. 


Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  chance  or  fate  proclaimeth  best ; 

Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 

There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 

But  silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever- welcome  rest. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deemed,  there  be 
A land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 

To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore, 

How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light ! 

To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to  hear  no  more  ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  revealed  to  sight, 

The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the 
right ! 

The  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold  is  more  deeply- 
imbued  with  a love  of  nature  than  any  of  his  pre- 
vious productions.  A new  power  had  been  imparted 
to  him  on  the  shores  of  the  ‘ Leman  lake.’  He  had 
just  escaped  from  the  strife  of  London  and  his  own 
domestic  unhappiness,  and  his  conversations  with 
Shelley  might  have  turned  him  more  strongly  to 
this  pure  poetical  source.  The  poetry  of  Words- 
worth had  also  unconsciously  lent  its  influence. 
An  evening  scene  by  the  side  of  the  lake  is  thus 
exquisitely  described : 

It  is  the  hush  of  night ; and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen — 

Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capped  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep ; and  drawing  near, 

There  breathes  a living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  : on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 

Of  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more ; 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ! 

At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes, 

Starts  into  voice  a moment — then  is  still. 

There  seems  a floating  whisper  on  the  hill — 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  star-light  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 

Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature’s  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

A forcible  contrast  to  this  still  scene  is  then  given 
in  a brief  description  of  the  same  landscape  during  a 
thunder-storm : 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a change  ! 0 night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  in  woman  ! Far  along 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Leaps  the  live  thunder ! not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue, 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night : most  glorious  night ! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  ! let  me  be 
A sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight — 

A portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a phosphoric  sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 

And  now  again  ’tis  black — and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hill  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o’er  a young  earthquake’s  birth. 

In  the  fourth  canto  there  is  a greater  throng  of 


images  and  objects.  The  poet  opens  with  a sketch 
of  the  peculiar  beauty  and  departed  greatness  of 
Venice,  rising  from  the  sea,  1 with  her  tiara  of  proud 
towers  ’ in  airy  distance.  He  then  resumes  his 
pilgrimage — moralises  on  the  scenes  of  Petrarch  i 
and  Tasso,  Dante  and  Boccaccio — and  visits  the 
lake  of  Thrasimene  and  the  temple  of  Clitumnus. 

[Temple  of  Clitumnus.'] 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  ! in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e’er 
The  haunt  of  river-nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes ; the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters ! 

And  most  serene  of  aspect  and  most  clear  ! 

Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters, 

A mirror  and  a bath  for  Beauty’s  youngest  daughters  1 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a temple  still, 

Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 

Upon  a mild  declivity  of  hill, 

Its  memory  of  thee ; beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current’s  calmness ; oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales, 

Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps ; 

While,  chance,  some  scattered  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 
tales. 

The  Greek  statues  at  Florence  are  then  inimitably 
described,  after  which  the  poet  visits  Rome,  and 
revels  in  the  ruins  of  the  Palatine  and  Coliseum,  and 
the  glorious  remains  of  ancient  art.  His  dreams  of 
love  and  beauty,  of  intellectual  power  and  majesty, 
are  here  realised.  The  lustre  of  the  classic  age 
seems  reflected  back  in  his  glowing  pages,  and  we 
feel  that  in  this  intense  appreciation  of  ideal  beauty 
and  sculptured  grace — in  passionate  energy  and 
ecstasy — Byron  outstrips  all  his  contemporaries. 
The  poem  concludes  abruptly  with  an  apostrophe  to 
the  sea,  his  ‘joy  of  youthful  sports,’  and  a source  of 
lofty  enthusiasm  and  pleasure  in  his  solitary  wander- 
ings on  the  shores  of  Italy  and  Greece.  The  great- 
ness of  Byron’s  genius  is  seen  in  Childe  Harold — 
its  tenderness  in  the  tales  and  smaller  poems — its 
rich  variety  in  Don  Juan.  A brighter  garland  few 
poets  can  hope  to  wear — yet  it  wants  the  unfading 
flowers  of  hope  and  virtue. 

[The  Gladiator.] 

I see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  ; his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low : 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a thunder-shower ; and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  ; he  is  gone, 

Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch 
who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ; his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  : 

He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 

But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay ; 

There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 

There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a Roman  holiday. 

All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  Shall  he  expire, 

And  unavenged  ? Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire ! 

351  | 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OP 


[Aposti'ophe  to  the  Ocean.] 

There  is  a pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 

There  is  a rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 

There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 

By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 

I love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I steal 
From  all  I may  be,  or  have  been  before, 

To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I can  ne’er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal 

Boll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  Ocean — roll ! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 

Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A shadow  of  man’s  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a moment,  like  a drop  of  rain, 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan — 
Without  a grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 
Are  not  a spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he 
wields 

For  earth’s  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 

And  send’st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war : 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 

They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada’s  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 

And  many  a tyrant  since ; their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ; their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts : not  so  thou ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves’  play. 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow : 

Such  as  creation’s  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty’s  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ; in  all  time, 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ; even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ; each  zone 
Obeys  thee ; thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I have  loved  thee,  Ocean  ! and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thv  bubbles,  onward  : from  a boy 
I wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a delight ; and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a terror — ’twas  a pleasing  fear; 

For  I was  as  it  were  a child  of  thee, 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I do  here. 

352 


to  1830. 


[An  Italian  Evening  on  the  Banks  of  the  Brenta.] 
[From  Childe  Harold.] 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 

Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli’s  mountains  : heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  west, 

Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity; 

While  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian’s  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest. 

A single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o’er  half  the  lovely  heaven ; but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Boiled  o’er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill, 

As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order  : gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a new-born  rose, 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within 
it  glows. 

Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ; all  its  hues, 

From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 

And  now  they  change ; a paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o’er  the  mountains ; parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 

The  last  still  loveliest,  till — ’tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

[ Midnight  Scene  in  Borne — the  Coliseum.] 

[From  Manfred .] 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  Beautiful ! 

I linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ; and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I learned  the  language  of  another  world. 

I do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I was  wandering,  upon  such  a night 
I stood  within  the  Coliseum’s  wall, 

’Midst  the  chief  relics  of  all-mighty  Rome  : 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ; from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber ; and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Caesars’  palace  came 
The  owl’s  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a bowshot.  Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel’s  place  of  growth ; 

But  the  gladiator’s  bloody  circus  stands 
A noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesar’s  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 

As  ’twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  BYRON. 


POETS. 


And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o’er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns ! 


[The  Shipivrech'] 

[From  Don  Juan.] 

’Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters ; like  a veil 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 

Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shewn, 

And  grimly  darkled  o’er  the  faces  pale, 

And  the  dim  desolate  deep : twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

* * * * 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell — 

Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave — 
Then  some  leaped  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 

And  the  sea  yawned  around  her  like  a hell, 

And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed, 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a crash 
Of  echoing  thunder ; and  then  all  was  hushed, 

Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows ; but  at  intervals  there  gushed, 
Accompanied  with  a convulsive  splash, 

A solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

* * * * 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew, 

And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view ; 

But  he  died  early ; and  when  he  was  gone, 

His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  on  him,  and  said : ‘ Heaven’s  will  be 
done ! 

I can  do  nothing;’  and  he  saw  him  thrown 
Into  the  deep  without  a tear  or  groan. 

The  other  father  had  a weaklier  child, 

Of  a soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicate ; 

But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a mild 
And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate ; 

Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled, 

As  if  to  win  a part  from  off  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father’s  heart, 

With  the  deep  deadly  thought  that  they  must  part. 


And  o’er  him  bent  bis  sire,  and  never  raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 
From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed  : 

And  when  the  wished-for  shower  at  length  was  come, 
And  the  boy’s  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  glazed, 
Brightened,  and  for  a moment  seemed  to  roam, 

He  squeezed  from  out  a rag  some  drops  of  rain 
Into  his  dying  child’s  mouth ; but  in  vain  ! 


The  boy  expired — the  father  held  the  clay, 

And  looked  upon  it  long ; and  when  at  last 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burden  lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 
He  watched  it  wistfully,  until  away 
’Twas  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  ’twas  cast ; 
Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  dumb  and  shivering, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering. 


[Description  of  Haidee. ] 

[From  the  same.] 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold 
That  sparkled  o’er  the  auburn  of  her  hair ; 

Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  rolled 
In  braids  behind ; and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a female  mould, 

They  nearly  reached  her  heels ; and  in  her  air 
There  was  a something  which  bespoke  command, 

As  one  who  was  a lady  in  the  land. 

Her  hair,  I said,  was  auburn ; but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction ; for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 

Ne’er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew  : 

’Tis  as  the  snake  late  coiled,  who  pours  his  length, 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low ; her  cheek ’s  pure  dye, 
Like  twilight,  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun ; 

Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips ! that  make  us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such ; for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors  when  all ’s  done — 

I ’ve  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

[Haidee  visits  the  shipwrecked  Don  Juan.] 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 

And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew, 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 

And  young  Aurora  kissed  her  lips  with  dew, 
Taking  her  for  her  sister ; just  the  same 
Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two, 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 

Had  all  the  advantage  too  of  not  being  air. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepped 
All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That,  like  an  infant,  Juan  sweetly  slept : 

And  then  she  stopped  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 
And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw, 

Should  reach  his  blood;  then  o’er  him,  still  as  death, 
Bent,  with  hushed  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn 
breath. 

And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o’er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  leaned  ; and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwrecked  boy  was  lying, 

As  o’er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air : 

But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it, 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

* * * * 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 

And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A lesson  in  her  tongue ; but  by  surmise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look  : 

As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies, 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book  : 

Thus  Juan  learned  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  Haidee’s  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

’Tis  pleasing  to  be  schooled  in  a strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  I mean 
When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young ; 

As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I have  been  ; 

They  smile  so  when  one’s  right,  and  when  one’s  wrong, 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830.  : 


Pressnre  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a chaste  kiss ; — 

I learned  the  little  that  I know  by  this. 

[Haidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast.] 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  bordered  with  pale  bine ; 

Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 
Of  the  apartment — and  appeared  quite  new ; 

The  velvet  cushions — for  a throne  more  meet — 

Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 
A sun  embossed  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian -like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain. 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour ; Indian  mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain, 
Over  the  floors  were  spread ; gazelles  and  cats, 

And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such-like  things,  that  gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites — that ’s 
To  say,  by  degradation — mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a court  or  fair. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
With  mother-of-pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 

Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods  made, 
Fretted  with  gold  or  silver — by  command, 

The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 
With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice — and  wine — 

Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

Of  all  the  dresses,  I select  Haidee’s : 

She  wore  two  jelicks — one  was  of  pale  yellow ; 

Of  azure,  pink,  and  white,  was  her  chemise — 

’Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a little  billow ; 
With  buttons  formed  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 

All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick’s  fellow, 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon  flowed  round  her. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasped  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretched  and  shut  it  without  harm, 
The  limb  which  it  adorned  its  only  mould ; 

So  beautiful — its  very  shape  would  charm, 

And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold : 

The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e’er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father’s  land, 

A light  gold  bar  above  her  instep  rolled 
Announced  her  rank ; twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand ; 

Her  hair  was  starred  with  gems ; her  veil’s  fine  fold 
Below  her  breast  was  fastened  with  a band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told ; 
Her  orange-silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furled 
About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

Her  hair ’s  long  auburn  waves,  down  to  her  heel 
Flowed  like  an  alpine  torrent,  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  light — and  would  conceal 
Her  person  if  allowed  at  large  to  run, 

And  still  they  seemed  resentfully  to  feel 
The  silken  fillet’s  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene’er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 
To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

Bound  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life ; 

The  very  air  seemed  lighter  from  her  eyes, 

They  were  so  soft,  and  beautiful,  and  rife, 

With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 

And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a wife — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties ; 

Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

854 


Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged — 

It  is  the  country’s  custom — but  in  vain ; 

For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed,  i 
The  glossy  rebels  mocked  the  jetty  stain, 

And  in  her  native  beauty  stood  avenged  : 

Her  nails  were  touched  with  henna ; but  again 
The  power  of  art  was  turned  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

J nan  had  on  a shawl  of  black  and  gold. 

But  a white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 
The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold, 

Like  small  stars  through  the  Milky-way  apparent ; 
His  turban,  furled  in  many  a graceful  fold. 

An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee’s  hair  in ’t 
Surmounted  as  its  clasp — a glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 

Dwarfs,  dancing-girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a poet ; 
Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete ; 

The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  shew  it : 

His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 

And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it, 

He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter, 

As  the  Psalms  say,  ‘ inditing  a good  matter.’ 

[The  Death  of  Haidee.] 

Afric  is  all  the  sun’s,  and  as  her  earth. 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled  ; full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 

The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet’s  hour, 

And,  like  the  soil  beneath  it,  will  bring  forth  : 

Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee’s  mother’s  dower ; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  shewed  deep  Passion’s  force, 
Though  sleeping  like  a lion  near  a source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder,  they  display 
Terror  to  earth  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 

But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan’s  gore, 

And  he  himself  o’ermastered  and  cut  down ; 

TTiq  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod  her  beautiful,  her  own ; 

Thus  much  she  viewed  an  instant  and  no  more — 

Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan ; 

On  her  sire’s  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a cedar  felled. 

A vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips’  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o’er, 
And  her  head  drooped  as  when  the  lily  lies 

O'ercharged  with  rain : her  summoned  handmaids 
bore 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store : 

But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold  nor  death  destroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill — 
With  nothing  livid,  still' her  lips  were  red ; 

She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seemed  absent  still ; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaimed  her  surely  dead : 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope  : tb  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of  soul — 

She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shews 
When  exquisitely  chiseled,  still  lay  there, 

But  fixed  as  marble’s  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O’er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair; 

O’er  the  Laocoon’s  all  eternal  throes, 

And  ever-dying  gladiator’s  air, 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame, 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 

Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seemed  something  new ; 

A strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause — 
For,  for  a while,  the  furies  made  a pause. 

She  looked  on  many  a face  with  vacant  eye, 

On  many  a token,  without  knowing  what ; 

She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why, 

And  recked  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat : 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ; not  a sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts;  dull  silence  and  quick 
chat 

Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served ; she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes  away ; 

She  recognised  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear  or  cherished  in  their  day ; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot ; 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay ; 

At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be 
weaning 

Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

And  then  a slave  bethought  her  of  a harp  : 

The  harper  came  and  tuned  his  instrument : 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a moment  bent ; 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart 
re-sent ; 

And  he  began  a long  low  island  song 
Of  ancient  days  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune ; he  changed  the  theme, 
And  sung  of  Love ; the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection ; on  her  flashed  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being : in  a gushing  stream 
The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o’erclouded  brain, 
Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus ; at  last, 
Without  a groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  shew 
A parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  passed : 

And  they  who  watched  her  nearest  could  not  know 
The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o’er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the  black — 

Oh  to  possess  such  lustre,  and  then  lack ! 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she  ; never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light  or  shame.  She  was  not  made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth  : her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  stayed 
Long  with  her  destiny ; but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed  away ; 
None  but  her  own  and  father’s  grave  is  there, 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay ; 
Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a thing  so  fair; 

No  one  is  there  to  shew,  no  tongue  to  say 
What  was ; no  dirge  except  the  hollow  seas 
Mourns  o’er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  the  son  and  heir  of 
a wealthy  English  baronet,  Sir  Timothy  Shelley  of 
Castle  Goring,  in  Sussex,  and  was  born  at  Field 
Place,  in  that  county,  on  the  4th  of  August  1792. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


In  worldly  prospects  and  distinction  the  poet  there- 
fore surpassed  most  of  his  tuneful  brethren;  yet 
this  only  served  to  render  his  unhappy  and  strange 
destiny  the  more  conspicuously  wretched.  When 
ten  years  of  age,  he  was  put  to  a public  school, 
Sion  House,  where  he  was  harshly  treated  both  by 
his  instructors  and  by  tyrannical  school-fellows.  He 
was  fond  of  reading,  especially  wild  romances  and 
tales  of  diablerie;  and  when  very  young  he  wrote 
two  novels,  Zastrozzi,  and  St  Irvyne , or  the  Hosi- 
crucian.  From  Sion  House,  Shelley  was  removed  to 
Eton,  where  his  sensitive  spirit  was  again  wounded 
by  ill-usage  and  by  the  system  of  fagging  tolerated 
at  Eton.  His  resistance  to  all  established  authority 
and  opinion  displayed  itself  while  at  school,  and  in 
the  introduction  to  his  Fevolt  of  Islam , he  has 
portrayed  his  early  impressions  in  some  sweet  and 
touching  stanzas : 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend, 
when  first 

The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did 
pass. 

I do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 

My  spirit’s  sleep  : a fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 

855 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


When  I walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 

And  wept,  I knew  not  why : until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room  voices  that,  alas ! 

Were  but  one  echo  from  a world  of  woes — 

The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around, 

But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 

Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground; 
So,  without  shame,  I spake  : ‘ I will  be  wise, 

And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannise 
Without  reproach  or  check.’  I then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I was  meek  and  bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore ; 

Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind ; 

Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and 
more 

Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A sense  of  loneliness,  a thirst  with  which  I pined. 

With  these  feelings  and  predilections,  Shelley  went 
to  Oxford.  He  studied  hard  but  irregularly,  and 
spent  much  of  his  leisure  in  chemical  experiments. 
He  incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and  read,  as  he 
himself  has  stated.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  wrote 
two  short  prose  romances.  He  had  also  great  faci- 
lity in  versification,  and  threw  off  various  effusions. 
The  ‘ forbidden  mines  of  lore  ’ which  had  capti- 
vated his  boyish  mind  at  Eton  were  also  diligently 
explored,  and  he  was  soon  an  avowed  republican 
and  sceptic.  He  published  a volume  of  political 
rhymes,  entitled  Margaret  Nicholson’s  Remains , the 
said  Margaret  being  the  unhappy  maniac  who 
attempted  to  stab  George  III. ; and  he  issued  a 
syllabus  from  Hume’s  Essays,  at  the  same  time 
challenging  the  authorities  of  Oxford  to  a public 
controversy  on  the  subject.  Shelley  was  at  this 
time  just  seventeen  years  of  age ! In  conjunction 
with  a fellow-collegian,  Mr  Hogg,  he  composed  a 
small  treatise,  The  Necessity  of  Atheism;  and  the 
result  was  that  both  the  heterodox  students  were 
expelled  from  college.  They  went  to  London,  where 
Shelley  still  received  support  from  his  family ; Mr 
Hogg  removed  to  York,  and  nearly  half  a century 
afterwards  (1858)  became  the  biographer  of  the 
early  life  of  his  poet-friend.  Mrs  Shelley,  widow 
of  the  poet,  has  thus  traced  the  early  bias  of 
his  mind,  and  its  predisposing  causes:  ‘Refusing 
to  fag  at  Eton,  he  was  treated  with  revolting 
cruelty  by  masters  and  boys;  this  roused  instead 
of  taming  his  spirit,  and  he  rejected  the  duty 
of  obedience  when  it  was  enforced  by  menaces 
and  punishment.  To  aversion  to  the  society  of  his 
fellow-creatures — such  as  he  found  them  when  col- 
lected together  into  societies,  where  one  egged  on 
the  other  to  acts  of  tyranny — was  joined  the  deepest 
sympathy  and  compassion ; while  the  attachment  he 
felt  for  individuals,  and  the  admiration  with  which 
he  regarded  their  powers  and  their  virtues,  led  him 
to  entertain  a high  opinion  of  the  perfectibility  of 
human  nature ; and  he  believed  that  all  could  reach 
the  highest  grade  of  moral  improvement,  did  not  the 
customs  and  prejudices  of  society  foster  evil  passions 
and  excuse  evil  actions.  The  oppression  which, 
trembling  at  every  nerve,  yet  resolute  to  heroism, 
it  was  Ills  ill-fortune  to  encounter  at  school  and  at 
college,  led  him  to  dissent  in  many  tilings  from  those 


whose  arguments  were  blows,  whose  faith  .appeared 
to  engender  blame  and  execration.  “During  my 
existence,”  he  wrote  to  a friend  in  1812,  “I  have 
incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and  read.”  His 
readings  were  not  always  well  chosen ; among  them 
were  the  works  of  the  French  philosophers : as  far  as 
metaphysical  argument  went,  he  temporarily  became 
a convert.  At  the  same  time  it  was  the  cardinal 
article  of  his  faith,  that  if  men  were  but  taught  and 
induced  to  treat  their  fellows  with  love,  charity,  and 
equal  rights,  this  earth  would  realise  Paradise.  He 
looked  upon  religion  as  it  was  professed,  and,  above 
all,  practised,  as  hostile,  instead  of  friendly,  to  the 
cultivation  of  those  virtues  wdiich  would  make  men 
brothers.’  Mrs  Shelley  conceives  that,  in  the  pecu- 
liar circumstances,  this  was  not  to  be  wondered  at. 
‘At  the  age  of  seventeen,  fragile  in  health  and 
frame,  of  the  purest  habits  in  morals,  full  of  devoted 
generosity  and  universal  kindness,  glowing  with 
ardour  to  attain  wisdom,  resolved,  at  every  personal 
sacrifice,  to  do  right,  burning  with  a desire  for 
affection  and  sympathy,  he  was  treated  as  a repro- 
bate, cast  forth  as  a criminal.  The  cause  was,  that 
he  was  sincere,  that  he  believed  the  opinions  which 
he  entertained  to  be  true,  and  he  loved  truth  with 
a martyr’s  love : he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  station, 
and  fortune,  and  his  dearest  affections,  at  its  shrine. 
The  sacrifice  was  demanded  from,  and  made  by,  a 
youth  of  seventeen.’ 

It  appears  that  in  his  youth  Shelley  was  equally 
inclined  to  poetry  and  metaphysics,  and  hesitated 
to  which  he  should  devote  himself.  He  ended  in 
uniting  them,  by  no  means  to  the  advantage  of  his 
poetry.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  produced  a wild 
atheistical  poem,  Queen  Mab,  written  in  the  rhythm 
of  Southey’s  Thalaba,  and  abounding  in  passages  of 
great  power  and  melody.  He  had  been  strongly 
attached  to  his  cousin,  an  accomplished  young  lady, 
Miss  Grove,  but  after  his  expulsion  from  college 
and  "from  home,  communication  with  this  lady  was 
prohibited.  He  then  became  enamoured  of  another 
beauty — a handsome  blonde  of  sixteen,  but  in  social 
position  inferior  to  himself.  This  was  a Miss 
Harriet  Westbrook,  daughter  of  a person  who  had 
kept  the  Mount  Street  Coffee-house,  London — a 
place  of  fashionable  resort — and  had  retired  from 
business  with  apparently  competent  means.  Mr 
Westbrook  had  put  his  daughter  to  a boarding- 
school,  at  which  one  of  Shelley’s  sisters  was  also 
placed.  The  result  was  an  elopement  after  a few 
weeks’  acquaintance,  and  a marriage  at  Gretna 
Green  in  August  1811.  This  still  further  exas- 
perated his  friends,  and  his  father  cut  off  his  allow- 
ance. An  uncle,  Captain  Pilfold — one  of  Nelson’s 
captains  at  the  Nile  and  Trafalgar — generously 
supplied  the  youthful  pair  with  money,  and  they 
lived  for  some  time  in  Cumberland,  where  Shelley 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Southey,  Wordsworth, 
De  Quincey,  and  Wilson.  His  literary  ambition 
must  have  been  excited  by  this  intercourse  ; but  he 
suddenly  departed  for  Dublin,  whence  he  again 
removed  to  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  afterwards  to 
Wales.  They  ran  about  from  place  to  place,  dissi- 
pating the  small  means  allowed  them,  and  the 
‘child- wife’  appears  to  have  been  wholly  ignorant  of 
all  housekeeping.  Harriet  was  well-educated  and 
possessed  some  taste  for  literature,  but  she  gained 
no  lasting  influence  over  the  wayward  poet.  Two 
children  were  born  to  them.  At  length  Shelley 
became  enamoured  of  the  daughter  of  Mr  Godwin, 
whose  philosophy  he  admired  and  adapted.  All  the 
parties  considered  marriage  a useless,  if  not  detest- 
able institution,  and  Shelley  left  England  in  1814 
in  the  company  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITEEATUEE. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


They  made  a six  weeks’  tour  on  the  continent,  of 
which  he  wrote  a journal,  and  returned  to  London 
in  August,  when  the  poet,  finding  it  necessary  to 
have  some  professional  means  of  subsistence,  applied 
himself  to  medicine,  and  walked  one  of  the  hospitals. 
Eortunately,  however*  it  was  discovered  that  by  the 
provisions  of  the  deed  of  entail,  the  fee-simple  of 
the  Shelley  estate  was  vested  in  the  poet  after  his 
father’s  death,  and  he  had  thus  power  to  raise 
money  and  dispose  of  the  property  by  will  as  he 
pleased.  Sir  Timothy  Shelley  then  arranged  with 
his  son  that  the  latter  should  receive  £800  per 
annum,  and  such  a sum  was  more  than  sufficient  to 
supply  the  poet’s  wants  and  luxuries.  He  estab- 
lished himself  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  and 
there  composed  his  poem,  Alastor , or  the  Spirit  of 
Solitude , designed,  as  he  states,  to  represent  a youth 
of  unccrrupted  feelings  and  adventurous  genius,  led 
forth  by  an  imagination  inflamed  and  purified 
through  familiarity  with  all  that  is  excellent  and 
majestic,  to  the  contemplation  of  the  universe.  The 
mind  of  his  hero,  however,  becomes  awakened,  and 
thirsts  for  intercourse  with  an  intelligence  similar 
to  itself.  He  seeks  in  vain  for  a prototype  of  his 
conception ; and  blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he 
descends  to  an  untimely  grave.  In  this  picture, 
Shelley  undoubtedly  drew  from  his  own  experience, 
and  in  none  of  his  subsequent  works  has  he  excelled 
the  descriptive  passages  in  Alastor.  The  copious 
picturesqueness  of  his  language,  and  the  boldness 
of  his  imagination,  are  here  strikingly  exemplified. 
Symptoms  of  pulmonary  disease  having  appeared, 
Shelley  again  repaired  to  the  continent,  in  the 
summer  of  1816,  and  first  met  with  Lord  Byron  at 
the  Lake  of  Geneva.  His  health  being  restored,  he 
returned  to  England,  and  settled  himself  at  Great 
Marlow  in  Buckinghamshire.  For  two  years, 
Shelley’s  unfortunate  wife,  Harriet  Westbrook,  had 
been  sinking  into  misery.  Her  father  had  died 
insolvent ; she  was  without  friends  or  fortune,  and 
in  a moment  of  depression  and  despair  she  com- 
mitted suicide  by  throwing  herself  into  the  basin 
of  the  Green  Park,  November  10,  1816.  Shelley 
married  Miss  Godwin  a few  weeks  afterwards 
(December  30th),  the  prospect  of  succession  for  his 
children  to  a large  entailed  estate  having  apparently 
removed  his  repugnance  to  matrimony.  A new 
source  of  obloquy  and  misery  was,  however,  opposed 
to  his  happiness.  A Chancery  decree  deprived  him 
of  the  guardianship  of  his  children,  on  the  ground 
of  his  immorality  and  atheism.  He  felt  this  deeply ; 
and  in  a poetical  fragment  on  the  subject,  he 
invokes  a curse  on  the  administrator  of  the  law,  ‘ by 
a parent’s  outraged  love,’  and  in  one  exquisite 
verse — 

By  all  the  happy  see  in  children’s  growth, 

That  undeveloped  flower  of  budding  years, 

Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both, 

Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  saddest  fears ! 

In  his  picturesque  retreat  at  Marlow,  Shelley  com- 
posed the  Revolt  of  Islam , a poem  more  energetic  than 
Alastor , yet  containing  the  same  allegorical  features 
and  peculiarities  of  thought  and  style,  and  rendered 
more  tedious  by  the  want  of  human  interest.  It  is 
honourable  to  Shelley  that,  during  his  residence  at 
Marlow,  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  attentions  to 
the  poor ; his  widow  relates  that,  in  the  winter, 
while  bringing  out  his  poem,  he  had  a severe  attack 
of  ophthalmia,  caught  while  visiting  the  poor 
cottages.  This  certainly  stamps  with  reality  his 
pleadings  for  the  human  race,  though  the  nature  of 
hi9  philosophy  and  opinions  would  have  deprived 
them  of  the  highest  of  earthly  consolations.  The 


poet  now  prepared  to  go  abroad.  A strong  sense  of 
injury,  and  a burning  desire  to  redress  what  he 
termed  the  wrongs  of  society,  rendered  him  miser- 
able in  England,  and  he  hoped  also  that  his  health 
would  be  improved  by  a milder  climate.  Accord- 
ingly, on  the  12th  of  March  1818,  he  quitted  this 
country,  never  to  return.  He  went  direct  to  Italy, 
and  whilst  residing  at  Eome,  composed  his  classic 
drama  of  Prometheus  Unhound.  ‘This  poem,’  he 
says,  ‘was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountainous 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the  flowery 
glades  and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming  trees, 
which  are  extended  in  ever-winding  labyrinths  upon 
its  immense  platforms  and  dizzy  arches  suspended 
in  the  air.  The  bright-blue  sky  of  Eome,  and  the 
effect  of  the  vigorous  awakening  of  spring  in  that 
divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life  with  which,  it 


Shelley’s  House. 


drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were  the 
inspiration  of  this  drama.’  No  change  of  scene, 
however,  could  permanently  affect  the  nature  of 
Shelley’s  speculations,  and  his  Prometheus  is  as 
mystical  and  metaphysical,  and  as  daringly  sceptical, 
as  any  of  his  previous  works.  The  cardinal  point 
of  his  system  is  described  by  Mrs  Shelley  as  a belief 
that  man  could  be  so  perfectionised  as  to  be  able  to 
expel  evil  from  his  own  nature,  and  from  the  greater 
part  of  the  creation ; and  the  subject  he  loved  best 
to  dwell  on  was  the  image  of  one  warring  with  the 
evil  principle,  oppressed  not  only  by  it,  but  by  all, 
even  the  good,  who  were  deluded  into  considering 
evil  a necessary  portion  of  humanity.  His  next 
work  was  The  Cenci , a tragedy,  published  in  1819, 
and  dedicated  to  Mr  Leigh  Hunt.  ‘ Those  writings,’ 
he  remarks  in  the  dedication,  ‘ which  I have  hitherto 
published,  have  been  little  else  than  visions  which 
impersonate  my  own  apprehensions  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  just.  I can  also  perceive  in  them  the  lite- 
rary defects  incidental  to  youth  and  impatience; 
they  are  dreams  of  what  ought  to  be,  or  may  be. 
The  drama  which  I now  present  to  you  is  a sad 
reality.  I lay  aside  the  presumptuous  attitude  of  an 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


instructor,  and  am  content  to  paint,  with  such 
colours  as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that  which  has 
been.’  The  painting  is  dark  and  gloomy;  but,  in 
spite  of  a revolting  plot,  and  the  insane,  unnatural, 
character  of  the  Cenci,  Shelley’s  tragedy  is  one  of 
the  best  of  modern  times.  As  an  effort  of  intellec- 
tual strength,  and  an  embodiment  of  human  passion, 
it  may  challenge  a comparison  with  any  dramatic 
work  since  Otway ; and  it  is  incomparably  the  best 
of  the  poet’s  productions.  His  remaining  works 
are  Hellas  ; The  Witch  of  Atlas ; Adonais ; Rosalind 
and  Helen;  and  a variety  of  shorter  productions, 
with  scenes  translated  from  Qalderon  and  the  Faust 
of  Goethe.  In  Italy,  Shelley  renewed  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Lord  Byron,  who  thought  his  philosophy 
‘ too  spiritual  and  romantic.’  He  was  temperate  in 
his  habits,  gentle,  affectionate,  and  generous ; so 
that  even  those  who  most  deeply  deplored  or 
detested  his  opinions,  were  charmed  with  the 
intellectual  purity  and  benevolence  of  his  life.  His 
favourite  amusement  was  boating  and  sailing  ; and 
whilst  returning  one  day,  the  8th  of  July  1822, 
from  Leghorn — whither  he  had  gone  to  welcome 
Leigh  Hunt  to  Italy — the  boat  in  which  he  sailed, 
accompanied  by  Mr  Williams,  formerly  of  the  8th 
Dragoons,  and  a single  seaman,  went  down  in  the 
Bay  of  Spezia,  and  all  perished.  A volume  of 
Keats’s  poetry  was  found  open  in  Shelley’s  coat- 
pocket  when  his  body  was  washed  ashore.  The 
remains  of  the  poet  were  reduced  to  ashes  by  fire, 
and  being  taken  to  Rome,  were  deposited  in  the 
Protestant  burial-ground,  near  those  of  a child  he 
had  lost  in  that  city.  A complete  edition  of 
Shelley’s  Poetical  Works,  with  notes  by  his  widow, 
has  been  published  in  four  volumes ; and  the  same 
accomplished  lady  gave  to  the  world  two  volumes 
of  his  prose  Essays,  Letters  from  Abroad,  Trans- 
lations and  Fragments.  Shelley’s  life  was  a dream 
of  romance — a tale  of  mystery  and  grief.  That  he 
j was  sincere  in  his  opinions,  and  benevolent  in  his 
j intentions,  is  now  undoubted.  He  looked  upon  the 
world  with  the  eyes  of  a visionary,  bent  on  unattain- 
able schemes  of  intellectual  excellence  and  suprem- 
acy. His  delusion  led  to  misery,  and  made  him, 
for  a time,  unjust  to  others.  It  alienated  him  from 
his  family  and  friends,  blasted  his  prospects  in  life, 
and  distempered  all  liis  views  and  opinions.  It  is 
probable  that,  had  he  lived  to  a riper  age,  he  might 
have  modified  some  of  those  extreme  speculative 
and  pernicious  tenets,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that 
he  would  have  risen  into  a purer  atmosphere  of 
poetical  imagination.  The  troubled  and  stormy 
dawn  was  fast  yielding  to  the  calm  noonday  bright- 
ness. He  had  worn  out  some  of  his  fierce  anti- 
pathies and  morbid  affections ; a happy  domestic 
circle  was  gathered  around  him ; and  the  refined 
simplicity  of  his  tastes  and  habits,  joined  to  wider 
and  juster  views  of  human  life,  would  imperceptibly 
have  given  a new  tone  to  his  thoughts  and  studies. 
He  had  a high  idea  of  the  art  to  which  he  devoted 
his  faculties. 

‘Poetry,’  he  says  in  one  of  his  essays,  ‘is  the 
record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the 
happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  evan- 
escent visitations  of  thought  and  feeling,  sometimes 
associated  with  place  or  person,  sometimes  regarding 
our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising  unforeseen 
and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful 
beyond  all  expression ; so  that,  even  in  the  desire 
and  the  regret  they  leave,  there  cannot  but  be  plea- 
sure, participating  as  it  does  in  the  nature  of  its 
object.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  interpenetration  of  a 
diviner  nature  through  our  own ; but  its  footsteps 
are  like  those  of  a wind  over  the  sea,  which  the 
sas  * 


morning  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain  only, 
as  on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and 
corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced 
principally  by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility 
and  the  most  enlarged  imagination ; and  the  state  of 
mind  produced  by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base 
desire.  The  enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism, 
and  friendship,  is  essentially  linked  with  such  emo- 
tions ; and  whilst  they  last,  self  appears  as  what  it 
is,  an  atom  to  a universe.  Poets  are  not  only  subject 
to  these  experiences  as  spirits  of  the  most  refined 
organisation,  but  they  can  colour  all  that  they  com- 
bine with  the  evanescent  hues  of  this  ethereal  world ; 
a word,  a trait  in  the  representation  of  a scene  or 
passion,  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  reani- 
mate, in  those  who  have  ever  experienced  those 
emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried  image  of 
the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is 
best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world  ; it  arrests  the 
vanishing  apparitions  which  haunt  the  interlun- 
ations of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or  in  language  or  in 
form,  sends  them  forth  among  mankind,  bearing 
sweet  news  of  kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom  their 
sisters  abide — abide,  because  there  is  no  portal  of 
expression  from  the  caverns  of  the  spirit  which  they 
inhabit  into  the  universe  of  things.  Poetry  redeems 
from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man.’ 

The  remote  abstract  character  of  Shelley’s  poetry, 
and  its  general  want  of  anything  real  or  tangible, 
by  which  the  sympathies  of  the  heart  are  awakened, 
must  always  prevent  its  becoming  popular.  His 
mystic  idealism  renders  him  obscure,  and  his  imagery 
is  sometimes  accumulated,  till  both  precision  and 
effect  are  lost,  and  the  poet  becomes  harsh  and 
involved  in  expression.  He  sought  to  reason  high 
in  verse — not  like  Dryden,  Pope,  or  Johnson,  but  in 
cold  and  glittering  metaphysics,  where  the  idealism 
of  Plato  or  Berkeley  stood  in  the  place  of  the  moral 
truths  and  passions  of  actual  life.  There  is  no 
melancholy  grandeur  in  his  pictures,  or  simple  unity 
in  his  designs.  Another  fault  is  his  partiality  for 
painting  ghastly  and  repulsive  scenes.  He  had,  how- 
ever, many  great  and  shining  qualities — a rich  and 
fertile  imagination,  a passionate  love  of  nature,  and 
a diction  singularly  classical  and  imposing  in  sound 
and  structure.  He  was  a close  student  of  the  Greek 
and  Italian  poets.  The  descriptive  passages  in  j 
Alastor,  and  the  river-voyage  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  Revolt  of  Islam,  are  among  the  most  finished  of 
his  productions.  His  morbid  ghastliness  is  there 
laid  aside,  and  his  better  genius  leads  him  to  the 
pure  waters  and  the  depth  of  forest  shades,  which 
none  of  his  contemporaries  knew  better  how  to 
describe.  Some  of  the  minor  poems  are  also 
imbued  with  a true  poetical  spirit.  One  striking 
peculiarity  of  his  style  is  his  constant  personifi- 
cation of  inanimate  objects.  In  The  Cenci  we  have 
a strong  and  almost  terrible  illustration  of  this  j 
feature  of  his  poetry : 

I remember, 

Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a deep  ravine ; ’tis  rough  and  narrow, 

And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice ; 

And  in  its  depth  there  is  a mighty  rock 
Which  has  from  unimaginable  years 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down ; 

Even  as  a wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour, 

Clings  to  the  mass  of  life,  yet  clinging,  leans, 

And  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  di’ead  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall — beneath  this  crag, 

Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 

The  melancholy  mountain  yawns ; below 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


You  hear,  but  see  not,  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm ; and  high  above  there  grow, 

With  intersecting  tranks,  from  crag  to  crag, 

Cedars  and  yews,  and  pines,  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy’s  twine.  At  noonday  here 
’Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 

The  Flight  of  the  Hours  in  Prometheus  is  equally 
vivid,  and  touched  with  a higher  grace : 

Behold! 

The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 

Which  trample  the  dim  winds  : in  each  there  stands 
A wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 

Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 

And  yet  I see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars : 

Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.  Their  bright 
locks 

Stream  like  a comet’s  flashing  hair : they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 

Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.  One  waits  for  thee. 

[ Opening  of  Queen  Mab .] 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 

One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue ; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When,  throned  on  ocean’s  wave, 

It  blushes  o’er  the  world : 

Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power, 

Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres, 

Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 

Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a field  of  snow, 

That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 

Must  putrefaction’s  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 
But  loathsomeness  and  ruin? 

Spare  nothing  but  a gloomy  theme 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralise  ? 

Or  is  it  only  a sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o’er  sensation, 

Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness? 

Will  Ianthe  wake  again, 

And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 

And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark-blue  orbs  beneath, 

The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed : 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom’s  stainless  pride, 

Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a marble  column. 

Hark ! whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 

’Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a lonely  ruin  swells, 

Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening : 

’Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind’s  sigh ; 

’Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the  teints 
Are  such  as  may  not  find 
Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  fairy  queen  ! 

Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air ; 

Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 

And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 

These  the  queen  of  spells  drew  in ; 

She  spread  a charm  around  the  spot, 

And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 

Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 

Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 

The  Cloud.* 

I bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 

I bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 
The  sweet  birds  every  one, 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother’s  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

I wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 

And  then  again  I dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I pass  in  thunder. 

I sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 

And  all  the  night  ’tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 

Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers 
Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 

In  a cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves,  remains ; 

And  I all  the  while  bask  in  heaven’s  blue  smile, 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 

Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 
When  the  morning-star  shines  dead. 

* * The  odes  To  the  Skylark  and  The  Cloud,  in  the  opinion  of 
many  critics,  bear  a purer  poetical  stamp  than  any  other  of  his 
productions.  They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  listen- 
ing to  the  caroling  of  the  bird  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy;  or 
marking  the  cloud  as  it  sped  across  the  heavens,  while  he  floated 
in  his  boat  on  the  Thames.  No  poet  was  ever  warmed  by  a 
more  genuine  and  unforced  inspiration.  Ilis  extreme  sensibility 
gave  the  intensity  of  passion  to  his  intellectual  pursuits,  and 
rendered  his  mind  keenly  alive  to  every  perception  of  outward 
objects,  as  well  as  to  his  internal  sensations.  Such  a gift  is, 
among  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  human  life,  the  disappointments 
we  meet,  and  the  galling  sense  of  our  own  mistakes  and  errors, 
fraught  with  pain  ; to  escape  from  such  he  delivered  up  his 
soul  to  poetry,  and  felt  happy  when  he  sheltered  himself  from 
the  influence  of  human  sympathies  in  the  wildest  regions  of 
fancy.  ’—Mr a Shelley,  Pref.  to  Poet.  Works. 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


As  on  the  jag  of  a mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 

An  eagle  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings ; 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 

With  wings  folded  I rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 

Glides  glimmering  o’er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent’s  thin  roof, 
The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 

And  I laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a swarm  of  golden  bees, 

When  I widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I bind  the  sun’s  throne  with  a burning  zone, 

And  the  moon’s  with  a girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a torrent  sea, 

Sunbeam  proof,  I hang  like  a roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 
Is  the  million-coloured  bow ; 

The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 

I pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I change,  but  I cannot  die. 

For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 

I silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

Like  a child  from  the  womb,  like  a ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

To  a Skylark 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still,  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightening 
Of  the  sunken  sun, 

O’er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

360 


to  1830. 


The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight ; 

Like  a star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 

As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over* 
flowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 

From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a rain  of  melody. 

Like  a poet  hidden 
In  the  light  of  thought, 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a high-born  maiden 
In  a palace  tower, 

Soothing  her  love -laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

Like  a glowworm  golden 
In  a dell  of  dew, 

Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view. 

Like  a rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves, 

By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 

Eain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ; 

I have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 

Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 
Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 

What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ? what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be : 

Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 

Thou  lovest ; but  ne’er  knew  love’s  sad  satiety. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 

Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 

Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught : 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 
Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 

If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a tear, 

I know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come  near. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 

As  a Masnad,  its  moonlight-coloured  cup, 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 

The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 

And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime, 

Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 
With  a motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 


Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delight  and  sound, 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I am  listening  now. 


[ From, 1 The  Sensitive  Plant .’] 

A Sensitive  Plant  in  a garden  grew, 

And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 

And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 

And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 

Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere ; 

And  each  flower  and  herb  on  earth’s  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 

Like  a doe  in  the  noontide  with  love’s  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 

And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 

Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream’s  recess, 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 

It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense ; 


And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 

Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 

Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 

Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels ; 

And  flowerets  which,  drooping  as  day  drooped  too, 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 

To  roof  the  glowworm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  un  defiled  Paradise 
The  flowers — as  an  infant’s  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it — 

When  heaven’s  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 

As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a hidden  gem, 

Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 
Wrapt  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver ; 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 
Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  dower  : 

It  loves,  even  like  Loye,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 

It  desires  what  it  has  not — the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which,  from  unsustaining  wings, 

Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings ; 

The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 

Like  golden  boats  on  a sunny  sea, 

Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 

Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 

Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears ; 


And  the  rose  like  a nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare ; 


The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 

Which  like  a sea  o’er  the  warm  earth  glide, 

In  which  every  sound,  and  odour,  and  beam, 
Move  as  reeds  in  a single  stream ; 

361 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 

Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by, 

Like  windless  clouds  o’er  a tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 

And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day’s  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 
drowned 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a sound ; 

Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it — consciousness ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 

A sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 

The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite, 

Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 


[Forest  Scenmj.'} 

[From  Alastor , or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude.'] 

The  noonday  sun 

Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A narrow  vale  embosoms.  There  huge  caves, 

Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  airy  rocks, 

Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 

The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o’er  the  poet’s  path,  as,  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  death, 

He  sought  in  nature’s  dearest  haunt,  some  bank, 

Her  cradle  and  his  sepulchre.  More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate — the  oak, 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  ai’ms, 

Embraces  the  light  beech.  The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 

Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 

The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang, 

Tremulous  and  pale.  Like  restless  serpents  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 

Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks  ; and,  as  gamesome  infants’  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings  and  most  innocent  wiles, 

Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs, 
Uniting  their  close  union ; the  woven  leaves 
Make  network  of  the  dark-blue  light  of  day 
And  the  night’s  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.  Soft  mossy  lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells, 

Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyes  with  blooms 

Minute  yet  beautiful.  One  darkest  glen 

Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with  jasmine, 

A soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.  Through  the  dell 

Silence  and  twilight  here,  twin  sisters,  keep 

Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades, 

Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen ; beyond,  a well, 

Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 

Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above ; 

And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms ; 

Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 

362 


to  1830. 


Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 

Or  gorgeous  insect,  floating  motionless, 

Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  poet  came.  His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain  ; as  the  human  heart, 

Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 

Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.  He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves ; the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled,  and  glanced,  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.  A spirit  seemed 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light. 

Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery ; 

But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 

And  rippling  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 

Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuming 

Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 

Were  all  that  was ; only — when  his  regard 

Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness — two  eyes, 

Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 

And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 

That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell.  The  rivulet, 

Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.  Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony, 

Dark  and  profound.  Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood,  laughing  as  it  went : 

Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Beflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. 


Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon’s  transparent  light* 

* * * 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 

Like  many  a voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 

The  city’s  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  solitude’s. 

I see  the  deep’s  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea- weeds  strown ; 

I see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown ; 

I sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion ; 

How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion  ! 

Alas ! I have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within,  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned ; 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 

To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

1 A line  seems  to  have  been  lost  at  this  place,  probably  by 
an  oversight  of  the  transcriber. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  KEATS. 


Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 

I could  lie  down  like  a tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o’er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 

Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 

They  might  lament — for  I am  one 
Whom  men  love  not ; and  yet  regret, 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 

Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


On  a Faded  Violet. 

The  colour  from  the  flower  is  gone, 

Which  like  thy  sweet  eyes  smiled  on  me ; 
The  odour  from  the  flower  is  flown, 

Which  breathed  of  thee  and  only  thee. 

A withered,  lifeless,  vacant  form, 

It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast, 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I weep — my  tears  revive  it  not ; 

I sigh — it  breathes  no  more  on  me ; 

Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 
Is  such  a3  mine  should  be.* 


Lines  to  an  Indian  Air. 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright ; 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how? — 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet. 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark  and  silent  stream, 

The  Champak  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a dream ; 

The  nightingale’s  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 

As  I must  do  on  thine, 

, 0,  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

* Captain  Medwin,  a biographer  of  Shelley,  and  one  of  his 
most  intimate  friends,  attaches  a romantic  origin  to  the  above 
lines,  and  to  the  Stanzas  on  Dejection.  A young  married  lady, 
of  noble  connections  and  considerable  fortune,  visited  the 
poet  before  he  left  London  in  1814,  and  offered  to  relinquish 
all  that  belonged  to  her  position,  and  share  her  future  life 
and  fortune  with  him.  The  poet,  it  is  said,  delivered  himself 
with  signal  address  and  grace  from  this  embarrassing  situa- 
tion ; but  the  lady  followed  him  to  Geneva.  On  his  return  to 
England,  he  thought  she  had  long  forgotten  him,  but  her 
constancy  was  untired.  During  his  journey  to  Rome  and 
Naples,  she  once  lodged  with  him  at  the  same  hotel,  en  route,, 
and  finally  arrived  at  the  latter  city  on  the  same  day  as  him- 
self. They  met  at  Naples,  and  the  lady  told  him  of  her 
wanderings,  of  which  he  had  been  previously  ignorant— and 
at  Naples  she  died.  The  perusal  of  Shelley’s  Queen  Mab  bad 
inspired  this  infatuated  attachment. 


0 lift  me  from  tbe  grass  ! 

I die,  I faint,  I fail ; 

Let  tby  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 

Oh  ! press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

To . 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 

Vibrates  in  the  memory — 

Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved’s  bed ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


JOHN  KEATS. 

John  Keats  was  born  in  London,  October  29, 
1795,  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  who  kept  a 
livery- stable  at  Moorfields.  He  received  his  educa- 
tion at  Enfield,  and  in  his  fifteenth  year  was 


John  Keats. 

apprenticed  to  a surgeon.  Most  of  his  time,  how- 
ever, was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  his  literary 
talents,  which  were  early  conspicuous.  During  his 
apprenticeship,  he  made  and  carefully  wrote  out  a 
literal  translation  of  Virgil’s  JEneid,  and  instructed 
himself  also  in  some  knowledge  of  Greek  and 
Italian.  One  of  his  earliest  friends  and  critics  was 
Mr  Leigh  Hunt,  who,  being  shewn  some  of  his 
poetical  pieces,  was  struck,  he  says,  with  the 
exuberant  specimens  of  genuine  though  young 
poetry  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  the  promise 
of  which  was  seconded  by  the  fine  fervid  counten- 
ance of  the  writer.  A volume  of  these  juvenile 
poems  was  published  in  1817.  In  1818  Keats 
published  his  Endymion , a Poetic  Romance , defective 
in  many  parts,  but  evincing  rich  though  undis- 
ciplined powers  of  imagination.  The  poem  was 
criticised,  in  a strain  of  contemptuous  severity,  by 
Mr  John  Wilson  Croker  in  the  Quarterly  Review  t 
and  such  was  the  sensitiveness  of  the  young  poet — 

363 


FUOM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


panting  for  distinction,  and  flattered  by  a few 
private  friends — that  the  critique  imbittered  his 
existence.  ‘The  first  effects,’  says  Shelley,  ‘are 
described  to  me  to  have  resembled  insanity,  and  it 
was  by  assiduous  watching  that  he  was  restrained 
from  effecting  purposes  of  suicide.  The  agony  of 
his  sufferings  at  length  produced  the  rupture  of  a 
blood-vessel  in  the  lungs,  and  the  usual  process  of 
consumption  appears  to  have  begun.’  The  process 
had  begun,  as  was  too  soon  apparent;  but  the 
disease  was  a family  one,  and  would  probably  have 
appeared  had  no  hostile  criticism  existed.  Mr 
Monckton  Milnes,  Keats’s  biographer,  states  that 
the  young  poet  profited  by  the  attacks  of  the  critics, 
their  effect  being  ‘to  purify  his  style,  correct  his 
tendency  to  exaggeration,  enlarge  his  poetical 
studies,  and  produce,  among  other  improved  efforts, 
that  very  Hyperion  which  called  forth  from  Byron 
a eulogy  as  violent  and  unqualified  as  the  former 
onslaught.’  Byron  had  termed  the  juvenile  poetry 
of  Keats,  ‘the  drivelling  idiotism  of  the  manikin.’ 
Keats’s  poetry  falling  into  the  hands  of  Jeffrey,  he 
criticised  it  in  the  Edinburgh  Review , in  a spirit  of 
kindliness  and  just  appreciation  which  formed  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  criticism  in  the  Quarterly. 
But  this  genial  critique  did  not  appear  till  1820, 
too  late  to  cheer  the  then  dying  poet.  ‘ Mr  Keats,’ 
says  the  eloquent  critic,  ‘ is,  we  understand,  still  a 
very  young  man ; and  his  whole  works,  indeed, 
bear  evidence  enough  of  the  fact.  They  manifestly 
require,  therefore,  all  the  indulgence  that  can  be 
claimed  for  a first  attempt ; but  we  think  it  no  less 
plain  that  they  deserve  it ; for  they  are  flushed  all 
over  with  the  rich  lights  of  fancy,  and  so  coloured 
and  bestrown  with  the  flowers  of  poetry,  that,  even 
while  perplexed  and  bewildered  in  their  labyrinths, 
it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxication  of  their 
sweetness,  or  to  shut  our  hearts  to  the  enchantments 
they  so  lavishly  present.  The  models  upon  which  he 
has  formed  himself  in  the  Endymion,  the  earliest  and 
by  much  the  most  considerable  of  his  poems,  are 
obviously  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  of  Fletcher,  and 
the  Sad  Shepherd  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  exquisite 
metres  and  inspired  diction  of  which  he  has  copied 
with  great  boldness  and  fidelity ; and,  like  his  great 
originals,  has  also  contrived  to  impart  to  the  whole 
piece  that  true  rural  and  poetical  air  which  breathes 
only  in  them  and  in  Theocritus — which  is  at  once 
homely  and  majestic,  luxurious  and  rude,  and  sets 
before  us  the  genuine  sights,  and  sounds,  and  smells 
of  the  country,  with  all  the  magic  and  grace  of 
Elysium.  His  subject  has  the  disadvantage  of  being 
mythological;  and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  on 
account  of  the  raised  and  rapturous  tone  it  conse- 
quently assumes,  his  poetry  may  be  better  compared 
perhaps  to  the  Comus  and  the  Arcades  of  Milton,  of 
which,  also,  there  are  many  traces  of  imitation.  The 
great  distinction,  however,  between  him  and  these 
divine  authors  is,  that  imagination  in  them  is 
subordinate  to  reason  and  judgment,  while,  with 
him,  it  is  paramount  and  supreme ; that  their  orna- 
ments and  images  are  employed  to  embellish  and 
recommend  just  sentiments,  engaging  incidents,  and 
natural  characters,  while  his  are  poured  out  without 
measure  or  restraint,  and  with  no  apparent  design 
but  to  unburden  the  breast  of  the  author,  and  give 
vent  to  the  overflowing  vein  of  his  fancy.  There  is 
no  work  from  which  a malicious  critic  could  cull 
more  matter  for  ridicule,  or  select  more  obscure, 
unnatural,  or  absurd  passages.  But  we  do  not  take 
that  to  be  our  office ; and  just  beg  leave,  on  the 
contrary,  to  say,  that  any  one  who,  on  this  account, 
would  represent  the  whole  poem  as  despicable,  must 
either  have  no  notion  of  poetry  or  no  regard  to 
364 


truth.’  The  readers  of  poetry  confirmed  this  judg- 
ment ; and  the  genius  of  the  author  was  still  further 
displayed  in  his  latest  volume,  Lamia , Isabella , the 
Eve  of  St  Agnes , &c.  As  a last  effort  for  life,  in 
September  1820,  Keats  tried  the  milder  climate  of 
Italy — going  first  to  Naples,  and  from  thence  to 
Rome.  ‘ He  suffered  so  much  in  his  lingering,’  says 
Mr  Leigh  Hunt,  ‘ that  he  used  to  watch  the  coun- 
tenance of  his  physician  for  the  favourable  and  fatal 
sentence,  and  express  his  regret  when  he  found  it 
delayed.  Yet  no  impatience  escaped  him— he  was 
manly  and  gentle  to  the  last,  and  grateful  for  all 
services.  A little  before  he  died,  he  said  that  he 
felt  the  daisies  growing  over  him.’  To  his  friend 
Mr  Severn,  who  attended  him  in  his  last  moments, 
he  said  that  on  his  grave-stone  should  be  this 
inscription : ‘ Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in 
water.’  He  died  on  the  27th  of  December  1820,  and 
was  buried,  as  his  friend  Shelley  relates,  ‘in  the 
romantic  and  lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in 
that  city,  under  the  pyramid  which  is  the  tomb 
of  Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
mouldering  and  desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit 
of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery  is  an  open  space 
among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter  with  violets  and 
daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love  witji  death  to 
think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a place.’  * 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Keats,  as  a poet,  to 
be  either  extravagantly  praised  . or  unmercifully 

* Preface  to  Adonais ; an  elegy  on  the  death  of  Keats.  In 
Shelley’s  correspondence  is  a letter  by  Mr  Finch,  giving  an 
account  of  Keats’s  last  moments,  less  pleasing,  but  much 
more  striking  than  that  of  Hunt.  ‘ Almost  despairing  of  his 
case,  he  left  his  native  shores  by  sea  in  a merchant-vessel  for 
Naples,  where  he  arrived,  having  received  no  benefit  during 
the  passage,  and  brooding  over  the  most  melancholy  and 
mortifying  reflections ; and  nursing  a deeply  rooted  disgust  to 
life  and  to  the  world,  owing  to  having  been  infamously  treated 
by  the  very  persons  whom  his  generosity  had  rescued , from 
want  and  woe.  He  journeyed  from  Naples  to  Home,  and 
occupied,  at  the  latter  place,  lodgings  which  I had,  on  former 
occasions,  more  than  once  inhabited.  Here  he  soon  took  to 
his  bed,  from  which  he  never  rose  more.  His  passions  were 
always  violent,  and  his  sensibility  most  keen.  It  is  extra- 
ordinary that,  proportionally  as  his  strength  of  body  declined, 
these  acquired  fresh  vigour ; and  his  temper  at  length  became 
so  outrageously  violent,  as  to  injure  himself,  and  annoy  every 
one  around  him.  He  eagerly  wished  for  death.  After  leaving 
England,  I believe  that  he  seldom  courted  the  muse.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a friend  of  mine,  Mr  Severn,  a young  painter, 
who  will,  I think,  one  day  be  the  Coryphaeus  of  the  English 
school.  He  left  all,  and  sacrificed  every  prospect,  to  accom- 
pany and  watch  over  his  friend  Keats.  For  many  weeks 
previous  to  his  death,  he  would  see  no  one  but  Mr  Severn,  who 
had  almost  risked  his  own  life  by  unwearied  attendance  upon 
his  friend,  who  rendered  his  situation  doubly  unpleasant  by 
the  violence  of  his  passions,  exhibited  even  towards  him,  so 
much  that  he  might  be  judged  insane.  His  intervals  of 
remorse,  too,  were  poignantly  bitter.  I believe  that  Mr  Severn, 
the  heir  of  what  little  Keats  left  behind  him  at  Rome,  has 
only  come  into  possession  of  very  few  manuscripts  of  his 
friend.  The  poetical  volume  which  was  the  inseparable  com- 
panion of  Keats,  and  which  he  took  for  his  most  darling  model 
in  composition,  was  the  Minor  Poems  of  Shakspeare.’  Byron — 
who  thought  the  death  of  Keats  a loss  to  our  literature,  and 
who  said  : * His  fragment  of  Hyperion  seems  actually  inspired 
by  the  Titans,  and  is  as  sublime  as  Eschylus’— alludes,  play- 
fully and  wittily,  but  incorrectly,  in  his  Don  Juan,  to  the  death 
of  the  young  poet : 

John  Keats,  who  was  killed  off  by  one  critique, 

Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great. 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late, 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 

Poor  fellow  ! His  was  an  untoward  fate ; 

’Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 

Should  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an  article. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  KEATS. 


condemned.  The  former  was  owing  to  the  generous 
partialities  of  friendship,  somewhat  obtrusively 
displayed ; the  latter,  in  some  degree,  to  resentment 
of  that  friendship,  connected  as  it  was  with  party 
politics  and  peculiar  views  of  society  as  well  as  of 
poetry.  In  the  one  case  his  faults , and  in  the  other 
his  merits , were  entirely  overlooked.  A few  years 
dispelled  these  illusions  and  prejudices.  Keats  was 
a true  poet.  If  we  consider  his  extreme  youth 
and  delicate  health,  his  solitary  and  interesting  self- 
instruction,  the  severity  of  the  attacks  made  upon 
him  by  his  hostile  and  powerful  critics,  and,  above 
all,  the  original  richness  and  picturesqueness  of  his 
conceptions  and  imagery,  even  when  they  run  to 
waste,  he  appears  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
young  poets — resembling  the  Milton  of  Lycidas , or 
the  Spenser  of  the  Tears  of  the  Muses.  What  easy, 
finished,  statuesque  beauty  and  classic  expression, 
for  example,  are  displayed  in  this  picture  of  Saturn 
and  Thea ! 

[Saturn  and  Thea.'] 

[From  Hyperion.'] 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve’s  one  star, 

Sat  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.  No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a summer’s  day 
Robs  one  light  seed  from  the  feathered  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a shade  : the  Naiad  ’mid  her  reeds 
Pressed  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin  sand  large  footmarks  went 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  strayed, 

And  slept  there  since.  Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ; and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed; 
While  his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to  the  earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seemed  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place ; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a kindred  hand 
Touched  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 

She  was  a goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 

By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a pigmy’s  height : she  would  have  ta’en 

Achilles  by  the  hair,  and  bent  his  neck ; 

Or  with  a finger  stayed  Ixion’s  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a palace  court, 

When  sages  looked  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 

But  oh  ! how  unlike  marble  was  that  face ! 

How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty’s  self ! 

There  was  a listening  fear  in  her  regard, 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 

As  if  the  van  ward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was,  with  its  stored  thunder,  labouring  up. 

One  hand  she  pressed  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  ; 

The  other  upon  Saturn’s  bended  neck 
She  laid,  aiql  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone ; 

Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents — 0 ! how  frail, 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods  ! — 

‘ Saturn,  look  up  ! though  wherefore,  poor  old  king  ? 


I cannot  say,  “0  wherefore  sleepest  thou  ?” 

For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not  thus  afflicted  for  a god ; 

And  ocean,  too,  with,  all  its  solemn  noise, 

Has  from  thy  sceptre  passed,  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 

Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 

Rumbles  reluctant  o’er  our  fallen  house ; 

And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 

0 aching  time  ! 0 moments  big  as  years  ! 

All,  as  ye  pass,  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 

And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a space  to  breathe. 

Saturn,  sleep  on ! 0,  thoughtless,  why  did  I 

Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 

Why  should  I ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 

Saturn,  sleep  on  ! while  at  thy  feet  I weep.’ 

As  when,  upon  a tranced  summer  night, 

Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 

Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a stir, 

Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 

As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave ; 

So  came  these  words  and  went. 

The  antique  grace  and  solemnity  of  passages  like 
these  must  be  felt  by  every  lover  of  poetry.  The 
chief  defects  of  Keats  are  his  want  of  distinctness 
and  precision,  and  the  carelessness  of  his  style. 
There  would  seem  to  have  been  even  affectation  in 
his  disregard  of  order  and  regularity ; and  he  heaps 
up  images  and  conceits  in  such  profusion,  that  they 
often  form  grotesque  and  absurd  combinations,  which 
fatigue  the  reader.  Deep  feeling  and  passion  are 
rarely  given  to  young  poets  redolent  of  fancy  and 
warm  from  the  perusal  of  the  ancient  authors.  The 
difficulty  with  which  Keats  had  mastered  the  classic 
my thology  gave  it  an  undue  importance  in  his  mind : 
a more  perfect  knowledge  would  have  harmonised 
its  materials,  and  shewn  him  the  beauty  of  chaste- 
ness and  simplicity  of  style — the  last  but  the  greatest 
advantage  of  classic  studies.  In  poets  like  Gray, 
Rogers,  and  Campbell,  we  see  the  ultimate  effects  of 
this  taste ; in  Keats  we  have  only  the  materials, 
unselected,  and  often  shapeless.  His  imagination 
was  prolific  of  forms  of  beauty  and  grandeur,  but 
the  judgment  was  wanting  to  symmetrise  and 
arrange  them,  assigning  to  each  its  due  proportion 
and  its  proper  place.  His  fragments,  however,  are 
the  fragments  of  true  genius — rich,  original,  and 
various  ; and  Mr  Leigh  Hunt  is  right  in  his  opinion, 
that  the  poems  of  Keats,  with  all  their  defects, 
will  be  the  ‘sure  companions  in  field  and  grove’ 
of  those  who  love  to  escape  ‘out  of  the  strife 
of  commonplaces  into  the  haven  of  solitude  and 
imagination.’ 

One  line  in  Endymion  has  become  familiar  as  a 
‘ household  word  ’ wherever  the  English  language  is 
spoken — 

A thing  of  beauty  is  a joy  for  ever. 

[ The  Lady  Madeline  at  her  Devotions .] 

[From  the  Eve  of  St  Agnes.] 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died  : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air  and  visions  wide  : 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 

As  though  a tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 

365 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


A casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  hunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 
Innumerable,  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth’s  deep  damasked  wings ; 

And  in  the  midst,  ’mong  thousand  heraldries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline’s  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven’s  grace  and  boon ; 
Hose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 

And  on  her  hair  a glory  like  a saint : 

She  seemed  a splendid  angel  newly  drest, 

Save  wings,  for  heaven ; Porphyro  grew  faint : 

She  knelt,  so  pure  a thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 

[ Hymn  to  Pan!\ 

[From  Endymion.] 

0 thou  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 

Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken ; 

And  through  whose  solemn  hours  dost  sit  and 
hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 

In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 

Bethinking  thee  how  melancholy  loath 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 

By  thy  love’s  milky  brow, 

By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 

Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

0 thou  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  ’mong  myrtles, 

What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms:  0 thou  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripened  fruitage ; yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs ; our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossomed  beans  and  poppied  corn ; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 

To  sing  for  thee ; low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness ; pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings ; yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 

0 foresitr  divine ! 

Thou  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service ; whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half -sleeping  fit ; 

Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 

To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle’s  maw ; 

Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 

Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 

And  gather  up  all  fancifulest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads’  cells, 

And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping ; 

Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 

The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown — 

By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 

Hear  us,  0 satyr  king  ! 

266 


to  1830. 


0 hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 

While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A ram  goes  bleating : winder  of  the  horn, 

When  snouted  wild  boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsmen : breather  round  our  farms, 

To  keep  off  mildews  and  all  weather  barms  : 

Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 

That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 

And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors : 

Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 

Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows ! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings ; such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 

Then  leave  the  naked  brain  : be  still  the  leaven, 
That,  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 

Gives  it  a touch  ethereal — a new  birth : 

Be  still  a symbol  of  immensity ; 

A firmament  reflected  in  a sea ; 

An  element  filling  the  space  between ; 

An  unknown — but  no  more : we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads  lowly  bending, 

And  giving  out  a shout  most  heaven-rending, 

Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Paean, 

Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean ! 

Ode  to  a Nightingale. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I had  drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 

’Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beeehen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

0 for  a draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a long  age  in  the  deep -delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance  and  Provencal  song  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 

0 for  a beaker  full  of  the  warm  south, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple -stained  mouth ; 

That  I might  drink  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 

Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  ! away ! for  I will  fly  to  thee 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  ! tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  blooms  and  winding  mossy 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  KEATS. 


I cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  houghs, 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 

And  mid-May’s  eldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I listen ; and  for  many  a time 

I have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 

The  voice  I hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 

Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  ! the  very  word  is  like  a bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 

Adieu  ! the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu  ! adieu  ! thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  hill-stream, 

Up  the  hillside ; and  now  ’tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley’s  glades  : 

Was  it  a vision  or  a waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music : — do  I wake  or  sleep  ? 

To  Autumn. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
run ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a sweet  kernel ; to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  summer  has  o’erbrimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes,  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 

Or  on  a half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometimes  like  a gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a brook ; 

Or  by  a cider-press  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft  dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 


Then  in  a wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ; and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a garden  croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  from  the  skies. 

Sonnets. 

[On  First  Looking  into  Chapman’s  Homer.] 

Much  have  I travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 

Yet  did  I never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 

Then  felt  I like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a peak  in  Darien. 

[The  Human  Seasons.] 

Four  seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man : 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring’s  honied  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  nigh 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven  : quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 
He  furleth  close ; contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

[On  England.] 

Happy  is  England  ! I could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 

To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent ; 

Yet  do  I sometimes  feel  a languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a throne, 

And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters ; 
Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me ; 

Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging  : 

Yet  do  I often  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 
And  float  with  them  about  their  summer  waters. 

z^.  ' 

[‘  The  poet  Keats  walked  in  the  Highlands,  not  with  the 
joyousness,  the  rapture,  of  the  young  Itousseau,  but  in  that 
hallowed  pleasure  of  the  soul  which,  in  its  fulness,  is  akin  to 
pain.  The  following  extract  of  a poem,  not  published  in  his 
works,  proves  his  intensity  of  feeling,  even  to  the  dread  of 
madness.  It  was  written  while  on  his  journey,  soon  after  his 
pilgrimage  to  the  birthplace  of  Burns,  not  for  the  gaze  of  the 
world,  but  as  a record  for  himself  of  the  temper  of  his  mind 
at  the  time.  It  is  a sure  index  to  the  more  serious  traits  in 
his  character ; but  Keats,  neither  in  writing  nor  in  speaking 
could  affect  a sentiment— his  gentle  spirit  knew  not  how  to 
counterfeit.’— New  Monthly  Magazine , 1822.] 

There  is  a charm  in  footing  slow 
Across  a silent  plain, 

Where  patriot  battle  has  been  fought, 

Where  glory  had  the  gain  : 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


There  is  a pleasure  on  the  heath, 

Where  Druids  old  have  been, 

Where  mantles  gray  have  rustled  by, 

And  swept  the  nettles  green : 

There  is  a joy  in  every  spot, 

Made  known  in  days  of  old, 

New  to  the  feet,  although  each  tale 
A hundred  times  be  told. 

* * * * 

Ay,  if  a madman  could  have  leave 
To  pass  a healthful  day, 

To  tell  his  forehead’s  swoon  and  faint 

When  first  began  decay. 

* * * * 

One  hour  half  idiot  he  stands 
By  mossy  water-fall, 

But  in  the  very  next  he  reads 
His  soul’s  memorial. 

He  reads  it  on  the  mountain’s  height, 

Where  chance  he  may  sit  down 
Upon  rough  marble  diadem — 

That  hill’s  eternal  crown  ! 

Yet  be  his  anchor  e’er  so  fast, 

Room  is  there  for  a prayer, 

That  man  may  never  lose  his  mind 
On  mountains  black  and  bare. 

That  he  may  stray,  league  after  league, 

Some  great  birthplace  to  find, 

And  keep  his  vision  clear  from  speck, 

His  inward  sight  unblind ! 

DR  REGINALD  HEBER. 

Dr  Reginald  Heber,  bishop  of  Calcutta,  was 
born  April  21,  1783,  at  Malpas  in  Cheshire,  where 
his  father  had  a living.  In  his  seventeenth  year 
he  was  admitted  of  Brazen-nose  College,  Oxford,  and 
soon  distinguished  himself  by  his  classical  attain- 
ments. In  1802  he  obtained  the  university  prize 
for  Latin  hexameters,  his  subject  being  the  Carmen 
Seculare.  Applying  himself  to  English  verse,  Heber, 
in  1803,  composed  his  poem  of  Palestine , which  has 
been  considered  the  best  prize-poem  the  university 
has  ever  produced.  Parts  of  it  were  set  to  music  ; 
and  it  had  an  extensive  sale.  Previous  to  its  reci- 
tation in  the  theatre  of  the  university,  the  young 
author  read  it  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then  on  a visit 
to  Oxford;  and  Scott  observed,  that  in  the  verses 
on  Solomon’s  Temple,  one  striking  circumstance  had 
escaped  him — namely,  that  no  tools  were  used  in  its 
construction.  Reginald  retired  for  a few  minutes  to 
the  corner  of  the  room,  and  returned  with  the 
beautiful  lines — 

No  hammer  fell,  no  ponderous  axes  rung  ; 

Like  some  tall  palm  the  mystic  fabric  sprung. 

Majestic  silence ! 

His  picture  of  Palestine,  in  its  now  fallen  and 
desolate  state,  is  pathetic  and  beautiful : 

Reft  of  thy  sons,  amid  thy  foes  forlorn, 

Mourn,  widowed  queen  ! forgotten  Sion,  mourn  ! 

Is  this  thy  place,  sad  city,  this  thy  throne, 

Where  the  wild  desert  rears  its  craggy  stone  ? 

While  suns  unblessed  their  angry  lustre  fling, 

And  wayworn  pilgrims  seek  the  scanty  spring  ? 

Where  now  thy  pomp,  which  kings  with  envy  viewed  ? 
Where  now  thy  might,  which  all  those  kings  subdued  ? 
No  martial  myriads  muster  in  thy  gate ; 

No  suppliant  nations  in  thy  temple  wait; 

No  prophet-bards,  the  glittering  courts  among, 

Wake  the  full  lyre,  and  swell  the  tide  of  song : 

But  lawless  Force,  and  meagre  Want  are  there, 

And  the  quick-darting  eye  of  restless  Fear, 

While  cold  Oblivion,  ’mid  thy  ruins  laid, 

Folds  his  dank  wing  beneath  the  ivy  shade. 

868 


He  has  also  given  a striking  sketch  of  the 
Druses,  the  hardy  mountain  race  descended  from 
the  Crusaders : 

Fierce,  hardy,  proud,  in  conscious  freedom  bold, 

Those  stormy  seats  the  warrior  Druses  hold ; 

From  Norman  blood  their  lofty  line  they  trace, 

Their  lion-courage  proves  their  generous  race. 

They,  only  they,  while  all  around  them  kneel 
In  sullen  homage  to  the  Thracian  steel, 

Teach  their  pale  despot’s  waning  moon  to  fear 
The  patriot  terrors  of  the  mountain  spear. 

Yes,  valorous  chiefs,  while  yet  your  sabres  shine, 

The  native  guard  of  feeble  Palestine, 

O,  ever  thus,  by  no  vain  boast  dismayed, 

Defend  the  birthright  of  the  cedar  shade  ! 

What  though  no  more  for  you  the  obedient  gale 
Swells  the  white  bosom  of  the  Tyrian  sail ; 

Though  now  no  more  your  glittering  marts  unfold 
Sidonian  dyes  and  Lusitanian  gold ; 

Though  not  for  you  the  pale  and  sickly  slave 
Forgets  the  light  in  Ophir’s  wealthy  cave ; 

Yet  yours  the  lot,  in  proud  contentment  blest, 

Where  cheerful  labour  leads  to  tranquil  rest. 

No  robber-rage  the  ripening  harvest  knows ; 

And  unrestrained  the  generous  vintage  flows : 

Nor  less  your  sons  to  manliest  deeds  aspire ; 

And  Asia’s  mountains  glow  with  Spartan  fire. 

So  when,  deep  sinking  in  the  rosy  main, 

The  western  sun  forsakes  the  Syrian  plain, 

His  watery  rays  refracted  lustre  shed, 

And  pour  their  latest  light  on  Carmel’s  head. 

Yet  shines  your  praise,  amid  surrounding  gloom, 

As  the  lone  lamp  that  trembles  in  the  tomb ; 

For  few  the  souls  that  spurn  a tyrant’s  chain, 

And  small  the  bounds  of  freedom’s  scanty  reign. 

While  his  poem  of  Palestine  was  universally 
admired,  and  all  looked  forward  to  the  maturity  of  a 
genius  so  rich  in  promise,  Heber  continued  his  studies 
with  unabated  industry.  He  nyide  considerable  pro- 
gress in  mathematics  and  in  the  higher  classics.  In 
1805  he  took  his  degree  of  B.A.,  and  the  same  year 
gained  the  prize  for  the  English  essay  ; the  subject, 
The  Sense  of  Honour.  He  was  elected  to  a fellowship 
at  All  Souls’  College,  and  soon  after  went  abroad, 
travelling  over  Germany,  Russia,  and  the  Crimea. 
On  his  return  he  took  his  degree  of  A.M.  at  Oxford. 
He  appeared  again  as  a poet  in  1809,  his  subject 
being  Europe , or  Lines  on  the  Present  War.  The 
struggle  in  Spain  formed  the  predominating  theme 
of  Heber’s  poem.  He  was  now  presented  to  the 
living  of  Hodnet ; and  at  the  same  time  he  married 
Amelia,  daughter  of  Dr  Shipley,  dean  of  St  Asaph. 
The  duties  of  a parish  pastor  were  discharged  by 
Heber  with  unostentatious  fidelity  and  application. 
He  also  applied  his  vigorous  intellect  to  the  study 
of  divinity,  and  in  1815  preached  the  Bampton 
Lecture,  the  subject  selected  by  him  for  a course  of 
sermons  being  the  Personality  and  Office  of  the 
Christian  Comforter.  He  was  an  occasional  con- 
tributor to  the  Quarterly  Review;  and  in  1822  he 
wrote  a copious  life  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  a review 
of  his  writings  for  a complete  edition  of  Taylor’s 
works.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  prudent  friends, 
he  accepted,  in  1823,  the  difficult  task  of  Bishop 
of  Calcutta,  and  no  man  could  have  entered  on  his 
mission  with  a more  Christian  or  apostolic  spirit. 
During  the  ensuing  year,  he  was  engaged  in  visiting 
the  several  European  stations  in  Bengal  and  the 
upper  provinces  of  Hindostan.  In  January  1825  he 
made  a similar  tour  to  the  stations  under  the  Bombay 
government,  consecrating  churches  at  various  places. 
In  May  1825  he  held  his  episcopal  visitation  at 
Bombay.  During  this  progress  he  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  two  central  schools.  He  also  visited  the 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  Reginald  heber. 


Deccan,  Ceylon,  and  Madras,  on  his  return  to 
Bengal,  performing  at  each  station  the  active  duties 
of  his  sacred  office.  His  whole  energies  appear  to 
have  been  devoted  to  the  propagation  of  Christianity 
in  the  East.  In  1826  the  bishop  made  a journey  to 
Travancore,  accompanied  by  the  Rev.  Mr  Doran, 
of  the  Church  Missionary  Society.  On  the  1st 
of  April  he  arrived  at  Trichinopoly,  and  had  twice 
service  on  the  day  following.  He  went  the  next 
day,  Monday,  at  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  to  see 
the  native  Christians  in  the  fort,  and  attend  divine 
service.  He  then  returned  to  the  house  of  a friend, 


Heber ’8  Parish  Church. 


and  went  into  the  bath  preparatory  to  his  dressing 
for  breakfast.  His  servant,  conceiving  he  remained 
too  long,  entered  the  room,  and  found  the  bishop 
dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  bath.  Medical  assistance 
was  applied,  but  every  effort  proved  ineffectual ; 
death  had  been  caused  by  apoplexy.  The  loss  of  so 
valuable  a public  man,  equally  beloved  and  vene- 
rated, was  mourned  by  all  classes,  and  every  honour 
was  paid  to  his  memory.  Much  might  have  been 
anticipated,  from  the  zeal  and  learning  of  Heber,  in 
elucidation  of  the  antiquities  of  India,  and  the  moral 
and  religious  improvement  of  its  people,  had  his 
valuable  life  been  spared.  At  the  time  of  his  death 
he  was  only  in  his  forty-third  year — a period  too 
short  to  have  developed  those  talents  and  virtues 
which,  as  one  of  his  admirers  in  India  remarked, 
rendered  his  course  in  life,  from  the  moment  that 
he  was  crowned  with  academical  honours  till  the 
day  of  his  death,  one  track  of  light,  the  admiration 
of  Britain  and  of  India.  The  widow  of  Dr  Heber 
has  published  a Memoir  of  his  Life,  with  selections 
from  his  letters  ; and  also  a Narrative  of  his  Journey 
through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  India  from  Calcutta 
to  Bombay.  In  these  works  the  excellent  prelate  is 
seen  to  great  advantage,  as  an  acute  and  lively 
observer,  graphic  in  his  descriptions  both  of  scenery 
and  manners,  and  everywhere  animated  with  feelings 
of  Christian  zeal  and  benevolence.  As  a4?oet,  Heber 
is  always  elegant,  and  often  striking.  His  hymns 
are  peculiarly  touching  and  impressive,  and  musical 


in  versification.  The  highest  honours  of  the  lyre  he 
probably  never  could  have  attained ; for  he  is  defi- 
cient in  originality,  and  is  more  rhetorical  than 
passionate  or  imaginative. 


Missionary  Hymn. 

From  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 

From  India’s  coral  strand, 

Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand ; 

From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a palmy  plain, 

They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  land  from  error’s  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  on  Ceylon’s  isle, 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile ; 

In  vain,  with  lavish  kindness, 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strown, 

The  Heathen,  in  his  blindness, 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Shall  we  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high ; 

Shall  we  to  man  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 

Salvation  ! oh,  salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 

Till  each  remotest  nation 
Has  learned  Messiah’s  name. 

[From  Bishop  Heber’ s Journal .] 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala’s  palmy  grove, 

Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 

How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 
O’er  Gunga’s  mimic  sea  ! 

I miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

When  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I lay, 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I miss  thee  when  by  Gunga’s  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I guide, 

But  most  beneath  the  lamp’s  pale  beam 
I miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 

But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  star 
Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 

I feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  ! then  on  ! where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still ; 

O’er  broad  Hindostan’s  sultry  meads, 

O’er  bleak  Almorah’s  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi’s  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  ; 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

869 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 
Across  the  dark-blue  sea ; 

But  ne’er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 
As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 


An  Evening  Walk  in  Bengal. 

Our  task  is  done  ! — on  Gunga’s  breast 
The  sun  is  sinking  down  to  rest ; 

And,  moored  beneath  the  tamarind  bough, 

Our  bark  has  found  its  harbour  now. 

With  furled  sail  and  painted  side, 

Behold  the  tiny  frigate  ride : 

Upon  her  deck,  ’mid  charcoal  gleams, 

The  Moslem’s  savoury  supper  steams ; 

While  all  apart,  beneath  the  wood, 

The  Hindoo  cooks  his  simpler  food. 

Come,  walk  with  me  the  jungle  through — 

If  yonder  hunter  told  us  true, 

Far  off,  in  desert  dank  and  rude, 

The  tiger  holds  its  solitude ; 

Now — taught  by  recent  harm  to  shun 
The  thunders  of  the  English  gun — 

A dreadful  guest  but  rarely  seen, 

Returns  to  scare  the  village  green, 

Come  boldly  on ; no  venomed  snake 
Can  shelter  in  so  cool  a brake — 

Child  of  the  sun,  he  loves  to  lie 
’Midst  nature’s  embers,  parched  and  dry, 

Where  o’er  some  tower  in  ruin  laid, 

The  peepul  spreads  its  haunted  shade ; 

Or  round  a tomb  his  scales  to  wreathe, 

Fit  warder  in  the  gate  of  Death. 

Come  on ; yet  pause  ! Behold  us  now 
Beneath  the  bamboo’s  arched  bough, 

Where,  gemming  oft  that  sacred  gloom, 

Glows  the  geranium’s  scarlet  bloom ; 1 
And  winds  our  path  through  many  a bower 
Of  fragrant  tree  and  giant  flower — 

The  ceiba’s  crimson  pomp  displayed 
O’er  the  broad  plantain’s  humbler  shade, 

And  dusk  anana’s  prickly  glade ; 

While  o’er  the  brake,  so  wild  and  fair, 

The  betel  waves  his  crest  in  air ; 

With  pendent  train  and  rushing  wings, 

Aloft  the  gorgeous  peacock  springs ; 

And  he,  the  bird  of  hundred  dyes,2 
Whose  plumes  the  dames  of  Ava  prize. 

So  rich  a shade,  so  green  a sod, 

Our  English  fairies  never  trod  ! 

Yet  who  in  Indian  bowers  has  stood, 

But  thought  on  England’s  ‘good  greenwood;’ 
And  blessed,  beneath  the  palmy  shade, 

Her  hazel  and  her  hawthorn  glade ; 

And  breathed  a prayer  (how  oft  in  vain  !) 

To  gaze  upon  her  oaks  again  ? 

A truce  to  thought — the  jackal’s  cry 
Resounds  like  sylvan  revelry ; 

And  through  the  trees  yon  failing  ray 
Will  scantly  serve  to  guide  our  way. 

Yet  mark,  as  fade  the  upper  skies, 

Each  thicket  opes  ten  thousand  eyes — 

Before,  beside  us,  and  above, 

The  firefly  lights  his  lamp  of  love, 

Retreating,  chasing,  sinking,  soaring, 

The  darkness  of  the  copse  exploring ; 

While  to  this  cooler  air  confest, 

The  broad  dhatura  bares  her  breast, 

Of  fragrant  scent  and  virgin  white, 

A pearl  around  the  locks  of  night ! 

1 A shrub  whose  deep  scarlet  flowers  very  much  resemble 
the  geranium,  and  thence  called  the  Indian  geranium. 

2 The  Mucharunga. 

270 


Still  as  we  pass,  in  softened  hum 
Along  the  breezy  alleys  come 
The  village  song,  the  horn,  the  drum : 
Still  as  we  pass,  from  bush  and  brier 
The  shrill  cigala  strikes  his  lyre ; 

And  what  is  she  whose  liquid  strain 
Thrills  through  yon  copse  of  sugar-cane? 
I know  that  soul-entrancing  swell, 

It  is- — it  must  be — Philomel! 

Enough,  enough,  the  rustling  trees 
Announce  a shower  upon  the  breeze, 

The  flashes  of  the  summer  sky 
Assume  a deeper,  ruddier  dye ; 

Yon  lamp  that  trembles  on  the  stream, 
From  forth  our  cabin  sheds  its  beam ; 
And  we  must  early  sleep,  to  find 
Betimes  the  morning’s  healthy  wind. 

But  oh ! with  thankful  hearts  confess 
E’en  here  there  may  be  happiness ; 

And  He,  the  bounteous  Sire,  has  given 
His  peace  on  earth — his  hope  of  heaven. 


CHARLES  WOLFE. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823),  a native 
of  Dublin,  may  be  said  to  have  earned  a literary 
immortality  by  one  short  poem,  and  that  copied, 
with  considerable  closeness,  from  a prose  account 
of  the  incident  which  it  relates.  Reading  in  the 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register  a description  of  the 
death  and  interment  of  Sir  John  Moore  on  the 
battle-field  of  Corunna,  this  amiable  young  poet 
turned  it  into  verse  with  guch  taste,  pathos,  and 
even  sublimity,  that  his  poem  has  obtained  an 
imperishable  place  in  our  literature.  The  subject 
was  attractive— the  death  of  a brave  and  popular 
general  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  his  burial  by  his 
companions-in-arms — and  the  poet  himself  dying 
when  young,  beloved  and  lamented  by  his  friends, 
gave  additional  interest  to  the  production.  The 
ode  was  published  anonymously  in  an  Irish  news- 
paper in  1817,  and  was  ascribed  to  various  authors ; 
Shelley  considering  it  not  unlike  a first  draught  by 
Campbell.  In  1841  it  was  claimed  by  a Scottish 
student  and  teacher,  who  ungenerously  and  dis- 
honestly sought  to  pluck  the  laurel  from  the  grave 
of  its  owner.  The  friends  of  Wolfe  came  forward, 
and  established  his  right  beyond  any  further  ques- 
tion or  controversy;  and  the  new  claimant  was 
forced  to  confess  his  imposture,  at  the  same  time 
expressing  his  contrition  for  his  misconduct.  Fame,  j 
like  wealth,  is  sometimes  pursued  with  unprincipled 
covetousness;  but,  we  need  hardly  say,  unless  | 
directed  by  proper  motives,  the  chase  is  never 
honourable,  and  very  seldom  safe.  The  great  duties  j 
of  life — its  moral  feelings  and  principles — are  some- 
thing  more  important  than  even  the  brightest 
wreaths  of  fame!  Wolfe  was  a curate  in  the 
established  church,  and  died  of  consumption.  His 
literary  remains  have  been  published,  with  an 
interesting  memoir  of  his  life  by  Archdeacon  Russell,  * 
one  of  Ills  early  college-friends. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  not  a funeral  note, 

As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeams’  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 


No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they  ’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that ’s  gone, 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he  ’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a line,  and  we  raised  not  a stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory ! 

The  passage  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register 
(1808)  on  which  Wolfe  founded  his  ode  is  as 
follows : 1 Sir  John  Moore  had  often  said  that  if  he 
was  killed  in  battle,  he  wished  to  be  buried  where 
he  fell.  The  body  was  removed  at  midnight  to  the 
citadel  of  Corunna.  A grave  was  dug  for  him  on 
the  ramparts  there  by  a body  of  the  9th  regiment, 
the  aides-de-camp  attending  by  turns.  No  coffin 
could  be  procured,  and  the  officers  of  his  staff 
wrapped  the  body,  dressed  as  it  was,  in  a military 
cloak  and  blankets.  The  interment  was  hastened ; 
for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing  was 
heard,  and  the  officers  feared  that  if  a serious  attack 
were  made,  they  should  be  ordered  away,  and  not 
suffered  to  pay  him  their  last  duty.  The  officers 
of  his  family  bore  him  to  the  grave ; the  funeral- 
service  was  read  by  the  chaplain;  and  the  corpse 
was  covered  with  earth.’ 

Song. 

0 say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 
To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it ; 

That  Nature’s  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 

Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 
One  glow  of  fond  emotion 

For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I view 
In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness ; 

Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too 
With  Fancy’s  idle  gladness  ; 

Again  I longed  to  view  the  light 
In  Nature’s  features  glowing, 

Again  to  tread  the  mountain’s  height, 

And  taste  the  soul’s  o’erflowing. 

Stern  Duty  rose,  and  frowning  flung 
His  leaden  chain  around  me ; 

With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 
He  muttered  as  he  bound  me  : 

‘ The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven, 
Unfit  for  toil  the  creature ; 

These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature?* 


The  above  verses  were  written  while  Wolfe  attended 
the  University  of  Dublin,  where  he  greatly  distin- 
guished himself.  In  1817  he  took  orders,  and  was 
first  curate  of  Ballyclog,  in  Tyrone,  and  afterwards 
of  Donoughmore.  His  incessant  attention  to  his 
duties,  in  a wild  and  scattered  parish,  not  only 
quenched  his  poetical  enthusiasm,  but  hurried  him 
to  an  untimely  grave. 


Song. 

[The  following  pathetic  lyric  is  adapted  to  the  Irish  air 
Grammachree.  Wolfe  said  he  on  one  occasion  sung  the  air 
over  and  over  till  he  burst  into  a flood  of  tears,  in  which  mood 
he  composed  the  song.] 

If  I had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I might  not  weep  for  thee ; 

But  I forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  : 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 
The  time  would  e’er  be  o’er, 

And  I on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more ! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I look, 

And  think  ’twill  smile  again ; 

And  still  the  thought  I will  not  brook, 

That  I must  look  in  vain ! 

But  when  I speak — thou  dost  not  say 
What  thou  ne’er  left’st  unsaid ; 

And  now  I feel,  as  well  I may, 

Sweet  Mary ! thou  art  dead ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  e’en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene — 

I still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been ! 

While  e’en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 

But  there  I lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  I am  now  alone  ! 

I do  not  think,  where’er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 

And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee : 

Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a dawn 
Of  light  ne’er  seen  before, 

As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore ! 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 

Herbert  Knowles,  a native  of  Canterbury 
(1798-1817),  produced,  when  a youth  of  eighteen, 
the  following  fine  religious  stanzas,  which,  being 
published  in  an  article  by  Southey  in  the  Quarterly 
Review , soon  obtained  general  circulation  and  cel 
brity:  they  have  much  of  the  steady  faith  >4 
devotional  earnestness  of  Cowper. 

Lines  written  in  the  Churchyard  of  Richmond,  Yorkshire. 

It  ig  good  for  us  to  be  here  : if  thou  wilt,  let  us  make  here 
three  tabernacles ; one  for  thee,  and  one  for  Moses,  and  one 
for  Elias.— Matthew,  xvii.  4. 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here. 

If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear ; 

But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  with  gloom 

The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

371 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ? Ah  no ! 

Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away ; 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 
In  a small  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with  cold  clay, 

To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a peer  and  a prey. 

To  Beauty  ? Ah  no ! she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 

For  the  smoothness  it  held  or  the  tint  which  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 

The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas,  they  are  all  laid  aside, 

And  here ’s  neither  dress  nor  adornments  allowed, 
But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of  the 
shroud. 

To  Riches  ? Alas  ! ’tis  in  vain ; 

Who  hid  in  their  turns  have  been  hid ; 

The  treasures  are  squandered  again ; 

And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid 
But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin-lid. 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 

The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer? 

Ah  ! here  is  a plentiful  board  ! 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 

And  none  but  the  worm  is  a reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 

Ah  no  ! they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above.* 

Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side, 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  sorrow?— the  Dead  cannot  grieve ; 

Not  a sob,  not  a sigh  meets  mine  ear, 

Which  Compassion  itself  could  relieve. 

Ah,  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  or  fear ; 
Peace  ! peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 

Ah  no  ! for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  ! 

Beneath  the  cold  dead,  and  around  the  dark  stone, 

Are  the  signs  of  a sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  ! 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fulfilled ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice, 

Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  He  rose  to  the 
skies. 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 

In  1827  appeared  a religious  poem  in  blank  verse, 
entitled  The  Course  of  Time , by  Robert  Pollok, 
hich  speedily  rose  to  great  popularity,  especially 
a ong  the  more  serious  and  dissenting  classes  in 
Sc  jtland.  The  author  was  a young  licentiate  of  the 
Scottish  Secession  Church.  Many  who  scarcely  ever 
looked  into  modern  poetry  were  tempted  to  peruse 
a work  which  embodied  their  favourite  theological 
tenets,  set  off*  with  the  graces  of  poetical  fancy  and 
description ; while  to  the  ordinary  readers  of  ima- 
ginative literature,  the  poem  had  force  and  originality 
enough  to  challenge  an  attentive  perusal.  The 
Course  of  Time  is  a long  poem,  extending  to  ten 
books,  written  in  a style  that  sometimes  imitates  the 
lofty  march  of  Milton,  and  at  other  times  resembles 
that  of  Blair  and  Young.  The  object  of  the  poet  is 
to  describe  the  spiritual  life  and  destiny  of  man; 

372 


and  he  varies  his  religious  speculations  with  episod- 
ical pictures  and  narratives,  to  illustrate  the  effects 
of  virtue  or  vice.  The  sentiments  of  the  author  are 
strongly  Calvinistic,  and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as 


Robert  Pollok. 


in  a certain  crude  ardour  of  imagination  and  devo- 
tional enthusiasm,  the  poem  reminds  us  of  the  style 
of  Milton’s  early  prose  treatises.  It  is  often  harsh, 
turgid,  and  vehement,  and  deformed  by  a gloomy 
piety  which  repels  the  reader  in  spite  of  many  fine 
passages  and  images  that  are  scattered  throughout 
the  work.  With  much  of  the  spirit  and  the  opinions 
of  Cowper,  Pollok  wanted  his  taste.  Time  might 
have  mellowed  the  fruits  of  his  genius  ; for  certainly 
the  design  of  such  an  extensive  poem,  and  the  pos- 
session of  a poetical  diction  so  copious  and  energetic, 
by  a young  man  reared  in  circumstances  by  no 
means  favourable  for  the  cultivation  of  a literary 
taste,  indicate  remarkable  intellectual  power  and 
force  of  character. 

Robert  Pollok  was  destined,  like  Henry  Kirke 
White,  to  an  early  grave.  He  was  born  in  the  year 
1799,  at  Muirhouse,  in  the  parish  of  Eaglesham, 
Renfrewshire,  and  after  the  usual  instruction  in 
country  schools,  was  sent  to  the  university  of  Glas- 
gow. He  studied  five  years  in  the  divinity  hall 
under  Dr  Dick.  Some  time  after  leaving  college, 
he  wrote  a series  of  Tales  of  the  Covenanters , in 
prose,  which  were  published  anonymously.  His 
application  to  his  studies  brought  on  symptoms  of 
pulmonary  disease,  and  shortly  after  he  had  received 
his  license  to  preach,  in  the  spring  of  1827,  it  was 
too  apparent  that  his  health  was  in  a precarious  and 
dangerous  state.  This  tendency  was  further  confirmed 
by  the  composition  of  his  poem.  Removal  to  the  south- 
west of  England  was  pronounced  necessary  for  the 
poet’s  pulmonary  complaint,  and  he  went  to  reside 
at  Shirley  Common,  near  Southampton.  The  milder 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 


Poets. 


air  of  this  place  effected  no  improvement,  and  after 
lingering  on  a few  weeks,  Pollok  died  on  the  17th 
of  September  1827.  The  same  year  had  witnessed 
his  advent  as  a preacher  and  a poet,  and  his  un- 
timely death.  The  Course  of  Time , however,  con- 
tinued to  he  a popular  poem,  and  has  gone  through 


Mid  Muirhouse,  the  Residence  of  Pollok  in  Boyhood. 


twenty-two  editions,  while  the  interest  of  the  public 
in  its  author  has  led  to  a memoir  of  his  life,  pub- 
lished in  1843.  Pollok  was  interred  in  the  church- 
yard at  Millbrook,  the  parish  in  which  Shirley 
Common  is  situated,  and  some  of  his  admirers  have 
erected  an  obelisk  of  granite  to  point  out  the  poet’s 
grave. 

[Love.] 

Hail  love,  first  love,  thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss  ! 
The  sparkling  cream  of  all  Time’s  blessedness, 

The  silken  down  of  happiness  complete  ! 

Discerner  of  the  ripest  grapes  of  joy 
She  gathered  and  selected  with  her  hand, 

All  finest  relishes,  all  fairest  sights, 

All  rarest  odours,  all  divinest  sounds, 

All  thoughts,  all  feelings  dearest  to  the  soul : 

And  brought  the  holy  mixture  home,  and  filled 
The  heart  with  all  superlatives  of  bliss. 

But  who  would  that  expound,  which  words  transcends, 
Must  talk  in  vain.  Behold  a meeting  scene 
Of  early  love,  and  thence  infer  its  worth. 

It  was  an  eve  of  autumn’s  holiest  mood. 

The  cornfields,  bathed  in  Cynthia’s  silver  light, 

Stood  ready  for  the  reaper’s  gathering  hand ; 

And  all  the  winds  slept  soundly.  Nature  seemed 
In  silent  contemplation  to  adore 
Its  Maker.  Now  and  then  the  aged  leaf 
Fell  from  its  fellows,  rustling  to  the  ground ; 

And,  as  it  fell,  bade  man  think  on  his  end. 

On  vale  and  lake,  on  wood  and  mountain  high, 

With  pensive  wing  outspread,  sat  heavenly  Thought, 
Conversing  with  itself.  Vesper  looked  forth 
From  out  her  western  hermitage,  and  smiled ; 

And  up  the  east,  unclouded,  rode  the  moon 
With  all  her  stars,  gazing  on  earth  intense, 

As  if  she  saw  some  wonder  working  there. 


Such  was  the  night,  so  lovely,  still,  serene, 

When,  by  a hermit  thorn  that  on  the  hill 
Had  seen  a hundred  flowery  ages  pass, 

A damsel  kneeled  to  offer  up  her  prayer — 

Her  prayer  nightly  offered,  nightly  heard. 

This  ancient  thorn  had  been  the  meeting-place 
Of  love,  before  his  country’s  voice  had  called 
The  ardent  youth  to  fields  of  honour  far 
Beyond  the  wave : and  hither  now  repaired, 

Nightly,  the  maid,  by  God’s  all-seeing  eye 
Seen  only,  while  she  sought  this  boon  alone — 

‘ Her  lover’s  safety,  and  his  quick  return.’ 

In  holy,  humble  attitude  she  kneeled, 

And  to  her  bosom,  fair  as  moonbeam,  pressed 
One  hand,  the  other  lifted  up  to  heaven. 

Her  eye,  upturned,  bright  as  the  star  of  morn, 

As  violet  meek,  excessive  ardour  streamed, 

Wafting  away  her  earnest  heart  to  God. 

Her  voice,  scarce  uttered,  soft  as  Zephyr  sighs 
On  morning’s  lily  cheek,  though  soft  and  low, 

Yet  heard  in  heaven,  heard  at  the  mercy-seat. 

A tear-drop  wandered  on  her  lovely  face ; 

It  was  a tear  of  faith  and  holy  fear, 

Pure  as  the  drops  that  hang  at  dawning-time 
On  yonder  willows  by  the  stream  of  life. 

On  her  the  moon  looked  steadfastly ; the  stars 
That  circle  nightly  round  the  eternal  throne 
Glanced  down,  well  pleased ; and  everlasting  Love 
Gave  gracious  audience  to  her  prayer  sincere. 

0 had  her  lover  seen  her  thus  alone, 

Thus  holy,  wrestling  thus,  and  all  for  him  ! 

Nor  did  he  not : for  ofttimes  Providence 
With  unexpected  joy  the  fervent  prayer 
Of  faith  surprised.  Returned  from  long  delay, 

With  glory  crowned  of  righteous  actions  won, 

The  sacred  thorn,  to  memory  dear,  first  sought 
The  youth,  and  found  it  at  the  happy  hour 
Just  when  the  damsel  kneeled  herself  to  pray. 
Wrapped  in  devotion,  pleading  with  her  God, 

She  saw  him  not,  heard  not  his  foot  approach. 

All  holy  images  seemed  too  impure 
To  emblem  her  he  saw.  A seraph  kneeled, 
Beseeching  for  his  ward  before  the  throne, 

Seemed  fittest,  pleased  him  best.  Sweet  was  the 
thought ! 

But  sweeter  still  the  kind  remembrance  came 
That  she  was  flesh  and  blood  formed  for  himself, 

The  plighted  partner  of  his  future  life. 

And  as  they  met,  embraced,  and  sat  embowered 
In  woody  chambers  of  the  starry  night, 

Spirits  of  love  about  them  ministered, 

And  God  approving,  blessed  the  holy  joy ! 

[Morning.] 

In  ’customed  glory  bright,  that  morn  the  sun 
Rose,  visiting  the  earth  with  light,  and  heat, 

And  joy ; and  seemed  as  full  of  youth,  and  strong 
To  mount  the  steep  of  heaven,  as  when  the  stars 
Of  morning  sung  to  his  first  dawn,  and  night 
Fled  from  his  face ; the  spacious  sky  received 
Him,  blushing  as  a bride  when  on  her  looked 
The  bridegroom ; and  spread  out  beneath  his  eye, 
Earth  smiled.  Up  to  his  warm  embrace  the  dews, 
That  all  night  long  had  wept  his  absence,  flew ; 

The  herbs  and  flowers  their  fragrant  stores  unlocked, 
And  gave  the  wanton  breeze  that  newly  woke, 
Revelled  in  sweets,  and  from  its  wings  shook  health, 
A thousand  grateful  smells ; the  joyous  woods 
Dried  in  his  beams  their  locks,  wet  with  the  drops 
Of  night ; and  all  the  sons  of  music  Bung 
Their  matin  song — from  arboured  bower  the  thrush 
Concerting  with  the  lark  that  hymned  on  high. 

On  the  green  hill  the  flocks,  and  in  the  vale 
The  herds,  rejoiced ; and,  light  of  heart,  the  hind 
Eyed  amorously  the  milkmaid  as  she  passed, 

Not  heedless,  though  she  look  another  way. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1880. 

[Friendship.'] 

Not  unremembered  is  tbe  hour  when  friends 
Met.  Friends,  but  few  on  earth,  and  therefore  dear ; 
Sought  oft,  and  sought  almost  as  oft  in  vain ; 

Yet  always  sought,  so  native  to  the  heart, 

So  much  desired  and  coveted  by  alL 

Nor  wonder  those — thou  wonderest  not,  nor  need’st. 

Much  beautiful,  and  excellent,  and  fair, 

Than  face  of  faithful  friend,  fairest  when  seen 
In  darkest  day ; and  many  sounds  were  sweet, 

Most  ravishing  and  pleasant  to  the  ear ; 

But  sweeter  none  than  voice  of  faithful  friend, 

Sweet  always,  sweetest  heard  in  loudest  storm. 

Some  I remember,  and  will  ne’er  forget ; 

My  early  friends,  friends  of  my  evil  day ; 

Friends  in  my  mirth,  friends  in  my  misery  too ; 
Friends  given  by  God  in  mercy  and  in  love ; 

My  counsellors,  my  comforters,  and  guides ; 

My  joy  in  grief,  my  second  bliss  in  joy ; 

Companions  of  my  young  desires ; in  doubt, 

My  oracles,  my  wings  in  high  pursuit. 

0,  I remember,  and  will  ne’er  forget 
Our  meeting  spots,  our  chosen  sacred  hours, 

Our  burning  words  that  uttered  all  the  soul, 

Our  faces  beaming  with  unearthly  love ; 

Sorrow  with  sorrow  sighing,  hope  with  hope 
Exulting,  heart  embracing,  heart  entire. 

As  birds  of  social  feather  helping  each 
His  fellow’s  flight,  we  soared  into  the  skies, 

And  cast  the  clouds  beneath  our  feet,  and  earth, 

With  all  her  tardy  leaden-footed  cares, 

And  talked  the  speech,  and  ate  the  food  of  heaven  ! 
These  I remember,  these  selectest  men, 

And  would  their  names  record ; but  what  avails 
My  mention  of  their  names  ? Before  the  throne 
They  stand  illustrious  ’mong  the  loudest  harps, 

And  will  receive  thee  glad,  my  friend  and  theirs — 
For  all  are  friends  in  heaven,  all  faithful  friends ; 
And  many  friendships  in  the  days  of  time 
Begun,  are  lasting  here,  and  growing  still ; 

So  grows  ours  evermore,  both  theirs  and  mine. 

Nor  is  the  hour  of  lonely  walk  forgot 
In  the  wide  desert,  where  the  view  was  large. 
Pleasant  were  many  scenes,  but  most  to  me 
The  solitude  of  vast  extent,  untouched 
By  hand  of  art,  where  nature  sowed  herself, 

And  reaped  her  crops ; whose  garments  were  the 
clouds ; 

Whose  minstrels,  brooks ; whose  lamps,  the  moon  and 
stars ; 

Whose  organ-choir,  the  voice  of  many  waters ; 

Whose  banquets,  morning  dews ; whose  heroes,  storms ; 
Whose  warriors,  mighty  winds ; whose  lovers,  flowers ; 
Whose  orators,  the  thunderbolts  of  God ; 

Whose  palaces,  the  everlasting  hills  ; 

Whose  ceiling,  heaven’s  unfathomable  blue ; 

And  from  whose  rocky  turrets  battled  high 
Prospect  immense  spread  out  on  all  sides  round, 

Lost  now  beneath  the  welkin  and  the  main, 

Now  walled  with  hills  that  slept'above  the  storm. 
Most  fit  was  such  a place  for  musing  men, 

Happiest  sometimes  when  musing  without  aim. 

[Happiness.] 

Whether  in  crowds  or  solitudes,  in  streets 
Or  shady  groves,  dwelt  Happiness,  it  seems 
In  vain  to  ask ; her  nature  makes  it  vain ; 

Though  poets  much,  and  hermits,  talked  and  sung 
Of  brooks  and  crystal  founts,  and  weeping  dews, 

And  myrtle  bowers,  and  solitary  vales, 

And  with  the  nymph  made  assignations  there, 

And  wooed  her  with  the  love-sick  oaten  reed  ; 

And  sages  too,  although  less  positive, 

374 

Advised  their  sons  to  court  her  in  the  shade. 

Delirious  babble  all!  Was  happiness, 

Was  self-approving,  God-approving  joy, 

In  drops  of  dew,  however  pure  ? in  gales, 

However  sweet  ? in  wells,  however  clear  ? 

Or  groves,  however  thick  with  verdant  shade  ? 

True,  these  were  of  themselves  exceeding  fair ; 

How  fair  at  mom  and  even  ! worthy  the  walk 
Of  loftiest  mind,  and  gave,  when  all  within 
Was  right,  a feast  of  overflowing  bliss ; 

But  were  the  occasion,  not  the  cause  of  joy. 

They  waked  the  native  fountains  of  the  soul 
Which  slept  before,  and  stirred  the  holy  tides 
Of  feeling  up,  giving  the  heart  to  drink 
From  its  own  treasures  draughts  of  perfect  sweet. 

The  Christian  faith,  which  better  knew  the  heart 
Of  man,  him  thither  sent  for  peace,  and  thus ! 
Declared : Who  finds  it,  let  him  find  it  there ; 

Who  finds  it  not,  for  ever  let  him  seek 
In  vain ; ’tis  God’s  most  holy,  changeless  will. 

True  Happiness  had  no  localities, 

No  tones  provincial,  no  peculiar  garb. 

Where  Duty  went,  she  went,  with  Justice  went, 

And  went  with  Meekness,  Charity,  and  Love. 
Where’er  a tear  was  dried,  a wounded  heart 
Bound  up,  a bruised  spirit  with  the  dew 
Of  sympathy  anointed,  or  a pang 
Of  honest  suffering  soothed,  or  injury 
Repeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven ; 

Where’er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued, 

Or  Virtue’s  feeble  embers  fanned ; where’er 
A sin  was  heartily  abjured  and  left ; 

Where’er  a pious  act  was  done,  or  breathed 
A pious  prayer,  or  wished  a pious  wish ; 

There  was  a high  and  holy  place,  a spot 
Of  sacred  light,  a most  religious  fane, 

Where  Happiness,  descending,  sat  and  smiled. 

But  there  apart,  in  sacred  memory  lives 
The  morn  of  life,  first  mom  of  endless  days, 

Most  joyful  mom  ! Nor  yet  for  nought  the  jqy. 

A being  of  eternal  date  commenced, 

A young  immortal  then  was  bom ! And  who 
Shall  tell  what  strange  variety  of  bliss 
Burst  on  the  infant  soul,  when  first  it  looked 
Abroad  on  God’s  creation  fair,  and  saw 
The  glorious  earth  and  glorious  heaven,  and  face 
Of  man  sublime,  and  saw  all  new,  and  felt 
All  new ! when  thought  awoke,  thought  never  more 
To  sleep ! when  first  it  saw,  heard,  reasoned,  willed, 
And  triumphed  in  the  warmth  of  conscious  life ! 

Nor  happy  only,  but  the  cause  of  joy, 

Which  those  who  never  tasted  always  mourned. 

What  tongue ! — no  tongue  shall  tell  what  bliss  o’er- 
flowed 

The  mother’s  tender  heart  while  round  her  hung 
The  offspring  of  her  love,  and  lisped  her  name 
As  living  jewels  dropped  unstained  from  heaven, 

That  made  her  fairer  far,  and  sweeter  seem 
Than  every  ornament  of  costliest  hue  ! 

And  who  hath  not  been  ravished,  as  she  passed 
With  all  her  playful  band  of  little  ones, 

Like  Luna  with  her  daughters  of  the  sky, 

Walking  in  matron  majesty  and  grace  ? 

All  who  had  hearts  here  pleasure  found : and  oft 
Have  I,  when  tired  with  heavy  task,  for  tasks 
Were  heavy  in  the  world  below,  relaxed 
My  weary  thoughts  among  their  guiltless  sports, 

And  led  them  by  their  little  hands  a-field, 

And  watch  them  ran  and  crop  the  tempting  flower — • 
Which  oft,  unasked,  they  brought  me,  and  bestowed 
With  smiling  face,  that  waited  for  a look 
Of  praise — and  answered  curious  questions,  put 
In  much  simplicity,  but  ill  to  solve ; 

And  heard  their  observations  strange  and  new ; 

And  settled  whiles  their  little  quarrels,  soon 
Ending  in  peace,  and  soon  forgot  in  love. 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


And  still  I looked  upon  their  loveliness, 

And  sought  through  nature  for  similitudes 
Of  perfect  beauty,  innocence,  and  bliss, 

And  fairest  imagery  around  me  thronged ; 

Dew-drops  at  day-spring  on  a seraph’s  locks, 

Roses  that  bathe  about  the  well  of  life, 

Young  Loves,  young  Hopes,  dancing  on  morning’s 
cheek, 

Gems  leaping  in  the  coronet  of  Love ! 

So  beautiful,  so  full  of  life,  they  seemed 
As  made  entire  of  beams  of  angels’  eyes. 

Gay,  guileless,  sportive,  lovely  little  things ! 

Playing  around  the  den  of  sorrow,  clad 
In  smiles,  believing  in  their  fairy  hopes, 

And  thinking  man  and  woman  true  ! all  joy, 

Happy  all  day,  and  happy  all  the  night ! 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

James  Montgomery,  a religious  poet  of  deservedly 
high  reputation,  was  born  at  Irvine,  in  Ayrshire, 
November  4,  1771.  His  father  was  a Moravian 
missionary,  who  died  whilst  propagating  Chris- 
tianity in  the  island  of  Tobago.  The  poet  was 


James  Montgomery. 

educated  at  the  Moravian  school  at  Fulneck,  near 
Leeds,  but  declined  being  a priest,  and  was  put 
apprentice  to  a grocer  at  Mirfield,  near  Fulneck. 
In  liis  sixteenth  year,  with  3s.  Q>d.  in  his  pocket,  he 
ran  off  from  Mirfield,  and  after  some  suffering, 
became  a shop-boy  in  the  village  of  Wath,  in  York- 
shire. He  next  tried  London,  carrying  with  him 
a collection  of  his  poems,  but  failed  in  his  efforts  to 
obtain  a publisher.  In  1791,  he  obtained  a situation 
as  clerk  in  a newspaper  office  in  Sheffield,  and  his 
master  failing,  Montgomery,  with  the  aid  of  friends, 
established  the  Sheffield  Iris , a weekly  journal,  which 
he  conducted  with  marked  ability,  and  in  a liberal, 
conciliatory  spirit  up  to  the  year  1825.  His  course 
did  not  always  run  smooth.  In  January  1794, 
amidst  the  excitement  of  that  agitated  period,  he 
was  tried  on  a charge  of  having  printed  a bal- 
lad, written  by  a clergyman  of  Belfast,  on  the 
demolition  of  the  Bastile  in  1789;  which  was  now 
interpreted  into  a seditious  libel.  The  poor  poet, 


notwithstanding  the  innocence  of  his  intentions, 
was  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  three  months’ 
imprisonment  in  the  castle  of  York,  and  to  pay  a 
fine  of  £20.  In  January  1795  he  was  tried  for  a 
second  imputed  political  offence — a paragraph  in  his 
paper  which  reflected  on  the  conduct  of  a magis- 
trate in  quelling  a riot  at  Sheffield.  He  was 
again  convicted,  and  sentenced  to  six  months’ 
imprisonment  in  York  Castle,  to  pay  a fine  of  £30, 
and  to  give  security  to  keep  the  peace  for  two  years. 

‘ All  the  persons,’  says  the  amiable  poet,  writing  in 
1840,  1 who  were  actively  concerned  in  the  prosecu- 
tions against  me  in  1794  and  1795,  are  dead,  and, 
without  exception,  they  died  in  peace  with  me.  I 
believe  I am  quite  correct  in  saying,  that  from  each 
of  them  distinctly,  in  the  sequel,  I received  tokens 
of  good-will,  and  from  several  of  them  substantial 
proofs  of  kindness.  I mention  not  this  as  a plea  in 
extenuation  of  offences  for  which  I bore  the  penalty 
of  the  law ; I rest  my  justification,  in  these  cases, 
now  on  the  same  grounds,  and  no  other,  on  which  I 
rested  my  justification  then.  I mention  the  circum- 
stance to  the  honour  of  the  deceased,  and  as  an 
evidence  that,  amidst  all  the  violence  of  that  dis- 
tracted time,  a better  spirit  was  not  extinct,  but 
finally  prevailed,  and  by  its  healing  influence  did 
indeed  comfort  those  who  had  been  conscientious 
sufferers.’ 

Mr  Montgomery’s  first  volume  of  poetry — he  had 
previously  written  occasional  pieces  in  his  newspaper 
— appeared  in  1806,  and  was  entitled  The  Wanderer 
of  Switzerland , and  other  Poems.  It  speedily  went 
through  two  editions ; and  his  publishers  had  just 
issued  a third,  when  the  Edinburgh  Review  of 
January  1807  ‘denounced  the  unfortunate  volume 
in  a style  of  such  authoritative  reprobation  as  no 
mortal  verse  could  be  expected  to  survive.’  The 
critique,  indeed,  was  insolent  and  unfeeling — 
written  in  the  worst  style  of  the  Review , when 
all  the  sins  of  its  youth  were  full  blown  and 
unchecked.  Among  other  things,  the  reviewer  pre- 
dicted that  in  less  than  three  years  nobody  would 
know  the  name  of  The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland ', 
or  of  any  other  of  the  poems  in  the  collection. 
Within  eighteen  months  from  the  utterance  of  this 
oracle  a fourth  impression — 1500  copies— of  the 
condemned  volume  was  passing  through  the  press 
whence  the  Edinburgh  Review  itself  was  issued,  and 
it  has  now  reached  nearly  twenty  editions.  The  next 
work  of  the  poet  was  The  West  Indies , a poem  in 
four  parts,  written  in  honour  of  the  abolition  of  the 
African  slave-trade  by  the  British  legislature  in 
1807.  This  was  undertaken  at  the  request  of  Mr 
Bowyer,  the  publisher,  to  accompany  a series  of 
engravings  representing  the  past  sufferings  and  the 
anticipated  blessings  of  the  long-wronged  Africans. 
The  poem  is  in  the  heroic  couplet,  and  possesses  a 
vigour  and  freedom  of  description,  and  a power  of 
pathetic  painting,  much  superior  to  anything  in  the 
first  volume.  Mr  Montgomery  afterwards  published 
Prison  Amusements,  written  during  his  nine  months’ 
confinement  in  York  Castle  in  1794  and  1795.  In 
1813  he  came  forward  with  a more  elaborate  per- 
formance, The  World  Before  the  Flood,  a poem  in  the 
heroic  couplet,  and  extending  to  ten  short  cantos. 
Ilis  pictures  of  the  antediluvian  patriarchs  in  their 
happy  valley,  the  invasion  of  Eden  by  the  descend- 
ants of  Cain,  the  loves  of  Javan  and  Zillah,  the 
translation  of  Enoch,  and  the  final  deliverance  of 
the  little  band  of  patriarch  families  from  the  hand 
of  the  giants,  are  sweet  and  touching,  and  elevated 
by  pure  and  lofty  feeling.  Connected  with  some 
patriotic  individuals  in  his  own  neighbourhood  ‘in 
many  a plan  for  lessening  the  sum  of  human  misery 


from  1800  CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


at  home  and  abroad,’  our  author  next  published 
Thoughts  on  Wheels  (1817),  directed  against  state 
lotteries ; and  The  Climbing  Boy's  Soliloquies , pub- 
lished about  the  same  time,  in  a work  written  by 
different  authors,  to  aid  in  effecting  the  abolition, 
at  length  happily  accomplished,  of  the  cruel  and 
unnatural  practice  of  employing  boys  in  sweeping 
chimneys.  In  1819  he  published  Greenland,  a poem 
in  five  cantos,  containing  a sketch  of  the  ancient 
Moravian  Church,  its  revival  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  the  origin  of  the  missions  by  that 
people  to  Greenland  in  1733.  The  poem,  as  pub- 
lished, is . only  a part  of  the  author’s  original  plan, 
but  the  beauty  of  its  polar  descriptions  and  episodes, 
recommended  it  to  public  favour.  The  only  other 
long  poem  by  Mr  Montgomery  is  The  Pelican  Island, 
suggested  by  a passage  in  Captain  Flinders’s  voyage 
to  Terra  Australis,  describing  the  existence  of  the 
ancient  haunts  of  the  pelican  in  the  small  islands  on 
the  coast  of  New  Holland.  The  work  is  in  blank 
verse,  in  nine  short  cantos,  and  the  narrative  is 
supposed  to  be  delivered  by  an  imaginary  being  who 
witnesses  the  series  of  events  related  after  the  whole 
has  happened.  The  poem  abounds  in  minute  and 
delicate  description  of  natural  phenomena — has  great 
felicity  of  diction  and  expression — and  altogether 
I possesses  more  of  the  power  and  fertility  of  the 
j master  than  any  other  of  the  author’s  works. 

Besides  the  works  we  have  enumerated,  Mr 
i Montgomery  threw  off  a number  of  small  effusions, 

I published  in  different  periodicals,  and  short  transla- 
tions from  Dante  and  Petrarch.  On  his  retirement 
in  1825  from  the  ‘ invidious  station  ’ of  newspaper 
I editor,  which  he  had  maintained  for  more  than 
j thirty  years,  through  good  report  and  evil  report, 

I his  friends  and  neighbours  of  Sheffield,  of  every 
shade  of  political  and  religious  distinction,  invited 
him  to  a public  entertainment,  at  which  the  late 
Earl  Fitzwilliam  presided.  There  the  happy  and 
grateful  poet  ‘ ran  through  the  story  of  his  life  even 
j from  his  boyish  days,’  when  he  came  amongst  them, 

| friendless  and  a stranger,  from  his  retirement  at 
j Fulneck  among  the  Moravian  brethren,  by  whom  he 
j was  educated  in  all  but  knowledge  of  the  world. 

I He  spoke  with  pardonable  pride  of  the  success 
! which  had  crowned  his  labours  as  an  author.  ‘Not, 
i indeed,’  he  said,  ‘with  fame  and  fortune,  as  these 
j were  lavished  on  my  greater  contemporaries,  in 
| comparison  with  whose  magnificent  possessions  on 
i the  British  Parnassus  my  small  plot  of  ground  is  no 
: more  than  Naboth’s  vineyard  to  Ahab’s  kingdom; 
but  it  is  my  own ; it  is  no  copyhold ; I borrowed  it, 
I leased  it  from  none.  Every  foot  of  it  I enclosed 
from  the  common  myself ; and  I can  say  that  not  an 
inch  which  I had  once  gained  have  I ever  lost.  * * 
I wrote  neither  to  suit  the  manners,  the  taste,  nor 
. the  temper  of  the  age ; but  I appealed  to  universal 
j principles,  to  unperishable  affections,  to  primary 
i elements  of  our  common  nature,  found  wherever 
! man  is  found  in  civilised  society,  wherever  his  mind 
I has  been  raised  above  barbarian  ignorance,  or  his 
passions  purified  from  brutal  selfishness.’  In  1830 
and  1831  Mr  Montgomery  was  selected  to  deliver  a 
; course  of  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution  on  Poetry 
; and  General  Literature,  which  he  prepared  for  the 
press,  and  published  in  1833.  A pension  of  £200 
per  annum  was,  at  the  instance  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  conferred  upon  Mr  Montgomery,  which  he 
enjoyed  till  his  death  in  1854,  at  the  ripe  age  of 
eighty-three.  A collected  edition  of  his  works,  with 
autobiographical  and  illustrative  matter,  was  issued 
in  1841  in  four  volumes,  and  Memoirs  of  his  Life 
and  Writings  have  been  published  by  two  of  his 
! friends,  John  Holland  and  James  Everett.  A tone 
376 


of  generous  and  enlightened  morality  pervades  all 
the  writings  of  this  poet.  He  was  the  enemy  of  the 
slave-trade  and  of  every  form  of  oppression,  and  the 
warm  friend  of  every  scheme  of  philanthropy  and 
improvement.  The  pious  and  devotional  feelings 
displayed  in  his  early  effusions  colour  all  his  poetry. 
In  description,  however,  he  is  not  less  happy;  and 
in  his  Greenland  and  Pelican  Island  there  are 
passages  of  great  beauty,  evincing  a refined  taste 
and  judgment  in  the  selection  of  his  materials.  His 
late  works  had  more  vigour  and  variety  than  those 
by  which  he  first  became  distinguished.  Indeed, 
his  fame  was  long  confined  to  what  is  termed  the 
religious  world,  till  he  shewed,  by  his  cultivation  of  | 
different  styles  of  poetry,  that  his  depth  and  sincerity 
of  feeling,  the  simplicity  of  his  taste,  and  the  pictur- 
esque beauty  of  his  language,  were  not  restricted  to 
purely  spiritual  themes.  His  smaller  poems  enjoy 
a popularity  almost  equal  to  those  of  Moore,  which, 
though  differing  widely  in  subject,  they  resemble  in 
their  musical  flow,  and  their  compendious  happy 
expression  and  imagery. 

Greenland. 

’Tis  sunset ; to  the  firmament  serene 
The  Atlantic  wave  reflects  a gorgeous  scene ; 

Broad  in  the  cloudless  west,  a belt  of  gold 
Girds  the  blue  hemisphere  ; above  unrolled 
The  keen  clear  air  grows  palpable  to  sight, 

Embodied  in  a flush  of  crimson  light, 

Through  which  the  evening-star,  with  milder  gleam, 
Descends  to  meet  her  image  in  the  stream. 

Far  in  the  east,  what  spectacle  unknown 
Allures  the  eye  to  gaze  on  it  alone  ? 

Amidst  black  rocks,  that  lift  on  either  hand 
Their  countless  peaks,  and  mark  receding  land ; 

Amidst  a tortuous  labyrinth  of  seas, 

That  shine  around  the  Arctic  Cyclades ; 

Amidst  a coast  of  dreariest  continent, 

In  many  a shapeless  promontory  rent ; 

O’er  rocks,  seas,  islands,  promontories  spread. 

The  ice-blink  rears  its  undulated  head,1 
On  which  the  sun,  beyond  the  horizon  shrined, 

Hath  left  his  richest  garniture  behind ; 

Piled  on  a hundred  arches,  ridge  by  ridge, 

O’er  fixed  and  fluid  strides  the  alpine  bridge, 

Whose  blocks  of  sapphire  seem  to  mortal  eye 
Hewn  from  cerulean  quarries  in  the  sky  ; 

With  glacier  battlements  that  crowd  the  spheres, 

The  slow  creation  of  six  thousand  years, 

Amidst  immensity  it  towers  sublime, 

Winter’s  eternal  palace,  built  by  Time : 

All  human  structures  by  his  touch  are  borne 
Down  to  the  dust ; mountains  themselves  are  worn 
With  his  light  footsteps ; here  for  ever  grows, 

Amid  the  region  of  unmelting  snows, 

A monument ; where  every  flake  that  falls 
Gives  adamantine  firmness  to  the  walls. 

The  sun  beholds  no  mirror  in  his  race, 

That  shews  a brighter  image  of  his  face ; 

The  stars,  in  their  nocturnal  vigils,  rest 
Like  signal-fires  on  its  illumined  crest ; 

The  gliding  moon  around  the  ramparts  wheels, 

And  all  its  magic  lights  and  shades  reveals ; 

Beneath,  the  tide  with  equal  fury  raves, 

To  undermine  it  through  a thousand  caves ; 

Rent  from  its  roof,  though  thundering  fragments  oft 
Plunge  to  the  gulf,  immovable  aloft, 

1 The  term  ice-blink  is  generally  applied  by  mariners  to 
the  nocturnal  illumination  in  the  heavens,  which  denotes  to 
them  the  proximity  of  ice-mountains.  In  this  place  a descrip- 
tion is  attempted  of  the  most  stupendous  accumulation  of  ice 
in  the  known  world,  which  has  been  long  distinguished  by  this 
peculiar  name  by  the  Danish  navigators. 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  James  Montgomery. 

From  age  to  age,  in  air,  o’er  sea,  on  land, 

Its  turrets  heighten  and  its  piers  expand. 

* * * * 

Hark  ! through  the  calm  and  silence  of  the  scene, 
Slow,  solemn,  sweet,  with  many  a pause  between, 
Celestial  music  swells  along  the  air ! 

No  1 ’tis  the  evening-hymn  of  praise  and  prayer 
From  yonder  deck,  where,  on  the  stern  retired, 

Three  humble  voyagers,1  with  looks  inspired, 

And  hearts  enkindled  with  a holier  flame 
Than  ever  lit  to  empire  or  to  fame, 

Devoutly  stand  : their  choral  accents  rise 
On  wings  of  harmony  beyond  the  skies ; 

And,  ’midst  the  songs  that  seraph-minstrels  sing, 

Day  without  night,  to  their  immortal  king, 

These  simple  strains,  which  erst  Bohemian  hills 
Echoed  to  pathless  woods  and  desert  rills, 

Now  heard  from  Shetland’s  azure  bound — are 
known 

In  heaven ; and  he  who  sits  upon  the  throne 
In  human  form,  with  mediatorial  power, 

Remembers  Calvary,  and  hails  the  hour 
When,  by  the  Almighty  Father’s  high  decree, 

The  utmost  north  to  him  shall  bow  the  knee, 

And,  won  by  love,  an  untamed  rebel-race 
Kiss  the  victorious  sceptre  of  his  grace. 

Then  to  his  eye,  whose  instant  glance  pervades 
Heaven’s  heights,  earth’s  circle,  hell’s  profoundest 
shades, 

Is  there  a group  more  lovely  than  those  three 
Night- watching  pilgrims  on  the  lonely  sea 2 
Or  to  his  ear,  that  gathers,  in  one  sound, 

The  voices  of  adoring  worlds  around, 

Comes  there  a breath  of  more  delightful  praise 
Than  the  faint  notes  his  poor  disciples  raise, 

Ere  on  the  treacherous  main  they  sink  to  rest, 

Secure  as  leaning  on  their  Master’s  breast  ? 

They  sleep ; but  memory  wakes ; and  dreams  array 
Night  in  a lively  masquerade  of  day ; 

The  land  they  seek,  the  land  they  leave  behind, 

Meet  on  mid-ocean  in  the  plastic  mind ; 

One  brings  forsaken  home  and  friends  so  nigh, 

That  tears  in  slumber  swell  the  unconscious  eye : 

The  other  opens,  with  prophetic  view, 

Perils  which  e’en  their  fathers  never  knew 
(Though  schooled  by  suffering,  long  inured  to  toil, 
Outcasts  and  exiles  from  their  natal  soil) ; 

Strange  scenes,  strange  men ; untold,  untried  distress ; 
Pain,  hardships,  famine,  cold,  and  nakedness, 

Diseases ; death  in  every  hideous  form, 

On  shore,  at  sea,  by  fire,  by  flood,  by  storm ; 

Wild  beasts,  and  wilder  men — unmoved  with  fear, 
Health,  comfort,  safety,  life,  they  count  not  dear, 

May  they  but  hope  a Saviour’s  love  to  shew, 

And  warn  one  spirit  from  eternal  woe  : 

Nor  will  they  faint,  nor  can  they  strive  in  vain, 

Since  thus  to  live  is  Christ,  to  die  is  gain. 

’Tis  morn  : the  bathing  moon  her  lustre  shrouds ; 
Wide  o’er  the  east  impends  an  arch  of  clouds 
That  spans  the  ocean ; while  the  infant  dawn 
Peeps  through  the  portal  o’er  the  liquid  lawn, 

That  ruffled  by  an  April-gale  appears, 

Between  the  gloom  and  splendour  of  the  spheres, 
Dark-purple  as  the  moorland  heath,  when  rain 
Hangs  in  low  vapours  over  the  autumnal  plain  : 

Till  the  full  sun,  resurgent  from  the  flood, 

Looks  on  the  waves,  and  turns  them  into  blood ; 

But  quickly  kindling,  as  his  beams  aspire, 

The  lambent  billows  play  in  forms  of  fire. 

Where  is  the  vessel  ? Shining  through  the  light, 

Like  the  white  sea-fowl’s  horizontal  flight, 

Yonder  she  wings,  and  skims,  and  cleaves  her  way 
Through  refluent  foam  and  iridescent  spray. 

1 The  first  Christian  missionaries  to  Greenland. 

Night. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest ; 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close, 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 
Upon  our  own  delightful  bed ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams ; 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 

When  truth  that  is  and  truth  that  seems, 
Blend  in  fantastic  strife ; 

Ah ! visions  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 

Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 
Its  wealthy  furrows  yield ; 

Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 

That  poets  sang  or  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep ; 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory  where  sleep 
The  joys  of  other  years ; 

Hopes  that  were  angels  in  their  birth, 

But  perished  young  like  things  on  earth  ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch ; 

On  ocean’s  dark  expanse 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 
The  full  moon’s  earliest  glance, 

That  brings  unto  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care ; 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent, 

To  see  the  spectre  of  despair 
Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 

Like  Brutus,  ’midst  his  slumbering  host, 
Startled  by  Caesar’s  stalwart  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  muse ; 

Then  from  the  eye  the  soul 
Takes  flight,  and  with  expanding  views 
Beyond  the  starry  pole, 

Descries  athwart  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away ; 

So  will  his  followers  do ; 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 

And  hold  communion  there  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  death  ; 

When  all  around  is  peace, 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease  : 

Think  of  heaven’s  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends — such  death  be  mine  ! 

[ Picture  of  a Poetical  Enthusiast .] 

[From  the  World  Before  the  Flood.) 

Restored  to  life,  one  pledge  of  former  joy, 

One  source  of  bliss  to  come,  remained — her  boy  T 
Sweet  in  her  eye  the  cherished  infant  rose, 

At  once  the  seal  and  solace  of  her  woes ; 

When  the  pale  widow  clasped  him  to  her  breast. 
Warm  gushed  the  tears,  and  would  not  be  repressed; 

377 

from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


In  lonely  anguish,  when  the  truant  child 
Leaped  o’er  the  threshold,  all  the  mother  smiled. 

In  him,  while  fond  imagination  viewed 
Husband  and  parents,  brethren,  friends  renewed, 
Each  vanished  look,  each  well-remembered  grace 
That  pleased  in  them,  she  sought  in  Javan’s  face ; 

For  quick  his  eye,  and  changeable  its  ray, 

As  the  sun  glancing  through  a vernal  day ; 

And  like  the  lake,  by  storm  or  moonlight  seen, 

With  darkening  furrows  or  cerulean  mien, 

His  countenance,  the  mirror  of  his  breast, 

The  calm  or  trouble  of  his  soul  expressed. 

As  years  enlarged  his  form,  in  moody  hours 
His  mind  betrayed  its  weakness  with  its  powers ; 
Alike  his  fairest  hopes  and  strangest  fears 
Were  nursed  in  silence,  or  divulged  with  tears ; 

The  fulness  of  his  heart  repressed  his  tongue, 

Though  none  might  rival  Javan  when  he  sung. 

He  loved,  in  lonely  indolence  reclined, 

To  watch  the  clouds,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 

But  from  the  north  when  snow  and  tempest  came, 

His  nobler  spirit  mounted  into  flame ; 

With  stem  delight  he  roamed  the  howling  woods, 

Or  hung  in  ecstasy  o’er  headlong  floods. 

Meanwhile,  excursive  fancy  longed  to  view 
The  world,  which  yet  by  fame  alone  he  knew ; 

The  joys  of  freedom  were  his  daily  theme, 

Glory  the  secret  of  his  midnight  dream ; 

That  dream  he  told  not ; though  his  heart  would  ache, 
His  home  was  precious  for  his  mother’s  sake. 

With  her  the  lowly  paths  of  peace  he  ran, 

His  guardian  angel,  till  he  verged  to  man ; 

But  when  her  weary  eye  could  watch  no  more, 

When  to  the  grave  her  lifeless  corse  he  bore, 

Not  Enoch’s  counsels  could  his  steps  restrain ; 

He  fled,  and  sojourned  in  the  land  of  Cain. 

There,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Jubal’s  lyre, 
Instinctive  genius  caught  the  ethereal  fire ; 

And  soon,  with  sweetly  modulating  skill, 

He  learned  to  wind  the  passions  at  his  will ; 

To  rule  the  chords  with  such  mysterious  art, 

They  seemed  the  lif e-strings  of  the  hearer’s  heart ! 
Then  glory’s  opening  field  he  proudly  trod, 

Forsook. the  worship  and  the  ways  of  God, 

Round  the  vain  world  pursued  the  phantom  Fame, 
And  cast  away  his  birthright  for  a name. 

Yet  no  delight  the  minstrel’s  bosom  knew, 

None  save  the  tones  that  from  his  harp  he  drew, 

And  the  warm  visions  of  a wayward  mind, 

Whose  transient  splendour  left  a gloom  behind, 

Frail  as  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  as  fair, 

Pageants  of  light,  resolving  into  air. 

The  world,  whose  charms  his  young  affections  stole, 
He  found  too  mean  for  an  immortal  soul ; 

Wound  with  his  life,  through  all  his  feelings  wrought, 
Death  and  eternity  possessed  his  thought : 

Remorse  impelled  him,  unremitting  care 
Harassed  his  path,  and  stung  him  to  despair. 

Still  was  the  secret  of  his  griefs  unknown ; 

Amidst  the  universe  he  sighed  alone ; 

The  fame  he  followed  and  the  fame  he  found, 

Healed  not  his  heart’s  immedicable  wound ; 

Admired,  applauded,  crowned,  where’er  he  roved, 

The  bard  was  homeless,  friendless,  unbeloved. 

All  else  that  breathed  below  the  circling  sky, 

Were  linked  to  earth  by  some  endearing  tie ; 

He  only,  like  the  ocean-weed  uptora, 

And  loose  along  the  world  of  waters  borne, 

Was  cast,  companionless,  from  wave  to  wave, 

On  life’s  rough  sea — and  there  was  none  to  save. 

[The  Pelican  Island.] 

Light  as  a flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind, 

Keel-upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a shell, 

Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  filled ; 

378 


Fraught  with  young  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose, 

And  moved  at  will  along  the  yielding  water. 

The  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 
Put  out  a tier  of  oars  on  either  side, 

Spread  to  the  wafting  breeze  a twofold  sail, 

And  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow 
In  happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air, 

And  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light. 

Worth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour, 

To  me  appeared  this  lonely  Nautilus, 

My  fellow-being,  like  myself  alive. 

Entranced  in  contemplation,  vague  yet  sweet, 

I watched  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake, 

Till  I forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 

It  closed,  sunk,  dwindled  to  a point,  then  nothing ; 
While  the  last  bubble  crowned  the  dimpling  eddy, 
Through  which  mine  eyes  still  giddily  pursued  it, 

A joyous  creature  vaulted  through  the  air — 

The  aspiring  fish  that  fain  would  be  a bird, 

On  long,  light  wings,  that  flung  a diamond-shower 
Of  dew-drops  round  its  evanescent  form, 

Sprang  into  light,  and  instantly  descended. 

Ere  I could  greet  the  stranger  as  a friend. 

Or  mourn  his  quick  departure,  on  the  surge 
A shoal  of  dolphins,  tumbling  in  wild  glee, 

Glowed  with  such  orient  tints,  they  might  have 
been 

The  rainbow’s  offspring,  when  it  met  the  ocean 
In  that  resplendent  vision  I had  seen. 

While  yet  in  ecstasy  I hung  o’er  these, 

With  every  motion  pouring  out  fresh  beauties, 

As  though  the  conscious  colours  came  and  went 
At  pleasure,  glorying  in  their  subtle  changes — 
Enormous  o’er  the  flood,  Leviathan 
Looked  forth,  and  from  his  roaring  nostrils  sent 
Two  fountains  to  the  sky,  then  plunged  amain 
In  headlong  pastime  through  the  closing  gulf. 

The  Recluse. 

A fountain  issuing  into  light 
Before  a marble  palace,  threw 
To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright, 
Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew ; 

But  soon  a humbler  course  it  took, 

And  glid  away  a nameless  brook. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang, 

Flies  o’er  its  eddying  surface  played, 

Birds  ’midst  the  alder-branches  sang, 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  strayed ; 
The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest, 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

’Twas  beautiful  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain’s  crystal  turn  to  gems, 

And  from  the  sky  such  colours  catch 
As  if  ’twere  raining  diadems ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art, 

That  charmed  the  eye,  but  missed  the  heart. 

Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream 
Whose  unimprisoned  waters  run, 

Wild  as  the  changes  of  a dream, 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun ; 

Its  lovely  links  had  power  to  bind 
In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I when  I saw  the  face 
By  happy  portraiture  revealed, 

Of  one  adorned  with  every  grace, 

Her  name  and  date  from  me  concealed, 

But  not  her  story ; she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a splendid  scene. 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  james  Montgomery. 

She  cast  her  glory  round  a court, 

Closer,  closer,  let  us  knit 

And  frolicked  in  the  gayest  ring, 

Hearts  and  hands  together, 

Where  fashion’s  high-born  minions  sport 

Where  our  fireside  comforts  sit, 

Like  sparkling  fireflies  on  the  wing ; 

But  thence  when  love  had  touched  her  soul, 

In  the  wildest  weather ; 

0 ! they  wander  wide  who  roam 

To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

For  the  joys  of  life  from  home. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 

’Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and  plains, 

The  Common  Lot. 

She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life, 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

Yet  in  a bosom-circle  reigns, 

There  lived  a man : and  who  was  he  ? 

No  fountain  scattering  diamond-showers. 

Mortal ! howe’er  thy  lot  be  cast, 

But  the  sweet  streamlet  watering  flowers. 

That  man  resembled  thee. 

The  Field  of  the  World. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown : 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed, 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth, 

At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand ; 

This  truth  survives  alone  : 

To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broad-cast  it  o’er  the  land. 

That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear, 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast ; 
His  bliss  and  woe — a smile,  a tear ! 

Beside  all  waters  sow ; 

The  highway  furrows  stock ; 

Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow ; 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 
The  changing  spirits’  rise  and  fall ; 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground, 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him, 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

Expect  not  here  nor  there ; 

O’er  hill  and  dale,  by  plots,  ’tis  found ; 

He  suffered — but  his  pangs  are  o’er ; 

Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Enjoyed — but  his  delights  are  fled ; 

Had  friends — his  friends  are  now  no  more ; 

Thou  know’st  not  which  may  thrive, 

And  foes — his  foes  are  dead. 

The  late  or  early  sown ; 

Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 

He  loved — but  whom  he  loved  the  grave 

When  and  wherever  strown. 

Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb  : 
0 she  was  fair  ! but  nought  could  save 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength, 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 
And  the  full  com  at  length. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen ; 
Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee : 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been ; 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain : 

He  is — what  thou  shalt  be. 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain, 
For  gamers  in  the  sky. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 
Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  bnd, 

To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  day  of  God  is  come, 

The  angel-reapers  shall  descend, 

And  heaven  cry — ‘ Harvest  home.’ 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o’er  his  eye 

That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 

No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

Aspirations  of  Youth. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Higher,  higher,  will  we  climb, 
Up  to  the  mount  of  glory, 

Their  ruins,  since  the  woi'ld  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 

That  our  names  may  live  through  time 

Than  this — there  lived  a man  ! 

In  our  country’s  story ; 
Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls, 
He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls. 

Prayer. 

Deeper,  deeper,  let  us  toil 

Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere  desire 

Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 

In  the  mines  of  knowledge ; 

The  motion  of  a hidden  fire 

Nature’s  wealth  and  learning’s  spoil, 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Win  from  school  and  college; 
Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a sigh, 

Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

The  falling  of  a tear ; 

The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

Onward,  onward,  may  we  press 
Through  the  path  of  duty ; 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Virtue  is  true  happiness, 
Excellence  true  beauty. 

Minds  are  of  celestial  birth, 
Make  we  then  a heaven  of  earth. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 
That  infant  lips  can  try ; 

Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

379 

from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1880. 


Prayer  is  the  Christian’s  vital  breath, 

The  Christian’s  native  air ; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death : 

He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner’s  voice 
Returning  from  his  ways ; 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 

And  say,  ‘Behold  he  prays !’ 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind, 

When  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 
Their  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone  : 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads ; 

And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne, 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

0 Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod : 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

Home. 

There  is  a land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 

Beloved  by  heaven  o’er  all  the  world  beside ; 

Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 

And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night ; 

A land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valour,  truth, 

Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth : 

The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 

Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a purer  air ; 

In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 

Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole ; 

For  in  this  land  of  heaven’s  peculiar  grace, 

The  heritage  of  nature’s  noblest  race, 

There  is  a spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

A dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 

Where  man,  creation’s  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 

While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend ; 

Here  woman  reigns ; the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life ! 

In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 

An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie ; 

Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 

And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 

Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ? 
Art  thou  a man  ? — a patriot  ? — look  around ; 

0,  thou  shalt  find,  howe’er  thy  footsteps  roam, 

That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home  ! 

THE  HON.  WILLIAM  ROBERT  SPENCER. 

The  Hon.  William  Robert  Spencer  (1770-1 834-) 
published  occasional  poems  of  that  description  named 
vers  de  societe,  whose  highest  object  is  to  gild  the 
social  hour.  They  were  exaggerated  in  compliment 
and  adulation,  and  wittily  parodied  in  the  Rejected 
Addresses.  As  a companion,  Mr  Spencer  was  much 
prized  by  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  metropolis ; but, 
if  we  may  credit  an  anecdote  told  by  Rogers,  he  must 
have  been  heartless  and  artificial  Moore  wished 
that  Spencer  should  bail  him  when  he  was  in 
custody  after  the  affair  of  the  duel  with  Jeffrey. 
‘Spencer  did  not  seem  much  inclined  to  do  so, 
remarking  that  he  could  not  well  go  out,  for  it  was 
already  twelve  o'clock,  and  he  had  to  be  dressed  by 
four.’  Spencer,  falling  into  pecuniary  difficulties, 
S80 


removed  to  Paris,  where  he  died.  His  poems 
were  collected  and  published  in  1835.  Mr  Spencer 
translated  the  Leonora  of  Burger  with  great  success, 
and  in  a vein  of  similar  excellence  composed  some 
original  ballads,  one  of  which,  marked  by  simplicity 
and  pathos,  we  subjoin : 

Reth  Gilert,  or  the  Grave  of  the  Greyhound. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 

And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn  ; 

And  many  a brach,  and  many  a hound. 

Obeyed  Llewelyn’s  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a louder  blast, 

And  gave  a lustier  cheer, 

* Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 
Llewelyn’s  horn  to  hear. 

‘ 0 where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 

The  flower  of  all  his  race ; 

So  true,  so  brave — a lamb  at  home, 

A lion  in  the  chase?  ’ 

’Twas  only  at  Llewelyn’s  board 
The  faithful  Gelert  fed ; 

He  watched,  he  served,  he  cheered  his  lord, 

And  sentinelled  his  bed. 

In  sooth  he  was  a peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John ; 

But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

And  now,  as  o’er  the  rocks  and  dells 
The  gallant  chidings  rise, 

All  Snowdon’s  craggy  chaos  yells 
The  m any-mingled  cries  ! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 
The  chase  of  hart  and  hare ; 

And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved. 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied, 

"When,  near  the  portal  seat, 

His  truant  Geftrt  he  espied, 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gained  his  castle-door, 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood ; 

The  hound  all  o’er  was  smeared  with  gore ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 

His  favourite  checked  his  joyful  guise, 

And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  passed, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too ; 

And  still,  where’er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O’erturned  his  infant’s  bed  he  found, 

With  blood-stained  covert  rent ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child — no  voice  replied — 

He  searched  with  terror  wild ; 

Blood,  blood  he  found  on  every  side, 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


‘ Hell-hound  ! my  child ’s  by  thee  devoured/ 
The  frantic  father  cried ; 

And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 
He  plunged  in  Gelert’s  side. 

His  suppliant  looks,  as  prone  he  fell, 

No  pity  could  impart ; 

But  still  his  Gelert’s  dying  yell 
Passed  heavy  o’er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert’s  dying  yell, 

Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh : 

What  words  the  parent’s  joy  could  tell 
To  hear  his  infant’s  cry  ! 

Concealed  beneath  a tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  missed, 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 

The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread, 

But,  the  same  couch  beneath, 

Lay  a gaunt  wolf,  all  tom  and  dead, 
Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn’s  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear ; 

His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 
To  save  Llewelyn’s  heir. 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn’s  woe ; 

‘ Best  of  thy  kind,  adieu ! 

The  frantic  blow  which  laid  thee  low 
This  heart  shall  ever  rue.’ 

And  now  a gallant  tomb  they  raise, 

With  costly  sculpture  decked ; 

And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 
Poor  Gelert’s  bones  protect 

There,  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester  unmoved ; 

There,  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 
Llewelyn’s  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear, 

And  there,  as  evening  fell, 

In  fancy’s  ear  he  oft  would  hear 
Poor  Gelert’s  dying  yell 

And,  till  great  Snowdon’s  rocks  grow  old, 
And  cease  the  storm  to  brave, 

The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 
The  name  of  ‘ G&lert’s  Grave.’ 


Wife,  Children,  and  Friends. 

When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  presented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  intends), 

At  the  long  string  of  ills  a kind  goddess  relented, 

And  slipped  in  three  blessings — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated, 

For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its  ends ; 

The  scheme  of  man’s  penance  he  swore  was  defeated, 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested, 
The  fund  ill  secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends ; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  are  never  protested, 
When  drawn  on  the  firm  of— wife,  children,  and 
friends. 


HON.  WILLIAM  ROBERT  SPENCER. 


Though  valour  still  glows  in  his  life’s  dying  embers, 
The  death- wounded  tar,  who  his  colours  defends, 

Drops  a tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 

How  blessed  was  his  home  with — wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

The  soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  in  story, 
Whom  duty  to  far-distant  latitudes  sends, 

With  transport  would  barter  old  ages  of  glory 

For  one  happy  day  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Though  spice-breathing  gales  on  his  caravan  hover, 
Though  for  him  Arabia’s  fragrance  ascends, 

The  merchant  still  thinks  of  the  woodbines  that  cover 
The  bower  where  he  sat  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

The  dayspring  of  youth  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 
Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends; 

But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 

No  warmth  from  the  smile  of — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Let  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and  nourish 
The  laurel  which  o’er  the  dead  favourite  bends ; 

O’er  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it  flourish, 
Bedewed  with  the  tears  of — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver, 
To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends ; 

Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  love  and  virtue  shall 
flavour 

The  glass  which  I fill  to — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

To . 

Too  late  I stayed — forgive  the  crime ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours ; 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time  ! 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 
The  ebbing  of  the  glass, 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass ! 

Oh  ! who  to  sober  measurement 
Time’s  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings ! 

Stanzas. 

When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless  skies 
Her  pall  of  transient  death  has  spread, 

When  mortals  sleep,  when  spectres  rise, 

And  nought  is  wakeful  but  the  dead : 

No  bloodless  shape  my  way  pursues, 

No  sheeted  ghost  my  couch  annoys ; 

Visions  more  sad  my  fancy  views, 

Visions  of  long  departed  joys ! 

The  shade  of  youthful  hope  is  there, 

That  lingered  long,  and  latest  died ; 

Ambition  all  dissolved  to  air, 

With  phantom  honours  by  his  side. 

What  empty  shadows  glimmer  nigh  ? 

They  once  were  Friendship,  Truth,  and  Love  ! 

Oh  ! die  to  thought,  to  memory  die, 

Since  lifeless  to  my  heart  ye  prove  ! 

These  last  two  verses,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  knew 
and  esteemed  Spencer,  quotes  in  his  diary,  terming 

381 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1880. 


them  c fine  lines/  and  expressive  of  his  own  feelings 
amidst  the  wreck  and  desolation  of  his  fortunes  at 
Abbotsford. 

HENRY  LUTTRELL. 

Another  man  of  wit  and  fashion,  and  a pleasing 
versifier,  was  Henry  Luttrell  (1770-1851),  author 
of  Advice  to  Julia : a Letter  in  Rhyme , 1820,  and 
Crockford  House , 1827.  Mr  Luttrell  was  a favourite 
in  the  circle  of  Holland  House : 1 none  of  the  talkers 
whom  I meet  in  London  society/  said  Rogers,  ‘ can 
slide  in  a brilliant  thing  with  such  readiness  as  he 
does.’  The  writings  of  these  witty  and  celebrated 
conversationists  seldom  do  justice  to  their  talents, 
hut  there  are  happy  descriptive  passages  and 
touches  of  light  satire  in  Luttrell’s  verses.  Rogers 
used  to  quote  an  epigram  made  by  his  friend  on  the 
celebrated  vocalist,  Miss  Tree : 

On  this  tree  when  a nightingale  settles  and  sings, 
The  tree  will  return  her  as  good  as  she  brings. 

The  following  are  extracts  from  the  Advice  to  Julia : 

[ London  in  Autumn .] 

’Tis  August.  Rays  of  fiercer  heat 
Full  on  the  scorching  pavement  beat, 

As  o’er  it,  the  faint  breeze,  by  fits 
Alternate,  blows  and  intermits. 

For  short-lived  green,  a russet  brown 
Stains  every  withering  shrub  in  town. 
Darkening  the  air,  in  clouds  arise 
Th’  Egyptian  plagues  of  dust  and  flies ; 

At  rest,  in  motion — forced  to  roam 
Abroad,  or  to  remain  at  home, 

Nature  proclaims  one  common  lot 
For  all  conditions — ‘ Be  ye  hot !’ 

Day  is  intolerable — Night 
As  close  and  suffocating  quite  ; 

And  still  the  mercury  mounts  higher, 

Till  London  seems  again  on  fire. 

[The  November  Fog  of  London .] 

First,  at  the  dawn  of  lingering  day, 

It  rises  of  an  ashy  gray ; 

Then  deepening  with  a sordid  stain 
Of  yellow,  like  a lion’s  mane. 

Vapour  importunate  and  dense, 

It  wars  at  once  with  every  sense. 

The  ears  escape  not.  All  around 
Returns  a dull  unwonted  sound. 

Loath  to  stand  still,  afraid  to  stir, 

The  chilled  and  puzzled  passenger, 

Oft  blundering  from  the  pavement,  fails 
To  feel  his  way  along  the  rails ; 

Or  at  the  crossings,  in  the  roll 
Of  every  carriage  dreads  the  pole. 

Scarce  an  eclipse,  with  pall  so  dun, 

Blots  from  the  face  of  heaven  the  sun. 

But  soon  a thicker,  darker  cloak 
Wraps  all  the  town,  behold,  in  smoke, 

Which  steam-compelling  trade  disgorges 
From  all  her  furnaces  and  forges 
In  pitchy  clouds,  too  dense  to  rise, 

Descends  rejected  from  the  skies ; 

Till  struggling  day,  extinguished  quite, 

At  noon  gives  place  to  candle-light. 

O Chemistry,  attractive  maid, 

Descend,  in  pity,  to  our  aid : 

Come  with  thy  all-pervading  gases, 

Thy  crucibles,  retorts,  and  glasses, 

Thy  fearful  energies  and  wonders, 

Thy  dazzling  lights  and  mimic  thunders ; 


Let  Carbon  in  thy  train  be  seen, 

Dark  Azote  and  fair  Oxygen, 

And  Wollaston  and  Davy  guide 
The  car  that  bears  thee  at  thy  side. 

If  any  power  can,  any  how, 

Abate  these  nuisances,  ’tis  thou ; 

And  see,  to  aid  thee  in  the  blow, 

The  bill  of  Michael  Angelo ; 

O join — success  a thing  of  course  is — 

Thy  heavenly  to  his  mortal  forces ; 

Make  all  chimneys  chew  the  cud 
Like  hungry  cows,  as  chimneys  should  ! 

And  since  ’tis  only  smoke  we  draw 
Within  our  lungs  at  common  law, 

Into  their  thirsty  tubes  be  sent 
Fresh  air,  by  act  of  parliament. 

HENRY  GALLY  KNIGHT. 

Some  Eastern  tales  in  the  manner  and  measure  of 
Byron  were  written  by  an  accomplished  man  of 
fortune,  Mr  Henry  Gally  Knight  (1787-1846). 
The  first  of  these,  Ilderim,  a Syrian  Tale,  was 
published  in  1816.  This  was  followed  by  Phrosyne , 
a Grecian  Tale , and  Alashtar , an  Arabian  Tale,  1817. 
Mr  Knight  also  wrote  a dramatic  poem,  Hannibal 
in  Bithynia.  Though  evincing  poetical  taste  and 
correctness  in  the  delineation  of  Eastern  manners — 
for  Mr  Knight  had  travelled — these  poems  failed  in 
exciting  attention ; and  their  author  turned  to  the 
study  of  our  mediaeval  architecture.  His  Archi- 
tectural Tour  in  Normandy,  and  Ecclesiastical  Archi- 
tecture of  Italy  from  the  Time  of  Constantine  to  the 
Fifteenth  Century — the  latter  a splendidly  illustrated 
work — are  valuable  additions  to  this  branch  of  our 
historical  literature. 


CROWE — SAYERS — HELEN  MARIA  WILLIAMS. 

Several  other  minor  poets  of  considerable  merit 
at  the  beginning  of  this  period,  were  read  and 
admired  by  poetical  students  and  critics,  who  have 
affectionately  preserved  their  names,  though  the 
works  they  praised  are  now  forgotten.  ‘ How  little 
Crowe  is  known  even  to  persons  who  are  fond  of 
poetry!’  exclaimed  Samuel  Rogers  ( Table  Talk); 
and  LWordsworth  also  mentions  Crowe’s  excellent 
loco-descriptive  poem,  Lewesdon  Hill,  which  went 
through  three  editions  between  1788  and  1804.  Its 
author,  the  Rev.  "William  Crowe,  was  Public 
Orator  in  the  university  of  Oxford.  We  subjoin 
one  of  the  episodes  in  Lewesdon  Hill,  descriptive  of 
the  wreck  of  the  Halsewell,  East  Indiaman,  on  the 
coast  of  England  in  1786  : 

See  how  the  sun,  here  clouded,  afar  off 
Pours  down  the  golden  radiance  of  his  light 
Upon  the  enridged  sea ; where  the  black  ship 
Sails  on  the  phosphor-seeming  waves.  So  fair, 

But  falsely  flattering,  was  yon  surface  calm, 

When  forth  for  India  sailed,  in  evil  time, 

That  vessel,  whose  disastrous  fate,  when  told, 

Filled  every  breast  with  horror,  and  each  eye 
With  piteous  tears,  so  cruel  was  the  loss. 

Methinks  I see  her,  as,  by  the  wintry  storm 
Shattered  and  driven  along  past  yonder  isle, 

She  strove,  her  latest  hope,  by  strength  or  art, 

To  gain  the  port  within  it,  or  at  worst 
To  shun  that  harbourless  and  hollow  coast 
From  Portland  eastward  to  the  promontory 
Where  still  St  Albans  high-built  chapel  stands. 

But  art  nor  strength  avail  her — on  she  drives, 

In  storm  and  darkness  to  the  fatal  coast ; 

And  there  ’mong  rocks  and  high  o’erhanging  cliffs 
Dashed  piteously,  with  all  her  precious  freight 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Was  lost,  by  Neptune’s  wild  and  foamy  jaws 
Swallowed  up  quick ! The  richliest  laden  ship 
Of  spicy  Temate,  or  that  annual  sent 
To  the  Philippines  o’er  the  southern  main 
From  Acapulco,  carrying  massy  gold, 

Was  poor  to  this ; freighted  with  hopeful  Youth, 

And  Beauty,  and  high  Courage  undismayed 
By  mortal  terrors,  and  paternal  Love 
Strong  and  unconquerable  even  in  death — 

Alas,  they  perished  all,  all  in  one  hour. 

Dr  Frank  Sayers  of  Norwich  (1763-1817)  has 
been  specially  commemorated  by  Southey,  though 
even  in  1826  the  laureate  admitted  that  Sayers  was 
1 out  of  date.’  The  works  of  this  amiable  physician 
consisted  of  Dramatic  Sketches  of  the  Ancient  Northern 
Mythology , 1790 ; Disquisitions , Metaphysical  and  Liter- 
ary., 1793 ; Nugce  Poeticce,  1803 ; Miscellanies , 1805 ; 
&c.  The  works  of  Sayers  were  collected  and 
republished,  with  an  account  of  his  life,  by  William 
Taylor  of  Norwich,  in  1823. 

Helen  Maria  Williams  (1762-1827)  was  very 
early  in  life  introduced  to  public  notice  by  Dr 
Kippis,  who  recommended  her  first  work,  Edwin  and 
Elfrida  (1782).  She  went  to  reside  in  France, 
imbibed  republican  opinions,  and  was  near  suffering 
with  the  Girondists  during  the  tyranny  of  Robespierre. 
She  was  a voluminous  writer  both  in  prose  and 
verse,  author  of  Letters  from  France , Travels  in 
Switzerland , Narrative  of  Events  in  France , Corre- 
spondence of  Louis  XVI.,  with  Observations , &c.  In 
1823  she  collected  and  republished  her  poems.  To 
one  of  the  pieces*  in  this  edition,  she  subjoins  the 
following  note : 1 1 commence  the  sonnets  with  that 
to  Hope,  from  a predilection  in  its  favour,  for  which 
I have  a proud  reason : it  is  that  of  Mr  Wordsworth, 
who  lately  honoured  me  with  his  visits  while  at 
Paris,  having  repeated  it  to  me  from  memory,  after 
a lapse  of  many  years.’ 

Sonnet  to  Hope. 

0 ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  we  love  ! 

To  bid  the  shapes  of  fear  and  grief  depart ; 

Come,  gentle  Hope  ! with  one  gay  smile  remove 
The  lasting  sadness  of  an  aching  heart. 

Thy  voice,  benign  enchantress  ! let  me  hear ; 

Say  that  for  me  some  pleasures  yet  shall  bloom, 
That  Fancy’s  radiance,  Friendship’s  precious  tear, 
Shall  soften,  or  shall  chase,  misfortune’s  gloom. 

But  come  not  glowing  in  the  dazzling  ray, 

Which  once  with  dear  illusions  charmed  my  eye, 

0 ! strew  no  more,  sweet  flatterer  ! on  my  way 
The  flowers  I fondly  thought  too  bright  to  die  ; 
Visions  less  fair  will  soothe  my  pensive  breast, 

That  asks  not  happiness,  but  longs  for  rest ! 


LEian  HUNT. 

Leigh  Hunt,  a poet  and  essayist  of  the  lively 
and  descriptive,  not  the  intense  school,  was  born  at 
Southgate,  in  Middlesex,  October  19,  1784.  Ilis 
father  was  a West  Indian ; but  being  in  Pennsylvania 
at  the  time  of  the  American  war,  he  espoused  the 
British  interest  with  so  much  warmth,  that  he  had 
to  leave  the  new  world  and  seek  a subsistence  in  the 
old.  He  took  orders  in  the  Church  of  England,  and 
was  some  time  tutor  to  the  nephew  of  Lord  Chandos, 
near  Southgate.  His  son — who  was  named  after  his 
father’s  pupil,  Mr  Leigh — was  educated  at  Christ’s 
Hospital,  where  he  continued  till  his  fifteenth  year. 
* I was  then,’  he  says,  * first  deputy  Grecian  ; and 
had  the  honour  of  going  out  of  the  school  in  the 
same  rank,  at  the  same  age,  and  for  the  same  reason 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


as  my  friend  Charles  Lamb.  The  reason  was,  that 
I hesitated  in  my  speech.  It  was  understood  that  a 
Grecian  was  bound  to  deliver  a public  speech  before 
he  left  school,  and  to  go  into  the  church  afterwards ; 
and  as  I could  do  neither  of  these  things,  a Grecian 
I could  not  be.’  Leigh  was  then  a poet,  and  his 


father  collected  his  verses,  and  published  them  with 
a large  list  of  subscribers.  He  has  himself  described 
this  volume  as  a heap  of  imitations,  some  of  them 
clever  enough  for  a youth  of  sixteen,  but  absolutely 
worthless  in  every  other  respect.  In  1805,  Mr 
Hunt’s  brother  set  up  a paper  called  The  News , 
and  the  poet  went  to  live  with  him,  and  write  the 
theatrical  criticisms  in  it.  Three  years  afterwards, 
they  established,  in  joint-partnership,  The  Examiner , 
a weekly  journal  still  conducted  with  distinguished 
ability.  The  poet  was  more  literary  than  political 
in  his  tastes  and  lucubrations;  but  unfortunately, 
he  ventured  some  strictures  on  the  prince-regent, 
which  were  construed  into  a libel,  and  he  was 
sentenced  to  two  years’  imprisonment.  The  poet’s 
captivity  was  not  without  its  bright  side.  He 
had  much  of  the  public  sympathy,  and  his  friends 
— Byron  and  Moore  being  of  the  number — were 
attentive  in  their  visits.  One  of  his  two  rooms  on 
the  ‘ ground-floor  ’ he  converted  into  a picturesque 
and  poetical  study:  ‘I  papered  the  walls  with  a 
trellis  of  roses ; I had  the  ceiling  coloured  with 
clouds  and  sky  ; the  barred  windows  were  screened 
with  Venetian  blinds ; and  when  my  bookcases  were 
set  up,  with  their  busts  and  flowers,  and  a piano- 
forte made  its  appearance,  perhaps  there  was  not 
a handsomer  room  on  that  side  the  water.  I took  a 
pleasure,  when  a stranger  knocked  at  the  door,  to 
see  him  come  in  and  stare  about  him.  The  surprise 
on  issuing  from  the  borough,  and  passing  through 
the  avenues  of  a jail,  was  dramatic.  Charles  Lamb 
declared  there  was  no  other  such  room  except  in  a 
fairy  tale.  But  I had  another  surprise,  which  was 
a garden.  There  was  a little  yard  outside  railed  off 
from  another  belonging  to  the  neighbouring  ward. 
This  yard  I shut  in  with  green  palings,  adorned  it 
with  a trellis,  bordered  it  with  a thick  bed  of  earth 
from  a nursery,  and  even  contrived  to  have  a grass- 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

plot.  The  earth  I filled  with  flowers  and  young 
trees.  There  was  an  apple-tree  from  which  we 
managed  to  get  a pudding  the  second  year.  As  to 
my  flowers,  they  were  allowed  to  be  perfect.  A 
poet  from  Derbyshire  (Mr  Moore)  told  me  he  had 
seen  no  such  heart’s-ease.  I bought  the  Pamaso 
Italiano  while  in  prison,  and  used  often  to  think  of 
a passage  in  it,  while  looking  at  this  miniature  piece 
of  horticulture : 

Mio  picciol  orto, 

A me  sei  vigna,  e campo,  e silva,  e prato. — Baldi. 

Sly  little  garden, 

To  me  tliou  ’rt  vineyard,  field,  and  wood,  and  meadow. 

Here  I wrote  and  read  in  fine  weather,  sometimes 
under  an  awning.  In  autumn,  my  trellises  were 
hung  with  scarlet  runners,  which  added  to  the 
flowery  investment.  I used  to  shut  my  eyes  in  my 
arm-chair,  and  affect  to  think  myself  hundreds  of 
miles  off.  But  my  triumph  was  in  issuing  forth  of 
a morning.  A wicket  out  of  the  garden  led  into  the 
large  one  belonging  to  the  prison.  The  latter  was 
only  for  vegetables,  but  it  contained  a cherry-tree, 
which  I twice  saw  in  blossom.’  * 

This  is  so  interesting  a little  picture,  and  so  fine 
an  example  of  making  the  most  of  adverse  circum- 
stances, that  it  should  not  be  omitted  in  any  life  of 
Hunt.  The  poet,  however,  was  not  so  well  fitted  to 
battle  with  the  world,  and  apply  himself  steadily  to 
worldly  business,  as  he  was  to  dress  his  garden  and 
nurse  his  poetical  fancies.  He  fell  into  difficulties, 
and  has  been  contending  with  them  ever  since.  On 
leaving  prison,  be  published  his  Story  of  Rimini,  an 
Italian  tale  in  verse,  containing  some  exquisite  lines 
and  passages.  He  set  up  also  a small  weekly  paper, 
called  The  Indicator,  on  the  plan  of  the  periodical 
essayists,  which  was  well  received.  He  also  gave  to 
the  world  two  small  volumes  of  poetry,  Foliage , and 
The  Feast  of  the  Poets.  In  1822,  Mr  Hunt  went 
to  Italy  to  reside  with  Lord  Byron,  and  to  establish 
The  Liberal,  a crude  and  violent  melange  of  poetry 
and  politics,  both  in  the  extreme  of  liberalism. 
This  connection  was  productive  of  mutual  dis- 
appointment and  disgust.  The  Liberal  did  not  sell ; 
Byron’s  titled  and  aristocratic  friends  cried  out 
against  so  plebeian  a partnership ; and  Hunt  found 
that  the  noble  poet,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  in  a 
pecuniary  sense,  was  cold,  sarcastic,  and  worldly 
minded.  Still  more  unfortunate  was  it  that  Hunt 
should  afterwards  have  written  the  work,  Lord 
Byron  and  Some  of  his  Contemporaries,  in  which 
his  disappointed  feelings  found  vent,  and  their 
expression  was  construed  into  ingratitude.  His 
life  has  been  spent  in  struggling  with  influences 
contrary  to  his  nature  and  poetical  temperament. 
The  spirit  of  the  poet,  however,  is  still  active  and 
cheerful.  In  1835,  he  produced  Captain  Sword  and 
Captain  Pen — a poetical  denunciation  of  war.  In 
1840,  he  greeted  the  birth  of  the  Princess-royal 
with  a copy  of  verses,  from  which  we  extract  some 
pleasing  lines : 

Behold  where  thou  dost  lie, 

Heeding  naught,  remote  or  nigh ! 

Naught  of  all  the  news  we  sing 
Dost  thou  know,  sweet  ignorant  thing ; 

Naught  of  planet’s  love  nor  people’s ; 

Nor  dost  hear  the  giddy  steeples 
Caroling  of  thee  and  thine, 

As  if  heaven  had  rained  them  wine ; 

Nor  dost  care  for  all  the  pains 
Of  ushers  and  of  chamberlains, 

* Lord  Byron  and  Some  of  his  Contemporaries,  vol.  ii.  p.  258. 

334 

Nor  the  doctor’s  learned  looks, 

Nor  the  very  bishop’s  books, 

Nor  the  lace  that  wraps  thy  chin, 

No,  nor  for  thy  rank  a pin. 

E’en  thy  father’s  loving  hand 
Nowise  dost  thou  understand, 

When  he  makes  thee  feebly  grasp 
His  finger  with  a tiny  clasp ; 

Nor  dost  thou  know  thy  very  mother’s 
Balmy  bosom  from  another’s, 

Though  thy  small  blind  eyes  pursue  it; 

Nor  the  arms  that  draw  thee  to  it ; 

Nor  the  eyes  that,  while  they  fold  thee, 

Never  can  enough  behold  thee ! 

In  the  same  year  Mr  Hunt  brought  out  a drama, 

A Legend  of  Florence,  and  in  1842  a narrative  poem, 
The  Palfrey.  His  poetry,  generally,  is  marked 
by  a profusion  of  imagery,  of  sprightly  fancy,  and 
animated  description.  Some  quaintness  and  affec- 
tation in  his  style  and  manner  fixed  upon  him  the 
name  of  a Cockney  poet ; but  his  studies  have  lain 
chiefly  in  the  elder  writers,  and  he  has  imitated 
with  success  the  lighter  and  more  picturesque  parts 
of  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  Boccaccio,  and  the  gay 
Italian  authors,  appear  also  to  have  been  among 
his  favourites.  His  prose  essays  have  been  collected 
and  published  under  the  title  of  Hie  Indicator  and 
the  Companion,  a Miscellany  for  the  Fields  and  the 
Fireside.  They  are  deservedly  popular — full  of 
literary  anecdote,  poetical  feeling,  and  fine  sketches 
both  of  town  and  country  life.  Other  prose  works, 
original  and  selected,  have  been  published  by  Mr 
Hunt,  as  Sir  Ralph  Esher , a novel;  The  Town,  its 
Memorable  Characters  and  Events;  The  Old  Court  : 
Suburb ; lives  of  Wycherley,  Congreve,  and  Farquhar,  j 
&c.  These  are  all  pleasant,  readable  works.  In  ■ 
1858,  he  produced  a dramatic  piece  which  was 
successful  on  the  stage.  The  egotism  of  the  author  | 
is  undisguised;  but  in  all  Hunt’s  writings,  his  ; 
peculiar  tastes  and  romantic  fancy,  his  talk  of  books 
and  flowers,  and  his  love  of  the  domestic  virtues 
and  charities — though  he  has  too  much  imagination 
for  his  judgment  in  the  serious  matters  of  life — 
impart  a particular  interest  and  pleasure  to  his 
personal  disclosures.  In  1847,  the  crown  bestowed 
a pension  of  £200  a year  on  the  veteran  poet. 

[May  Morning  at  Ravenna .] 

[From  Rimini.] 

The  sun  is  up,  and  ’tis  a morn  of  May 

Round  old  Ravenna’s  clear-shewn  towers  and  bay. 

A mom,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen, 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green ; 

For  a warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night, 

Have  left  a sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 

And  there ’s  a crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 

A balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a coil 
Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short — sky,  earth,  and  sea. 
Breathes  like  a bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out 
openly. 

’Tis  nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing : 

The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing, 

Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down, 

Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town ; 
While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen ; 

And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light, 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day, 

And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the  bay. 
Already  in  the  streets  the  stir  grows  loud, 

Of  expectation  and  a bustling  crowd. 

With  feet  and  voice  the  gathering  hum  contends, 

The  deep  talk  heaves,  the  ready  laugh  ascends ; 
Callings,  and  clapping  doors,  and  curs  unite, 

And  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight ; 

And  armed  bands,  making  important  way, 

Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holiday, 

And  nodding  neighbours,  greeting  as  they  run, 

And  pilgrims,  chanting  in  the  morning  sun. 


[Funeral  of  the  Lovers  in  1 Bimini.’] 

The  days  were  then  at  close  of  autumn  still, 

A little  rainy,  and,  towards  nightfall,  chill ; 

There  was  a fitful  moaning  air  abroad ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  over  the  road, 

The  last  few  leaves  came  fluttering  from  the  trees, 
Whose  trunks  now  thronged  to  sight,  in  dark  varieties. 
The  people,  who  from  reverence  kept  at  home, 
Listened  till  afternoon  to  hear  them  come ; 

And  hour  on  hour  went  by,  and  nought  was  heard 
But  some  chance  horseman  or  the  wind  that  stirred, 
Till  towards  the  vesper-hour ; and  then  ’twas  said 
Some  heard  a voice,  which  seemed  as  if  it  read ; 

And  others  said  that  they  could  hear  a sound 
Of  many  horses  trampling  the  moist  ground. 

Still,  nothing  came — till  on  a sudden,  just 
As  the  wind  opened  in  a rising  gust, 

A voice  of  chanting  rose,  and  as  it  spread, 

They  plainly  heard  the  anthem  for  the  dead. 

It  was  the  choristers  who  went  to  meet 

The  train,  and  now  were  entering  the  first  street. 

Then  turned  aside  that  city,  young  and  old, 

And  in  their  lifted  hands  the  gushing  sorrow  rolled. 
But  of  the  older  people,  few  could  bear 
To  keep  the  window,  when  the  train  drew  near ; 

And  all  felt  double  tenderness  to  see 
The  bier  approaching  slow  and  steadily, 

On  which  those  two  in  senseless  coldness  lay, 

Who  but  a few  short  months — it  seemed  a day — 

Had  left  their  walls,  lovely  in  form  and  mind, 

In  sunny  manhood  he — she  first  of  womankind. 

They  say  that  when  Duke  Guido  saw  them  come, 

He  clasped  his  hands,  and  looking  round  the  room, 
Lost  his  old  wits  for  ever.  From  the  morrow 
None  saw  him  after.  But  no  more  of  sorrow. 

On  that  same  night  those  lovers  silently 
Were  buried  in  one  grave  under  a tree ; 

There,  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand,  they  lay 
In  the  green  ground  : and  on  fine  nights  in  May 
Young  hearts  betrothed  used  to  go  there  to  pray. 

To  T.  L.  IT.,  Six  Years  Old,  during  a Sickness. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy ; 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  off  the  day’s  annoy. 

I sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways : 

Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 

Thy  heart  in  pain  and  weakness, 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears, 

These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

77 


Sorrows  I ’ve  had  severe  ones, 

I will  not  think  of  now ; 

And  calmly  ’midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow ; 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

I cannot  bear  the  gentleness — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah  ! first-born  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  wTere  new, 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father,  too ; 

My  light,  where’er  I go, 

My  bird,  when  prison  bound, 

My  hand-in-hand  companion — no, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say  ‘ He  has  departed  ’ — 

‘ His  voice  ’ — ‘ his  face  ’ — ‘ is  gone ;’ 

To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on ; 

Ah,  I could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe, 

Unless  I felt  this  sleep  insure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he’s  fixed,  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 

Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  us  a smile  : 

Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one’s  ear, 

Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  say,  ‘We’ve  finished  here.’ 

Dirge. 

Blessed  is  the  turf,  serenely  blessed, 

Where  throbbing  hearts  may  sink  to  rest, 

Where  life’s  long  journey  turns  to  sleep, 

Nor  ever  pilgrim  wakes  to  weep. 

A little  sod,  a few  sad  flowers, 

A tear  for  long-departed  hours, 

Is  all  that  feeling  hearts  request 
To  hush  their  weary  thoughts  to  rest. 

There  shall  no  vain  ambition  come 
To  lure  them  from  their  quiet  home ; 

Nor  sorrow  lift,  with  heart-strings  riven, 

The  meek  imploring  eye  to  heaven  ; 

Nor  sad  remembrance  stoop  to  shed 
His  wrinkles  on  the  slumberer’s  head ; 

And  never,  never  love  repair 
To  breathe  his  idle  whispers  there  ! 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 

Sole  voice  that’s  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 

Oh,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine ; both,  though  small,  are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts ; and  both  were  sent  on  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Ahou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem — may  his  tribe  increase  ! — 

Awoke  one  night  from  a deep  dream  of  peace, 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 

Making  it  rich  and  like  a lily  in  hloom, 

An  angel  wilting  in  a hook  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  hold, 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said : 

‘ What  writest  thou  ? ’ The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 

Answered : ‘ The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord.’ 

‘ And  is  mine  one  ? ’ said  Abou.  ‘ Nay,  not  so,’ 
Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerly  still ; and  said  : ‘ I pray  thee  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.’ 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.  The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a great  wakening  light, 

And  shewed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo  ! Ben  Adhem’s  name  led  all  the  rest. 

The  above  striking  little  narrative  poem  is  taken 
from  the  Bibliotheque  Orientale  of  D’Herbelot.  As 
a specimen  of  Mr  Hunt’s  Italian  translations,  we 
subjoin  his  version  of  Petrarch’s  contemplations  of 
death  in  the  bower  of  Laura : 

The  Celebrated  Canzone  of  Petrarch — ‘ Chiare,  fresche, 
e dolce  Acque .’ 

Clear,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams, 

Which  the  fair  shape,  who  seems 
To  me  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noontide ; 

Fair  bough,  so  gently  fit — 

I sigh  to  think  of  it — 

Which  lent  a pillar  to  her  lovely  side ; 

And  turf,  and  flowers  bright-eyed, 

O’er  which  her  folded  gown 
Flowed  like  an  angel’s  down ; 

And  you,  0 holy  air  and  hushed, 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gushed ; 
Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting, 

To  my  last  words,  my  last,  and  my  lamenting. 

If  ’tis  my  fate  below, 

And  Heaven  will  have  it  so, 

That  love  must  close  these  dying  eyes  in  tears, 

May  my  poor  dust  be  laid 
In  middle  of  your  shade, 

While  my  soul,  naked,  mounts  to  its  own  spheres. 

The  thought  would  calm  my  fears, 

When  taking,  out  of  breath, 

The  doubtful  step  of  death ; 

For  never  could  my  spirit  find 
A stiller  port  after  the  stormy  wind  : 

Nor  in  more  calm  abstracted  bourne, 

Slip  from  my  travailed  flesh,  and  from  my  bones 
outworn. 

Perhaps,  some  future  hour, 

To  her  accustomed  bower 

Might  come  the  untamed,  and  yet  the  gentle  she ; 
And  where  she  saw  me  first, 

Might  turn  with  eyes  athirst, 

And  kinder  joy  to  look  again  for  me ; 

Then,  0 the  charity ! 

Seeing  betwixt  the  stones 
The  earth  that  held  my  bones, 

A sigh  for  very  love  at  last 

Might  ask  of  Heaven  to  pardon  me  the  past ; 

And  Heaven  itself  could  not  say  nay, 

As  with  her  gentle  veil  she  wiped  the  tears  away. 

How  well  I call  to  mind 

When  from  those  bowers  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower ; 

And  there  she  sat,  meek-eyed, 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride, 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 
Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower, 

886 


And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls, 

Queen-like,  with  gold  and  pearls ; 

Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopped ; 

Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped ; 
While  others,  fluttering  from  above, 

Seemed  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying  : 1 Here 
reigns  Love.’ 

How  often  then  I said, 

Inward,  and  filled  with  dread, 

‘Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise !’ 

For  at  her  look  the  while, 

Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile, 

And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyes : 

So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 

I said,  as  far  from  men, 

‘How  came  I here — and  when?’ 

I had  forgotten ; and,  alas  ! 

Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I was ; 

And  from  that  time  till  this,  I bear 

Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I cannot  rest  elsewhere. 


JOHN  CLARE. 

John  Clare,  one  of  the  most  truly  uneducated 
of  English  poets,  and  one  of  the  best  of  our  rural 
describers,  was  born  at  Helpstone,  a village  near 
Peterborough,  in  1793.  His  parents  were  peasants 
— his  father  a helpless  cripple  and  a pauper.  John 
obtained  some  education  by  his  own  extra  work  as 
a plough-boy:  from  the  labour  of  eight  weeks  he 
generally  acquired  as  many  pence  as  paid  for  a 
month’s  schooling.  At  thirteen  years  of  age  he 
met  with  Thomson’s  Seasons , and  hoarded  up  a 
shilling  to  purchase  a copy.  At  daybreak  on  a spring 
morning,  he  walked  to  the  town  of  Stamford — 
six  or  seven  miles  off— to  make  the  purchase, 
and  had  to  wait  some  time  till  the  shops  were 
opened.  This  is  a fine  trait  of  boyish  enthusiasm, 
and  of  the  struggles  of  youthful  genius.  Returning 
to  his  native  village  with  the  precious  purchase, 
as  he  walked  through  the  beautiful  scenery  of 
Burghley  Park,  he  composed  his  first  piece  of 
poetry,  which  he. called  the  Morning  Walk.  This 
was  soon  followed  by  the  Evening  W alk,  and  some 
other  pieces.  A benevolent  exciseman  instructed 
the  young  poet  in  writing  and  arithmetic,  and  he 
continued  his  obscure  but  ardent  devotion  to  his 
rural  muse.  ‘ Most  of  his  poems,’  says  the  writer 
of  a memoir  prefixed  to  his  first  volume,  ‘were 
composed  under  the  immediate  impression  of  his 
feelings  in  the  fields  or  on  the  roadsides.  He  could 
not  trust  his  memory,  and  therefore  he  wrote  them 
down  with  a pencil  on  the  spot,  his  hat  serving  him 
for  a desk ; and  if  it  happened  that  he  had  no  oppor- 
tunity soon  after  of  transcribing  these  imperfect 
memorials,  he  could  seldom  decipher  them  or 
recover  his  first  thoughts.  From  this  cause  several 
of  his  poems  are  quite  lost,  and  others  exist  only  in 
fragments.  Of  those  which  he  had  committed  to 
writing,  especially  his  earlier  pieces,  many  were 
destroyed  from  another  circumstance,  which  shews 
how  little  he  expected  to  please  others  with  them : 
from  a hole  in  the  wall  of  his  room  where  he  stuffed 
his  manuscripts,  a piece  of  paper  was  often  taken 
to  hold  the  kettle  with,  or  light  the  fire.’  In 
1817,  Clare,  while  working  at  Bridge  Casterton,  in 
Rutlandshire,  resolved  on  risking  the  publication  of 
a volume.  By  hard  working  day  and  night,  he  got 
a pound  saved,  that  he  might  have  a prospectus 
printed.  This  was  accordingly  done,  and  a Collection 
of  Original  Trifles  was  announced  to  subscribers, 
the  price  not  to  exceed  3s.  6 d.  ‘ I distributed  my 
papers,’  he  says ; ‘ but  as  I could  get  at  no  way  of 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ,ohs  ciare. 


pushing  them  into  higher  circles  than  those  with 
whom  I was  acquainted,  they  consequently  passed 
off  as  quietly  as  if  they  had  been  still  in  my  posses- 
sion, unprinted  and  unseen.’  Only  seven  subscribers 
came  forward ! One  of  these  prospectuses,  however, 
led  to  an  acquaintance  with  Mr  Edward  Drury, 
bookseller,  Stamford,  and  through  this  gentleman 
the  poems  were  published  by  Messrs  Taylor  and 
Hessey,  London,  who  purchased  them  from  Clare 
for  £20.  The  volume  was  brought  out  in  January 
1820,  with  an  interesting  well- written  introduc- 
tion, and  bearing  the  title,  Poems  Descriptive  of 
Rural  Life  and  Scenery , by  John  Clare , a Northamp- 
tonshire Peasant.  The  attention  of  the  public  was 
instantly  awakened  to  the  circumstances  and  the 
merits  of  Clare.  The  magazines  and  reviews  were 
unanimous  in  his  favour.  ‘This  interesting  little 
volume,’  said  The  Quarterly  Review , ‘ bears  indubit- 
able evidence  of  being  composed  altogether  from 
the  impulses  of  the  writer’s  mind,  as  excited  by 
external  objects  and  internal  sensations.  Here  are 
no  tawdry  and  feeble  paraphrases  of  former  poets, 
no  attempts  at  describing  what  the  author  might 
have  become  acquainted  with  in  his  limited  reading. 
The  woods,  the  vales,  the  brooks,  “ the  crimson  spots 
i’  the  bottom  of  a cowslip,”  or  the  loftier  phenomena 
of  the  heavens,  contemplated  through  the  alterna- 
tions of  hope  and  despondency,  are  the  principal 
sources  whence  the  youth,  whose  adverse  circum- 
stances and  resignation  under  them  extort  our  sym- 
pathy, drew  the  faithful  and  vivid  pictures  before 
us.  Examples  of  minds  highly  gifted  by  nature, 
struggling  with,  and  breaking  through  the  bondage 
of  adversity,  are  not  rare  in  this  country : but 
privation  is  not  destitution ; and  the  instance  before 
us  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  striking  of  patient 
and  persevering  talent  existing  and  enduring  in  the 
most  forlorn,  and  seemingly  hopeless  condition,  that 
literature  has  at  any  time  exhibited.’ 

In  a short  time,  Clare  was  in  possession  of  a little 
fortune.  The  late  Earl  Eitzwilliam  sent  £100  to 
his  publishers,  which,  with  the  like  sum  advanced 
by  them,  was  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of  stock; 
the  Marquis  of  Exeter  allowed  him  an  annuity 
of  fifteen  guineas  for  life;  the  Earl  of  Spencer  a 
further  annuity  of  £10,  and  various  contributions 
were  received  from  other  noblemen  and  gentlemen, 
so  that  the  poet  had  a permanent  allowance  of  £30 
per  annum.  He  married  his  ‘Patty  of  the  Vale,’ 

‘ the  rosebud  in  humble  life,’  the  daughter  of  a 
neighbouring  farmer ; and  in  his  native  cottage  at 
Helpstone,  with  his  aged  and  infirm  parents  and  his 
young  wife  by  his  side — all  proud  of  his  now 
rewarded  and  successful  genius — Clare  basked  in 
the  sunshine  of  a poetical  felicity.  The  writer  of  this 
recollects  with  melancholy  pleasure  paying  a visit 
to  the  poet  at  this  genial  season  in  company  with 
one  of  his  publishers.  The  humble  dwelling  wore 
an  air  of  comfort  and  contented  happiness.  Shelves 
were  fitted  up,  filled  with  books,  most  of  which  had 
been  sent  as  presents.  Clare  read  and  liked  them 
all!  He  took  us  to  see  his  favourite  scene,  the 
haunt  of  his  inspiration.  It  Avas  a Ioav  fall  of  swampy 
ground,  used  as  a pasture,  and  bounded  by  a dull 
rushy  brook,  o\’erhung  with  willows.  Yet  here 
Clare  strayed  and  mused  delighted. 

Flow  on,  thou  gently  plashing  stream, 

O’er  weed-beds  wild  and  rank ; 

Delighted  I’ve  enjoyed  my  dream 
Upon  thy  mossy  bank  : 

Bemoistening  many  a weedy  stem, 

I ’ve  watched  thee  wind  so  clearly, 

And  on  thy  bank  I found  the  gem 
That  makes  me  love  thee  dearly. 


In  1821  Clare  came  forward  again  as  a poet.  His 
second  publication  was  entitled  The  Village  Minstrel 
and  other  Poems,  in  two  volumes.  The  first  of  these 
pieces  is  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  describes  the 
scenes,  sports,  and  feelings  of  rural  life — the  author 
himself  sitting  for  the  portrait  of  Lubin,  the  humble 
rustic  who  ‘ hummed  his  lowly  dreams  ’ 

Far  in  the  shade  where  poverty  retires. 

The  descriptions  of  scenery,  as  well  as  the  expres- 
sion of  natural  emotion  and  generous  sentiment  in 
this  poem,  exalted  the  reputation  of  Clare  as  a true 
poet.  He  afterwards  contributed  short  pieces  to  the 
annuals  and  other  periodicals,  marked  by  a more 
choice  and  refined  diction.  The  poet’s  prosperity 
was,  alas  ! soon  over.  His  discretion  was  not  equal 
to  his  fortitude : he  speculated  in  farming,  wasted 
his  little  hoard,  and  amidst  accumulating  difficulties, 
sank  into  nervous  despondency  and  despair.  He 
is  now  in  a private  asylum — hopeless,  but  not 
dead  to  passing  events.  This  sad  termination  of 
so  bright  a morning  it  is  painful  to  contemplate. 
Amidst  the  native  wild-flowers  of  his  song  we  looked 
not  for  the  ‘deadly  nightshade’ — and,  though  the 
examples  of  Burns,  of  Chatterton,  and  Bloomfield,  ! 
were  better  fitted  to  inspire  fear  than  hope,  there  j 
was1  in  Clare  a naturally  lively  and  cheerful  tern-  1 
perament,  and  an  apparent  absence  of  strong  and 
dangerous  passions,  that  promised,  as  in  the  case 
of  Allan  Ramsay,  a life  of  humble  yet  prosperous 
contentment  and  happiness.  Poor  Clare’s  muse  Avas 
the  true  offspring  of  English  country-life.  He  was  j 
a faithful  painter  of  rustic  scenes  and  occupations,  ! 
and  he  noted  every  light  and  shade  of  his  brooks, 
meadows,  and  green  lanes.  His  fancy  was  buoyant 
in  the  midst  of  labour  and  hardship ; and  his  imagery, 
drawn  directly  from  nature,  is  various  and  original. 
Careful  finishing  could  not  be  expected  from  the 
rustic  poet,  yet  there  is  often  a fine  delicacy  and 
beauty  in  his  pieces,  and  his  moral  reflections  and 
pathos  win  their  way  to  the  heart.  He  wrote  out 
of  the  fulness  of  his  heart ; and  his  love  of  nature 
was  so  universal,  that  he  included  all,  weeds  as 
Avell  as  flowers,  in  his  picturesque  catalogues  of  her 
charms.  In  grouping  and  forming  his  pictures,  he 
has  recourse  to  new  and  original  expressions — as, 
for  example : 

Brisk  winds  the  lightened  branches  shake 
By  pattering,  plashing  drops  confessed ; 

And,  where  oaks  dripping  shade  the  lake, 

Paint  crimping  dimples  on  its  breast. 

A sonnet  to  the  glowworm  is  singularly  rich  in  this 
vivid  word-painting : 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night, 

Bright  scattered,  twinkling  star  of  spangled  earth  ! 

Hail  to  the  nameless  coloured  dark  and  light, 

The  witching  nurse  of  thy  illumined  birth. 

In  thy  still  hour  how  dearly  I delight 
To  rest  my  weary  bones,  from  labour  free ; 

In  lone  spots,  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight, 

To  sigh  day’s  smothered  pains ; and  pause  on  thee, 
Bedecking  dangling  brier  and  ivied  tree, 

Or  diamonds  tipping  on  the  grassy  spear ; 

Thy  pale-faced  glimmering  light  I love  to  see, 

Gilding  and  glistering  in  the  dew-drop  near  : 

0 still-hour’s  mate  ! my  easing  heart  sobs  free, 

While  tiny  bents  low  bend  with  many  an  added  tear. 

In  these  happy  microscopic  vieAvs  of  nature,  Grahame, 
the  author  of  the  Sabbath,  is  the  only  poet  who  can 
be  put  in  competition  with  Clare.  The  delicacy  of 
some  of  his  sentimental  verses,  mixed  up  in  careless 
profusion  with  others  less  correct  or  pleasing,  may 


from  1800  C Y dOPiEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


be  seen  from  the  following  part  of  a ballad,  The  Fate 
! of  Amy : 

The  flowers  the  sultry  summer  kills, 

Spring’s  milder  suns  restore ; 

But  innocence,  that  fickle  charm, 

Blooms  once,  and  blooms  no  more. 

The  swains  who  loved  no  more  admire, 

Their  hearts  no  beauty  warms ; 

And  maidens  triumph  in  her  fall 
That  envied  once  her  charms. 

Lost  was  that  sweet  simplicity ; 

Her  eye’s  bright  lustre  fled ; 

And  o’er  her  cheeks,  where  roses  bloomed, 

A sickly  paleness  spread. 

So  fades  the  flower  before  its  time, 

Where  canker-worms  assail ; 

So  droops  the  bud  upon  its  stem 
Beneath  the  sickly  gale. 

What  is  Life  ? 

And  what  is  Life  ? An  hour-glass  on  the  run, 

A mist  retreating  from  the  morning  sun, 

A busy,  bustling,  still-repeated  dream. 

Its  length  ? A minute’s  pause,  a moment’s  thought 
And  Happiness  ? A bubble  on  the  stream, 

That  in  the  act  of  seizing  shrinks  to  nought 

And  what  is  Hope  ? The  puffing  gale  of  mom, 

That  robs  each  floweret  of  its  gem — and  dies ; 

A cobweb,  hiding  disappointment’s  thorn. 

Which  stings  more  keenly  through  the  thin  disguise. 

And  what  is  Death?  Is  still  the  cause  unfound? 
That  dark  mysterious  name  of  horrid  sound  ? 

A long  and  lingering  sleep  the  weary  crave. 

And  Peace  ? Where  can  its  happiness  abound  ? 
Nowhere  at  all,  save  heaven  and  the  grave. 

Then  what  is  Life  ? When  stripped  of  its  disguise, 

A thing  to  be  desired  it  cannot  be  ; 

Since  everything  that  meets  our  foolish  eyes 
Gives  proof  sufficient  of  its  vanity. 

’Tis  but  a trial  all  must  undergo, 

To  teach  unthankful  mortal  how  to  prize 
That  happiness  vain  man’s  denied  to  know, 

Until  he ’s  called  to  claim  it  in  the  skies. 

Summer  Morning. 

’Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze, 

Or  list  the  giggling  of  the  brook  ; 

Or,  stretched  beneath  the  shade  of  trees, 

Peruse  and  pause  on  nature’s  book. 

When  nature  every  sweet  prepares 
To  entertain  our  wished  delay — 

The  images  which  morning  wears, 

The  wakening  charms  of  early  day  ! 

Now  let  me  tread  the  meadow  paths, 

Where  glittering  dew  the  ground  illumes, 

As  sprinkled  o'er  the  withering  swaths 
Their  moisture  shrinks  in  sweet  perfumes. 

And  hear  the  beetle  sound  his  horn. 

And  hear  the  skylark  whistling  nigh, 

Sprung  from  his  bed  of  tufted  com, 

A hailing  minstrel  in  the  sky. 

3S8 


First  sunbeam,  calling  night  away 

To  see  how  sweet  thy  summons  seems  ; 

Split  by  the  willow’s  wavy  gray, 

And  sweetly  dancing  on  the  streams. 

How  fine  the  spider’s  web  is  spun, 

Unnoticed  to  vulgar  eyes ; 

Its  silk  thread  glittering  in  the  sun 
Arts  bungling  vanity  defies. 

Roaming  while  the  dewy  fields 
’Neath  their  morning  burden  lean, 

While  its  crop  my  searches  shields. 

Sweet  I scent  the  blossomed  bean. 

Making  oft  remarking  stops  ; 

Watching  tiny  nameless  things 
Climb  the  grass’s  spiry  tops 
Ere  they  try  their  gauzy  wings. 

So  emerging  into  light, 

From  the  ignorant  and  vain 
Fearful  genius  takes  her  flight, 

Skimming  o’er  the  lowly  plain. 

The  Primrose — A Sonnet. 

Welcome,  pale  primrose  ! starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak  that  strew 
The  every  lawn,  the  wood,  and  spinney  through, 
’Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy’s  darker  green ; 

How  much  thy  presence  beautifies  the  ground  ! 
How  sweet  thy  modest  unaffected  pride 
Glows  on  the  sunny  bank  and  wood’s  warm  side  ! 

And  where  thy  fairy  flowers  in  groups  are  found. 
The  school-boy  roams  enc-hantedly  along, 

Plucking  the  fairest  with  a rude  delight : 

While  the  meek  shepherd  stops  his  simple  song, 

To  gaze  a moment  on  the  pleasing  sight ; 

O’erjoyed  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  bring 
The  welcome  news  of  sweet  returning  spring. 

The  Thrush's  Nest — A Sonnet. 

Within  a thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 
That  overhung  a molehill,  large  and  round, 

I heard  from  mom  to  mom  a merry  thrush 

Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I drank  the  sound 
With  joy — and  oft  an  unintrading  guest, 

I watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day ; 

How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 

And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 

And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew, 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  : 

And  there  I witnessed,  in  the  summer  hours, 

A brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 

Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky.* 

First-love's  Recollections. 

First-love  will  with  the  heart  remain 
When  its  hopes  are  all  gone  by ; 

As  frail  rose-blossoms  still  retain 
Their  fragrance  when  they  die : 

* Montgomery  says  quaintly  but  truly  of  this  sonnet : ‘ Here 
we  have  in  miniature  the  history  and  geography  of  a thrush's 
nest,  so  simply  and  naturally  &et  forth,  that  one  might  think 
such  strains 

No  more  difficile 

Than  for  a black-bird  ’tis  to  whistle. 

But  let  the  heartless  critic  who  despises  them  try  his  own 
hand  either  at  a bird's  nest  or  a sonnet  like  this ; and  when 
be  has  succeeded  in  making  the  one,  he  may  have  some  hope 
of  being  able  to  make  the  other.’ 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  CLARE. 


And  joy’s  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind 
With  the  shades  ’mid  which  they  sprung, 

As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind 
On  which  spring’s  blossoms  hung. 

Mary,  I dare  not  call  thee  dear, 

I ’ve  lost  that  right  so  long ; 

Yet  once  again  I vex  thine  ear 
With  memory’s  idle  song. 

I felt  a pride  to  name  thy  name, 

But  now  that  pride  hath  flown, 

And  burning  blushes  speak  my  shame, 

That  thus  I love  thee  on. 

How  loath  to  part,  how  fond  to  meet, 

Had  we  two  used  to  be ; 

At  sunset,  with  what  eager  feet 
I hastened  unto  thee  ! 

Scarce  nine  days  passed  us  ere  we  met 
In  spring,  nay,  wintry  weather ; 

Now  nine  years’  suns  have  risen  and  set, 

Nor  found  us  once  together. 

Thy  face  was  so  familiar  grown, 

Thyself  so  often  nigh, 

A moment’s  memory  when  alone, 

Would  bring  thee  in  mine  eye ; 

But  now  my  very  dreams  forget 
That  witching  look  to  trace  ; 

Though  there  thy  beauty  lingers  yet, 

It  wears  a stranger’s  face. 

When  last  that  gentle  cheek  I prest, 

And  heard  thee  feign  adieu, 

I little  thought  that  seeming  jest 
Would  prove  a word  so  true  ! 

A fate  like  this  hath  oft  befell 
Even  loftier  hopes  than  ours  ; 

Spring  bids  full  many  buds  to  swell, 

That  ne’er  can  grow  to  flowers. 

Pawnings  of  Genius. 

In  those  low  paths  which  poverty  surrounds, 

The  rough  rude  ploughman,  off  his  fallow  grounds — 
That  necessary  tool  of  wealth  and  pride — 

While  moiled  and  sweating,  by  some  pasture’s  side, 
Will  often  stoop,  inquisitive  to  trace 
The  opening  beauties  of  a daisy’s  face ; 

Oft  will  he  witness,  with  admiring  eyes, 

The  brook’s  sweet  dimples  o’er  the  pebbles  rise ; 

And  often  bent,  as  o’er  some  magic  spell, 

He  ’ll  pause  and  pick  his  shaped  stone  and  shell : 
Raptures  the  while  his  inward  powers  inflame, 

And  joys  delight  him  which  he  cannot  name  ; 

Ideas  picture  pleasing  views  to  mind, 

For  which  his  language  can  no  utterance  find  ; 
Increasing  beauties,  freshening  on  his  sight, 

Unfold  new  charms,  and  witness  more  delight ; 

So  while  the  present  please,  the  past  decay, 

And  in  each  other,  losing,  melt  away. 

Thus  pausing  wild  on  all  he  saunters  by, 

He  feels  enraptured,  though  he  knows  not  why ; 

And  hums  and  mutters  o’er  his  joys  in  vain, 

And  dwells  on  something  which  he  can’t  explain. 

The  bursts  of  thought  with  which  his  soul’s  perplexed, 
Are  bred  one  moment,  and  are  gone  the  next ; 

Yet  still  the  heart  will  kindling  sparks  retain, 

And  thoughts  will  rise,  and  Fancy  strive  again. 

So  have  I marked  the  dying  ember’s  light, 

When  on  the  hearth  it  fainted  from  my  sight, 

With  glimmering  glow  oft  redden  up  again, 

And  sparks  crack  brightening  into  life  in  vain ; 

Still  lingering  out  its  kindling  hope  to  rise, 

Till  faint,  and  fainting,  the  last  twinkle  dies. 


Dim  burns  the  soul,  and  throbs  the  fluttering  heart, 
Its  painful  pleasing  feelings  to  impart ; 

Till  by  successless  sallies  wearied  quite, 

The  memory  fails,  and  Fancy  takes  her  flight : 

The  wick,  confined  within  its  socket,  dies, 

Borne  down  and  smothered  in  a thousand  sighs. 

[ [Scenes  and  Musings  of  the  Peasant  Poet.'] 

[From  the  Village  Minstrel .] 

0 ! who  can  speak  his  joys  when  spring’s  young  morn, 
From  wood  and  pasture,  opened  on  his  view  ! 

When  tender  green  buds  blush  upon  the  thorn, 
And  the  first  primrose  dips  its  leaves  in  dew  : 

Each  varied  charm  how  joyed  would  he  pursue, 
Tempted  to  trace  their  beauties  through  the  day ; 
Gray-girdled  eve  and  morn  of  rosy  hue 
Have  both  beheld  him  on  his  lonely  way, 

Far,  far  remote  from  boys,  and  their  unpleasing  play. 

Sequestered  nature  was  his  heart’s  delight ; 

Him  would  she  lead  through  wood  and  lonely  plain, 
Searching  the  pooty  from  the  rushy  dike ; 

And  while  the  thrush  sang  her  long-silenced  strain, 
He  thought  it  sweet,  and  mocked  it  o’er  again ; 
And  while  he  plucked  the  primrose  in  its  pride, 

He  pondered  o’er  its  bloom  ’tween  joy  and  pain ; 
And  a rude  sonnet  in  its  praise  he  tried, 

Where  nature’s  simple  way  the  aid  of  art  supplied. 

The  freshened  landscapes  round  his  routes  unfurled, 
The  fine-tinged  clouds  above,  the  woods  below, 

Each  met  his  eye  a new-revealing  world, 

Delighting  more  as  more  he  learned  to  know ; 

Each  journey  sweeter,  musing  to  and  fro. 
Surrounded  thus,  not  Paradise  more  sweet ; 
Enthusiasm  made  his  soul  to  glow ; 

His  heart  with  wild  sensations  used  to  beat ; 

As  nature  seemly  sang,  his  mutterings  would  repeat. 

Upon  a molehill  oft  he  dropt  him  down, 

To  take  a prospect  of  the  circling  scene, 

Marking  how  much  the  cottage  roofs  thatch  brown 
Did  add  its  beauty  to  the  budding  green 
Of  sheltering  trees  it  humbly  peeped  between ; 

The  stone-rocked  wagon  with  its  rumbling  sound  ; 
The  windmill’s  sweeping  sails  at  distance  seen  ; 

And  every  form  that  crowds  the  circling  round. 
Where  the  sky,  stooping,  seems  to  kiss  the  meeting 
ground. 

0 ! who  can  tell  the  sweets  of  May-day’s  morn, 

To  waken  rapture  in  a feeling  mind ; 

When  the  gilt  east  unveils  her  dappled  dawn, 

And  the  gay  woodlark  has  its  nest  resigned, 

As  slow  the  sun  creeps  up  the  hill  behind  ; 

Morn  reddening  round,  and  daylight’s  spotless  hue, 
As  seemingly  with  rose  and  lily  lined ; 

While  all  the  prospect  round  beams  fair  to  viejv, 
Like  a sweet  opening  flower  with  its  unsullied  dew. 

Ah  ! often  brushing  through  the  dripping  grass, 

Has  he  been  seen  to  catch  this  early  charm, 
Listening  the  * love-song  ’ of  the  healthy  lass 
Passing  with  milk-pail  on  her  well-turned  arm  ; 

Or  meeting  objects  from  the  rousing  farm — 

The  jingling  plough-teams  driving  down  the  steep, 
Wagon  and  cart ; and  shepherd-dogs’  alarm, 

Raising  the  bleatings  of  unfolding  sheep, 

As  o’er  the  mountain-top  the  red  sun  ’gins  to  peep. 

Nor  could  the  day’s  decline  escape  his  gaze ; 

He  loved  the  closing  as  the  rising  day, 

And  oft  would  stand  to  catch  the  setting  rays, 
Whose  last  beams  stole  not  unperceived  away ; 

3sa 


( 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


When,  hesitating  like  a stag  at  bay, 

The  bright  unwearied  sun  seemed  loath  to  drop, 
Till  chaos’  night-hounds  hurried  him  away, 

And  drove  him  headlong  from  the  mountain-top, 
And  shut  the  lovely  scene,  and  bade  all- nature  stop. 

And  here  the  rural  muse  might  aptly  say, 

As  sober  evening  sweetly  siles  along, 

How  she  has  chased  black  ignorance  away, 

And  warmed  his  artless  soul  with  feelings  strong, 
To  teach  his  reed  to  warble  forth  a song ; 

And  how  it  echoed  on  the  even-gale, 

All  by  the  brook  the  pasture-flowers  among : 

But  ah  ! such  trifles  are  of  no  avail — 

There ’s  few  to  notice  him,  or  hear  his  simple  tale. 

0 Poverty ! thy  frowns  were  early  dealt 
O’er  him  who  mourned  thee,  not  by  fancy  led 
To  whine  and  wail  o’er  woes  he  never  felt, 
Staining  his  rhymes  with  tears  he  never  shed, 
And  heaving  sighs  a mock-song  only  bred  : 

Alas ! he  knew  too  much  of  every  pain 

That  showered  full  thick  on  his  unsheltered  head ; 

And  as  his  tears  and  sighs  did  erst  complain, 

His  numbers  took  it  up,  and  wept  it  o’er  again. 


JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH. 

James  Smith  (1775-1839)  was  a lively  and  amus- 
ing author  both  in  prose  and  verse.  His  father, 
Mr  Robert  Smith,  was  an  eminent  legal  practitioner 
in  London,  and  solicitor  to  the  Board  of  Ordnance— 


James  Smith. 


a gentleman  of  learning  and  accomplishments,  whose 
latter  years  were  gratified  by  the  talents  and  repu- 
tation of  his  two  sons,  James  and  Horace.  James, 
the  eldest,  was  educated  at  a school  at  Chigwell,  in 
Essex,  and  was  usually  at  the  head  of  his  class. 
For  this  retired  ‘school-boy  spot’  he  ever  retained 
a strong  affection,  rarely  suffering,  as  his  brother 
relates,  a long  interval  to  elapse  without  paying  it  a 
visit,  and  wandering  over  the  scenes  that  recalled 
the  truant  excursions  of  himself  and  chosen  play- 
mates, or  the  solitary  rambles  and  musings  of  his 
390 


youth.  Two  of  his  latest  poems  are  devoted  to  his 
reminiscences  of  Chigwell.  After  the  completion  of 
his  education,  James  Smith  was  articled  to  his 
father,  was  taken  into  partnership  in  due  time,  and 
eventually  succeeded  to  the  business,  as  well  as  to 
the  appointment  of  solicitor  to  the  Ordnance.  With 
a quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  a strong  passion  for 
the  stage  and  the  drama,  and  a love  of  London 
society  and  manners,  Smith  became  a town  wit  and 
humorist — delighting  in  parodies,  theatrical  collo- 
quies, and  fashionable  criticism.  His  first  pieces 
appear  to  have  been  contributed  to  the  Pic-nic 
newspaper,  established  by  Colonel  Henry  Greville, 
which  afterwards  merged  into  The  Cabinet,  both 
being  solely  calculated  for  the  topics  and  feelings 
of  the  day.  A selection  from  the  Pic-nic  papers, 
in  two  small  ^volumes,  was  published  in  1803.  He 
next  joined  the  writers  for  the  London  Revieic — a 
journal  established  by  Cumberland  the  dramatist, 
on  the  novel  principle  of  affixing  the  writer’s  name 
to  his  critique.  The  Review  proved  a complete 
failure.  The  system  of  publishing  names  was  an 
unwise  innovation,  destroying  equally  the  harmless 
curiosity  of  the  reader,  and  the  critical  independence 
of  the  author;  and  Cumberland,  besides,  was  too 
vain,  too  irritable  and  poor,  to  secure  a good  list  of 
contributors.  Smith  then  became  a constant  writer 
in  The  Monthly  Mirror — wherein  Henry  Kirke  White 
first  attracted  the  notice  of  what  may  be  termed  the 
literary  world — and  in  this  work  appeared  a series 
of  poetical  imitations,  entitled  Horace  in  London , the 
joint  production  of  James  and  Horace  Smith.  These 
parodies  were  subsequently  collected  and  published 
in  one  volume  in  1813,  after  the  success  of  the 
Rejected  Addresses  had  rendered  the  authors  famous. 
Some  of  the  pieces  display  a lively  vein  of  town 
levity  and  humour,  but  many  of  them  also  are 
very  trifling  and  tedious.  In  one  stanza,  James 
Smith  has  given  a true  sketch  of  his  own  tastes 
and  character : 

Me  toil  and  ease  alternate  share, 

Books,  and  the  converse  of  the  fair, 

(To  see  is  to  adore  ’em) ; 

With  these,  and  London  ioi  my  home, 

I envy  not  the  joys  of  Rome, 

The  Circus  or  the  Forum  ! 

To  London  he  seems  to  have  been  as  strongly 
attached  as  Dr  Johnson  himself.  ‘ A confirmed 
metropolitan  in  all  his  tastes  and  habits,  he  would 
often  quaintly  observe,  that  London  was  the  best 
place  in  summer,  and  the  only  place  in  winter ; or 
quote  Dr  Johnson’s  dogma : “ Sir,  the  man  that  is 
tired  of  London  is  tired  of  existence.”  At  other 
times  he  would  express  his  perfect  concurrence 
with  Dr  Mosley’s  assertion,  that  in  the  country 
one  is  always  maddened  with  the  noise  of  nothing ; 
or  laughingly  quote  the  Duke  of  Queensberry’s 
rejoinder,  on  being  told  one  sultry  day  in  September 
that  London  was  exceedingly  empty:  “Yes,  but 
it ’s  fuller  than  the  country.”  He  would  not,  per- 
haps, have  gone  quite  so  far  as  his  old  friend  Jekyll, 
who  used  to  say,  that  “ if  compelled  to  live  in  the 
country,  he  would  have  the  approach  to  his  house 
paved  like  the  streets  of  London,  and  hire  a 
hackney-coach  to  drive  up  and  down  the  street  all 
day  long ; ” but  he  would  relate,  with  great  glee,  a 
story  shewing  the  general  conviction  of  his  dislike 
to  ruralities.  He  was  sitting  in  the  library  at  a 
country-house,  when  a gentleman,  informing  him 
that  the  family  were  all  out,  proposed  a quiet  stroll 
into  the  pleasure-grounds.  “ Stroll ! why,  don’t 
you  see  my  gouty  shoe  ? ” “ Yes,  but  what  then  ? 

You  don’t  really  mean  to  say  that  you  have  got  the 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH. 


gout?  I thought  you  had  only  put  on  that  shoe 
to  avoid  being  shewn  over  the  improvements.”’* 
There  is  some  good-humoured  banter  and  exaggera- 
tion in  this  dislike  of  ruralities  ; and  accordingly  we 
find  that,  as  Johnson  found  his  way  to  the  remote 
Hebrides,  Smith  occasionally  transported  himself 
to  Yorkshire  and  other  places,  the  country  seats 
of  friends  and  noblemen.  The  Rejected  Addresses 
appeared  in  1812,  having  engaged  James  and  Horace 
Smith  six  weeks,  and  proving  ‘ one  of  the  luckiest 
hits  in  literature.’  The  directors  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  had  offered  a premium  for  the  best  poetical 
address  to  be  spoken  on  opening  the  new  edifice ; 
and  a casual  hint  from  Mr  Ward,  secretary  to  the 
theatre,  suggested  to  the  witty  brothers  the  com- 
position of  a series  of  humorous  addresses,  profess- 
edly composed  by  the  principal  authors  of  the  day. 
The  work  was  ready  by  the  opening  of  the  theatre, 
but,  strange  to  say,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  a 
publisher  could  be  procured,  although  the  authors 
asked  nothing  for  copyright.  At  length,  Mr  John 
Miller,  a dramatic  publisher,  undertook  the  pub- 
lication, offering  to  give  half  the  profits,  should 
there  be  any.  In  an  advertisement  prefixed  to  a 
late  edition  (the  twenty-second!),  it  is  stated  that 
Mr  Murray,  who  had  refused  without  even  looking 
at  the  manuscript,  purchased  the  copyright  in  1819, 
after  the  book  had  run  through  sixteen  editions, 
for  £131.  The  success  of  the  work  was  indeed 
almost  unexampled.  The  articles  written  by  James 
Smith  consisted  of  imitations  of  Wordsworth, 
Cobbett,  Southey,  Coleridge,  Crabbe,  and  a few 
travesties.  Some  of  them  are  inimitable,  particu- 
larly the  parodies  on  Cobbett  and  Crabbe,  which 
were  also  among  the  most  popular.  Horace  Smith 
contributed  imitations  of  Walter  Scott,  Moore, 
Monk  Lewis,  W.  T.  Eitzgerald — whose  Loyal 
Effusion  is  irresistibly  ludicrous  for  its  extravagant 
adulation  and  fustian — Dr  Johnson,  &c.  The 
imitation  of  Byron  was  a joint  effusion,  James 
contributing  the  first  stanza — the  key-note,  as  it 
were — and  Horace  the  remainder.  The  amount 
of  talent  displayed  by  the  two  brothers  was  pretty 
equal ; for  none  of  James  Smith’s  parodies  are  more 
felicitous  than  that  of  Scott  by  Horace.  The  popu- 
larity of  the  Rejected  Addresses  seems  to  have 
satisfied  the  ambition  of  the  elder  poet.  He  after- 
wards confined  himself  to  short  anonymous  pieces 
in  The  New  Monthly  Magazine  and  other  periodicals, 
and  to  the  contribution  of  some  humorous  sketches 
and  anecdotes  toAvards  Mr  Mathews’s  theatrical 
entertainments,  the  authorship  of  Avhich  was  known 
only  to  a few.  The  Country  Cousins , Trip  to  France , 
and  Trip  to  America , mostly  Avritten  by  Smith,  and 
brought  out  by  Mathews  at  the  English  Opera 
House,  not  only  filled  the  theatre,  and  replenished 
the  treasury,  but  brought  the  Avitty  Avriter  a thou- 
sand pounds — a sum  to  which,  we  are  told,  the 
receiver  seldom  made  allusion  without  shrugging  up 
his  shoulders,  and  ejaculating:  ‘A  thousand  pounds 
for  nonsense ! ’ Mr  Smith  was  still  better  paid  for 
a trifling  exertion  of  his  muse  ; for,  having  met  at  a 
dinner-party  the  late  Mr  Stralian,  the  king’s  printer, 
then  suffering  from  gout  and  old  age,  though  his 
faculties  remained  unimpaired,  he  sent  him  next 
morning  the  following  jeu  d' esprit : 

Your  lower  limbs  seemed  far  from  stout 
When  last  I saw  you  walk ; 

The  cause  I presently  found  out 
When  you  began  to  talk. 

* Memoir  prefixed  to  Smith’s  Comic  Miscellanies,  2 vols. 

1841. 


The  power  that  props  the  body’s  length, 

In  due  proportion  spread, 

In  you  mounts  upwards,  and  the  strength 
All  settles  in  the  head. 

Mr  Strahan  was  so  much  gratified  by  the  compli- 
ment, that  he  made  an  immediate  codicil  to  his 
Avill,  by  which  he  bequeathed  to  the  writer  the  sum 
of  £3000 ! Horace  Smith,  however,  mentions  that 
Mr  Strahan  had  other  motives  for  his  generosity, 
for  he  respected  and  loved  the  man  quite  as  much 
as  he  admired  the  poet.  James  made  a happier, 
though,  in  a pecuniary  sense,  less  lucky  epigram 
on  Miss  Edgeworth : 

We  every-day  bards  may  1 anonymous’  sign — 

That  refuge,  Miss  Edgeworth,  can  never  be  thine. 

Thy  writings,  where  satire  and  moral  unite, 

Must  bring  forth  the  name  of  their  author  to  light. 

Good  and  bad  join  in  telling  the  source  of  their  birth ; 

The  bad  ovnu  their  Edge,  and  the  good  own  their 
Worth. 

The  easy  social  bachelor-life  of  James  Smith  Avas 
much  impaired  by  hereditary  gout.  He  lived  tem- 
perately, and  at  his  club-dinner  restricted  himself 
to  his  half-pint  of  sherry  ; but  as  a professed  joker 
and  ‘ diner-out,’  he  must  often  have  been  tempted 
to  over-indulgence  and  irregular  hours.  Attacks 
of  gout  began  to  assail  him  in  middle  life,  and  he 
gradually  lost  the  use  and  the  very  form  of  his 
limbs,  bearing  all  his  sufferings,  as  his  brother  states, 
with  ‘an  undeviating  and  unexampled  patience.’ 
One  of  the  stanzas  in  his  poem  on  Chigwell  displays 
his  philosophic  composure  at  this  period  of  his  life : 

World,  in  thy  ever-busy  mart 
I ’ve  acted  no  unnoticed  part — 

Would  I resume  it?  0 no  ! 

Four  acts  are  done,  the  jest  grows  stale ; 

The  waning  lamps  burn  dim  and  pale, 

And  reason  asks — Cui  bono? 

He  held  it  a humiliation  to  be  ill,  and  never  com- 
plained or  alluded  to  his  own  sufferings.  He/  died 
on  the  24tli  December  1839,  aged  sixty-five.  Lady 
Blessington  said:  ‘If  James  Smith  had  not  been  a 
witty  man , he  must  have  been  a great  man’  His  exten- 
sive information  and  refined  manners,  joined  to  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  liveliness  and  humour,  and  a 
happy  uniform  temper,  rendered  him  a fascinating 
companion.  The  writings  of  such  a man  give  but 
a faint  idea  of  the  original ; yet  in  his  own  walk  of 
literature  James  Smith  has  few  superiors.  Anstey 
comes  most  directly  into  competition  with  him  ; yet 
it  may  be  safely  said  that  the  Rejected  Addresses 
will  live  as  long  as  the  New  Bath  Guide. 

Horace  Smith,  the  latest  surviving  partner  of 
this  literary  duumvirate — the  most  constant  and 
interesting,  perhaps,  since  that  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  more  affectionate  from  the  relation- 
ship of  the  parties — afterwards  distinguished  him- 
self by  various  novels  and  copies  of  verses  in  Tl \e 
New  Monthly  Magazine.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
imitators  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  historical 
rorrtances.  His  Brambletye  House , a tale  of  the 
civil  wars,  published  in  1826,  was  received  with 
favour  by  the  public,  though  some  of  its  descriptions 
of  the  plague  in  London  were  copied  too  literally 
from  Defoe,  and  there  Avas  a want  of  spirit  and 
truth  in  the  embodiment  of  some  of  the  historical 
characters.  The  success  of  this  effort  inspired  the 
author  to  venture  into  various  fields  of  fiction.  He 
wrote  Tor  Hill ; Zillah,  a Tale  of  the  Holy  City ; 
The  Midsummer  Medley;  Walter  Colyton;  The  In- 
voluntary Prophet;  Jane  Lomax;  The  Moneyed  Man; 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Adam  Brown;  The  Merchant;  &c.  None  of  these 
seem  destined  to  live.  Mr  Smith  was  as  remark- 
able for  generosity  as  for  wit  and  playful  humour. 
Shelley  said  once : ‘ I know  not  what  Horace  Smith 
must  take  me  for  sometimes : I am  afraid  he  must 
think  me  a strange  fellow ; but  is  it  not  odd,  that 
the  only  truly  generous  person  I ever  knew,  who 
had  money  to  be  generous  with,  should  be  a stock- 
broker ! And  he  writes  poetry  too,’  continued  Mr 
Shelley,  his  voice  rising  in  a fervour  of  astonish- 
ment— ‘ he  writes  poetry  and  pastoral  dramas,  and 
yet  knows  how  to  make  money,  and  does  make  it, 
and  is  still  generous.’  The  poet  also  publicly 
expressed  his  regard  for  Mr  Smith : 

Wit  and  sense, 

Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a business  of  delight, 

Are  all  combined  in  H.  S. 

This  truly  estimable  man  died  July  12,  1849,  aged 
seventy.  Apart  from  the  parodies,  James  Smith 
did  nothing  so  good  as  Horace  Smith’s  Address  to 
the  Mummy , which  is  a felicitous  compound  of  fact, 
humour,  and  sentiment,  forcibly  and  originally 
expressed. 

The  Theatre. — By  the  Rev.  G.  C.  [Crabbed] 

’Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six, 

Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks, 
Touched  by  the  lamplighter’s  Promethean  art, 

Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start : 

To  see  red  Phcebus  through  the  gallery  pane 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane, 

While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widened  pit, 

And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit.  * * 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honour  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 

Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 

Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane ; 

The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark, 

The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk ; 

Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door, 

With  pence  twice  five,  they  want  but  twopence  more, 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 

And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne’er  their  malice  balk, 

But  talk  their  minds,  we  wish  they’d  mind  their  talk ; j 
Big-worded  bullies,  wrho  by  quarrels  live, 

Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give ; 

Jews  from  St  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary, 

That  for  old  clothes  they ’d  even  axe  St  Mary ; 

And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 

Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 

Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  chance  can  joy  bestow, 
Where  scowling  fortune  seemed  to  threaten  woe. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire ; 

But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 

Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stubbs’s  shoes. 

Emanuel  J ennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a corn-cutter — a safe  employ ; 

In  Holywell  Street,  St  Pancras,  he  was  bred — 

At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said — 

Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby’s  head. 

He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 

But  with  a premium  he  could  not  come  down  : 

Pat  was  the  urchin's  name,  a red-haired  youth, 

Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than  truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods  ! to  keep  your  tongues  in  awe, 

The  muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

392 


TO  1830. 


Pat  J ennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat ; 

But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat; 

Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 

And  spurned  the  one,  to  settle  in  the  two. 

How  shall  he  act  ? Pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost  when  new  but  four  ? 

Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait, 

And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 

Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a thief, 

John  Mullins  whispers  : * Take  my  handkerchief.’ 

‘ Thank  you,’  cries  Pat,  ‘ but  one  won’t  make  a line.’ 

‘ Take  mine,’  cried  Wilson ; ‘ And,’  cried  Stokes,  ‘take 
mine.’ 

A motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 

Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 

Like  Iris’  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue, 

Starred,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue, 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 

George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand, 

Loops  the  last  ’kerchief  to  the  beaver’s  band ; 

Upsoars  the  prize ; the  youth,  with  joy  unfeigned, 
Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regained, 

While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat. 

The  Baby's  Debut. — By  W.  W.  [Wordsworth.'] 

[Spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a girl  eight  years  of 
age,  who  is  drawn  upon  the  stage  in  a child’s  chaise  by 
Samuel  Hughes,  her  uncle’s  porter.] 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 

And  I was  eight  on  New-Year’s  Day; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson’s  shop 
Papa  (he ’s  my  papa  and  Jack’s) 

Bought  me,  last  week,  a doll  of  wax, 

And  brother  Jack  a top. 

Jack ’s  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is, 

He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his, 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes, 

Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  0 my  stars ! 

He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  ! 

Quite  cross,  a bit  of  string  I beg, 

And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top’s  peg, 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main, 

Its  head  against  the  parlour-door  : 

Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 

And  breaks  a window-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite ; 

Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A pretty  thing,  forsooth ! 

If  he’s  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot, 

Half  my  doll’s  nose,  and  I am  not 
To  draw  his  peg-top’s  tooth ! 

Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 

And  cried  : ‘ 0 naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  distress  your  aunt : 

No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day!’ 

And  while  papa  said  : ‘ Pooh,  she  may  !* 

Mamma  said  : ‘ No,  she  shan’t  ! ’ 

Well,  after  many  a sad  reproach, 

They  got  into  a hackney-coach, 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 

I saw  them  go  : one  horse  was  blind ; 

The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind ; 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet 

The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  drawn  to  Pentonville, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH. 


Stood  in  the  lumber-room  : 

I wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 

While  Molly  mopped  it  with  a mop, 

And  brushed  it  with  a broom. 

My  uncle’s  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 

Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes 
(I  always  talk  to  Sam) : 

So  what  does  he,  but  takes  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags, 

And  leaves  me  where  I am. 

My  father’s  walls  are  made  of  brick, 

But  not  so  tall,  and  not  so  thick 
As  these ; and,  goodness  me  ! 

My  father’s  beams  are  made  of  wood, 

But  never,  never  half  so  good 
As  these  that  now  I see. 

What  a large  floor  ! ’tis  like  a town  ! 

The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down, 

Won’t  hide  it,  I ’ll  be  bound : 

And  there ’s  a row  of  lamps ; my  eye ! 

How  they  do  blaze  ! I wonder  why 
They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I caught  hold  of  the  wing, 

And  kept  away ; but  Mr  Thing- 
Umbob,  the  prompter  man, 

Gave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a shove, 

And  said : ‘ Go  on,  my  pretty  love ; 

Speak  to  ’em,  little  Nan. 

‘You’ve  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp- 
er, hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 

And  then  you  ’re  sure  to  take : 

I’ve  known  the  day  when  brats  not  quite 
Thirteen  got  fifty  pounds  a night, 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake  V 

But  while  I 'm  speaking,  where ’s  papa  ? 

And  where’s  my  aunt?  and  where’s  mamma? 

Where ’s  Jack  ? Oh,  there  they  sit ! 

They  smile,  they  nod ; I ’ll  go  my  ways, 

And  order  round  poor  Billy’s  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show ; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 

I curtsey,  like  a pretty  miss, 

And  if  you  ’ll  blow  to  me  a kiss, 

I ’ll  blow  a kiss  to  you. 

[Blows  Jciss , and  exit. 


A Tale  of  Drury  Lane. — By  W.  S.  [£co«.] 

As  chaos  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 

Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 

Started  with  terror  and  surprise, 

When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes : 

So  London’s  sons  in  night-cap  woke, 

In  bed-gown  woke  her  dames, 

For  shouts  were  heard  mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

‘ The  playhouse  is  in  flames.’ 

And  lo  ! where  Catherine  Street  extends, 

A fiery  tale  its  lustre  lends 
To  every  window-pane : 

Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 

And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 

And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 

Meux’s  new  brewhouse  shews  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill’s  chapel,  and  the  height 


Where  patent  shot  they  sell : 

The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 

Partakes  the  ray,  with  Surgeons’  Hall, 

The  Ticket  Porters’  house  of  call, 

Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 

Wright’s  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 

And  Richardson’s  hotel. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide 
Across  the  Thames’s  gleaming  tide, 

To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne ; 

And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn, 

In  borrowed  lustre  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 

To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury’s  mound, 

As  from  a lofty  altar  rise ; 

It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire, 

To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 
Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 

The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call, 

And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 

Starting  from  short  and  broken  snoose, 

Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnailed  shoes ; 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 

Plush  breeches  next  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced ; 

Then  jacket  thick  of  red  or  blue, 

Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 

The  engines  thundered  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 

And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 
Along  the  pavement  paced.  * * 

E’en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 

For  sadder  scene  was  ne’er  disclosed ; 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 

Devouring  flames  resistless  glow, 

And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 

And  never  halloo  ‘ Heads  below !’ 

Nor  notice  give  at  all : 

The  firemen,  terrified,  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow, 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 

Back,  Robins,  back  ! Crump,  stand  aloof ! 

Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 

Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, 

For,  lo  ! the  blazing  rocking  roof 
Down,  down  in  thunder  falls ! 

An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke, 

And  o’er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 

Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 

Concealed  them  from  the  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared, 

When  lo  ! amid  the  wreck  upreared, 

Gradual  a moving  head  appeared, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
’Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 

Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 

‘ A Muggins  to  the  rescue,  ho  !’ 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide  : 

Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 

And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 

For  rallying  but  to  fall  again, 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died  ! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 

To  succour  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 

Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire — 

His  fireman’s  soul  was  all  on  fire — 

His  brother-chief  to  save ; 

But  ah  ! his  reckless  generous  ire 
Served  but  to  share  his  grave  ! 

393 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


’Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams. 

Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 

But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench 
Destroying  sight,  o’erwhelmed  him  quite  ; 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 

Still  o’er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 

His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved ; 

‘ Whitford  and  Mitf ord  ply  your  pumps ; 

'You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps; 

Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 

A fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! 

What  are  they  feared  on  ? fools — ’od  rot  ’em  ! ’ — 

Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

The  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane. 

[By  James  Smith.] 

A tree  grew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind 
A venom  distilled  of  the  deadliest  kind ; 

The  Dutch  sent  their  felons  it3  juices  to  draw, 

And  who  returned  safe,  pleaded  pardon  by  law. 

Face-muffled,  the  culprits  crept  into  the  vale, 
Advancing  from  windward  to  'scape  the  death-gale; 
How  few  the  reward  of  their  victory  earned ! 

For  ninety -nine  perished  for  one  who  returned. 

Britannia  this  Upas-tree  bought  of  Mynheer, 

Removed  it  through  Holland,  and  planted  it  here ; 
’Tis  now  a stock- plant  of  the  genus  wolf  s-bane, 

And  one  of  them  blossoms  in  Marybone  Lane. 

The  house  that  surrounds  it  stands  first  in  the  row, 
Two  doors  at  right  angles  swing  open  below ; 

And  the  children  of  misery  daily  steal  in, 

And  the  poison  they  draw  they  denominate  Gin. 

There  enter  the  prude,  and  the  reprobate  boy, 

The  mother  of  grief,  and  the  daughter  of  joy, 

The  serving-maid  slim,  and  the  serving-man  stout, 
They  quickly  steal  in,  and  they  slowly  reel  out. 

Surcharged  with  the  venom,  some  walk  forth  erect, 
Apparently  baffling  its  deadly  effect ; 

But,  sooner  or  later,  the  reckoning  arrives. 

And  ninety-nine  perish  for  one  who  survives. 

They  cautious  advance  with  slouched  bonnet  and  hat, 
They  enter  at  this  door,  they  go  out  at  that ; 

Some  bear  off  their  burden  with  riotous  glee, 

But  most  sink  in  sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Tax,  Chancellor  Van,  the  Batavian  to  thwart, 

This  compound  of  crime  at  a sovereign  a quart ; 

Let  gin  fetch  per  bottle  the  price  of  champagne, 

And  hew  down  the  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane. 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzonis  Exhibition. 

[By  Horace  Smith.] 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a story  !) 

In  Thebes’s  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous ! 

Speak ! for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a tongue,  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou  ’rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above  ground,  mummy ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 
394 


Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 

To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx’s  fame? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompeys  pillar  really  a misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon’s  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a priest — if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 

Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropped  a halfpenny  in  Homers  hat, 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, 

Or  held,  by  Solomon’s  own  invitation, 

A torch  at  the  great  Temple’s  dedication. 

I need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 

Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled, 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed. 

Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : 
Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 
Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop,  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 
How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left  it  green ; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old,  that  history’s  pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ? then  keep  thy  vows ; 

But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself ; 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered. 
What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures  num- 
bered? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended. 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  muta- 
tions; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended. 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old  nations, 
And  countless  kings  hare  into  dust  been  humbled. 
Whilst  not  a fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 

When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 
Marched  armies  o’er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O’erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb’s  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold : 

A heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 
And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled : 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that 
face? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh — immortal  of  the  dead ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 

Posthumous  man,  who  quitt’st  thy  narrow  bed. 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence, 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  J udgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its 
warning. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  WILSON. 


Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 

Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 


JOHN  WILSON. 

Professor  Wilson,  long  the  distinguished  occu- 
pant of  the  chair  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  university 
of  Edinburgh,  earned  his  first  laurels  by  his  poetry. 
He  was  born  on  the  18th  of  May  1785,  in  the  town 
of  Paisley,  where  his  father  had  carried  on  business, 


John  Wilson. 


and  attained  to  opulence  as  a manufacturer.  At 
the  age  of  thirteen,  the  poet  was  entered  of  Glasgow 
university,  whence,  in  1804,  he  was  transferred  to 
Magdalene  College,  Oxford.  Here  he  carried  off  the 
Newdigate  prize  from  a vast  number  of  competitors 
for  tile  best  English  poem  of  fifty  lines.  Mr  Wilson 
was  distinguished  in  these  youthful  years  by  his 
fine  athletic  frame,  and  a face  at  once  handsome  and 
expressive  of  genius.  A noted  capacity  for  know- 
ledge and  remarkable  literary  powers  were  at  the 
same  time  united  to  a predilection  for  gymnastic 
exercises  and  rural  sports.’  After  four  years’  resi- 
dence at  Oxford,  the  poet  purchased  a small  but 
beautiful  estate,  named  Elleray,  on  the  banks  of 
the  lake  Windermere,  where  he  went  to  reside.  He 
married — built  a house  and  a yacht — enjoyed  himself 
among  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  lakes — wrote 
poetry — and  cultivated  the  society  of  Wordsworth. 
These  must  have  been  happy  days.  With  youth, 
robust  health,  fortune,  and  an  exhaustless  imagina- 
tion, Wilson  must,  in  such  a spot,  have  been  blest 
even  up  to  the  dreams  of  a poet.  Home  reverses, 
however,  came,  and,  after  entering  himself  of  the 
Scottish  bar,  he  sought  and  obtained  his  moral 
philosophy  chair.  He  connected  himself  also  with 
Blackwood's  Magazine , and  in  this  miscellany  poured 
forth  the  riches  of  his  fancy,  learning,  and  taste — 
displaying  also  the  peculiarities  of  his  sanguine 


and  impetuous  temperament.  The  most  valuable 
of  these  contributions  were  collected  and  published 
(1842)  in  three  volumes,  under  the  title  of  The 
Recreations  of  Christopher  North.  The  criticisms  on 
poetry  from  the  pen  of  Wilson  are  often  highly 
eloquent,  and  conceived  in  a truly  kindred  spirit. 
A series  of  papers  on  Spenser  and  Homer  are  equally 
remarkable  for  their  discrimination  and  imaginative 
luxuriance.  In  reference  to  these  ‘ golden  spoils  ’ of 
criticism,  Mr  Hallam  characterised  the  professor  as 
‘ a living  writer  of  the  most  ardent  and  enthusiastic 
genius,  whose  eloquence  is  as  the  rush  of  mighty 
waters.’  The  poetical  works  of  Wilson  were  col- 
lected in  two  volumes.  They  consist  of  the  Isle  of 
Palms  (1812),  the  City  of  the  Plague  (1816),  and 
several  smaller  pieces.  The  broad  humour  and 
satire  of  some  of  his  prose  papers  form  a contrast  to 
the  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  his  acknowledged 
writings — particularly  his  poetry.  He  has  an  outer 
and  an  inner  man — one  shrewd,  bitter,  observant, 
and  full  of  untamed  energy ; the  other  calm,  graceful, 
and  meditative — ‘all  conscience  and  tender  heart.’ 
He  deals  generally  in  extremes,  and  the  prevailing 
defect  of  his  poetry  is  its  uniform  sweetness  and 
feminine  softness  of  character.  ‘Almost  the  only 
passions,’  says  Jeffrey,  ‘ with  which  his  poetry  is 
conversant,  are  the  gentler  sympathies  of  our  nature 
— tender  compassion,  confiding  affection,  and  guilt- 
less sorrow.  Erom  all  these  there  results,  along 
with  a most  touching  and  tranquillising  sweetness, 
a certain  monotony  and  languor,  which,  to  those 
who  read  poetry  for  amusement  merely,  will  be  apt 
to  appear  like  dulness,  and  must  be  felt  as  a defect 
by  all  who  have  been  used  to  the  variety,  rapidity, 
and  energy  of  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day.’  Some 
of  the  scenes  in  the  City  of  the  Plague  are,  however, 
exquisitely  drawn,  and  his  descriptions  of  lake  and 
mountain  scenery,  though  idealised  by  his  imagina- 
tion, are  not  unworthy  of  Wordsworth.  The  prose 
descriptions  of  Wilson  have  obscured  his  poetical , 
because  in  the  former  he  gives  the  reins  to  his 
fancy,  and,  while  preserving  the  general  outline  and 
distinctive  features  of  the  landscape,  adds  a number 
of  subsidiary  charms  and  attractions.  In  1851,  Mr 
Wilson  was  granted  a pension  of  £300  per  annum ; 
his  health  had  then  failed,  and  he  died  in  Edinburgh 
on  the  3d  of  April  1854.  A complete  collection  of 
his  works  has  been  published  by  his  son-in-law, 
Professor  Perrier,  of  St  Andrews,  in  twelve  volumes. 

[A  Home  among  the  Mountains .] 

[From  the  City  of  the  Plague .] 

Magdalene  and  Isabel. 

Magdalene.  How  bright  and  fair  that  afternoon 
returns 

When  last  we  parted  ! Even  now  I feel 
Its  dewy  freshness  in  my  soul ! Sweet  breeze  ! 

That  hymning  like  a spirit  up  the  lake, 

Came  through  the  tall  pines  on  yon  little  isle 
Across  to  us  upon  the  vernal  shore 
With  a kind  friendly  greeting.  Frankfort  blest 
The  unseen  musician  floating  through  the  air, 

And  smiling,  said : ‘ Wild  harper  of  the  hill ! 

So  mayst  thou  play  thy  ditty  when  once  more 
This  lake  I do  revisit.’  As  he  spoke, 

Away  died  the  music  in  the  firmament, 

And  unto  silence  left  our  parting  hour. 

No  breeze  will  ever  steal  from  nature’s  heart 
So  sweet  again  to  me. 

Whate’er  my  doom, 

It  cannot  be  unhappy.  God  hath  given  me 
The  boon  of  resignation  : I could  die, 

Though  doubtless  human  fears  would  cross  my  soul, 

395 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Calmly  even  now ; yet  if  it  be  ordained 
That  I return  unto  my  native  valley, 

And  live  with  Frankfort  there,  why  should  I fear 
To  say  I might  be  happy — happier  far 
Than  I deserve  to  be.  Sweet  Rydal  Lake  ! 

Am  I again  to  visit  thee  ? to  hear 

Thy  glad  waves  murmuring  all  around  my  soul  ? 

Isabel.  Methinks  I see  us  in  a cheerful  group 
Walking  along  the  margin  of  the  bay, 

Where  our  lone  summer-house 

Magd.  Sweet  mossy  cell ! 

So  cool — so  shady — silent  and  composed  ! 

A constant  evening  full  of  gentle  dreams ! 

Where  joy  was  felt  like  sadness,  and  our  grief 
A melancholy  pleasant  to  be  borne. 

Hath  the  green  linnet  built  her  nest  this  spring 
In  her  own  rose-bush  near  the  quiet  door  ? 

Bright  solitary  bird  ! she  oft  will  miss 
Her  human  friends : our  orchard  now  must  be 
A wilderness  of  sweets,  by  none  beloved. 

Isa.  One  blessed  week  would  soon  restore  its  beauty, 
Were  we  at  home.  Nature  can  work  no  wrong. 

The  very  weeds  how  lovely  ! the  confusion 
Doth  speak  of  breezes,  sunshine,  and  the  dew. 

Magd.  I hear  the  murmuring  of  a thousand  bees 
In  that  bright  odorous  honeysuckle  wall 
That  once  enclosed  the  happiest  family 
That  ever  lived  beneath  the  blessed  skies. 

Where  is  that  family  now  ? 0 Isabel, 

I feel  my  soul  descending  to  the  grave, 

And  all  these  loveliest  rural  images 
Fade,  like  waves  breaking  on  a dreary  shore  ! 

Isa.  Even  now  I see  a stream  of  sunshine  bathing 
The  bright  moss-roses  round  our  parlour  window ! 

Oh  ! were  we  sitting  in  that  room  once  more  ! 

Magd.  ’Twould  seem  inhuman  to  be  happy  there, 
And  both  my  parents  dead.  How  could  I walk 
On  what  I used  to  call  my  father’s  walk, 

He  in  his  grave  ! or  look  upon  that  tree, 

, Each  year  so  full  of  blossoms  or  of  fruit, 

Planted  by  my  mother,  and  her  holy  name 
Graven  on  its  stem  by  mine  own  infant  hands  ! 

A Sleeping  Child. 

Art  thou  a thing  of  mortal  birth, 

Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 

Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair, 

Lost  ’mid  a gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 

Oh  ! can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a being  doomed  to  death ; 

Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent  ? 

Or  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 

The  phantom  of  a blessed  dream  ? 

Oh ! that  my  spirit’s  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy  ! 

That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years. 

Thou  smil’st  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven’s  God  adoring  ! 

And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant’s  sleeping  eye  ! 

What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on  than  an  infant’s  mind, 

Ere  sin  destroy  or  error  dim 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

Oh  ! vision  fair  ! that  I could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure  as  thee  ! 

Vain  wish  ! the  rainbow’s  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave  the  storm  : 

396 


Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise. 

And  years,  so  fate  hath  ordered,  roll 
Clouds  o’er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn, 

When  o’er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn 
Like  a thin  veil  that  half-concealed 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half-revealed. 

While  thy  hushed  heart  with  visions  wrought, 
Each  trembling  eyelash  moved  with  thought, 

And  things  we  dream,  but  ne’er  can  speak. 

Like  clouds  came  floating  o’er  thy  cheek, 

Such  summer- clouds  as  travel  light, 

When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright ; 

Till  thou  awok’st — then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstasy  ! 

And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine, 

Or  sure  these  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a wild,  yet  bashful  glee, 

Gay,  half-o’ercome  timidity ! 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer. 

Magnificent  creature  ! so  stately  and  bright ! 

In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight ; 

For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread, 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far-beaming  head ; 
Or  borne  like  a whirlwind  down  on  the  vale ! 

Hail ! king  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful ! — hail ! 

Hail ! idol  divine  ! — whom  nature  hath  borne 
O’er  a hundred  hill-tops  since  the  mists  of  the  mom, 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain  and 
moor, 

As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore  : 

For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free, 

Are  spread  in  a garment  of  glory  o’er  thee, 

Up  ! up  to  yon  cliff!  like  a king  to  his  throne  ! 

O’er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone — 

A throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 

There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of  thy 
breast, 

Lo  ! the  clouds  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  are  at  rest; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o’er  on  the  hill ! 

In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers  lie  still ! — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of  delight, 
Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  yon  shelterless  height, 
One  moment — thou  bright  apparition — delay ! 

Then  melt  o’er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

His  voyage  is  o’er — as  if  struck  by  a spell, 

He  motionless  stands  in  the  hush  of  the  dell ; 

There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast, 

In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamoured  of  rest. 

A stream  in  a clear  pool  that  endeth  its  race — 

A dancing  ray  chained  to  one  sunshiny  place — 

A cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven — 

A hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven. 

Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a,  pilgrim  like  thee  : 
Magnificent  prison  enclosing  the  free ; 

With  rock  wall-encircled — with  precipice  crowned — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a bound. 
*Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favourite’s  sleep  ; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  to  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a little  lake  lies. 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold, 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance  as  bright  and  as  bold. 

Yes : fierce  looks  thy  nature  e’en  hushed  in  repose  — 
In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes, 

Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar, 

With  a haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war. 

No  outrage  is  war  to  a creature  like  thee ; 

The  buglehorn  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  WILSON. 


As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  behind. 

In  the  beams  of  thy  forehead,  that  glitter  with  death, 
In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the  heath — 
In  the  wide  raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its  roar — 
In  the  cliff  that  once  trod,  must  be  trodden  no  more — 
Thy  trust — ’mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy  reign  : 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain  ? 

On  the  brink  of  the  rock — lo  ! he  standeth  at  bay, 
Like  a victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
While  the  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spurned  from  his  furious  feet ; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the  skies, 
As  nature’s  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 


Lines  written  in  a Lonely  Burial-ground  in  the 
Highlands. 

How  mournfully  this  burial-ground 
Sleeps  ’mid  old  Ocean’s  solemn  sound, 

Who  rolls  his  bright  and  sunny  waves 
All  round  these  deaf  and  silent  graves  ! 

The  cold  wan  light  that  glimmers  here, 

The  sickly  wild-flowers  may  not  cheer ; 

If  here,  with  solitary  hum, 

The  wandering  mountain-bee  doth  come, 
’Mid  the  pale  blossoms  short  his  stay, 

To  brighter  leaves  he  booms  away. 

The  sea-bird,  with  a wailing  sound, 
Alighteth  softly  on  a mound, 

And,  like  an  image,  sitting  there 
For  hours  amid  the  doleful  air, 

Seemeth  to  tell  of  some  dim  union, 

Some  wild  and  mystical  communion, 
Connecting  with  his  parent  sea 
This  lonesome  stoneless  cemetery. 

This  may  not  be  the  burial-place 
Of  some  extinguished  kingly  race, 

Whose  name  on  earth  no  longer  known, 

Hath  mouldered  with  the  mouldering  stone. 
That  nearest  grave,  yet  brown  with  mould, 
Seems  but  one  summer-twilight  old ; 

Both  late  and  frequent  hath  the  bier 
Been  on  its  mournful  visit  here ; 

And  yon  green  spot  of  sunny  rest 
Is  waiting  for  its  destined  guest. 

I see  no  little  kirk — no  bell 
On  Sabbath  tinkleth  through  this  dell ; 

How  beautiful  those  graves  and  fair, 

That,  lying  round  the  house  of  prayer, 

Sleep  in  the  shaddw  of  its  grace  ! 

But  death  hath  chosen  this  rueful  place 
For  his  own  undivided  reign  ! 

And  nothing  tells  that  e’er  again 
The  sleepers  will  forsake  their  bed — 

Now,  and  for  everlasting  dead, 

For  Hope  with  Memory  seems  fled ! 

Wild-screaming  bird  ! unto  the  sea 
Winging  thy  flight  reluctantly, 

Slow  floating  o’er  these  grassy  tombs 
So  ghost-like,  with  thy  snow-white  plumes, 
At  once  from  thy  wild  shriek  I know 
What  means  this  place  so  steeped  in  woe  ! 
Here,  they  who  perished  on  the  deep 
Enjoy  at  last  unrocking  sleep ; 

For  ocean,  from  his  wrathful  breast, 

Flung  them  into  this  haven  of  rest, 

Where  shroudless,  coffinless,  they  lie — 

’Tis  the  shipwrecked  seamen’s  cemetery. 

Here  seamen  old,  with  grizzled  locks, 
Shipwrecked  before  on  desert  rocks, 


And  by  some  wandering  vessel  taken 
From  sorrows  that  seem  God-forsaken, 
Home-bound,  here  have  met  the  blast 
That  wrecked  them  on  death’s  shore  at  last ! 
Old  friendless  men,  who  had  no  tears 
To  shed,  nor  any  place  for  fears 
In  hearts  by  misery  fortified, 

And,  without  terror,  sternly  died. 

Here  many  a creature  moving  bright 
And  glorious  in  full  manhood’s  might, 

Who  dared  with  an  untroubled  eye 
The  tempest  brooding  in  the  sky, 

And  loved  to  hear  that  music  rave, 

And  danced  above  the  mountain-wave, 

Hath  quaked  on  this  terrific  strand, 

All  flung  like  sea-weeds  to  the  land ; 

A whole  crew  lying  side  by  side, 

Death -dashed  at  once  in  all  their  pride. 

And  here  the  bright-haired  fair-faced  boy, 

Who  took  with  him  all  earthly  joy, 

From  one  who  weeps  both  night  and  day 
For  her  sweet  son  borne  far  away, 

Escaped  at  last  the  cruel  deep, 

In  all  his  beauty  lies  asleep ; 

While  she  would  yield  all  hopes  of  grace 
For  one  kiss  of  his  pale  cold  face  ! 

Oh  ! I could  wail  in  lonely  fear, 

For  many  a woful  ghost  sits  here, 

All  weeping  with  their  fixed  eyes  ! 

And  what  a dismal  sound  of  sighs 
Is  mingling  with  the  gentle  roar 
Of  small  waves  breaking  on  the  shore  ; 

While  ocean  seems  to  sport  and  play 
In  mockery  of  its  wretched  prey  ! 

[The  ShipivrecJc.] 

[From  the  Isle  of  Palms.] 

But  list ! a low  and  moaning  sound 
At  distance  heard,  like  a spirit’s  song, 

And  now  it  reigns  above,  around, 

As  if  it  called  the  ship  along. 

The  moon  is  sunk ; and  a clouded  gray 
Declares  that  her  course  is  run, 

And  like  a god  who  brings  the  day, 

Up  mounts  the  glorious  sun. 

Soon  as  his  light  has  warmed  the  seas, 

From  the  parting  cloud  fresh  blows  the  breeze ; 

And  that  is  the  spirit  whose  well-known  song 
Makes  the  vessel  to  sail  in  joy  along. 

No  fears  hath  she ; her  giant  form 

O’er  wrathful  surge,  through  blackening  storm, 

Majestically  calm  would  go 

’Mid  the  deep  darkness  white  as  snow  ! 

But  gently  now  the  small  waves  glide 
Like  playful  lambs  o’er  a mountain’s  side. 

So  stately  her  bearing,  so  proud  her  array, 

The  main  she  will  traverse  for  ever  and  aye. 

Many  ports  will  exult  at  the  gleam  of  her  mast ; — 
Hush  ! hush  ! thou  vain  dreamer ! this  hour  is  her  last. 
Five  hundred  souls  in  one  instant  of  dread 
Are  hurried  o’er  the  deck; 

And  fast  the  miserable  ship 
Becomes  a lifeless  wreck. 

Her  keel  hath  struck  on  a hidden  rock, 

Her  planks  are  torn  asunder, 

And  down  come  her  masts  with  a reeling  shock, 

And  a hideous  crash  like  thunder. 

Her  sails  are  draggled  in  the  brine, 

That  gladdened  late  the.skies, 

And  her  pendant,  that  kissed  the  fair  moonshine, 
Down  many  a fathom  lies. 

Her  beauteous  sides,  whose  rainbow  hues 
Gleamed  softly  from  below, 

And  flung  a warm  and  sunny  flush 
O’er  the  wreaths  of  murmuring  snow, 

397 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


To  the  coral-rocks  are  hurrying  down, 

To  sleep  amid  colours  as  bright  as  their  own. 

Oh ! many  a dream  was  in  the  ship 
An  hour  before  her  death ; 

And  sights  of  home  with  sighs  disturbed 
The  sleeper’s  long-drawn  breath. 

Instead  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 

The  sailor  heard  the  humming-tree 
Alive  through  all  its  leaves, 

The  hum  of  the  spreading  sycamore 
That  grows  before  his  cottage-door, 

And  the  swallow’s  song  in  the  eaves. 

His  arms  enclosed  a blooming  boy, 

Who  listened  with  tears  of  sorrow  and  joy 
To  the  dangers  his  father  had  passed  ; 

And  his  wife — by  turns  she  wept  and  smiled, 

As  she  looked  on  the  father  of  her  child, 

Returned  to  her  heart  at  last. 

He  wakes  at  the  vessel’s  sudden  roll, 

And  the  rush  of  waters  is  in  his  soul. 

Astounded,  the  reeling  deck  he  paces, 

’Mid  hurrying  forms  and  ghastly  faces ; 

The  whole  ship’s  crew  are  there  ! 

Wailings  around  and  overhead, 

Brave  spirits  stupified  or  dead, 

And  madness  and  despair. 

* * * * 

Now  is  the  ocean’s  bosom  bare, 

Unbroken  as  the  floating  air ; 

The  ship  hath  melted  quite  away, 

Like  a struggling  dream  at  break  of  day. 

No  image  meets  my  wandering  eye, 

But  the  new-risen  sun  and  the  sunny  sky. 

Though  the  night-shades  are  gone,  yet  a vapour  dull 
Bedims  the  waves  so  beautiful : 

While  a low  and  melancholy  moan 
Mourns  for  the  glory  that  hath  flown. 

MRS  HEMANS. 

Mrs  Hemans  (Felicia  Dorothea  Browne)  was 
bom  at  Liverpool  on  the  25th  September  1793. 


Her  father  was  a merchant ; but,  experiencing  some 
reverses,  he  removed  with  his  family  to  Wales,  and 
there  the  young  poetess  imbibed  that  love  of  nature 
398 


TO  1830. 


which  is  displayed  in  all  her  works.  In  her  fifteenth 
year  she  ventured  on  publication.  Her  first  volume 
was  far  from  successful;  but  she  persevered,  and 
in  1812  published  another,  entitled  The  Domestic 
Affections , and  other  Poems.  The  same  year  she  was 


Rhyllon— the  residence  of  Mrs  Hemans  in  "Wales. 


married  to  Captain  Hemans ; hut  the  union  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  a happy  one.  She  continued  her 
studies,  acquiring  several  languages,  and  still  culti- 
vating poetry.  In  1818,  Captain  Hemans  removed  to 
Italy  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  His  accomplished 
wife  remained  in  England,  and  they  never  met  again. 
In  1819,  she  obtained  a prize  of  £50  offered  by  some 
patriotic  Scotsman  for  the  best  poem  on  the  subject 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Next  year  she  published 
The  Sceptic.  In  June  1821,  she  obtained  the  prize 
awarded  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  for  the 
best  poem  on  the  subject  of  Dartmoor.  Her  next 
effort  was  a tragedy,  the  Vespers  of  Palermo,  which 
was  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  December  12, 1823; 
but  though  supported  by  the  admirable  acting  of 
Kemble  and  Young,  it  was  not  successful.  In  1826, 
appeared  her  best  poem,  The  Forest  Sanctuary , and 
in  1828,  Records  of  Woman.  She  afterwards  pro- 
duced Lays  of  Leisure  Hours,  National  Lyrics,  &c. 
In  1829  she  paid  a visit  to  Scotland,  and  was 
received  with  great  kindness  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
Jeffrey,  and  others  of  the  Scottish  literati.  In  1830 
appeared  her  Songs  of  the  Affections.  The  same  year 
she  visited  Wordsworth,  and  appears  to  have  been 
much  struck  with  the  secluded  beauty  of  Rydal 
Lake  and  Grasmere : 

O vale  and  lake,  within  your  mountain  urn 
Smiling  so  tranquilly,  and  set  so  deep  ! 

Oft  doth  your  dreamy  loveliness  return, 

Colouring  the  tender  shadows  of  my  sleep 
With  light  Elysian ; for  the  hues  that  steep 
Your  shores  in  melting  lustre,  seem  to  float 
On  golden  clouds  from  spirit-lands  remote — 

Isles  of  the  blest — and  in  our  memory  keep 
Their  place  with  holiest  harmonies. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  HEMANS. 


Wordsworth  said  to  her  one  day : ‘ I would  not  give 
up  the  mists  that  spiritualise  our  mountains  for  all 
the  blue  skies  of  Italy’ — an  original  and  poetical 
expression.  On  her  return  from  the  Lakes,  Mrs 
Hemans  went  to  reside  in  Dublin,  where  her  brother, 
Major  Browne,  was  settled.  The  education  of  her 
family  (five  boys)  occupied  much  of  her  time  and 
attention.  Ill  health,  however,  pressed  heavily  on 
her,  and  she  soon  experienced  a premature  decay  of 
the  springs  of  life.  In  1834,  appeared  her  little 
volume  of  Hymns  for  Childhood , and  a collection  of 
Scenes  and  Hymns  of  Life.  She  also  published  some 
sonnets,  under  the  title  of  Thoughts  during  Sickness. 
Her  last  strain,  produced  only  about  three  weeks 
before  her  death,  was  the  following  fine  sonnet, 
dictated  to  her  brother  on  Sunday  the  26th  of 
April : 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending, 
Through  England’s  primrose  meadow-paths,  their  way 
Toward  spire  and  tower,  ’midst  shadowy  elms 
ascending, 

Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day ! 
The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  gray, 

Pour  their  fair  children  forth ; and  hamlets  low, 

With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  winds  play, 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a happy  flow, 

Like  a freed  vernal  stream.  I may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways — to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound ; yet,  0 my  God  ! I bless 
Thy  mercy  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 

This  admirable  woman  and  sweet  poetess  died  on 
the  16th  of  May  1835,  aged  forty-one.  She  was 
interred  in  St  Anne’s  Church,  Dublin,  and  over  her 
grave  were  inscribed  some  lines  from  one  of  her  own 
dirges : 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit ! rest  thee  now  ! 

Even  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trode, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath ! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high  ! 

They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

A complete  collection  of  the  works  of  Mrs 
Hemans,  with  a memoir  by  her  sister,  has  been 
published  in  six  volumes.  Though  highly  popular, 
and  in  many  respects  excellent,  we  do  not  think  that 
much  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs  Hemans  will  descend  to 
posterity.  There  is,  as  Scott  hinted,  ‘too  many 
flowers  for  the  fruit ; ’ more  for  the  ear  and  fancy, 
than  for  the  heart  and  intellect.  Some  of  her 
shorter  pieces  and  her  lyrical  productions  are 
touching  and  beautiful  both  in  sentiment  and 
expression. 

The  Voice  of  Spring. 

I come,  I come ! ye  have  called  me  long, 

I come  o’er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song ; 

Ye  may  trace  my  step  o’er  the  wakening  earth, 

By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet’s  birth, 

By  the  primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 

By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I pass. 

I have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chestnut- 
flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers  : 

And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 

Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains. 

But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 

To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb  1 


I have  passed  o’er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  through  the  pasture  free, 
And  the  pine  has  a fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  step  has  been. 

I have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a gentle  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep-blue  sky, 

From  the  night-bird’s  lay  through  the  starry  time, 

In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 

To  the  swan’s  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 

When  the  dark  fir-bough  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I have  loosed  the  chain ; 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 

They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain-brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  on  the  forest  boughs, 

They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 

And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves.  ' 

Come  forth,  0 ye  children  of  gladness,  come  ! 

Where  the  violets  lie  may  now  be  your  home. 

Ye  of  the  rose-cheek  and  dew-bright  eye, 

And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly ; 

With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine,  I may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  careworn  men, 

The  waters  are  sparkling  in  wood  and  glen ; 

Away  from  the  chamber  and  dusky  hearth, 

The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth ; 

Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 

And  Youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

The  summer  is  hastening,  on  soft  winds  borne, 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ; 

For  me  I depart  to  a brighter  shore — 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 

I go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Death’s — fare  ye  well,  fare- 
well ! 

The  Homes  of  England. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 

Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O’er  all  the  pleasant  land. 

The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 
Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 
Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 

What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 
Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 

There  woman’s  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childhood’s  tale  is  told, 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 
Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours  ! 

Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell’s  chime 
Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn ; 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  Homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 

They  are  smiling  o’er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 

899 


! FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 
Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 

And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall. 

May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 
To  guard  each  hallowed  wall ! 

And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 

Where  first  the  child’s  glad  spirit  loves 
Its  country  and  its  God  ! 

The  Graves  of  a Household. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 

They  filled  one  home  with  glee ; 

Their  graves  are  severed,  far  and  wide, 

By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O’er  each  fair  sleeping  brow ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  ’midst  the  forests  of  the  west, 

By  a dark  stream  is  laid — 

The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one, 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O’er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 
Above  the  noble  slain  : 

He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast, 

On  a blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o’er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned ; 

She  faded  ’midst  Italian  flowers — 

The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 
Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 

And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  ! for  love,  if  thou  wert  all. 

And  nought  beyond,  oh  earth ! 


BERNARD  BARTON. 

Bernard  Barton,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
published  in  1820  a volume  of  miscellaneous  poems, 
i which  attracted  notice  both  for  their  elegant  sim- 
| plicity,  and  purity  of  style  and  feeling,  and  because 
they  were  written  by  a Quaker.  ‘ The  staple  of  the 
whole  poems,’  says  a critic  in  the  Edinburgh  Review , 
‘ is  description  and  meditation — description  of  quiet 
home  scenery,  sweetly  and  feelingly  wrought  out 
— and  meditation,  overshaded  with  tenderness,  and 
exalted  by  devotion — but  all  terminating  in  sooth- 
j ing,  and  even  cheerful  views  of  the  condition  and 
j prospects  of  mortality.’  Mr  Barton  was  employed  in 
j a banking  establishment  at  Woodbridge,  in  Suffolk, 
and  he  seems  to  have  contemplated  abandoning  his 
profession  for  a literary  life.  Byron  remonstrated 
against  such  a step.  ‘Do  not  renounce  writing,’ 
he  said,  ‘ but  never  trust  entirely  to  authorship. 

400 


If  you  have  a profession,  retain  it ; it  will  be, 
like  Prior’s  fellowship,  a last  and  sure  resource.’ 
Charles  Lamb  also  wrote  to  him  as  follows : ‘ Throw 
yourself  on  the  world,  without  any  rational  plan 
of  support  beyond  what  the  chance  employ  of 
booksellers  would  afford  you!  Throw  yourself 
rather,  my  dear  sir,  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  rock 
slap-dash  headlong  upon  iron  spikes.  If  you  have 
but  five  consolatory  minutes  between  the  desk  and 
the  bed,  make  much  of  them,  and  live  a century  in 
them,  rather  than  turn  slave  to  the  booksellers. 
They  are  Turks  and  Tartars  when  they  have  poor 
authors  at  their  beck.  Hitherto  you  have  been  at 
arm’s-length  from  them — come  not  within  their 
grasp.  I have  known  many  authors  want  for  bread 
— some  repining,  others  enjoying  the  blessed  security 
of  a counting-house — all  agreeing  they  had  rather 
have  been  tailors,  weavers — what  not  ? — rather  than 
the  things  they  were.  I have  known  some  starved, 
some  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  literally  dying  in  a 
workhouse.  Oh,  you  know  not — may  you  never  ] 
know — the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  authorship  ! ’ | 
There  is  some  exaggeration  here.  We  have  known  j 
authors  by  profession  who  lived  cheerfully  and 
comfortably,  labouring  at  the  stated  sum  per  j 
sheet  as  regularly  as  the  weaver  at  his  loom,  or  ; 
the  tailor  on  his  board;  but  dignified  with  the 
consciousness  of  following  a high  and  ennobling 
occupation,  with  all  the  mighty  minds  of  past  ages 
as  their  daily  friends  and  companions.  The  bane 
of  such  a life,  when  fervid  genius  is  involved, 
is  its  uncertainty  and  its  temptations,  and  the 
almost  invariable  incompatibility  of  the  poetical 
temperament  with  habits  of  business  and  steady 
application.  Yet  let  us  remember  the  examples  . 
of  Shakspeare,  Dryden,  and  Pope — all  regular  and  ' 
constant  labourers — and,  in  our  own  day,  of  Scott,  ! 
Southey,  Moore,  and  many  others.  The  fault  is  : 
more  generally  with  the  author  than  with  the  i 
public.  In  the  particular  case  of  Bernard  Barton, 
however,  Lamb  counselled  wisely.  He  had  not  the  j 
vigour  and  popular  talents  requisite  for  marketable  ! 
literature ; and  of  this  he  would  seem  to  have  been 
conscious,  for  he  abandoned  his  dream  of  exclusive 
authorship.  Jeffrey  pronounced  him  ‘a  man  of  a 
fine  and  cultivated,  rather  than  of  a bold  and  origi-  1 
nal  mind.’  Mr  Barton  published  several  volumes  J 
of  poetry,  The  Widow's  Tale , Devotional  Verses , &c.  j 
His  poetry  is  highly  honourable  to  his  taste  and 
feelings  as  a man.  A pension  of  £100  a year  was  ! 
awarded  to  Mr  Barton  in  his  latter  days,  and  he 
died  in  February  1849,  at  Woodbridge,  in  Suffolk. 


To  the  Evening  Primrose. 

Fair  flower,  that  shunn’st  the  glare  of  day, 
Yet  loVst  to  open,  meekly  bold, 

To  evening’s  hues  of  sober  gray, 

Thy  cup  of  paly  gold ; 

Be  thine  the  offering  owing  long 
To  thee,  and  to  this  pensive  hour, 

Of  one  brief  tributary  song, 

Though  transient  as  thy  flower. 

I love  to  watch,  at  silent  eve, 

Thy  scattered  blossoms’  lonely  light, 

And  have  my  inmost  heart  receive 
The  influence  of  that  sight 

I love  at  such  an  hour  to  mark 

Their  beauty  greet  the  night-breeze  chill, 
And  shine,  ’mid  shadows  gathering  dark, 
The  garden’s  glory  still. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BRYAN  WALTER  PROCTER. 


POETS. 


For  such,  ’tis  sweet  to  think  the  while, 

When  cares  and  griefs  the  breast  invade, 

Is  friendship’s  animating  smile 
In  sorrow’s  dark’ning  shade. 

Thus  it  bursts  forth,  like  thy  pale  cup, 

Glist’ning  amid  its  dewy  tears, 

And  bears  the  sinking  spirit  up 
Amid  its  chilling  fears. 

But  still  more  animating  far, 

If  meek  Religion’s  eye  may  trace, 

Even  in  thy  glimmering  earth-born  star, 

The  holier  hope  of  Grace. 

The  hope,  that  as  thy  beauteous  bloom 
Expands  to  glad  the  close  of  day, 

So  through  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 
May  break  forth  Mercy’s  ray. 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea. 

Oh  ! I shall  not  forget,  until  memory  depart, 

When  first  I beheld  it,  the  glow  of  my  heart ; 

The  wonder,  the  awe,  the  delight  that  stole  o’er  me, 
When  its  billowy  boundlessness,  opened  before  me. 

As  I stood  on  its  margin,  or  roamed  on  its  strand, 

I felt  new  ideas  within  me  expand, 

Of  glory  and  grandeur,  unknown  till  that  hour, 

And  my  spirit  was  mute  in  the  presence  of  power  ! 

In  the  surf-beaten  sands  that  encircled  it  round, 

In  the  billow’s  retreat,  and  the  breaker’s  rebound, 

In  its  white-drifted  foam,  and  its  dark-heaving  green, 
Each  moment  I gazed,  some  fresh  beauty  was  seen. 
And  thus,  while  I wandered  on  ocean’s  bleak  shore, 
And  surveyed  its  vast  surface,  and  heard  its  waves  roar, 
I seemed  wrapt  in  a dream  of  romantic  delight, 

And  haunted  by  majesty,  glory,  and  might ! 

Power  and  Gentleness , or  the  Cataract  and  the 
Streamlet. 

Noble  the  mountain-stream, 

Bursting  in  grandeur  from  its  vantage-ground  ; 

Glory  is  in  its  gleam 

Of  brightness — thunder  in  its  deafening  sound  ! 

Mark,  how  its  foamy  spray, 

Tinged  by  the  sunbeams  with  reflected  dyes, 

Mimics  the  bow  of  day 
Arching  in  majesty  the  vaulted  skies ; 

Thence,  in  a summer-shower, 

Steeping  the  rocks  around — 0 ! tell  me  where 
Could  majesty  and  power 
Be  clothed  in  forms  more  beautifully  fair  ? 

Yet  lovelier,  in  my  view, 

The  streamlet  flowing  silently  serene ; 

Traced  by  the  brighter  hue, 

And  livelier  growth  it  gives — itself  unseen  ! 

It  flows  through  flowery  meads, 

Gladdening  the  herds  which  on  its  margin  browse ; 

Its  quiet  beauty  feeds 

The  alders  that  o’ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 

The  village  churchyard  : its  low,  plaintive  tone, 

A dirge-like  melody, 

For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  own. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small  school-house  in  the  sunshine  bright; 

And  o’er  the  pebbles  leaps, 

Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 


May  not  its  course  express, 

In  characters  which  they  who  run  may  read, 
The  charms  of  gentleness, 

Were  but  its  still  small  voice  allowed  to  plead? 

What  are  the  trophies  gained 
By  power,  alone,  with  all  its  noise  and  strife, 

To  that  meek  wreath,  unstained, 

Won  by  the  charities  that  gladden  life  ? 

Niagara’s  streams  might  fail, 

And  human  happiness  be  undisturbed  : 

But  Egypt  would  turn  pale, 

Were  her  still  Nile’s  o’erflowing  bounty  curbed ! 


BRYAN  WALTER  PROCTER. 

Bryan  Walter  Procter,  better  known  by  his 
assumed  name  of  Barry  Cornwall,  published,  in  1815, 
a small  volume  of  dramatic  scenes  of  a domestic 
character,  ‘ in  order,’  he  says,  ‘ to  try  the  effect  of  a 
more  natural  style  than  that  which  had  for  a long 
time  prevailed  in  our  dramatic  literature.’  The 
experiment  was  successful ; chiefly  on  account  of 
the  pathetic  and  tender  scenes  in  Mr  Procter’s 
sketches.  He  has  since  published  Marcian  Colonna , 
The  Flood  of  Thessaly , and  other  poems : also  a 
tragedy,  Mirandola , which  w7as  brought  out  with 
success  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Mr  Procter’s 
later  productions  have  not  realised  the  promise  of 
his  early  efforts.  His  professional  avocations — for 
the  poet  became  a prosperous  conveyancer — may 
have  withdrawn  him  from  poetry,  or  at  least  pre- 
vented his  studying  it  with  that  earnestness  and 
devotion  which  can  alone  insure  success.  Still, 
Mr  Procter  is  a graceful  and  accomplished  writer. 
His  poetical  style  seems  formed  on  that  of  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  and  some  of  his  lyrical 
pieces — which  have  been  collected  and  published  in 
one  volume — are  exquisite  in  sentiment  and  diction. 
Mr  Procter  is  now  a Commissioner  of  Lunacy. 

Address  to  the  Ocean. 

0 thou  vast  Ocean  ! ever-sounding  sea ! 

Thou  symbol  of  a drear  immensity ! 

Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
Like  a huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone, 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone. 

Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a giant’s  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 

Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 

The  earth  hath  nought  of  this  : no  chance  or  change 
Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest-wakened  air ; 

But  o’er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go  : 

Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow  : 

But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 

And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home ; 

And  come  again,  and  vanish ; the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming ; 

And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 

When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a look  forlorn, 

Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood  ; and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 

Oh  ! wonderful  thou  art,  great  element : 

And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humours  bent, 

And  lovely  in  repose ; thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earth’s  dark  and  winding  caves, 

401 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


I love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach, 

Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour, 

And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach — 
Eternity — Eternity — and  Power. 

Marcelia. 

It  was  a dreary  place.  The  shallow  brook 
That  ran  throughout  the  wood,  there  took  a turn 
And  widened  : all  its  music  died  away, 

And  in  the  place  a silent  eddy  told 

That  there  the  stream  grew  deeper.  There  dark  trees 

Funereal — cypress,  yew,  and  shadowy  pine, 

And  spicy  cedar — clustered,  and  at  night 
Shook  from  their  melancholy  branches  sounds 
And  sighs  like  death : ’twas  strange,  for  through  the 
day 

They  stood  quite  motionless,  and  looked,  methought, 
Like  monumental  things,  which  the  sad  earth 
From  its  green  bosom  had  cast  out  in  pity, 

To  mark  a young  girl’s  grave.  The  very  leaves 
Disowned  their  natural  green,  and  took  black 
And  mournful  hue ; and  the  rough  brier,  stretching 
His  straggling  arms  across  the  rivulet, 

Lay  like  an  armed  sentinel  there,  catching 
With  his  tenacious  leaf  straws,  withered  boughs, 

Moss  that  the  banks  had  lost,  coarse  grasses  which 
Swam  with  the  current,  and  with  these  it  hid 
The  poor  Marcelia’s  death-bed.  Never  may  net 
Of  venturous  fisher  be  cast  in  with  hope, 

For  not  a fish  abides  there.  The  slim  deer 
Snorts  as  he  ruffles  with  his  shortened  breath 
The  brook,  and  panting  flies  the  unholy  place, 

And  the  white  heifer  lows,  and  passes  on ; 

The  foaming  hound  laps  not,  and  winter  birds 
Go  higher  up  the  stream.  And  yet  I love 
To  loiter  there : and  when  the  rising  moon 
Flames  down  the  avenue  of  pines,  and  looks 
Red  and  dilated  through  the  evening  mists, 

And  chequered  as  the  heavy  branches  sway 
To  and  fro  with  the  wind,  I stay  to  listen, 

And  fancy  to  myself  that  a sad  voice, 

Praying,  comes  moaning  through  the  leaves,  as  ’twere 
For  some  misdeed.  The  story  goes — that  some 
Neglected  girl — an  orphan  whom  the  world 
Frowned  upon — once  strayed  thither,  and  ’twas  thought 
Cast  herself  in  the  stream  : you  may  have  heard 
Of  one  Marcelia,  poor  Nolina’s  daughter,  who 
Fell  ill  and  came  to  want  ? No  ! Oh,  she  loved 
A wealthy  man,  who  marked  her  not.  He  wed, 

And  then  the  girl  grew  sick,  and  pined  away, 

And  drowned  herself  for  love. 

Night. 

Now  to  thy  silent  presence,  Night ! 

Is  this  my  first  song  offered : oh  ! to  thee 
That  lookest  with  thy  thousand  eyes  of  light — 

To  thee,  and  thy  starry  nobility 
That  float  with  a delicious  murmuring — 

Though  unheard  here — about  thy  forehead  blue ; 

And  as  they  ride  along  in  order  due, 

Circling  the  round  globe  in  their  wandering, 

To  thee  their  ancient  queen  and  mother  sing. 

Mother  of  beauty ! veiled  queen  ! 

Feared  and  sought,  and  never  seen 
Without  a heart-imposing  feeling, 

Whither  art  thou  gently  stealing  ! 

In  thy  smiling  presence,  I 
Kneel  in  star-struck  idolatry, 

And  turn  me  to  thine  eye  (the  moon), 

Fretting  that  it  must  change  so  soon : 

Toying  with  this  idle  rhyme, 

I scorn  that  bearded  villain  Time, 

Thy  old  remorseless  enemy, 

And  build  my  linked  verse  to  thee. 

402 


TO  1830. 


Not  dull  and  cold  and  dark  art  thou : 

Who  that  beholds  thy  clearer  brow, 
Endiademed  with  gentlest  streaks 
Of  fleecy-silvered  cloud,  adorning 
Thee,  fair  as  when  the  young  sun  ’wakes, 

And  from  his  cloudy  bondage  breaks, 

And  lights  upon  the  breast  of  morning, 

But  must  feel  thy  powers ; 

Mightier  than  the  §torm  that  lours, 

Fairer  than  the  virgin  hours 
That  smile  when  the  young  Aurora  scatters 
Her  rose-leaves  on  the  valleys  low, 

And  bids  her  servant  breezes  blow. 

Not  Apollo,  when  he  dies, 

In  the  wild  October  skies, 

Red  and  stormy ; or  when  he 
In  his  meridian  beauty  rides 
Over  the  bosom  of  the  waters, 

And  turns  the  blue  and  burning  tides 
To  silver,  is  a peer  for  thee, 

In  thy  full  regality. 


The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena. 

Upon  a couch  of  silk  and  gold 
A pale  enchanted  lady  lies, 

And  o’er  her  many  a frowning  fold 
Of  crimson  shades  her  closed  eyes ; 

And  shadowy  creatures  round  her  rise ; 
And  ghosts  of  women  masked  in  woe ; 
And  many  a phantom  pleasure  flies ; 
And  lovers  slain — ah,  long  ago  ! 

The  lady,  pale  as  now  she  sleeps, 

An  age  upon  that  couch  hath  lain, 

Yet  in  one  spot  a spirit  keeps 
His  mansion,  like  a red-rose  stain ; 
And,  when  lovers’  ghosts  complain, 
Blushes  like  a new-born  flower, 

Or  as  some  bright  dream  of  pain 
Dawneth  through  the  darkest  hour. 

Once — but  many  a thought  hath  fled, 
Since  the  time  whereof  I speak — 

Once  the  sleeping  lady  bred 
Beauty  in  her  burning  cheek, 

And  the  lovely  morn  did  break 
Through  the  azure  of  her  eyes, 

And  her  heart  was  warm  and  meek, 
And  her  hope  was  in  the  skies. 

But  the  lady  loved  at  last, 

And  the  passion  pained  her  soul, 

And  her  hope  away  was  cast, 

Far  beyond  her  own  control ; 

And  the  clouded  thoughts  that  roll 
Through  the  midnight  of  the  mind, 

O’er  her  eyes  of  azure  stole, 

Till  they  grew  deject  and  blind. 

He  to  whom  her  heart  was  given, 

When  l^ay  music  was  in  tune, 

Dared  forsake  that  amorous  heaven, 
Changed  and  careless  soon  ! 

0,  what  is  all  beneath  the  moon 
When  his  heart  will  answer  not ! 

What  are  all  the  dreams  of  noon 
With  our  love  forgot ! 

Heedless  of  the  world  she  went, 
Sorrow’s  daughter,  meek  and  lone, 

Till  some  spirit  downwards  bent 
And  struck  her  to  this  sleep  of  stone. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Look ! Did  old  Pygmalion 
Sculpture  thus,  or  more  prevail, 

When  he  drew  the  living  tone 
From  the  marble  pale  ? 

An  Invocation  to  Birds. 

Come,  all  ye  feathery  people  of  mid  air, 

Who  sleep  ’midst  rocks,  or  on  the  mountain  summits 
Lie  down  with  the  wild  winds ; and  ye  who  build 
Your  homes  amidst  green  leaves  by  grottoes  cool ; 

And  ye  who  on  the  flat  sands  hoard  your  eggs 
For  suns  to  ripen,  come ! 0 phoenix  rare  ! 

If  death  hath  spared,  or  philosophic  search 
Permit  thee  still  to  own  thy  haunted  nest, 

Perfect  Arabian — lonely  nightingale  ! 

Dusk  creature,  who  art  silent  all  day  long, 

But  when  pale  eve  unseals  thy  clear  throat,  loosest 
Thy  twilight  music  on  the  dreaming  boughs 
Until  they  waken ; — and  thou,  cuckoo  bird, 

Who  art  the  ghost  of  sound,  having  no  shape 
Material,  but  dost  wander  far  and  near, 

Like  untouched  echo  whom  the  woods  deny 
Sight  of  her  love — come  all  to  my  slow  charm  ! 

Come  thou,  sky -climbing  bird,  wakener  of  morn, 

Who  springest  like  a thought  unto  the  sun, 

And  from  his  golden  floods  dost  gather  wealth — 
Epithalamium  and  Pindarique  song — 

And  with  it  enrich  our  ears ; come  all  to  me, 

Beneath  the  chamber  where  my  lady  lies, 

And,  in  your  several  musics,  whisper — Love  ! 

[Death  of  ‘ Amelia  Wentworth .’] 

Amelia— Marian. 

Marian.  Are  you  awake,  dear  lady  ? 

Amel.  Wide  awake. 

There  are  the  stars  abroad,  I see.  I feel 
As  though  I had  been  sleeping  many  a day. 

What  time  o’  the  night  is  it  ? 

Mar.  About  the  stroke  » 

Of  midnight. 

Amel.  Let  it  come.  The  skies  are  calm 
And  bright ; and  so,  at  last,  my  spirit  is. 

Whether  the  heavens  have  influence  on  the  mind 
Through  life,  or  only  in  our  days  of  death, 

I know  not ; yet,  before,  ne’er  did  my  soul 
Look  upwards  with  such  hope  of  joy,  or  pine 
For  that  hope’s  deep  completion.  Marian  ! 

Let  me  see  more  of  heaven.  There — enough. 

Are  you  not  well,  sweet  girl? 

Mar.  Oh  ! yes : but  you 
Speak  now  so  strangely : you  were  wont  to  talk 
Of  plain  familiar  things,  and  cheer  me  : now 
You  set  my  spirit  drooping. 

Amel.  I have  spoke 

Nothing  but  cheerful  words,  thou  idle  girl. 

Look,  look ! above : the  canopy  of  the  sky, 

Spotted  with  stars,  shines  like  a bridal-dress : 

A queen  might  envy  that  so  regal  blue 
Which  wraps  the  world  o’  nights.  Alas,  alas ! 

I do  remember  in  my  follying  days 

What  wild  and  wanton  wishes  once  were  mine, 

Slaves — radiant  gems — and  beauty  with  no  peer, 

And  friends  (a  ready  host) — but  I forget. 

I shall  be  dreaming  soon,  as  once  I dreamt, 

When  I had  hope  to  light  me.  Have  you  no  song, 

My  gentle  girl,  for  a sick  woman’s  ear  ? 

There’s  one  I’ve  heard  you  sing : ‘They  said  his  eye’ — 
No,  that’s  not  it : the  words  are  hard  to  hit. 

‘ His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  bright  ’ 

Mar.  ’Tis  so. 

You ’ve  a good  memory.  Well,  listen  to  me. 

I must  not  trip,  I see. 

Amel.  I hearken.  Now. 


BRYAN  WALTER  PROCTER. 


Song. 

His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  bright, 

Hers  had  a proud  but  a milder  light, 

Clear  and  sweet  like  the  cloudless  moon  : 

Alas  ! and  must  it  fade  as  soon  ? 

His  voice  was  like  the  breath  of  war, 

But  hers  was  fainter — softer  far ; 

And  yet,  when  he  of  his  long  love  sighed, 

She  laughed  in  scorn  : — he  fled  and  died. 

Mar.  There  is  another  verse,  of  a different  air, 

But  indistinct — like  the  low  moaning 
Of  summer  winds  in  the  evening : thus  it  runs — 

They  said  he  died  upon  the  wave, 

And  his  bed  was  the  wild  and  bounding  billow  : 
Her  bed  shall  be  a dry  earth  grave  : 

Prepare  it  quick,  for  she  wants  her  pillow. 

Amel.  How  slowly  and  how  silently  doth  time 
Float  on  his  starry  journey.  Still  he  goes, 

And  goes,  and  goes,  and  doth  not  pass  away. 

He  rises  with  the  golden  morning,  calmly, 

And  with  the  moon  at  night.  Methinks  I see 
Him  stretching  wide  abroad  his  mighty  wings, 
Floating  for  ever  o’er  the  crowds  of  men, 

Like  a huge  vulture  with  its  prey  beneath. 

Lo  ! I am  here,  and  time  seems  passing  on  : 
To-morrow  I shall  be  a breathless  thing — 

Yet  he  will  still  be  here ; and  the  blue  hours 
Will  laugh  as  gaily  on  the  busy  world 
As  though  I were  alive  to  welcome  them. 

There ’s  one  will  shed  some  tears.  Poor  Charles  ! 

[Charles  enters.] 

Ch.  I am  here. 

Did  you  not  call  ? 

Amel.  You  come  in  time.  My  thoughts 
Were  full  of  you,  dear  Charles.  Your  mother — now 
I take  that  title — in  her  dying  hour 
Has  privilege  to  speak  unto  your  youth. 

There ’s  one  thing  pains  me,  and  I would  be  calm. 

My  husband  has  been  harsh  unto  me — yet 
He  is  my  husband ; and  you  ’ll  think  of  this 
If  any  sterner  feeling  move  your  heart  ? 

Seek  no  revenge  for  me.  You  will  not? — Nay, 

Is  it  so  hard  to  grant  my  last  request  ? 

He  is  my  husband  : he  was  father,  too, 

Of  the  blue-eyed  boy  you  were  so  fond  of  cnce. 

Do  you  remember  how  his  eyelids  closed 
When  the  first  summer  rose  was  opening  ? 

’Tis  now  two  years  ago — more,  more  : and  I — 

I now  am  hastening  to  him.  Pretty  boy  ! 

He  was  my  only  child.  How  fair  he  looked 
In  the  white  garment  that  encircled  him — 

’Twas  like  a marble  slumber ; and  when  we 
Laid  him  beneath  the  green  earth  in  his  bed, 

I thought  my  heart  was  breaking — yet  I lived  : 

But  I am  weary  now. 

Mar.  You  must  not  talk, 

Indeed,  dear  lady ; nay 

ChK  Indeed  you  must  not. 

Amel.  Well,  then,  I will  be  silent ; yet  not  so. 

For  ere  we  journey,  ever  should  we  take 
A sweet  leave  of  our  friends,  and  wish  them  well, 
And  tell  them  to  take  heed,  and  bear  in  mind 
Our  blessings.  So,  in  your  breast,  dear  Charles, 
Wear  the  remembrance  of  Amelia. 

She  ever  loved  you — ever ; so  as  might 
Become  a mother’s  tender  love — no  more. 

Charles,  I have  lived  in  this  too  bitter  world 
Now  almost  thirty  seasons  : you  have  been 
A child  to  me  for  one-third  of  that  time. 

403 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OJ 


to  1830. 


I took  you  to  my  bosom,  when  a boy,  ' and  Anne  Boleyn,  but  none  of  these  were  designed 

Who  scarce  had  seen  eight  springs  come  forth  and  for  the  stage.  He  has  also  written  a narrative 

poem,  Samor,  Lord  of  the  Bright  City , and  several 


vanish. 

You  have  a warm  heart,  Charles,  and  the  base  crowd 
Will  feed  upon  it,  if — but  you  must  make 
That  heart  a grave,  and  in  it  bury  deep 
Its  young  and  beautiful  feelings. 

Ch.  I will  do 

All  that  you  wish — all ; but  you  cannot  die 
And  leave  me  ? 

Amel.  You  shall  see  how  calmly  Death 
Will  come  and  press  his  finger,  cold  and  pale, 

On  my  now  smiling  lip : these  eyes  men  swore 
Were  brighter  than  the  stars  that  fill  the  sky, 

And  yet  they  must  grow  dim  : an  hour 

Ch.  Oh ! no. 

No,  no  : oh  ! say  not  so.  I cannot  bear 

To  hear  you  talk  thus.  Will  you  break  my  heart  ? 

Amel.  No : I would  caution  it  against  a change, 
That  soon  must  happen.  Calmly  let  us  talk. 

When  I am  dead 

Ch.  Alas,  alas ! 

Amel.  This  is 

Not  as  I wish  : you  had  a braver  spirit. 

Bid  it  come  forth.  Why,  I have  heard  you  talk 
Of  war  and  danger — Ah ! 

[Wentworth  enters.] 

Mar.  She ’s  pale — speak,  speak. 

Ch.  Oh  ! my  lost  mother.  How ! You  here  ? 
Went.  I am  come 

To  pray  her  pardon.  Let  me  touch  her  hand. 

Amelia  ! she  faints  : Amelia ! [<S7ie  dies. 

Poor  faded  girl ! I was  too  harsh — unjust. 

Ch.  Look ! 

Mar.  She  has  left  us. 

Ch.  It  is  false.  Revive  ! 

Mother,  revive,  revive ! 

Mar.  It  is  in  vain. 

Ch.  Is  it  then  so  ? My  soul  is  sick  and  faint. 

Oh  ! mother,  mother.  I — I cannot  weep. 

Oh  for  some  blinding  tears  to  dim  my  eyes, 

So  I might  not  gaze  on  her.  And  has  death 
Indeed,  indeed  struck  her — so  beautiful  ? 

So  wronged,  and  never  erring ; so  beloved 
By  one — who  now  has  nothing  left  to  love. 

Oh  ! thou  bright  heaven,  if  thou  art  calling  now 
Thy  brighter  angels  to  thy  bosom — rest, 

For  lo  ! the  brightest  of  thy  host  is  gone — 

Departed — and  the  earth  is  dark  below. 

And  now — I ’ll  wander  far  and  far  away, 

Like  one  that  hath  no  country.  I shall  find 
A sullen  pleasure  in  that  life,  and  when 
I say  ‘ I have  no  friend  in  all  the  world,’ 

My  heart  will  swell  with  pride,  and  make  a show 
Unto  itself  of  happiness ; and  in  truth 
There  is,  in  that  same  solitude,  a taste 
Of  pleasure  which  the  social  never  know. 

From  land  to  land  I ’ll  roam,  in  all  a stranger, 

And,  as  the  body  gains  a braver  look, 

By  staring  in  the  face  of  all  the  winds, 

So  from  the  sad  aspects  of  different  things 
My  soul  shall  pluck  a courage,  and  bear  up 
Against  the  past.  And  now — for  Hindostan. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Hart  Milman  is  author  of 
several  poems  and  dramas,  collected  and  published 
in  three  volumes.  He  first  appeared  as  an  author 
in  1817,  when  his  tragedy  of  Fazio  was  published. 
It  was  afterwards  acted  with  success  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre.  In  1820  Mr  Milman  published  a dramatic 
poem,  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  and  to  this  succeeded 
three  other  dramas,  Belshazzar , The  Martyr  of  Antioch, 


smaller  pieces.  To  our  prose  literature,  Mr  Milman 


Henry  Hart  Milman. 

lias  contributed  a History  of  the  Jews,  in  three 
volumes,  an  edition  of  Gibbon’s  Rome,  with  notes 
and  corrections,  and  an  excellent  edition  of  Horace. 
Mr  Milman  is  a native  of  London,  son  of  an  eminent 
physician,  Sir  Francis  Milman,  and  was  born  in  the 
year  1791.  He  distinguished  himself  as  a classical 
scholar,  and  in  1815  was  made  a fellow  of  Brazen- 
nose  College,  Oxford.  He  also  held  (1821)  the  ofiBce 
of  professor  of  poetry  in  the  university.  In  the 
church  Mr  Milman  was  sometime  vicar  of  Reading ; 
then  rector  of  St  Margaret’s,  Westminster;  and  finally 
(1819)  dean  of  St  Paul’s.  The  taste  and  attain- 
ments of  Mr  Milman  are  seen  in  his  poetical  works ; 
but  he  wants  the  dramatic  spirit,  and  also  that 
warmth  of  passion  and  imagination  which  is 
necessary  to  vivify  his  learning  and  his  classical 
conceptions. 

[Jerusalem  before  the  Siege.] 

Titus.  It  must  be — 

And  yet  it  moves  me,  Romans  ! It  confounds 
The  counsel  of  my  firm  philosophy, 

That  Ruin’s  merciless  ploughshare  must  pass  o’er, 
And  barren  salt  be  sown  on  yon  proud  city. 

As  on  our  olive-crowned  hill  we  stand, 

Where  Kedron  at  our  feet  its  scanty  waters 
Distils  from  stone  to  stone  with  gentle  motion, 

As  through  a valley  sacred  to  sweet  peace, 

How  boldly  doth  it  front  us  ! how  majestically ! 

Like  a luxurious  vineyard,  the  hillside 
Is  hung  with  marble  fabrics,  line  o’er  line, 

Terrace  o’er  terrace,  nearer  still,  and  nearer 
To  the  blue  heavens.  There  bright  and  sumptuous 
palaces, 

With  cool  and  verdant  gardens  interspersed ; 

There  towers  of  war  that  frown  in  massy  strength ; 
While  over  all  hangs  the  rich  purple  eve, 

As  conscious  of  its  being  her  last  farewell 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


Of  light  and  glory  to  that  fated  city. 

And,  as  our  clouds  of  battle,  dust  and  smoke, 
Are  melted  into  air,  behold  the  temple 
In  undisturbed  and  lone  serenity, 

Finding  itself  a solemn  sanctuary 
In  the  profound  of  heaven  ! It  stands  before  us 
A mount  of  snow,  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles  ! 
The  very  sun,  as  though  he  worshipped  there, 
Lingers  upon  the  gilded  cedar  roofs, 

And  down  the  long  and  branching  porticoes, 

On  every  flowery-sculptured  capital, 

Glitters  the  homage  of  his  parting  beams. 

By  Hercules  ! the  sight  might  almost  win 
The  offended  majesty  of  Rome  to  mercy. 


[Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews .] 

[From  Belshazzar.  ] 

God  of  the  thunder  ! from  whose  cloudy  seat 
The  fiery  winds  of  desolation  flow  : 

Father  of  vengeance  ! that  with  purple  feet, 

Like  a full  wine-press,  tread’ st  the  world  below : 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 

Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 

Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 

Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  sealed  for  woe. 

God  of  the  rainbow ! at  whose  gracious  sign 
The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress ; 

Father  of  mercies  ! at  one  word  of  thine 
An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness  ! 

And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands, 

And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens’  glancing  hands, 

And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 

And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O’er  Judah’s  land  thy  thunders  broke,  0 Lord  ! 

The  chariots  rattled  o’er  her  sunken  gate, 

Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian  sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state ; 

And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 

Her  princes  wore  the  captive’s  garb  of  shame, 

Her  temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest-cloud  of  fate. 

O’er  Judah’s  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  city  lift  her  crownless  head ; 

And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam, 
Where  broods  o’er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of  the 
dead. 

The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 

On  Carmel’s  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers, 

To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers, 

And  angel-feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger’s  hand, 

And  Abraham’s  children  were  led  forth  for  slaves ; 
With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 

The  stranger’s  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep, 

And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 

’Neath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates’  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy ; 

Thy  mercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home ; 

He  that  went  forth  a tender  yearling  boy, 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem’s  streets  shall  come. 

And  Canaan’s  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall  bear. 

And  Hermon’s  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare ; 

And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 

Where,  o’er  the  cherub-seated  God,  full  blazed  the 
irradiate  dome. 


[Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel  to  the  City  of 
Babylon .] 

The  hour  is  come  ! the  hour  is  come  ! With  voice 
Heard  in  thy  inmost  soul,  I summon  thee, 

Cyrus,  the  Lord’s  anointed  ! And  thou  river, 

That  flowest  exulting  in  thy  proud  approach 
To  Babylon,  beneath  whose  shadowy  walls, 

And  brazen  gates,  and  gilded  palaces, 

And  groves,  that  gleam  with  marble  obelisks, 

Thy  azure  bosom  shall  repose,  with  lights 
Fretted  and  chequered  like  the  starry  heavens : 

I do  arrest  thee  in  thy  stately  course, 

By  Him  that  poured  thee  from  thine  ancient  fountain, 
And  sent  thee  forth,  even  at  the  birth  of  time, 

One  of  his  holy  streams,  to  lave  the  mounts 
Of  Paradise.  Thou  hear’st  me  : thou  dost  check 
Abrupt  thy  waters  as  the  Arab  chief 
His  headlong  squadrons.  Where  the  unobserved, 

Yet  toiling  Persian,  breaks  the  ruining  mound, 

I see  thee  gather  thy  tumultuous  strength ; 

And,  through  the  deep  and  roaring  Naharmalcha, 

Roll  on  as  proudly  conscious  of  fulfilling 
The  omnipotent  command  ! While,  far  away, 

The  lake,  that  slept  but  now  so  calm,  nor  moved, 
Save  by  the  rippling  moonshine,  heaves  on  high 
Its  foaming  surface  like  a whirlpool-gulf, 

And  boils  and  whitens  with  the  unwonted  tide. 

But  silent  as  thy  billows  used  to  flow, 

And  terrible,  the  hosts  of  Elam  move, 

Winding  their  darksome  way  profound,  where  man 
Ne’er  trod,  nor  light  e’er  shone,  nor  air  from  heaven 
Breathed.  Oh  ! ye  secret  and  unfathomed  depths, 
How  are  ye  now  a smooth  and  royal  way 
For  the  army  of  God’s  vengeance  ! Fellow-slaves 
And  ministers  of  the  Eternal  purpose, 

Not  guided  by  the  treacherous,  injured  sons 
Of  Babylon,  but  by  my  mightier  arm, 

Ye  come,  and  spread  your  banners,  and  display 
Your  glittering  arms  as  ye  advance,  all  white 
Beneath  the  admiring  moon.  Come  on  ! the  gates 
Are  open — not  for  banqueters  in  blood 
Like  you ! I see  on  either  side  o’erflow 
The  living  deluge  of  armed  men,  and  cry, 

Begin,  begin  ! with  fire  and  sword  begin 
The  work  of  wrath.  Upon  my  shadowy  wings 
I pause,  and  float  a little  while,  to  see 
Mine  human  instruments  fulfil  my  task 
Of  final  ruin.  Then  I mount,  I fly, 

And  sing  my  proud  song,  as  I ride  the  clouds, 

That  stars  may  hear,  and  all  the  hosts  of  worlds, 

That  live  along  the  interminable  space, 

Take  up  Jehovah’s  everlasting  triumph  ! 


[The  Fair  Recluse .] 

[From  Samor,  Lord  of  the  Bright  City.] 

Sunk  was  the  sun,  and  up  the  eastern  heaven, 

Like  maiden  on  a lonely  pilgrimage, 

Moved  the  meek  star  of  eve ; the  wandering  air 
Breathed  odours ; wood,  and  waveless  lake,  like  man, 
Slept,  weary  of  the  garish,  babbling  day.  * * 

But  she,  the  while,  from  human  tenderness 
Estranged,  and  gentler  feelings  that  light  up 
The  cheek  of  youth  with  rosy  joyous  smile, 

Like  a forgotten  lute,  played  on  alone 
By  chance-caressing  airs,  amid  the  wild 
Beauteously  pale  and  sadly  playful  grew, 

A lonely  child,  by  not  one  human  heart 
Beloved,  and  loving  none  : nor  strange  if  learnt 
Her  native  fond  affections  to  embrace 
Things  senseless  and  inanimate  ; she  loved 
All  flowrets  that  with  rich  embroidery  fair 
Enamel  the  green  earth — the  odorous  thyme,  . 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Wild  rose,  and  roving  eglantine  ; nor  spared 
To  mourn  their  fading  forms  with  childish  tears. 

Gray  birch  and  aspen  light  she  loved,  that  droop 
Fringing  the  crystal  stream ; the  sportive  breeze 
That  wantoned  with  her  brown  and  glossy  locks ; 

The  sunbeam  chequering  the  fresh  bank ; ere  dawn 
Wandering,  and  wandering  still  at  dewy  eve, 

By  Glenderamakin’s  flower- empurpled  marge, 
Derwent’s  blue  lake,  or  Greta’s  wildering  glen. 

Rare  sound  to  her  was  human  voice,  scarce  heard, 
Save  of  her  aged  nurse  or  shepherd  maid 
Soothing  the  child  with  simple  tale  or  song. 

Hence  all  she  knew  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears, 

Life’s  sins  and  sorrows : better  known  the  voice 
Beloved  of  lark  from  misty  morning  cloud 
Blithe  caroling,  and  wild  melodious  notes 
Heard  mingling  in  the  summer  wood,  or  plaint 
By  moonlight,  of  the  lone  night-warbling  bird. 

Nor  they  of  love  unconscious,  all  around 
Fearless,  familiar  they  their  descants  sweet 
Tuned  emulous ; her  knew  all  living  shapes 
That  tenant  wood  or  rock,  dun  roe  or  deer, 

Sunning  his  dappled  side,  at  noontide  crouched, 
Courting  her  fond  caress ; nor  fled  her  gaze 
The  brooding  dove,  but  murmured  sounds  of  joy. 

The  Day  of  Judgment. 

Even  thus  amid  thy  pride  and  luxury, 

Oh  earth  ! shall  that  last  coming  burst  on  thee, 

That  secret  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man, 

When  all  the  cherub-throning  clouds  shall  shine, 
Irradiate  with  his  bright  advancing  sign : 

When  that  Great  Husbandman  shall  wave  his  fan, 
Sweeping,  like  chaff,  thy  wealth  and  pomp  away ; 

Still  to  the  noontide  of  that  nightless  day 
Shalt  thou  thy  wonted  dissolute  course  maintain. 
Along  the  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 

The  buyer  and  the  seller  still  shall  meet, 

And  marriage-feasts  begin  their  jocund  strain  : 

Still  to  the  pouring  out  the  cup  of  woe ; 

Till  earth,  a drunkard,  reeling  to  and  fro, 

And  mountains  molten  by  his  burning  feet, 

And  heaven  his  presence  own,  all  red  with  furnace 
heat. 

The  hundred-gated  cities  then, 

The  towers  and  temples,  named  of  men 
Eternal,  and  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

The  gilded  summer  palaces, 

The  courtly  bowers  of  love  and  ease, 

Where  still  the  bird  of  pleasure  sings : 

Ask  ye  the  destiny  of  them  ? 

Go,  gaze  on  fallen  Jerusalem  ! 

Yea,  mightier  names  are  in  the  fatal  roll, 

’Gainst  earth  and  heaven  God’s  standard  is  unfurled  ; 
The  skies  are  shrivelled  like  a burning  scroll, 

And  one  vast  common  doom  ensepulchres  the  world. 
Oh  ! who  shall  then  survive  ? 

Oh  ! who  shall  stand  and  live  ? 

When  all  that  hath  been  is  no  more ; 

When  for  the  round  earth  hung  in  air, 

With  all  its  constellations  fair 
In  the  sky’s  azure  canopy ; 

When  for  the  breathing  earth,  and  sparkling  sea, 

Is  but  a fiery  deluge  without  shore, 

Heaving  along  the  abyss  profound  and  dark — 

A fiery  deluge,  and  without  an  ark  ? 

Lord  of  all  power,  when  thou  art  there  alone 
On  thy  eternal  fiery- wheeled  throne, 

That  in  its  high  meridian  noon 
Needs  not  the  perished  sun  nor  moon : 

When  thou  art  there  in  thy  presiding  state, 
Wide-sceptred  monarch  o’er  the  realm  of  doom : 

When  from  the  sea-depths,  from  earth’s  darkest  womb, 
406 


The  dead  of  all  the  ages  round  thee  wait : 

And  when  the  tribes  of  wickedness  are  strewn 
Like  forest-leaves  in  the  autumn  of  thine  ire : 
Faithful  and  True ! thou  still  wilt  save  thine  own  ! 
The  saints  shall  dwell  within  the  unharming  fire, 
Each  white  robe  spotless,  blooming  every  palm. 
Even  safe  as  we,  by  this  still  fountain’s  side, 

So  shall  the  church,  thy  bright  and  mystic  bride, 
Sit  on  the  stormy  gulf  a halcyon  bird  of  calm. 

Yes,  ’mid  yon  angry  and  destroying  signs, 

O’er  us  the  rainbow  of  thy  mercy  shines  ; 

We  hail,  we  bless  the  covenant  of  its  beam, 
Almighty  to  avenge,  almightiest  to  redeem ! 


REV.  GEORGE  CROLY. 

The  Rev.  George  Croly,  rector  of  St  Stephen’s, 
Walbrook,  London,  is  a voluminous  writer  in 
various  departments — poetry,  history,  prose  fiction, 
polemics,  politics,  &c.  He  is  a native  of  Dublin, 
born  about  1780,  and  educated  at  Trinity  College. 
His  principal  poetical  works  are,  Paris  in  1815,  a 
description  of  the  works  of  art  in  the  Louvre ; The 
Angel  of  the  World ’,  1820;  Verse  Illustrations  to  Gems 
from  the  Antique;  Pride  shall  have  a Fall , a comedy ; 
Catiline,  a tragedy;  Poetical  Works,  2 vols.,  1830; 
The  Modern  Orlando , a satirical  poem,  1846  and 
1855,  &c.  His  romances  of  Salathiel,  Tales  of  the 
Great  St  Bernard,  and  Marston,  have  many  powerful 
and  eloquent  passages.  A certain  gorgeousness  of 
imagination,  sometimes  running  into  extravagance, 
is  characteristic  of  most  of  the  versatile  doctor’s 
works.  The  most  important  of  his  theological  works 
is  The  Apocalypse  of  St  John,  a new  Interpretation, 
1827.  Dr  Croly’s  historical  writings  consist  of  a 
series  of  Sketches,  a Character  of  Curran,  Political 
Life  of  Burke,  The  Personal  History  of  King  George 
the  Fourth , &c. 

Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land, 

When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame ; 

This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band, 

When  each  was  like  a living  flame  ; 

The  centre  of  earth’s  noblest  ring, 

Of  more  than  men,  the  more  than  king. 

Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 

His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won  : 

Feared — but  alone  as  freemen  fear ; 

Loved — but  as  freemen  love  alone ; 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o’er  his  kind 
By  nature’s  first  great  title — mind  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue, 

Then  Eloquence  first  flashed  below ; 

Full  armed  to  life  the  portent  sprung, 

Minerva  from  the  Thunderer’s  brow ! 

And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand, 

That  shook  her  iEgis  o’er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 

A woman  sits  with  eye  sublime, 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit’s  bride ; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage, 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darkened  age. 

He  perished,  but  his  wreath  was  won  ; 

He  perished  in  his  height  of  fame  : 

Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens’  sun, 

Yet  still  she  conquered  in  hjs  name. 

Filled  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die ; 

Her  conquest  was  Posterity ! 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON. 


[The  French  Army  in  Russia!] 

[From  Paris  in  1815.] 

Magnificence  of  ruin  ! what  has  time 
In  all  it  ever  gazed  upon  of  war, 

Of  the  wild  rage  of  storm,  or  deadly  clime, 

Seen,  with  that  battle’s  vengeance  to  compare? 

How  glorious  shone  the  invaders’  pomp  afar ! 

Like  pampered  lions  from  the  spoil  they  came ; 

The  land  before  them  silence  and  despair, 

The  land  behind  them  massacre  and  flame ; 

Blood  will  have  tenfold  blood.  What  are  they  now  ? 
A name. 

Homeward  by  hundred  thousands,  column-deep, 
Broad  square,  loose  squadron,  rolling  like  the  flood 
When  mighty  torrents  from  their  channels  leap, 
Rushed  through  the  land  the  haughty  multitude, 
Billow  on  endless  billow ; on  through  wood, 

O’er  rugged  hill,  down  sunless,  marshy  vale, 

The  death-devoted  moved,  to  clangour  rude 
Of  drum  and  horn,  and  dissonant  clash  of  mail, 
Glancing  disastrous  light  before  that  sunbeam  pale. 

Again  they  reached  thee,  Borodino  ! still 
Upon  the  loaded  soil  the  carnage  lay, 

The  human  harvest,  now  stark,  stiff,  and  chill, 

Friend,  foe,  stretched  thick  together,  clay  to  clay ; 

In  vain  the  startled  legions  burst  away ; 

The  land  was  all  one  naked  sepulchre ; 

The  shrinking  eye  still  glanced  on  grim  decay, 

Still  did  the  hoof  and  wheel  their  passage  tear, 
Through  cloven  helms  and  arms,  and  corpses  moulder- 
ing drear, 

The  field  was  as  they  left  it ; fosse  and  fort 
Steaming  with  slaughter  still,  but  desolate ; 

The  cannon  flung  dismantled  by  its  port ; 

Each  knew  the  mound,  the  black  ravine  whose  strait 
Was  won  and  lost,  and  thronged  with  dead,  till  fate 
Had  fixed  upon  the  victor — half  undone. 

There  was  the  hill,  from  which  their  eyes  elate 
Had  seen  the  burst  of  Moscow’s  golden  zone ; 

But  death  was  at  their  heels ; they  shuddered  and 
rushed  on. 

The  hour  of  vengeance  strikes.  Hark  to  the  gale  ! 

As  it  bursts  hollow  through  the  rolling  clouds, 

That  from  the  north  in  sullen  grandeur  sail 
Like  floating  Alps.  Advancing  darkness  broods 
Upon  the  wild  horizon,  and  the  woods, 

Now  sinking  into  brambles,  echo  shrill, 

As  the  gust  sweeps  them,  and  those  upper  floods 
Shoot  on  their  leafless  boughs  the  sleet-drops  chill, 
That  on  the  hurrying  crowds  in  freezing  showers  distil. 

They  reach  the  wilderness ! The  majesty 
Of  solitude  is  spread  before  their  gaze, 

Stern  nakedness — dark  earth  and  wrathful  sky. 

If  ruins  were  there,  they  long  had  ceased  to  blaze ; 

If  blood  was  shed,  the  ground  no  more  betrays, 

Even  by  a skeleton,  the  crime  of  man ; 

Behind  them  rolls  the  deep  and  drenching  haze, 
Wrapping  their  rear  in  night ; before  their  van 
The  struggling  daylight  shews  the  unmeasured  desert  wan. 

Still  on  they  sweep,  as  if  their  hurrying  march 
Could  bear  them  from  the  rushing  of  His  wheel 
Whose  chariot  is  the  whirlwind.  Heaven’s  clear  arch 
At  once  is  covered  with  a livid  veil ; 

In  mixed  and  fighting  heaps  the  deep  clouds  reel ; 
Upon  the  dense  horizon  hangs  the  sun, 

In  sanguine  light,  an  orb  of  burning  steel ; 

The  snows  wheel  down  through  twilight,  thick  and  dun ; 
Now  tremble,  men  of  blood,  the  judgment  has  begun! 


The  trumpet  of  the  northern  winds  has  blown, 

And  it  is  answered  by  the  dying  roar 
Of  armies  on  that  boundless  field  o’erthrown : 

Now  in  the  awful  gusts  the  desert  hoar 
Is  tempested,  a sea  without  a shore, 

Lifting  its  feathery  waves.  The  legions  fly ; 

Volley  on  volley  down  the  hailstones  pour ; 

Blind,  famished,  frozen,  mad,  the  wanderers  die, 
And  dying,  hear  the  storm  but  wilder  thunder  by. 

Such  is  the  hand  of  Heaven  ! A human  blow 
Had  crushed  them  in  the  fight,  or  flung  the  chain 
Round  them  where  Moscow’s  stately  towers  were  low 
And  all  bestilled.  But  Thou ! thy  battle-plain 
Was  a whole  empire ; that  devoted  train 
Must  war  from  day  to  day  with  storm  and  gloom — 
Man  following,  like  the  wolves,  to  rend  the  slain — 
Must  lie  from  night  to  night  as  in  a tomb, 

Must  fly,  toil,  bleed  for  home  j yet  never  see  that  home. 


LETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON. 

This  lady  was  generally  known  as  ‘L.  E.  L.,’ 
in  consequence  of  having  first  published  with 
her  initials  only.  Her  earliest  compositions  were 
Poetical  Sketches , which  appeared  in  the  Literary 
Gazette:  afterwards  (1824)  she  published  The 

Improvisatrice,  which  was  followed  by  two  more 
volumes  of  poetry.  She  also  contributed  largely  to 
magazines  and  annuals,  and  was  the  authoress  of  a 
novel  entitled  Romance  and  Reality.  She  was  born 
at  Hans  Place,  Chelsea,  in  1802,  the  daughter  of 
Mr  Landon,  a partner  in  the  house  of  Adair,  army- 
agent.  Lively,  susceptible,  and  romantic,  she 
early  commenced  writing  poetry.  Her  father  died, 
and  she  not  only  maintained  herself,  but  assisted 
her  relations  by  her  literary  labours.  In  1838  she 
was  married  to  Mr  George  Maclean,  governor  of 


Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  shortly  afterwards  sailed 
for  Cape  Coast  v,  5th  her  husband.  She  landed 
there  in  August,  and  was  resuming  her  literary 
engagements  in  her  solitary  African  home,  when 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


one  morning,  after  writing  the  previous  night  some 
cheerful  and  affectionate  letters  to  her  friends  in 
England,  she  was  (October  16)  found  dead  in  her 


Birthplace  of  Miss  Lanilon. 


room,  lying  close  to  the  door,  having  in  her  hand 
a bottle  which  had  contained  prussic  acid,  a portion 
of  which  she  had  taken.  From  the  investigation 
which  took  place  into  the  circumstances  of  this 
melancholy  event,  it  was  conjectured  that  she  had 
undesigningly  taken  an  overdose  of  the  fatal  medi- 
cine, as  a relief  from  spasms  in  the  stomach.  Having 
surmounted  her  early  difficulties,  and  achieved  an 
easy  competence  and  a daily  extending  reputation, 
much  might  have  been  expected  from  the  genius  of 
L.  E.  L.,  had  not  her  life  been  prematurely  termi- 
nated. Her  latter  works  are  more  free,  natural, 
and  forcible  than  those  by  which  she  first  attracted 
notice. 

Change. 

I would  not  care,  at  least  so  much,  sweet  Spring, 

For  the  departing  colour  of  thy  flowers — 

The  green  leaves  early  falling  from  thy  boughs— 

Thy  birds  so  soon  forgetful  of  their  songs — 

Thy  skies,  whose  sunshine  ends  in  heavy  showers  ; 

But  thou  dost  leave  thy  memory,  like  a ghost, 

To  haunt  the  ruined  heart,  which  still  recurs 
To  former  beauty  ; and  the  desolate 
Is  doubly  sorrowful  when  it  recalls 
It  was  not  always  desolate. 

When  those  eyes  have  forgotten  the  smile  they  wear 
now, 

When  care  shall  have  shadowed  that  beautiful  brow ; 

When  thy  hopes  and  thy  roses  together  lie  dead, 

And  thy  heart  turns  back  pining  to  days  that  are  fled — 

Then  wilt  thou  remember  what  now  seems  to  pass 

Like  the  moonlight  on  water,  the  breath-stain  on  glass ; 

Oh  ! maiden,  the  lovely  and  youthful,  to  thee, 

How  rose-touched  the  page  of  thv  future  must  be  ! 

By  the  past,  if  thou  judge  it,  how  little  is  there 

But  blossoms  that  flourish,  but  Popes  that  are  fair ; 

403 


And  what  is  thy  present  ? a southern  sky’s  spring, 
With  thy  feelings  and  fancies  like  birds  on  the  wing. 

As  the  rose  by  the  fountain  flings  down  on  the  wave 
Its  blushes,  forgetting  its  glass  is  its  grave ; 

So  the  heart  sheds  its  colour  on  life’s  early  hour ; 

But  the  heart  has  its  fading  as  well  as  the  flower. 

The  charmed  light  darkens,  the  rose-leaves  are  gone, 
And  life,  like  the  fountain,  floats  colourless  on. 

Said  I,  when  thy  beauty’s  sweet  vision  was  fled, 

How  wouldst  thou  turn,  pining,  to  days  like  the  dead  ! 

Oh  ! long  ere  one  shadow  shall  darken  that  brow, 
Wilt  thou  weep  like  a mourner  o’er  all  thou  lov’st  now ; 
When  thy  hopes,  like  spent  arrows,  fall  short  of  their 
mark ; 

Or,  like  meteors  at  midnight,  make  darkness  more  dark  : 

When  thy  feelings  lie  fettered  like  waters  in  frost, 

Or,  scattered  too  freely,  are  wasted  and  lost : 

For  aye  cometh  sorrow,  when  youth  hath  passed  by — 
Ah  ! what  saith  the  proverb  ? Its  memory’s  a sigh. 


[From  1 The  Improvisatrice .’] 

I loved  him  as  young  Genius  loves, 

When  its  own  wild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light, 
The  love,  the  life,  by  passion  given. 

I loved  him,  too,  as  woman  loves — 
Reckless  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  scorn  : 

Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  I could  not  have  borne  ! 
I had  been  nursed  in  palaces ; 

Yet  earth  had  not  a spot  so  drear, 

That  I should  not  have  thought  a home 
In  Paradise,  had  he  been  near ! 

How  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  dwell, 
Apart  from  all,  in  some  green  dell 
Of  sunny  beauty,  leaves  and  flowers ; 

And  nestling  birds  to  sing  the  hours ! 

Our  home,  beneath  some  chestnut’s  shade, 
But  of  the  woven  branches  made  : 

Our  vesper-hymn,  the  low  wone  wail 
The  rose  hears  from  the  nightingale ; 

And  waked  at  morning  by  the  call 
Of  music  from  a water-fall. 

But  not  alone  in  dreams  like  this, 

Breathed  in  the  very  hope  of  bliss, 

I loved : my  love  had  been  the  same 
In  hushed  despair,  in  open  shame. 

I would  have  rather  been  a slave, 

In  tears,  in  bondage  by  his  side, 

Than  shared  in  all,  if  wanting  him, 

This  world  had  power  to  give  beside  ! 

My  heart  was  withered — and  my  heart 
Had  ever  been  the  world  to  me  : 

And  love  had  been  the  first  fond  dream. 
Whose  life  was  in  reality. 

I had  sprung  from  my  solitude, 

Like  a young  bird  upon  the  wing, 

To  meet  the  arrow ; so  I met 
My  poisoned  shaft  of  suffering. 

And  as  that  bird,  with  drooping  crest 
And  broken  wing,  will  seek  his  nest, 

But  seek  in  vain  : so  vain  I sought 
My  pleasant  home  of  song  and  thought 
There  was  one  spell  upon  my  brain, 

Upon  my  pencil,  on  my  strain ; 

But  one  face  to  my  colours  came ; 

My  chords  replied  to  but  one  name— 
Lorenzo  ! — all  seemed  vowed  to  thee, 

To  passion,  and  to  misery  ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOANNA  BAULIN. 


POETS. 


[Last  Verses  of  L.  E. 


L.] 


of  diction,  but  few  of  them  have  become  favourites 
with  vocalists  or  in  the  drawing-room.  Her  poem, 


[Alluding  to  the  Pole  Star,  which,  in  her  voyage  to  Africa, 
she  had  nightly  watched  till  it  sunk  below  the  horizon.  J 

A star  has  left  the  kindling  sky — 

A lovely  northern  light ; 

How  many  planets  are  on  high, 

But  that  has  left  the  night. 

I miss  its  bright  familiar  face, 

It  was  a friend  to  me  ; 

Associate  with  my  native  place, 

And  those  beyond  the  sea. 

It  rose  upon  our  English  sky, 

Shone  o’er  our  English  land, 

And  brought  back  many  a loving  eye, 

And  many  a gentle  hand. 

It  seemed  to  answer  to  my  thought, 

It  called  the  past  to  mind, 

And  with  its  welcome  presence  brought 
All  I had  left  behind. 

The  voyage  it  lights  no  longer,  ends 
Soon  on  a foreign  shore ; 

How  can  I but  recall  the  friends 
That  I may  see  no  more  ? 

Fresh  from  the  pain  it  was  to  part — 

How  could  I bear  the  pain  ? 

Yet  strong  the  omen  in  my  heart 
That  says — We  meet  again. 

Meet  with  a deeper,  dearer  love ; 

For  absence  shews  the  worth 

Of  all  from  which  we  then  remove, 

Friends,  home,  and  native  earth. 

Thou  lovely  polar  star,  mine  eyes 
Still  turned  the  first  on  thee, 

Till  I have  felt  a sad  surprise, 

That  none  looked  up  with  me. 

But  thou  hast  sunk  upon  the  wave, 

Thy  radiant  place  unknown ; 

I seem  to  stand  beside  a grave, 

And  stand  by  it  alone. 


Miss  Baillie’s  House,  Hampstead. 


entitled  The  Kitten , which  appeared  in  an  early 
volume  of  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register , has  a 


truth  to  nature  which  ranks  it  among  the  best  i 
pieces  of  the  kind  in  our  language. 


Farewell ! ah,  would  to  me  were  given 
A power  upon  thy  light ! 

What  words  upon  our  English  heaven 
Thy  loving  rays  should  write ! 

Kind  messages  of  love  and  hope 
Upon  thy  rays  should  be ; 

Thy  shining  orbit  should  have  scope 
Scarcely  enough  for  me. 

Oh,  fancy  vain,  as  it  is  fond, 

And  little  needed  too ; 

My  friends ! I need  not  look  beyond 
My  heart  to  look  for  you. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

Besides  her  dramatic  writings,  previously  noticed, 
Miss  Baillie  presented  to  the  world  at  different 
times  a sufficient  quantity  of  miscellaneous  poetry, 
including  songs,  to  constitute  a single  volume, 
which  was  published  in  1841.  The  pieces  of  the 
latter  class  are  distinguished  by  a peculiar  softness 


The  Kitten. 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play 
Beguiles  the  rustic’s  closing  day, 

When  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 

Sit  aged  Crone  and  thoughtless  Lout, 

And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool, 
Waiting  till  his  supper  cool ; 

And  maid,  whose  cheek  outblooms  the  rose, 
As  bright  the  blazing  fagot  glows, 

Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light, 

Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight ; 

Come,  shew  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces, 
Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coiled,  and  crouching  low, 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe, 

The  housewife’s  spindle  whirling  round, 

Or  thread,  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye ; 

Then,  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 

Now,  wheeling  round,  with  bootless  skill, 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide ; 

Till,  from  thy  centre  starting  fair, 

Thou  sidelong  rear’st,  with  rump  in  air, 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry, 

Like  madam  in  her  tantrums  high  : 

Though  ne’er  a madam  of  them  all, 

"Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall, 

More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays, 

To  catch  the  admiring  stranger’s  gaze. 

* * * * 

The  featest  tumbler,  stage-bedight, 

To  thee  is  but  a clumsy  wight, 

Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thee  little  pains ; 

For  which,  I trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requites  him  oft  with  plaudits  loud. 

But,  stopped  the  while  thy  wanton  play, 
Applauses,  too,  thy  feats  repay : 

For  then  beneath  some  urchin’s  hand, 

"With  modest  pride  thou  tak’st  thy  stand, 
While  many  a stroke  of  fondness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides. 

Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur, 

And  loudly  sings  thy  busy  pur, 

As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound, 

Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground, 

And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 

Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose ; 

While  softly  from  thy  whiskered  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone  by  cottage-fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire ; 

The  learned  sage,  whose  thoughts  explore 
The  widest  range  of  human  lore, 

Or,  with  unfettered  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  poesy, 

Pausing,  smiles  with  altered  air 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow-chair. 

Or,  struggling  on  the  mat  below, 

Hold  warfare  with  his  slippered  toe. 

The  widowed  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 

Who  in  the  still,  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial,  spends  her  age, 

And  rarely  turns  a lettered  page ; 

Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper-ball. 

Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 
The  ends  of  ravelled  skein  to  catch, 

But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will, 
Perplexing  oft  her  sober  skill. 

Even  he,  whose  mind  of  gloomy  bent, 

In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent, 

Beviews  the  coil  of  former  days, 

And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways ; 
What  time  the  lamp’s  unsteady  gleam 
Doth  rouse  him  from  his  moody  dream, 

Feels,  as  thou  gambol’st  round  his  seat, 

His  heart  with  pride  less  fiercely  beat, 

And  smiles,  a link  in  thee  to  find 
That  joins  him  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou,  then,  thou  witless  Puss, 
The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus  ? 

Is  it,  that  in  thy  glaring  eye, 

And  rapid  movements,  we  descry, 

While  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 

The  chimney-corner  snugly  fill, 

A lion,  darting  on  the  prey, 

A tiger,  at  his  ruthless  play  ? 

Or  is  it,  that  in  thee  we  trace, 

With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace, 

An  emblem  viewed  with  kindred  eye, 

Of  tricksy,  restless  infancy  ? 

Ah  ! many  a lightly  sportive  child, 

Who  hath,  like  thee,  our  wits  beguiled, 


To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown, 

With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 
Even  so,  poor  Kit ! must  thou  endure, 
When  thou  becomest  a cat  demure, 

Full  many  a cuff  and  angry  word, 

Chid  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
And  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I ween, 

So  oft  our  favoured  playmate  been, 

Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove, 
When  time  hath  spoiled  thee  of  our  love ; 
Still  be  thou  deemed,  by  housewife  fat, 

A comely,  careful,  mousing  cat, 

Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 
Beplenished  offc  with  savoury  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  is  past, 

Be  thou  to  pond  or  dunghill  cast ; 

But  gently  borne  on  good  man’s  spade. 
Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid, 

And  children  shew,  with  glistening  eyes, 
The  place  where  poor  old  Pussy  lies. 


[From  ‘ Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie  on  her 
Birthday .’] 

[In  order  thoroughly  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  the  reader  must  be  aware  that  the  author  and 
her  sister,  daughters  of  a former  minister  of  Bothwell  on  the 
Clyde,  in  Lanarkshire,  lived  to  an  advanced  age  constantly 
in  each  other’s  society.  Miss  Agnes  Baillie  still  (1859) 
survives.] 

Dear  Agnes,  gleamed  with  joy  and  dashed  with  tears 

O’er  us  have  glided  almost  sixty  years 

Since  we  on  Bothwell’ s bonny  braes  were  seen, 

By  those  whose  eyes  long  closed  in  death  have  been — 
Two  tiny  imps,  who  scarcely  stooped  to  gather 
The  slender  harebell  on  the  purple  heather ; 

No  taller  than  the  foxglove’s  spiky  stem, 

That  dew  of  morning  studs  with  silvery  gem. 

Then  every  butterfly  that  crossed  our  view 
With  joyful  shout  was  greeted  as  it  flew ; 

And  moth,  and  lady-bird,  and  beetle  bright, 

In  sheeny  gold,  were  each  a wondrous  sight. 

Then  as  we  paddled  barefoot,  side  by  side, 

Among  the  sunny  shallows  of  the  Clyde,* 

Minnows  or  spotted  parr  with  twinkling  fin, 
Swimming  in  mazy  rings  the  pool  within. 

A thrill  of  gladness  through  our  bosoms  sent, 

Seen  in  the  power  of  early  wonderment. 

A long  perspective  to  my  mind  appears, 

Looking  behind  me  to  that  line  of  years ; 

And  yet  through  every  stage  I still  can  trace 
Thy  visioned  form,  from  childhood’s  morning  grace 
To  woman’s  early  bloom — changing,  how  soon  ! 

To  the  expressive  glow  of  woman’s  noon ; 

And  now  to  what  thou  art,  in  comely  age, 

Active  and  ardent.  Let  what  will  engage 
Thy  present  moment — whether  hopeful  seeds 
In  garden-plat  thou  sow,  or  noxious  weeds 
From  the  fair  flower  remove,  or  ancient  lore 
In  chronicle  or  legend  rare  explore, 

Or  on  the  parlour  hearth  with  kitten  play, 

Stroking  its  tabby  sides,  or  take  thy  way 
To  gain  with  hasty  steps  some  cottage  door, 

On  helpful  errand  to  the  neighbouring  poor — 

Active  and  ardent,  to  my  fancy’s  eye 
Thou  still  art  young,  in  spite  of  time  gone  by. 

Though  oft  of  patience  brief,  and  temper  keen, 

Well  may  it  please  me,  in  life’s  latter  scene, 

To  think  what  now  thou  art  and  long  to  me  hast 
been. 

* The  Manse  of  Bothwell  was  at  some  considerable  distance 
from  the  Clyde,  but  the  two  little  girls  were  sometimes  sent 
there  in  summer  to  bathe  and  wade  about. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  KNOX — THOMAS  PRINGLE. 


’Twas  thou  who  woo’dst  me  first  to  look 
Upon  the  page  of  printed  hook, 

That  thing  by  me  abhorred,  and  with  address 
Didst  win  me  from  my  thoughtless  idleness, 

When  all  too  old  become  with  bootless  haste 
In  fitful  sports  the  precious  time  to  waste. 

Thy  love  of  tale  and  story  was  the  stroke 
At  which  my  dormant  fancy  first  awoke, 

And  ghosts  and  witches  in  my  busy  brain 
Arose  in  sombre  show  a motley  train. 

This  new-found  path  attempting,  proud  was  I 
Lurking  approval  on  thy  face  to  spy, 

Or  hear  thee  say,  as  grew  thy  roused  attention, 

‘ What ! is  this  story  all  thine  own  invention  ? ’ 

Then,  as  advancing  through  this  mortal  span, 

Our  intercourse  with  the  mixed  world  began ; 

Thy  fairer  face  and  sprightlier  courtesy — 

A truth  that  from  my  youthful  vanity 
Lay  not  concealed — did  for  the  sisters  twain, 

Where’er  we  went,  the  greater  favour  gain ; 

While,  but  for  thee,  vexed  with  its  tossing  tide, 

I from  the  busy  world  had  shrunk  aside. 

And  now,  in  later  years,  with  better  grace, 

Thou  help’st  me  still  to  hold  a welcome  place 
With  those  whom  nearer  neighbourhood  have  made 
The  friendly  cheerers  of  our  evening  shade. 

The  change  of  good  and  evil  to  abide, 

As  partners  linked,  long  have  we,  side  by  side, 

Our  earthly  journey  held ; and  who  can  say 
How  near  the  end  of  our  united  way  ? 

By  nature’s  course  not  distant ; sad  and  ’reft 
Will  she  remain — the  lonely  pilgrim  left. 

If  thou  art  taken  first,  who  can  to  me 
Like  sister,  friend,  and  home-companion  be  ? 

Or  who,  of  wonted  daily  kindness  shorn, 

Shall  feel  such  loss,  or  mourn  as  I shall  mourn  ? 

And  if  I should  be  fated  first  to  leave 
This  earthly  house,  though  gentle  friends  may  grieve, 
And  he  above  them  all,  so  truly  proved 
A friend  and  brother,  long  and  justly  loved, 

There  is  no  living  wight,  of  woman  born, 

Who  then  shall  mourn  for  me  as  thou  wilt  mourn. 

Thou  ardent,  liberal  spirit ! quickly  feeling 
The  touch  of  sympathy,  and  kindly  dealing 
With  sorrow  or  distress,  for  ever  sharing 
The  unhoarded  mite,  nor  for  to-morrow  caring — 
Accept,  dear  Agnes,  on  thy  natal-day, 

An  unadorned,  but  not  a careless  lay. 

Nor  think  this  tribute  to  thy  virtues  paid 
From  tardy  love  proceeds,  though  long  delayed. 

Words  of  affection,  howsoe’er  expressed, 

The  latest  spoken  still  are  deemed  the  best : 

. Few  are  the  measured  rhymes  I now  may  write ; 
These  are,  perhaps,  the  last  I shall  indite. 

WILLIAM  KNOX— THOMAS  PRINGLE. 

William  Knox,  a young  poet  of  considerable 
talent,  who  died  in  Edinburgh  in  }825,  aged  thirty- 
six,  was  author  of  The  Lonely  Hearth , Songs  of 
Israel , The  Harp  of  Zion , &c.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
thus  mentions  Knox  in  his  diary:  ‘Ilis  father  was 
a respectable  yeoman,  and  he  himself  succeeding  to 
good  farms  under  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  became 
too  soon  his  own  master,  and  plunged  into  dissipa- 
tion and  ruin.  His  talent  then  shewed  itself  in  a 
fine  strain  of  pensive  poetry.’  Knox  thus  concludes 
his  Songs  of  Israel: 

My  song  hath  closed,  the  holy  dream 
That  raised  my  thoughts  o’er  all  below, 

Hath  faded  like  the  lunar  beam, 

And  left  me  ’mid  a night  of  woe — 


To  look  and  long,  and  sigh  in  vain 
For  friends  I ne’er  shall  meet  again. 

And  yet  the  earth  is  green  and  gay ; 

And  yet  the  skies  are  pure  and  bright ; 

But,  ’mid  each  gleam  of  pleasure  gay, 

Some  cloud  of  sorrow  dims  my  sight : 

For  weak  is  now  the  tenderest  tongue 
That  might  my  simple  songs  have  sung. 

And  like  to  Gilead’s  drops  of  balm, 

They  for  a moment  soothed  my  breast ; 

But  earth  hath  not  a power  to  calm 
My  spirit  in  forgetful  rest, 

Until  I lay  me  side  by  side 

With  those  that  loved  me,  and  have  died. 

They  died— and  this  a world  of  woe, 

Of  anxious  doubt  and  chilling  fear ; 

I wander  onward  to  the  tomb, 

With  scarce  a hope  to  linger  here : 

But  with  a prospect  to  rejoin 

The  friends  beloved,  that  once  were  mine. 

Thomas  Pringle  was  born  in  Roxburghshire  in 
1788.  He  was  concerned  in  the  establishment  of 
Blackwood's  Magazine , and  was  author  of  Scenes  of 
Teviotdale , Ephemerides , and  other  poems,  all  of 
which  display  fine  feeling  and  a cultivated  taste. 
Although,  from  lameness,  ill  fitted  for  a life  of 
roughness  or  hardship,  Mr  Pringle,  with  his  father, 
and  several  brothers,  emigrated  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  in  the  year  1820,  and  there  established  a little 
township  or  settlement  named  Glen  Lynden.  The 
poet  afterwards  removed  to  Cape  Town,  the  capital ; 
but,  wearied  with  his  Caffreland  exile,  and  disagree- 
ing with  the  governor,  he  returned  to  England,  and 
subsisted  by  his  pen.  He  was  some  time  editor  of 
the  literary  annual,  entitled  Friendship's  Offering. 
His  services  were  also  engaged  by  the  African 
Society,  as  secretary  to  that  body,  a situation  which 
he  continued  to  hold  until  within  a few  months  of 
his  death.  In  the  discharge  of  its  duties  he  evinced 
a spirit  of  active  humanity,  and  an  ardent  love  of 
the  cause  to  which  he  was  devoted.  His  last  work 
was  a series  of  African  Sketches , containing  an 
interesting  personal  narrative,  interspersed  with 
verse.  Mr  Pringle  died  on  the  5 th  of  December 
1834.  The  following  piece  was  much  admired  by 
Coleridge : 

Afar  in  the  Desert. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o’ercast, 

And,  sick  of  the  present,  I turn  to  the  past ; 

And  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years ; 

And  the  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled, 
Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead — 
Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too  soon — 
Day-dreams  that  departed  ere  manhood’s  noon — 
Attachments  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft — 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 

And  my  Native  Land  ! whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  my  heart  like  electric  flame ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood — the  haunts  of  my  prime ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time, 
When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world  was  new, 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Paradise  opening  to  view ! 
All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  or  gone ; 

And  I,  a lone  exile,  remembered  of  none, 

My  high  aims  abandoned,  and  good  acts  undone — 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun ; 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may  scan, 
I fly  to  the  Desert  afar  from  man. 

411 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bash-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife ; 
The  pi’oud  man’s  frown,  and  the  base  man’s  fear; 
And  the  scomer’s  laugh,  and  the  sufferer’s  tear ; 

And  malice  and  meanness,  and  falsehood  and  folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy ; 

When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman’s  sigh — 

Oh,  then  ! there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 

Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride  ! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle’s  speed, 

With  the  death -fraught  firelock  in  my  hand — 

The  only  law  of  the  Desert  land — 

But  ’tis  not  the  innocent  to  destroy, 

For  I hate  the  huntsman’s  savage  joy. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 

Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild-deer’s  haunt,  and  the  buffalo’s  glen ; 

By  valleys  remote,  where  the  oribi  plays ; 

Where  the  gnoo,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze ; 
And  the  gemsbok  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o’ergrown  with  wild  vine ; 
And  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood  ; 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood ; 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  Vleijy  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  1 love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

O’er  the  brown  Karroo  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok’s  fawn  sounds  plaintively  ; 

Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 

In  fields  seldom  freshened  by  moisture  or  rain ; 

And  the  stately  koodoo  exultingly  bounds, 
Undisturbed  by  the  bay  of  the  hunter’s  hounds ; 

And  the  timorous  quagha’s  wild  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  brak  fountain  far  away ; 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a horseman  who  travels  in  haste ; 

And  the  vulture  in  circles  wheels  high  overhead, 
Greedy  to  scent  and  to  gorge  on  the  dead ; 

And  the  grisly  wolf,  and  the  shrieking  jackal, 

Howl  for  their  prey  at  the  evening  fall ; 

And  the  fiend-like  laugh  of  hyenas  grim, 

Fearfully  startles  the  twilight  dim. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 

Away — away  in  the  wilderness  vast, 

Where  the  white  man’s  foot  hath  never  passed, 

And  the  quivered  Koranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan : 

A region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 

Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear ; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 

And  the  bat  flitting  forth  from  his  old  hollow  stone ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot : 

And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink, 

Is  the  pilgrim’s  fare,  by  the  Salt  Lake’s  brink : 

A region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 

Nor  reedy  pool,  nor  mossy  fountain, 

Nor  shady  tree,  nor  cloud-capped  mountain, 

Are  found — to  refresh  the  aching  eye  : 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 

And  the  black  horizon  round  and  round, 

Without  a living  sight  or  sound, 

Tell  to  the  heart,  in  its  pensive  mood, 

That  this  is — Nature’s  Solitude. 

412 


And  here — while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I sit  apart  by  the  cavemed  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb’s  cave  alone, 

And  feel  as  a moth  in  the  Mighty  Hand 
That  spread  the  heavens  and  heaved  the  land — 
A ‘still  small  voice’  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a father  consoling  his  fretful  child) 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear — 
Saying,  ‘ Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near !’ 


ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 

The  Rev.  Robert  Montgomery  obtained  a 
numerous  circle  of  readers  and  admirers,  although 
his  poetry  was  stilted  and  artificial,  and  was 
severely  criticised  by  Macaulay  and  others.  The 
glitter  of  his  ornate  style,  and  the  religious  nature 
of  his  subjects,  kept  up  his  productions  (with  the 
aid  of  incessant  puffing)  for  several  years,  but  they 
have  now  sunk  into  neglect.  His  principal  works 
are,  The  Omnipresence  of  the  Deity , Satan , Luther , 
Messiah , and  Orford.  He  wrote  also  various  reli- 
gious prose  works,  and  was  highly  popular  with 
many  persons  as  a divine.  He  was  preacher  at 
Percy  Chapel.  Charlotte  Street,  Bedford  Square, 
London,  and  died  in  1855,  aged  forty-seven. 

[Description  of  a Maniac .] 

Down  yon  romantic  dale,  where  hamlets  few 
Arrest  the  summer  pilgrim’s  pensive  view — 

The  village  wonder,  and  the  widow’s  joy — 

Dwells  the  poor  mindless,  pale-faced  maniac  boy : 

He  lives  and  breathes,  and  rolls  his  vacant  eye, 

To  greet  the  glowing  fancies  of  the  sky ; 

But  on  his  cheek  unmeaning  shades  of  woe 
Reveal  the  withered  thoughts  that  sleep  below ! 

A soulless  thing,  a spirit  of  the  woods, 

He  loves  to  commune  with  the  fields  and  floods : 
Sometimes  along  the  woodland’s  winding  glade, 

He  starts,  and  smiles  upon  his  pallid  shade  ; 

Or  scolds  with  idiot  threat  the  roaming  wind, 

But  rebel  music  to  the  ruined  mind ! 

Or  on  the  shell-strewn  beach  delighted  strays, 

Playing  his  fingers  in  the  noontide  rays : 

And  when  the  sea- waves  swell  their  hollow  roar, 

He  counts  the  billows  plunging  to  the  shore ; 

And  oft  beneath  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 

He  chants  some  wild  and  melancholy  tune ; 

Till  o’er  his  softening  features  seems  to  play 
A shadowy  gleam  of  mind’s  reluctant  sway. 

Thus,  like  a living  dream,  apart  from  men, 

From  morn  to  eve  he  haunts  the  wood  and  glen ; 

But  round  him,  near  him,  wheresoe’er  he  rove, 

A guardian-angel  tracks  him  from  above ! 

Nor  harm  from  flood  or  fen  shall  e’er  destroy 
The  mazy  wanderings  of  the  maniac  boy. 

[The  Starry  Heavens .] 

Ye  quenchless  stars ! so  eloquently  bright, 

Untroubled  sentries  of  the  shadowy  night, 

While  half  the  world  is  lapped  in  downy  dreams, 

And  round  the  lattice  creep  your  midnight  beams, 
How  sweet  to  gaze  upon  your  placid  eyes, 

In  lambent  beauty  looking  from  the  skies ! 

And  when,  oblivious  of  the  world,  we  stray 
At  dead  of  night  along  some  noiseless  way, 

How  the  heart  mingles  with  the  moonlit  hour, 

As  if  the  starry  heavens  suffused  a power ! 

Full  in  her  dreamy  light,  the  moon  presides, 

Shrined  in  a halo,  mellowing  as  she  rides ; 

And  far  around,  the  forest  and  the  stream 
Bathe  in  the  beauty  of  her  emerald  beam ; 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ebenezer  elliott. 


The  lulled  winds,  too,  are  sleeping  in  their  caves, 

No  stormy  murmurs  roll  upon  the  waves ; 

Nature  is  hushed,  as  if  her  works  adored, 

Stilled  by  the  presence  of  her  living  Lord  ! 

And  now,  while  through  the  ocean-mantling  haze 
A dizzy  chain  of  yellow  lustre  plays, 

And  moonlight  loveliness  hath  veiled  the  land, 

Go,  stranger,  muse  thou  by  the  wave-worn  strand  : 
Centuries  have  glided  o’er  the  balanced  eax-th, 

Myriads  have  blessed,  and  myriads  cursed  their  birth ; 
Still,  yon  sky-beacons  keep  a dimless  glare, 

Unsullied  as  the  God  who  throned  them  there  ! 
Though  swelling  earthquakes  heave  the  astounded 
world, 

And  king  and  kingdom  from  their  pride  are  hurled, 
Sublimely  calm,  they  run  their  bright  career, 

{ Unheedful  of  the  storms  and  changes  here. 

We  want  no  hymn  to  hear,  or  pomp  to  see, 

For  all  around  is  deep  divinity ! 


WILLIAM  HERBERT. 

The  Hon.  and  Rev.  William  Herbert  published 
in  1806  a series  of  translations  from  the  Norse, 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese.  Those  from  the 
| Norse,  or  Icelandic  tongue,  were  generally  admired, 
i and  the  author  was  induced  to  venture  on  an 
original  poem  founded  on  Scandinavian  history  and 
j manners.  The  work  was  entitled  Helga,  and  was 
j published  in  1815.  We  extract  a few  lines  descrip- 
i tive  of  a northern  spring,  bursting  out  at  once  into 
verdure: 

Yestreen  the  mountain’s  rugged  brow 
Was  mantled  o’er  with  dreary  snow ; 

The  sun  set  red  behind  the  hill, 

And  every  breath  of  wind  was  still ; 

But  ere  he  rose,  the  southern  blast 
A veil  o’er  heaven’s  blue  arch  had  cast ; 

Thick  rolled  the  clouds,  and  genial  rain 
Poured  the  wide  deluge  o’er  the  plain. 

Fair  glens  and  verdant  vales  appear, 

And  warmth  awakes  the  budding  year. 

0 ’tis  the  touch  of  fairy  hand 

That  wakes  the  spring  of  northern  land  ! 

It  warms  not  there  by  slow  degrees, 

With  changeful  pulse,  the  uncertain  breeze ; 

But  sudden  on  the  wondering  sight 
Bursts  forth  the  beam  of  living  light, 

And  instant  verdure  springs  around, 

And  magic  flowers  bedeck  the  ground. 

Returned  from  regions  far  away, 

The  red-winged  throstle  pours  his  lay ; 

The  soaring  snipe  salutes  the  spring, 

While  the  breeze  whistles  through  his  wing ; 

And,  as  he  hails  the  melting  snows, 

The  heathcock  claps  his  wings  and  crows. 

After  a long  interval  of  silence,  Mr  Herbert  came 
forward  in  1838  with  an  epic  poem,  entitled  Attila, 
founded  on  the  establishment  of  Christianity  by 
the  discomfiture  of  the  mighty  attempt  of  the 
Gothic  king  to  establish  a new  antichristian  dynasty 
upon  the  wreck  of  the  temporal  power  of  Rome  at 
the  end  of  the  term  of  1200  years,  to  which  its 
duration  had  been  limited  by  the  forebodings  of  the 
heathens.  He  published  also  an  able  historical 
treatise  on  Attila  and  his  Predecessors  (1838).  Mr 
Herbert  wrote  6ome  tales,  a volume  of  sermons, 
and  various  treatises  on  botany  and  other  branches 
of  natural  history.  His  select  works  were  published 
in  two  volumes  in  1842.  Few  writers  have  been  so 
various  and  so  profound.  He  originally  studied 
law,  and  was  for  some  time  a member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  where  he  was  likely  to  rise  into 


distinction,  had  he  not  withdrawn  from  public  life, 
and  taken  orders  in  the  church.  He  died  Dean  of 
Manchester  in  1847,  aged  sixty-nine. 

Musings  on  Eternity. 

[From  Attila .] 

How  oft,  at  midnight,  have  I fixed  my  gaze 
Upon  the  blue  unclouded  firmament, 

With  thousand  spheres  illumined ; each  perchance 
The  powerful  centre  of  revolving  worlds  ! 

Until,  by  strange  excitement  stirred,  the  mind 
Hath  longed  for  dissolution,  so  it  might  bring 
Knowledge,  for  which  the  spirit  is  athirst, 

Open  the  darkling  stores  of  hidden  time, 

And  shew  the  marvel  of  eternal  things, 

Which,  in  the  bosom  of  immensity, 

Wheel  round  the  God  of  nature.  Vain  desire ! 

* * * * 

Enough 

To  work  in  trembling  my  salvation  here, 

Waiting  thy  summons,  stern  mysterious  Power, 

Who  to  thy  silent  realm  hast  called  away 
All  those  whom  nature  twined  around  my  heart 
In  my  fond  infancy,  and  left  me  here 
Denuded  of  their  love  ! 

Where  are  ye  gone, 

And  shall  we  wake  from  the  long  sleep  of  death, 

To  know  each  other,  conscious  of  the  ties 
That  linked  our  souls  together,  and  draw  down 
The  secret  dew-drop  on  my  cheek,  whene’er 
I turn  unto  the  past  ? or  will  the  change 
That  comes  to  all  renew  the  altered  spirit 
To  other  thoughts,  making  the  strife  or  love 
Of  short  mortality  a shadow  past, 

Equal  illusion  ? Father,  whose  strong  mind 
Was  my  support,  whose  kindness  as  the  spring 
Which  never  tarries  ! Mother,  of  all  forms 
That  smiled  upon  my  budding  thoughts,  most  dear ! 
Brothers  ! and  thou,  mine  only  sister ! gone 
To  the  still  grave,  making  the  memory 
Of  all  my  earliest  time  a thing  wiped  out, 

Save  from  the  glowing  spot,  which  lives  as  fresh 
In  my  heart’s  core  as  when  we  last  in  joy 
Were  gathered  round  the  blithe  paternal  board  ! 

Where  are  ye  ? Must  your  kindred  spirits  sleep 
For  many  a thousand  years,  till  by  the  trump 
Roused  to  new  being  ? Will  old  affections  then 
Burn  inwardly,  or  all  our  loves  gone  by 
Seem  but  a speck  upon  the  roll  of  time, 

Unworthy  our  regard  ? This  is  too  hard 
For  mortals  to  unravel,  nor  has  He 
Vouchsafed  a clue  to  man,  who  bade  us  ti’ust 
To  Him  our  weakness,  and  we  shall  wake  up 
After  His  likeness,  and  be  satisfied. 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  sprung  from  the  manufactur- 
ing classes  of  England,  and  completely  identified 
with  them  in  feelings  and  opinions,  was  born  at 
Masborough,  in  Yorkshire,  March  7, 1781.  His  father 
was  an  iron-founder,  and  he  himself  wrought  at 
this  business  for  many  years.  He  followed  Crabbe 
in  depicting  the  condition  of  the  poor  as  miserable 
and  oppressed,  tracing  most  of  the  evils  he  deplores 
to  the  social  and  political  institutions  of  his  country. 
The  laws  relating  to  the  importation  of  corn  were 
denounced  by  Elliott  as  specially  oppressive,  and 
he  inveighed  against  them  with  a fervour  of  manner 
and  a harshness  of  phraseology,  which  ordinary 
minds  feel  as  repulsive,  even  while  acknowledged  as 
flowing  from  the  offended  benevolence  of  the  poet. 
Ilis  vigorous  and  exciting  political  verses  helped, 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1880. 


in  no  small  degree,  to  swell  the  cry  which  at  length 
compelled  the  legislature  to  abolish  all  restrictions 
on  the  importation  of  corn. 

For  thee,  my  country,  thee,  do  I perform, 

Sternly,  the  duty  of  a man  horn  free, 

Heedless,  though  ass,  and  wolf,  and  venomous  worm, 
Shake  ears  and  fangs,  with  brandished  bray,  at  me. 

Fortunately,  the  genius  of  Elliott  redeemed  his 
errors  of  taste : his  delineation  of  humble  virtue  and 
affection,  and  his  descriptions  of  English  scenery, 
are  excellent.  He  wrote  from  genuine  feelings  and 
impulses,  and  often  rose  into  pure  sentiment  and 


Ebenezer  Elliott. 


eloquence.  The  Corn-law  Rhymer,  as  he  was 
popularly  termed,  appeared  as  a poet  in  1823,  but 
it  was  at  a later  period — from  1830  to  1836 — that 
he  produced  his  Corn-law  Rhymes  and  other  works, 
which  stamped  him  as  a true  genius,  and  rendered 
his  name  famous.  He  was  honoured  with  critical 
notices  from  Southey,  Bulwer,  and  Wilson,  and 
became,  as  has  justly  been  remarked,  as  truly  and 
popularly  the  poet  of  Yorkshire — its  heights, 
dales,  and  ‘broad  towns’ — as  Scott  was  the  poet 
of  Tweedside,  or  Wordsworth  of  the  Lakes.  His 
career  was  manly  and  honourable,  and  latterly  he 
enjoyed  comparatively  easy  circumstances,  free  from 
manual  toil.  He  died  at  his  house  near  Barnsley 
on  the  1st  of  December  1849.  Shortly  after  his 
death,  two  volumes  of  prose  and  verse  were  pub- 
lished from  his  papers. 

To  the  Bramble  Flower. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  school-boy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 

So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose  ; 

I love  it  for  his  sake. 

Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 
O’er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 

Thou  needst  not  be  ashamed  to  shew 
Thy  satin-threaded  flowers ; 

For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull, 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 

Amid  all  beauty  beautiful, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are ! 

414 


How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem  ! 

How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still, 
And  thou  sing’st  hymns  to  them ; 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 

And  ’mid  the  general  hush, 

A sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush ! 

The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead ; 

The  violet  by  the  mossed  gray  stone 
Hath  laid  her  weary  head ; 

But  thou,  wild  bramble ! back  dost  bring, 
In  all  their  beauteous  power, 

The  fresh  green  days  of  life’s  fair  spring, 
And  boyhood’s  blossomy  hour. 

Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake ! once  more 
Thou  bidd’st  me  be  a boy, 

To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o’er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 


The  Excursion. 

Bone-weary,  many-childed,  trouble-tried ! 

Wife  of  my  bosom,  wedded  to  my  soul ! 

Mother  of  nine  that  live,  and  two  that  died  ! 

This  day,  drink  health  from  nature’s  mountain-bowl ; 
Nay,  why  lament  the  doom  which  mocks  control  ? 

The  buried  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  see  the  river  roll 

O’er  rocks,  that  crowned  yon  time-dark  heights  of  yore, 

Now,  tyrant  like,  dethroned,  to  crush  the  weak  no  more. 

The  young  are  with  us  yet,  and  we  with  them  : 

0 thank  the  Lord  for  all  he  gives  or  takes — 

The  withered  bud,  the  living  flower,  or  gem  ! 

And  he  will  bless  us  when  the  world  forsakes  ! 

Lo  ! where  thy  fisher-bom,  abstracted,  takes, 

With  his  fixed  eyes,  the  trout  he  cannot  see ! 

Lo  ! starting  from  his  earnest  dream,  he  wakes  ! 
While  our  glad  Fanny,  with  raised  foot  and  knee, 
Bears  down  at  Noe’s  side  the  bloom-bowed  hawthorn 
tree. 

Dear  children  ! when  the  flowers  are  full  of  bees  ; 
When  sun-touched  blossoms  shed  their  fragrant  snow  j 
When  song  speaks  like  a spirit,  from  the  trees 
Whose  kindled  greenness  hath  a golden  glow ; 

When,  clear  as  music,  rill  and  river  flow, 

With  trembling  hues,  all  changeful,  tinted  o’er 
By  that  bright  pencil  which  good  spirits  know 
Alike  in  earth  and  heaven — ’tis  sweet,  once  more, 
Above  the  sky-tinged  hills  to  see  the  storm-bird  soar. 

’Tis  passing  sweet  to  wander,  free  as  air, 

Blithe  truants  in  the  bright  and  breeze-blessed  day, 
Far  from  the  town — where  stoop  the  sons  of  care 
O’er  plans  of  mischief,  till  their  souls  turn  gray, 

And  dry  as  dust,  and  dead-alive  are  they — 

Of  all  self -buried  things  the  most  unblessed  : 

0 Morn  ! to  them  no  blissful  tribute  pay  ! 

0 Night’s  long-courted  slumbers  ! bring  no  rest 
To  men  who  laud  man’s  foes,  and  deem  the  basest  best ! 

God ! would  they  handcuff  thee  ? and,  if  they  could 
Chain  the  free  air,  that,  like  the  daisy,  goes 
To  every  field ; and  bid  the  warbling  wood 
Exchange  no  music  with  the  willing  rose 
For  love-sweet  odours,  where  the  woodbine  blows 
And  trades  with  every  cloud,  and  every  beam 
Of  the  rich  sky  t Their  gods  are  bonds  and  blows, 
Rocks,  and  blind  shipwreck ; and  they  hate  the  stream 
That  leaves  them  still  behind,  and  mocks  their 
changeless  dream. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 


POETS. 


They  know  ye  not,  ye  flowers  that  welcome  me, 

Thus  glad  to  meet,  by  trouble  parted  long ! 

They  never  saw  ye — never  may  they  see 
Your  dewy  beauty,  when  the  throstle’s  song 
Floweth  like  starlight,  gentle,  calm,  and  strong ! 

Still,  Avarice,  starve  their  souls  ! still,  lowest  Pride, 
Make  them  the  meanest  of  the  basest  throng ! 

And  may  they  never,  on  the  green  hill’s  side, 
Embrace  a chosen  flower,  and  love  it  as  a bride ! 

Blue  Eyebright  !*  loveliest  flower  of  all  that  grow 
In  flower-loved  England ! Flower,  whose  hedge-side 
gaze 

Is  like  an  infant’s ! What  heart  doth  not  know 
Thee,  clustered  smiler  of  the  bank ! where  plays 
The  sunbeam  with  the  emerald  snake,  and  strays 
The  dazzling  rill,  companion  of  the  road 
Which  the  lone  bard  most  loveth,  in  the  days 
When  hope  and  love  are  young  ? 0 come  abroad, 

Blue  Eyebright ! and  this  rill  shall  woo  thee  with  an 
ode. 

Awake,  blue  Eyebright,  while  the  singing  wave 
Its  cold,  bright,  beauteous,  soothing  tribute  drops 
From  many  a gray  rock’s  foot  and  dripping  cave ; 
While  yonder,  lo,  the  starting  stone- chat  hops ! 

While  here  the  cottar’s  cow  its  sweet  food  crops ; 
While  black-faced  ewes  and  lambs  are  bleating  there ; 
And,  bursting  through  the  briers,  the  wild  ass  stops — 
Kicks  at  the  strangers — then  turns  round  to  stare — 
Then  lowers  his  large  red  ears,  and  shakes  his  long 
dark  hair. 

[. Pictures  of  Native  Genius .] 

0 faithful  love,  by  poverty  embraced  ! 

Thy  heart  is  fire,  amid  a wintry  waste ; 

Thy  joys  are  roses,  born  on  Hecla’s  brow ; 

Thy  home  is  Eden,  warm  amid  the  snow ; 

And  she,  thy  mate,  when  coldest  blows  the  storm, 
Clings  then  most  fondly  to  thy  guardian  form ; 

E’en  as  thy  taper  gives  intensest  light, 

When  o’er  thy  bowed  roof  darkest  falls  the  night. 

Oh,  if  thou  e’er  hast  wronged  her,  if  thou  e’er 
From  those  mild  eyes  hast  caused  one  bitter  tear 
To  flow  unseen,  repent,  and  sin  no  more  ! 

For  richest  gems  compared  with  her,  are  poor; 

Gold,  weighed  against  her  heart,  is  light — is  vile ; 
And  when  thou  sufferest,  who  shall  see  her  smile  ? 
Sighing,  ye  wake,  and  sighing,  sink  to  sleep, 

And  seldom  smile,  without  fresh  cause  to  weep ; 
(Scarce  dry  the  pebble,  by  the  wave  dashed  o’er, 
Another  comes,  to  wet  it  as  before) ; 

Yet  while  in  gloom  your  freezing  day  declines, 

How  fair  the  wintry  sunbeam  when  it  shines  ! 

Your  foliage,  where  no  summer  leaf  is  seen, 

Sweetly  embroiders  earth’s  white  veil  with  green ; 
And  your  broad  branches,  proud  of  storm-tried 
strength, 

Stretch  to  the  winds  in  sport  their  stalwart  length, 
And  calmly  wave,  beneath  the  darkest  hour, 

The  ice-born  fruit,  the  frost-defying  flower. 

Let  luxury,  sickening  in  profusion’s  chair, 

Unwisely  pamper  his  unworthy  heir, 

And,  while  he  feeds  him,  blush  and  tremble  too  ! 

But  love  and  labour,  blush  not,  fear  not  you  ! 

Your  children — splinters  from  the  mountain’s  side — 
With  rugged  hands,  shall  for  themselves  provide. 
Parent  of  valour,  cast  away  thy  fear ! 

Mother  of  men,  be  proud  without  a tear ! 

While  round  your  hearth  the  woe-nursed  virtues  move, 
And  all  that  manliness  can  ask  of  love ; 

Remember  Hogarth,  and  abjure  despair; 

Remember  Arkwright,  and  the  peasant  Clare. 

* The  Geornander  Speedwell. 


Burns,  o’er  the  plough,  sung  sweet  his  wood-notes  wild, 
And  richest  Shakspeare  was  a poor  man’s  child. 

Sire,  green  in  age,  mild,  patient,  toil-inured,. 

Endure  thine  evils  as  thou  hast  endured. 

Behold  thy  wedded  daughter,  and  rejoice ! 

Hear  hope’s  sweet  accents  in  a grandchild’s  voice ! 

See  freedom’s  bulwarks  in  thy  sons  arise, 

And  Hampden,  Russell,  Sidney,  in  their  eyes ! 

And  should  some  new  Napoleon’s  curse  subdue 
All  hearths  but  thine,  let  him  behold  them  too, 

And  timely  shun  a deadlier  Waterloo. 

Northumbrian  vales ! ye  saw,  in  silent  pride, 

The  pensive  brow  of  lowly  Akenside, 

When,  poor,  yet  learned,  he  wandered  young  and  free, 
And  felt  within  the  strong  divinity. 

Scenes  of  his  youth,  where  first  he  wooed  the  Nine, 
His  spirit  still  is  with  you,  vales  of  Tyne ! 

As  when  he  breathed,  your  blue-belled  paths  along, 
The  soul  of  Plato  into  British  song. 

Born  in  a lowly  hut  an  infant  slept, 

Dreamful  in  sleep,  and,  sleeping,  smiled  or  wept : 
Silent  the  youth — the  man  was  grave  and  shy : 

His  parents  loved  to  watch  his  wondering  eye  : 

And  lo  ! he  waved  a prophet’s  hand,  and  gave, 

Where  the  winds  soar,  a pathway  to  the  wave  ! 

From  hill  to  hill  bade  air-hung  rivers  stride, 

And  flow  through  mountains  with  a conqueror’s  pride  : 
O’er  grazing  herds,  lo ! ships  suspended  sail, 

And  Brindley’s  praise  hath  wings  in  every  gale ! 

The  worm  came  up  to  drink  the  welcome  shower ; 
The  redbreast  quaffed  the  raindrop  in  the  bower ; 

The  flaskering  duck  through  freshened  lilies  swam  ; 
The  bright  roach  took  the  fly  below  the  dam ; 

Ramped  the  glad  colt,  and  cropped  the  pensile  spray ; 
No  more  in  dust  uprose  the  sultry  way ; 

The  lark  was  in  the  cloud ; the  woodbine  hung 
More  sweetly  o’er  the  chaffinch  while  he  sung ; 

And  the  wild  rose,  from  every  dripping  bush, 

Beheld  on  silvery  Sheaf  the  mirrored  blush ; 

When  calmly  seated  on  his  panniered  ass, 

Where  travellers  hear  the  steel  hiss  as  they  pass, 

A milk-boy,  sheltering  from  the  transient  storm, 
Chalked,  on  the  grinder’s  wall,  an  infant’s  form ; 
Young  Chantrey  smiled;  no  critic  praised  or  blamed; 
And  golden  promise  smiled,  and  thus  exclaimed  : 

‘ Go,  child  of  genius  ! rich  be  thine  increase ; 

Go — be  the  Phidias  of  the  second  Greece ! ’ 

[Apostrophe  to  Futurity.'] 

Ye  rocks  ! ye  elements  ! thou  shoreless  main, 

In  whose  blue  depths,  worlds,  ever  voyaging, 

Freighted  with  life  and  death,  of  fate  complain. 
Things  of  immutability ! ye  bring 
Thoughts  that  with  terror  and  with  sorrow  wring 
The  human  breast.  Unchanged,  of  sad  decay 
And  deathless  change  ye  speak,  like  prophets  old, 
Foretelling  evil’s  ever-present  day ; 

And  as  when  Horror  lays  his  finger  cold 
Upon  the  heart  in  dreams,  appal  the  bold. 

0 thou  Futurity  1 our  hope  and  dread, 

Let  me  unveil  thy  features,  fair  or  foul ! 

Thou  who  shalt  see  the  grave  untenanted, 

And  commune  with  the  re-embodied  soul ! 

Tell  me  thy  secrets,  ere  thy  ages  roll 

Their  deeds,  that  yet  shall  be  on  earth,  in  heaven, 

And  in  deep  hell,  where  rabid  hearts  with  pain 
Must  purge  their  plagues,  and  learn  to  be  forgiven  ! 
Shew  me  the  beauty  that  shall  fear  no  stain, 

And  still,  through  age-long  years,  unchanged  remain ! 
As  one  who  dreads  to  raise  the  pallid  sheet 
Which  shrouds  the  beautiful  and  tranquil  face 
That  yet  can  smile,  but  never  more  shall  meot, 

With  kisses  warm,  his  ever-fond  embrace ; ( 

So  I draw  nigh  to  thee,  with  timid  pace, 

And  tremble,  though  I long  to  lift  thy  veil. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


A Poet's  Prayer. 

Almighty  Father  ! let  thy  lowly  child, 

Strong  in  his  love  of  truth,  be  wisely  hold — 

A patriot  bard  by  sycophants  reviled, 

Let  him  live  usefully,  and  not  die  old  ! 

Let  poor  men’s  children,  pleased  to  read  his  lays, 
Love,  for  his  sake,  the  scenes  where  he  hath  been. 
And  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of  days, 

Let  him  be  buried  where  the  grass  is  green, 

Where  daisies,  blooming  earliest,  linger  late 
To  hear  the  bee  his  busy  note  prolong ; 

There  let  him  slumber,  and  in  peace  await 
The  dawning  morn,  far  from  the  sensual  throng, 

Who  scorn  the  wind-flower’s  blush,  the  redbreast’s 
lonely  song. 


THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

Mr  Bayly  was,  next  to  Moore,  the  most  success- 
ful song-writer  of  our  age,  and  he  composed  a 
surprising  number  of  light  dramas,  some  of  which 
shew  a likelihood  of  maintaining  their  ground  on 
the  stage.  He  was  born  in  1797,  the  son  of  an 
eminent  and  wealthy  solicitor,  near  Bath.  Destined 
for  the  church,  he  studied  for  some  time  at  Oxford, 
but  could  not  settle  to  so  sober  a profession,  and 
ultimately  came  to  depend  chiefly  on  literature  for 
support.  His  latter  years  were  marked  by  misfor- 
tunes, under  the  pressure  of  which  he  addressed 
some  beautiful  verses  to  his  wife : 

Oh  ! hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 

More  dark  that  fate  would  prove, 

My  heart  were  truly  desolate 
Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffered  for  my  sake, 

Whilst  this  relief  I found, 

Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 
The  poison  from  a wound. 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret, 

To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 
If  we  had  never  met ! 

And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ? 

Ah,  no ! that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 
Than  laboured  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 
Of  sorrow  summons  forth ; 

Though  known  in  days  of  past  delight, 

We  knew  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some  who  have  professed 
So  much  in  friendship’s  name, 

Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 
They  may  evade  her  claim. 

But  ah ! from  them  to  thee  I turn, 

They’d  make  me  loathe  mankind, 

Far  better  lessons  I may  learn 
From  thy  more  holy  mind. 

The  love  that  gives  a charm  to  home, 

I feel  they  cannot  take : 

We’ll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come, 

For  one  another’s  sake. 

This  amiable  poet  died  of  jaundice  in  1S39.  His 
! songs  contain  the  pathos  of  a section  of  our  social 
| 416 


system;  but  they  are  more  calculated  to  attract 
attention  by  their  refined  and  happy  diction,  than 
to  melt  us  by  their  feeling.  Several  of  them,  as 
The  Soldier's  Tear , She  wore  a Wreath  of  Boses ; Oh, 
no,  we  never  mention  Her ; and  We  met — ’ twas  in  a 
Crowd , attained  to  an  extraordinary  popularity.  Of 
his  livelier  ditties,  I'd  he  a Butterfly  was  the  most 
felicitous:  it  expresses  the  Horatian  philosophy  in 
terms  exceeding  even  Horace  in  gaiety. 

What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 
Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day : 
Surely  ’tis  better,  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 

Some  in  life’s  winter  may  toil  to  discover 
Means  of  procuring  a weary  delay — 

I’d  be  a butterfly,  living  a rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away ! 


THE  REV.  JOHN  KEBLE. 

In  1827  appeared  a volume  of  sacred  poetry, 
entitled  The  Christian  Year : Thoughts  in  Verse  for 
the  Sundays  and  Holidays  Throughout  the  Year.  The 
work  had  extraordinary  success : the  fifty-first 
edition  (1857)  is  now'  before  us.  The  object  of  the 
author  was  to  bring  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  his 
readers  into  more  entire  unison  with  those  recom- 
mended and  exemplified  in  the  English  Prayer-Book, 
and  some  of  his  little  poems  have  great  tenderness, 
beauty,  and  pure  devotional  feeling.  Thus,  on  the 
text : ‘ So  the  Lord  scattered  them  abroad  from 
thence  upon  the  face  of  all  the  earth : and  they  left 
off*  to  build  the  city’  ( Genesis , xi.  8),  we  have  this 
descriptive  passage : 

Since  all  that  is  not  Heaven  must  fade, 

Light  be  the  hand  of  Ruin  laid 
Upon  the  home  I love : 

With  lulling  spell  let  soft  Decay 
Steal  on,  and  spare  the  giant  sway, 

The  crash  of  tower  and  grove. 

Far  opening  down  some  woodland  deep 
In  their  own  quiet  glades  should  sleep 
The  relics  dear  to  thought, 

And  wild-flower  wreaths  from  side  to  side 
Their  waving  tracery  hang,  to  hide 
What  ruthless  Time  has  wrought. 

Another  text  ( Proverbs , xiv.  10)  suggests  a train  of 
touching  sentiment : 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone, 

Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die, 

Nor  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next  our  own, 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  and  sigh  ? 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range  apart, 

Our  eyes  see  all  around  in  gloom  or  glow — 

Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed  from  the  heart. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  poems  entire : 

Twenty-first  Sunday  after  Trinity. 

The  vision  is  yet  for  an  appointed  time,  but  at  the  end  it 
shall  speak,  and  not  lie  : though  it  tarry,  wait  for  it;  because 
it  will  surely  come,  it  will  not  tarry.— Habakkuk,  ii.  3. 

The  morning  mist  is  cleared  away, 

Yet  still  the  face  of  Heaven  is  gray, 

Nor  yet  th’  autumnal  breeze  has  stirred  the  grove, 
Faded  yet  full,  a paler  green 
Skirts  soberly  the  tranquil  scene, 

The  redbreast  warbles  round  this  leafy  cove. 


POETS. 


Sweet  messenger  of  ‘ calm  decay/ 

Saluting  sorrow  as  you  may, 

As  one  still  bent  to  find  or  make  the  best, 

In  thee,  and  in  this  quiet  mead, 

The  lesson  of  sweet  peace  I read, 

Rather  in  all  to  be  resigned  than  blest. 

’Tis  a low  chant,  according  well 
With  the  soft  solitary  knell, 

As  homeward  from  some  grave  beloved  we  turn, 

Or  by  some  holy  death-bed  dear, 

Most  welcome  to  the  chastened  ear 
Of  her  whom  Heaven  is  teaching  how  to  mourn. 

0 cheerful  tender  strain  ! the  heart 
That  duly  bears  with  you  its  part, 

Singing  so  thankful  to  the  dreary  blast, 

Though  gone  and  spent  its  joyous  prime, 

And  on  the  world’s  autumnal  time, 

’Mid  withered  hues  and  sere,  its  lot  be  cast : 

That  is  the  heart  for  thoughtful  seer, 

Watching,  in  trance  nor  dark  nor  clear,* 

Th’  appalling  Future  as  it  nearer  draws  : 

His  spirit  calmed  the  storm  to  meet, 

Feeling  the  rock  beneath  his  feet, 

And  tracing  through  the  cloud  th’  eternal  Cause. 

That  is  the  heart  for  watchmen  true 
Waiting  to  see  what  God  will  do, 

As  o’er  the  Church  the  gathering  twilight  falls  : 

No  more  he  strains  his  wistful  eye, 

If  chance  the  golden  hours  be  nigh, 

By  youthful  Hope  seen  beaming  round  her  walls. 

Forced  from  his  shadowy  paradise, 

His  thoughts  to  Heaven  the  steadier  rise : 

There  seek  his  answer  when  the  world  reproves  : 
Contented  in  his  darkling  round, 

If  only  he  15e  faithful  found, 

When  from  the  east  th’  eternal  morning  moves. 

The  author  of  The  Christian  Year  is  the  Rev. 
John  Keble,  vicar  of  Hursley,  near  Winchester. 
He  studied  and  took  his  degree  of  M.A.  at  Oriel 
College,  and  was  some  time  Professor  of  Poetry  in 
the  University  of  Oxford.  He  is  author  also  of 
Lyra  Innocentium:  Thoughts  in  Verse  on  the  Ways  of 
Providence  towards  Little  Children;  The  Child’s  Chris- 
tian Year;  &c.,  published  in  1846.  He  edited  an 
edition  of  Hooker’s  works,  Oxford,  1836. 


NOEL  THOMAS  CARRINGTON. 

A Devonshire  poet,  Mr  Carrington  (1777-1830), 
has  celebrated  some  of  the  scenery  and  traditions  of 
his  native  district  in  pleasing  verse.  His  works 
have  been  collected  into  two  volumes,  and  consist 
of  The  Banks  of  Tamar , 1820;  Dartmoor  (his  best 
poem),  1826 ; My  Native  Village ; and  miscellaneous 
pieces. 

The  Pixies  of  Devon. 

[The  age  of  pixies,  like  that  of  chivalry,  is  gone.  There  is, 
perhaps,  at  present,  scarcely  a house  which  they  are  reputed 
to  visit.  Even  the  fields  and  lanes  which  they  formerly  fre- 
quented seem  to  be  nearly  forsaken.  Their  music  is  rarely 
heard;  and  they  appear  to  have  forgotten  to  attend  their 
ancient  midnight  danc q.— Drew's  Cornwall .] 

They  are  flown, 

Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers,  wove 

In  Superstition’s  web  when  Time  was  young, 

* It  shall  come  to  pass  in  that  day,  that  the  light  shall  not 
be  clear,  nor  dark.—  Zechariah,  xiv.  6. 

79 


CARRINGTON— HALLECK. 


And  fondly  loved  and  cherished  : they  are  flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science  ! Hills  and  vales, 
Mountains  and  moors  of  Devon,  ye  have  lost 
The  enchantments,  the  delights,  the  visions  all, 

The  elfin  visions  that  so  blessed  the  sight 
In  the  old  days  romantic.  Nought  is  heard, 

Now,  in  the  leafy  world,  but  earthly  strains — 

Voices,  yet  sweet,  of  breeze,  and  bird,  and  brook, 

And  water-fall ; the  day  is  silent  else, 

And  night  is  strangely  mute  ! the  hymnings  high — 

The  immortal  music,  men  of  ancient  times 
Heard  ravished  oft,  are  flown  ! 0 ye  have  lost, 

Mountains,  and  moors,  and  meads,  the  radiant  throngs 
That  dwelt  in  your  green  solitudes,  and  filled 
The  air,  the  fields,  with  beauty  and  with  joy 
Intense  ; with  a rich  mystery  that  awed 
The  mind,  and  flung  around  a thousand  hearths 
Divinest  tales,  that  through  the  enchanted  year 
Found  passionate  listeners  ! 

The  very  streams 

Brightened  with  visitings  of  these  so  sweet 
Ethereal  creatures ! They  were  seen  to  rise 
From  the  charmed  waters,  which  still  brighter  grew 
As  the  pomp  passed  to  land,  until  the  eye 
Scarce  bore  the  unearthly  glory.  Where  they  trod, 
Young  flowers,  but  not  of  this  world’s  growth,  arose, 
And  fragrance,  as  of  amaranthine  bowers, 

Floated  upon  the  breeze.  And  mortal  eyes 
Looked  on  their  revels  all  the  luscious  night ; 

And,  unreproved,  upon  their  ravishing  forms 
Gazed  wistfully,  as  in  the  dance  they  moved, 
Voluptuous  to  the  thrilling  touch  of  harp 
Elysian ! 

And  by  gifted  eyes  were  seen 
Wonders — in  the  still  air  ; and  beings  bright 
And  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  throng 
Fancy’s  ecstatic  regions,  peopled  now 
The  sunbeam,  and  now  rode  upon  the  gale 
Of  the  sweet  summer  noon.  Anon  they  touched 
The  earth’s  delighted  bosom,  and  the  glades 
Seemed  greener,  fairer — and  the  enraptured  woods 
Gave  a glad  leafy  murmur — and  the  rills 
Leaped  in  the  ray  for  joy  ; and  all  the  birds 
Threw  into  the  intoxicating  air  their  songs, 

All  soul.  The  very  archings  of  the  grove, 

Clad  in  cathedral  gloom  from  age  to  age, 

Lightened  with  living  splendours ; and  the  flowers, 
Tinged  with  new  hues  and  lovelier,  upsprung 
By  millions  in  the  grass,  that  rustled  now  | 

To  gales  of  Araby ! 

The  seasons  came 

In  bloom  or  blight,  in  glory  or  in  shade ; 

The  shower  or  sunbeam  fell  or  glanced  as  pleased 
These  potent  elves.  They  steered  the  giant  cloud 
Through  heaven  at  will,  and  with  the  meteor  flash 
Came  down  in  death  or  sport ; ay,  when  the  storm 
Shook  the  old  woods,  they  rode,  on  rainbow  wings, 

The  tempest ; and,  anon,  they  reined  its  rage 
In  its  fierce  mid  career.  But  ye  have  flown, 

Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers  ! — flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science,  and  the  hearths 
Of  Devon,  as  lags  the  disenchanted  year, 

Are  passionless  and  silent ! 


FITZGREENE  HALLECK. 

Without  attempting,  in  our  confined  limits,  to 
range  over  the  fields  of  American  literature,  now 
rapidly  extending,  and  cultivated  with  ardour  and 
success,  we  have  pleasure  in  including  some  emi- 
nent transatlantic  names  in  our  list  of  popular 
authors.  Mr  Halleck:  became  generally  known 
in  this  country  in  1827  by  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  Poems , the  result  partly  of  a visit  to 
England.  In  this  volume  are  some  fine  verses  on 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FROST  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Burns,  on  Alnwick  Castle,  &c.,  and  it  includes  the 
most  elevated  of  his  strains,  the  martial  lyric, 
Marco  Bozzaris.  Our  poet-laureate,  Mr  Tennyson, 
has  described  the  poetical  character : 

The  poet  in  a golden  clime  was  horn, 

With  golden  stars  above ; 

Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  through  life  and  death,  through  good  and  ill, 
He  saw  through  his  own  soul — 

The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will 
An  open  scroll 

Halleck,  in  his  beautiful  verses,  To  a Rose  brought 
from  near  Alloway  Kirk  in  Autumn  1822,  had 
previously  identified,  as  it  were,  this  conception  of 
the  laureate’s  with  the  history  of  the  Scottish  poet : 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A love  of  right,  a scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A kind  true  heart,  a spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye, 

And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard ! His  words  are  driven 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where’er  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven 
The  birds  of  fame  are  flown ! 

Mr  Halleck  is  a native  of  Guildford,  Connecticut, 
horn  in  1795.  He  resided  some  time  in  New  York, 
following  mercantile  pursuits.  In  1821  he  pub- 
lished Fanny , a satirical  poem  in  the  style  of  Don 
Juan.  Next  appeared  his  volume  of  poems,  as 
already  stated,  to  which  additions  were  made  in  sub- 
sequent republications.  His  works  are  included  in 
one  volume,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  his  muse 
has  not  been  more  prolific. 

Marco  Bozzaris. 

[The  Epaminondas  of  modern  Greece.  He  fell  in  a night- 
attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient 
Plataea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of 
victory.  His  last  words  were : ‘ To  die  for  liberty  is  a 
i pleasure,  and  not  a pain.’] 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power ; 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard, 

Then  wore  his  monarch’s  signet-ring, 

Then  pressed  that  monarch’s  throne — a King ; 

As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing 
As  Eden’s  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian’s  thousands  stood, 

There  had  the  glad  earth  drank  their  blood 
On  old  Plataea’s  day ; 

And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 

With  arm  to  strike  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on,  the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last: 

418 


to  1830. 


He  woke  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek : 

‘ To  arms  ! they  come  ! the  Greek  ! the  Greek!* 

He  woke  to  die,  ’midst  flame  and  smoke, 

And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
Like  forest-pines  before  the  blast, 

Or  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 

And  heard  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : . 

‘ Strike,  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires, 

Strike  for  your  altars  and  your  fires, 

Strike  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land !’ 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well. 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 

They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 

His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly  as  to  a night’s  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother’s  when  she  feels 
For  the  first  time  her  firstborn’s  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
Which  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 

Come  in  Consumption’s  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake’s  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 

And  thou  art  terrible ; the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of  agony  are  thine.  . 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a prophet’s  word, 

And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 

Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought ; 

Come  with  her  laurel-leaf  blood-bought ; 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eyes’  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 
Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men ; 

Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a foreign  land ; 

Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
Which  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 
To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 

When  the  land-wind  from  woods  of  palm, 

And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o’er  the  Haytien  seas. 

Bozzaris ! with  the  storied  brave 
Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory’s  time, 

Best  thee  : there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime  ; 

She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 

Like  torn  branch  from  Death’s  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow’s  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb ; 

But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a season  gone. 

For  thee  her  poet’s  lyre  is  wreathed, 

Her  marble  wrought,  her  musie  breathed ; 

For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 

Of  thee  her  babe’s  first  lisping  tells ; 

I 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


For  thine  her  evening-prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed. 

Her  soldier  closing  with  the  foe, 

Gives  for  thy  sake  a deadlier  blow ; 

His  plighted  maiden  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 

Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears ; 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 

Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys ; 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 

Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a sigh ; 

For  thou  art  Freedom’s  now,  and  Fame’s ; 

One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die ! 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

This  most  popular  of  the  American  poets  is  a 
native  of  the  state  of  Massachusetts,  born  in  1794. 
With  a precocity,  rivalled  only  by  that  of  Chatterton, 
he  published  injiis  fourteenth  year  a political  satire, 
The  Embargo , which  is  represented  as  having  been 
highly  successful.  From  this  perilous  course  of 
political  versifying,  the  young  author  was  removed 
by  being  placed  at  Williams  College.  He  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  practised  for  several  years 
with  fair  success,  but  in  1825  he  removed  to  New 
York,  and  entered  upon  that  literary  life  which  he 
has  ever  since  followed.  In  1826  Mr  Bryant  became 
editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  and  his  con- 
nection with  that  journal  still  subsists.  His  poetical 
works  consist  of  Thanatopsis — an  exquisite  solemn 
strain  of  blank  verse,  first  published  in  1816 ; The 
Ages,  a survey  of  the  experience  of  mankind,  1821 ; 
and  various  pieces  scattered  through  periodical 
works.  Mr  Washington  Irving,  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  Bryant’s  poetry,  had  it  collected  and 
published  in  London  in  1832.  The  British  public, 
he  said,  had  expressed  its  delight  at  the  graphic 
descriptions  of  American  scenery  and  wild  wood- 
land characters  contained  in  the  works  of  Cooper. 
‘The  same  keen  eye  and  just  feeling  for  nature,’  he 
added,  ‘the  same  indigenous  style  of  thinking  and 
local  peculiarity  of  imagery,  which  give  such  novelty 
and  interest  to  the  pages  of  that  gifted  writer,  will 
be  found  to  characterise  this  volume,  condensed 
into  a narrower  compass,  and  sublimated  into 
poetry.’  From  this  opinion  Professor  Wilson — 
who  reviewed  the  volume  in  Blackwood’s  Magazine 
— dissented,  believing  that  Cooper’s  pictures  are 
infinitely  richer  in  local  peculiarity  of  imagery  and 
thought.  ‘ The  chief  charm  of  Bryant’s  genius,’  he 
considered,  ‘consists  in  a tender  pensiveness,  a 
moral  melancholy,  breathing  over  all  his  contem- 
plations, dreams,  and  reveries,  even  such  as  in  the 
main  are  glad,  and  giving  assurance  of  a pure  spirit, 
benevolent  to  all  living  creatures,  and  habitually 
pious  in  the  felt  omnipresence  of  the  Creator.  His 
poetry  overflows  with  natural  religion — with  what 
Wordsworth  calls  the  religion  of  the  woods.’  This 
is  strictly  applicable  to  the  Thanatopsis  and  Forest 
Hymn,  but  Washington  Irving  is  so  far  right  that 
Bryant’s  grand  merit  is  his  nationality  and  his 
power  of  painting  the  American  landscape,  especially 
in  its  wild,  solitary,  and  magnificent  forms.  His 
diction  is  pure  and  lucid,  with  scarcely  a flaw,  and 
he  is  a master  of  blank  verse. 

[From  ‘ Thanatopsis .’] 

Not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 


I 

Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good — 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past — 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre  ! The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun — the  vales, 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between — 

The  venerable  woods,  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ; and,  poured  round  all,  | 
Old  Ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man  ! The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.  All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings ; yet  the  dead  are  there, 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest.  And  what  if  thou  shalt  fall 
Unheeded  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ? All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favourite  phantom ; yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men — 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon ; but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

[The  Wind-flower.'] 

Lodged  in  sunny  cleft 

Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just-opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at, 

Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 

The  Disinterred  Warrior. 

Gather  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 

Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior’s  scattered  bones  away. 

Pay  the  deep  reverence  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man’s  heart  to  death  ; 

Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty’s  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part — 

That  remnant  of  a mai'tial  brow, 

Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 

That  strong  arm — strong  no  longer  now. 

419 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 
Of  God’s  own  image,  let  them  rest, 
Till  not  a trace  shall  speak  of  where 
The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 
That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 
And  to  the  elements  did  stand 
In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race. 

In  many  a flood  to  madness  tossed, 

In  many  a storm  has  been  his  path ; 
He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 

But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind — the  forests  here, 
Rivers  and  stiller  waters  paid 
A tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 
Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 

Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 
Roots  in  the  shaded  soil  below, 

The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 
The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A noble  race ! But  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 
Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 
Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 
Ah,  let  us  spare  at  least  their  graves ! 


The  Indian  at  the  Bui'ying -place  of  his  Fathers. 

It  is  the  spot  I came  to  seek — 

My  fathers’  ancient  burial-place, 

Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 
Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 

It  is  the  spot — I know  it  well — 

Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 
A ridge  towards  the  river-side ; 

I know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 

The  meadows  smooth  and  wide ; 

The  plains  that,  towards  the  eastern  sky, 
Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 

Would  say  a lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I like  it  not — I would  the  plain 
Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 

The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 

And  labourers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 

Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 

And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 

Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o’er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a nobler  sight 
To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 

Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade  ; 

And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 
O’er  rills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 

The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 

Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  -and  tall, 

And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 

Walk  forth,  amid  his  train,  to  dare 
The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

420 


This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 

Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours ; 

Hither  the  artless  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 
Worshipped  the  God  of  thunders  here. 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior’s  breast, 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest ; 

And  there  in  the  loose  sand  is  thrown 
Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave, 

Who  bore  their  lifeless  chieftain  forth, 

Or  the  young  wife  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough ! 

They  waste  us — ay,  like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon  we  shrink  away ; 

And  fast  they  follow  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day — 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  find  we 
Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

But  I behold  a fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  man’s  eyes  are  blind ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind — 

Save  ruins  o’er  the  region  spread, 

And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 

Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed ; 

The  melody  of  waters  filled 

The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 

And  torrents  dashed,  and  rivulets  played, , 

And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more : 

The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun, 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 

With  lessening  current  run ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get, 

May  be  a barren  desert  yet ! 

Some  poet-translators  of  this  period  merit  honour- 
able mention. 


ARCHDEACON  WRANOHAM. 

The  Rev.  Francis  Wrangham  (1769-1843), 
rector  of  Hummanby,  Yorkshire,  and  Archdeacon  j 
of  Chester,  in  1795  wrote  a prize-poem  on  the 
Restoration  of  the  Jews , and  translations  in  verse. 
He  was  the  author  of  four  Seaton  prize-poems  on 
sacred  subjects,  several  sermons,  an  edition  of 
Langhorne’s  .Plutarch,  and  dissertations  on  the 
British  empire  in  the  East,  on  the  translation  of 
the  Scriptures  into  the  Oriental  languages,  &c. 
His  occasional  translations  from  the  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  his  macaronic  verses,  or  sportive  classical 
effusions  among  his  friends,  were  marked  by  fine 
taste  and  felicitous  adaptation.  He  continued  his 
favourite  studies  to  the  close  of  his  long  life,  and 
was  the  ornament  and  delight  of  the  society  m 
which  he  moved. 


HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Francis  Cary  (1772-1844),  by 
his  translation  of  Dante,  has  earned  a high  and 
lasting  reputation.  He  was  early  distinguished  as 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY. 


a classical  scholar  at  Christ’s  Church,  Oxford,  and 
was  familiar  with  almost  the  whole  range  of  Italian, 
Erench,  and  English  literature.  In  1805  he  pub- 
lished the  Inferno  of  Dante,  in  blank  verse,  and  an 
entire  translation  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  in  the 
same  measure,  in  1814.  He  afterwards  translated 
the  Birds  of  Aristophanes,  and  the  Odes  of  Pindar, 
and  wrote  short  memoirs  in  continuation  of  John- 
son’s Lives  of  the  Poets , which,  with  lives  of  the 
early  Erench  poets,  appeared  anonymously  in  the 
London  Magazine.  Eor  some  years  Mr  Cary  held 
the  office  of  assistant-librarian  in  the  British 
Museum,  and  enjoyed  a pension  of  £200  per 
annum.  A Memoir  of  this  amiable  scholar  was 
written  by  his  son,  the  Rev.  H.  Cary,  and  published 
in  1847.  First  brought  into  notice  by  the  prompt 
and  strenuous  exertions  of  Coleridge,  Mr  Cary’s 
version  of  the  Florentine  poet  passed  through  four 
editions  during  the  life  of  the  translator.  We 
subjoin  a specimen. 

Francesca  of  Rimini. 

[In  the  second  circle  of  hell,  Dante,  in  his  * vision ,’  witnesses 
the  punishment  of  carnal  sinners,  who  are  tossed  about  cease- 
lessly in  the  dark  air  by  furious  winds.  Amongst  these  he 
meets  with  Francesca  of  Rimini,  who,  with  her  lover  Paolo, 
was  put  to  death.  The  father  of  the  unfortunate  lady  was 
the  friend  and  protector  of  Dante.] 

I began : ‘ Bard  ! willingly 
I would  address  those  two  together  coming, 

Which  seem  so  light  before  the  wind.’  He  thus : 

‘ Note  thou,  when  nearer  they  to  us  approach. 

Then  by  that  love  which  carries  them  along, 

Entreat ; and  they  will  come.’  Soon  as  the  wind 
Swayed  them  toward  us,  I thus  framed  my  speech  : 

‘ 0 wearied  spirits ! come  and  hold  discourse 
With  us,  if  by  none  else  restrained.’  As  doves, 

By  fond  desire  invited,  on  wide  wdngs 
And  firm,  to  their  sweet  nest  returning  home, 

Cleave  the  air,  wafted  by  their  will  along ; 

Thus  issued,  from  that  troop  where  Dido  ranks, 

They,  through  the  ill  air  speeding,  with  such  force 
My  cry  prevailed,  by  strong  affection  urged. 

‘ 0 gracious  creature,  and  benign  ! who  goest 
Visiting,  through  this  element  obscure, 

Us,  who  the  world  with  bloody  stain  imbrued ; 

If,  for  a friend,  the  King  of  all  we  owned, 

Our  prayer  to  him  should  for  thy  peace  arise, 

Since  thou  hast  pity  on  our  evil  plight. 

Of  whatsoe’er  to  hear  or  to  discourse 
It  pleases  thee,  that  will  we  hear,  of  that 
Freely  with  thee  discourse,  while  e’er  the  wind. 

As  now,  is  mute.  The  land  that  gave  me  birth, 

Is  situate  on  the  coast,  where  Po  descends 
To  rest  in  ocean  with  his  sequent  streams. 

‘ Love,  that  in  gentle  heart  is  quickly  learnt, 
Entangled  him  by  that  fair  form,  from  me 
Ta’en  in  such  cruel  sojrt,  as  grieves  me  still : 

Love,  that  denial  takes  from  none  beloyed, 

Caught  me  with  pleasing  him  so  passing  well, 

That,  as  thou  see’st,  he  yet  deserts  me  not. 

Love  brought  us  to  one  death : Caina1  waits 

The  soul,  who  spilt  our  life.’  Such  were  their  words; 

At  hearing  which  downward  I bent  my  looks, 

And  held  them  there  so  long,  that  the  bard  cried  : 

‘ What  art  thou  pondering?’  I,  in  answer,  thus : 

‘ Alas ! by  what  sweet  thoughts,  what  fond  desire, 

Must  they  at  length  to  that  ill  pass  have  reached  !’ 
Then  turning,  I to  them  my  speech  addressed, 

And  thus  began  : ‘ Francesca  ! your  sad  fate, 

Even  to  tears,  my  grief  and  pity  moves. 

But  tell  me ; in  the  time  of  your  sweet  sighs, 

1 The  place  to  which  murderers  are  doomed. 


By  what  and  how  Love  granted,  that  ye  knew 
Your  yet  uncertain  wishes.’  She  replied : 

‘No  greater  grief  than  to  remember  days 
Of  joy,  when  misery  is  at  hand  ! That  kens 
Thy  learned  instructor.  Yet  so  eagerly 
If  thou  art  bent  to  know  the  primal  root, 

From  whence  our  love  gat  being,  I will  do 
As  one  who  weeps  and  tells  his  tale.  One  day, 

For  our  delight,  we  read  of  Lancelot,1 
How  him  love  thralled.  Alone  we  were,  and  no 
Suspicion  near  us.  Ofttimes  by  that  reading 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  and  the  hue 
Fled  from  our  altered  cheek.  But  at  one  point 
Alone  we  fell.  When  of  that  smile  we  read, 

The  wished  smile,  so  rapturously  kissed 
By  one  so  deep  in  love,  then  he,  who  ne’er 
From  me  shall  separate,  at  once  my  lips 
All  trembling  kissed.  The  book  and  writer  both 
Were  love’s  purveyors.  In  its  leaves  that  day 
We  read  no  more.’  2 While  thus  one  spirit  spake, 
The  other  wailed  so  sorely  that  heart-struck 
I,  through  compassion  fainting,  seemed  not  far 
From  death ; and  like  a corse  fell  to  the  ground. 

Ugolini  and  his  Sons  hi  the  Tower  of  Famine. 

[During  the  contests  between  the  Guelphsand  the  Ghibellines, 
in  1289,  Count  Ugolini  with  two  of  his  sons  and  two  grandsons, 
were  confined  by  Archbishop  Ruggieri  in  a tower ; the  tower 
was  locked,  and  the  key  thrown  into  the  Arno,  and  all  food 
was  withheld  from  them.  In  a few  days,  they  died  of  hunger. 
Dante  describes  the  future  punishment  of  Ugolini  and  the 
cardinal  as  being  * pent  in  one  hollow  of  the  ice.’  The  awful 
deaths  in  the  tower  are  thus  related  by  the  ghost  of  the  count.] 

A small  grate 

Within  that  mew,  which  for  my  sake  the  name 
Of  famine  bears,  where  others  yet  must  pine, 

Already  through  its  opening  several  moons 
Had  shewn  me,  when  I slept  the  evil  sleep 
That  from  the  future  tore  the  curtain  off. 

This  one,  methought,  as  master  of  the  sport, 

Rode  forth  to  chase  the  gaunt  wolf  and  his  whelps, 
Unto  the  mountain  which  forbids  the  sight 
Of  Lucca  to  the  Pisans.  With  lean  brachs, 

Inquisitive  and  keen,  before  him  ranged 
Lanfranchi  with  Sismondi  and  Gualandi. 

After  short  course  the  father  and  the  sons 
Seemed  tired  and  lagging,  and  methought  I saw 
The  sharp  tusks  gore  their  sides.  When  I awoke, 
Before  the  dawn,  amid  their  sleep  I heard 
My  sons — for  they  were  with  me — weep  and  ask 
For  bread.  * * 

Now  had  they  wakened ; and  the  hour  drew  near 
When  they  were  wont  to  bring  us  food ; the  mind 
Of  each  misgave  him  through  his  dream,  and  1 
Heard,  at  its  outlet  underneath,  locked  up 
The  horrible  tower : whence,  uttering  not  a word, 

I looked  upon  the  visage  of  my  sons. 

I wept  not : so  all  stone  I felt  within. 

They  wept : and  one,  my  little  Anselm,  cried  : 

‘ Thou  lookest  so  ! father,  what  ails  thee  ?’  Yet 
I shed  no  tear,  nor  answered  all  that  day 
Nor  the  next  night,  until  another  sun 
Came  out  upon  the  world.  When  a faint  beam 
Had  to  our  doleful  prison  made  its  way, 

And  in  four  countenances  I descried 
The  image  of  my  own,  on  either  hand 
Through  agony  I bit ; and  they  who  thought 
I did  it  through  desire  of  feeding,  rose 

1 One  of  the  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  and  the  lover  of 
Ginevra,  or  Guinever,  celebrated  in  romance. 

2 A fine  representation  of  this  scene  in  marble  formed  part 
of  the  Manchester  Exhibition  of  1857.  It  was  from  the  collec- 
tion of  the  Right  Hon.  W.  E.  Gladstone,  and  was  executed  by 
Mr  A.  Munro,  sculptor,  London. 

421 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


O’  the  sudden,  and  cried : ‘ Father,  we  should  grieve 
Far  less  if  thou  wouldst  eat  of  us : thou  gavest 
These  weeds  of  miserable  flesh  we  wear  ; 

And  do  thou  strip  them  off  from  us  again.’ 

Then,  not  to  make  them  sadder,  I kept  down 
My  spirit  in  stillness.  That  day  and  the  next 
We  all  were  silent.  Ah,  obdurate  earth ! 

Why  open’dst  not  upon  us  ? When  we  came 
To  the  fourth  day,  then  Graddo  at  my  feet 
Outstretched  did  fling  him,  crying : ‘ Hast  no  help 
For  me,  my  father  ? ’ There  he  died ; and  e’en 
Plainly,  as  thou  seest  me,  saw  I the  three 
Fall  one  by  one  ’twixt  the  fifth  day  and  sixth : 
Whence  I betook  me,  now  grown  blind,  to  grope 
Over  them  all,  and  for  three  days  aloud 
Called  on  them  who  were  dead.  Then,  fasting  got 
The  mastery  of  grief. 

A select  descriptive  passage  of  Dante,  imitated 
by  Gray  (first  line  in  the  Elegy),  and  by  Byron 
(Don  Juan , canto  iii.  v.  108),  is  thus  rendered  by 
Cary: 

Now  was  the  hour  that  wakens  fond  desire 
In  men  at  sea,  and  melts  their  thoughtful  heart 
Who  in  the  morn  have  bid  sweet  friends  farewell, 
And  pilgrim  newly  on  his  road  with  love 
Thrills,  if  he  hear  the  vesper-bell  from  far, 

That  seems  to  mourn  for  the  expiring  day. 


WILLIAM  STEWART  ROSE. 

William  Stewart  Rose  (1775-1843),  the  trans  - 
lator of  Ariosto,  and  a man  of  fine  talent  and 
accomplishments,  was  the  second  son  of  Mr  George 
Rose,  Treasurer  of  the  Navy,  &c.  After  his 
education  at  Eton  and  Cambridge,  Mr  Rose  was 
introduced  to  public  life,  and  he  obtained  the 
appointment  of  reading-clerk  to  the  House  of  Lords. 
His  tastes,  however,  were  wholly  literary.  To  gratify 
his  father,  he  began  A Naval  History  of  the  Late 
War,  vol.  i.,  1802,  which  he  never  completed.  His 
subsequent  works  were  a translation  of  the  romance 
of  Amadis  de  Gaul,  1803;  a translation  in  verse 
from  the  French  of  Le  Grand  of  Partenopex  de  Blois, 
1807 ; Letters  to  Henry  Hallam,  Esq.,  from  the  North 
of  Italy,  2 vols.,  1819;  and  a translation  of  the 
Animali  Parlanti  of  Casti,  1819,  to  which  he  pre- 
fixed introductory  addresses  at  each  canto  to  his 
friends  Ugo  Foscolo,  Frere,  Walter  Scott,  &c.  In 
1823,  he  published  a condensed  translation  of 
Boiardo’s  Orlando  Innamorato,  and  also  commenced 
his  version  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  which  was  com- 
pleted in  1831.  The  latter  is  the  happiest  of  Mr 
Rose’s  translations ; it  has  wonderful  spirit,  as  well 
as  remarkable  fidelity,  both  in  form  and  meaning, 
to  the  original.  The  translator  dedicated  his  work 
in  a graceful  sonnet  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘ who,’  he 
| says,  ‘ persuaded  me  to  resume  the  work,  which  had 
| been  thrown  aside,  on  the  ground  that  such  labour 
was  its  own  reward : * 

Scott,  for  whom  Fame  a gorgeous  garland  weaves, 
Who  what  was  scattered  to  the  wasting  wind, 

As  grain  too  coarse  to  gather  or  to  bind, 

Bad’st  me  collect  and  gird  in  goodly  sheaves ; 

If  this  poor  seed  hath  formed  its  stalks  and  leaves, 
Transplanted  from  a softer  clime,  and  pined 
For  lack  of  southern  suns  in  soil  unkind, 

Where  Ceres  or  Italian  Flora  grieves  ; 

And  if  some  fruit,  however  dwindled,  fill 

The  doubtful  ear,  though  scant  the  crop  and  bare — 
Ah,  how  unlike  the  growth  of  Tuscan  hill, 

Where  the  glad  harvest  springs  behind  the  share — 
Peace  be  to  thee ! who  taught  me  that  to  till 
Was  sweet,  however  paid  the  peasant’s  care. 

422 


Besides  his  translations,  Mr  Rose  was  author  of  a 
volume  of  poems,  entitled  The  Crusade  of  St  Louis, 
&c.,  1810 ; and  Rhymes,  a small  volume  of  epistles  to 
his  friends  ; tales,  sonnets,  &c.  He  was  also  an 
occasional  contributor  to  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Reviews.  Ill  health  latterly  compelled  Mr  Rose  to 
withdraw  in  a great  measure  from  society ; ‘ but  in 
every  event  and  situation  of  life,’  says  his  biographer, 
Mr  Townsend,  ‘ whether  of  sorrow  or  sickness,  joy 
or  pleasure,  the  thoughtful  politeness  of  a perfect 
gentleman  never  forsook  him.’*  And  thus  he 
became  the  best  translator  of  Ariosto,  one  of  whose 
merits  was  that  even  in  jesting  he  never  forgot  that 
he  was  a gentleman,  while  in  his  most  extraordinary 
narratives  and  adventures  there  are  simple  and 
natural  touches  of  feeling  and  expression  that  com- 
mand sympathy.  The  ottava  rima  stanza  of  Ariosto 
was  followed  by  Rose — Hook  in  his  translation 
adopted  the  heroic  couplet — with  marvellous  suc- 
cess. As  a specimen,  we  give  two  stanzas : 

Let  him  make  haste  his  feet  to  disengage, 

Nor  lime  his  wings,  whom  love  has  made  a prize ; 

For  love,  in  fine,  is  nought  but  frenzied  rage, 

By  universal  suffrage  of  the  wise : 

And  albeit  some  may  shew  themselves  more  sage 
Than  Roland,  they  but  sin  in  other  guise. 

For  what  proves  folly  more  than  on  this  shelf, 

Thus  for  another  to  destroy  one’s  self  ? 

Various  are  love’s  effects ; but  from  one  source 
All  issue,  though  they  lead  a different  way. 

He  is,  as  ’twere,  a forest  where,  perforce, 

Who  enters  its  recesses  go  astray; 

And  here  and  there  pursue  their  devious  course : 

In  sum,  to  you,  I,  for  conclusion,  say, 

He  who  grows  old  in  love,  besides  all  pain 

Which  waits  such  passion,  well  deserves  a chain. 

WILLIAM  TAYLOR. 

One  of  our  earliest  translators  from  the  German 
was  William  Taylor  of  Norwich  (1765-1836). 
In  1796  appeared  his  version  of  Burger’s  Lenore. 
Before  the  publication  of  this  piece,  Mrs  Barbauld 
— who  had  been  the  preceptress  of  Taylor — read  it 
to  a party  in  Edinburgh  at  which  Walter  Scott  was 
present.  The  impression  made  upon  Scott  was 
such  that  he  was  induced  to  attempt  a version  him- 
self, and  though  inferior  in  some  respects  to  that  of 
Taylor,  Scott’s  translation  gave  promise  of  poetical 
power  and  imagination.  Mr  Taylor  afterwards 
made  various  translations  from  the  German,  which  | 
he  collected  and  published  in  1830  under  the  title  of 
A Survey  of  German  Poetry.  ‘Mr  Taylor,’  says  a 
critic  in  the  Quarterly  Review  (1843),  ‘must  be 
acknowledged  to  have  been  the  first  who  effec- 
tually introduced  the  modern  poetry  and  drama  of 
Germany  to  the  English  reader,  and  his  versions  of 
the  Nathan  of  Lessing,  the  Iphigenia  of  Goethe,  and 
Schiller’s  Bride  of  Messina,  are  not  likely  to  be  i 
supplanted,  though  none  of  them  are  productions  of 
the  same  order  with  Coleridge’s  Wallenstein .’  In 
1843  an  interesting  Memoir  of  Taylor,  containing 
his  correspondence  with  Southey,  was  published  in 
two  volumes,  edited  by  J.  W.  Robberds,  Norwich. 

THE  EARL  OF  ELLESMERE. 

In  1823  this  nobleman  (1800-1857)  published  a 
translation  of  Goethe’s  Faust  and  Schiller’s  Song  of 
the  Bell.  This  volume  was  followed  in  1824  by 

* Memoir  prefixed  to  Bohn’s  edition  of  the  Orlando  Furioso, 
1858. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


another,  Translations  from  the  German , and  Original 
Poems.  In  1830  he  translated  Hernani,  or  the 
Honour  of  a Castilian , a tragedy  from  the  French  of 
Victor  Hugo.  To  the  close  of  his  life,  this  accom- 
plished nobleman  continued  to  adapt  popular  foreign 
works — as  Pindemonte’s  Donna  Charitea , Michael 
Beer’s  Paria,  the  Henri  Trois  of  Dumas,  &c.  He 
translated  and  re-arranged  Schimmer’s  Siege  of 
Vienna , and  edited  the  History  of  Peter  the  Cruel, 
King  of  Castile  and  Leon  (two  vols.,  1851).  In  1839 
he  undertook  a voyage  to  the  Mediterranean  in  his 
yacht,  and  on  his  return  home  printed  for  private 
circulation  The  Pilgrimage , Mediterranean  Sketches , 
&c.,  which  were  afterwards  published  with  illustra- 
tions. A dramatic  piece,  Bluebeard , acted  with 
success  at  private  theatricals,  also  proceeded  from 
his  pen.  He  occasionally  contributed  an  article  to 
the  Quarterly  Review , and  took  a lively  interest  in 
all  questions  affecting  literature  and  art.  Of  both 
he  was  a munificent  patron.  His  lordship,  by  the 
death  of  his  father,  the  first  Duke  of  Sutherland,  in 
1833,  succeeded  to  the  great  Bridgewater  estates  in 
Lancashire,  and  to  his  celebrated  gallery  of  pictures, 
valued  at  £150,000.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage 
as  Earl  of  Ellesmere  in  1846.  The  translations  of 
this  nobleman  are  characterised  by  elegance  and 
dramatic  spirit,  but  his  Faust  is  neither  very  vigor- 
ous nor  very  faithful.  His  original  poetry  is  grace- 
ful, resembling,  though  inferior,  that  of  Rogers.  We 
subjoin  one  specimen,  in  which  Campbell  seems  to 
have  been  selected  as  the  model. 


The  Military  Execution. 

His  doom  has  been  decreed, 

He  has  owned  the  fatal  deed, 

And  its  sentence  is  here  to  abide. 

No  mercy  now  can  save ; 

They  have  dug  the  yawning  grave, 

And  the  hapless  and  the  brave 
Kneels  beside. 

No  bandage  wraps  his  eye, 

He  is  kneeling  there  to  die 
Unblinded,  undaunted,  alone. 

His  latest  prayer  has  ceased, 

And  the  comrade  and  the  priest, 

From  their  last  sad  task  released, 

Both  are  gone. 

His  kindred  are  not  near 
The  fatal  knell  to  hear, 

They  can  but  weep  when  the  deed  ’tis  done ; 
They  would  shriek,  and  wail,  and  pray  : 

It  is  well  for  him  to-day 
That  his  friends  are  far  away — 

All  but  one. 

Yes,  in  his  mute  despair, 

The  faithful  hound  is  there, 

He  has  reached  his  master’s  side  with  a spring. 
To  the  hand  which  reared  and  fed, 

Till  its  ebbing  pulse  hath  fled, 

Till  that  hand  is  cold  and  dead, 

He  will  cling. 

What  art,  or  lure,  or  wile, 

That  one  can  ncftv  beguile 
From  the  side  of  his  master  and  friend  ? 

He  has  gnawed  his  cord  in  twain ; 

To  the  arm  which  strives  in  vain 
To  repel  him,  he  will  strain 
To  the  end. 


The  tear-drop  who  can  blame  ? 

Though  it  dim  the  veteran’s  aim, 

And  each  breast  along  the  line  heave  the  sigh. 
For  ’twere  cruel  now  to  save ; 

And  together  in  that  grave, 

The  faithful  and  the  brave, 

Let  them  lie. 

In  1820-22  Thomas  Mitchell  (1783-1845),  pub- 
lished translations  in  verse  of  Aristophanes,  in 
which  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the  ‘Old  Comedian’ 
were  admirably  rendered.  Mr  Mitchell  also  edited 
some  of  the  plays  of  Sophocles,  and  superintended 
the  publication  of  some  of  the  Greek  works  which 
issued  from  the  Oxford  Clarendon  press. 

Viscount  Strangford  (1780-1855),  long  the 
British  ambassador  at  Lisbon  and  other  foreign 
courts,  in  1803  published  a version  of  Poems  from 
the  Portuguese  of  Camcens , with  Remarks  on  his  Life 
and  Writings.  The  translation  was  generally  con- 
demned for  its  loose  and  amatory  character,  but 
some  of  the  lyrical  pieces  have  much  beauty.  A 
sarcastic  notice  of  Strangford  will  be  found  in 
Byron’s  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers , and 
Moore  dedicated  to  him  one  of  his  finest  epistles. 
To  the  last,  the  old  nobleman  delighted  in  literary 
and  antiquarian  pursuits,  and  was  much  esteemed. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 

The  great  popularity  of  Burns’s  lyrics,  co-operating 
with  the  national  love  of  song  and  music,  continued 
to  call  forth  numerous  Scottish  poets,  chiefly  lyrical. 
A recent  editor,  Dr  Charles  Rogers,  has  filled  no 
less  than  six  volumes  with  specimens  of  The  Modern 
Scottish  Minstrel , or  the  Songs  of  Scotland  of  the  Past 
Half  Century  (1856,  1857).  Many  of  these  were 
unworthy  of  resuscitation,  but  others  are  character- 
ised by  simplicity,  tenderness,  and  pathetic  feeling. 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 

Robert  Tannahill,  a lyrical  poet  of  a superior 
order,  whose  songs  rival  all  but  the  best  of  Burns’s 
in  popularity,  was  born  in  Paisley  on  the  3d  of  J une 
1774.  His  education  was  limited,  but  he  was  a 
diligent  reader  and  student.  He  was  early  sent  to 
the  loom,  weaving  being  the  staple  trade  of  Paisley, 
and  continued  to  follow  his  occupation  in  his  native 
town  until  his  twenty-sixth  year,  when,  with  one  of 
his  younger  brothers,  he  removed  to  Lancashire. 
There  he  continued  two  years,  when  the  declining 
state  of  his  father’s  health  induced  him  to  return. 
He  arrived  in  time  to  receive  the  dying  blessing  of 
his  parent,  and  a short  time  afterwards  we  find  him 
writing  to  a friend : ‘ My  brother  Hugh  and  I are 
all  that  now  remain  at  home,  with  our  old  mother, 
bending  under  age  and  frailty  ; and  but  seven  years 
back,  nine  of  us  used  to  sit  at  dinner  together.’ 
Hugh  married,  and  the  poet  was  left  alone  with  his 
widowed  mother.  In  a poem,  The  Filial  Vow,  he 
says : 

’Twas  hers  to  guide  me  through  life’s  early  day, 

To  point  out  virtue’s  paths,  and  lead  the  way  : 

Now,  while  her  powers  in  frigid  languor  sleep, 

’Tis  mine  to  hand  her  down  life’s  rugged  steep ; 

With  all  her  little  weaknesses  to  bear, 

Attentive,  kind,  to  soothe  her  every  care. 

’Tis  nature  bids,  and  truest  pleasure  flows 
From  lessening  an  aged  parent’s  woes. 

The  filial  piety  of  Tannahill  is  strikingly  apparent 
from  this  effusion,  but  the  inferiority  of  the  lines  to 

423 


fbom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


any  of  his  Scottish  songs  shews  how  little  at  home 
he  was  in  English.  His  mother  outlived  him 
thirteen  years.  Though  Taunahill  had  occasionally 


Robert  Tannahill. 


composed  verses  from  a very  early  age,  it  was  not 
till  after  this  time  that  he  attained  to  anything 
beyond  mediocrity.  Becoming  acquainted  with  Mr 
R.  A.  Smith,  a musical  composer,  the  poet  applied 
himself  sedulously  to  lyrical  composition,  aided  by 
the  encouragement  and  the  musical  taste  of  his 
friend.  Smith  set  some  of  his  songs  to  original  and 
appropriate  airs,  and  in  1807  the  poet  ventured  on 
the  publication  of  a volume  of  poems  and  songs,  of 
which  the  first  impression,  consisting  of  900  copies, 
were  sold  in  a few  weeks.  It  is  related  that  in  a 
solitary  walk  on  one  occasion,  his  musings  were 
interrupted  by  the  voice  of  a country-girl  in  an 
adjoining  field  singing  by  herself  a song  of  his  own — 

We  ’ll  meet  beside  the  dusky  glen,  on  yon  burnside ; 

and  he  used  to  say  he  was  more  pleased  at  this 
evidence  of  his  popularity,  than  at  any  tribute 
which  had  ever  been  paid  him.  He  afterwards 
contributed  some  songs  to  Mr  George  Thomson’s 
Select  Melodies , and  exerted  himself  to  procure 
Irish  airs,  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  Whilst 
delighting  all  classes  of  his  countrymen  with  his 
native  songs,  the  poet  fell  into  a state  of  morbid 
despondency,  aggravated  by  bodily  weakness,  and 
a tendency  to  consumption.  He  had  prepared  a 
new  edition  of  his  poems  for  the  press,  and  sent  the 
manuscript  to  Mr  Constable  the  publisher;  but  it 
was  returned  by  that  gentleman,  in  consequence 
of  his  having  more  neAv  works  on  hand  than  he 
could  undertake  that  season.  This  disappointment 
preyed  on  the  spirits  of  the  sensitive  poet,  and  his 
melancholy  became  deep  and  habitual.  He  burned 
all  his  manuscripts,  and  sank  into  a state  of  mental 
derangement.  Returning  from  a visit  to  Glasgow 
on  the  17th  of  May  1810,  the  unhappy  poet  retifed 
to  rest ; but  ‘ suspicion  having  been  excited,  in 
about  an  hour  afterwards  it  was  discovered  that 
he  had  stolen  out  unperceived.  Search  was  made 
in  every  direction,  and  by  the  dawn  of  the  morning, 
the  coat  of  the  poet  was  discovered  lying  at  the 
424. 


side  of  the  tunnel  of  a neighbouring  brook,  pointing 
out  but  too  surely  where  his  body  was  to  be  found.’  * 
Tannahill  was  a modest  and  temperate  man,  devoted 
to  his  kindred  and  friends,  and  of  unblemished 
purity  and  correctness  of  conduct.  His  lamentable 
death  arose  from  no  want  or  irregularity,  but  was 
solely  caused  by  that  morbid  disease  of  the  mind 
which  had  overthrown  his  reason.  The  poems  of 
this  ill-starred  son  of  genius  are  greatly  inferior 
to  his  songs.  They  have  all  a common-place  arti- 
ficial character.  His  lyrics,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
rich  and  original  both  in  description  and  sentiment. 
His  diction  is  copious  and  luxuriant,  particularly  in 
describing  natural  objects  and  the  peculiar  features 
of  the  Scottish  landscape.  His  simplicity  is  natural 
and  unaffected;  and  though  he  appears  to  have 
possessed  a deeper  sympathy  with  nature  than  with 
the  workings  of  human  feeling,  or  even  the  passion 
of  love,  he  is  often  tender  and  pathetic.  His  Gloomy 
Winter ’s  now  Awa ’ is  a beautiful  concentration  of 
tenderness  and  melody. 

The  Braes  o’  Balquhither. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go, 

To  the  braes  o’  Balquhither, 

Where  the  blae-berries  grow 
’Mang  the  bonny  Highland  heather ; 

Where  the  deer  and  the  roe, 

Lightly  bounding  together, 

Sport  the  lang  summer  day 
On  the  braes  o’  Balquhither. 

I will  twine  thee  a bower 
By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 

And  I ’ll  cover  it  o’er 

Wi’  the  flowers  of  the  mountain ; 

I will  range  through  the  wilds, 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 

And  return  wi’  the  spoils 
To  the  bower  o’  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win’ 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 

And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night-breeze  is  swelling, 

So  merrily  we  ’ll  sing, 

As  the  storm  rattles  o’er  us, 

Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 
Wi’  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Now  the  summer’s  in  prime 
Wi’  the  flowers  richly  blooming. 

And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 
A’  the  moorlands  perfuming ; 

To  our  dear  native  scenes 
Let  us  journey  together, 

Where  glad  innocence  reigns 
’Mang  the  braes  o’  Balquhither. 

The  Braes  o’  Gleniffer. 

Keen  blaws  the  win’  o’er  the  braes  o’  Glenffler, 

The  auld  castle  turrets  are  covered  wi’  snaw ; 

How  changed  frae  the  time  when  I met  wi’  ray  lover 
Amang  the  broom  bushes  by  Stanley  green  shaw ! 

The  wild-flowers  o’  summer  were  spread  a’  sae  bonny, 
The  mavis  sang  sweet  frae  the  green  birken  tree ; 

But  far  to  the  camp  they  liae  marched  my  dear  Johnie, 
And  now  it  is  winter  wi’  nature  and  me. 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blithesome  and  cheerie, 
Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonny  and  braw ; 

Nownaething  is  heard  but  the  wind  whistling  drearie. 
And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide -spreading  snaw, 

* Memoir  prefixed  to  Tannahill’a  Works.  Glasgow.  1838. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  MAYNE. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


The  trees  are  a’  bare,  and  the  birds  mute  and  dowie ; 
They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings  as  they 
flee ; 

And  chirp  out  their  plaints,  seeming  wae  for  my 
J ohnie ; 

’Tis  winter  wi’  them,  and  ’tis  winter  wi’  me. 

Yon  cauld  sleety  cloud  skiffs  alang  the  bleak  mountain, 
And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep  rocky  brae, 
While  down  the  deep  glen  bawls  the  snaw-flooded 
fountain, 

That  murmured  sae  sweet  to  my  laddie  and  me. 

It ’s  no  its  loud  roar  on  the  wintry  wind  swellin’. 

It ’s  no  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  i’  my  e’e ; 
For  0 ! gin  I saw  but  my  bonny  Scots  callan, 

The  dark  days  o’  winter  were  summer  to  me. 

The  Flower  o’  Dumblane. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o’er  the  lofty  Ben-Lomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o’er  the  scene, 
While  lanely  I stray  in  the  calm  summer  gloamin, 

To  muse  on  sweet  J essie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi’  its  saft  fauldin’  blossom  ! 

And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi’  its  mantle  o’  green ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom, 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

She ’s  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she ’s  bonny ; 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  : 

And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 

Wha’d  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flower  o’ 
Dumblane. 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the  e’ening ; 

Thou’rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen : 

Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I met  wi’  my  Jessie  ! 

The  sports  o’  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain ; 

I ne’er  saw  a nympb  I would  ca’  my  dear  lassie, 

Till  charmed  wi’  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’ 
Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o’  loftiest  grandeur, 
Amidst  its  profusion  I ’d  languish  in  pain, 

And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o’  its  splendour, 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

Gloomy  Winter ’s  now  Awa\ 

Gloomy  winter ’s  now  awa’, 

Saft  the  westlin  breezes  blaw : 

’Mang  the  birks  o’  Stanley-shaw 
The  mavis  sings  fu’  cheerie  0. 

Sweet  the  craw-flower’s  early  bell 
Decks  Gleniffer’s  dewy  dell, 

Blooming  like  thy  bonny  sel\ 

My  young,  my  artless  dearie  0. 

Come,  my  lassie,  let  us  stray, 

O’er  Glenkilloch’s  sunny  brae, 

Blithely  spend  the  gowden  day 
Midst  joys  that  never  wearie  0. 

Towering  o’er  the  Newton  woods, 

Lavrocks  fan  the  snaw-white  clouds ; 

Siller  saughs,  wi’  downie  buds, 

Adorn  the  banks  sae  brierie  0. 

Round  the  sylvan  fairy  nooks, 

Feathery  brekans  fringe  the  rocks, 

’Neath  the  brae  flhe  burnie  jouks, 

And  ilka  thing  is  cheerie  0. 

Trees  may  bud,  and  birds  may  sing, 

Flowers  may  bloom,  and  verdure  spring, 

Joy  to  me  they  canna  bring, 

Unless  wi’  thee,  my  dearie  0. 


JOHN  MAYNE. 

John  Mayne,  author  of  the  Siller  Gun,  Glasgow , 
and  other  poems,  was  a native  of  Dumfries — born 
in  the  year  1761 — and  died  in  London  in  1836.  He 
was  brought  up  to  the  printing  business,  and  whilst 
apprentice  in  the  Dumfries  Journal  office  in  1777,  in 
his  sixteenth  year,  he  published  the  germ  of  his 
Siller  Gun  in  a quarto  page  of  twelve  stanzas. 
The  subject  of  the  poem  is  an  ancient  custom  in 
Dumfries,  called  ‘ Shooting  for  the  Siller  Gun,’  the 
gun  being  a small  silver  tube  presented  by  James 
VI.  to  the  incorporated  trades  as  a prize  to  the  best 
marksman.  This  poem  Mr  Mayne  continued  to 
enlarge  and  improve  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 
The  twelve  stanzas  expanded  in  two  years  to  two 
cantos ; in  another  year  (1780)  the  poem  was  pub- 
lished— enlarged  to  three  cantos — in  Ruddiman’s 
Magazine;  and  in  1808  it  was  published  in  London 
in  four  cantos.  This  edition  was  seen  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  said  (in  one  of  his  notes  to  the  Lady  of 
the  Lalce)  ‘ that  it  surpassed  the  efforts  of  Fergusson, 
and  came  near  to  those  of  Burns.’  In  1836,  the  Siller 
Gun  was  again  reprinted  with  the  addition  of  a fifth 
canto.  Mr  Mayne  was  author  of  a short  poem  on 
Halloween,  printed  in  Ruddiman’s  Magazine  in  1780  ; 
and  in  1781,  he  published  at  Glasgow  his  fine  ballad 
of  Logan  Braes , which  Burns  had  seen,  and  two  lines 
of  which  he  copied  into  his  Logan  Water.  The 
Siller  Gun  is  humorous  and  descriptive,  and  is 
happy  in  both.  The  author  is  a shrewd  and  lively 
observer,  full  of  glee,  and  also  of  gentle  and  affec  - 
tionate recollections  of  his  native  town  and  all  its 
people  and  pastimes.  The  ballad  of  Logan  Braes  is 
a simple  and  beautiful  lyric,  superior  to  the  more 
elaborate  version  of  Burns.  Though  long  resident 
in  London  (as  proprietor  of  the  Star  newspaper), 
Mr  Mayne  retained  his  Scottish  enthusiasm  to  the 
last ; and  to  those  who,  like  ourselves,  recollect  him 
in  advanced  life,  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his  duties, 
as  a public  journalist,  to  trace  some  remembrance 
of  his  native  Dumfries  and  the  banks  of  the  Nith, 
or  to  hum  over  some  rural  or  pastoral  song  which 
he  had  heard  forty  or  fifty  years  before,  his  name, 
as  well  as  his  poetry,  recalls  the  strength  and 
tenacity  of  early  feelings  and  local  associations. 

Logan  Braes. 

By  Logan’s  streams  that  rin  sae  deep, 

Fu’  aft  wi’  glee  I ’ve  herded  sheep ; 

Herded  sheep  and  gathered  slaes, 

Wi’  my  dear  lad  on  Logan  braes. 

But  wae ’s  my  heart,  thae  days  are  gane, 

And  I wi’  grief  may  herd  alane, 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Nae  mair  at  Logan  kirk  will  he 
Atween  the  preachings  meet  wi’  me ; 

Meet  wi’  me,  or  when  it ’s  mirk, 

Convoy  me  hame  frae  Logan  kirk. 

I weel  may  sing  thae  days  are  gane  : 

Frae  kirk  and  fair  I come  alane, 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

At  e’en,  when  hope  amaist  is  gane, 

I dauner  out  and  sit  alane ; 

Sit  alane  beneath  the  tree 
' Where  aft  he  kept  his  tryst  wi’  me. 

Oh  ! could  I see  thae  days  again, 

My  lover  skaithless,  and  my  ain  ! 

Beloved  by  friends,  revered  by  faes, 

We ’d  live  in  bliss  on  Logan  braes ! 

425 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

Helen  of  KirTcconnel. 

[Helen  Irving,  a young  lady  of  exquisite  beauty  and  accom- 
plishments, daughter  of  the  Laird  of  Kirkconnel,  in  Annan- 
dale,  was  betrothed  to  Adam  Fleming  de  Kirkpatrick,  a young 
gentleman  of  rank  and  fortune  in  that  neighbourhood.  Walk- 
ing with  her  lover  on  the  sweet  banks  of  the  Kirtle,  she  was 
murdered  by  a disappointed  and  sanguinary  rival.  This  catas- 
trophe took  place  during  the  reign  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
and  is  the  subject  of  three  different  ballads  : the  first  two  are 
old,  the  third  is  the  composition  of  the  author  of  the  Siller 
Gun.  It  was  first  inserted  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register 
(1815)  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies, 

For,  night  and  day,  on  me  she  cries ; 

And,  like  an  angel,  to  the  skies 
Still  seems  to  beckon  me  ! 

For  me  she  lived,  for  me  she  sighed, 

For  me  she  wished  to  be  a bride ; 

For  me  in  life’s  sweet  morn  she  died 
On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Where  Kirtle-waters  gently  wind, 

As  Helen  on  my  arm  reclined, 

A rival  with  a ruthless  mind, 

Took  deadly  aim  at  me  : 

My  love,  to  disappoint  the  foe, 

Rushed  in  between  me  and  the  blow ; 

And  now  her  corse  is  lying  low 
On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Though  heaven  forbids  my  wrath  to  swell, 

I curse  the  hand  by  which  she  fell — 

The  fiend  who  made  my  heaven  a hell, 

And  tore  my  love  from  me ! 

For  if,  where  all  the  graces  shine — 

Oh ! if  on  earth  there ’s  aught  divine, 

My  Helen ! all  these  charms  were  thine— 

They  centered  all  in  thee ! 

Ah  ! what  avails  it  that,  amain, 

I clove  the  assassin’s  head  in  twain? 

No  peace  of  mind,  my  Helen  slain, 

No  resting-place  for  me  : 

I see  her  spirit  in  the  air — 

I hear  the  shriek  of  wild  despair, 

When  Murder  laid  her  bosom  bare, 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Oh ! when  I ’m  sleeping  in  my  grave, 

And  o’er  my  head  the  rank  weeds  wave, 

May  He  who  life  and  spirit  gave 
Unite  my  love  and  me  ! 

Then  from  this  world  of  doubts  and  sighs, 

My  soul  on  wings  of  peace  shall  rise ; 

And,  joining  Helen  in  the  skies, 

Forget  Kirkconnel-Lee  !* 

[ Mustering  of  the  Trades  to  Shoot  for  the  Siller  Guni\ 

The  lift  was  clear,  the  morn  serene, 

The  sun  just  glinting  owre  the  scene, 

When  James  M‘Noe  began  again 
To  beat  to  anus, 

Rousing  the  heart  o’  man  and  wean 
Wi’  war’s  alarms. 

* The  concluding  verse  of  the  old  ballad  is  finer : 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 

And  I am  weary  of  the  skies 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

Also  an  earlier  stanza  : 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 

And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 

When  in  my  arms  bird  Helen  dropt. 

And  died  to  succour  me  J 
426 

Frae  far  and  near  the  country  lads 
(Their  joes  ahint  them  on  their  yads) 

Flocked  in  to  see  the  show  in  squads ; 

And,  what  was  dafter, 

Their  pawky  mithers  and  their  dads 
Cam  trotting  after ! 

And  mony  a beau  and  belle  were  there, 

Doited  wi’  dozing  on  a chair ; 

For  lest  they ’d,  sleeping,  spoil  their  hair, 

Or  miss  the  sight, 

The  gowks,  like  bairns  before  a fair, 

Sat  up  a’  night ! 

Wi’  hats  as  black  as  ony  raven, 

Fresh  as  the  rose,  their  beards  new  shaven, 
And  a’  their  Sunday’s  deeding  having 
Sae  trim  and  gay, 

Forth  cam  our  Trades,  some  ora  saving 
To  wair  that  day. 

Fair  fa’  ilk  canny,  caidgy  carl, 

Weel  may  he  bruik  his  new  apparel ! 

And  never  dree  the  bitter  snarl 
O’  scowling  wife ! 

But,  blest  in  pantry,  barn,  and  barrel, 

Be  blithe  through  life ! 

Hech,  sirs ! what  crowds  cam  into  town, 

To  see  them  mustering  up  and  down ! 

Lasses  and  lads,  sunburnt  and  brown — 
Women  and  weans, 

Gentle  and  semple,  mingling,  crown 
The  gladsome  scenes  ! 

At  first,  forenent  ilk  Deacon’s  hallan, 

His  ain  brigade  was  made  to  fall  in ; 

And,  while  the  muster-roll  was  calling, 

And  joy-bells  j owing, 

Het-pints,  weel  spiced,  to  keep  the  saul  in, 
Around  were  flowing ! 

Broiled  kipper,  cheese,  and  bread,  and  ham, 
Laid  the  foundation  for  a dram 
O’  whisky,  gin  frae  Rotterdam, 

Or  cherry  brandy ; 

Whilk  after,  a’  was  fish  that  cam 
To  Jock  or  Sandy : 

0 ! weel  ken  they  wha  lo’e  their  chappin, 
Drink  maks  the  auldest  swack  and  strapping ; 
Gars  Care  forget  the  ills  that  happen — 

The  blate  look  spruce — 

And  even  the  thowless  cock  their  tappin, 

And  craw  fu’  croose ! ' 

The  muster  owre,  the  different  bands 
File  aff  in  parties  to  the  sands  ; 

Where,  ’mid  loud  laughs  and  clapping  hands, 
Gley’d  Geordy  Smith 
Reviews  them,  and  their  line  expands 
Alang  the  Nith ! 

But  ne’er,  for  uniform  or  air, 

Was  sic  a group  reviewed  elsewhere  ! 

The  short,  the  tall ; fat  folk,  and  spare ; 

Syde  coats,  and  dockit ; 

Wigs,  queues,  and  clubs,  and  curly  hair ; 
Round  hats,  and  cockit ! 

As  to  their  guns — thae  fell  engines, 

Borrowed  or  begged,  were  of  a’  kinds 
For  bloody  war,  or  bad  designs, 

Or  shooting  cushies — 

Lang  fowling-pieces,  carabines, 

And  blunderbusses ! 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


Maist  feck,  though  oiled  to  mak  them  glimmer, 
Hadna  been  shot  for  mony  a simmer ; 

And  Fame,  the  story-telling  kimmer, 

Jocosely  hints 

That  some  o’  them  had  hits  o’  timmer 
Instead  o’  flints ! 

Some  guns,  she  threeps,  within  her  ken, 

Were  spiked,  to  let  nae  priming  hen ; 

And,  as  in  twenty  there  were  ten 
Worm-eaten  stocks, 

Sae,  here  and  there,  a rozit-end 
Held  on  their  locks  ! 

And  then,  to  shew  what  difference  stands 
Atween  the  leaders  and  their  bands, 

Swords  that,  unsheathed  since  Prestonpans, 
Neglected  lay,. 

Were  furbished  up,  to  grace  the  hands 
O’  chiefs  this  day  ! 

‘Ohon  !’  says  George,  and  ga’e  a grane, 

‘ The  age  o’  chivalry  is  gane ! ’ 

Syne,  having  owre  and  owre  again 
The  hale  surveyed, 

Their  route,  and  a’  things  else,  made  plain, 

He  snuffed,  and  said  : 

‘ Now,  gentlemen  ! now,  mind  the  motion, 

And  dinna,  this  time,  mak  a botion  : 

Shouther  your  arms  ! 0 ! ha’d  them  tosh  on, 
And  not  athraw  ! 

Wheel  wi’  your  left  hands  to  the  ocean, 

And  march  awa’ ! ’ 

Wi’  that,  the  dinlin  drums  rebound, 

Fifes,  clarionets,  and  hautboys  sound  ! 

Through  crowds  on  crowds,  collected  round, 

The  Corporations 

Trudge  aff,  while  Echo’s  self  is  drowned 
In  acclamations ! 


SIR  ALEXANDER  BOSWELL. 

Sir  Alexander  Boswell  (1775-1822),  the  eldest 
son  of  Johnson’s  biographer,  was  author  of  some 
amusing  songs,  which  are  still  very  popular.  Auld 
Gudeman  ye're  a Drucken  Carle , Jenny's  Bawbee , 
Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver,  &c.,  display  considerable 
comic  humour,  and  coarse  but  characteristic  paint- 
ing. The  higher  qualities  of  simple  rustic  grace 
and  elegance  he  seems  never  to  have  attempted.  In 
1803  Sir  Alexander  collected  his  fugitive  pieces,  and 
published  them  under  the  title  of  Songs  chiefly  in  the 
Scottish  Dialect.  In  1810,  he  published  a Scottish 
dialogue,  in  the  style  of  Fergusson,  called  Edinburgh , 
or  the  Ancient  Royalty ; a Sketch  of  Manners,  by  Simon 
Gray.  This  Sketch  is  greatly  overcharged.  Sir 
Alexander  was  an  ardent  lover  of  our  early  liter- 
ature, and  reprinted  several  works  at  his  private 
printing-press  at  Auchinleck.  When  politics  ran 
high,  he  unfortunately  wrote  some  personal  satires, 
for  one  of  which  he  received  a challenge  from  Mr 
Stuart  of  Dunearn.  The  parties  met  at  Auchtertool, 
in  Fifeshire : conscious  of  his  error,  Sir  Alexander 
resolved  not  to  fire  at  his  opponent ; but  Mr 
Stuart’s  shot  took  effect,  and  the  unfortunate 
baronet  fell.  He  died^from  the  wound  on  the 
following  day,  the  26th  of  March  1822.  He  had 
been  elevated  to  the  baronetcy  only  the  year  pre- 
vious. His  brother,  James  Boswell  (1779-1822), 
an  accomplished  scholar  and  student  of  our  early 
literature,  edited  Malone’s  edition  of  Shakspeare, 
21  vols.  8vo,  1821.  Sir  Alexander  had  just  returned 


SIR  ALEXANDER  BOSWELL. 


from  the  funeral  of  his  brother  when  he  engaged  in 
the  fatal  duel. 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver. 

At  Willie’s  wedding  on  the  green, 

The  lasses,  bonny  witches  ! 

Were  a’  dressed  out  in  aprons  clean, 

And  braw  white  Sunday  mutches  : 

Auld  Maggie  bade  the  lads  tak’  tent, 

But  Jock  would  not  believe  her; 

But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent, 

For  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver; 

But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent, 

For  J enny  dang  the  weaver. 

At  ilka  country- dance  or  reel, 

Wi’  her  he  would  be  bobbing ; 

When  she  sat  down,  he  sat  down, 

And  to  her  would  be  gabbing ; 

Where’er  she  gaed,  baith  butt  and  ben, 

The  coof  would  never  leave  her ; 

Aye  keckling  like  a clocking  hen, 

But  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

Jenny  dang,  &c. 

Quo’  he  : ‘ My  lass,  to  speak  my  mind, 

In  troth  I needna  swither ; 

You’ve  bonny  een,  and  if  you’re  kind, 

I ’ll  never  seek  anither : ’ 

He  hummed  and  hawed,  the  lass  cried,  ‘Peugh,’ 

And  bade  the  coof  no  deave  her ; 

Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh, 

And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 

And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver ; 

Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh, 

And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 

Jenny's  Bawbee. 

I met  four  chaps  yon  birks  amang, 

Wi’  hingin’  lugs,  and  faces  lang ; 

I speered  at  neibour  Bauldy  Strang, 

Wha’s  thae  I see? 

Quo’  he,  ilk  cream-faced,  pawky  chiel, 

Thought  himsel’  cunnin’  as  the  de’il, 

And  here  they  cam,  awa’  to  steal 
Jenny’s  bawbee. 

The  first,  a captain  till  his  trade, 

Wi’  skull  ill  lined,  and  back  weel  clad, 

Marched  round  the  barn,  and  by  the  shed, 

And  pappit  on  his  knee. 

Quo’  he  : ‘My  goddess,  nymph,  and  queen, 

Your  beauty’s  dazzled  baith  my  een ;’ 

But  de’il  a beauty  he  had  seen 

But — Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A lawyer  neist,  wi’  bletherin’  gab, 

Wha  speeches  wove  like  ony  wab, 

In  ilk  ane’s  corn  aye  took  a dab, 

And  a’  for  a fee  : 

Accounts  he  had  through  a’  the  town, 

And  tradesmen’s  tongues  nae  mair  could  drown ; 
Haith  now  he  thought  to  clout  his  gown 
Wi’  Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A norland  laird  neist  trotted  up, 

Wi’  bawsened  naig  and  siller  whup, 

Cried  : ‘ There ’s  my  beast,  lad,  haud  the  grup, 

Or  tie ’t  till  a tree. 

427 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  io  1830. 


‘ What ’s  gowd  to  me  ? — I We  walth  o’  Ian’ ; 

Bestow  on  ane  o’  worth  your  han’ ; ’ 

He  thought  to  pay  what  he  was  awn 
Wi’  Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A’  spruce  frae  ban’boxes  and  tubs, 

A Thing  cam  neist — hut  life  has  rubs — 

Foul  were  the  roads,  and  fou  the  dubs, 

Ah  ! waes  me  ! 

A’  clatty,  squintin’  through  a glass, 

He  gimed,  ‘ I’  faith  a bonny  lass !’ 

He  thought  to  win,  wi’  front  o’  brass, 

Jenny’s  bawbee. 

She  bade  the  laird  gang  comb  his  wig, 

The  sodger  no  to  strut  sae  big, 

The  lawyer  no  to  be  a prig, 

The  fool  cried : ‘ Tehee, 

‘ I kent  that  I could  never  fail ! ’ 

She  preened  the  dish-clout  till  his  tail. 

And  cooled  him  wi’  a water-pail, 

And  kept  her  bawbee. 

Good-Night , and  Joy  be  wi'  ye  a\ 

[This  song  is  supposed  to  proceed  from  the  mouth  of  an  aged 
chieftain.] 

Good -night,  and  joy  be  wi’  ye  a’ ; 

Your  harmless  mirth  has  charmed  my  heart ; 
May  life’s  fell  blasts  out  owre  ye  blaw  ! 

In  sorrow  may  ye  never  part ! 

My  spirit  lives,  but  strength  is  gone ; 

The  mountain-fires  now  blaze  in  vain  : 
Remember,  sons,  the  deeds  I ’ve  done, 

And  in  your  deeds  I ’ll  live  again ! 

When  on  yon  muir  our  gallant  clan 
Frae  boasting  foes  their  banners  tore, 

Wha  shewed  himself  a better  man, 

Or  fiercer  waved  the  red  claymore  ? 

But  when  in  peace — then  mark  me  there — 

When  through  the  glen  the  wanderer  came, 

I gave  him  of  our  lordly  fare, 

I gave  him  here  a welcome  hame. 

The  auld  will  speak,  the  young  maun  hear; 

Be  cantie,  but  be  good  and  leal ; 

Your  ain  ills  aye  hae  heart  to  bear, 

Anither’s  aye  hae  heart  to  feel. 

So,  ere  I set,  I’ll  see  you  shine, 

I’ll  see  you  triumph  ere  I fa’ ; 

My  parting  breath  shall  boast  you  mine — 
Good-night,  and  joy  be  wi’  you  a’. 

[The  High  Street  of  Edinburgh .] 

[From  Edinburgh,  or  the  Ancient  Royalty .] 

Tier  upon  tier  I see  the  mansions  rise, 

Whose  azure  summits  mingle  with  the  skies  ; * 
There,  from  the  earth  the  labouring  porters  bear 
The  elements  of  fire  and  water  high  in  air ; 

There,  as  you  scale  the  steps  with  toilsome  tread, 
The  dripping  barrel  madifies  your  head  ; 

Thence,  as  adown  the  giddy  round  you  wheel, 

A rising  porter  greets  you  with  his  creel ! 

* Sir  Alexander  seems  to  have  remembered  the  fourth  line 
in  Campbell’s  Pleasures  of  Hope : 

Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky. 

But  Campbell  used  to  confess  that  he  stole  his  line  from 
Telford’s  forgotten  poem  on  Eskdale  : 

Here  lofty  hills  in  varied  prospect  rise, 

Whose  airy  summits  mingle  with  the  skies. 

428 


Here,  in  these  chambers,  ever  dull  and  dark, 

The  lady  gay  received  her  gayer  spark, 

Who,  clad  in  silken  coat,  with  cautious  tread, 
Trembled  at  opening  casements  overhead  ; 

But  when  in  safety  at  her  porch  he  trod, 

He  seized  the  ring,  and  rasped  the  twisted  rod. 

No  idlers  then,  I trow,  were  seen  to  meet, 

Linked,  six  a-row,  six  hours  in  Princes  Street ; 

But,  one  by  one,  they  panted  up  the  hill, 

And  picked  their  steps  with  most  uncommon  skill ; 
Then,  at  the  Cross,  each  joined  the  motley  mob — 

‘ How  are  ye,  Tam?  and  how’s  a’  wi’  ye,  Bob?’ 

Next  to  a neighbouring  tavern  all  retired, 

And  draughts  of  wine  their  various  thoughts  inspired. 
O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  beau  would  moan  his  love ; 
O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  cit  his  bargain  drove ; 

O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  writer  penned  the  will ; 
And  legal  wisdom  counselled  o’er  a gill. 

* * * * 

Yes,  mark  the  street,  for  youth  the  great  resort, 

Its  spacious  width  the  theatre  of  sport. 

There,  midst  the  crowd,  the  jingling  hoop  is  driven ; 
Full  many  a leg  is  hit,  and  curse  is  given. 

There,  on  the  pavement,  mystic  forms  are  chalked, 
Defaced,  renewed,  delayed — but  never  balked  ; 

There  romping  Miss  the  rounded  slate  may  drop, 

And  kick  it  out  with  persevering  hop. 

There,  in  the  dirty  current  of  the  strand, 

Boys  drop  the  rival  corks  with  ready  hand, 

And,  wading  through  the  puddle  with  slow  pace, 
Watch  in  solicitude  the  doubtful  race  ! 

And  there,  an  active  band,  with  frequent  boast, 

Vault  in  succession  o’er  each  wooden  post. 

Or  a bold  stripling,  noted  for  his  might, 

Heads  the  array,  and  rules  the  mimic  fight. 

From  hand  and  sling  now  fly  the  whizzing  stones, 
Unheeded  broken  heads  and  broken  bones. 

The  rival  hosts  in  close  engagement  mix, 

Drive  and  are  driven  by  the  dint  of  sticks. 

The  bicker  rages,  till  some  mother’s  fears 
Ring  a sad  story  in  a bailie’s  ears. 

Her  prayer  is  heard ; the  order  quick  is  sped, 

And,  from  that  corps  which  hapless  Porteous  led, 

A brave  detachment,  probably  of  two, 

Rush,  like  two  kites,  upon  the  warlike  crew, 

Who,  struggling,  like  the  fabled  frogs  and  mice, 

Are  pounced  upon,  and  carried  in  a trice. 

But,  mark  that  motley  group,  in  various  garb — 

There  vice  begins  to  form  her  rankling  barb  ; 

The  germ  of  gambling  sprouts  in  pitch-and-toss, 

And  brawl,  successive,  tells  disputed  loss. 

From  hand  to  hand  the  whirling  halfpence  pass, 

And,  every  copper  gone,  they  fly  to  brass. 

Those  polished  rounds  which  decorate  the  coat, 

And  brilliant  shine  upon  some  youth  of  note, 

Offspring  of  Birmingham’s  creative  art, 

Now  from  the  faithful  button-holes  depart. 

To  sudden  twitch  the  rending  stitches  yield, 

And  Enterprise  again  essays  the  field. 

So,  when  a few  fleet  years  of  his  short  span 
Have  ripened  this  dire  passion  in  the  man, 

When  thousand  after  thousand  takes  its  flight 
In  the  short  circuit  of  one  wretched  night, 

Next  shall  the  honours  of  the  forest  fall, 

And  ruin  desolate  the  chieftain’s  hall ; 

Hill  after  hill  some  cunning  clerk  shall  gain ; 

Then  in  a mendicant  behold  a thane ! 

JAMES  HOGG. 

James  Hogg,  generally  known  by  liis  poetical 
name  of  ‘ The  Ettrick  Shepherd,’  was  perhaps  the 
most  creative  and  imaginative  of  the  uneducated 
poets.  His  fancy  had  a wide  range,  picturing  in  its 
I flights  scenes  of  wild  aerial  magnificence  and  beauty. 

I His  taste  was  very  defective,  though  he  had  done 


Scottish  poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  james  hogg. 


much  to  repair  his  early  want  of  instruction.  His 
occupation  of  a shepherd,  among  solitary  hills  and 
glens,  must  have  been'  favourable  to  his  poetical 
enthusiasm.  He  was  not,  like  Burns,  thrown  into 
society  when  young,  and  forced  to  combat  with 


James  Hogg. 


misfortune.  His  destiny  was  unvaried,  until  he  had 
arrived  at  a period  when  the  bent  of  his  genius  was 
fixed  for  life.  Without  society  during  the  day,  his 
evening  hours  were  spent  in  listening  to  ancient 
legends  and  ballads,  of  which  his  mother,  like 
Burns’s,  was  a great  reciter.  This  nursery  of 
imagination  he  has  himself  beautifully  described : 

0 list  the  mystic  lore  sublime 
Of  fairy  tales  of  ancient  time  ! 

1 learned  them  in  the  lonely  glen, 

The  last  abodes  of  living  men, 

Where  never  stranger  came  our  way 
By  summer  night,  or  winter  day ; 

Where  neighbouring  hind  or  cot  was  none — 

Our  converse  was  with  heaven  alone — 

With  voices  through  the  cloud  that  sung, 

And  brooding  storms  that  round  us  hung. 

0 lady,  judge,  if  judge  ye  may, 

How  stern  and  ample  was  the  sway 
Of  themes  like  these  when  darkness  fell, 

And  gray-haired  sires  the  tales  would  tell ! 

When  doors  were  barred,  and  eldern  dame 
Plied  at  her  task  beside  the  flame 
That  through  the  smoke  and  gloom  alone 
On  dim  and  umbered  faces  shone — 

The  bleat  of  mountain-goat  on  high, 

That  from  the  cliff  came  quavering  by ; 

The  echoing  rock,  the  rushing  flood, 

The  cataract’s  swell,  the  moaning  wood ; 

The  undefined  and  mingled  hum — 

Voice  of  the  desert  never  dumb  ! 

All  these  have  left  within  this  heart 
A feeling  tongue  can  ne’er  impart ; 

A wildered  and  unearthly  flame, 

A something  that ’s  without  a name. 

Hogg  was  descended  from  a family  of  shepherds, 
and  born  in  the  vale  of  Ettrick,  Selkirkshire. 
According  to  the  parish  register,  he  was  baptised 


on  the  9th  of  December  1770.  When  a mere 
child  he  was  put  out  to  service,  acting  first 
as  a cow-herd,  until  capable  of  taking  care  of  a 
flock  of  sheep.  He  had  in  all  but  little  schooling, 
though  he  was  too  prone  to  represent  himself  as 
an  uninstructed  prodigy  of  nature.  When  twenty 
years  of  age  he  entered  the  service  of  Mr  Laid- 
law,  Blackhouse.  He  was  then  an  eager  reader 
of  poetry  and  romances,  and  he  subscribed  to  a 
circulating  library  in  Peebles,  the  miscellaneous 
contents  of  which  he  perused  with  the  utmost 
avidity.  He  was  a remarkably  fine-looking  young 
man,  with  a profusion  of  light-brown  hair,  which  he 
wore  coiled  up  under  his  hat  or  blue  bonnet,  the 
envy  of  all  the  country  maidens.  An  attack  of 
illness,  however,  brought  on  by  over-exertion  on  a 
hot  summer  day,  completely  altered  his  countenance, 
and  changed  the  very  form  of  his  features.  His 
first  literary  effort  was  in  song-writing,  and  in  1801 
he  published  a small  volume  of  pieces.  He  was 
introduced  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  by  his  master’s  son, 
Mr  William  Laidlaw,  and  assisted  in  the  collection 
of  old  ballads  for  the  Border  Minstrelsy.  He  soon 
imitated  the  style  of  these  ancient  strains  with 
great  felicity,  and  published  in  1807  another  volume 
of  songs  and  poems,  under  the  title  of  The  Mountain 
Bard.  He  embarked  in  sheep-farming,  and  took  a 
journey  to  the  island  of  Harris  on  a speculation  of 
this  kind ; but  all  he  had  saved  as  a shepherd,  or  by 
his  publication,  was  lost  in  these  attempts.  He 
then  repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and  endeavoured  to 
subsist  by  his  pen.  A collection  of  songs,  The  Forest 
Minstrel  (1810),  was  his  first  effort : his  second  was 
a periodical  called  The  Spy ; but  it  was  not  till  the 
publication  of  The  Queen's  Wake , in  1813,  that  the 
shepherd  established  his  reputation  as  an  author. 
This  ‘legendary  poem’  consists  of  a collection  of 
tales  and  ballads  supposed  to  be  sung  to  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  by  the  native  bards  of  Scotland 
assembled  at  a royal  wake  at  Holyrood,  in  order 
that  the  fair  queen  might  prove 

The  wondrous  powers  of  Scottish  song. 

The  design  was  excellent,  and  the  execution  so 
varied  and  masterly,  that  Hogg  was  at  once  placed 
among  the  first  of  our  native  poets.  The  different 
productions  of  the  native  minstrels  are  strung 
together  by  a thread  of  narrative  so  gracefully 
written  in  many  parts,  that  the  reader  is  surprised 
equally  at  the  delicacy  and  the  genius  of  the  author. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  poem,  Hogg  alludes  to  his 
illustrious  friend  Scott,  and  adverts  with  some  feel- 
ing to  an  advice  which  Sir  Walter  had  once  given 
him,  to  abstain  from  his  worship  of  poetry. 

The  land  was  charmed  to  list  his  lays; 

It  knew  the  harp  of  ancient  days. 

The  border  chiefs  that  long  had  been 
In  sepulchres  unhearsed  and  green, 

Passed  from  their  mouldy  vaults  away 
In  armour  red  and  stern  array, 

And  by  their  moonlight  halls  were  seen 
In  visor,  helm,  and  habergeon. 

Even  fairies  sought  our  land  again 
So  powerful  was  the  magic  strain. 

Blest  be  his  generous  heart  for  aye  ! 

He  told  me  where  the  relic  lay ; 

Pointed  my  way  with  ready  will 
Afar  on  Ettrick’s  wildest  hill ; 

Watched  my  first  notes  with  curious  eye, 

And  wondered  at  my  minstrelsy: 

He  little  weened  a parent’s  tongue 
Such  strains  had  o’er  my  cradle  sung. 

But  when  to  native  feelings  true, 

I struck  upon  a chord  was  new ; 

423 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1880. 

When  by  myself  I ’gan  to  play, 

He  tried  to  wile  my  harp  away. 

Just  when  her  notes  began  with  skill, 

To  sound  beneath  the  southern  hill, 

And  twine  around  my  bosom’s  core, 

How  could  we  part  for  evermore  ? 

’Twas  kindness  all — I cannot  blame — 

For  bootless  is  the  minstrel  flame : 

But  sure  a bard  might  well  have  known 
Another’s  feelings  by  his  own ! 

Scott  was  grieved  at  this  allusion  to  his  friendly 
counsel,  as  it  was  given  at  a time  when  no  one 
dreamed  of  the  shepherd  possessing  the  powers  that 
he  displayed  in  The  Queen’s  Wake.  Various  works 
now  proceeded  from  his  pen — Mador  of  the  Moor , a 
poem  in  the  Spenserian  stanza ; The  Pilgrims  of  the 
Sun,  in  blank  verse ; The  Hunting  of  Badlewe,  The 
Poetic  Mirror , Queen  Hynde,  Dramatic  Tales , &c.  Also 
several  novels,  as  Winter  Evening  Tales,  The  Brownie 
of  Bodsbeclc,  The  Three  Perils  of  Man,  The  Three 
Perils  of  Woman , The  Confessions  of  a Sinner,  &c. 
Hogg’s  prose  is  very  unequal.  He  had  no  skill  in 
arranging  incidents  or  delineating  character.  He  is 
often  coarse  and  extravagant ; yet  some  of  his  stories 
have  much  of  the  literal  truth  and  happy  minute 
painting  of  De  Foe.  The  worldly  schemes  of  the 
shepherd  were  seldom  successful.  Though  he  had 
failed  as  a sheep-farmer,  he  ventured  again,  and  took 
a large  farm,  Mount  Benger,  from  ithe  Duke  of 
Buccleuch.  Here  he  also  was  unsuccessful ; and  his 
sole  support,  for  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  was  the 
remuneration  afforded  by  his  literary  labours.  He 
lived  in  a cottage  which  he  had  built  at  Altrive,  on 
a piece  of  moorland— seventy  acres — presented  to 
him  by  the  Duchess  of  Buccleuch.  His  love  of 
angling  and  field-sports  amounted  to  a passion,  and 
when  he  could  no  longer  fish  or  hunt,  he  declared 
his  belief  that  his  death  was  near.  In  the  autumn 
of  1835  he  was  attacked  with  a dropsical  complaint ; 
and  on  the  21st  of  November  of  that  year,  after  some 
days  of  insensibility,  he  breathed  his  last  as  calmly, 
and  with  as  little  pain,  as  he  ever  fell  asleep  in  his 
gray  plaid  on  the  hillside.  His  death  was  deeply 
mourned  in  the  vale  of  Ettrick,  for  all  rejoiced 
in  his  fame;  and,  notwithstanding  his  personal 
foibles,  the  shepherd  was  generous,  kind-hearted, 
and  charitable  far  beyond  his  means. 

In  the  activity  and  versatility  of  his  powers,  Hogg 
resembled  Allan  Ramsay  more  than  he  did  Burns. 
Neither  of  them  had  the  strength  of  passion  or  the 
grasp  of  intellect  peculiar  to  Burns ; but,  on  the 
other  hand,  their  style  was  more  discursive,  playful, 
and  fanciful.  Burns  seldom  projects  himself,  as  it 
were,  out  of  his  own  feelings  and  situation,  whereas 
both  Ramsay  and  Hogg  are  happiest  when  they  soar 
into  the  world  of  fancy  or  the  scenes  of  antiquity. 
The  Ettrick  Shepherd  abandoned  himself  entirely  to 
the  genius  of  old  romance  and  legendary  story.  He 
loved,  like  Spenser,  to  luxuriate  in  fairy  visions, 
and  to  picture  scenes  of  supernatural  splendour  and 
beauty,  where 

The  emerald  fields  are  of  dazzling  glow, 

And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

His  Kilmeny  is  one  of  the  finest  fairy  tales  that  ever 
was  conceived  by  poet  or  painter ; and  passages  in 
the  Pilgrims  of  the  Sun  have  the  same  abstract 
remote  beauty  and  lofty  imagination.  Burns  would 
have  scrupled  to  commit  himself  to  these  aerial 
phantoms.  His  visions  were  more  material,  and 
linked  to  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  actual  existence. 
Akin  to  this  peculiar  feature  in  Hogg’s  poetry  is 
the  spirit  of  most  of  his  songs— a wild  lyrical  flow 
430 

of  fancy,  that  is  sometimes  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
musical.  He  wanted  art  to  construct  a fable,  and 
taste  to  give  due  effect  to  his  imagery  and  concep- 
tions ; but  there  are  few  poets  who  impress  us  so 
much  with  the  idea  of  direct  inspiration,  and  that 
poetry  is  indeed  an  art 1 unteachable  and  untaught.’ 

Bonny  Kilmeny. 

[From  The  Queen's  Wake. ] 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira’s  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 

And  pu’  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring ; 

The  scarlet  hypp  and  the  hindberrye, 

And  the  nut  that  hang  frae  the  hazel-tree ; 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o’er  the  wa’, 

And  lang  may  she  seek  i’  the  greenwood  shaw ; 

Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 

And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame  ! 

When  many  a day  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 

When  mass  for  Kilmeny’s  soul  had  been  sung, 

When  the  beadsman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead-bell  rung,  i 
Late,  late  in  a gloamin,  when  all  was  still, 

When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin’  hill, 

The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i’  the  wane, 

The  reek  o’  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain 
Like  a little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane ; 

When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 

Late,  late  in  the  gloamin,  Kilmeny  came  hame ! 

‘ Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? 

Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  dean ; 

By  linn,  by  ford,  and  greenwood  tree, 

Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 

Where  gat  ye  that  joup  o’  the  lily  sheen  ? 

That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green  ? 

And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen  ? 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? ’ 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a lovely  grace, 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny’s  face  ; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  e’e, 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare ; 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew, 
But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung, 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her  tongue, 

When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 

And  a land  where  sin  had  never  been.  . . . 

In  yon  greenwood  there  is  a waik, 

And  in  that  waik  there  is  a wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a maike 
That  neither  hath  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane ; 

And  down  in  yon  greenwood  he  walks  his  lane ! 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 

Her  bosom  happed  wi’  the  flowrets  gay ; 

But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 

And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep ; 

She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  e’e, 

Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a far  countrye, 

She  wakened  on  a couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 

All  striped  wi’  the  bars  of  the  rainbow’s  rim ; 

And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 

Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life.  . . . 

They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair, 

They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kamed  her  hair, 

And  round  came  many  a blooming  fere, 

Saying : ‘Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye’re  welcome  here  !’ 

* * * * 

SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 

And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a sunless  day ; 

The  sky  was  a dome  of  crystal  bright, 

The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 

The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 

And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 

That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven  when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by ; 

And  she  heard  a song,  she  heard  it  sung, 

She  kend  not  where,  but  sae  sweetly  it  rung, 

It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a dream  of  the  morn. 

‘ 0 ! blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 

Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken  what  a woman  may  be ! 

The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae  bright, 

A borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 

And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 

Like  a gowden  bow,  or  a beamless  sun, 

Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair, 

And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling  the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 

When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed  away ; 
When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome  doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom  !’ 

* * * * 

Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye, 

To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 

And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen.  . . . 
With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 

And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 

All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  greenwood  wene. 
When  seven  lang  years  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  was  calm  and  hope  was  dead, 

When  scarce  was  remembered  Kilmeny’s  name, 
Late,  late  in  a gloamin  Kilmeny  came  hame  ! 

And  oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 

But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e’e ; 

Such  beauty  bard  may' never  declare, 

For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 

And  the  soft  desire  of,  maiden’s  een, 

In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 

Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower ; 

And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melody e, 

That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men, 

Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 

To  suck  the  flowers  and  drink  the  spring, 

But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheered  ; 

The  wolf  played  blithely  round  the  field, 

The  lordly  bison  lowed  and  kneeled, 

The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 

And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  when  at  eve  the  woodlands  rung, 

When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung, 

In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 

Oh,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion ; 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 

And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed ; 

Even  the.dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 

And  murmured,  and  looked  with  anxious  pain 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock ; 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock ; 

The  black-bird  alang  wi’  the  eagle  flew ; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o’er  the  dew ; 

The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began, 

And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and.  the  leveret  ran ; 


JAMES  HOGG. 


The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 

And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooyed  their  young ; 
And  all  in  a peaceful  ring  were  hurled : 

It  was  like  an  eve  in  a sinless  world  ! 

When  a month  and  a day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  greenwood  wene, 

There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  so  green, 

And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen  ! 

To  the  Comet  of  1811. 

How  lovely  is  this  wildered  scene, 

As  twilight  from  her  vaults  so  blue 
Steals  soft  o’er  Yarrow’s  mountains  green  . 

To  sleep  embalmed  in  midnight  dew  ! 

All  hail,  ye  hills,  whose  towering  height, 

Like  shadows,  scoops  the  yielding  sky ! 

And  thou,  mysterious  guest  of  night, 

Dread  traveller  of  immensity ! 

Stranger  of  heaven  ! I bid  thee  hail ! 

Shred  from  the  pall  of  glory  riven, 

That  flashest  in  celestial  gale, 

Broad  pennon  of  the  King  of  Heaven  ! 

Art  thou  the  flag  of  woe  and  death, 

From  angel’s  ensign-staff1  unfurled  ? 

Art  thou  the  standard  of  his  wrath 
Waved  o’er  a sordid  sinful  world  ? 

No,  from  that  pure  pellucid  beam, 

That  erst  o’er  plains  of  Bethlehem  shone,* 

No  latent  evil  we  can  deem, 

Bright  herald  of  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Whate’er  portends  thy  front  of  fire, 

Thy  streaming  locks  so  lovely  pale — 

Or  peace  to  man,  or  judgments  dire, 

Stranger  of  heaven,  I bid  thee  hail ! 

Where  hast  thou  roamed  these  thousand  years  ? 

Why  sought  these  polar  paths  again, 

From  wilderness  of  glowing  spheres, 

To  fling  thy  vesture  o’er  the  wain  ? 

And  when  thou  scal’st  the  Milky-way, 

And  vanishest  from  human  view, 

A thousand  worlds  shall  hail  thy  ray 
Through  wilds  of  yon  empyreal  blue  ! 

0 ! on  thy  rapid  prow  to  glide  ! 

To  sail  the  boundless  skies  with  thee, 

And  plough  the  twinkling  stars  aside, 

Like  foam-bells  on  a tranquil  sea  ! 

To  brush  the  embers  from  the  sun, 

The  icicles  from  off  the  pole ; 

Then  far  to  other  systems  run, 

Where  other  moons  and  planets  roll ! 

Stranger  of  heaven  ! 0 let  thine  eye 
Smile  on  a rapt  enthusiast’s  dream ; 

Eccentric  as  thy  course  on  high, 

And  airy  as  thine  ambient  beam  ! 

And  long,  long  may  thy  silver  ray 
Our  northern  arch  at  eve  adorn ; 

Then,  wheeling  to  the  east  away, 

Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  morn  ! 

* It  was  reckoned  by  many  that  this  was  the  same  comet 
which  appeared  at  the  birth  of  our  Saviour.— Hogg. 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Song — When  the  Eye  comes  Hame. 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds 
That  whistle  through  the  glen, 

I’ll  tell  ye  of  a secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  ; 

What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o’  man  can  name  ? 
’Tis  to  woo  a bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 
’Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk, 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 


’Tis  not  beneath  the  coronet, 

Nor  canopy  of  state, 

’Tis  not  on  couch  of  velvet, 

Nor  arbour  of  the  great— 

’Tis  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 

Wi’  a bonny,  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

There  the  black-bird  bigs  his  nest 
For  the  mate  he  lo’es  to  see, 

And  on  the  topmost  bough, 

0,  a happy  bird  is  he ! 

Then  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  a’  the  theme, 

And  he  ’ll  woo  his  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  blewart  bears  a pearl, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a pea, 

And  the  bonny  lucken  gowan 
Has  fauldit  up  her  e’e, 

Then  the  lavrock  frae  the  blue  lift, 
Draps  down,  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd 
That  lingers  on  the  hill — 

His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still ; 

Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed, 

For  his  heart  is  in  a flame 
To  meet  his  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 
Rises  high  in  the  breast, 

And  the  little  wee  bit  stam 
Rises  red  in  the  east, 

0 there ’s  a joy  sae  dear, 

That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame, 
Wi’  a bonny,  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Then  since  all  nature  joins 
In  this  love  without  alloy, 

0,  wha  wad  prove  a traitor 
To  nature’s  dearest  joy  ? 

Or  wha  wad  choose  a crown, 

Wi’  its  perils  and  its  fame, 

And  miss  his  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 
’Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk, 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 


The  Skylark. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o’er  moorland  and  lea  ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

0 to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth, 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O’er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O’er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

O’er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow’s  rim, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

0 to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

Allan  Cunningham,  a happy  imitator  of  the  old 
Scottish  ballads,  and  a man  of  various  talents,  was 
born  at  Blackwood,  near  Dalswinton,  Dumfriesshire, 
December  7,  1784.  His  father  was  gardener  to  a 
neighbouring  proprietor,  but  shortly  afterwards 
became  factor  or  land-steward  to  Mr  Miller  of 
Dalswinton,  Burns’s  landlord  at  Ellisland.  Mr 
Cunningham  had  few  advantages  in  his  early  days, 


unless  it  might  be  residence  in  a fine  pastoral  and 
romantic  district,  then  consecrated  by  the  presence 
and  the  genius  of  Burns.  His  uncle  having  attained 
some  eminence  as  a country  builder,  or  mason, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM". 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


I Allan  was  apprenticed  to  him,  with  a view  to 
joining  or  following  him  in  his  trade ; but  he 
abandoned  this,  and  in  1810  removed  to  London, 
and  connected  himself  with  the  newspaper  press. 

; In  1814  he  was  engaged  as  clerk  of  the  works,  or 
j superintendent,  to  the  late  Sir  Francis  Chantrey, 

| the  eminent  sculptor,  in  whose  establishment  he 
continued  till  his  death,  October  29,  1842.  Mr 
Cunningham  was  an  indefatigable  writer.  He 
■early  contributed  poetical  effusions  to  the  period- 
ical works  of  the  day,  and  nearly  all  the  songs 
and  fragments  of  verse  in  Cromek’s  Remains  of 
Nithsdcile  and  Galloway  Song  (1810)  are  of  his 
composition,  though  published  by  Cromek  as  un- 
doubted originals.  Some  of  these  are  warlike  and 
Jacobite,  some  amatory  and  devotional — the  wild 
lyrical  breathings  of  Covenanting  love  and  piety 
among  the  hills— and  all  of  them  abounding  in 
traits  of  Scottish  rural  life  and  primitive  manners. 
As  songs,  they  are  not  pitched  in  a key  to  be 
popular ; but  for  natural  grace  and  tenderness,  and 
rich  Doric  simplicity  and  fervour,  these  pseudo- 
antique strains  of  Mr  Cunningham  are  inimitable. 

I In  1822  he  published  Sir  Marmaduke  Maxwell , a 
I dramatic  poem,  founded  on  Border  story  and  super- 
stition, and  afterwards  two  volumes  of  Traditional 
Tales.  Three  novels  of  a similar  description,  but 
more  diffuse  and  improbable — namely,  Paul  Jones , 
Sir  Michael  Scott , and  Lord  Roldan — also  proceeded 
! from  his  fertile  pen.  In  1832  he  appeared  again  as 
a poet,  with  a ‘rustic  epic,’  in  twelve  parts,  entitled 
The  Maid  of  Elvar.  He  edited  a collection  of  Scot- 
tish songs,  in  four  volumes,  and  an  edition  of  Burns 
in  eight  volumes,  to  which  he  prefixed  a life  of  the 
poet,  enriched  with  new  anecdotes  and  information. 
To  Murray’s  Family  Library  he  contributed  a series 
of  Lives  of  Eminent  British  Painters , Sculptors , and 
Architects , which  extended  to  six  volumes,  and 
proved  the  most  popular  of  all  his  prose  works. 
His  last  work — completed  just  two  days  before  his 
j death — was  a Life  of  Sir  David  Wilkie,  the  distin- 
j guished  artist,  in  three  volumes.  All  these  literary 
labours  were  produced  in  intervals  from  his  stated 
avocations  in  Chantrey’s  studio,  which  most  men 
would  have  considered  ample  employment.  His 
taste  and  attainments  in  the  fine  arts  were  as 
j remarkable  a feature  in  his  history  as  his  early 
J ballad  strains ; and  the  prose  style  of  Mr  Cunning- 
i ham,  when  engaged  on  a congenial  subject,  was 
j justly  admired  for  its  force  and  freedom.  There 
was  always  a freshness  and  energy  about  the  man 
and  his  writings  that  arrested  the  attention  and 
excited  the  imagination,  though  his  genius  was  but 
little  under  the  control  of  a correct  or  critical 
judgment.  Strong  nationality  and  inextinguishable 
ardour  formed  conspicuous  traits  in  his  character; 
and  altogether,  the  life  of  Mr  Cunningham  was  a 
fine  example  of  successful  original  talent  and  perse- 
verance, undebased  by  any  of  the  alloys  by  which 
the  former  is  too  often  accompanied. 


The  Young  Maxwell. 

* Where  gang  ye,  thou  silly  auld  carle  ? 

And  what  do  ye  carry  there?’ 

* I ’m  gaun  to  the  hillside,  thou  sodger  gentleman, 

To  shift  my  sheep  t^jeir  lair.’ 

Ae  stride  or  twa  took  the  silly  auld  carle, 

An’  a gude  lang  stride  took  he  : 

* I trow  thou  to  be  a feck  auld  carle, 

Will  ye  shaw  the  way  to  me?’ 

BO 


And  he  has  gane  wi’  the  silly  auld  carle, 

Adown  by  the  greenwood  side  ; 

‘ Light  down  and  gang,  thou  sodger  gentleman, 

For  here  ye  canna  ride.’ 

He  drew  the  reins  o’  his  bonny  gray  steed, 

An’  lightly  down  he  sprang : 

Of  the  comeliest  scarlet  was  his  weir  coat, 

Whare  the  gowden  tassels  hang. 

He  has  thrown  aff  his  plaid,  the  silly  auld  carle, 
An’  his  bonnet  frae  ’boon  his  bree ; 

An’  wha  was  it  but  the  young  Maxwell ! 

An’  his  gude  brown  sword  drew  he  ! 

‘ Thou  killed  my  father,  thou  vile  South’ron  ! 

An’  ye  killed  my  brethren  three  ! 

Whilk  brake  the  heart  o’  my  ae  sister, 

I loved  as  the  light  o’  my  e’e  ! 

‘ Draw  out  yere  sword,  thou  vile  South’ron  t 
Red  wat  wi’  blude  o’  my  kin  ! 

That  sword  it  crapped  the  bonniest  flower 
E’er  lifted  its  head  to  the  sun  ! 

‘ There ’s  ae  sad  stroke  for  my  dear  auld  father  ! 

There ’s  twa  for  my  brethren  three  ! 

An’  there’s  ane  to  thy  heart  for  my  ae  sister, 
Wham  I loved  as  the  light  o’  my  e’e.’ 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

0 hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie*! 

When  the  flower  is  i’  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on  the 
tree, 

The  larks  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countrie  ; 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

0 hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  green  leaf  o’  loyalty ’s  begun  for  to  fa’, 

The  bonny  white  rose  it  is  withering  an’  a’ ; 

But  I ’ll  water ’t  wi’  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannie, 
An’  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

0 hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

0 there’s  naught  frae  ruin  my  country  can  save, 

But  the  keys  o’  kind  heaven  to  open  the  grave, 

That  a’  the  noble  martyrs  wha  died  for  loyaltie, 

May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countrie. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

0 hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  great  are  now  gane,  a’  wha  ventured  to  save, 

The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o’  their  graves; 
But  the  sun  through  the  mirk  blinks  blithe  in  my  e’e, 
‘ I ’ll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  yer  ain  countrie.’ 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

[. Fragment .] 

Gane  were  but  the  winter-caukl, 

And  gane  were  but  the  snaw, 

I could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods, 

Where  primroses  blaw. 

Cauld ’s  the  snaw  at  my  head, 

And  cauld  at  my  feet, 

And  the  finger  o’  death’s  at  my  een, 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 

Let  nane  tell  my  father, 

Or  my  mither  sae  dear, 

I ’ll  meet  them  baitli  in  heaven 
At  the  spring  o’  the  year. 

433 


FROil  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


She 's  Gane  to  Dwa.ll  in  Heaven. 


My  Xante  0. 


to  1830. 


She’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 

She ’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven : 

Ye  ’re  owre  pure,  quo’  the  voice  o’  God, 

For  dwalling  out  o’  heaven  ! 

0 what  'll  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie  ? 

0 what  ’ll  she  do  in  heaven  ? 

She  ’ll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi’  angels’  sangs, 
An’  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a’,  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a’ ; 

But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi’  her, 

An’  took  her  frae  us  a’. 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Low  there  thou  lies ; 

A bonnier  form  ne’er  went  to  the  yird, 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise ! 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee  ; 

Thou  left  me  nought  to  covet  ahin’, 

But  took  gudeness  sel’  wi’  thee. 

1 looked  on  thy  death -cold  face,  my  lassie, 

1 looked  on  thy  death-cold  face ; 

Thou  seemed  a lily  new  cut  i’  the  bud, 

An’  fading  in  its  place. 

I looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 

I looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye ; 

An’  a lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne’er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o’  heaven 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There ’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie, 
There ’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine ; 

My  saul’s  wi’  thee  i’  the  cauld  grave, 

An’  why  should  I stay  behin’ ! 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Floicing  Sea. 

A wet  sheet  and  a flowing  sea, 

A wind  that  follows  fast. 

And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

0 for  a soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I heard  a fair  one  cry ; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There ’s  tempest  in  yon  homed  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 

And  hark  the  music,  mariners, 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

434 


Bed  rows  the  Nith  ’tween  bank  and  brae, 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainie  0, 

Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in  storm, 
I ’ll  gang  and  see  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nanie  0, 

She  holds  my  heart  in  love’s  dear  bands. 

And  nane  can  do ’t  but  Nanie  0. 

In  preaching-time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonny  0, 

I cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace, 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

The  world ’s  in  love  with  Nanie  0 ; 

That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 
That  wadna  love  my  Nanie  0. 

My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart, 

When  dancing  she  moves  finely  0 ; 

I guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes, 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

The  flower  o’  Nithsdale ’s  Nanie  0 ; 

Love  looks  frae  ’neath  her  lang  brown  hair, 
And  says,  I dwell  with  Nanie  0. 

Tell  not,  thou  star  at  gray  daylight, 

O’er  Tinwald-top  so  bonny  0, 

My  footsteps  ’mang  the  morning  dew 
When  coming  frae  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

Nane  ken  o’  me  and  Nanie  0 ; 

The  stars  and  moon  may  tell ’t  aboon, 

They  winna  wrang  my  Nanie  0 ! 

The  Poets  Bridal-day  Song. 

0 ! my  love ’s  like  the  steadfast  sun, 

Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 

Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 

Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears — 

Nor  nights  of  thought  nor  days  of  pain, 

Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain — 

Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  which  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I muse,  I see  thee  sit 
In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit — 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I sued. 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 
As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 
Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  lingered  ’mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet ; 

And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye,  and  touched  thy  rose ; 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
All  that  charms  me  of  tale  or  song ; 

When  words  come  down  like  dews  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought, 

And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free — 

They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

0,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 
To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold ; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


"WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


’Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o’er 
What  things  should  deck  our  humble  bower ! 
’Twas  sweet  to  pull  in  hope  with  thee 
The  golden  fruit  from  Fortune’s  tree ; 

And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A garland  for  these  locks  of  thine — 

A song- wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow  and  woods  are  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought — 

When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 

And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant’s  bower, 
Shines  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower, 
0,  then  I see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A mother’s  heart  shine  in  thine  eye ; 

And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek, 

Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak : 

I think  the  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  that ’s  not  divine. 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 

In  1812  appeared  a singular  mock-heroic  poem, 
Anster  Fair , written  in  the  ottava  rima  stanza,  since 
made  so  popular  by  Byron  in  his  Beppo  and  Don 
Juan.  The  subject  was  the  marriage  of  Maggie 
Lauder,  the  famous  heroine  of  Scottish  song,  hut 
the  author  wrote  not  for  the  multitude  familihr 
with  Maggie’s  rustic  glory.  He  aimed  at  pleasing 
the  admirers  of  that  refined  conventional  poetry 
half  serious  and  sentimental,  and  half  ludicrous  and 
satirical,  which  was  cultivated  by  Berni,  Ariosto, 
and  the  lighter  poets  of  Italy.  There  was  classic 
imagery  on  familiar  subjects — supernatural  ma- 
chinery (as  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock ) blended  with 
the  ordinary  details  of  domestic  life,  and  with  lively 
and  fanciful  description.  An  exuberance  of  animal 
spirits  seemed  to  carry  the  author  over  the  most 
perilous  ascents,  and  his  wit  and  fancy  were  rarely 
at  fault.  Such  a pleasant  sparkling  volume,  in  a 
style  then  unhackneyed,  was  sure  of  success.  Anster 
j Fair  sold  rapidly,  and  has  since  been  often  repub- 
lished. The  author,  William  Tennant,  was  a 
native  of  Anstruther,  or  Anster,  who,  whilst  filling 
the  situation  of  clerk  in  a mercantile  establishment, 
studied  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and  taught 
himself  Hebrew.  His  attainments  were  rewarded 
in  1813  with  an  appointment  as  parish-schoolmaster, 
to  which  was  attached  a salary  of  £40  per  annum — 
a reward  not  unlike  that  conferred  on  Mr  Abraham 
Adams  in  Joseph  Andrews , who  being  a scholar  and 
man  of  virtue,  was  ‘ provided  with  a handsome 
income  of  £23  a year,  which,  however,  he  could  not 
make  a great  figure  with,  because  he  lived  in  a 
dear  country,  and  was  a little  encumbered  with  a 
wife  and  six  children.’  The  author  of  Anster  Fair 
was  afterwards  appointed  to  a more  eligible  and 
becoming  situation — teacher  of  classical  and  oriental 
languages  in  Dollar  Institution,  and  finally  pro- 
fessor of  oriental  languages  in  St  Mary’s  College, 
St  Andrews.  He  died  in  1848.  Mr  Tennant  pub- 
lished some  other  poetical  works — a tragedy  on  the 
story  of  Cardinal  Beaton,  and  two  poems,  the  Thane 
of  Fife , and  the  Dinging  Down  of  the  Cathedral.  It 
was  said  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  that  he  took  most  of 
the  figures  in  his  pictures  from  living  characters  in 
the  county  of  Fife,  familTar  to  him  in  his  youth  : it 
is  more  certain  that  Mr  Tennant’s  poems  are  all  on 
native  subjects  in  the  same  district.  Indeed,  their 
strict  locality  has  been  against  their  popularity; 
but  Anster  Fair  is  the  most  diversified  and  richly 
humorous  of  them  all,  and  besides  being  an  ani- 


mated, witty,  and  agreeable  poem,  it  has  the  merit 
of  being  the  first  work  of  the  kind  in  our  language. 
The  Monks  and  Giants  of  Frere,  from  which  Byron 
avowedly  drew  his  Beppo , did  not  appear  till  some 
time  after  Mr  Tennant’s  poem.  Of  the  higher  and 
more  poetical  parts  of  Anster  Fair , we  subjoin  a 
specimen : 

I wish  I had  a cottage  snug  and  neat 
Upon  the  top  of  many  fountained  Ide, 

That  I might  thence,  in  holy  fervour,  greet 

The  bright-gowned  Morning  tripping  up  her  side : 
And  when  the  low  Sun’s  glory-buskined  feet 
Walk  on  the  blue  wave  of  the  iEgean  tide, 

Oh  ! I would  kneel  me  down,  and  worship  there 
The  God  who  garnished  out  a world  so  bright  and 
fair ! 

The  saffron-elbowed  Morning  up  the  slope 
Of  heaven  canaries  in  her  jewelled  shoes, 

And  throws  o’er  Kelly-law’s  sheep-nibbled  top 
Her  golden  apron  dripping  kindly  dews ; 

And  never,  since  she  first  began  to  hop 

Up  heaven’s  blue  causeway,  of  her  beams  profuse, 
Shone  there  a dawn  so  glorious  and  so  gay, 

As  shines  the  merry  dawn  of  Anster  market-day. 

Round  through  the  vast  circumference  of  sky 
One  speck  of  small  cloud  cannot  eye  behold, 

Save  in  the  east  some  fleeqes  bright  of  dye, 

That  stripe  the  hem  of  heaven  with  woolly  gold, 
Whereon  are  happy  angels  wont  to  lie 
Lolling,  in  amaranthine  flowers  enrolled, 

That  they  may  spy  the  precious  light  of  God, 

Flung  from  the  blessed  East  o’er  the  fair  Earth  abroad. 

The  fair  Earth  laughs  through  all  her  boundless  range, 
Heaving  her  green  hills  high  to  greet  the  beam; 

City  and  village,  steeple,  cot,  and  grange, 

Gilt  as  with  Nature’s  purest  leaf-gold  seem ; 

The  heaths  and  upland  muirs,  and  fallows,  change 
Their  barren  brown  into  a ruddy  gleam, 

And,  on  ten  thousand  dew-bent  leaves  and  sprays, 
Twinkle  ten  thousand  suns,  and  fling  their  petty  rays. 

Up  from  their  nests  and  fields  of  tender  corn 
Full  merrily  the  little  sky-larks  spring, 

And  on  their  dew-bedabbled  pinions  borne, 

Mount  to  the  heaven’s  blue  key-stone  flickering ; 
They  turn  their  plume-soft  bosoms  to  the  morn, 

And  hail  the  genial  light,  and  cheer’ly  sing ; 

Echo  the  gladsome  hills  and  valleys  round, 

As  half  the  bells  of  Fife  ring  loud  and  swell  the  sound. 

For  when  the  first  upsloping  ray  was  flung 
On  Anster  steeple’s  swallow-harbouring  top, 

Its  bell  and  all  the  bells  around  were  rung 
Sonorous,  jangling,  loud,  without  a stop ; 

For,  toilingly,  each  bitter  beadle  swung, 

Even  till  he  smoked  with  sweat,  his  greasy  rope, 

And  almost  broke  his  bell-wheel,  ushering  in 
The  morn  of  Anster  Fair  with  tinkle-tankling  din. 

And,  from  our  steeple’s  pinnacle  outspread, 

The  town’s  long  colours  flare  and  flap  on  high, 

Whose  anchor,  blazoned  fair  in  green  and  red, 

Curls,  pliant  to  each  breeze  that  whistles  by ; 

Whilst  on  the  boltsprit,  stern,  and  topmast  head 
Of  brig  and  sloop  that  in  the  harbour  lie,. 

Streams  the  red  gaudery  of  flags  in  air, 

All  to  salute  and  grace  the  morn  of  Anster  Fair. 

The  description  of  the  heroine  is  passionate  and 
imaginative. 

435 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Her  form  was  as  the  Morning’s  blithesome  star, 

That,  capped  with  lustrous  coronet  of  beams, 

Rides  up  the  dawning  orient  in  her  car, 

New-washed,  and  doubly  fulgent  from  the  streams — 
The  Chaldee  shepherd  eyes  her  light  afar, 

And  on  his  knees  adores  her  as  she  gleams ; 

So  shone  the  stately  form  of  Maggie  Lauder, 

And  so  the  admiring  crowds  pay  homage  and  applaud 
her. 

Each  little  step  her  trampling  palfrey  took, 

Shaked  her  majestic  person  into  grace, 

And  as  at  times  his  glossy  sides  she  strook 
Endearingly  with  whip’s  green  silken  lace — 

The  prancer  seemed  to  court  such  kind  rebuke, 

I Loitering  with  wilful  tardiness  of  pace — 

By  Jove,  the  very  waving  of  her  arm 

Had  power  a brutish  lout  to  unbrutify  and  charm  ! 

Her  face  was  as  the  summer  cloud,  whereon 
The  dawning  sun  delights  to  rest  his  rays ! 
Compared  with  it,  old  Sharon’s  vale,  o’ergrown 
With  flaunting  roses,  had  resigned  its  praise  : 

For  why?  Her  face  with  heaven’s  own  roses  shone, 
Mocking  the  morn,  and  witching  men  to  gaze  ; 

And  he  that  gazed  with  cold  unsmitten  soul, 

That  blockhead’s  heart  was  ice  thrice  baked  beneath 
the  Pole. 

Her  locks,  apparent  tufts'  of  wiry  gold, 

Lay  on  her  lily  temples,  fairly  dangling, 

And  on  each  hair,  so  harmless  to  behold, 

A lover’s  soul  hung  mercilessly  strangling ; 

The  piping  silly  zephyrs  vied  to  unfold 

The  tresses  in  their  arms  so  slim  and  tangling, 

And  thrid  in  sport  these  lover-noosing  snares, 

And  played  at  hide-and-seek  amid  the  golden  hairs. 

Her  eye  was  as  an  honoured  palace,  where 
A choir  of  lightsome  Graces  frisk  and  dance ; 

What  object  drew  her  gaze,  how  mean  soe’er, 

Got  dignity  and  honour  from  the  glance ; 

Woe  to  the  man  on  whom  she  unaware 
Did  the  dear  witchery  of  her  eye  elanCe ! 

’Twas  such  a thrilling,  killing,  keen  regard — 

May  Heaven  from  such  a look  preserve  each  tender 
bard ! 

His  humour  and  lively  characteristic  painting  are  | 
well  displayed  in  the  account  of  the  different  parties 
who,  gay  and  fantastic,  flock  to  the  fair,  as  Chaucer’s  ! 
pilgrims  did  to  the  shrine  of  Thomas-a-Becket. 
The  following  verses  describe  the  men  from  the 
• north: 

Comes  next  from  Ross-shire  and  from  Sutherland 
The  horny-knuckled  kilted  Highlandman  : 

From  where  upon  the  rocky  Caithness  strand 
Breaks  the  long  wave  that  at  the  Pole  began, 

And  where  Lochfine  from  her  prolific  sand 
Her  herrings  gives  to  feed  each  bordering  clan, 
Arrive  the  brogue-shod  men  of  generous  eye, 

Plaided  and  breechless  all,  with  Esau’s  hairy  thigh. 

They  come  not  now  to  fire  the  Lowland  stacks, 

Or  foray  on  the  banks  of  Fortha’s  firth ; 

Claymore  and  broadsword,  and  Lochaber  axe, 

Are  left  to  rust  above  the  smoky  hearth ; 

Their  only  arms  are  bagpipes  now  and  sacks ; 

Their  teeth  are  set  most  desperately  for  mirth  ; 

And  at  their  broad  and  sturdy  backs  are  hung 
I Great  wallets,  crammed  with  cheese  and  bannocks  and 

I cold  tongue. 

436 


Nor  staid  away  the  Islanders,  that  lie 
To  buffet  of  the  Atlantic  surge  exposed ; 

From  Jura,  Arran,  Barra,  Uist,  and  Skye, 

Piping  they  come,  unshaved,  unbreeched,  unhosed ; 
And  from  that  Isle,  whose  abbey,  structured  high. 
Within  its  precincts  holds  dead  kings  enclosed, 
Where  St  Columba  oft  is  seen  to  waddle 
Gowned  round  with  flaming  fire  upon  the  spire 
astraddle. 

Next  from  the  far-famed  ancient  town  of  Ayr — 
Sweet  Ayr  ! with  crops  of  ruddy  damsels  blest, 
That,  shooting  up,  and  waxing  fat  and  fair, 

Shine  on  thy  braes,  the  lilies  of  the  west ! — ■ 

And  from  Dumfries,  and  from  Kilmarnock — where 
Are  night-caps  made,  the  cheapest  and  the  best — 
Blithely  they  ride  on  ass  and  mule,  with  sacks 
In  lieu  of  saddles  placed  upon  their  asses’  backs. 

Close  at  their  heels,  bestriding  well-trapped  nag, 

Or  humbly  riding  asses’  backbone  bare, 

Come  Glasgow’s  merchants,  each  with  money-bag, 

To  purchase  Dutch  lintseed  at  Anster  Fair — 
Sagacious  fellows  all,  who  well  may  brag 
Of  virtuous  industry  and  talents  rare ; 

The  accomplished  men  o’  the  counting-room  confest, 
And  fit  to  crack  a joke  or  argue  with  the  best 

Nor  keep  their  homes  the  Borderers,  that  stay 
Where  purls  the  Jed,  and  Esk,  and  little  Liddel, 
Men  that  can  rarely  on  the  bagpipe  play, 

And  wake  the  unsober  spirit  of  the  fiddle ; 

Avowed  freebooters,  that  have  many  a day 

Stolen  sheep  and  cow,  yet  never  owned  they  did  ill ; 
Great  rogues,  for  sure  that  wight  is  but  a rogue 
That  blots  the  eighth  command  from  Moses’  decalogue. 

And  some  of  them  in  sloop  of  tarry  side, 

Come  from  North-Berwick  harbour  sailing  out ; 
Others,  abhorrent  of  the  sickening  tide, 

Have  ta’en  the  road  by  Stirling  brig  about. 

And  eastward  now  from  long  Kirkcaldy  ride. 

Slugging  on  their  slow-gaited  asses  stout, 

While  dangling  at  their  backs  are  bagpipes  hung, 

And  dangling  hangs  a tale  on  every  rhymer’ s tongue. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

William  Motherwell  (1797-1835)  was  bom  in 
Glasgow,  but,  after  his  eleventh  year,  was  brought 
up  under  the  care  of  an  uncle  in  Paisley.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  he  was  appointed  deputy  to  the 
sheriff-clerk  at  that  town.  He  early  evinced  a love 
of  poetry,  and  in  1819  became  editor  of  a miscellany, 
entitled  the  Harp  of  Renfrewshire.  A taste  for 
antiquarian  research — 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose — 

divided  with  the  muse  the  empire  of  Motherwell’s 
genius,  and  he  attained  an  unusually  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  early  history  of  our  native 
literature,  particularly  in  the  department  of  tradi- 
tionary poetry.  The  results  of  this  erudition 
appeared  in  Minstrelsy  Ancient  and  Modern  (1827), 
a collection  of  Scottish  ballads,  prefaced  by  a 
historical  introduction,  which  must  be  the  basis  of 
all  future  investigations  into  the  subject.  In  the 
following  year  he  became  editor  of  a weekly  journal 
in  Paisley,  and  established  a magazine  there,  to 
which  he  contributed  some  of  his  happiest  poetical 
effusions.  The  talent  and  spirit  which  he  evinced 
in  his  editorial  duties,  were  the  means  of  advancing 
him  to  the  more  important  office  of  conducting  the 
Glasgow  Courier , in  which  situation  he  continued 
till  his  death.  In  1832  he  collected  and  published 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


his  poems  in  one  volume.  He  also  joined  with 
Hogg  in  editing  the  works  of  Burns ; and  he  was 
collecting  materials  for  a life  of  Tannahill,  when  he 
was  suddenly  cut  off  by  a fit  of  apoplexy  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-eight.  The  taste,  enthusiasm, 
and  social  qualities  of  Motherwell,  rendered  him 
very  popular  among  his  townsmen  and  friends.  As 
an  antiquary,  he  was  shrewd,  indefatigable,  and 
truthful.  As  a poet,  he  was  happiest  in  pathetic  or 
sentimental  lyrics,  though  his  own  inclinations  led 
him  to  prefer  the  chivalrous  and  martial  style  of  the 
old  minstrels. 


The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads, 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  the  gloamin’  o’  the  wood 
The  throssil  whistled  sweet. 

The  throssil  whistled  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees, 

And  we  with  Nature’s  heart  in  tune, 
Concerted  harmonies ; 

And  on  the  knowe  aboon  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o’  joy,  till  baith 
Wi’  very  gladness  grat ! 


Jeanie  Morrison. 

I ’ve  wandered  east,  I ’ve  wandered  west, 
Through  mony  a weary  way ; 

But  never,  never  can  forget 
The  love  of  life’s  young  day ! 

The  fire  that’s  blawn  on  Beltane  e’en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 

But  blacker  fa’  awaits  the  heart 
Where  first  fond  love  grows  cool. 

0 dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o’  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path, 

And  blind  my"een  wi’  tears  ! 

They  blind  my  een  wi’  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I pine, 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o’  langsyne. 

’Twas  then  we  loved  ilk  ither  weel, 

’Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 

Sweet  time ! — sad  time  ! — twa  bairns  at  schule, 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 

’Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lear  ilk  ither  lear ; 

And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 
Remembered  ever  mair. 

1 wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin’  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  owre  ae  braid  page, 

Wi’  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0 mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi’  shame, 

Whene’er  the  schule-weans,  laughin’,  said, 

We  cleeked  thegither  haine  ? 

And  mind  ye  o’  the  Saturdays — 

The  schule  then  skaled  at  noon — 

When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes — 

The  broomy  braes  o’  June? 


Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 

Like  dew-beads  on  a rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 

That  was  a time,  a blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi’  earliest  thochts 
As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 

Oh  ! tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 
Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 

Oh ! say  gin  e’er  your  heart  grows  great 
Wi’  dreamings  o’  langsyne  ? 

I’ve  wandered  east,  I’ve  wandered  west, 
I ’ve  borne  a weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 

The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 
Still  travels  on  its  way ; 

And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  love  o’  life’s  young  day. 

0 dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

I ’ve  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 
The  music  o’  your  tongue ; 

But  I could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I dee, 

Did  I but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 
O’  bygane  days  and  me  ! 

The  Midnight  Wind. 

Mournfully  ! oh,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 

Like  some  sweet  plaintive  melody 
Of  ages  long  gone  by : 

It  speaks  a tale  of  other  years — 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die — 

Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie  ! 


My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 
My  heart  flows  like  a sea, 

As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 
O’  schule-time  and  o’  thee. 

Oh,  mornin’  life  ! oh,  mornin’  love  ! 

Oh,  lightsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopgs  around  our  hearts, 
Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang  ! 

0 mind  ye,  love,  how  aft  we  left 
The  deavin’  dinsome  toun, 

To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water  croon  ? 


Mournfully ! oh,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan  ; 

It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 
In  each  dull  heavy  tone. 

The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 
Seem  floating  thereupon — 

All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 
Ere  death  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully ! oh,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  swell, 

With  its  quaint  pensive  minstrelsy, 

Hope’s  passionate  farewell 

437 


feom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years, 

Ere  yet  griefs  canker  fell 
On  the  heart’s  bloom— ay,  well  may  tears 
Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 

Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi. 

’Tis  not  the  gray  hawk’s  flight  o’er  mountain  and  mere ; 
’Tis  not  the  fleet  hound’s  course,  tracking  the  deer ; 
’Tis  not  the  light  hoof-print  of  black  steed  or  gray, 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop  a long  summer’s  day, 
Which  mete  forth  the  lordships  I challenge  as  mine  : 
Ha ! ha ! ’tis  the  good  brand 
I clutch  in  my  strong  hand, 

That  can  their  broad  marches  and  numbers  define. 
Land  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

Dull  builders  of  houses,  base  tillers  of  earth, 

Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships  I owned  at  my  birth ; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute  when  I point  with  my 
sword 

East,  west,  north,  and  south,  shouting : ‘ There  am  I 
lord ! ’ 

Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower,  hill,  valley,  and 
stream, 

Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway, 

In  the  fierce  battle  fray, 

When  the  star  that  rules  fate  is  this  falchion’s  red 
gleam. 

Might  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

I ’ve  heard  great  harps  sounding  in  brave  bower  and 
hall; 

I ’ve  drank  the  sweet  music  that  bright  lips  let  fall ; 
I ’ve  hunted  in  greenwood,  and  heard  small  birds  sing  ; 
But  away  with  this  idle  and  cold  jargoning ! 

The  music  I love  is  the  shout  of  the  brave, 

The  yell  of  the  dying, 

The  scream  of  the  flying, 

When  this  arm  wields  death’s  sickle,  and  gamers  the 
grave. 

Joy  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

Ear  isles  of  the  ocean  thy  lightning  hath  known, 

And  wide  o’er  the  mainland  thy  horrors  have  shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  father,  stern  joy  of  his  hand  ! 
Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on  the  stranger’s  red 
strand, 

And  won  him  the  glory  of  undying  song. 

Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 

Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 

Grim  slayer  of  heroes,  and  scourge  of  the  strong  ! 
Fame  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

In  a love  more  abiding  than  that  the  heart  knows 
For  maiden  more  lovely  than  summer’s  first  rose, 

My  heart’s  knit  to  thine,  and  lives  but  for  thee  ; 

In  dreamings  of  gladness  thou  ’rt  dancing  with  me, 
Brave  measures  of  madness,  in  some  battle-field, 
Where  armour  is  ringing, 

And  noble  blood  springing, 

And  cloven,  yawn  helmet,  stout  hauberk,  and  shield. 
Death  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

The  smile  of  a maiden’s  eye  soon  may  depart ; 

And  light  is  the  faith  of  fair  woman’s  heart ; 
Changeful  as  light  clouds,  and  -wayward  as  wind. 

Be  the  passions  that  govern  weak  woman’s  mind. 

But  thy  metal’s  as  true  as  its  polish  is  bright : 

When  ills  wax  in  number, 

Thy  love  will  not  slumber ; 

But,  starlike,  burns  fiercer  the  darker  the  night. 
£[eart  Gladdener  ! I kiss  thee. 

My  kindred  have  perished  by  war  or  by  wave ; 

Now,  childless  and  sireless,  I long  for  the  grave. 

433 


When  the  path  of  our  glory  is  shadowed  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber  below  the  brown  heath ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom,  and  with  it  decay ; 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 

And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in  our  old  fearless  day. 
Song  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 


ROBERT  NICOLL. 

Robert  Nicole  (1814-1837)  was  a young  man  of 
high  promise  and  amiable  dispositions,  who  culti- 
vated literature  amidst  many  discouragements.  He 
was  a native  of  Auchtergaven,  in  Perthshire.  After 
passing  through  a series  of  humble  employments, 
during  which  he  steadily  cultivated  his  mind  by 
reading  and  writing,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  j 
the  Leeds  Times , a weekly  paper  representing  the 
extreme  of  the  liberal  class  of  opinions.  He  wrote  ; 
as  one  of  the  three  hundred  might  be  supposed  to  '■ 
have  fought  at  Thermopylae,  animated  by  the  pure 
love  of  his  species,  and  zeal  for  what  he  thought 
their  interests ; but,  amidst  a struggle  which 
scarcely  admitted  of  a moment  for  reflection  on 
his  own  position,  the  springs  of  a naturally  weak 
constitution  were  rapidly  giving  way,  and  symptoms 
of  consumption  became  gradually  apparent.  The 
poet  died  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  deeply  regretted 
by  the  numerous  friends  whom  his  talents  and 
virtues  had  drawn  around  him.  Nicoll’s  poems  are 
short  occasional  pieces  and  songs — the  latter  much 
inferior  to  his  serious  poems,  yet  sometimes  display- 
ing happy  rural  imagery  and  fancy. 

We  are  Brethren  a\ 

A happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would  be, 

If  men,  when  they  ’re  here,  could  make  shift  to  agree, 
An’  ilk  said  to  his  neighbour,  in  cottage  an’  ha’, 

‘ Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’.’ 

I ken  na  why  aue  wi’  anither  should  fight, 

When  to  ’gree  would  make  a’ body  cosie  an’  right, 

When  man  meets  wi’  man,  ’tis  the  best  way  ava, 

To  say : ‘ Gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’.’ 

My  coat  is  a coarse  ane,  an’  yours  may  be  fine, 

And  I maun  drink  water,  while  you  may  drink  wine ; 
But  we  baith  ha’e  a leal  heart,  unspotted  to  shaw : 

Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

The  knave  ye  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu’  deride ; 

Ye  would  stand  like  a rock,  wi’  the  truth  on  your  side ; 
Sae  would  I,  an’  nought  else  would  I value  a straw ; 
Then  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or  man ; 

I haud  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I can ; 

We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections,  an’  a’ ; 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Your  mother  has  lo’ed  you  as  mithers  can  lo’e ; 

An’  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers  can  do  ; 

We  are  ane  high  an’  laigh,  an’  we  shouldna  be  twa : 

Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny  and  fair; 

Hame  ! oh,  how  we  love  it,  an’  a’  that  are  there  ! 

Frae  the  pure  air  of  heaven  the  same  life  we  draw — 
Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Frail  shakin’  auld  age  will  soon  come  o’er  us  baith, 

An’  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be  death ; 

Syne  into  the  same  mitlier-yird  we  will  fa’  : 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NICOLL — GILFILLAX. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


Thoughts  of  Heaven. 

High  thoughts ! 

They  come  and  go, 

Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a listening  maiden, 
While  round  me  flow 

The  winds,  from  woods  and  fields  with  gladness 
laden : 

When  the  corn’s  rustle  on  the  ear  doth  come — 

When  the  eve’s  beetle  sounds  its  drowsy  hum — 
When  the  stars,  dewdrops  of  the  summer  sky, 

Watch  over  all  with  soft  and  loving  eye — 

While  the  leaves  quiver 
By  the  lone  river, 

And  the  quiet  heart 
From  depths  doth  call 
And  garners  all — 

Earth  grows  a shadow 
Forgotten  whole. 

And  Heaven  lives 
In  the  blessed  soul ! 


High  thoughts ! 

They  are  with  me, 

When,  deep  within  the  bosom  of  the  forest, 

Thy  morning  melody 

Abroad  into  the  sky,  thou,  throstle,  pourest. 
When  the  young  sunbeams  glance  among  the  trees — 
When  on  the  ear  comes  the  soft'  song  of  bees— 

When  every  branch  has  its  own  favourite  bird 
And  songs  of  summer,  from  each  thicket  heard ! — 
Where  the  owl  flitteth, 

Where  the  roe  sitteth, 

And  holiness 

Seems  sleeping  there ; 

While  nature’s  prayer 
Groes-up  to  heaven 
In  purity, 

. Till  all  is  glory 

And  joy  to  me  ! 

High  thoughts ! 

They  are  my  own 

When  I am  resting  on  a mountain’s  bosom, 

And  see  below  me  strown 

The  huts  and  homes  where  humble  virtues 
blossom ; 

When  I can  trace  each  streamlet  through  the  meadow — 
When  I can  follow  every  fitful  shadow — 

When  I can  watch  the  winds  among  the  corn, 

And  see  the  waves  along  the  forest  borne ; 

Where  bluebell  and  heather 
Are  blooming  together, 

And  far  doth  come 
The  Sabbath  bell, 

O’er  wood  and  fell ; 

I hear  the  beating 
Of  nature’s  heart ; 

Heaven  is  before  me — 

God ! Thou  art ! 


High  thoughts ! 

They  visit  us 

In  moments  when  the  soul  is  dim  and  darkened ; 
They  come  to  bless, 

After  the  vanities  to  which  we  hearkened  : 

When  weariness  hath  come  upon  the  spirit — 

(Those  hours  of  darkness  which  we  all  inherit) — 
Bursts  there  not  through  a glint  of  warm  sunshine, 

A winged  thought,  which  bids  us  not  repine  ? 

In  joy  and  gladness, 

In  mirth  and  sadness, 

Come  signs  and  tokens ; 

Life’s  angel  brings 
Upon  its  wings 


Those  bright  communings 
The  soul  doth  keep — 

Those  thoughts  of  heaven 
So  pure  and  deep  ! 

[Death.] 

[This  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  last,  or  among  the 
last,  of  Nicoll’s  compositions.] 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer’s  greenest  grass, 

Through  which  the  modest  daisy  blushing  peeps  ; 
The  gentle  wind  that  like  a ghost  doth  pass, 

A waving  shadow  on  the  cornfield  keeps  ; 

But  I,  who  love  them  all,  shall  never  be 
Again  among  the  woods,  or  on  the  moorland  lea ! 

The  sun  shines  sweetly — sweeter  may  it  shine  ! — 
Blessed  is  the  brightness  of  a summer  day ; 

It  cheers  lone  hearts ; and  why  should  I repine, 
Although  among  green  fields  I cannot  stray  ! 
Woods!  I have  grown,  since  last  I heard  you  wave, 
Familiar  with  death,  and  neighbour  to  the  grave  ! 

These  words  have  shaken  mighty  human  souls — 

Like  a sepulchre’s  echo  drear  they  sound — 

E’en  as  the  owl’s  wild  whoop  at  midnight  rolls 
The  ivied  remnants  of  old  ruins  round. 

Yet  wherefore  tremble?  Can  the  soul  decay? 

Or  that  which  thinks  and  feels  in  aught  e’er  fade  away  ? 

Are  there  not  aspirations  in  each  heart 
After  a better,  brighter  world  than  this  ? 

Longings  for  beings  nobler  in  each  part — 

Things  more  exalted — steeped  in  deeper  bliss? 

Who  gave  us  these  ? What  are  they  ? Soul,  in  thee 
The  bud  is  budding  now  for  immortality ! 

Death  comes  to  take  me  where  I long  to  be ; 

One  pang,  and  bright  blooms  the  immortal  flower ; 
Death  comes  to  lead  me  from  mortality, 

To  lands  which  know  not  one  unhappy  hour ; 

I have  a hope,  a faith — from  sorrow  here 
I ’m  led  by  Death  away — why  should  I start  and  fear  ? 

If  I have  loved  the  forest  and  the  field, 

Can  I not  love  them  deeper,  better  there  ? 

If  all  that  Power  hath  made,  to  me  doth  yield 
Something  of  good  and  beauty — something  fair — 
Freed  from  the  grossness  of  mortality, 

May  I not  love  them  all,  and  better  all  enjoy  ? 

A change  from  woe  to  joy — from  earth  to  heaven, 
Death  gives  me  this — it  leads  me  calmly  where 
The  souls  that  long  ago  from  mine  were  riven 
May  meet  again  ! Death  answers  many  a prayer. 
Bright  day,  shine  on  ! be  glad  : days  brighter  far 
Are  stretched  before  my  eyes  than  those  of  mortals  are ! 


ROBERT  GILFILLAN. 

Robert  Gilfillan  (1798-1850)  was  a native  of 
Dunfermline.  He  was  long  clerk  to  a wine-merchant 
in  Leith,  and  afterwards  collector  of  poor’s  rates  in 
the  same  town.  His  Poems  and  Songs  have  passed 
through  three  editions.  The  songs  of  Mr  Gilfillan 
are  marked  by  gentle  and  kindly  feelings,  and  a 
smooth  flow  of  versification,  which  makes  them 
eminently  suitable  for  being  expressed  in  music. 

The  Exile's  Song. 

Oh  ! why  left  I my  hame? 

Why  did  I cross  the  deep  ? 

Oh  ! why  left  I the  land 
Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 

439 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


I sigh  for  Scotia’s  shore, 

And  I gaze  across  the  sea, 
But  I canna  get  a blink 
O’  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high, 
And  fair  the  myrtle  springs ; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 

But  I dinna  see  the  broom 
Wi’  its  tassels  on  the  lea, 

Nor  hear  the  lintie’s  sang 
O’  my  ain  countrie  ! 

Oh ! here  no  Sabbath  hell 
Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn. 
Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 
Amang  the  yellow  corn  : 

For  the  tyrant’s  voice  is  here, 

' And  the  wail  of  slaverie ; 

But  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 
In  my  ain  countrie  ! 

There ’s  a hope  for  every  woe. 
And  a balm  for  every  pain. 
But  the  first  joys  o’  our  heart 
Come  never  back  again. 
There ’s  a track  upon  the  deep, 
And  a path  across  the  sea ; 
But  the  weary  ne’er  return 
To  their  ain  countrie  ! 


In  the  Days  o’  Lang  syne. 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne,  when  we  carles  were  young, 
An’  nae  foreign  fashions  amang  us  had  sprung ; 

When  we  made  our  ain  bannocks,  and  brewed  our  ain 
yill. 

An’  were  clad  frae  the  sheep  that  gaed  white  on  the 
hill ; 

0 ! the  tliocht  o’  thae  days  gars  my  auld  heart  aye  fill ! 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  we  were  happy  and  free, 
Proud  lords  on  the  land,  and  kings  on  the  sea ! 

To  our  foes  we  were  fierce,  to  our  friends  we  were  kind, 
An’  where  battle  raged  loudest,  you  ever  did  find 
The  banner  of  Scotland  float  high  in  the  wind ! 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  we  aye  ranted  and  sang 
By  the  warm  ingle-side,  or  the  wild  braes  amang ; 

Our  lads  busked  braw,  and  our  lasses  looked  fine, 

An’  the  sun  on  our  mountains  seemed  ever  to  shine ; 
0 ! where  is  the  Scotland  o’  bonny  langsyne  ? 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  ilka  glen  had  its  tale, 

Sweet  voices  were  heard  in  ilk  breath  o’  the  gale ; 

An’  ilka  wee  bum  had  a sang  o’  its  ain, 

As  it  trotted  alang  through  the  valley  or  plain  ; 

Shall  we  e’er  hear  the  music  o’  streamlets  again  ? 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  there  were-feasting  and  glee, 
Wi’  pride  in  ilk  heart,  and  joy  in  ilk  e’e ; 

And  the  auld,  ’mang  the  nappy,  their  eild  seemed  to 
tyne, 

It  was  your  stoup  the  nicht,  and  the  morn  ’twas  mine: 
0 ! the  days  o’  langsyne — 0 ! the  days  o’  langsyne. 


The  Hills  o'  Gallowa’. 

[By  Thomas  Cunningham.] 

[Thomas  Cunningham  was  the  senior  of  his  brother  Allan 
by  some  years,  and  was  a copious  author  in  prose  and  verse, 
though  with  an  undistinguished  name,  long  before  the  author 
410 


of  the  Lives  of  the  British  Painters  was  known.  He  died  in 
1334.] 

Amang  the  birks  sae  blithe  and  gay, 

I met  my  Julia  hameward  gaun ; 

The  linties  chantit  on  the  spray, 

The  lammies  loupit  on  the  lawn ; 

On  ilka  howm  the  sward  was  mawn, 

The  braes  wi’  gowans  buskit  braw, 

And  gloamin’s  plaid  o’  gray  was  thrawn 
Out  owre  the  hills  o’  Gallo wa’. 

Wi’  music  wild  the  woodlands  rang, 

And  fragrance  winged  alang  the  lea, 

As  down  we  sat  the  flowers  amang, 

Upon  the  banks  o’  stately  Dee. 

My  J ulia’s  arms  encircled  me, 

And  saftly  slade  the  hours  awa’, 

Till  dawnin’  coost  a glimmerin’  e’e 
Upon  the  hills  o’  Gallo  wa’. 

It  isna  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

It  isna  gowd,  it  isna  gear, 

This  lifted  e’e  wad  hae,  quoth  I, 

The  warld’s  drumlie  gloom  to  cheer. 

But  gi’e  to  me  my  Julia  dear,  . 

Ye  powers  wha  row  this  yirthen  ba’, 

And  0 ! sae  blithe  through  life  I ’ll  steer, 

Amang  the  hills  o’  Gallowa’. 

Whan  gloamin’  dauners  up  the  hill, 

And  our  gudeman  ca’s  hame  the  yowes, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  trace  the  mossy  rill 

That  owre  the  muir  meandering  rows ; 

Or,  tint  amang  the  scroggy  knowes, 

My  birkin  pipe  I ’ll  sweetly  blaw, 

And  sing  the  streams,  the  straths,  and  howes, 

The  hills  and  dales  o’  Gallowa’. 

And  when  auld  Scotland’s  heathy  hills, 

Her  rural  nymphs  and  joyous  swains, 

Her  flowery  wilds  and  wimpling  rills, 

Awake  nae  mair  my  canty  strains ; 

Whare  friendship  dwells  and  freedom  reigns, 

Whare  heather  blooms  and  muircocks  craw, 

0 ! dig  my  grave,  and  hide  my  banes 
Amang  the  hills  o’  Gallowa’. 

Lucy's  Flittin'. 

[By  "William  Laidlaw.] 

[William  Laidlaw  was  son  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd's  master 
at  Blackhouse.  All  who  have  read  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Scott, 
know  how  closely  Mr  Laidlaw  was  connected  with  the  illus- 
trious baronet  of  Abbotsford  lie  was  his  companion  in  some 
of  his  early  wanderings,  his  friend  and  land-steward  in  advanced 
years,  his  amanuensis  in  the  composition  of  some  of  his  novels, 
and  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  watched  over  his  last  sad 
and  painful  moments.  Lucy's  Flit  tin ’ is  deservedly  popular  for 
its  unaffected  tenderness  and  simplicity.  In  printing  the  song. 
Hogg  added  the  last  four  lines  to  ‘ complete  the  story.’  Mr 
Laidlaw’  died  at  Coi.tin,  in  Ross-shire,  May  18,  1845.] 

’Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk-tree  was  fa’in. 
And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up  the  year, 

That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi’  her  a’  in ’t, 

And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neibours  sae  dear : 

For  Lucy  had  serve*!  i’  the  glen  a’  the  simmer ; 

She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on  the  pea ; 

An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  bad  been  gude  till  her, 
Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear  to  her  e’e. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was  stannin’; 
Richt  sair  was  his  kind  heart  her  flittin’  to  see ; 

‘ Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy  !’  quo’  Jamie,  and  ran  in  ; 

The  gatherin’  tears  trickled  fast  frae  her  e’e. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  NICHOLSON. 


As  down  the  burn-side  sbe  gaed  slow  wi’  her  flittin’, 
‘Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy  !’  was  ilka  bird’s  sang; 

Sbe  beard  the  craw  sayin ’t,  high  on  the  tree  sitting 
And  Robin  was  chirpin ’t  the  brown  leaves  amang. 

‘ Oh,  what  is’t  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in  a flutter  ? 

And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast  to  my  e’e  ? 

If  I wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to  be  ? 

I ’m  just  like  a lammie  that  loses  its  mither ; 

Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie  can  see ; 

I fear  I hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a’  thegither, 

Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa’s  sae  fast  frae  my  e’e. 

‘ Wi’  the  rest  o’  my  claes  I hae  rowed  up  the  ribbon, 
The  bonny*blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae  me  ; 
Yestreen,  when  he  gae  me ’t,  and  saw  I was  sabbin’, 

I ’ll  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o’  his  e’e. 

Though  now  he  said  naething  but  “Fare-ye-weel, 
Lucy !” 

It  made  me  I neither  could  speak,  hear,  nor  see  : 
He  couldna  say  mair  but  just,  “ Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy  !” 
Yet  that  I will  mind  till  the  day  that  I dee. 

‘ The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi’  dew  when  it ’s  droukit ; 

The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird  on  the  lea; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie  ;’ — she  turned  and  she  lookit, 
She  thoclit  the  dear  place  she  wad  never  mair  see. 
Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie  and  cheerless ! 

And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o’  the  burn  ! 
For  bonny  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and  peerless, 

Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never  return  ! 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch. 

[By  'William  Nicholson,  known  as  the  ‘ Galloway  Poet,’  who, 
afcer  an  irregular,  dissipated  life,  died  a pauper  in  1849.] 

There  cam  a strange  wight  to  our  town-en’, 

An’  the  feint  a body  did  him  ken  ; 

He  tirled  na  lang,  but  he  glided  ben 
Wi’  a dreary,  dreary  hum. 

His  face  did  glow  like  the  glow  o’  the  west, 

When  the  drumly  cloud  has  it  half  o’ercast ; 

Or  the  struggling  moon  when  she ’s  sair  distrest. 

Oh,  sirs,  ’twas  Aiken-drum. 

I trow  the  bauldest  stood  aback, 

Wi’  a gape  an’  a glower  till  their  lugs  did  crack, 

As  the  shapeless  phantom  mum’ling  spak — 

‘Hae  ye  wark  for. Aiken-drum?’ 

Oh  ! had  ye  seen  the  bairns’  fright, 

As  they  stared  at  this  wild  and  unyirthly  wight ; 

As  they  skulkit  in  ’tween  the  dark  and  the  light, 

And  graned  out,  Aiken-drum  ! 

The  black  dog  growling  cowered  his  tail, 

The  lassie  swarfed,  loot  fa’  the  pail ; 

Rob’s  lingle  brak  as  he  men’t  the  flail, 

At  the  sight  o’  Aiken-drum. 

His  matted  head  on  his  breast  did  rest, 

A lang  blue  beard  wan’ered  down  like  a vest ; 

But  the  glare  o’  his  e’e  hath  nae  bard  exprest, 

Nor  the  skimes  o’  Aiken-drum. 

Roun’  his  hairy  form  there  was  naething  seen 
But  a philabeg  o’  the  rashes  green, 

An’  his  knotted  knees  played  aye  knoit  between — 
What  a sight  was  Aiken-drum  ! 

On  his  wauchie  arms  three  claws  did  meet, 

As  they  trailed  on  the  grun’  by  his  taeless  feet; 

E’en  the  auld  gudeman  himsel’  did  sweat, 

To  look  at  Aiken-drum. 


But  he  drew  a score,  himsel’  did  sain, 

The  auld  wife  tried,  but  her  tongue  was  gane  ; 

While  the  young  ane  closer  clasped  her  wean, 

And  turned  frae  Aiken-drum. 

But  the  canny  auld  wife  cam  till  her  breath, 

And  she  deemed  the  Bible  might  ward  aff  scaith, 

Be  it  benshee,  bogle,  ghaist,  or  wraith — 

But  it  feared  na  Aiken-drum. 

‘ His  presence  protect  us ! ’ quoth  the  auld  gudeman ; 

‘ What  wad  ye,  whare  won  ye,  by  sea  or  by  Ian’  ? 

I conjure  ye — speak — by  the  beuk  in  my  han’ !’ 

What  a grane  ga’e  Aiken-drum  ! 

‘ I lived  in  a lan’  where  we  saw  nae  sky, 

I dwalt  in  a spot  where  a burn  rins  na  by ; 

But  I’se  dwall  now  wi’  you  if  ye  like  to  try — 

Hae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-drum  ? 

‘ I ’ll  shiel  a’  your  sheep  i’  the  mornin’  sune, 

I’ll  berry  your  crap  by  the  light  o’  the  moon. 

An’  ba  the  bairns  wi’  an  unkenned  tune, 

If  ye  ’ll  keep  puir  Aiken-drum. 

‘ I ’ll  loup  the  linn  when  ye  canna  wade, 

I ’ll  kirn  the  kirn,  an’  I ’ll  turn  the  bread ; 

An’  the  wildest  filly  that  ever  ran  rede, 

I’se  tame’t,’  quoth  Aiken-drum. 

‘ To  wear  the  tod  frae  the  flock  on  the  fell, 

To  gather  the  dew  frae  the  heather-bell, 

An’  to  look  at  my  face  in  your  clear  crystal  well, 
Might  gi’e  pleasure  to  Aiken-drum. 

* I ’se  seek  nae  guids,  gear,  bond,  nor  mark  ; 

I use  nae  beddin’,  shoon,  nor  sark  ; 

But  a cogfu’  o’  brose  ’tween  the  light  an’  dark 
Is  the  wage  o’  Aiken-drum.’ 

Quoth  the  wylie  auld  wife  : ‘ The  thing  speaks  weel  ? 
Our  workers  are  scant — we  hae  routh  o’  meal ; 

Gif  he’ll  do  as  he  says — be  he  man,  be  he  deil — 
Wow ! we  ’ll  try  this  Aiken-drum.’ 

But  the  wrenches  skirled  : ‘ He ’s  no  be  here  ! 

His  eldritch  look  gars  us  swarf  wi’  fear ; 

An’  the  feint  a ane  will  the  house  come  near, 

If  they  think  but  o’  Aiken-drum.’ 

‘ Puir  clipmalabors  ! ye  hae  little  wit ; 

Is’tna  hallowmas  now,  an’  the  crap  out  yet?’ 

Sae  she  silenced  them  a’  wi’  a stamp  o’  her  fit — 

‘ Sit  yer  wa’s  down,  Aiken-drum.’ 

Roun’  a’  that  side  what  wark  was  dune 

By  the  streamer’s  gleam,  or  the  glance  o’  the  moon  ; 

A word,  or  a wish,  an’  the  brownie  cam  sune, 

Sae  helpfu’  was  Aiken-drum. 

On  Blednoch  banks,  an’  on  crystal  Cree, 

For  mony  a day  a toiled  wight  was  he ; 

While  the  bairns  played  harmless  roun’  his  knee, 

Sae  social  was  Aiken-drum. 

But  a new-made  wife,  fu’  o’  frippish  freaks, 

Fond  o’  a’  things  feat  for  the  first  five  weeks, 

Laid  a mouldy  pair  o’  her  ain  man’s  breelcs 
By  the  brose  o’  Aiken-drum. 

Let  the  learned  decide  when  they  convene, 

What  spell  was  him  an’  the  breeks  between ; 

For  frae  that  day  forth  he  was  nae  mair  seen, 

An’  sair  missed  was  Aiken-drum. 

441 


FBOM  1800 


He  was  heard  by  a herd  gaun  by  the  Thrieve, 

Crying : ‘ Lang,  lang  now  may  I greet  an’  grieve  ; 

For,  alas  ! I hae  gotten  baith  fee  an’  leave — 

Oh  1 luckless  Aiken-drum  !’ 

Awa’,  ye  wrangling  sceptic  tribe, 

Wi’  your  pros  an’  your  cons  wad  ye  decide 
’Gain  the  sponsible  voice  o’  a haill  country-side, 

On  the  facts  ’bout  Aiken-drum  ? 

Though  the  ‘ Brownie  o’  Blednoch  ’ lang  be  gane, 

The  mark  o’  his  feet ’s  left  on  mony  a stane ; 

An’  mony  a wife  an’  mony  a wean 

Tell  the  feats  o’  Aiken-drum. 

E’en  now,  light  loons  that  jibe  an’  sneer 
At  spiritual  guests  an’  a’  sic  gear, 

At  the  Glashnoch  mill  hae  swat  wi’  fear, 

An’  looked  roun’  for  Aiken-drum. 

An’  guidly  folks  hae  gotten  a fright, 

"When  the  moon  was  set,  an’  the  stars  gied  nae  light, 
At  the  roaring  linn,  in  the  howe  o’  the  night, 

Wi’  sughs  like  Aiken-drum. 

Song. 

[By  Joseph  Train.] 

[Mr  Train  will  be  memorable  in  our  literary  history  for  the 
assistance  he  rendered  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  the  contribution 
of  some  of  the  stories  on  which  the  Waverley  novels  were 
founded.  He  served  for  some  time  as  a private  soldier,  but 
obtaining  an  appointment  in  the  Excise,  he  rose  to  be  a 
supervisor.  He  was  a zealous  and  able  antiquary,  and  author 
of  a History  of  the  Isle  of  Man  and  an  account  of  a religious 
sect  well  known  in  the  south  of  Scotland  as  The  'Buchanites. 
Mr  Train  died  at  Lochvale,  Castle-Douglas,  in  1852,  aged 
seventy -three.] 

Wi’  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang, 

I left  my  goats  to  wander  wide ; 

And  e’en  as  fast  as  I could  bang, 

I bickered  down  the  mountain-side. 

My  hazel  rung  and  haslock  plaid 
Awa’  I flang  wi’  cauld  disdain, 

Resolved  I Would  nae  langer  bide 
To  do  the  auld  thing  o’er  again. 

Te  barons  bold,  whose  turrets  rise 
Aboon  the  wild  woods  white  wi’  snaw, 

I trow  the  laddies  ye  may  prize, 

Wha  fight  your  battles  far  awa’. 

Wi’  them  to  stan’,  wi’  them  to  fa’, 

Courageously  I crossed  the  main ; 

To  see,  for  Caledonia, 

The  auld  thing  weel  done  o’er  again. 

Right  far  a-fiel’  I freely  fought, 

’Gainst  mony  an  outlandish  loon 
An’  wi’  my  good  claymore  I ’ve  brought 
Mony  a beardy  birkie  down  : 

While  I had  pith  to  wield  it  roun’, 

In  battle  I ne’er  met  wi’  ane 
Could  danton  me,  for  Britain’s  crown, 

To  do  the  same  thing  o’er  again. 

Although  I ’m  marching  life’s  last  stage, 

Wi’  sorrow  crowded  roun’  my  brow; 

An’  though  the  knapsack  o’  auld  age 
Hangs  heavy  on  my  shoulders  now — 

Yet  recollection,  ever  new, 

Discharges  a’  my  toil  and  pain, 

When  fancy  figures  in  my  view 
The  pleasant  auld  thing  o’er  again. 

442 


to  1830. 


The  Carrier oniari  s Dream. 

[By  James  Hislop.] 

[James  Hislop  was  born  of  humble  parents  in  the  parish  of 
Kirkconnel,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Sanquhar,  near  the  source 
of  the  Nith,  in  July  1798.  He  was  employed  as  a shepherd-boy 
in  the  vicinity  of  Airsmoss,  where,  at  the  grave-stone  of  a party 
of  slain  Covenanters,  he  composed  the  following  striking 
poem.  He  afterwards  became  a teacher,  and  his  poetical  effu- 
sions having  attracted  the  favourable  notice  of  Lord  Jeffrey, 
and  other  eminent  literary  characters,  he  was,  through  their 
influence,  appointed  schoolmaster,  first  on  board  the  Boris, 
and  subsequently  the  Tweed  man-of-war.  He  died  on  the  4th 
December  1827,  from  fever  caught  by  sleeping  one  night  in  the 
open  air  upon  the  island  of  St  Jago.  His  compositions  display 
an  elegant  rather  than  a vigorous  imagination,  much  chaste- 
ness of  thought,  and  a pure  but  ardent  love  of  nature.] 

In  a dream  of  the  night  I was  wafted  away, 

To  the  muirland  of  mist  where  the  martyrs  lay ; 
Where  Cameron’s  sword  and  his  Bible  are  seen, 
Engraved  on  the  stone  where  the  heather  grows  green. 

’Twas  a dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and  blood, 
When  the  minister’s  home  was  the  mountain  and 
wood ; 

When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  valley  the  standard  of  Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn  ’mong  the  heather  was  lying. 

’Twas  morning ; and  summer’s  young  sun  from  the  east 
Lay  in  loving  repose  on  the  green  mountain’s  breast ; 
On  Wardlaw  and  Cairntable  the  clear  shining  dew, 
Glistened  there  ’mong  the  heath-bells  and  mountain 
flowers  blue. 

And  far  up  in  heaven  near  the  white  sunny  cloud, 

The  song  of  the  lark  was  melodious  and  loud, 

And  in  Glenmuir’s  wild  solitude,  lengthened  and  deep, 
Were  the  whistling  of  plovers  and  bleating  of  sheep. 

And  Wellwood’s  sweet  valleys  breathed  music  and 
gladness, 

The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty  and  redness ; 
Its  daughters  were  happy  to  hail  the  returning, 

And  drink  the  delights  of  July’s  sweet  morning. 

But,  oh  ! there  were  hearts  cherished  far  other  feelings, 
Illumed  by  the  light  of  prophetic  revealings, 

Who  drank  from  the  scenery  of  beauty  but  sorrow, 

For  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew  it 
to-morrow. 

’Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cameron  were 
lying, 

Concealed  ’mong  the  mist  where  the  heath-fowl  was 
crying, 

For  the  horsemen  of  Earlshall  around  them  were 
hovering, 

And  their  bridle  reins  rung  through  the  thin  misty 
covering. 

Their  faces  grew  pale,  and  their  swords  were 
unsheathed, 

But  the  vengeance  that  darkened  their  brow  was 
unbreathed ; 

With  eyes  turned  to  heaven  in  calm  resignation, 

They  sung  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Salvation. 

The  hills  with  the  deep  mournful  music  were  ringing, 
The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  singing ; 

But  the  melody  died  ’mid  derision  and  laughter, 

As  the  host  of  ungodly  rushed  on  to  the  slaughter. 

Though  in  mist  and  in  darkness  and  fire  they  were 
shrouded, 

Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and  unclouded. 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GODWIN — COLERIDGE. 


Their  dark  eyes  flashed  lightning,  as,  firm  and 
unbending, 

They  stood  like  the  rock  which  the  thunder  is  rending. 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords  were 
gleaming, 

The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was 
streaming, 

The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was  rolling, 

When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  muirlands  the  mighty  were 
falling. 

When  the  righteous  had  fallen,  and  the  combat  was 
ended, 

A chariot  of  fire  through  the  dark  cloud  descended ; 

Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  whiteness, 

And  its  burning  wheels  turned  on  axles  of  brightness. 

A seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shining, 

All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refining, 

And  the  souls  that  came  forth  out  of  great  tribulation, 

Have  mounted  the  chariots  and-steeds  of  salvation. 


his  optimism  prevailed ; he  could  afford  to  wait. 
And  although  he  did  at  last  admit  the  great  move- 
ment was  somewhat  tardy,  and  that  the  audience 
seemed  rather  patient  than  interested,  he  did  not 
lose  his  confidence  till  the  tumult  arose,  and  then  he 
submitted  with  quiet  dignity  to  the  fate  of  genius, 
too  lofty  to  be  understood  by  a world  as  yet  in  its 
childhood.’  The  next  new  play  was  also  by  a man 
of  distinguished  genius,  and  it  also  was  unsuccessful. 
Julian  and  Agnes , by  William  Sotheby,  the  trans- 
lator of  Oberon,  was  acted  April  25,  1800.  ‘In  the 
course  of  its  performance,  Mrs  Siddons,  as  the 
heroine,  had  to  make  her  exit  from  the  scene  with 
an  infant  in  her  arms.  Having  to  retire  precipi- 
tately, she  inadvertently  struck  the  baby’s  head 
violently  against  a door-post.  Happily,  the  little 
thing  was  made  of  wood,  so  that  her  doll’s  accident 
only  produced  a general  laugh,  in  which  the  actress 
herself  joined  heartily.’  This  ‘ untoward  event  ’ 
would  have  marred  the  success  of  any  new  tragedy ; 
but  Mr  Sotheby’s  is  deficient  in  arrangement  and 
dramatic  art. 


On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  chariot  is  gliding, 
Through  the  path  of  the  thunder  the  horsemen  are 
riding ; 

Glide  swiftly,  bright  spirits ! the  prize  is  before  ye, 

A crown  never  fading,  a kingdom  of  glory ! 


DRAMATISTS. 

The  admirable  acting  of  Mrs  Siddons,  with  that 
her  brother  John  Kemble,  Kean,  and  Miss  O’Neil, 
rendered  the  stage  popular  during  a part  of  this 
period,  and  tempted  a few  men  of  genius  and  reputa- 
tion to  write  for  it.  Kemble  reclaimed  the  stage  from 
the  barbarous  solecisms  in  dress  and  decoration  which 
even  Garrick  had  tolerated.  Neither  Kemble  nor 
Garrick,  however,  paid  sufficient  attention  to  the 
text  of  Shakspeare’s  dramas,  which,  even  down  to 
about  the  year  1838,  continued  to  be  presented  as 
mutilated  by  Nahum  Tate,  Colley  Cibber,  and  others. 
The  first  manager  who  ventured  to  restore  the  pure 
text  of  the  great  dramatist,  and  present  it  without 
any  of  the  baser  alloys  on  the  stage,  was  Mr 
Macready,  who  made  great  though  unavailing 
efforts  to  encourage  the  taste  of  the  public  for 
Shakspeare  and  the  legitimate  drama.  At  a more 
recent  period,  Mr  Charles  Kean,  of  the  Princess’s 
Theatre,  and  Mr  Phelps  of  Sadler’s  Wells  Theatre, 
revived  the  Shakspearian  drama  to  some  extent— the 
former  by  embellishing  the  plays  with  tasteful  and 
magnificent  scenery ; the  latter  by  careful  and 
energetic  acting. 

WILLIAM  GODWIN — WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 

Mr  Godwin,  the  novelist,  attempted  the  tragic 
drama  in  the  year  1800,  but  his  powerful  genius, 
which  had  produced  a romance  of  deep  and  thrilling 
interest,  became  cold  and  frigid  when  confined  to  the 
rules  of  the  stage.  His  play  was  named  Antonio , or 
the  Soldier  s Return.  It  turned  out  ‘ a miracle  of 
dulness,’  as  Sergeant  Talfourd  relates,  and  at  last 
the  actors  were  hooted  from  the  stage.  The  author’s 
equanimity  under  this  severe  trial  is  amusingly 
related  by  Talfourd.  Mr  Godwin,  he  says,  ‘ sat  on 
one  of  the  front  benches  of  the  pit,  unmoved  amidst 
the  storm.  When  the  first  act  passed  off  without  a 
hand,  he  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  the  good  sense 
of  the  house ; “ the  proper  season  of  applause  had 
not  arrived ; ” all  was  exactly  as  it  should  be.  The 
second  act  proceeded  to  its  close  in  the  same  unin- 
terrupted calm ; his  friends  became  uneasy,  but  still 


S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

The  tragedies  of  Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Procter, 
and  Milman — noticed  in  our  account  of  these  poets 
— must  be  considered  as  poems  rather  than  plays. 
Coleridge’s  Remorse  was  acted  with  some  success 
in  1813,  aided  by  fine  original  music,  but  it  has 
not  since  been  revived.  It  contains,  however,  some 
of  Coleridge’s  most  exquisite  poetry  and  wild  super- 
stition, with  a striking  romantic  plot.  We  extract 
the  scene  in  which  Alhadra  describes  the  supposed 
murder  of  her  husband,  Alvar,  by  his  brother,  and 
animates  his  followers  to  vengeance. 


[ Scene  from  ‘ Remorse;] 

The  Mountains  by  Moonlight.  Alhadra  alone,  in  a 
Moorish  dress. 


Alhadra.  Yon  hanging  woods,  that,  touched  by 
autumn,  seem 

As  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold ; 

The  flower -like  woods,  most  lovely  in  decay, 

The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rocks,  the  sands, 

Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine ; and  the  owl 
(Strange,  very  strange  !) — the  screech-owl  only  wakes, 
Sole  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  world  of  beauty ! 

Unless,  perhaps,  she  sing  her  screeching  song 
To  a herd  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 
Why  such  a thing  am  I ? Where  are  these  men  ? 

I need  the  sympathy  of  human  faces, 

To  beat  away  this  deep  contempt  for  all  things, 
Which  quenches  my  revenge.  Oh  ! would  to  Alla 
The  raven  or  the  sea-mew  were  appointed 
To  bring  me  food  ! or  rather  that  my  soul 
Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air ! 

It  were  a lot  divine  in  some  small  skiff, 

Along  some  ocean’s  boundless  solitude, 

To  float  for  ever  with  a careless  course, 

And  think  myself  the  only  being  alive  ! 

My  children  ! — Isidore’s  children  ! — Son  of  Yaldez, 
This  hath  new  strung  mine  arm.  Thou  coward  tyrant ! 
To  stupify  a woman’s  heart  with  anguish, 

Till  she  forgot  even  that  she  was  a mother  ! 


[She  fixes  her  eyes  on  the  earth.  Then  drop  in,  one  after 
another,  from  different  parts  of  the  stage,  a considerable 
number  of  Morcscoes,  all  in  Moorish  garments  and  Moorish 
armour.  They  form  a circle  at  a distance  round  Alhadra, 
and  remain  silent  till  the  second  in  command,  Naomi,  enters, 
distinguished-  by  his  dress  and  armour,  and  by  the  silent 
obeisance  paid  to  him  on  his  entrance  by  the  other  Moors.] 


Naomi.  Woman,  may  Alla  and  the  prophet  bless 
thee ! 


443 


FB05I  1S00 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


We  have  obeyed  thy  call.  Where  is  our  chief? 

And  why  didsfflhon  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments? 
Alhad.  [liaising  her  eyes,  and  looking  round  on 
the  circle.'] 

Warriors  of  Mahomet ! faithful  in  the  battle ! 

My  countrymen  ! Come  ye  prepared  to  work 
An  honourable  deed  ? And  would  ye  work  it 
In  the  slave’s  garb  ? Curse  on  those  Christian  robes ! 
They  are  spell-blasted ; and  whoever  wears  them, 

His  arm  shrinks  withered,  his  heart  melts  away, 

And  his  bones  soften. 

Naomi.  Where  is  Isidore  ? 

Alhad.  [In  a deep  low  voice.]  This  night  I went 
from  forth  my  house,  and  left 
His  children  all  asleep ; and  he  was  living  ! 

And  I returned,  and  found  them  still  asleep, 

But  he  had  perished  ! 

All  Morescoes.  Perished  ? 

Alhad.  He  had  perished  ! — 

Sleep  on,  poor  babes  ! not  one  of  you  doth  know 
That  he  is  fatherless — a desolate  orphan  ! 

Why  should  we  wake  them  ? Can  an  infant’s  arm 
Bevenge  his  murder  ? 

One  Moresco  to  another.  Did  she  say  his  murder  ? 
Naomi.  Murder  ! Not  murdered  ! 

Alhad.  Murdered  by  a Christian  ! [They  all  at  once 
draw  their  sabres. 

Alhad.  [To  Naomi,  who  advances  from  the  circle] 
Brother  of  Zagri,  fling  away  thy  sword  ; 

This  is  thy  chieftain’s  ! [He  steps  forward  to  take  it] 
Dost  thou  dare  receive  it  ? 

For  I have  sworn  by  Alla  and  the  prophet, 

No  tear  shall  dim  these  eyes — this  woman’s  heart 
Shall  heave  no  groan — till  I have  seen  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez  ! 

[A  pause. 

Ordonio  was  your  chieftain's  murderer ! 

Naom  i.  He  dies,  by  Alla ! 

All.  [Kneeling]  By  Alla  ! 

Alhad.  This  night  your  chieftain  armed  himself, 
And  hurried  from  me.  But  I followed  him 
At  distance,  till  I saw  him  enter — there ! 

Naomi.  The  cavern  ? 

Alhad.  Yes,  the  mouth  of  yonder  cavern. 

After  a while  I saw  the  son  of  Valdez 

Kush  by  with  flaring  torch ; he  likewise  entered. 

There  was  another  and  a longer  pause ; 

And  once  methought  I heard  the  clash  of  swords ! 

And  soon  the  son  of  Valdez  reappeared  : 

He  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport, 

And  seemed  as  he  were  mirthful ; I stood  listening, 
Impatient  for  the  footsteps  of  my  husband ! 

Naomi.  Thou  calledst  him  ? 

Alhad.  I crept  into  the  cavern — 

’Twas  dark  and  very  silent  [Then  wildly.]  What 
saidst  thou  ? 

No,  no  ! I did  not  dare  call  Isidore, 

Lest  I should  hear  no  answer.  A brief  while, 

Belike,  I lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  which  I came.  After  that  pause — 

0 Heaven  ! I heard  a groan,  and  followed  it; 

And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a strange  recess,  and  there  was  light, 

A hideous  light ! his  torch  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Its  flame  burned  dimly  o’er  a chasm’s  brink. 

1 spake ; and  whilst  I spake,  a feeble  groan 

Came  from  that  chasm:  it  was  his  last — his  death- 
groan  ! 

Naomi.  Comfort  her.  Alla. 

Alhad.  I stood  in  unimaginable  trance. 

And  agony  that  cannot  be  remembered. 

Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a groan  1 
Bat  I had  heard  his  last,  my  husband’s  death-groan  ! 
Naomi.  Haste  ! let  us  onward. 

Alhad.  I looked  far  down  the  pit — 

My  sight  was  bounded  bv  a jutting  fragment ; 

444 


to  1830. 


And  it  was  stained  with  blood.  Then  first  I shrieked, 
My  eyeballs  burned,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire  ! 

And  all  the  hanging  drops  of  the  wet  roof 
Turned  into  blood — I saw  them  turn  to  blood! 

And  I was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm, 

When  on  the  further  brink  I saw  his  sword, 

And  it  said  vengeance  ! Curses  on  my  tongue  ! 

The  moon  hath  moved  in  heaven,  and  I am  here, 

And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance  ! Isidore, 

Spirit  of  Isidore,  thy  murderer  lives  ! 

Away,  away  ! 

All.  Away,  away ! [She  rushes  off,  aU  following. 

The  incantation  scene,  in  the  same  play,  is  sketched 
with  high  poetical  power,  and  the  author’s  unrivalled 
musical  expression : 

Scene— A Hall  of  Armoury,  with  an  altar  at  the  back  of  the 
stage.  Soft  music  from  an  instrument  of  glass  or  steel. 

Valdez,  Ordoxio,  and  Altar  in  a Sorcerer’s  robe  are 
discovered. 

Ordonio.  This  was  too  melancholy,  father. 

Valdez.  Nay, 

My  Alvar  loved  sad  music  from  a child. 

Once  he  was  lost,  and  after  weary  search 
We  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood. 

To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a blind  boy, 

Who  breathed  into  a pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  moving  notes ; and  these,  he  said. 
Were  taught  him  in  a dream.  Him  we  first  saw 
Stretched  on  the  broad  top  of  a sunny  heath-bank  : 
And  lower  down  poor  Alvar,  fast  asleep, 

His  head  upon  the  blind  hoy’s  dog.  It  pleased  me 
To  mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I see  him  now  as  he  then  looked — 

Even  so  ! He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress, 

Yet  still  he  wore  it. 

Alvar.  My  tears  must  not  flow  ! 

I must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry,  My  father  ! 

Enter  Teresa  and  Attendants. 

Teresa.  Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence 
here, 

And  I submit ; but — Heaven  bear  witness  for  me — 
My  heart  approves  it  not ! ’tis  mockery. 

Ord.  Believe  you,  then,  no  preternatural  influence  ? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

Ter.  Say  rather  that  I have  imagined  it 
A possible  thing : and  it  has  soothed  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have ; but  ne’er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 

[To  Alvar.]  Stranger,  I mourn  and  blush  to  see  you 
here 

On  such  employment ! With  far  other  thoughts 
I left  you. 

Ord.  [Aside]  Ha  ! he  has  been  tampering  with  her  ? 
Alv.  0 high-souled  maiden ! and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  stranger’s  name  ! 

I swear  to  thee 

I will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 

Doubt,  but  decide  not ! Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 
[Here  a strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene. 
Alv.  With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm 
I call  up  the  departed ! 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 

Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell : 

So  may  the  gates  of  paradise,  unbarred,  * 

Cease  thy  swift  toils ! Since  happily  thou  art  one 

Of  that  innumerable  company 

Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow, 

Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a dizzy  motion. 

With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard : 

Fitliest  unheard ! For  oh,  ye  numberless 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


0.  R.  MATURIN’. 


And  rapid  travellers ! what  ear  unstunned, 

"What  sense  unmaddened,  might  hear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  jour  congregated  wings  ? [ Music .] 

Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o’er  my  head  ! 

[Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  images 
■that  follow.'] 

Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands, 

That  roar  and  whiten  like  a burst  of  waters,  % 

A sweet  appearance,  hut  a dread  illusion 
To  the  parched  caravan  that  roams  hy  night ! 

And  ye  build  up  on  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  earth  to  heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness  ! Ye,  too,  split 
The  ice  mount ! and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-thawed  sea,  whose  sudden  gulfs 
Suck  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard’s  skiff! 

Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool’s  marge  ye  dance, 
Till  from  the  blue  swollen  corse  the  soul  toils  out, 
And  joins  your  mighty  army.  [Here,  behind  the  scenes , 
a voice  sings  the  three  words, ‘ Hear,  sweet  spirit.'] 
Soul  of  Alvar ! 

Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  charm  ! 

By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a half-dead,  yet  still  undying  hope, 

Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense  ! 

So  shall  the  church’s  cleansing  rites  be  thine, 

Her  knells  and  masses,  that  redeem  the  dead! 

[Song  behind  the  scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same 
instrument  as  before.] 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 

Lest  a blacker  charm  compel ! 

So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long  lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 

In  a chapel  on  the  shore, 

Shall  the  chanters,  sad  and  saintly, 

Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 

Doleful  masses  chant  for  thee, 

Miserere  Domine ! 

Hark ! the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  yellow  moonlight  sea  : 

The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 
Miserere  Domine ! 

[A  long  pause. 

Ord.  The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell ! 

My  brother  is  in  heaven.  Thou  sainted  spirit, 

Durst  on  our  sight,  a passing  visitant ! 

Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee, 

0 ’twere  a joy  to  me ! 

Alv.  A joy  to  thee  ! 

What  if  thou  heardst  him  now?  What  if  his  spirit 
Re-entered  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
With  many  a stab  from  many  a murderer’s  poniard  ? 
What  if — his  steadfast  eye  still  beaming  pity 
And  brother’s  love — he  turned  his  head  aside, 

Lest  he  should  look  Tit  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  penitence  ? 

Vald.  These  are  unholy  fancies  ! 

Ord.  [Struggling  with  his  feelings.]  Yes,  my  father, 
He  is  in  heaven  ! 

Alv.  [Still  to  Ordonio.]  But  what  if  he  had  a 
brother, 

Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour 
The  name  of  heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face 
More  than  the  death-pang  ? 

Val.  Idly  prating  man  ! 

Thou  hast  guessed  ill : Don  Alvar’s  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a father’s  blessing  on  him  ! 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

Alv.  [Still  to  Ordonio.]  What  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pampered  his  swollen  heart  and  made  him  proud? 
And  what  if  pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt? 

Yet  still  he  stalked  a self-created  god, 


Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning; 

And  one  that  at  his  mother’s  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a frowning  sternness? 
Young  lord  ! I tell  thee  that  there  are  such  beings — 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damned 
To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loathe  mankind, 
At  every  stir  and  buzz  of  coward  conscience, 

Trick,  cant,  and  lie ; most  whining  hypocrites  ! 

Away,  away  ! Now  let  me  hear  more  music. 

[Music  again. 

Ter.  ’Tis  strange,  I tremble  at  my  own  conjectures ! 
But  whatsoe’er  it  mean,  I dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries, 

This  dark  provoking  of  the  hidden  powers ! 

Already  I affront — if  not  high  Heaven — 

Yet  Alvar’s  memory  ! Hark  ! I make  appeal 
Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
To  bend  before  a lawful  shrine,  and  seek 
That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  heart  listens, 
Comfort  and  faithful  hope  ! Let  us  retire. 

REV.  CHARLES  ROBERT  MATURIN'. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Robert  Maturin,  author  of 
several  romances,  produced  a tragedy  named  Bertram , 
which,  by  the  influence  of  Lord  Byron,  was  brought 
out  at  Drury  Lane  in  1816.  It  was  well  received; 
and  by  the  performance  and  publication  of  his  play, 
the  author  realised  about  £1000.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
considered  the  tragedy  ‘grand  and  powerful,  the 
language  most  animated  and  poetical,  and  the  char- 
acters sketched  with  a masterly  enthusiasm.’  The 
author  was  anxious  to  introduce  Satan  on  the  stage, 
a return  to  the  style  of  the  ancient  mysteries  by  no 
means  suited  to  modern  taste.  Mr  Maturin  was 
curate  of  St  Peter’s,  Dublin.  The  scanty  income 
derived  from  his  curacy  being  insufficient  for  his 
comfortable  maintenance,  he  employed  himself  in 
assisting  young  persons  during  their  classical  studies 
at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  The  novels  of  Maturin 
— which  will  be  afterwards  noticed — enjoyed  con- 
siderable popularity;  and  had  his  prudence  been 


equal  to  his  genius,  his  life  might  have  been  passed 
in  comfort  and  respect.  He  was,  however,  vain 
and  extravagant — always  in  difficulties  (Scott  at 
one  time  generously  sent  him  £50),  and  haunted  by 
bailiffs.  When  this  eccentric  author  was  engaged 
in  composition,  he  -used  to  fasten  a wafer  on  his 
forehead,  which  was  the  signal  that  if  any  of  his 
family  entered  the  sanctum  they  must  not  speak  to 
him ! The  success  of  Bertram  induced  Mr  Maturin 
to  attempt  another  tragedy,  Manuel,  which  he  pub- 
lished in  1817.  It  is  a very  inferior  production; 
‘ the  absurd  work  of  a clever  man,’  says  Byron. 
The  unfortunate  author  died  in  Dublin  on  the  30th 
of  October  1824. 

[Scene  from  * Bertram,' 

A ‘passage  of  great  poetical  beauty,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
‘in  which  Bertram  is  represented  as  spurred  to  the  commission 
of  his  great  crimes  by  the  direct  agency  of  a supernatural  and 
malevolent  being.’] 

Prior— Bertram. 

Prior.  The  dark  knight  of  the  forest, 

So  from  his  armour  named  and  sable  helm, 

"Whose  unbarred  vizor  mortal  never  saw. 

He  dwells  alone ; no  earthly  thing  lives  near  him, 
Save  the  hoarse  raven  croaking  o’er  his  towers, 

And  the  dank  weeds  muffling  his  stagnant  moat. 

Bertram.  I ’ll  ring  a summons  on  his  barred  portal 

445 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Shall  make  them  through  their  dark  valves  rock  and 
ring. 

Pri.  Thou’rt  mad  to  take  the  quest.  Within 
my  memory 

One  solitary  man  did  venture  there — 

Dark  thoughts  dwelt  with  him,  which  he  sought  to 
vent. 

Unto  that  dark  compeer  we  saw  his  steps, 

In  winter’s  stormy  twilight,  seek  that  pass — 

But  days  and  years  are  gone,  and  he  returns  not. 

Bert.  What  fate  befell  him  there  ? 

Pri.  The  manner  of  his  end  was  never  known. 
Bert.  That  man  shall  be  my  mate.  Contend  not 
with  me — 

Horrors  to  me  are  kindred  and  society. 

Or  man,  or  fiend,  he  hath  won  the  soul  of  Bertram. 

[Bertram  is  afterwards  discovered  alone,  wandering  near 
the  fatal  tower,  and  describes  the  effect  of  the  awful  interview 
which  he  had  courted.] 

Bert.  Was  it  a man  or  fiend  ? Whate’er  it  was, 

It  hath  dealt  wonderfully  with  me — 

All  is  around  his  dwelling  suitable ; 

The  invisible  blast  to  which  the  dark  pines  groan, 

The  unconscious  tread  to  which  the  dark  earth  echoes, 
The  hidden  waters  rushing  to  their  fall ; 

These  sounds,  of  which  the  causes  are  not  seen, 

I love,  for  they  are,  like  my  fate,  mysterious  ! 

How  towered  his  proud  form  through  the  shrouding 
gloom, 

How  spoke  the  eloquent  silence  of  its  motion, 

How  through  the  barred  vizor  did  his  accents 
Roll  their  rich  thunder  on  their  pausing  soul ! 

And  though  his  mailed  hand  did  shun  my  grasp, 

And  though  his  closed  morion  hid  his  feature, 

Tea,  all  resemblance  to  the  face  of  man, 

I felt  the  hollow  whisper  of  his  welcome, 

I felt  those  unseen  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine, 

If  eyes  indeed  were  there 

Forgotten  thoughts  of  evil,  still-born  mischiefs, 

Foul  fertile  seeds  of  passion  and  of  crime, 

That  withered  in  my  heart’s  abortive  core, 

Roused  their  dark  battle  at  his  trumpet-peal : 

So  sweeps  the  tempest  o’er  the  slumbering  desert, 
Waking  its  myriad  hosts  of  burning  death  : 

So  calls  the  last  dread  peal  the  wandering  atoms 
Of  blood,  and  bone,  and  flesh,  and  dust-worn  frag- 
ments, 

In  dire  array  of  ghastly  unity, 

To  bide  the  eternal  summons — 

I am  not  what  I was  since  I beheld  him — 

I was  the  slave  of  passion’s  ebbing  sway — 

All  is  condensed,  collected,  callous,  now — 

The  groan,  the  burst,  the  fiery  flash  is  o’er, 

Down  pours  the  dense  and  darkening  lava-tide, 
Arresting  life,  and  stilling  all  beneath  it. 

Enter  two  of  his  band  observing  him. 

First  Robben\  Seest  thou  with  what  a step  of  pride 
he  stalks? 

Thou  hast  the  dark  knight  of  the  forest  seen ; 

For  never  man,  from  living  converse  come, 

Trod  with  such  step  or  flashed  with  eye  like  thine. 
Second  Robber.  And  hast  thou  of  a truth  seen  the 
dark  knight  ? 

Bert.  [ Turning / on  him  suddenly.]  Thy  hand  is 
chilled  with  fear.  Well,  shivering  craven, 

Say  I have  seen  him — wherefore  dost  thou  gaze  ? 
Long’st  thou  for  tale  of  goblin-guarded  portal  ? 

Of  giant  champion,  whose  spell-forged  mail 
Crumbled  to  dust  at  sound  of  magic  horn — - 
Banner  of  sheeted  flame,  whose  foldings  shrunk 
To  withering  weeds,  that  o’er  the  battlements 
Wave  to  the  broken  spell — or  demon-blast 
Of  winded  clarion,  whose  fell  summons  sinks 
416 


To  lonely  whisper  of  the  shuddering  breeze 

O’er  the  charmed  towers 

First  Robber.  Mock  me  not  thus.  Hast  met  him 
of  a truth  ? 

Bert.  Well,  fool 

First  Robber.  Why,  then,  Heaven’s  benison  be  with 
you. 

Upon  this  hour  we  part — farewell  for  ever. 

For  mortal  cause  I bear  a mortal  weapon — 

But  man  that  leagues  with  demons  lacks  not  man. 

RICHARD  L.  SHEIL — J.  H.  PAYNE — B.  W.  PROCTER 
— JAMES  HAYNES. 

Another  Irish  poet,  and  man  of  warm  imagination, 
Richard  Labor  Sheil,  sought  distinction  as  a 
dramatist.  His  plays,  Evadne  and  The  Apostate , 
were  performed  with  much  success,  partly  owing  to 
the  admirable  acting  of  Miss  O’Neil.  The  interest 
of  Mr  Sheil’s  dramas  is  concentrated  too  exclusively 
on  the  heroine  of  each,  and  there  is  a want  of  action 
and  animated  dialogue  ; but  they  abound  in  impres- 
sive and  well-managed  scenes.  The  plot  of  Evadne 
is  taken  from  Shirley’s  Traitor,  as  are  also  some  of 
the  sentiments.  The  following  description  of  female 
beauty  is  very  finely  expressed : 

But  you  do  not  look  altered — would  you  did  ! 

Let  me  peruse  the  face  where  loveliness 
Stays,  like  the  light  after  the  sun  is  set. 

Sphered  in  the  stillness  of  those  heaven-blue  eyes. 
The  soul  sits  beautiful ; the  high  white  front, 
Smooth  as  the  brow  of  Pallas,  seems  a temple 
Sacred  to  holy  thinking — and  those  lips 
Wear  the  small  smile  of  sleeping  infancy, 

They  are  so  innocent.  Ah,  thou  art  still 
The  same  soft  creature,  in  whose  lovely  form 
Virtue  and  beauty  seemed  as  if  they  tried 
Which  should  exceed  the  other.  Thou  hast  got 
That  brightness  all  around  thee,  that  appeared 
An  emanation  of  the  soul,  that  loved 
To  adorn  its  habitation  with  itself, 

And  in  thy  body  was  like  light,  that  looks 
More  beautiful  in  the  reflecting  cloud 
It  lives  in,  in  the  evening.  Oh,  Evadne, 

Thou  art  not  altered — would  thou  wert ! 

Mr  Sheil  was  afterwards  successful  on  a more 
conspicuous  theatre.  As  a political  character  and 
orator,  he  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
his  age.  His  brilliant  imagination,  pungent  wit,  and 
intense  earnestness  as  a speaker,  riveted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  of  popular  Irish 
assemblies,  in  which  he  was  enthusiastically  received. 
In  the  Whig  governments  of  that  of  the  present 
reign,  Mr  Sheil  held  office ; and  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  in  1851,  was  the  British  minister  at  Florence. 

In  the  same  year  with  Mr  Sheil’s  Evadne  (1820) 
appeared  Brutus , or  the  Fall  of  Tarquin , a historical 
tragedy,  by  John  Howard  Payne.  There  is  no 
originality  or  genius  displayed  in  this  drama ; but, 
when  well  acted,  it  is  highly  effective  on  the  stage. 

In  1821,  Mr  Procter’s  tragedy  of  Mirandola  was 
brought  out  at  Covent  Garden,  and  had  a short  but 
enthusiastic  run  of  success.  The  plot  is  painful — 
including  the  death,  through  unjust  suspicions,  of 
a prince  sentenced  by  his  father — and  there  is  a 
want  of  dramatic  movement  in  the  play ; but  some 
of  the  passages  are  imbued  with  poetical  feeling  and 
vigorous  expression.  The  doting  affection  of  Miran- 
dola, the  duke,  has  something  of  the  warmth  and 
the  rich  diction  of  the  old  dramatists. 

Duke.  My  own  sweet  love  ! Oh ! my  dear  peerless 
wife ! 

By  the  blue  sky  and  all  its  crowding  stars, 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


. JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 


I love  you  better — oh ! far  better  than 
Woman  was  ever  loved.  There ’s  not  an  hour 
Of  day  or  dreaming  night  but  I am  with  thee  : 

There’s  not  a wind  but  whispers  of  thy  name, 

And  not  a flower  that  sleeps  beneath  the  moon 
But  in  its  hues  or  fragrance  tells  a tale 
Of  thee,  my  love,  to  thy  Mirandola. 

Speak,  dearest  Isidora,  can  you  love 
As  I do  ? Can — but  no,  no ; I shall  grow 
Foolish  if  thus  I talk.  You  must  be  gone ; 

You  must  be  gone,  fair  Isidora,  else 

The  business  of  the  dukedom  soon  will  cease. 

I speak  the  truth,  by  Dian.  Even  now 
Gheraldi  waits  without  (or  should)  to  see  me. 

In  faith,  you  must  go  : on^/kiss ; and  so,  away. 

Isid.  Farewell,  my  lord. 

DuJce.  We’ll  ride  together,  dearest, 

Some  few  hours  hence. 

Isid.  Just  as  you  please ; farewell.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Farewell ; with  what  a waving  air  she  goes 
Along  the  corridor.  How  like  a fawn ; 

Yet  statelier. — Hark  ! no  sound,  however  soft — 

Nor  gentlest  echo — telleth  when  she  treads ; 

But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence.  Thus  did  Hebe  grow 
Amidst  the  gods,  a paragon ; and  thus — 

Away  ! I’m  grown  the  very  fool  of  love. 

About  the  same  time,  Conscience , or  the  Bridal 
Night , by  Mr  James  Haynes,  was  performed,  and 
afterwards  published.  The  hero  is  a ruined  Venetian, 
and  his  bride  the  daughter  of  his  deadliest  enemy, 
and  the  niece  of  one  to  whose  death  he  had  been 
a party.  The  stings  of  conscience,  and  the  fears 
accompanying  the  bridal-night,  are  thus  described : 

Lorenzo  and  his  friend  Jri.ro. 

I had  thoughts 

Of  dying ; but  pity  bids  me  live  ! 

Julio.  Yes,  live,  and  still  be  happy. 

Lorenzo.  Never,  Julio; 

Never  again  : even  at  my  bridal-hour 
Thou  sawest  detection,  like  a witch,  look  on 
And  smile,  and  mock  at  the  solemnity, 

Conjuring  the  stars.  Hark ! was  not  that  a noise  ? 
Jul.  No ; all  is  still. 

Lor.  Have  none  approached  us  ? 

Jul.  None. 

Lor.  Then  ’twas  my  fancy.  Every  passing  hour 
Is  crowded  with  a thousand  whisperers ; 

The  night  has  lost  its  silence,  and  the  stars 
Shoot  fire  upon  my  soul.  Darkness  itself 
Has  objects  for  mine  eyes  to  gaze  upon, 

And  sends  me  terror  when  I pray  for  sleep 
In  vain  upon  my  knees.  Nor  ends  it  here; 

My  greatest  dread  of  all — detection — casts 
Her  shadow  on  my  walk,  and  startles  me 
At  every  turn  : sometime  will  reason  drag 
Her  frightful  chain  of  probable  alarms 
Across  my  mind ; or,  if  fatigued,  she  droops, 

Her  pangs  survive  the  while ; as  you  have  seen 
The  ocean  tossing  when  the  wind  is  down, 

And  the  huge  storm  is  dying  on  the  waters. 

Once,  too,  I had  a dream 

Jul.  The  shadows  of  our  sleep  should  fly  with  sleep ; 
Nor  hang  their  sickness  on  the  memory. 

Lor.  Methought  the  dead  man,  rising  from  his  tomb, 
Frowned  over  me.  Elmira  at  my  side, 

Stretched  her  fond  arms  to  shield  me  from  his  wrath, 
At  which  he  frowned  the  more.  I turned  away, 
Disgusted,  from  the  spectre,  and  assayed 
To  clasp  my  wife ; but  she  was  pale,  and  cold, 

And  in  her  breast  the  heart  was  motionless, 

And  on  her  limbs  the  clothing  of  the  grave, 

With  here  and  there  a worm,  hung  heavily. 


Then  did  the  spectre  laugh,  till  from  its  mouth 
Blood  dropped  upon  us  while  it  cried : ‘ Behold  ! 

Such  is  the  bridal-bed  that  waits  thy  love  !’ 

I would  have  struck  it  (for  my  rage  was  up) ; 

I tried  the  blow ; but,  all  my  senses  shaken 
By  the  convulsion,  broke  the  tranced  spell, 

And  darkness  told  me — sleep  was  my  tormentor. 

JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

The  most  successful  of  modern  tragic  dramatists 
is  Mr  James  Sheridan  Knowles,  whose  plaj-s 


have  been  collected  and  republished  in  three  volumes. 
His  first  play,  Cains  Gracchus , was  performed  in 
1815,  and  the  next  was  founded  on  that  striking 
incident  in  Roman  story,  the  death  of  a maiden  by 
the  hand  of  her  father,  Virginius,  to  save  her  from 
the  lust  and  tyranny  of  Appius.  Mr  Knowles’s 
Virginius  had  an  extraordinary  run  of  success. 
He  afterwards  brought  out  The  Wife , a Tale  of 
Mantua , The  Hunchback , Woman’s  Wit , The  Blind 
Beggar  of  Bethnal  Green , William  Tell , The  Lqvc 
Chace,  &c.  With  considerable  knowledge  of  stage 
effect,  Mr  Knowles  unites  a lively  inventive  imagi- 
nation and  a poetical  colouring,  which,  if  at  times 
too  florid  and  gaudy,  sets  off  his  familiar  images 
and  illustrations.  His  style  is  formed  on  that  of 
Massinger  and  the  other  elder  dramatists,  carried 
often  to  a ridiculous  excess.  He  also  frequently 
violates  Roman  history  and  classical  propriety,  and 
runs  into  conceits  and  affected  metaphors.  These 
faults  are  counterbalanced  by  a happy  art  of 
constructing  scenes  and  plots,  romantic,  yet  not 
too  improbable,  by  skilful  delineation  of  character, 
especially  in  domestic  life,  and  by  a current  of  poetry 
which  sparkles  through  his  plays,  1 not  with  a dazz- 
ling lustre — not  with  a gorgeousness  that  engrosses 
our  attention,  but  mildly  and  agreeably ; seldom 
impeding  with  useless  glitter  the  progress  and 
development  of  incident  and  character,  but  ming- 
ling itself  with  them,  and  raising  them  pleasantly 

447 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


above  the  prosaic  level  of  common  life.’  * Mr 
Knowles  is  a native  of  Cork,  born  in  1794.  Having 
succeeded  in  the  drama,  he  tried  prose  fiction,  and 
wrote  two  novels,  George  Lovell  and  Henry  Fortescue , 
but  they  have  little  merit.  He  next  embarked  in 
polemical  discussion,  attacking  the  Church  of  Rome, 
and  he  has  occasionally  preached  in  Baptist  chapels. 

[Scene  from  ‘ Virginius .’] 

Appius,  Claudius,  and  Lictors. 

Appius.  Well,  Claudius,  are  the  forces 
At  hand  ? 

Claudius.  They  are,  and  timely,  too ; the  people 
Are  in  unwonted  ferment. 

App.  There ’s  something  awes  me  at 
The  thought  of  looking  on  her  father ! 

Claud.  Look 

Upon  her,  my  Appius  ! Fix  your  gaze  upon 
The  treasures  of  her  beauty,  nor  avert  it 
Till  they  are  thine.  Haste  ! Your  tribunal ! 

Haste  ! [Appius  ascends  the  tribunal. 

[Enter  Numitorius,  Icilius,  Lucius,  Citizens,  Virginius 
leading  his  daughter,  Servia,  and  Citizens.  A dead  silence 
prevails.] 

Virginius.  Does  no  one  speak  ? I am  defendant  here. 
Is  silence  my  opponent?  Fit  opponent 
To  plead  a cause  too  foul  for  speech  ! What  brow 
Shameless  gives  front  to  this  most  valiant  cause, 

That  tries  its  prowess  ’gainst  the  honour  of 
A girl,  yet  lacks  the  wit  to  know,  that  he 
Who  casts  off  shame,  should  likewise  cast  off  fear — 
And  on  the  verge  o’  the  combat  wants  the  nerve 
To  stammer  forth  the  signal  ? 

App.  You  had  better, 

Virginius,  wear  another  kind  of  carriage ; 

This  is  not  of  the  fashion  that  will  serve  you. 

Vir.  The  fashion,  Appius ! Appius  Claudius  tell  me 
The  fashion  it  becomes  a man  to  speak  in, 

Whose  property  in  his  own  child — the  offspring 

Of  his  own  body,  near  to  him  as  is 

His  hand,  his  arm — yea,  nearer — closer  far, 

Knit  to  his  heart — I say,  who  has  his  property 
In  such  a thing,  the  very  self  of  himself, 

Disputed — and  I ’ll  speak  so,  Appius  Claudius ; 

I ’ll  speak  so — Pray  you  tutor  me  ! 

App.  Stand  forth 

Claudius  ! If  you  lay  claim  to  any  interest 
In  the  question  now  before  us,  speak ; if  not, 

Bring  on  some  other  cause. 

Claud.  Most  noble  Appius 

Vir.  And  are  you  the  man 

That  claims  my  daughter  for  his  slave  ? — Look  at  me 
And  I will  give  her  to  thee. 

Claud.  She  is  mine,  then  : 

Do  I not  look  at  you  ? 

Vir.  Your  eye  does,  truly, 

But  not  your  soul.  I see  it  through  your  eye 
Shifting  and  shrinking — turning  every  way 
To  shun  me.  You  surprise  me,  that  your  eye, 

So  long  the  bully  of  its  master,  knows  not 
To  put  a proper  face  upon  a lie, 

But  gives  the  port  of  impudence  to  falsehood 
When  it  would  pass  it  off  for  truth.  Your  soul 
Dares  as  soon  shew  its  face  to  me.  Go  on, 

I had  forgot ; the  fashion  of  my  speech 
May  not  please  Appius  Claudius. 

Claud.  I demand 
Protection  of  the  Decemvir ! 

App.  You  shall  have  it. 

Vir.  Doubtless ! 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  Lictors  ! "What  'a 

* Edinburgh  Review  for  1833. 

448 


TO  1830. 


Your  plea?  You  say  the  girl’s  your  slave.  Produce 
Your  proofs. 

Claud.  My  proof  is  here,  which,  if  they  can, 

Let  them  confront.  The  mother  of  the  girl 

[ Virginius , stepping  forward , is  withheld  by 
Numitorius. 

Numitorius.  Hold,  brother ! Hear  them  out,  or 
suffer  me 
To  speak. 

Vir.  Man,  I must  speak,  or  else  go  mad ! 

And  if  I do  go  mad,  what  then  will  hold  me 
From  speaking  ? She  was  thy  sister,  too  ! 

Well,  well,  speak  thou.  I’ll  try,  and  if  I can, 

Be  silent.  [Retires. 

Num.  Will  she  swear  she  is  her  child  ? 

Vir.  [Starting  forward.]  To  be  sure  she  will — a 
most  w'ise  question  that ! 

Is  she  not  his  slave  ? Will  his  tongue  lie  for  him — 

Or  his  hand  steal — or  the  finger  of  his  hand 
Beckon,  or  point,  or  shut,  or  open  for  him  ? 

To  ask  him  if  she  ’ll  swear  ! Will  she  walk  or  run, 
Sing,  dance,  or  wag  her  head ; do  anything 
That  is  most  easy  done  ? She  ’ll  as  soon  swear ! 

What  mockery  it  is  to  have  one’s  life 
In  jeopardy  by  such  a barefaced  trick  ! 

Is  it  to  be  endured  ? I do  protest 
Against  her  oath ! 

App.  No  law  in  Rome,  Virginius, 

Seconds  you.  If  she  swear  the  girl ’s  her  child, 

The  evidence  is  good,  unless  confronted 
By  better  evidence.  Look  you  to  that, 

Virginius.  I shall  take  the  woman’s  oath. 

Virginia.  Icilius ! 

Icilius.  Fear  not,  love ; a thousand  oaths 
Will  answer  her. 

App.  You  swear  the  girl’s  your  child, 

And  that  you  sold  her  to  Virginius’  wife, 

Who  passed  her  for  her  own.  Is  that  your  oath  ? 

Slave.  It  is  my  oath. 

App.  Your  answer  now,  Virginius. 

Vir.  Here  it  is ! [Brings  Virginia  forward.  | 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a slave  ? I know 
’Tis  not  with  men  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of  . I 

The  stem.  Yet  who  from  such  a stem  would  look 
For  such  a shoot.  My  witnesses  are  these — 

The  relatives  and  friends  of  Numitoria, 

Who  saw  her,  ere  Virginia’s  birth,  sustain 
The  burden  which  a mother  bears,  nor  feels 
The  weight,  with  longing  for  the  sight  of  it. 

Here  are  the  ears  that  listened  to  her  sighs 
In  nature’s  hour  of  labour,  which  subsides 
In  the  embrace  of  joy — the  hands,  that  when 
The  day  first  looked  upon  the  infant’s  face, 

And  never  looked  so  pleased,  helped  them  up  to  it, 

And  blessed  her  for  a blessing.  Here,  the  eyes 
That  saw  her  lying  at  the  generous 
And  sympathetic  fount,  that  at  her  cry 
Sent  forth  a stream  of  liquid  living  pearl 
To  cherish  her  enamelled  veins.  The  lie 
Is  most  unfruitful  then,  that  takes  the  flower — 

The  very  flower  our  bed  connubial  grew' — 

To  prove  its  barrenness  ! Speak  for  me,  friends ; 

Have  I not  spoke  the  truth  ? 

Women  and  Citizens.  You  have,  Virginius. 

App.  Silence!  Keep  silence  there!  No  more  of 
that ! 

Y ou  ’re  very  ready  for  a tumult,  citizens. 

[Troops  appear  behind. 
Lictors,  make  way  to  let  these  troops  advance  ! 

We  have  had  a taste  of  your  forbearance,  masters, 

And  wish  not  for  another. 

Vir.  Troops  in  the  Forum  ! 

App.  Virginius,  have  you  spoken? 

Vir.  If  you  have  heard  me, 

I have ; if  not,  I ’ll  speak  again. 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 


App.  You  need  not, 

Virginius ; I had  evidence  to  give, 

Which,  should  you  speak  a hundred  times  again, 
Would  make  your  pleading  vain. 

Vir.  Your  hand,  Virginia ! 

Stand  close  to  me.  [Aside. 

App.  My  conscience  will  not  let  me 
Be  silent.  ’Tis  notorious  to  you  all, 

That  Claudius’  father,  at  his  death,  declared  me 
The  guardian  of  his  son.  This  cheat  has  long 
Been  known  to  me.  I know  the  girl  is  not 
Virginius’  daughter. 

Vir.  Join  your  friends,  Icilius, 

And  leave  Virginia  to  my  care.  [Aside. 

App.  The  justice 

I should  have  done  my  client  unrequired, 

Now  cited  by  him,  how  shall  I refuse  ? 

Vir.  Don’t  tremble,  girl ! don’t  tremble.  [Aside. 
App.  Virginius, 

I feel  for  you ; but  though  you  were  my  father, 

The  majesty  of  justice  should  be  sacred — 

Claudius  must  take  Virginia  home  with  him  ! 

Vir.  And  if  he  must,  I should  advise  him,  Appius, 
To  take  her  home  in  time,  before  his  guardian 
Complete  the  violation  which  his  eyes 
Already  have  begun. — Friends ! fellow-citizens  ! 

Look  not  on  Claudius — look  on  your  Decemvir ! 

He  is  the  master  claims  Virginia  ! 

The  tongues  that  told  him  she  was  not  my  child 
Are  these — the  costly  charms  he  cannot  purchase, 
Except  by  making  her  the  slave  of  Claudius, 

His  client,  his  purveyor,  that  caters  for 
His  pleasure — markets  for  him — pioks,  and  scents, 
And  tastes,  that  he  may  banquet — serves  him  up 
His  sensual  feast,  and  is  not  now  ashamed, 

In  the  open,  common  street,  before  your  eyes — 
Frighting  your  daughters’  and  your  matrons’  cheeks 
With  blushes  they  ne’er  thought  to  meet — to  help  him 
To  the  honour  of  a Roman  maid ! my  child ! 

Who  now  clings  to  me,  as  you  see,  as  if 
This  second  Tarquin  had  already  coiled 
His  arms  around  her.  Look  upon  her,  Romans  ! 
Befriend  her  ! succour  her ! see  her  not  polluted 
Before  her  father’s  eyes  ! — He  is  but  one. 

Tear  her  from  Appius  and  his  Lictors  while 
She  is  unstained. — Your  hands ! your  hands ! your 
hands ! 

Citizens.  They  are  yours,  Virginius. 

App.  Keep  the  people  back — 

Support  my  Lictors,  soldiers ! Seize  the  girl, 

And  drive  the  people  back. 

Icilius.  Down  with  the  slaves ! 

[The  people  make  a show  of  resistance ; but,  upon  the  advance 
of  the  soldiers,  retreat,  and  leave  Icilius,  Virginius,  and  his 
daughter,  &c.,  in  the  hands  of  Appius  and  his  party.] 

Deserted  ! — Cowards ! traitors ! Let  me  free 
But  for  a moment ! I relied  on  you  ; 

Had  I relied  upon  myself  alone, 

I had  kept  them  still  at  bay  ! I kneel  to  you — 

Let  me  but  loose  a moment,  if  ’tis  only 
To  rush  upon  your  swords. 

Vir.  Icilius,  peace ! 

You  see  how  ’tis,  we  are  deserted,  left 

Alone  by  our  friends,  surrounded  by  our  enemies, 

Nerveless  and  helpless. 

App.  Separate  them,  Lictors ! 

Vir.  Let  them  forbear  awhile,  I pray  you,  Appius : 
It  is  not  very  easy.  Though  her  arms 
Are  tender,  yet  the  hold  is  strong  by  which 
She  grasps  me,  Appius — forcing  them  will  hurt  them ; 
They  ’ll  soon  unclasp  themselves.  Wait  but  a little — 
You  know  you’re  sure  of  her ! 

App.  I have  not  time 
To  idle  with  thee ; give  her  to  my  Lictors. 

Vir.  Appius,  I pray  you  wait ! If  she  is  not 


My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a child  to  me 
For  fifteen  years.  If  I am  not  her  father, 

I have  been  like  a father  to  her,  Appius, 

For  even  such  a time.  They  that  have  lived 
So  long  a time  together,  in  so  near 
And  dear  society,  may  be  allowed 
A little  time  for  parting.  Let  me  take 
The  maid  aside,  I pray  you,  and  confer 
A moment  with  her  nurse ; perhaps  she  ’ll  give  me 
Some  token  will  unloose  a tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it. 

App.  Have  your  wish.  Be  brief ! 

Lictors,  look  to  them. 

Virginia.  Do  you  go  from  me  ? 

Do  you  leave  ? Father ! Father ! 

Vir.  No,  my  child — 

No,  my  Virginia— come  along  with  me. 

Virginia.  Will  you  not  leave  me  ? Will  you  take 
me  with  you  ? 

Will  you  take  me  home  again  ? 0,  bless  you  ! bless  you ! 
My  father ! my  dear  father ! Art  thou  not 
My  father  ? 

[Virginius,  perfectly  at  a loss  what  to  do,  looks  anxiously 
around  the  Forum ; at  length  his  eye  falls  on  a butcher’s  stall, 
with  a knife  upon  it.] 

Vir.  This  way,  my  child — No,  no ; I am  not  going 
To  leave  thee,  my  Virginia  ! I ’ll  not  leave  thee. 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers  ! Let  them  not 
Approach  Virginius  ! Keep  the  people  back  ! 

[ Virginius  secures  the  knife. 

Well,  have  you  done  ? 

Vir.  Short  time  for  converse,  Appius, 

But  I have. 

App.  I hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Vir.  I am — 

I am — that  she  is  my  daughter ! 

App.  Take  her,  Lictors  ! 

[Virginia  shrieks,  and  falls  half -dead  upon 
her  father's  shoulder.  ' 

Vir.  Another  moment,  pray  you.  Bear  with  me 
A little — ’Tis  my  last  embrace.  ’Twon’t  try 
Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you  ’re  a man  ! 
Lengthen  it  as  I may,  I cannot  make  it 
Long.  My  dear  child ! My  dear  Virginia  ! 

[Kissing  her. 

There  is  one  only  way  to  save  thine  honour — 

’Tis  this. 

[/Shafts  her,  and  draws  out  the  knife.  Icilius 
breaks  from  the  soldiers  that  held  him, 
and  catches  her. 

Lo,  Appius,  with  this  innocent  blood 
I do  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods  ! 

Make  way  there ! 

App.  Stop  him  ! Seize  him  ! 

Vir.  If  they  dare 

To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 
With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why,  let  them  : thus 
It  rushes  in  amongst  them.  Way  there  ! Way  ! 

[Exit  through  the  soldiers. 


[From  1 The  Wife,  a Tale  of  Mantua .’] 
Lorenzo,  an  Advocate  of  Rome,  and  Mariana. 


Lorenzo.  That ’s  right — you  are  collected  and  direct 
In  your  replies.  I dare  be  sworn  your  passion 
Was  such  a thing,  as,  by  its  neighbourhood, 

Made  piety  and  virtue  twice  as  rich 
As  e’er  they  were  before.  How  grew  it  ? Come, 
Thou  know’st  thy  heart — look  calmly  into  it,  _ 

And  see  how  innocent  a thing  it  is 
Which  thou  dost  fear  to  shew — I wai 
How  grew  your  passion  ? 

Mariana.  As  my  stature  grew, 

Which  rose  without  my  noting  it,  un 


from  1800  C Y CLOPiEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Thev  said  I was  a woman.  I kept  watch 
Beside  what  seemed  his  death-bed.  From  beneath 
An  avalanche  my  father  rescued  him, 

The  sole  survivor  of  a company 

Who  wandered  through  our  mountains.  A long  time 

His  life  was  doubtful,  signor,  and  he  called 

For  help,  whence  help  alone  could  come,  which  I, 

Morning  and  night,  invoked  along  with  him ; 

So  first  our  souls  did  mingle  ! 

Lor.  I perceive : you  mingled  souls  until  you 
mingled  hearts  ? 

You  loved  at  last.  Was’t  not  the  sequel,  maid  ? 

Mar.  I loved,  indeed ! If  I but  nursed  a flower 
Which  to  the  ground  the  rain  and  wind  had  beaten, 
That  flower  of  all  our  garden  was  my  pride  : 

What  then  was  he  to  me,  for  whom  I thought 
To  make  a shroud,  when,  tending  on  him  still 
With  hope,  that,  baffled  still,  did  still  keep  up  ; 

I saw,  at  last,  the  ruddy  dawn  of  health 
Begin  to  mantle  o’er  his  pallid  form. 

And  glow — and  glow — till  forth  at  last  it  burst 
Into  confirmed,  broad,  and  glorious  day ! 

Lor.  You  loved,  and  he  did  love? 

Mar.  To  say  he  did. 

Were  to  affirm  what  oft  his  eyes  avouched, 

What  many  an  action  testified — and  yet — 

What  wanted  confirmation  of  his  tongue. 

But  if  he  loved,  it  brought  him  not  content ! 

’Twas  now  abstraction — now  a start — anon 
A pacing  to  and  fro — anon  a stillness, 

As  nought  remained  of  life,  save  life  itself, 

And  feeling,  thought,  and  motion,  were  extinct 
Then  all  again  was  action  ! Disinclined 
To  converse,  save  he  held  it  with  himself ; 

Which  oft  he  did,  in  moody  vein  discoursing, 

And  ever  and  anon  invoking  honour, 

As  some  high  contest  there  were  pending  ’twixt 
Himself  and  him,  wherein  her  aid  he  needed. 

Lor.  This  spoke  impediment ; or  he  was  bound 
By  promise  to  another ; or  had  friends 
Whom  it  behoved  him  to  consult,  and  doubted ; 

Or  ’twixt  you  lay  disparity  too  wide 
For  love  itself  to  leap. 

Mar.  I saw  a struggle, 

But  knew  not  what  it  was.  I wondered  still. 

That  what  to  me  was  all  content,  to  him 
Was  all  disturbance ; but  my  turn  did  come. 

At  length  he  talked  of  leaving  us ; at  length 
He  fixed  the  parting-day — but  kept  it  not — 

0 how  my  heart  did  bound ! Then  first  I knew 
It  had  been  sinking.  Deeper  still  it  sank 
When  next  he  fixed  to  go ; and  sank  it  then 

To  bound  no  more  ! He  went. 

Lor.  To  follow  him 
You  came  to  Mantua  ? 

Mar.  What  could  I do  ? 

Cot,  garden,  vineyard,  rivulet,  and  wood, 

Lake,  sky,  and  mountain,  went  along  with  him  ! 
Could  I remain  behind  ? My  father  found 
My  heart  was  not  at  home ; he  loved  his  child, 

And  asked  me,  one  day,  whither  we  should  go  ? 

1 said : ‘ To  Mantua.’  I followed  him 

To  Mantua ! to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed, 

To  walk  upon  the  ground  he  walked  upon, 

To  look  upon  the  things  he  looked  upon. 

To  look,  perchance,  on  him  ! perchance  to  hear  him, 
To  touch  him  ! never  to  be  known  to  him, 

Till  he  was  told  I lived  and  died  his  love. 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES — DR  THOMAS 
BEDDOES. 

The  Bride's  Tragedy , by  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes, 
published  in  1822,  is  intended  for  the  closet  rather 
than  the  theatre.  It  possesses  many  passages  of 

450 


pure  and  sparkling  verse.  ‘ The  following,’  says  a 
writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  1 will  shew  the  way 
in  which  hlr  Beddoes  manages  a subject  that  poets 
have  almost  reduced  to  commonplace.  We  thought 
all  similes  for  the  violet  had  been  used  up ; but  he 
gives  us  a new  one,  and  one  that  is  very  delightful.’ 
Hesperus  and  Eloribel — the  young  wedded  lovers — 
are  in  a garden ; and  the  husband  speaks : 

Hesperus.  See,  here’s  a bower 
Of  eglantine  with  honeysuckles  woven, 

Where  not  a spark  of  prying  light  creeps  in, 

So  closely  do  the  sweets  enfold  each  other. 

’Tis  twilight’s  home ; come  in,  my  gentle  love, 

And  talk  to  me.  So  ! I ’ve  a rival  here ; 

What ’s  this  that  sleeps  so  sweetly  on  your  neck ! 

Floribd.  J ealous  so  soon,  my  Hesperus  ? Look  then, 

It  is  a bunch  of  flowers  I pulled  for  you  : 

Here ’s  the  blue  violet,  like  Pandora’s  eye, 

When  first  it  darkened  with  immortal  life. 

Hesp.  Sweet  as  thy  lips.  Fie  on  those  taper  fingers, 
Have  they  been  brushing  the  long  grass  aside, 

To  drag  the  daisy  from  its  hiding-place, 

Where  it  shuns  light,  the  Danae  of  flowers, 

With  gold  up-hoarded  on  its  virgin  lap  ? 

Flor.  And  here’s  a treasure  that  I found  by  chance, 

A lily  of  the  valley ; low  it  lay 

Over  a mossy  mound,  withered  and  weeping, 

As  on  a fairy’s  grave. 

Hesp.  Of  all  the  posy 

Give  me  the  rose,  though  there ’s  a tale  of  blood 

Soiling  its  name.  In  elfin  annals  old 

’Tis  writ,  how  Zephyr,  envious  of  his  love — 

The  love  he  bare  to  Summer,  who  since  then 
Has,  weeping,  visited  the  world — once  found 
The  baby  Perfume  cradled  in  a violet ; 

(Twas  said  the  beauteous  bantling  was  the  child 
Of  a gay  bee,  that  in  his  wantonness 
Toyed  with  a pea -bud  in  a lady’s  garland) ; 

The  felon  winds,  confederate  with  him. 

Bound  the  sweet  slumberer  with  golden  chains, 

Pulled  from  the  wreathed  laburnum,  and  together 
Deep  cast  him  in  the  bosom  of  a rose, 

And  fed  the  fettered  wretch  with  dew  and  air. 

And  there  is  an  expression  in  the  same  scene  (where 
the  author  is  speaking  of  sleepers’  fancies,  &c.), 

While  that  winged  song,  the  restless  nightingale 
Turns  her  sad  heart  to  music — 

which  is  perfectly  beautiful. 

The  reader  may  now  take  a passage  from  the  j 
scene  where  Hesperus  murders  the  girl  Floribel.  | 
She  is  waiting  for  him  in  the  Divinity  path,  alone,  , 
and  is  terrified.  At  last  he  comes ; and  she  sighs 
out: 

Speak ! let  me  hear  thy  voice, 

Tell  me  the  joyful  news ! 

and  thus  he  answers : 

Ay,  I am  come 

In  all  my  solemn  pomp,  Darkness  and  Fear, 

And  the  great  Tempest  in  his  midnight  car, 

The  sword  of  lightning  girt  across  his  thigh, 

And  the  whole  demon  brood  of  night,  blind  Fog 
And  withering  Blight,  all  these  are  my  retainers ; 

How  ? not  one  smile  for  all  this  bravery  ? 

What  think  you  of  my  minstrels,  the  hoarse  winds, 
Thunder,  and  tuneful  Discord  ? Hark,  they  play. 

Well  piped,  methinks ; somewhat  too  rough,  perhaps,  j 
Flor.  I know  you  practise  on  my  silliness, 

Else  I might  well  be  scared.  But  leave  this  mirth, 

Or  I must  weep. 

Hesp.  ’Twill  serve  to  fill  the  goblets 
For  our  carousal ; but  we  loiter  here, 

The  bride-maids  are  without ) well  picked,  thou ’It  say, 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  BEDDOES — JOHN  o’ KEEFE. 


Wan  ghosts  of  woe-begone,  self- slaughtered  damsels 
In  their  best  winding-sheets ; start  not ; I bid  them 
wipe 

Their  gory  bosoms ; they  ’ll  look  wondrous  comely ; 
Our  link-boy,  Will-o’-the-Wisp,  is  waiting  too 
To  light  us  to  our  grave. 

After  some  further  speech,  she  asks  him  what  he 
means,  and  he  replies : 

What  mean  I ? Death  and  murder, 

Darkness  and  misery.  To  thy  prayers  and  shrift, 
Earth  gives  thee  back.  Thy  God  hath  sent  me  for  thee ; 
Repent  and  die.  » 

She  returns  gentle  answers  to  him ; but  in  the  end 
he  kills  her,  and  afterwards  mourns  thus  over  her 
body : 

Dead  art  thou,  Floribel ; fair,  painted  earth, 

And  no  warm  breath  shall  ever  more  disport 
Between  those  ruby  lips  : no ; they  have  quaffed 
Life  to  the  dregs,  and  found  death  at  the  bottom, 

The  sugar  of  the  draught.  All  cold  and  still ; 

Her  very  tresses  stiffen  in  the  air. 

Look,  what  a face ! had  our  first  mother  worn 
But  half  such  beauty  when  the  serpent  came, 

His  heart,  all  malice,  would  have  turned  to  love ; 

No  hand  but  this,  which  I do  think  was  once 
Cain,  the  arch-murderer’s,  could  have  acted  it* 

And  I must  hide  these  sweets,  not  in  my  bosom ; 

In  the  foul  earth.  She  shudders  at  my  grasp  : 

Just  so  she  laid  her  head  across  my  bosom 
When  first — oh  villain  ! which  way  lies  the  grave  ? 

Mr  Beddoes  was  son  of  Dr  Thomas  Beddoes 
(1760-1808),  an  eminent  physician,  scholar,  and 
man  of  scientific  attainments,  as  well  as  of  great 
versatility  of  literary  talent.  Dr  Beddoes  was 
married  to  a younger  sister  of  Maria  Edgeworth, 
and  was  an  early  patron  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy. 
His  son,  the  dramatic  poet  (1803-1849),  was  only 
nineteen  when  The  Bride’s  Tragedy  was  produced. 
He  afterwards  devoted  himself  to  scientific  study 
and  foreign  travel,  but  occasionally  wrote  poetry 
not  unworthy  of  the  reputation  he  achieved  by  his 
early  performance.  After  his  death  was  published 
Death’s  Jest-booJc,  or  the  Fool’s  Tragedy  (1850),  and 
Poems , with  a memoir  (1851).  Mr  Beddoes  was  a 
writer  of  a high  order,  but  restless,  unfixed,  and 
deficient  both  in  energy  and  ambition. 

JOHN  TOBIN. 

John  Tobin  was  a sad  example,  as  Mrs  Inchbald 
has  remarked,  ‘ of  the  fallacious  hopes  by  which 
half  mankind  are  allured  to  vexatious  enterprise. 
He  passed  many  years  in  the  anxious  labour  of 
writing  plays,  which  were  rejected  by  the  managers ; 
and  no  sooner  had  they  accepted  The  Honeymoon , 
than  he  died,  and  never  enjoyed  the  recompense  of 
seeing  it  performed.’  Tobin  was  born  at  Salisbury 
in  the  year  1770,  and  educated  for  the  law.  In 
1785  he  was  articled  to  an  eminent  solicitor  of 
Lincoln’s  Inn,  and  afterwards  entered  into  business 
himself.  Such,  however,  was  his  devotion  to  the 
drama,  that  before  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  had 
written  several  plays.  Ilis  attachment  to  literary 
composition  did  not  withdraw  him  from  his  legal 
engagements ; but  his  time  was  incessantly  occupied, 
and  symptoms  of  consumption  began  to  appear. 
A change  of  climate  was  recommended,  and  Tobin 
went  first  to  Cornwall,  and  thence  to  Bristol,  where 
he  embarked  for  the  West  Indies.  The  vessel 
arriving  at  Cork,  was  detained  there  for  some  days ; 
but  on  the  7th  of  December  1804,  it  sailed  from  that 
port,  on  which  day — without  any  apparent  change 


in  his  disorder  to  indicate  the  approach  of  death — 
the  invalid  expired.  Before  quitting  London,  Tobin 
had  left  the  Honeymoon  with  his  brother,  the 
manager  having  given  a promise  that  it  should  be 
performed.  Its  success  was  instant  and  decisive, 
and  it  is  still  a favourite  acting  play.  Two  other 
pieces  by  the  same  author — Tlie  Curfew  and  The 
School  for  Authors — were  subsequently  brought  for- 
ward, but  they  are  of  inferior  merit.  The  Honey- 
moon is  a romantic  drama,  partly  in  blank  verse, 
and  written  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Spain,  and  the  plot 
taken  from  Catherine  and  Petruchio,  though  the 
reform  of  the  haughty  lady  is  accomplished  less 
roughly.  The  Duke  of  Aranza  conducts  his  bride 
to  a cottage  in  the  country,  pretending  that  he  is  a 
peasant,  and  that  he  has  obtained  her  hand  by 
deception.  The  proud  Juliana,  after  a struggle, 
submits,  and  the  duke  having  accomplished  his 
purpose  of  rebuking  ‘ the  domineering  spirit  of  her 
sex,’  asserts  his  true  rank,  and  places  Juliana  in  his 
palace : 

This  truth  to  manifest — A gentle  wife 
. Is  still  the  sterling  comfort  of  man’s  life ; 

To  fools  a torment,  but  a lasting  boon 

To  those  who — wisely  keep  their  honeymoon. 

The  following  passage,  where  the  duke  gives  his 
directions  to  Juliana  respecting  her  attire,  is  pointed 
out  by  Mrs  Inchbald  as  peculiarly  worthy  of  admir- 
ation, from  the  truths  which  it  contains.  The  fair  [ 
critic,  like  the  hero  of  the  play,  was  not  ambitious 
of  dress : 

I ’ll  have  no  glittering  gewgaws  stuck  about  you, 

To  stretch  the  gaping  eyes  of  idiot  wonder, 

And  make  men  stare  upon  a piece  of  earth 
As  on  the  star-wrought  firmament — no  feathers 
To  wave  as  streamers  to  your  vanity — 

Nor  cumbrous  silk,  that,  with  its  rustling  sound, 

Makes  proud  the  flesh  that  bears  it.  She’s  adorned 
Amply,  that  in  her  husband’s  eye  looks  lovely — 

The  truest  mirror  that  an  honest  wife 
Can  see  her  beauty  in ! 

Juliana.  I shall  observe,  sir. 

Duke.  I should  like  well  to  see  you  in  the  dress 
I last  presented  you. 

Jul.  The  blue  one,  sir  ? 

Duke.  No,  love— the  white.  Thus  modestly  attired, 

A half-blown  rose  stuck  in  thy  braided  hair, 

With  no  more  diamonds  than  those  eyes  are  made  of, 

No  deeper  rubies  than  compose  thy  lips, 

Nor  pearls  more  precious  than  inhabit  them ; 

With  the  pure  red  and  white,  which  that  same  hand 
Which  blends  the  rainbow  mingles  in  thy  cheeks ; 

This  well-proportioned  form — think  not  I flatter — 

In  graceful  motion  to  harmonious  sounds, 

And  thy  free  tresses  dancing  in  the  wind ; 

Thou  ’It  fix  as  much  observance,  as  chaste  dames 
Can  meet,  without  a blush. 

JOHN  O’KEEFE  — FREDERICK  REYNOLDS — 

THOMAS  MORTON — MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 

John  O’Keefe,  a prolific  farce  writer,  was  born 
in  Dublin  in  1746.  While  studying  the  art  of  draw- 
ing to  fit  him  for  an  artist,  he  imbibed  a passion  for 
the  stage,  and  commenced  the  career  of  an  actor 
in  his  native  city.  He  produced  generally  some 
dramatic  piece  every  year  for  his  benefit,  and  one 
of  these,  entitled  Tony  Lumpkin , was  played  with 
success  at  the  Ilaymarket  Theatre,  London,  in  1778. 
lie  continued  supplying  the  theatres  with  new 
pieces,  and  up  to  the  year  1809,  had  written,  in  all, 
about  fifty  plays  and  farces.  Most  of  these  were 
denominated  comic  operas  or  musical  farces,  and 

451 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


some  of  them  enjoyed  great  success.  The  Agreeable 
Surprise,  Wild  Oats,  Modern  Antiques,  Fontainebleau, 
The  Highland  Reel,  Love  in  a Camp,  The  Poor  Soldier, 
and  Sprigs  of  Laurel,  are  still  favourites,  especially 
the  first,  in  which  the  character  of  Lingo,  the  school- 
master, is  a laughable  piece  of  broad  humour. 
O’Keefe’s  writings,  it  is  said,  were  merely  intended 
to  make  people  laugh,  and  they  have  fully  answered 
that  object.  The  lively  dramatist  was  in  his  latter 
years  afflicted  with  blindness,  and  in  1800  he 
obtained  a benefit  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  on 
which  occasion  he  was  led  forward  by  Mr  Lewis, 
the  actor,  and  delivered  a poetical  address.  He  died 
at  Southampton  on  the  4th  of  February  1833,  having 
reached  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six. 

Frederick  Reynolds  (1765-1841)  was  one  of 
the  most  voluminous  of  dramatists,  author  of  seven- 
teen popular  comedies,  and,  altogether,  of  about  a 
hundred  dramatic  pieces.  He  served  Covent  Garden 
for  forty  years  in  the  capacity  of  what  he  called 
‘ thinker  ’ — that  is,  performer  of  every  kind  of 
literary  labour  required  in  the  establishment. 
Among  his  best  productions  are,  The  Dramatist, 
Laugh  when  you  Can,  The  Delinquent,  The  Will, 
Folly  as  it  Flies,  L,ife,  Management , Notoriety,  How 
to  Grow  Rich,  The  Rage,  Speculation,  The  Blind 
Bargain,  Fortune's  Fool,  &c.,  &c.  Of  these,  The 
Dramatist  is  the  best.  The  hero  Vapid,  the 
dramatic  author,  who  goes  to  Bath  ‘to  pick  up 
characters,’  is  a laughable  caricature,  in  which  it  is 
said  the  author  drew  a likeness  of  himself ; for,  like 
Vapid,  he  had  ‘the  ardor  scribendi  upon  him  so 
strong,  that  he  would  rather  you ’d  ask  him  to 
write  an  epilogue  or  a scene  than  offer  him  your 
whole  estate — the  theatre  was  his  world,  in  which 
were  included  all  his  hopes  and  wishes.’  Out  of  the 
theatre,  however,  as  in  it,  Reynolds  was  much 
esteemed. 

Another  veteran  comic  writer,  Thomas  Morton, 
is  author  of  Speed  the  Plough,  Way  to  get  Married, 
Cure  for  the  Heartache,  and  the  School  of  Reform , 
which  may  be  considered  standard  pieces  on  the 
stage.  Besides  these,  Mr  Morton  produced  Zorinski, 
Secrets  Worth  Knowing,  and  various  other  plays, 
most  of  which  were  performed  with  great  applause. 
The  acting  of  Lewis,  Munden,  and  Emery  was 
greatly  in  favour  of  Mr  Morton’s  productions  on 
their  first  appearance,  but  they  contain  the  elements 
of  theatrical  success.  The  characters  are  strongly 
contrasted,  and  the  scenes  and  situations  well 
arranged  for  effect,  with  occasionally  a mixture  of 
pathos  and  tragic  or  romantic  incident.  In  the 
closet  these  works  fail  to  arrest  attention;  for 
their  merits  are  more  artistic  than  literary,  and  the 
improbability  of  many  of  the  incidents  appears 
glaring  when  submitted  to  sober  inspection.  Mr 
Morton  was  a native  of  Durham,  and  bred  to  the 
law.  He  died  in  1838,  aged  seventy-two. 

Maria  Edgeworth,  the  celebrated  novelist,  was 
induced  by  the  advice  of  her  father,  and  that  of  a 
more  competent  judge,  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan, 
to  attempt  the  drama.  In  1817,  she  published 
Comic  Dramas,  in  Three  Acts.  Three  pieces  were 
comprised  in  this  volume,  two  of  them  Irish ; but 
though  the  dialogue  was  natural,  the  plays  were 
deficient  in  interest,  and  must  be  considered  as 
dramatic  failures. 

NOVELISTS. 

"We  have  alluded  to  the  success  of  Miss  Burney, 
Charlotte  Smith,  and  Mrs  Radcliffe  in  the  depart- 
ment of  prose  fiction.  At  no  distant  interval,  Miss 
Edgeworth  came  forward  with  her  moral  lessons 
452 


and  satirical  portraits,  daily  advancing  in  her 
powers,  as  in  her  desire  to  increase  the  virtues, 
prudence,  and  substantial  happiness  of  life:  Mrs 
Opie  told  her  pathetic  and  graceful  domestic  tales ; 
and  Miss  Austen  exhibited  her  exquisite  delineations 
of  everyday  English  society  and  character.  * There 
are  some  things,’  says  a writer  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  (1830),  ‘ which  women  do  better  than  men, 
and  of  these,  perhaps,  novel- writing  is  one.  Natur- 
ally endowed  -with  greater  delicacy  of  taste  and 
feeling,  with  a moral  sense  not  blunted  and  debased 
by  those  contaminations  to  which  men  are  exposed, 
leading  lives  rather  of  observation  than  of  action, 
with  leisure  to  attend  to  the  minutiae  of  conduct 
and  more  subtle  developments  of  character,  they 
are  peculiarly  qualified  for  the  task  of  exhibiting 
faithfully  and  pleasingly  the  various  phases  of 
domestic  life,  and  those  varieties  which  chequer  the 
surface  of  society.  Accordingly,  their  delineations, 
though  perhaps  less  vigorous  than  those  afforded  by 
the  other  sex,  are  distinguished,  for  the  most  part, 
by  greater  fidelity  and  consistency,  a more  refined 
and  happy  discrimination,  and,  we  must  also  add,  a 
more  correct  estimate  of  right  and  wrong.  In  works 
which  come  from  a female  pen,  we  are  seldom 
offended  by  those  moral  monstrosities,  those  fan- 
tastic perversions  of  principle,  which  are  too  often  to 
be  met  with  in  the  fictions  which  have  been  written 
by  men.  Women  are  less  stilted  in  their  style ; 
they  are  more  content  to  describe  naturally  what 
they  have  observed,  without  attempting  the  intro- 
duction of  those  extraneous  ornaments  which  are 
sometimes  sought  at  the  expense  of  truth.  They  are 
less  ambitious,  and  are  therefore  more  just ; they 
are  far  more  exempt  from  that  prevailing  literary 
vice  of  the  present  day,  exaggeration,  and  have  not 
taken  their  stand  among  the  feverish  followers  of 
what  may  be  called  the  intense  style  of  writing ; a 
style  much  praised  by  those  who  inquire  only  if  a 
work  is  calculated  to  make  a strong  impression,  and 
omit  entirely  the  more  important  question,  whether 
that  impression  be  founded  on  truth  or  on  delusion. 
Hence  the  agonies  and  convulsions,  and  dreamy 
rhapsodies,  and  heated  exhibitions  of  stormy  pas- 
sions, in  which  several  of  our  writers  have  lately 
indulged.  Imagination  has  been  flattered  into 
a self-sufficient  abandonment  of  its  alliance  with 
judgment,  to  which  disunion  it  is  ever  least  prone 
where  it  has  most  real  power ; and  “ fine  creations  ” 
— well  so  called,  as  being  unlike  anything  previously 
existing  in  nature — have  been  lauded,  in  spite  of 
their  internal  falsity,  as  if  they  were  of  more  value 
than  the/ most  accurate  delineations  of  that  world 
which  we  see  around  us.’ 

To  crown  all,  Sir  Walter  Scott  commenced  in 
1814  his  brilliant  gallery  of  portraits  of  all  classes, 
living  and  historical,  which  completely  exterminated 
the  monstrosities  of  the  Minerva  press,  and  incon- 
ceivably extended  the  circle  of  novel  readers. 
Fictitious  composition  was  now  again  in  the 
ascendant,  and  never,  in  its  palmiest  days  of 
chivalrous  romance  or  modern  fashion,  did  it  com- 
mand more  devoted  admiration,  or  shine  with  greater 
lustre.  The  public  taste  underwent  a rapid  and 
important  change ; and  as  curiosity  was  stimulated 
and  supplied  in  such  unexampled  profusion  from 
this  master-source,  the  most  exorbitant  devourer 
of  novels  soon  learned  to  look  with  aversion  and 
disgust  on  the  painted  and  unreal  mockeries  which 
had  formerly  deluded  them.  It  appears  to  be  a la\fr 
of  our  nature,  that  recreation  and  amusement  are 
as  necessary  to  the  mind  as  exercise  is  to  the  body, 
and  in  this  light,  Sir  Walter  Scott  must  be  viewed 
as  one  of  the  greatest  benefactors  of  his  species.  He 


novelists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


has  supplied  a copious  and  almost  exhaustless 
source  of  amusement  as  innocent  as  it  is  delightful. 
He  revived  the  glories  of  past  ages ; illustrated  the 
landscape  and  the  history  of  his  native  country ; 
painted  the  triumphs  of  patriotism  and  virtue,  and 
the  meanness  and  misery  of  vice ; awakened  our 
best  and  kindliest  feelings  in  favour  of  suffering  and 
erring  humanity — of  the  low-born  and  the  perse- 
cuted, the  peasant,  the  beggar,  and  the  Jew;  he 
has  furnished  an  intellectual  banquet,  as  rich  as  it 
is  various  and  picturesque,  from  his  curious  learn- 
ing, extensive  observation,  forgotten  manners,  and 
decaying  superstitions — the  whole  embellished  with 
the  lights  of  a vivid  imagination,  and  a correct  and 
gracefully  regulated  taste.  In  the  number  and 
variety  of  his  conceptions  and  characters,  Scott  is 
entitled  to  take  his  seat  beside  the  greatest  masters 
of  fiction,  British  or  foreign.  Some  have  excelled 
him  in  particular  qualities  of  the  novelist,  but  none 
in  their  harmonious  and  rich  combination. 

We  had  now  a new  race  of  imitators,  aiming  at  a 
high  standard  of  excellence,  both  as  respects  the 
design  and  the  execution  of  their  works.  The 
peculiarities  of  Scottish  manners  in  humble  life, 
which  Scott  had  illustrated  in  his  early  novels,  were 
successfully  developed  by  Galt,  and  in  a more  tender 
and  imaginative  light  by  Wilson.  Galt,  indeed,  has 
high  merit  as  a minute  painter : his  delineations,  like 
those  of  Allan  Ramsay,  bring  home  to  his  country- 
men ‘traits  of  undefinable  expression,  which  had 
escaped  every  eye  but  that  of  familiar  affection.’ 
His  pathos  is  the  simple  grief  of  nature.  In  this 
painting  of  national  manners,  Scott’s  example  was 
all-potent.  From  Scotland  it  spread  to  Ireland.  Miss 
Edgeworth,  indeed,  had  previously  portrayed  the 
lights  and  shades  of  the  Irish  character,  and  in  this 
respect  was  the  preceptress  of  Scott.  But  with  all 
her  talent  and  penetration,  this  excellent  authoress 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  reached  the  heart  of  her 
subject,  and  she  stirred  up  no  enthusiasm  among  her 
countrymen.  Miss  Edgeworth  pursued  her  high 
vocation  as  a moral  teacher.  Miss  Owenson,  who 
hnd,  as  early  as  1807,  published  her  Wild  Irish 
Girl , continued  (as  Lady  Morgan)  her  striking  and 
humorous  pictures  of  Irish  society,  and  they  were 
afterwards  greatly  surpassed  by  Banim,  Griffin, 
Lover,  Carleton,  and  others.  The  whole  soil  of 
Ireland,  and  its  races  of  people,  have  been  laid  open, 
like  a new  world,  to  the  general  reader.  English 
history  was  in  like  manner  ransacked  for  materials 
for  fiction.  Scott  had  shewn  how  much  could  be 
done  in  this  department  by  gathering  up  the 
scattered  fragments  of  antiquarian  research,  or 
entering  with  the  spirit  and  skill  of  genius  into  the 
manners  and  events  of  a bygone  age.  He  had 
vivified  and  embodied — not  described — the  past. 
Many  authors  have  followed  in  his  train — Mr 
Horace  Smith,  Mr  James,  Sir  Edward  Bulwer- 
Lytton,  Ainsworth,  and  other  men  of  talent  and 
genius.  Classic  and  foreign  manners  were  also 
depicted.  The  Valerius  of  Lockhart  is  an  exquisite 
Roman  story ; Morier  and  Fraser  have  familiarised 
us  with  the  domestic  life  of  Persia;  Mr  Hope,  in 
his  Anastasius , has  drawn  the  scenery  and  manners 
of  Italy,  Greece,  and  Turkey,  with  the  fidelity  and 
minuteness  of  a native  artist,  and  the  impassioned 
beauty  of  a poet ; while  the  character  and  magni- 
ficent natural  features  of  America — its  trackless 
forests,  lakes,  wild  Indian  tribes,  and  antique  settlers 
— have  been  depicted  by  its  gifted  sons,  Irving  and 
Cooper.  All  these  may  be  said  to  have  been  prompted 
by  the  national  and  historical  romances  of  Scott. 
The  current  of  imagination  and  description  had  been 
turned  from  verse  to  prose.  The  stage  also  caught 


the  enthusiasm ; and  the  tales  which  had  charmed 
in  the  closet  were  reproduced,  with  scenic  effect,  in 
our  theatres. 

The  fashionable  novels  of  Theodore  Hook  formed 
a new  feature  in  modern  fiction.  His  first  series  of 
Sayings  and  Doings  appeared  in  1824,  and  attracted 
considerable  attention.  The  principal  object  of  these 
clever  tales  was  to  describe  manners  in  high-life,  and 
the  ridiculous  and  awkward  assumption  of  them  by 
citizens  and  persons  in  the  middle  ranks.  As  the 
author  advanced  in  his  career,  he  extended  his 
canvas,  and  sketched  a greater  variety  of  scenes  and 
figures.  Their  general  character,  however,  remained 
the  same : too  much  importance  was,  in  all  of  them, 
attached  to  the  mere  externals  of  social  intercourse, 
as  if  the  use  of  the  ‘ silver  fork,’  or  the  etiquette  of 
the  drawing-room,  were  ‘ the  be-all  and  the  end-all  ’ 
of  English  society.  The  life  of  the  accomplished 
author  gives  a sad  and  moral  interest  to  his  tales. 
He  obtained  the  distinction  he  coveted,  in  the  notice 
and  favour  of  the  great  and  the  fashionable  world  ; 
for  this  he  sacrificed  the  fruits  of  his  industry  and 
the  independence  of  genius ; he  lived  in  a round  of 
distraction  and  gaiety,  illuminated  by  his  wit  and 
talents,  and  he  died  a premature  death,  the  victim 
of  disappointment,  debt,  and  misery.  This  personal 
example  is  the  true  ‘ handwriting  on  the  wall,’  to 
warn  genius  and  integrity  in  the  middle  classes 
against  hunting  after  or  copying  the  vices  of  fashion- 
able dissipation  and  splendour!  Mr  Ward,  Lord 
Normanby,  Mrs  Trollope,  Lady  Blessington,  Mrs 
Gore,  Mr  Disraeli,  and  others,  followed  up  these 
tales  of  high-life.  Bulwer  in  his  first  work — 
Pelham , published  in  1828 — imparted  to  it  the 
novelty  and  attraction  of  strong  contrast,  by  con- 
ducting his  fashionable  characters  into  the  purlieus 
of  vice  and  slang  society,  which  also  in  its  turn 
became  the  rage,  and  provoked  imitation.  ‘Dandies  ’ 
and  highwaymen  were  painted  en  beau,  and  the 
Newgate  Calendar  was  rifled  for  heroes  to  figure 
in  the  novel  and  on  the  stage.  This  unnatural 
absurdity  soon  palled  upon  the  public  taste,  and 
Bulwer  did  justice  to  his  high  and  undoubted 
talents  by  his  historical  and  domestic  tales,  which 
will  come  before  us  in  a subsequent  section. 

WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

William  Godwin,  author  of  Caleb  Williams,  was 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  his  times.  The 
boldness  of  his  speculations  and  opinions,  and  his 
apparent  depth  and  ardour  of  feeling,  were  curiously 
contrasted  with  his  plodding  habits,  his  imperturb- 
able temper,  and  the  quiet  obscure  simplicity  of 
his  life  and  manners.  The  most  startling  and 
astounding  theories  were  propounded  by  him  with 
undoubting  confidence;  and  sentiments  that,  if 
reduced  to  action,  would  have  overturned  the  whole 
framework  of  society,  were  complacently  dealt  out 
by  their  author  as  if  they  had  merely  formed  an 
ordinary  portion  of  a busy  literary  life.  Godwin 
was  born  at  Wisbeach,  in  Cambridgeshire,  on  the 
3d  of  March  1756.  Ilis  father  was  a dissenting 
minister — a pious  nonconformist — and  thus  the 
future  novelist  may  be  said  to  have  been  nurtured 
in  a love  of  religious  and  civil  liberty,  without 
perhaps  much  reverence  for  existing  authority. 
Pie  soon,  however,  far  overstepped  the  pale  of 
dissent.  After  receiving  the  necessary  education 
at  the  dissenting  college  at  Hoxton,  Mr  Godwin 
became  minister  of  a congregation  in  the  vicinity 
of  London.  lie  also  officiated  for  some  time  at 
Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk.  About  the  year  1782, 
having  been  five  years  a nonconformist  preacher, 


PROM  1800 


he  settled  in  London,  and  applied  himself  wholly 
to  literature.  His  first  work  was  entitled  Sketches 
of  History , in  Six  Sermons;  and  he  shortly  after- 
wards became  principal  writer  in  the  New  Annual 
Register.  He  was  a zealous  political  reformer ; and 
his  talents  were  so  well  known  or  recommended, 


that  he  obtained  the  large  sum  of  £700  for  his  next 
publication.  This  was  his  famed  Inquiry  concerning 
Political  Justice , and  its  Influences  on  General  Virtue 
and  Happiness , published  in  1798.  Mr  Godwin’s 
work  was  a sincere  advocacy  of  an  intellectual 
republic — a splendid  argument  for  universal  philan- 
thropy and  benevolence,  and  for  the  omnipotence  of 
mind  over  matter.  His  views  of  the  perfectibility 
of  man  and  the  regeneration  of  society — all  private 
affections  and  interests  being  merged  in  the  public 
good — were,clouded  by  no  misgivings,  and  he  wrote 
with  the  force  of  conviction,  and  with  no  ordinary 
powers  of  persuasion  and  eloquence.  The  Inquiry 
was  highly  successful,  and  went  through  several 
editions.  In  a twelvemonth  afterwards  appeared  his 
novel  of  Things  as  they  Are , or  the  Adventures  of  Caleb 
Williams.  His  object  here  was  also  to  inculcate  his 
peculiar  doctrines,  and  to  comprehend  ‘a  general 
review  of  the  modes  of  domestic  and  unrecorded 
despotism,  by  which  man  becomes  the  destroyer  of 
man.’  His  hero,  Williams,  tells  his  own  tale  of 
suffering  and  of  wrong— of  innocence  persecuted 
and  reduced  to  the  brink  of  death  and  infaniy  by 
aristocratic  power,  and  by  tyrannical  or  partially 
administered  laws  ; but  his  story  is  so  fraught  with 
interest  and  energy,  that  we  lose  sight  of  the 
political  object  or  satire,  and  think  only  of  the 
characters  and  incidents  that  pass  in  review  before 
us.  The  imagination  of  the  author  overpowered 
his  philosophy ; he  was  a greater  inventor  than 
logician.  His  character  of  Falkland  is  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  whole  range  of  English  fictitious 
composition.  The  opinions  of  Godwin  were  soon 
brought  still  more  prominently  forward.  His  friends, 


to  1830. 


Holcroft,  Thelwall,  Horne  Tooke,  and  others,  were 
thrown  into  the  Tower  on  a charge  of  high  treason. 
The  novelist  had  joined  none  of  their  societies, 
and  however  obnoxious  to  those  in  power,  had 
not  rendered  himself  amenable  to  the  laws  of  his 
country.*  Godwin,  however,  was  ready  with  his  pen. 
Judge  Eyre,  in  his  charge  to  the  grand  jury,  had 
laid  down  principles  very  different  from  those  of 
our  author,  and  the  latter  instantly  published  Cur- 
sory Strictures  on  the  judge’s  charge,  so  ably  written 
that  the  pamphlet  is  said  to  have  mainly  led  to 
the  acquittal  of  the  accused  parties.  In  1796  Mr 
Godwin  issued  a series  of  essays  on  education, 
manners,  and  literature,  entitled  The  Inquirer.  In 
the  following  year  he  married  Mary  Wollstonecraffc, 
author  of  The  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Woman , 
&c.,  a lady  in  many  respects  as  remarkable  as  her 
husband,  and  who  died  after  having  given  birth  to 
a daughter  (Mrs  Shelley)  still  more  justly  distin- 
guished. Godwin’s  contempt  of  the  ordinary  modes 
of  thinking  and  acting  in  this  country  was  displayed 
by  this  marriage.  His  wife  brought  with  her  a 
natural  daughter,  the  fruit  of  a former  connection. 
She  had  lived  with  Godwin  for  some  time  before 
their  marriage ; and  ‘ the  principal  motive,’  he  says, 
‘ for  complying  with  the  ceremony,  was  the  circum- 
stance of  Mary’s  being  in  a state  of  pregnancy.’ 
Such  an  open  disregard  of  the  ties  and  principles 
that  sweeten  life  and  adorn  society  astonished  even 
Godwin’s  philosophic  and  reforming  friends.  But 
whether  acting  in  good  or  in  bad  taste,  he  seems 
always  to  have  been  fearless  and  sincere.  He  wrote 
Memoirs  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin — who  died 
in  about  half  a year  after  her  marriage,  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-eight — and  in  this  curious 
work  all  the  details  of  her  life  and  conduct  are 
minutely  related.  We  are  glad,  after  this  mental 
pollution,  to  meet  Godwin  again  as  a novelist — 

He  hears  no  token  of  the  sabler  streams, 

And  mounts  far  off  among  the  swans  of  Thames. 

In  1799  appeared  his  St  Leon , a story  of  the  1 mira- 
culous class,’  as  he  himself  states,  and  designed  to 
mix  human  feelings  and  passions  with  incredible 
situations.  His  hero  attains  the  possession  of  the 
philosopher’s-stone,  and  secures  exhaustless  wealth 
by  the  art  of  transmuting  metals  into  gold,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  learns  the  secret  of  the  elixir  vitae , 
by  which  he  has  the  power  of  renewing  his  youth. 
These  are,  indeed,  ‘incredible  situations;’  but  the 
romance  has  many  attractions — splendid  descrip- 
tion and  true  pathos.  Its  chief  defect  is  an  excess 
of  the  terrible  and  marvellous.  In  1800  Mr  Godwin 

* If  we  may  credit  a curious  entry  in  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 
diary,  Godwin  must  have  been  early  mixed  up  with  the 
English  Jacobins.  * Canning’s  conversion  from  popular 
opinions,’  says  Scott,  ‘ was  strangely  brought  round.  While 
he  was  studying  in  the  Temple,  and  rather  entertaining 
revolutionary  opinions,  Godwin  sent  to  say  that  he  was  com- 
ing to  breakfast  with  him,  to  speak  on  a subject  of  the  highest 
importance.  Canning  knew  little  of  him,  but  received  his 
visit,  and  learned  to  his  astonishment  that,  in  expectation  of 
a new  order  of  things,  the  English  Jacobins  designed  to  place 
him,  Canning,  at  the  head  of  the  revolution.  He  was  much 
struck,  and  asked  time  to  think  what  course  he  should  take; 
and  having  thought  the  matter  over,  he  went  to  Mr  Pitt, 
and  made  the  Anti-Jacobin  confession  of  faith,  in  which  he 

persevered  until  . Canning  himself  mentioned  this  to 

Sir  W.  Knighton  upon  occasion  of  giving  a place  in  the 
Charter-house,  of  some  ten  pounds  a year,  to  Godwin’s 
brother.  He  could  scarce  do  less  for  one  who  had  offered 
him  the  dictator’s  curule-chair.’ — Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 
This  occurrence  must  have  taken  place  before  1793,  as  in  that 
year  Canning  was  introduced  by  Pitt  into  parliament. 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


produced  his  unlucky  tragedy  of  Antonio ; in  1801, 
Thoughts  on  Dr  Parr’s  Spital  Sermon,  being  a reply 
to  some  attacks  made  upon  him,  or  rather  on  his 
code  of  morality,  by  Parr,  Mackintosh,  and  others. 
In  1803  he  brought  out  a voluminous  Life  of 
Chaucer , in  two  quarto  volumes.  With  Mr  Godwin 
the  great  business  of  this  Avorld  was  to  write  books, 
and  whatever  subject  he  selected,  he  treated  it  with 
a due  sense  of  its  importance,  and  pursued  it  into 
all  its  ramifications  with  intense  ardour  and  appli- 
cation. The  Life  of  Chaucer  was  ridiculed  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  in  conse- 
quence of  its  enormous  bulk  and  its  extraneous 
dissertations,  but  it  is  creditable  to  the  author’s 
taste  and  research.  The  student  of  our  early 
literature  will  find  in  it  many  interesting  facts 
connected  with  a chivalrous  and  romantic  period  of 
our  history — much  sound  criticism,  and  a fine  relish 
for  true  poetry.  In  1804  Mr  Godwin  produced  his 
novel  of  Fleetwood,  or  the  New  Man  of  Feeling.  The 
title  was  unfortunate,  as  reminding  the  reader  of 
the  old  Man  of  Feeling,  by  far  the  most  interesting 
and  amiable  of  the  two.  Mr  Godwin’s  hero  is 
self-willed  and  capricious,  a morbid  egotist,  whose 
irritability  and  frantic  outbursts  of  passion  move 
contempt  rather  than  sympathy.  Byron  has  said : 

Romances  paint  at  full  length  people’s  wooings, 

But  only  give  a bust  of  marriages. 

This  cannot  be  said  of  Mr  Godwin.  Great  part  of 
Fleetwood  is  occupied  with  the  hero’s  matrimonial 
troubles  and  afflictions ; but  they  only  exemplify 
the  noble  poet’s  further  observation — ‘ no  one  cares 
for  matrimonial  cooings.’  The  better  parts  of  the 
novel  consist  of  the  episode  of  the  Macneills,  a tale 
of  family  pathos,  and  some  detached  descriptions  of 
Welsh  scenery.  For  some  years  Mr  Godwin  was 
little  heard  of.  He  had  married  again,  and,  as  a 
more  certain  means  of  maintenance,  had  opened  a 
bookseller’s  shop  in  London,  under  the  assumed 
name  of  ‘Edward  Baldwin.’  In  this  situation  he 
ushered  forth  a number  of  children’s  books,  small 
histories  and  other  compilations,  some  of  them  by 
himself.  Charles  Lamb  mentions  an  English  Gram- 
mar, in  which  Hazlitt  assisted.  He  tried  another 
tragedy,  Faulkner,  in  1807,  but  it  was  unsuccessful. 
Next  year  he  published  an  Essay  on  Sepulchres, 
written  in  a fine  meditative  spirit,  with  great  beauty 
of  expression;  and  in  1815,  Lives  of  Edward  and 
John  Phillips,  the  nephews  of  Milton.  The  latter  is 
also  creditable  to  the  taste  and  research  of  the 
author,  and  illustrates  our  poetical  history  about 
the  time  of  the  Restoration.  In  1817  Mr  Godwin 
again  entered  the  arena  of  fiction.  He  had  paid  a 
visit  to  Scotland,  and  concluded  with  Constable  for 
another  novel,  Mandeville,  a tale  of  the  times  of 
Cromwell.  The  style  of  this  work  is  measured  and 
stately,  and  it  abounds  in  that  moral  anatomy  in 
which  the  author  delighted,  but  often  carried  beyond 
truth  and  nature.  The  vindictive  feelings  deli- 
neated in  Mandeville  are  pushed  to  a revolting 
extreme.  Passages  of  energetic  and  beautiful 
composition — reflective  and  descriptive — are  to  be 
found  in  the  novel;  and  we  may  remark,  that  as 
the  author  advanced  in  years,  he  seems  to  have  cul- 
tivated more  seditiously  the  graces  of  language  and 
diction.  The  staple  of  his  novels,  however,  was 
taken  from  the  depths  of  his  own  mind — not  from 
extensive  surveys  of  mankind  or  the  universe ; and  it 
was  obvious  that  the  oft-drawn-upon  fountain  began 
to  dry  up,  notwithstanding  the  luxuriance  of  the 
foliage  that  shaded  it.  We  next  find  Mr  Godwin 
combating  the  opinions  of  Malthus  upon  population 
(1820),  and  then  setting  about  an  elaborate  1 


History  of  the  Commonwealth.  The  great  men  of  that 
era  were  exactly  suited  to  his  taste.  Their  resolute 
energy  of  character,  their  overthrow  of  the  mon- 
archy, their  republican  enthusiasm  and  strange 
notions  of  faith  and  the  saints,  were  well  adapted  to 
fire  his  imagination  and  stimulate  his  research.  The 
history  extended  to  four  large  volumes,  which  were 
published  at  intervals  between  1824  and  1828.  It 
is  evident  that  Mr  Godwin  tasked  himself  to  pro- 
duce authorities  for  all  he  advanced.  Pie  took 
up,  as  might  be  expected,  strong  opinions ; but  in 
striving  to  be  accurate  and  minute,  he  became  too 
specific  and  chronological  for  the  interest  of  his 
narrative.  It  was  truly  said  that  the  style  of  his 
history  ‘creeps  and  hitches  in  dates  and  authorities.’ 
In  1830  Mr  Godwin  published  Cloudesley , a tale 
in  three  volumes.  Reverting  to  his  first  brilliant 
performance  as  a novelist,  he  made  his  new  hero, 
like  Caleb  Williams,  a person  of  humble  origin,  and 
he  arrays  him  against  his  patron;  but  there  the 
parallel  ends.  The  elastic  vigour,  the  verisimilitude, 
the  crowding  incidents,  the  absorbing  interest,  and 
the  overwhelming  catastrophe  of  the  first  novel, 
are  not  to  be  found  in  Cloudesley.  There  is  even 
little  delineation  of  character.  Instead  of  these  we 
have  fine  English,  ‘clouds  of  reflections  without  any 
new  occasion  to  call  them  forth ; an  expanded  flow 
of  words  without  a single  pointed  remark.’  The 
next  production  of  this  veteran  author  was  a meta- 
physical treatise,  Thoughts  on  Man,  &c. ; and  his 
last  work  (1834)  a compilation,  entitled  Lives  of 
the  Necromancers.  In  his  later  years,  Mr  Godwin 
enjoyed  a small  government  office,  yeoman-usher 
of  the  Exchequer,  which  was  conferred  upon  him 
by  Earl  Grey’s  ministry.  In  the  residence  attached 
to  this  appointment,  in  New  Palace  Yard,  he  termin- 
ated his  long  and  laborious  scholastic  life  on  the 
7th  of  April  1836.  No  man  ever  panted  more 
ardently,  or  toiled  more  heroically,  for  literary 
fame ; and  we  think  that,  before  he  closed  his  eyes, 
he  must  have  been  conscious  that  he  had  ‘left  some- 
thing so  written  to  after-times,  as  they  should  not 
willingly  let  it  die.’ 

Caleb  Williams  is  unquestionably  the  most  inte- 
resting and  original  of  Mr  Godwin’s  novels,  and  is 
altogether  a work  of  extraordinary  art  and  power. 
It  has  the  plainness  of  narrative  and  the  apparent 
reality  of  the  fictions  of  Defoe  or  Swift,  but  is 
far  more  pregnant  with  thought  and  feeling,  and 
touches  far  higher  sympathies  and  associations. 
The  incidents  and  characters  are  finely  developed 
and  contrasted,  an  intense  earnestness  pervades 
the  whole,  and  the  story  never  flags  for  a moment. 
The  lowness  of  some  of  the  scenes  never  inspires 
such  disgust  as  to  repel  the  reader ; and  the  awful 
crime  of  which  Falkland  is  guilty  is  allied  to  so 
much  worth  and  nobleness  of  nature,  that  wo  are 
involuntarily  led  to  regard  him  with  feelings  of 
exalted  pity  and  commiseration.  A brief  glance  at 
the  story  Avill  shew  the  materials  with  which  Godwin 
‘framed  his  spell.’  Caleb  Williams,  an  intelligent 
young  peasant,  is  taken  into  the  house  of  Mr 
Falkland,  the  lord  of  the  manor,  in  the  capacity 
of  amanuensis,  or  private  secretary.  His  master 
is  kind  and  compassionate,  but  stately  and  solemn 
in  manner.  An  air  of  mystery  hangs  about  him ; 
his  address  is  cold,  and  his  sentiments  impenetrable; 
and  he  breaks  out  occasionally  into  fits  of  causeless 
jealousy  and  tyrannical  violence.  One  day  Williams 
surprises  him  in  a closet,  Avliere  he  heard  a deep 
groan  expressive  of  intolerable  anguish,  then  the  lid 
of  a trunk  hastily  shut,  and  the  noise  of  fastening 
a lock.  Finding  he  was  discovered,  Falkland  flies 
into  a transport  of  rage,  and 1 threatens  the  intruder 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


with  instant  death  if  he  does  not  withdraw.  The 
astonished  youth  retires,  musing  on  this  strange 
scene.  His  curiosity  is  awakened,  and  he  learns 
part  of  Falkland’s  history  from  an  old  confidential 
steward — how  that  his  master  was  once  the  gayest 
of  the  gay,  and  had  achieved  honour  and  fame 
abroad,  till  on  his  return  he  was  persecuted  with  a 
malignant  destiny.  His  nearest  neighbour,  Tyrrel, 
a man  of  estate  equal  to  his  own,  but  of  coarse  and 
violent  mind  and  temper,  became  jealous  of  Falk- 
land’s superior  talents  and  accomplishments,  and 
conceived  a deadly  enmity  at  him.  The  series  of 
events  detailing  the  progress  of  this  mutual  hatred 
— particularly  the  episode  of  Miss  Melville — is 
developed  with  great  skill,  but  all  is  creditable  to 
the  high-minded  and  chivalrous  Falkland.  The 
conduct  of  Tyrrel  becomes  at  length  so  atrocious, 
that  the  country  gentlemen  shun  his  society.  He 
intrudes  himself,  however,  into  a rural  assembly,  an 
altercation  ensues,  and  Falkland  indignantly  up- 
braids him,  and  bids  him  begone.  Amidst  the  hoot- 
ings  and  reproaches  of  the  assembly,  Tyrrel  retires, 
but  soon  returns  inflamed  with  liquor,  and  with  one 
blow  of  his  muscular  arm  levels  Falkland  to  the 
ground.  His  violence  is  repeated,  till  he  is  again 
forced  to  retreat.  This  complication  of  ignominy, 
base,  humiliating,  and  public,  stung  the  proud  and 
sensitive  Falkland  to  the  soul : he  left  the  room ; 
but  one  other  event  closed  the  transactions  of  that 
memorable  evening— Tyrrel  was  found  dead  in  the 
street,  having  been  murdered — stabbed  with  a knife 
— at  the  distance  of  a few  yards  from  the  assembly 
house.  From  this  crisis  in  Falkland’s  history 
commenced  his  gloomy  and  unsociable  melancholy 
— life  became  a burden  to  him.  A private  investiga- 
tion was  made  into  the  circumstances  of  the  murder; 
but  Falkland,  after  a lofty  and  eloquent  denial  of 
all  knowledge  of  the  crime,  was  discharged  with 
every  circumstance  of  honour,  and  amidst  the 
plaudits  of  the  people.  A few  weeks  afterwards, 
a peasant,  named  Hawkins,  and  his  son  were  taken 
up  on  some  slight  suspicion,  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed  for  the  murder.  Justice  was  satisfied,  but 
a deepening  gloom  had  settled  on  the  solitary  Falk- 
land. Williams  heard  all  this,  and  joined  in  pitying 
the  noble  sufferer ; but  the  question  occurred  to  him, 
— was  it  possible,  after  all,  that  his  master  should 
be  the  murderer  ? The  idea  took  entire  possession 
of  his  mind.  He  determined  to  place  himself  as  a 
watch  upon  Falkland — a perpetual  stimulus  urged 
him  on.  Circumstances,  also,  were  constantly 
occurring  to  feed  his  morbid  inquisitiveness.  At 
length  a fire  broke  out  in  the  house  during  Falk- 
land’s absence,  and  Williams  was  led  to  the  room 
containing  the  mysterious  trunk.  With  the  energy 
of  uncontrollable  passion  he  forced  it  open,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  lifting  up  the  lid,  when  Falkland 
entered,  wild,  breathless,  and  distraction  in  his  looks. 
The  first  act  of  the  infuriate  master  was  to  present 
a pistol  at  the  head  of  the  youth,  but  he  instantly 
changed  his  resolution,  and  ordered  him  to  with- 
draw. Next  day  Falkland  disclosed  the  secret.  ‘ I 
am  the  blackest  of  villains ; I am  the  murderer  of 
Tyrrel ; I am  the  assassin  of  the  Hawkinses ! ’ He 
made  Williams  swear  never  to  disclose  the  secret, 
on  pain  of  death  or  worse.  ‘I  am,’  said  Falkland, 

‘ as  much  the  fool  of  fame  as  ever ; I cling  to  it  as 
my  last  breath : though  I be  the  blackest  of  villains, 
I will  leave  behind  me  a spotless  and  illustrious 
name : there  is  no  crime  so  malignant,  no  scene  of 
blood  so  horrible,  in  which  that  object  cannot  engage 
me.’  Williams  took  the  oath  and  submitted.  His 
spirit,  however,  revolted  at  the  servile  submission 
that  was  required  of  him,  and  in  time  he  escaped 
456 


from  the  house.  He  was  speedily  taken,  and  accused 
at  the  instance  of  Falkland  of  abstracting  valuable 
property  from  the  trunk  he  had  forced  open  on 
the  day  of  the  fire.  He  was  cast  into  prison.  The 
interior  of  the  prison,  and  its  wretched  inmates,  are 
then  described  with  great  minuteness.  Williams,  to 
whom  the  confinement  became  intolerable,  escaped. 
He  is  first  robbed  and  then  sheltered  by  a band  of 
robbers — he  is  forced  to  flee  for  his  life— assumes 
different  disguises — is  again  in  prison,  and  again 
escapes  ; but  misery  and  injustice  meet  him  at  every 
step.  He  had  innocently  fastened  on  himself  a 
second  enemy,  a villain  named  Gines,  who  from  a 
highwayman  had  become  a thief-taker;  and  the 
incessant  exertions  of  this  fellow,  tracking  him  from 
place  to  place  like  a blood-hound,  are  related  with 
uncommon  spirit  and  effect.  The  whole  of  these 
adventures  possess  an  enchaining  interest,  and 
cannot  be  perused  without  breathless  -anxiety.  The 
innocence  of  Williams,  and  the  manifestations  of 
his  character — artless,  buoyant,  and  fast  maturing 
under  this  stern  discipline— irresistibly  attract 
and  carry  forward  the  reader.  The  connection  of 
Falkland  and  Williams  is  at  last  wound  up  in  one 
scene  of  overpowering  interest,  in  which  the  latter 
comes  forward  publicly  as  the  accuser  of  his  former 
master.  The  place  is  the  hall  of  a magistrate  of 
the  metropolitan  town  of  Falkland’s  county. 

[ Concluding  Scene  of  Caleb  Williams .] 

I can  conceive  of  no  shock  greater  than  that  I received 
from  the  sight  of  Mr  Falkland.  His  appearance  on  the 
last  occasion  on  which  we  met  had  been  haggard,  ghost- 
like, and  wild,  energy  in  his  gestures,  and  frenzy  in  his 
aspect.  It  was  now  the  appearance  of  a corpse.  He 
was  brought  in  in  a chair,  unable  to  stand,  fatigued  and 
almost  destroyed  by  the  journey  he  had  just  taken. 
His  visage  was  colourless ; his  limbs  destitute  of  motion, 
almost  of  life.  His  head  reclined  upon  his  bosom, 
except  that  now  and  then  he  lifted  it  up,  and  opened 
his  eyes  with  a languid  glance,  immediately  after  which 
he  sank  back  into  his  former  apparent  insensibility. 
He  seemed  not  to  have  three  hours  to  live.  He  had 
kept  his  chamber  for  several  weeks,  but  the  summons 
of  the  magistrate  had  been  delivered  to  him  at  his 
bedside,  his  orders  respecting  letters  and  written  papers 
being  so  peremptory  that  no  one  dared  to  disobey  them. 
Upon  reading  the  paper,  he  was  seized  with  a very 
dangerous  fit ; but  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  he  insisted 
upon  being  conveyed,  with  all  practicable  expedition, 
to  the  place  of  appointment.  Falkland,  in  the  most 
helpless  state,  was  still  Falkland,  firm  in  command, 
and  capable  to  extort  obedience  from  every  one  that 
approached  him. 

What  a sight  was  this  to  me  ! * * Here  was  Falk- 
land, solemnly  brought  before  a magistrate  to  answer 
to  a charge  of  murder.  Here  I stood,  having  already 
declared  myself  the  author  of  the  charge,  gravely  and 
sacredly  pledged  to  support  it.  This  was  my  situation ; 
and  thus  situated  I was  called  upon  immediately  to 
act.  My  whole  frame  shook.  I would  eagerly  have 
consented  that  that  moment  should  have  been  the 
last  of  my  existence.  I,  however,  believed  that  the 
conduct  now  most  indispensably  incumbent  on  me 
was  to  lay  the  emotions  of  my  soul  naked  before  my 
hearers.  I looked  first  at  Mr  Falkland,  and  then  at 
the  magistrate  and  attendants,  and  then  at  Mr  Falk- 
land again.  My  voice  was  suffocated  with  agony.  I 
began : ‘ Would  to  God  it  were  possible  for  me  to 
retire  from  this  scene  without  uttering  another  word  ! 
I would  brave  the  consequences — I would  submit  to 
any  imputation  of  cowardice,  falsehood,  and  profligacy, 
rather  than  add  to  the  weight  of  misfortune  with  which 
Mr  Falkland  is  overwhelmed.  But  the  situation,  and 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


the  demands  of  Mr  Falkland  himself,  forbid  me.  He 
in  compassion  for  whose  fallen  state  I would  willingly 
forget  every  interest  of  my  own,  would  compel  me  to 
accuse,  that  he  might  enter  upon  his  justification.  I 
will  confess  every  sentiment  of  my  heart.  Mr  Falkland 
well  knows — I affirm  it  in  his  presence — how  unwill- 
ingly I have  proceeded  to  this  extremity.  I have 
reverenced  him;  he  was  worthy  of  reverence.  From 
the  first  moment  I saw  him,  I conceived  the  most 
ardent  admiration.  He  condescended  to  encourage  me ; 
I attached  myself  to  him  with  the  fulness  of  affection. 
He  was  unhappy;  I exerted  myself  with  youthful 
curiosity  to  discover  the  secret  of  his  woe.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  misfortune.  What  shall  I say  ? He 
was  indeed  the  murderer  of  Tyrrel ! He  suffered  the 
Hawkinses  to  be  executed,  knowing  that  they  were 
innocent,  and  that  he  alone  was  guilty ! After  succes- 
sive surmises,  after  various  indiscretions  on  my  part, 
and  indications  on  his,  he  at  length  confided  to  me  at 
full  the  fatal  tale ! Mr  Falkland ! I most  solemnly 
conjure  you  to  recollect  yourself!  Did  I ever  prove 
myself  unworthy  of  your  confidence?  The  secret  was 
a most  painful  burden  to  me : it  was  the  extremest 
folly  that  led  me  unthinkingly  to  gain  possession  of  it ; 
but  I would  have  died  a thousand  deaths  rather  than 
betray  it.  It  was  the  jealousy  of  your  own  thoughts, 
and  the  weight  that  hung  upon  your  mind,  that  led  you 
to  watch  my  motions,  and  conceive  alarm  from  every 
particle  of  my  conduct.  You  began  in  confidence — why 
did  you  not  continue  in  confidence?  The  evil  that 
resulted  from  my  original  imprudence  would  then  have 
been  comparatively  little.  You  threatened  me : did  I 
then  betray  you  ? A word  from  my  lips  at  that  time 
would  have  freed  me  from  your  threats  for  ever.  I 
bore  them  for  a considerable  period,  and  at  last  quitted 
your  service,  and  threw  myself  a fugitive  upon  the 
world,  in  silence.  Why  did  you  not  suffer  me  to  depart  ? 
You  brought  me  back  by  stratagem  and  violence,  and 
wantonly  accused  me  of  an  enormous  felony?  Did  I 
then  mention  a syllable  of  the  murder,  the  secret  of 
j which  was  in  my  possession?  Where  is  the  man  that 
has  suffered  more  from  the  injustice  of  society  than  I 
I have  done  ? I was  accused  of  a villainy  that  my  heart 
abhorred.  I was  sent  to  jail.  I will  not  enumerate 
| the  horrors  of  my  prison,  the  lightest  of  which  would 
make  the  heart  of  humanity  shudder.  I looked  forward 
! to  the  gallows ! Young,  ambitious,  fond  of  life,  innocent 
as  the  child  unborn,  I looked  forward  to  the  gallows. 
I believed  that  one  word  of  resolute  accusation  against 
my  patron  would  deliver  me  : yet  I was  silent ; I armed 
myself  with  patience,  uncertain  whether  it  were  better 
to  accuse  or  to  die.  Did  this  shew  me  a man  unworthy 
to  be  trusted?  I determined  to  break  out  of  prison. 
With  infinite  difficulty,  and  repeated  miscarriages,  I at 
length  effected  my  purpose.  Instantly  a proclamation, 
with  a hundred  guineas’  reward,  was  issued  for  appre- 
hending me.  I was  obliged  to  take  shelter  among  the 
refuse  of  mankind,  in  the  midst  of  a gang  of  thieves. 
I encountered  the  most  imminent  peril  of  my  life  when 
I entered  this  retreat,  and  when  I quitted  it.  Imme- 
diately after,  I travelled  almost  the  whole  length  of  the 
kingdom,  in  poverty  and  distress,  in  hourly  danger  of 
being  retaken  and  manacled  like  a felon.  I would  have 
fled  my  country ; I was  prevented.  I had  recourse  to 
various  disguises ; I was  innocent,  and  yet  was  com- 
pelled to  as  many  arts  and  subterfuges  as  could  have 
been  entailed  on  the  worst  of  villains.  In  London  I 
was  as  much  harassed,  and  as  repeatedly  alarmed,  as 
I had  been  in  my  flight  through  the  country.  Did  all 
these  persecutions  persuade  me  to  put  an  end  to  my 
silence?  No:  I suffered  them  with  patience  and  sub- 
mission ; I did  not  make  one  attempt  to  retort  them 
upon  their  author.  I fell  at  last  into  the  hands  of  the 
miscreants.  In  this  terrible  situation  I,  for  the  first 
time,  attempted,  by  turning  informer,  to  throw  the 
weight  from  myself.  Happily  for  me,  the  London 


magistrate  listened  to  my  tale  with  insolent  contempt. 

I soon,  and  long,  repented  of  my  rashness,  and  rejoiced 
in  my  miscarriage.  I acknowledged  that  in  various  ways 
Mr  Falkland  shewed  humanity  towards  me  during  this 
period.  He  would  have  prevented  my  going  to  prison 
at  first;  he  contributed  to  my  subsistence  during  my 
detention;  he  had  no  share  in  the  pursuit  that  had 
been  set  on  foot  against  me  : he  at  length  procured  my 
discharge  when  brought  forward  for  trial.  But  a great 
part  of  his  forbearance  was  unknown  to  me ; I supposed 
him  to  be  my  unrelenting  pursuer.  I could  not  forget 
that,  whoever  heaped  calamities  on  me  in  the  sequel, 
they  all  originated  in  his  forged  accusation.  The  pro- 
secution against  me  for  felony  was  now  at  an  end.  Why 
were  not  my  sufferings  permitted  to  terminate  then, 
and  I allowed  to  hide  my  weary  head  in  some  obscure 
yet  tranquil  retreat  ? Had  I not  sufficiently  proved  my 
constancy  and  fidelity?  Would  not  a compromise  in 
this  situation  have  been  most  wise  and  most  secure  ? 
But  the  restless  and  jealous  anxiety  of  Mr  Falkland 
would  not  permit  him  to  repose  the  least  atom  of  con- 
fidence. The  only  compromise  that  he  proposed  was, 
that,  with  my  own  hand,  I should  sign  myself  a villain. 

I refused  this  proposal,  and  have  ever  since  been  driven 
from  place  to  place,  deprived  of  peace,  of  honest  fame, 
even  of  bread.  For  a long  time  I persisted  in  the 
resolution  that  no  emergency  should  convert  me  into 
the  assailant.  In  an  evil  hour  I at  last  listened  to  my 
resentment  and  impatience,  and  the  hateful  mistake 
into  which  I fell  has  produced  the  present  scene.  I 
now  see  that  mistake  in  all  its  enormity.  I am  sure 
that  if  I had  opened  my  heart  to  Mr  Falkland,  if  I had 
told  to  him  privately  the  tale  that  I have  now  been 
telling,  he  could  not  have  resisted  my  reasonable 
demand.  After  all  his  precautions,  he  must  ultimately 
have  depended  upon  my  forbearance.  Could  he  be  sure, 
that  if  I were  at  last  worked  up  to  disclose  everything 
I knew,  and  to  enforce  it  with  all  the  energy  I could 
exert,  I should  obtain  no  credit  ? If  he  must  in  every 
case  be  at  my  mercy,  in  which  mode  ought  he  to  have 
sought  his  safety — in  conciliation,  or  in  inexorable 
cruelty?  Mr  Falkland  is  of  a noble  nature.  Yes  ! in 
spite  of  the  catastrophe  of  Tyrrel,  of  the  miserable  end 
of  the  Hawkinses,  and  of  all  that  I have  myself  suffered, 

I affirm  that  he  has  qualities  of  the  most  admirable 
kind.  It  is  therefore  impossible  that  he  could  have 
resisted  a frank  and  fervent  expostulation,  the  frank- 
ness and  the  fervour  in  which  the  whole  soul  was 
poured  out.  I despaired  while  it  was  yet  time  to  have 
made  the  just  experiment ; but  my  despair  was  criminal, 
was  treason  against  the  sovereignty  of  truth.  I have 
told  a plain  and  unadulterated  tale.  I came  hither  to 
curse,  but  I remain  to  bless.  I came  to  accuse,  but  am 
compelled  to  applaud.  I proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  i 
Mr  Falkland  is  a man  worthy  of  affect ionx and  kindness,  |j 
and  that  I am  myself  the  basest  and  most  odious  of  |j 
mankind  ! Never  will  I forgive  myself  the  iniquity  of  |i 
this  day.  The  memory  will  always  haunt  me,  and  ij 
imbitter  every  hour  of  my  existence.  In  thus  acting, 

I have  been  a murderer — a cool,  deliberate,  unfeeling 
murderei-.  I have  said  what  my  accursed  precipitation 
has  obliged  me  to  say.  Do  with  me  as  you  please.  I 
ask  no  favour.  Death  would  be  a kindness  compared 
to  what  I feel ! ’ 

Such  were  the  accents  dictated  by  my  remorse.  I 
poured  them  out  with  uncontrollable  impetuosity,  for 
my  heart  was  pierced,  and  I was  compelled  to  give  vent  i 
to  its  anguish.  Every  one  that  heard  me  was  petrified  | 
with  astonishment.  Every  one  that  heard  me  was  . 
melted  into  tears.  They  could  not  resist  the  ardour  ; 
with  which  I praised  the  great  qualities  of  Falkland ; | 
they  manifested  their  sympathy  in  the  tokens  of  my  ; 
penitence. 

How  shall  I describe  the  feelings  of  this  unfortunate  I 
man  ! Before  I began,  he  seemed  sunk  and  debilitated,  in-  ! 
capable  of  any  strenuous  impression.  When  I mentioned 

457 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


the  murder,  I could  perceive  in  him  an  involuntary 
shuddering,  though  it  was  counteracted,  partly  by  the 
feebleness  of  his  frame,  and  partly  by  the  energy  of 
his  mind.  This  was  an  allegation  he  expected,  and  he 
had  endeavoured  to  prepare  himself  for  it.  But  there 
was  much  of  what  I said  of  which  he  had  had  no  previous 
conception.  "When  I expressed  the  anguish  of  my  mind, 
he  seemed  at  first  startled  and  alarmed,  lest  this  should 
be  a new  expedient  to  gain  credit  to  my  tale.  His 
indignation  against  me  was  great  for  having  retained  all 
my  resentment  towards  him,  thus,  as  it  might  be,  in  the 
last  hour  of  his  existence.  It  was  increased  when  he 
discovered  me,  as  he  supposed,  using  a pretence  of 
liberality  and  sentiment  to  give  new  edge  to  my 
hostility.  But  as  I went  on,  he  could  no  longer  resist. 
He  saw  my  sincerity ; he  was  penetrated  with  my  grief 
and  compunction.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  supported  by 
the  attendants,  and — to  my  infinite  astonishment — 
threw  himself  into  my  arms  ! 

‘ Williams,’  said  he,  ‘ you  have  conquered  ! I see  too 
late  the  greatness  and  elevation  of  your  mind.  I con- 
fess that  it  is  to  my  fault,  and  not  yours,  that  it  is 
to  the  excess  of  jealousy  that  was  ever  burning  in  my 
bosom  that  I owe  my  ruin.  I could  have  resisted  any 
plan  of  malicious  accusation  you  might  have  brought 
against  me.  But  I see  that  the  artless  and  manly  story 
you  have  told,  has  carried  conviction  to  every  hearer. 
All  my  prospects  are  concluded.  All  that  I most 
ardently  desired  is  for  ever  frustrated.  I have  spent  a 
life  of  the  basest  cruelty  to  cover  one  act  of  momentary 
vice,  and  to  protect  myself  against  the  prejudices  of  my 
species.  I stand  now  completely  detected.  My  name 
will  be  consecrated  to  infamy,  while  your  heroism,  your 
patience,  and  your  virtues,  will  be  for  ever  admired. 
You  have  inflicted  on  me  the  most  fatal  of  all  mischiefs, 
but  I bless  the  hand  that  wounds  me.  And  now’ — 
turning  to  the  magistrate — ‘ and  now  do  with  me  as  you 
please.  I am  prepared  to  suffer  all  the  vengeance  of 
the  law.  You  cannot  inflict  on  me  more  than  1 deserve. 
You  cannot  hate  me  more  than  I hate  myself.  I am 
the  most  execrable  of  all  villains.  I have  for  many 
years — I know  not  how  long — dragged  on  a miserable 
existence  in  insupportable  pain.  I am  at  last,  in  recom- 
pense for  all  my  labours  and  my  crimes,  dismissed  from 
it  with  the  disappointment  of  my  only  remaining  hope, 
the  destruction  of  that  for  the  sake  of  which  alone  I 
consented  to  exist.  It  was  worthy  of  such  a life  that  it 
should  continue  just  long  enough  to  witness  this  final 
overthrow.  If,  however,  you  wish  to  punish  me,  you 
must  be  speedy  in  your  justice;  for  as  reputation  was 
the  blood  that  warmed  my  heart,  so  I feel  that  death 
and  infamy  must  seize  me  together !’ 

I record  the  praises  bestowed  on  me  by  Falkland, 
not  because  I deserve  them,  but  because  they  serve  to 
aggravate  the  baseness  of  my  cruelty.  He  survived 
but  three  days  this  dreadful  scene.  I have  been  his 
murderer.  It  was  fit  that  he  should  praise  my  patience, 
who  has  fallen  a victim,  life  and  fame,  to  my  precipi- 
tation ! It  would  have  been  merciful,  in  comparison,  if 
I had  planted  a dagger  in  his  heart.  He  would  have 
thanked  me  for  my  kindness.  But  atrocious,  execrable 
wretch  that  I have  been,  I wantonly  inflicted  on  him  an 
anguish  a thousand  times  worse  than  death.  Meanwhile 
I endure  the  penalty  of  my  crime.  His  figure  is  ever  in 
imagination  before  me.  Waking  or  sleeping,  I still 
behold  him.  He  seems  mildly  to  expostulate  with  me 
for  my  unfeeling  behaviour.  I live  the  devoted  victim 
of  conscious  reproach.  Alas!  I am  the  same  Caleb 
Williams  that  so  short  a time  ago  boasted  that,  however 
great  were  the  calamities  I endured,  I was  still  innocent. 

Such  has  been  the  result  of  a project  I formed  for 
delivering  myself  from  the  evils  that  had  so  long 
attended  me.  I thought  that  if  Falkland  were  dead,  I 
should  return  once  again  to  all  that  makes  life  worth 
possessing.  I thought  that  if  the  guilt  of  Falkland 
were  established,  fortune  and  the  world  would  smile 


upon  my  efforts.  Both  these  events  are  accomplished, 
and  it  is  now  only  that  I am  truly  miserable. 

Why  should  my  reflections  perpetually  centre  upon 
myself  ? — self,  an  overweening  regard  to  which  has  been 
the  source  of  my  errors ! Falkland,  I will  think  only 
of  thee,  and  from  that  thought  will  draw  ever-fresh 
nourishment  for  my  sorrows ! One  generous,  one  disin- 
terested tear,  I will  consecrate  to  thy  ashes ! A nobler 
spirit  lived  not  among  the  sons  of  men.  Thy  intel- 
lectual powers  were  truly  sublime,  and  thy  bosom 
burned  with  a godlike  ambition.  But  of  what  use  are 
talents  and  sentiments  in  the  corrupt  wilderness  of 
human  society ! It  is  a rank  and  rotten  soil,  from 
which  every  finer  shrub  draws  poison  as  it  grows.  All 
that,  in  a happier  field  and  a purer  air,  would  expand 
into  virtue  and  germinate  into  usefulness,  is  thus 
converted  into  henbane  and  deadly  nightshade. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  objected  to  what  may  be 
termed  the  master-incident  in  Caleb  Williams,  and 
calls  it  an  instance  of  the  author’s  coarseness  and 
bad  taste;  namely,  that  a gentleman  passionately 
addicted  to  the  manners  of  ancient  chivalry  should 
become  a midnight  assassin  when  an  honourable 
revenge  was  in  his  power.  Mr  Godwin  might  have 
defended  himself  by  citing  the  illustrious  critic’s 
own  example:  the  forgery  by  Marmion  is  less 
consistent  with  the  manners  of  chivalry  than  the 
assassination  by  Falkland.  Without  the  latter,  the 
novel  could  have  had  little  interest — it  is  the  key- 
stone of  the  arch.  Nor  does  it  appear  so  unsuited 
to  the  character  of  the  hero,  who,  though  smit 
with  a romantic  love  of  fame  and  honour,  is 
supposed  to  have  lived  in  modern  times,  and  has 
been  wound  up  to  a pitch  of  frenzy  by  the  public 
brutality  of  Tyrrel.  The  deed  was  instantaneous — 
the  knife,  he  says,  fell  in  his  way.  There  was  no 
time  for  reflection,  nor  was  Tyrrel  a person  whom 
he  could  think  of  meeting  on  equal  terms  in  open 
combat.  He  was  a noisome  pest  and  nuisance, 
despatched  in  a moment  of  fury  by  one  whom  he 
had  injured,  insulted,  and  trampled  upon,  solely 
because  of  his  worth  and  his  intellectual  superiority. 

We  have  incidentally  alluded  to  the  other 
novels  of  Godwin.  St  Leon  will  probably  descend  to 
posterity  in  company  with  Caleb  Williams , but  we 
cannot  conceive  that  a torso  of  any  of  the  others 
will  be  preserved.  They  have  all  a strong  family 
likeness.  What  Dugald  Stewart  supposed  of  human 
invention  generally,  that  it  was  limited,  like  a 
barrel-organ,  to  a specific  number  of  tunes,  is 
strictly  true  of  Mr  Godwin’s  fictions.  In  St  Leon , 
however,  we  have  a romantic  story  with  much  fine 
writing.  Setting  aside  the  ‘incredible’  conception 
on  which  it  proceeds,  we  find  the  subordinate 
incidents  natural  and  justly  proportioned.  The 
possessor  of  the  philosopher’s-stone  is  an  interesting 
visionary— a French  Falkland  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  as  unfortunate,  for  his  miraculous 
gifts  entail  but  misery  on  himself,  and  bring  ruin  to 
his  family.  Even  exhaustless  wealth  is  in  itself  no 
blessing ; and  this  is  the  moral  of  the  story.  The 
adventures  of  the  hero,  both  warlike  and  domestic, 
are  related  with  much  gorgeousness  and  amplitude. 
The  character  of  the  heroic  Marguerite,  the  wife 
of  Leon,  is  one  of  the  author’s  finest  delineations. 
Bethlem  Gabor  is  also  a vigorous  and  striking 
sketch,  though  introduced  too  late  in  the  novel  to 
relieve  the  flagging  interest  after  the  death  of  Mar- 
guerite. The  thunder-storm  which  destroys  the 
property  of  Leon  is  described  with  great  power  and 
vividness  ; and  his  early  distresses  and  losses  at  the 
gaming-table  are  also  in  the  author’s  best  manner. 
The  scene  may  be  said  to  shift  too  often,  and  the 
want  of  fortitude  and  energy  in  the  character  of  the 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


hero  lessens  our  sympathy  for  his  reverses.  At  the 
same  time  his  tenderness  and  affection  as  a husband 
and  father  are  inexpressibly  touching,  when  we  see 
them,  in  consequence  of  his  strange  destiny,  lead  to 
the  ruin  of  those  for  whom  alone  he  wishes  to  live. 
‘ How  minute,’  says  one  of  Godwin’s  critics,  ‘ how 
pathetic,  how  tragical  is  the  detail  of  the  gradual 
ruin  which  falls  on  this  weak  devoted  man,  up  to 
its  heart-breaking  consummation  in  the  death  of  the 
noble  Marguerite  de  Damville ! how  tremendous  and 
perfect  is  his  desolation  after  voluntarily  leaving 
his  daughters,  and  cutting  the  last  thread  which 
binds  him  to  his  kind ! “ I saw  my  dear  children 

set  forward  on  their  journey,  and  I knew  not  that 
I should  ever  behold  them  more.  I was  determined 
never  tb  see  them  again  to  their  injury,  and  I could 
not  take  to  myself  the  consolation,  on  such  a day, 
in  such  a month,  or  even  after  such  a lapse  of  years, 
I will  again  have  the  joy  to  embrace  them.  In  a 
little  while  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  I was  alone.” 
How  complete  is  the  description  of  his  escape  from 
the  procession  to  the  auto  de  fe;  of  his  entrance  into 
the  Jew’s  house;  his  fears;  his  decaying  strength 
just  serving  to  make  up  the  life-restoring  elixir; 
the  dying  taper ; the  insensibility ; the  resurrection 
to  new  life,  and  the  day-spring  of  his  young  man- 
hood! How  shall  we  speak  of  the  old  man,  the 
bequeather  of  the  fatal  legacy  to  St  Leon,  and  his 
few  fearful  words,  “Friendless,  friendless — alone, 
alone ! ” Alas ! how  terrible  to  imagine  a being  in 
possession  of  such  endowments,  who  could  bring 
himself  to  think  of  death ! able  to  turn  back  upon 
his  path,  and  meet  immortal  youth,  to  see  again  the 
morning  of  his  day,  and  find  in  fresh  renewed  life 
and  beauty  a disguise  impenetrable  to  his  former 
enemies,  yet,  in  the  sadness  of  his  experience,  so 
dreading  the  mistakes  and  persecution  of  his  fellow- 
men,  as  to  choose  rather  to  lie  down  with  the  worm, 
and  seek  oblivion  in  the  seats  of  rottenness  and 
corruption.’  * 

[St  Leon's  Escape  from  the  Auto  de  F6."\ 

[St  Leon  is  imprisoned  by  the  Inquisition  on  suspicion  of 
exercising  the  powers  of  necromancy,  and  is  carried  with 
other  prisoners  to  feed  the  flames  at  an  auto  de  fe  at  Valla- 
dolid.] 

Our  progress  to  Valladolid  was  slow  and  solemn,  and 
occupied  a space  of  no  less  than  four  days.  On  the 
evening  of  the  fourth  day  we  approached  that  city.  The 
king  and  his  court  came  out  to  meet  us ; he  saluted  the 
inquisitor-general  with  all  the  demonstrations  of  the 
deepest  submission  and  humility;  and  then  having 
yielded  him  the  place  of  honour,  turned  round  his  horse, 
and  accompanied  us  back  to  Valladolid.  The  cavalcade 
that  attended  the  king  broke  into  two  files,  and  received 
us  in  the  midst  of  them.  The  whole  city  seemed  to 
empty  itself  on  this  memorable  occasion,  and  the  multi- 
tudes that  crowded  along  the  road,  and  were  scattered 
in  the  neighbouring  fields,  were  innumerable.  The 
day  was  now  closed,  and  the  procession  went  forward 
amidst  the  light  of  a thousand  torches.  We,  the  con- 
demned of  the  Inquisition,  had  been  conducted  from  the 
metropolis  upon  tumbrils;  but  as  we  arrived  at  the 
gates  of  Valladolid,  we  were  commanded,  for  the  greater 
humiliation,  to  alight  and  proceed  on  foot  to  the  place 
of  our  confinement,  as  many  as  could  not  walk  without 
assistance  being  supported  by  the  attendants.  We  were 
neither  chained  nor  bound ; the  practice  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion being  to  deliver  the  condemned  upon  such  occasions 
into  the  hands  of  two  sureties  each,  who  placed  their 
charge  in  the  middle  between  them ; and  men  of  the 

* Criticism  prefixed  to  Bentley’s  Standard  Novels^-Cafe& 
Williams. 


most  respectable  characters  were  accustomed,  from 
religious  motives,  to  sue  for  this  melancholy  office. 

Dejected  and  despairing  I entered  the  streets  of  the 
city,  no  object  present  to  the  eyes  of  my  mind  but  that 
of  my  approaching  execution.  The  crowd  was  vast,  the 
confusion  inexpressible.  As  we  passed  by  the  end  of  a 
narrow  lane,  the  horse  of  one  of  the  guards,  who  rode 
exactly  in  a line  with  me,  plunged  and  reared  in  a 
violent  manner,  and  at  length  threw  his  rider  upon  the 
pavement.  Others  of  the  horse-guards  attempted  to 
catch  the  bridle  of  the  enraged  animal ; they  rushed 
against  each  other ; several  of  the  crowd  were  thrown 
down,  and  trampled  under  the  horses’  feet.  The  shrieks 
of  these,  and  the  loud  cries  and  exclamations  of  the 
bystanders  mingled  in  confused  and  discordant  chorus ; 
no  sound,  no  object  could  be  distinguished.  From  the 
excess  of  the  tumult,  a sudden  thought  darted  into  my 
mind,  where  all,  an  instant  before,  had  been  relaxation 
and  despair.  Two  or  three  of  the  horses  pushed  forward 
in  a particular  direction ; a moment  after,  they  re-filed 
with  equal  violence,  and  left  a wide  but  transitory  gap. 
My  project  was  no  sooner  conceived  than  executed. 
Weak  as  I had  just  now  felt  myself,  a supernatural  tide 
of  strength  seemed  to  come  over  me  ; I sprung  away  with 
all  imaginable  impetuosity,  and  rushed  down  the  lane  I 
have  just  mentioned.  Every  one  amidst  the  confusion 
was  attentive  to  his  personal  safety,  and  several  minutes 
elapsed  before  I was  missed. 

In  the  lane  everything  was  silent,  and  the  darkness 
was  extreme.  Man,  woman,  and  child,  were  gone  out 
to  view  the  procession.  For  some  time  I could  scarcely 
distinguish  a single  object ; the  doors  and  windows  were 
all  closed.  I now  chanced  to  come  to  an  open  door; 
within  I saw  no  one  but  an  old  man,  who  was  busy  over 
some  metallic  work  at  a chafing-dish  of  fire.  I had  no 
room  for  choice ; I expected  every  moment  to  hear  the 
myrmidons  of  the  Inquisition  at  my  heels.  I rushed 
in ; I impetuously  closed  the  door,  and  bolted  it ; I then 
seized  the  old  man  by  the  collar  of  his  shirt  with  a 
determined  grasp,  and  swore  vehemently  that  I would 
annihilate  him  that  instant  if  he  did  not  consent  to 
afford  me  assistance.  Though  for  some  time  I had 
perhaps  been  feebler  than  he,  the  terror  that  now  drove 
me  on  rendered  me  comparatively  a giant.  He  entreated 
me  to  permit  him  to  breathe,  and  promised  to  do  what- 
ever I should  desire.  I looked  round  the  apartment, 
and  saw  a rapier  hanging  against  the  wall,  of  which  I 
instantly  proceeded  to  make  myself  master.  While  I 
was  doing  this,  my  involuntary  host,  who  was  extremely 
terrified  at  my  procedure,  nimbly  attempted  to  slip  by 
me  and  rush  into  the  street.  With  difficulty  I caught 
hold  of  his  arm,  and  pulling  him  back,  put  the  point  of 
my  rapier  to  his  , breast,  solemnly  assuring  him  that  no 
consideration  on  earth  should  save  him  from  my  fury  if 
he  attempted  to  escape  a second  time.  He  immediately 
dropped  on  his  knees,  and  with  the  most  piteous  accents 
entreated  me  to  spare  his  life.  I told  him  that  I was 
no  robber,  that  I did  not  intend  him  the  slightest  harm ; 
and  that,  if  he  would  implicitly  yield  to  my  direction, 
he  might  assure  himself  he  never  should  have  reason  to 
repent  his  compliance.  By  this  declaration  the  terrors 
of  the  old  man  were  somewhat  appeased.  I took  the 
opportunity  of  this  calm  to  go  to  the  street  door,  which 
I instantly  locked,  and  put  the  key  in  my  bosom.  * * 

We  were  still  engaged  in  discussing  the  topics  I have 
mentioned,  when  I was  suddenly  alarmed  by  the  noise 
of  some  one  stirring  in  the  inner  apartment.  I had 
looked  into  this  room,  and  had  perceived  nothing  but 
the  bed  upon  which  the  old  man  nightly  reposed  himself. 
I sprung  up,  however,  at  the  sound,  and  perceiving  that 
the  door  had  a bolt  on  the  outside,  I eagerly  fastened  it. 
I then  turned  to  Mordecai — that  was  the  name  of  my 
host:  ‘Wretch,’  said  I,  ‘did  not  you  assure  me  that 
there  was  no  one  but  yourself  in  the  house?’  ‘Oh,’ 
cried  Mordecai,  ‘it  is  my  child!  it  is  my  child!  she  went 
into  the  inner  apartment,  and  has  fallen  asleep  on  the 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


po  1830. 


bed.’  ‘Beware,’  I answered;  ‘the  slightest  falsehood 
more  shall  instantly  be  expiated  in  your  blood.’  ‘ I call 
Abraham  to  witness,’  rejoined  the  once  more  terrified 
Jew,  ‘ it  is  my  child  ! only  my  child  ! ’ ‘ Tell  me,’  cried 

I,  with  severity  of  accent,  ‘ how  old  is  this  child  ?’  ‘Only 
five  years,’  said  Mordecai : ‘ my  dear  Leah  died  when  she 
was  a year  old,  and  though  we  had  several  children,  this 
single  one  has  survived  her.’  ‘Speak  to  your  child : let 
me  hear  her  voice!’  He  spoke  to  her;  and  she 
answered,  ‘ Father,  I want  to  come  out.’  I was  satisfied 
it  was  the  voice  of  a little  girL  I turned  to  the  Jew : 
* Take  care,’  said  I,  ‘ how  you  deceive  me  now ; is  there 
I no  other  person  in  that  room  ? ’ He  imprecated  a curse 
•'  on  himself  if  there  were.  I opened  the  door  with 
| caution,  and  the  little  girl  came  forward.  As  soon  as 
j I saw  her,  I seized  her  with  a rapid  motion,  and 
1 returned  to  my  chair.  ‘ Man,’  said  I,  ‘ you  have  trifled 
i with  me  too  rashly ; you  have  not  considered  what  I am 
! escaped  from,  and  what  I have  to  fear;  from  this 
{ moment  this  child  shall  be  the  pledge  of  my  safety ; I 
j will  not  part  with  her  an  instant  as  long  as  I remain  in 
your  house  ; and  with  this  rapier  in  my  hand,  I will 
pierce  her  to  the  heart  the  moment  I am  led  to  imagine 
that  I am  no  longer  in  safety.’  The  J ew  trembled  at 
my  resolution;  the  emotions  of  a father  worked  in 
his  features  and  glistened  in  his  eye.  ‘At  least  let 
me  kiss  her,’  said  he.  ‘ Be  it  so,’  replied  I : ‘ one 
embrace,  and  then,  till  the  dawn  of  the  coming  day,  she 
remains  with  me.’  I released  my  hold;  the  child 
rushed  to  her  father,  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
‘My  dear  Leah,’  cried  Mordecai,  ‘now  a sainted  spirit 
in  the  bosom  of  our  father  Abraham ! I call  God  to 
witness  between  us,  that,  if  all  my  caution  and  vigil- 
ance can  prevent  it,  not  a hair  of  this  child  shall  be 
injured ! Stranger,  you  little  know  by  how  strong  a 
motive  you  have  now  engaged  me  to  your  cause.  We 
poor  Jews,  hunted  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  the  ablior- 
j rence  and  execration  of  mankind,  have  nothing  but 
family  affections  to  support  us  under  our  multiplied 
{ disgraces  ; and  family  affections  are  entwined  with  our 
j existence,  the  fondest  and  best  loved  part  of  ourselves, 
j The  God  of  Abraham  bless  you,  my  child  ! Now,  sir, 
speak  ! what  is  it  you  require  of  me  ? ’ 

I told  the  Jew  that  I must  have  a suit  of  clothes 
conformable  to  the  appearance  of  a Spanish  cavalier, 
and  certain  medical  ingredients  that  I named  to  him, 
together  with  his  chafing-dish  of  coals  to  prepare  them  ; 
and  that  done,  I would  then  impose  on  him  no  further 
trouble.  Having  received  his  instructions,  he  imme- 
diately set  out  to  procure  what  I demanded.  He  took 
with  him  the  key  of  the  house ; and  as  soon  as  he  was 
gone,  I retired  with  the  child  into  the  inner  apartment, 
and  fastened  the  door.  At  first  I applied  myself  to 
tranquillise  the  child,  who  had  been  somewhat  alarmed 
at  what  she  had  heard  and  seen : this  was  no  very 
difficult  task.  She  presently  left  me,  to  amuse  herself 
with  some  playthings  that  lay  scattered  in  a comer  of 
! the  apartment.  My  heart  was  now  comparatively  at 
ease ; I saw  the  powerful  hold  I had  on  the  fidelity  of 
the  Jew,  and  firmly  persuaded  myself  that  I had  no 
treachery  to  fear  on  his  part.  Thus  circumstanced,  the 
exertion  and  activity  with  which  I had  lately  been 
imbued  left  me,  and  I insensibly  sunk  into  a sort  of 
slumber.  * * 

Now  for  the  first  time  I was  at  leisure  to  attend  to 
the  state  of  my  strength  and  my  health.  My  con- 
finement in  the  Inquisition,  and  the  treatment  I had 
experienced,  had  before  rendered  me  feeble  and  almost 
helpless ; but  these  appeared  to  be  circumstances 
scarcely  worthy  of  attention  in  the  situation  in  which 
I was  then  placed.  The  impulse  I felt  in  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  in  the  grand  street  of  Valladolid, 
produced  in  me  an  energy  and  power  of  exertion  which 
nothing  but  the  actual  experience  of  the  fact  could  have 
persuaded  me  was  possible.  This  energy,  once  begun, 
appeared  to  have  the  faculty  of  prolonging  itself,  and 


I did  not  relapse  into  imbecility  till  the  occasion  seemed 
to  be  exhausted  which  called  for  my  exertion.  I 
examined  myself  by  a mirror  with  which  Mordecai 
furnished  me ; I found  my  hair  as  white  as  snow,  and 
my  face  ploughed  with  a thousand  furrows.  I was  now 
fifty-four,  an  age  which,  with  moderate  exercise  and  a 
vigorous  constitution,  often  appears  like  the  prime  of 
human  existence ; but  whoever  had  looked  upon  me  in 
my  present  condition,  would  not  have  doubted  to  affirm  ! 
that  I had  reached  the  eightieth  year  of  my  age.  I 
examined  with  dispassionate  remark  the  state  of  my  j 
intellect:  I was  persuaded  that  it  had  subsided  into  i 
childishness.  My  mind  had  been  as  much  cribbed  and  I 
immured  as  my  body.  I was  the  mere  shadow  of  a man, 
of  no  more  power  and  worth  than  that  which  a magic 
lantern  produces  upon  a wall.  These  are  thy  works,  j 
superstition ! this  the  genuine  and  proper  operation  of 
what  is  called  Christianity ! Let  the  reader  judge  of  j 
what  I had  passed  through  and  known  within  those 
cursed  walls  by  the  effects;  I have  already  refused,  I 
continue  to  refuse,  to  tell  how  those  effects  were  produced.  , 
Enough  of  compassion ; enough  of  complaint ; I will 
confine  myself,  as  far  as  I am  able,  to  simple  history. 
*•*•*■* 

I was  now  once  again  alone.  The  little  girl,  who  had 
been  unusually  disturbed  and  roused  at  an  unseasonable 
hour,  sunk  into  a profound  sleep.  I heard  the  noise 
which  Mordecai  made  in  undressing  himself,  and  com- 
posing his  limbs  upon  a mattress  which  he  had  dragged  1 
for  the  present  occasion  into  the  front  room,  and  spread 
before  the  hearth.  I soon  found  by  the  hardness  of  his 
breathing  that  he  also  was  asleep.  I unfolded  the 
papers  he  had  brought  me;  they  consisted  of  various 
medical  ingredients  I had  directed  him  to  procure ; 
there  were  also  two  or  three  vials  containing  sirups  and 
essences.  I had  near  me  a pair  of  scales  with  which 
to  weigh  my  ingredients,  a vessel  of  water,  the  chafing- 
dish  of  my  host  in  which  the  fire  was  nearly  extinguished, 
and  a small  taper,  with  some  charcoal  to  re-light  the  fire 
in  case  of  necessity.  While  I was  occupied  in  surveying 
these  articles  and  arranging  my  materials,  a sort  of 
torpor  came  suddenly  over  me,  so  as  to  allow  me  no  time 
for  resistance.  I sunk  upon  the  bed.  I remained  thus 
for  about  half-an-hour,  seemingly  without  the  power  of 
collecting  my  thoughts.  At  length  I started,  felt 
alarmed,  and  applied  my  utmost  force  of  mind  to  rouse 
my  exertions.  While  I drove,  or  attempted  to  drive, 
my  animal  spirits  from  limb  to  limb,  and  from  part  to 
part,  as  if  to  inquire  into  the  general  condition  of  my 
frame,  I became  convinced  that  I was  dying.  Let  not 
the  reader  be  surprised  at  this ; twelve  years’  imprison- 
ment in  a narrow  and  unwholesome  cell  may  well 
account  for  so  sudden  a catastrophe.  Strange  and 
paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  I believe  it  will  be  found 
in  the  experiment,  that  the  calm  and  security  which 
succeed  to  great  internal  injuries  are  more  dangerous 
than  the  pangs  and  hardships  that  went  before.  I was 
now  thoroughly  alarmed  ; I applied  myself  with  all 
vigilance  and  expedition  to  the  compounding  my  mate- 
rials. The  fire  was  gone  out ; the  taper  was  glimmering 
in  the  socket : to  swallow  the  julep,  when  I had  prepared 
it,  seemed  to  be  the  last  effort  of  which  my  organs  and 
muscles  were  capable.  It  was  the  elixir  of  immortality, 
exactly  made  up  according  to  the  prescription  of  the 
stranger. 

Whether  from  the  potency  of  the  medicine  or  the 
effect  of  imagination,  I felt  revived  the  moment  I had 
swallowed  it.  I placed  myself  deliberately  in  Mordecai’ s 
bed,  and  drew  over  me  the  bed-clothes.  I fell  asleep  . 
almost  instantly.  * * 

My  sleep  was  not  long : in  a few  hours  I awaked.  , 
With  difficulty  I recognised  the  objects  about  me,  and 
recollected  where  I had  been.  It  seemed  to  me  that  my 
heart  had  never  beat  so  vigorously,  nor  my  spirits  flowed 
so  gay.  I was  all  elasticity  and  life ; I could  scarcely 
hold  myself  quiet;  I felt  impelled  to  bound  and  leap 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  OPIE — A.  M.  PORTER. 


like  a kid  upon  the  mountains.  I perceived  that  my 
little  Jewess  was  still  asleep;  she  had  been  unusually 
fatigued  the  night  before.  I know  not  whether  Mor- 
decai’s  hour  of  rising  were  come;  if  it  were,  he  was 
careful  not  to  disturb  his  guest.  I put  on  the  garments 
he  had  prepared ; I gazed  upon  the  mirror  he  had  left 
in  my  apartment.  I can  recollect  no  sensation  in  the 
course  of  my  life  so  unexpected  and  surprising  as  what 
I felt  at  that  moment.  The  evening  before  I had  seen 
my  hair  white,  and  my  face  ploughed  with  furrows; 
I looked  fourscore.  What  I beheld  now  was  totally 
different,  yet  altogether  familiar ; it  was  myself — myself 
as  I had  appeared  on  the  day  of  my  marriage  with 
Marguerite  de  Damville  ; the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the  hair, 
the  complexion,  every  circumstance,  point  by  point,  the 
same.  I leaped  a gulf  of  thirty-two  years.  I waked 
from  a dream,  troublesome  and  distressful  beyond  all 
description  ; but  it  vanished  like  the  shades  of  night 
upon  the  burst  of  a glorious  morning  in  J uly,  and  left 
not  a trace  behind.  I knew  not  how  to  take  away  my 
eyes  from  the  mirror  before  me. 

I soon  began  to  consider  that,  if  it  were  astonishing 
to  me  that,  through  all  the  regions  of  my  countenance, 
I could  discover  no  trace  of  what  I had  been  the  night 
before,  it  would  be  still  more  astonishing  to  my  host. 
This  sort  of  sensation  I had  not  the  smallest  ambition 
to  produce : one  of  the  advantages  of  the  metamorphosis 
I had  sustained,  consisted  in  its  tendency,  in  the  eyes  of 
all  that  saw  me,  to  cut  off  every  species  of  connection 
between  my  present  and  my  former  self.  It  fortunately 
happened  that  the  room  in  which  I slept,  being  con- 
structed upon  the  model  of  many  others  in  Spain,  had 
a stair  at  the  further  end,  with  a trap-door  in  the 
ceiling,  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the  inhabitant  to 
ascend  on  the  roof  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  The  roofs 
were  flat,  and  so  constructed  that  there  was  little  diffi- 
culty in  passing  along  them  from  house  to  house,  from 
one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other.  I availed  myself  of 
the  opportunity,  and  took  leave  of  the  residence  of  my 
kind  host  in  a way  perfectly  unceremonious,  determined, 
however,  speedily  to  transmit  to  him  the  reward  I 
had  promised.  It  may  easily  be  believed  that  Mordecai 
was  not  less  rejoiced  at  the  absence  of  a guest  whom  the 
vigilance  of  the  Inquisition  rendered  an  uncommonly 
dangerous  one,  than  I was  to  quit  his  habitation.  I 
closed  the  trap  after  me,  and  clambered  from  roof  to 
roof  to  a considerable  distance.  At  length  I encountered 
the  occasion  of  an  open  window,  and  fortunately 
descended,  unseen  by  any  human  being,  into  the  street. 

MRS  OPIE. 

Mrs  Amelia  Opie  (Miss  Alderson  of  Norwich) 
commenced  her  literary  career  in  1801,  when  she 
published  her  domestic  and  pathetic  tale  of  The 
Father  and  Daughter.  Without  venturing  out  of 
ordinary  life,  Mrs  Opie  invested  her  narrative  with 
deep  interest,  by  her  genuine  painting  of  nature 
and  passion,  her  animated  dialogue,  and  feminine 
delicacy  of  feeling.  Her  first  novel  went  through 
eight  editions,  and  is  still  popular.  A long  series 
of  works  of  fiction  proceeded  from  the  pen  of 
this  lady.  Her  Simple  Tales , in  four  volumes,  180G ; 
New  Tales , four  volumes,  1818;  Temper,  or  Domestic 
Scenes , a tale,  in  three  volumes ; Tales  of  Real  Life , 
three  volumes ; Tales  of  the  Heart , four  volumes ; 
Madeline  (1822) ; are  all  marked  by  the  same  charac- 
teristics— the  portraiture  of  domestic  life,  drawn 
with  a view  to  regulate  the  heart  and  affections. 
In  1828  Mrs  Opie  published  a moral  treatise, 
entitled  Detraction  Displayed , in  order  to  expose 
that  ‘most  common  of  all  vices,’  which  she  says 
justly  is  found  ‘ in  every  class  or  rank  in  society, 
from  the  peer  to  the  peasant,  from  the  master  to 
the  valet,  from  the  mistress  to  the  maid,  from  the 


most  learned  to  the  most  ignorant,  from  the  man 
of  genius  to  the  meanest  capacity.’  The  tales  of 
this  lady  have  been  thrown  into  the  shade  by 
the  brilliant  fictions  of  Scott,  the  stronger  moral 
delineations  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  the  generally 
masculine  character  of  our  more  modern  literature. 
She  is,  like  Mackenzie,  too  uniformly  pathetic  and 
tender.  ‘She  can  do  nothing  well,’  says  Jeffrey, 

‘ that  requires  to  be  done  with  formality,  and  there- 
fore has  not  succeeded  in  copying  either  the  concen- 
trated force  of  weighty  and  deliberate  reason,  or  the 
severe  and  solemn  dignity'  of  majestic  virtue.  To 
make  amends,  however,  she  represents  admirably 
everything  that  is  amiable,  generous,  and  gentle.’ 
Perhaps  we  should  add  to  this  the  power  of  exciting 
and  harrowing  up  the  feelings  in  no  ordinary  degree. 
Some  of  her  short  tales  are  full  of  gloomy  and 
terrific  painting,  alternately  resembling  those  of 
Godwin  and  Mrs  Radcliffe. 

In  Miss  Sedgwick’s  Letters  from  Abroad  (1841) 
we  find  the  following  notice  of  the  then  venerable 
novelist : ‘ I owed  Mrs  Opie  a grudge  for  having 

made  me  in  my  youth  cry  my  eyes  out  over  her 
stories ; but  her  fair  cheerful  face  forced  me  to 
forget  it.  She  long  ago  forswore  the  world  and  its* 
vanities,  and  adopted  the  Quaker  faith  and  costume ; 
but  I fancied  that  her  elaborate  simplicity,  and  the 
fashionable  little  train  to  her  pretty  satin  gown, 
indicated  how  much  easier  it  is  to  adopt  a theory 
than  to  change  one’s  habits.’ 

Mrs  Opie  survived  till  1853,  and  was  in  her 
eighty-fourtli  year  at  the  time  of  her  death.  An 
interesting  volume  of  Memorials  of  the  accomplished 
authoress,  selected  from  her  letters,  diaries,  and 
other  manuscripts,  by  Miss  Brightwell,  was  pub- 
lished in  1854.  After  the  death  of  her  husband  in 
1807,  Mrs  Opie  resided  chiefly  in  her  native  town 
of  Norwich,  but  often  visited  London,  where  her 
company  was  courted  by  the  literary  and  fashion- 
able circles.  In  1825  she  was  formally  admitted 
into  the  Society  of  Friends  or  Quakers,  but  her 
liveliness  of  character  and  goodness  of  heart  were 
never  diminished.  Her  old  age  was  eminently 
cheerful  and  happy. 

ANNA  MARIA  PORTER. 

This  lady  was  a daughter  of  an  Irish  officer,  who 
died  shortly  after  her  birth,  leaving  a widow  and 
several  children,  with  but  a small  patrimony  for 
their  support.  Mrs  Porter  took  her  family  into 
Scotland,  while  Anna  Maria  was  still  in  her 
nurse-maid’s  arms,  and  there,  with  her  only  and 
elder  sister  Jane,  and  their  brother,  Sir  Robert  Ker 
Porter,  she  received  the  rudiments  of  her  education. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  a student  at  college,  was 
intimate  with  the  family,  and,  we  are  told,  ‘was 
very  fond  of  either  teasing  the  little  female  student 
when  very  gravely  engaged  with  her  book,  or  more 
often  fondling  her  on  his  knees,  and  telling  her 
stories  of  witches  and  warlocks,  till  both  forgot  their 
former  playful  merriment  in  the  marvellous  interest 
of  the  tale.’  Mrs  Porter  removed  to  Ireland,  and 
subsequently  to  London,  chiefly  with  a view  to  the 
education  of  her  children.  Anna  Maria  became  an 
authoress  at  the  age  of  twelve.  Her  first  work  bore 
the  appropriate  title  of  Artless  Tales,  the  first  volume 
being  published  in  1793,  and  a second  in  1795.  In 
1797  she  came  forward  again  with  a tale  entitled 
Walsh  Colville ; and  in  the  following  year  a novel  in 
three  volumes,  Octavia , was  produced.  A numerous 
series  of  works  of  fiction  now  proceeded  from  Miss 
Porter — The  Lake  of  Killarney,  1804 ; A Sailors 
Friendship  and  a Soldier's  Love , 1805 ; The 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Hungarian  Brothers,  1807 ; Don  Sebastian,  or  the  House 
of  Braganza,  1809 ; Ballad  Romances,  and  other  Poems, 
1811;  The  Recluse  of  Norway,  1814;  The  Village 
of  Mariendoipt ; The  Fast  of  St  Magdalen ; Tales  of 
Pity  for  Youth;  The  Knight  of  St  John;  Roche 
Blanche  ; and  Honor  O'Hara.  Altogether,  the  works 
of  this  lady  amount  to  about  fifty  volumes.  In 
private  life  Miss  Porter  was  much  beloved  for  her 
unostentatious  piety  and  active  benevolence.  She 
died  at  Bristol  while  on  a visit  to  her  brother,  Dr 
Porter  of  that  city,  on  the  21st  of  June  1832,  aged 
fifty-two.  The  most  popular,  and  perhaps  the  best 
of  Miss  Porter’s  novels,  is  her  Don  Sebastian.  In  all 
of  them  she  portrays  the  domestic  affections  and  the 
charms  of  benevolence  and  virtue  with  warmth  and 
earnestness,  but  in  Don  Sebastian  we  have  an 
interesting  though  melancholy  plot  and  characters 
finely  discriminated  and  drawn. 

Miss  Jane  Porter,  sister  of  Anna  Maria,  is 
authoress  of  two  romances,  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw, 
1803,  and  The  Scottish  Chiefs,  1810;  both  were 
highly  popular.  The  first  is  the  best,  and  contains 
a good  plot  and  some  impassioned  scenes.  The 
second  fails  entirely  as  a picture  of  national  manners 
j— the  Scottish  patriot  Wallace,  for  example,  being 
represented  as  a sort  of  drawing-room  hero — but  is 
written  with  great  animation  and  picturesque  effect. 
In  appeals  to  the  tender  and  heroic  passions,  and  in 
vivid  scene-painting,  both  these  ladies  have  evinced 
genius,  but  their  works  want  the  permanent  interest 
of  real  life,  variety  of  character,  and  dialogue.  A 
third  novel  by  Miss  Porter  has  been  published, 
entitled  The  Pastor's  Fireside.  Late  in  life  she  wrote 
a work,  Sir  Edward  Seaward's  Diary,  which  has  a 
good  deal  of  the  truthfulness  of  style  and  incident 
so  remarkable  in  Defoe.  Miss  Jane  Porter  died  at 
Bristol  in  1850,  aged  seventy-four. 


MISS  EDGEWORTH. 

Maria  Edgeworth,  one  of  our  best  painters  of 
national  manners,  whose  works  stimulated  the  genius 
of  Scott,  and  have  delighted  and  instructed  gene- 
rations of  readers,  commenced  her  career  as  an 
authoress  about  the  year  1800.  She  was  of  a respect- 
able Irish  family,  long  settled  at  Edgeworthtown, 
county  of  Longford,  and  it  was  on  their  property 
that  Goldsmith  was  born.  Her  father,  Bichard  Lovell 
Edgeworth  (1744-1817),  was  himself  a man  attached 
to  literary  pursuits,  and  took  great  pleasure  in 
exciting  and  directing  the  talents  of  his  daughter.* 

* Mr  Edgeworth  wrote  a work  on  Professional  Education, 
one  volume,  quarto,  1808 ; also  some  papers  in  the  Philosophical 
Transactions,  including  an  essay  on  Spring  and  Wheel  Car- 
riages, and  an  account  of  a telegraph  which  he  invented.  This 
gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  was 
afterwards  sent  to  Oxford.  Before  he  was  twenty,  he  ran  off 
with  Miss  Elers,  a young  lady  of  Oxford,  to  whom  he  was 
married  at  Gretna  Green.  He  then  embarked  on  a life  of 
fashionable  gaiety  and  dissipation,  and  in  1770  succeeded,  by 
the  death  of  his  father,  to  his  Irish  property.  During  a visit 
to  Lichfield,  he  became  enamoured  of  Miss  Honora  Sneyd,  a 
cousin  of  Anna  Seward’s,  and  married  her  shortly  after  the 
death  of  his  wife.  In  six  years  this  lady  died  of  consumption, 
and  he  married  her  sister,  a circumstance  which  exposed  him 
to  a good  deal  of  observation  and  censure.  After  a matrimo- 
nial union  of  seventeen  years,  his  third  wife  died  of  the  same 
malady  as  her  sister  ; and,  although  past  fifty,  Mr  Edgeworth 
scarce  lost  a year  till  he  was  united  to  ap  Irish  lady,  Miss 
Beaufort.  His  latter  years  were  spent  in  active  exertions  to 
benefit  Ireland,  by  reclaiming  bog-land,  introducing  agricul- 
tural and  mechanical  improvements,  and  promoting  education. 
Among  his  numerous  schemes,  was  an  attempt  to  educate  his 
eldest  son  on  the  plan  delineated  in  Rousseau’s  Emile.  He 
dressed  him  in  jacket  and  trousers,  with  arms  and  legs  bare, 


Whenever  the  latter  thought  of  writing  any  essay 
or  story,  she  always  submitted  to  him  the  first 
rough  plans ; and  his  ready  invention  and  infinite 
resource,  when  she  had  run  into  difficulties  or 
absurdities,  never  failed  to  extricate  her  at  her 
utmost  need.  ‘It  was  the  happy  experience  of 
this,’  says  Miss  Edgeworth,  ‘and  my  consequent 
reliance  on  his  ability,  decision,  and  perfect  truth, 
that  relieved  me  from  the  vacillation  and  anxiety 
to  which  I was  so  much  subject,  that  I am  sure  I 
should  not  have  written  or  finished  anything  with- 
out his  support.  He  inspired  in  my  mind  a degree 
of  hope  and  confidence,  essential,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  the  full  exertion  of  the  mental  powers, 
and  necessary  to  insure  perseverance  in  any  occupa- 
tion.’ An  able  work,  the  joint  production  of  Mr 
and  Miss  Edgeworth,  appeared  in  1801  under  the 
title  of  an  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls.  Besides  some 
critical  and  humorous  illustration,  the  authors  did 
justice  to  the  better  traits  of  the  Irish  character,  and 
illustrated  them  by  some  interesting  and  pathetic 
stories.  The  same  object  was  pursued  in  the  tale 
Castle  Rackrent , and  in  Belinda,  a novel  of  real  life 
and  ordinary  characters.  In  1804  Miss  Edgeworth 
came  forward  with  three  volumes  of  Popular  Tales, 
characterised  by  the  features  of  her  genius — ‘a 
genuine  display  of  nature,  and  a certain  tone  of 
rationality  and  good  sense,  which  was  the  more 
pleasing,  because  in  a novel  it  was  then  new.’ 
The  practical  cast  of  her  father’s  mind  probably 
assisted  in  directing  Miss  Edgeworth’s  talents  into 

and  allowed  him  to  rim  about  wherever  he  pleased,  and  to  do 
nothing  but  what  was  agreeable  to  himself.  In  a few  years  he 
found  that  the  scheme  had  succeeded  completely,  so  far  as 
related  to  the  body ; the  youth’s  health,  strength,  and  agility 
were  conspicuous  ; but  the  state  of  his  mind  induced  some 
perplexity.  He  had  aU  the  virtues  that  are  found  in  the  hut 
of  the  savage  ; he  was  quick,  fearless,  generous;  but  he  knew 
not  what  it  was  to  obey.  It  was  impossible  to  induce  him  to 
do  anything  that  he  did  not  please,  or  prevent  him  from  doing 
anything  that  he  did  please.  Under  the  former  head,  learn- 
ing, even  of  the  lowest  description,  was  never  included.  In 
fine,  this  child  of  nature  grew  up  perfectly  ungovernable,  and 
never  could  or  would  apply  to  anything ; so  that  there  remained 
no  alternative  but  to  allow  him  to  follow  his  own  inclination  of 
going  to  sea ! Maria  Edgeworth  was  by  her  father’s  first  mar- 
riage : she  was  bom  in  Oxfordshire,  and  was  twelve  years  old 
before  she  was  taken  to  Ireland.  The  family  were  involved  in 
the  troubles  of  the  Irish  rebellion  (1798),  and  were  obliged  to 
make  a precipitate  retreat  from  their  house,  and  leave  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  rebels  ; but  it  was  spared  from  being  pillaged  by 
one  of  the  invaders,  to  whom  Mr  Edgeworth  had  previously 
done  some  kindness.  Their  return  home,  when  the  troubles 
were  over,  is  thus  described  by  Miss  Edgeworth  in  her  father’s 
memoirs.  It  serves  to  shew  the  affection  which  subsisted 
between  the  landlord  and  his  dependents. 

‘ When  we  came  near  Edgeworthtown,  we  saw  many  well- 
known  faces  at  the  cabin  doors  looking  out  to  welcome  us. 
One  man,  who  was  digging  in  his  field  by  the  roadside,  when 
he  looked  up  as  our  horses  passed,  and  saw  inv  father,  let  fall 
his  spade  and  clasped  his  hands  ; his  face,  as  the  morning  sun 
shone  upon  it,  was  the  strongest  picture  of  joy  I ever  saw.  The 
village  was  a melancholy  spectacle;  windows  shattered  and 
doors  broken.  Hut  though  the  mischief  done  was  great,  there 
had  been  little  pillage.  Within  our  gates  we  found  all  property 
safe ; literally  “ not  a twig  touched,  nor  a leaf  harmed.” 
Within  the  house  everything  was  as  we  had  left  it  A map  that 
we  had  been  consulting  was  still  open  on  the  library  table,  with 
pencils,  and  slips  of  paper  containing  the  first  lessons  in  arith- 
metic, in  which  some  of  the  young  people  (Mr  Edgeworth’s 
children  by  his  second  and  third  wife)  had  been  engaged  the 
morning  we  bad  been  driven  from  home  ; a pansy,  in  a glass 
of  water,  which  one  of  the'  children  had  been  copying,  was 
still  on  the  chimney-piece.  These  trivial  circumstances,  mark- 
ing repose  and  tranquillity,  struck  us  at  this  moment  with  an 
unreasonable  sort  of  surprise,  and  all  that  had  passed  seemed 
like  an  incoherent  dream.’ 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 


MISS  EDGEWORTH. 


this  useful  and  unromantic  channel.  It  appeared 
strange  at  first,  and  the  best  of  the  authoress’s 
critics,  Francis  Jeffrey,  said  at  the  time,  ‘that  it 
required  almost  the  same  courage  to  get  rid  of  the 
jargon  of  fashionable  life,  and  the  swarms  of  peers, 
foundlings,  and  seducers,  as  it  did  to  sweep  away 
the  mythological  persons  of  antiquity,  and  to  intro- 
duce characters  who  spoke  and  acted  like  those 
who  were  to  peruse  their  adventures.’  In  1806 
appeared  Leonora , a novel,  in  two  volumes.  A 
moral  purpose  is  here  aimed  at,  and  the  same  skill 
is  displayed  in  working  up  ordinary  incidents  into 
the  materials  of  powerful  fiction ; but  the  plot  is 
painful  and  disagreeable.  The  seduction  of  an 
exemplary  husband  by  an  abandoned  female,  and 
his  subsequent  return  to  his  injured  but  forgiving 
wife,  is  the  groundwork  of  the  story.  Irish  charac- 
ters figure  off  in  Leonora  as  in  the  Popular  Tales . 


In  1809  Miss  Edgeworth  issued  three  volumes  of 
Tales  of  Fashionable  Life , more  powerful  and  various 
than  any  of  her  previous  productions.  The  history 
of  Lord  Glenthorn  affords  a striking  picture  of 
ennui , and  contains  some  excellent  delineation  of 
character ; while  the  story  of  Almeria  represents  the 
misery  and  heartlessness  of  a life  of  mere  fashion. 
Three  other  volumes  of  Fashionable  Tales  were 
issued  in  1812,  and  fully  supported  the  authoress’s 
reputation.  The  number  of  tales  in  this  series 
was  three — Vivian , illustrating  the  evils  and  per- 
plexities arising  from  vacillation  and  infirmity  of 
purpose ; Emilie  de  Coulanges,  depicting  the  life  and 
manners  of  a fashionable  French  lady;  and  The 
Absentee — by  far  the  best  of  the  three  stories — 
written  to  expose  the  evils  and  mortifications  of 
the  system  which  the  authoress  saw  too  many 
instances  of  in  Ireland,  of  persons  of  fortune 


Miss  Edgeworth’s  House. 


forsaking  their  country  seats  and  native  vales  for  the 
frivolity,  scorn,  and  expense  of  fashionable  London 
society.  In  1814,  Miss  Edgeworth  entered  still  more 
extensively  and  sarcastically  into  the  manners  and 
characters  in  high-life,  by  her  novel  of  Patronage , 
in  four  volumes.  The  miseries  resulting  from  a 
dependence  on  the  patronage  of  the  great — a system 
which,  she  says,  is  ‘ twice  accursed — once  in  giving, 
and  once  in  receiving  ’ — are  drawn  in  vivid  colours, 
and  contrasted  with  the  cheerfulness,  the  buoyancy 
of  spirits,  and  the  manly  virtues  arising  from  honest 
and  independent  exertion.  In  1817  our  authoress 
supplied  the  public  with  two  other  tales,  Harrington 
and  Ormond.  The  first  was  written  to  counteract 
the  illiberal  prejudice  entertained  by  many  against 
the  Jews : the  second  is  an  Irish  tale,  equal  to  any 
of  the  former.  The  death  of  Mr  Edgeworth  in  1817 
made  a break  in  the  literary  exertion  of  his  accom- 
plished daughter,  but  she  completed  a memoir  which 
that  gentleman  had  begun  of  himself,  and  which 
was  published  in  two  volumes  in  1820.  In  1822, 
she  returned  to  her  course  of  moral  instruction,  and 
published  in  that  year,  Rosamond,  a Sequel  to  Early 
Lessons , a work  for  juvenile  readers,  of  which  an 
earlier  specimen  had  been  published.  A further 
continuation  appeared  in  1825,  under  the  title  of 
Harriet  and  Lucy , four  volumes.  These  tales  had 
b?en  begun  fifty  years  before  by  Mr  Edgeworth,  at 
a time  ‘when  no  one  of  any  literary  character, 


excepting  Dr  Watts  and  Mrs  Barbauld,  con- 
descended to  write  for  children.’ 

It  is  worthy  of  mention,  that,  in  the  autumn  of 
1823,  Miss  Edgeworth,  accompanied  by  two  of  her 
sisters,  made  a visit  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Abbots- 
ford. She  not  only,  he  said,  completely  answered, 
but  exceeded  the  expectations  which  he  had  formed, 
and  he  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  naivete  and 
good-humoured  ardour  of  mind  which  she  united 
with  such  formidable  powers  of  acute  observation. 
‘Never,’  says  Mr  Lockhart,  ‘did  I see  a brighter 
day  at  Abbotsford  than  that  on  which  Miss  Edge- 
worth  first  arrived  there ; never  can  I forget  her 
look  and  accent  when  she  was  received  by  him  at 
his  archway,  and  exclaimed,  “ Everything  about  you 
is  exactly  what  one  ought  to  have  had  wit  enough  to 
dream.”  The  weather  was  beautiful,  and  the  edifice 
and  its  appurtenances  were  all  but  complete;  and 
day  after  day,  so  long  as  she  could  remain,  her  host 
had  always  some  new  plan  of  gaiety.’  Miss  Edge- 
worth  remained  a fortnight  at  Abbotsford.  Two 
years  afterwards,  she  had  an  opportunity  of  repay- 
ing the  hospitalities  of  her  entertainer,  by  receiving 
him  at  Edgeworthtown,  where  Sir  Walter  met  with 
as  cordial  a welcome,  and  where  he  found  ‘ neither 
mud  hovels  nor  naked  peasantry,  but  snug  cottages 
and  smiling  faces  all  about.’  Literary  fame  had 
spoiled  neither  of  these  eminent  persons,  nor  unfitted 
them  for  the  common  business  and  enjoyment  of 

4G3 


PROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


life.  ‘We  shall  never,’  said  Scott,  ‘learn  to  feel  and 
respect  our  real  calling  and  destiny,  unless  we  have 
taught  ourselves  to  consider  everything  as  moon- 
shine compared  with  the  education  of  the  heart.’ 
‘Maria  did  not  listen  to  this  without  some  water 
in  her  eyes ; her  tears  are  always  ready  when  any 
generous  string  is  touched  (for,  as  Pope  says,  “ the 
finest  minds,  like  the  finest  metals,  dissolve  the 
easiest”);  but  she  brushed  them  gaily  aside,  and 
said : “ You  see  how  it  is ; Dean  Swift  said  he  had 
written  his  hooks  in  order  that  people  might  learn 
to  treat  him  like  a great  lord.  Sir  Walter  writes 
his  in  order  that  he  may  he  able  to  treat  his  people 
as  a great  lord  ought  to  do.”  ’ * 

In  1834  Miss  Edgeworth  reappeared  as  a novelist : 
her  Helen , in  three  volumes,  is  fully  equal  to  her 
Fashionable  Tales , and  possesses  more  of  ardour 
and  pathos.  The  gradations  of  vice  and  folly,  and 
the  unhappiness  attending  falsehood  and  artifice,  are 
strikingly  depicted  in  this  novel,  in  connection  with 
characters — that  of  Lady  Davenant,  for  example — 
drawn  with  great  force,  truth,  and  nature.  This 
was  the  latest  work  of  fiction  we  had  from  the  pen 
of  the  gifted  authoress.  She  died  in  1849,  aged 
eighty-three  or  eighty-four.  The  good  and  evil  of 
this  world  supplied  hliss  Edgeworth  with  materials 
sufficient  for  her  purposes  as  a novelist.  Of  poetical 
or  romantic  feeling  she  exhibited  scarcely  a single 
instance.  She  was  a strict  utilitarian.  Her  know- 
ledge of  the  world  was  extensive  and  correct,  though 
in  some  of  her  representations  of  fashionable  folly 
and  dissipation  she  borders  upon  caricature.  The 
plan  of  confining  a tale  to  the  exposure  and  correc- 
tion of  one  particular  vice,  or  one  erroneous  line  of 
conduct,  as  Joanna  Baillie  confined  her  dramas 
each  to  the  elucidation  of  one  particular  passion, 
would  have  been  a hazardous  experiment  in  common 
hands.  Miss  Edgeworth  overcame  it  by  the  ease, 
spirit,  and  variety  of  her  delineations,  and  the  truly 
masculine  freedom  with  which  she  exposes  the 
crimes  and  follies  of  mankind.  Her  sentiments  are 
so  just  and  true,  and  her  style  so  clear  and  forcible, 
that  they  compel  an  instant  assent  to  her  moral 
views  and  deductions,  though  sometimes,  in  winding 
up  her  tale,  and  distributing  justice  among  her 
characters,  she  is  not  always  very  consistent  or 
probable.  Her  delineations  of  her  countrymen  have 
obtained  just  praise.  The  highest  compliment  paid 
to  them  is  the  statement  of  Scott,  that  ‘the  rich 
humour,  pathetic  tenderness,  and  admirable  tact’ 
of  these  Irish  portraits  led  him  first  to  think  that 
something  might  be  attempted  for  his  own  country 
of  the  same  kind  with  that  which  Miss  Edgeworth 
so  fortunately  achieved  for  Ireland.  He  excelled 
his  model,  because,  with  equal  knowledge  and 
practical  sagacity,  he  possessed  that  higher  order  of 
imagination,  and  more  extensive  sympathy  with 
man  and  nature,  which  is  more  powerful,  even  for 
moral  uses  and  effects,  than  the  most  clear  and 
irresistible  reasoning.  The  object  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  to  inculcate  instruction,  and  the  style  of  the 
preceptress,  occasionally  interfere  with  the  cordial 
sympathies  of  the  reader,  even  in  her  Irish  descrip- 
tions ; whereas  in  Scott  this  is  never  apparent.  He 
deals  more  with  passions  and  feelings  than  with 
mere  manners  and  peculiarities,  and  by  the  aid  of 
his  poetical  imagination,  and  careless  yet  happy 
eloquence  of  expression,  imparts  the  air  of  romance 
to  ordinary  incidents  and  characters.  It  must  be 
admitted,  however,  that  in  originality  and  in  fertil- 
ity of  invention  Miss  Edgeworth  is  inferior  to  none 
of  her  contemporary  novelists.  She  never  repeats 


*64 


Life  of  Scott,  vol.  vi.  p.  61. 


her  incidents,  her  characters,  dialogues,  or  plots, 
and  few  novelists  have  written  more.  Her  brief 
and  rapid  tales  fill  above  twenty  closely  printed 
volumes,  aud  may  be  read  one  after  the  other  with- 
out any  feeling  of  satiety  or  sense  of  repetition. 


[An  Irish  Landlord  and  Scotch  Agent .] 

‘ I was  quite  angry,’  says  Lord  Glenthorn,  ‘ with  Mr 
M‘Leod,  my  agent,  and  considered  him  as  a selfish,  hard- 
hearted miser,  because  he  did  not  seem  to  sympathise 
with  me,  or  to  applaud  my  generosity.  I was  so  much 
irritated  by  his  cold  silence,  that  I could  not  forbear 
pressing  him  to  say  something.  “ I doubt  then,”  said 
he,  “ since  you  desire  me  to  speak  my  mind,  my  lord 
— I doubt  whether  the  best  way  of  encouraging  the 
industrious  is  to  give  premiums  to  the  idle.”  But  idle 
or  not,  these  poor  wretches  are  so  miserable,  that  I 
cannot  refuse  to  give  them  something  ; and  surely  when 
one  can  do  it  so  easily,  it  is  right  to  relieve  misery,  is  it 
not?  “Undoubtedly,  my  lord,  but  the  difficulty  is  to 
relieve  present  misery,  without  creating  more  in  future. 
Pity  for  one  class  of  beings  sometimes  makes  us  cruel  to  j 
others.  I am  told  that  there  are  some  Indian  Brahmins 
so  very  compassionate,  that  they  hire  beggars  to  let  fleas 
feed  upon  them  ; I doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  better 
to  let  the  fleas  starve.” 

‘ I did  not  in  the  least  understand  what  Mr  M‘Leod 
meant ; but  I was  soon  made  to  comprehend  it  by  crowds 
of  eloquent  beggars  who  soon  surrounded  me : many 
who  had  been  resolutely  struggling  with  their  difficulties,  I 
slackened  their  exertions,  and  left  their  labour  for  the  | 
easier  trade  of  imposing  upon  my  credulity.  The  money  J 
I had  bestowed  was  wasted  at  the  dram-shop,  or  it  i 
became  the  subject  of  family  quarrels ; and  those  whom  | 
I had  relieved,  returned  to  my  honour , with  fresh  and  j 
insatiable  expectations.  All  this  time  my  industrious 
tenants  grumbled,  because  no  encouragement  was  given 
to  them ; and  looking  upon  me  as  a weak  good-natured 
fool,  they  combined  in  a resolution  to  ask  me  for  long 
leases  or  a reduction  of  rent. 

‘The  rhetoric  of  my  tenants  succeeded,  in  some 
instances ; and  again,  I was  mortified  by  !Mr  M'Leod’s 
silence.  I was  too  proud  to  ask  his  opinion.  I ordered, 
and  was  obeyed.  A few  leases  for  long  terms  were 
signed  and  sealed ; and  when  I had  thus  my  own  way 
completely,  I could  not  refrain  from  recurring  to  Mr 
M'Leod’s  opinion.  “I  doubt,  my  lord,”  said  he, 

“ whether  this  measure  may  be  as  advantageous  as  you 
hope.  These  fellows,  these  middle-men,  will  underset 
the  land,  and  live  in  idleness,  whilst  they  rack  a parcel 
of  wretched  under-tenants.”  But  they  said  they  would 
keep  the  land  in  their  own  hands  and  improve  it ; and 
that  the  reason  why  they  could  not  afford  to  improve 
before  was,  that  they  had  not  long  leases.  “ It  may  be 
doubted  whether  long  leases  alone  will  make  improving 
tenants ; for  in  the  next  county  to  us  there  are  many 
farms  of  the  Dowager-lady  Ormsby’s  land,  let  at  ten 
shillings  an  acre,  and  her  tenantry  are  beggars  : and  the 
land  now  at  the  end  of  the  leases  is  worn  out,  and  worse 
than  at  their  commencement.” 

‘ I was  weary  of  listening  to  this  cold  reasoning,  and 
resolved  to  apply  no  more  for  explanations  to  Mr 
M‘Leod ; yet  I did  not  long  keep  this  resolution  : infirm 
of  purpose,  I wanted  the  support  of  his  approbation,  at 
the  very  time  I was  jealous  of  his  interference. 

‘At  one  time  I had  a mind  to  raise  the  wages  of 
labour ; but  Mr  M‘Leod  said : “It  might  be  doubted 
whether  the  people  would  not  work  less,  when  they 
could  with  less  work  have  money  enough  to  support 
them” 

‘ I was  puzzled,  and  then  I had  a mind  to  lower  the 
wages  of  labour,  to  force  them  to  work  or  starve.  Still 
provoking,  Mr  M‘Leod  said : “ It  might  be  doubted 
whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  leave  them  alone.” 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISS  EDGEWORTH. 


‘I  gave  marriage-portions  to  tlie  daughters  of  my 
tenants,  and  rewards  to  those  who  had  children ; for  I 
had  always  heard  that  legislators  should  encourage 
population.  Still  Mr  M‘Leod  hesitated  to  approve  : he 
observed  “that  my  estate  was  so  populous,  that  the 
complaint  in  each  family  was,  that  they  had  not  land  for 
the  sons.  It  might  he  doubted  whether,  if  a farm  could 
support  but  ten  people,  it  were  wise  to  encourage  the 
birth  of  twenty.  It  might  be  doubted  whether  it  were 
not  better  for  ten  to  live,  and  be  well-fed,  than  for 
twenty  to  be  born,  and  to  be  half -starved.” 

‘ To  encourage  manufactures  in  my  town  of  Grlenthorn, 
I proposed  putting  a clause  in  my  leases,  compelling 
my  tenants  to  buy  stuffs  and  linens  manufactured  at 
Grlenthorn,  and  nowhere  else.  Stubborn  M‘Leod,  as 
usual,  began  with:  “I  doubt  whether  that  will  not 
encourage  the  manufacturers  at  Grlenthorn  to  make  bad 
stuffs  and  bad  linen,  since  they  are  sure  of  a sale,  and 
without  danger  of  competition.” 

‘ At  all  events  I thought  my  tenants  would  grow  rich 
and  independent  if  they  made  everything  at  home  that 
they  wanted : yet  Mr  M‘Leod  perplexed  me  by  his 
“doubt  whether  it  would  not  be  better  for  a man  to 
buy  shoes,  if  he  could  buy  them  cheaper  than  he  could 
make  them.”  He  added  something  about  the  division 
of  labour,  and  Smith’s  Wealth  of  Nations.  To  which  I 
could  only  answer,  Smith’s  a Scotchman.  I cannot 
express  how  much  I dreaded  Mr  M‘Leod’s  I doubt,  and 
it  may  be  doubted .’ 

[An  Irish  Postilion.] 

From  the  inn-vard  came  a hackney  chaise,  in  a most 
deplorably  crazy  state ; the  body  mounted  up  to  a pro- 
digious height,  on  unbending  springs,  nodding  forwards*, 
one  door  swinging  open,  three  blinds  up,  because  they 
could  not  be  let  down,  the  perch  tied  in  two  places,  the 
iron  of  the  wheels  half  off,  half  loose,  wooden  pegs  for 
linch-pins,  and  ropes  for  harness.  The  horses  were 
worthy  of  the  harness ; wretched  little  dog-tired 
creatures,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  driven  to 
the  last  gasp,  and  as  if  they  had  never  been  rubbed 
down  in  their  lives ; their  bones  starting  through  their 
skin ; one  lame,  the  other  blind ; one  with  a raw  back, 
the  other  with  a galled  breast;  one  with  his  neck 
poking  down  over  his  collar,  and  the  other  with  his 
head  dragged  forward  by  a bit  of  a broken  bridle,  held 
at  arm’s-length  by  a man  dressed  like  a mad  beggar, 
in  half  a hat  and  half  a wig,  both  awry  in  opposite 
directions;  a long  tattered  coat,  tied  round  his  waist 
by  a hay-rope ; the  jagged  rents  in  the  skirts  of  this 
coat  shewing  his  bare  legs,  marbled  of  many  colours; 
while  something  like  stockings  hung  loose  about  his 
ankles.  The  noises  he  made,  by  way  of  threatening  or 
encouraging  his  steeds,  I pretend  not  to  describe.  In 
an  indignant  voice  I called  to  the  landlord : ‘ I hope 
these  are  not  the  horses — I hope  this  is  not  the  chaise 
intended  for  my  servants.’  The  innkeeper,  and  the 
pauper  who  was  preparing  to  officiate  as  postilion,  both 
in  the  same  instant  exclaimed : ‘ Sorrow  better  chaise 
in  the  county!’  i Sorrow P said  I — ‘what  do  you  mean 
by  sorrow  ? ’ ‘ That  there ’s  no  better,  plase  your  honour, 
can  be  seen.  We  have  two  more,  to  be  sure ; but  one 
has  no  top,  and  the  other  no  bottom.  Any  way,  there ’s 
no  better  can  be  seen  than  this  same.’  ‘And  these 
horses ! ’ cried  I : ‘ why,  this  horse  is  so  lame  he  can 
hardly  stand.’  ‘ Oh,  plase  your  honour,  though  he  can’t 
stand,  he’ll  go  fast  enough.  He  has  a great  deal  of 
the  rogue  in  him,  plase  your  honour.  He’s  always 
that  way  at  first  setting  out.’  ‘And  that  wretched 
animal  with  the  galled  breast!’  ‘He’s  all  the  better 
for  it  when  once  ho  warms ; it ’s  he  that  will  go  with 
the  speed  of  light,  plase  your  honour.  Sure,  is  not  he 
Knockecroghery?  and  didn’t  I give  fifteen  guineas  for 
him,  barring  the  luckpenny,  at  the  fair  of  Knocke- 
croghery, and  he  rising  four  year  old  at  the  same  time?’ 
82 


Then  seizing  his  whip  and  reins  in  one  hand,  he 
clawed  up  his  stockings  with  the  other;  so  with  one 
easy  step  he  got  into  his  place,  and  seated  himself, 
coachman-like,  upon  a well-worn  bar  of  wood,  that 
served  as  a coach-box.  ‘ Throw  me  the  loan  of  a trusty, 
Bartly,  for  a cushion,’  said  he.  A frieze-coat  was  thrown 
up  over  the  horses’  heads.  Paddy  caught  it.  ‘ Where 
are  you,  Hosey?’  cried  he  to  a lad  in  charge  of  the 
leaders.  ‘ Sure  I ’m  only  rowling  a wisp  of  straw  on 
my  leg,’  replied  Hosey.  ‘ Throw  me  up,’  added  this 
paragon  of  postilions,  turning  to  one  of  the  crowd  of 
idle  bystanders.  ‘Arrah,  push  me  up,  can’t  ye?’  A 
man  took  hold  of  his  knee,  and  threw  him  upon  the 
horse.  He  was  in  his  seat  in  a trice.  Then  clinging 
by  the  mane  of  his  horse,  he  scrambled  for  the  bridle 
which  was  under  the  other  horse’s  feet,  reached  it,  and, 
well  satisfied  with  himself,  looked  round  at  Paddy,  who 
looked  back  to  the  chaise-door  at  my  angry  servants, 
‘secure  in  the  last  event  of  things.’  In  vain  the 
Englishman,  in  monotonous  anger,  and  the  Frenchman 
in  every  note  of  the  gamut,  abused  Paddy.  Necessity 
and  wit  were  on  Paddy’s  side.  He  parried  all  that  was 
said  against  his  chaise,  his  horses,  himself,  and  his 
country  with  invincible  comic  dexterity;  till  at  last, 
both  his  adversaries,  dumbfounded,  clambered  into  the 
vehicle,  where  they  were  instantly  shut  up  in  straw  and 
darkness.  Paddy,  in  a triumphant  tone,  called  to  my 
postilions,  bidding  them  ‘ get  on,  and  not  be  stopping 
the  way  any  longer.’ 

One  of  the  horses  becomes  restive : 

‘ Never  fear,’  reiterated  Paddy.  ‘ I ’ll  engage  I ’ll  be 
up  wid  him.  Now  for  it,  Knockecroghery ! Oh  the 
rogue,  he  thinks  he  has  me  at  a nonplush;  but  I’ll 
shew  him  the  differ.' 

After  this  brag  of  war,  Paddy  whipped,  Knocke- 
croghery kicked,  and  Paddy,  seemingly  unconscious  of 
danger,  sat  within  reach  of  the  kicking  horse,  twitching 
up  first  one  of  his  legs,  then  the  other,  and  shifting  as 
the  animal  aimed  his  hoofs,  escaping  every  time  as  it 
were  by  miracle.  With  a mixture  of  temerity  and 
presence  of  mind,  which  made  us  alternately  look  upon 
him  as  a madman  and  a hero,  he  gloried  in  the  danger, 
secure  of  success,  and  of  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators. 

‘ Ah ! didn’t  I compass  him  cleverly  then  ? Oh  the 
villain,  to  be  browbating  me ! I’m  too  ’cute  for  him 
yet.  See  there,  now,  he ’s  come  to ; and  I ’ll  be  his 
bail  he  ’ll  go  asy  enough  wid  me.  Ogh ! he  has  a fine 
spirit  of  his  own;  but  it’s  I that  can  match  him. 
’Twould  be  a poor  case  if  a man  like  me  couldn’t  match 
a horse  any  way,  let  alone  a mare,  which  this  is,  or  it 
never  would  be  so  vicious.’ 

[English  Shyness,  or  ‘ Mauvaise  Honte.'] 

Lord  William  had  excellent  abilities,  knowledge,  and 
superior  qualities  of  every  sort,  all  depressed  by  exces- 
sive timidity,  to  such  a degree  as  to  be  almost  useless  to 
himself  and  to  others.  Whenever  he  was,  either  for  the 
business  or  pleasure  of  life,  to  meet  or  mix  with  num- 
bers, the  whole  man  was,  as  it  were,  snatched  from 
himself.  He  was  subject  to  that  nightmare  of  the  soul 
who  seats  himself  upon  the  human  breast,  oppresses  the 
heart,  palsies  the  will,  and  raises  spectres  of  dismay  which 
the  sufferer  combats  in  vain — that  cruel  enchantress 
who  hurls  her  spell  even  upon  childhood,  and  when  she 
makes  youth  her  victim,  pronounces  : ‘ Henceforward 
you  shall  never  appear  in.  your  natural  character. 
Innocent,  you  shall  look  guilty;  wise,  you  shall  look 
silly ; never  shall  you  have  the  use  of  your  natural 
faculties.  That  which  you  wish  to  say,  you  shall  not 
say ; that  which  you  wish  to  do,  you  shall  not  do.  You 
shall  appear  reserved  when  you  are  enthusiastic — insen- 
sible, when  your  heart  sinks  into  melting  tenderness. 
In  the  presence  of  those  whom  you  most  wish  to  please, 
you  shall  bo  most  awkward;  and  when  approached  by 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1880. 


her  you  love,  you  shall  become  lifeless  as  a statue,  and 
under  the  irresistible  spell  of  ‘mauvaise  honte.’  Strange 
that  France  should  give  name  to  that  malady  of  mind 
which  she  never  knew,  or  of  which  she  knows  less  than 
any  other  nation  upon  the  surface  of  the  civilised  globe ! 


MISS  AUSTEN. 

Jane  Austen,  a truly  English  novelist,  was  bom 
on  the  16th  December  1775,  at  Steventon,  in  Hamp- 
shire, of  which  parish  her  father  was  rector.  Mr 
Austen  is  represented  as  a man  of  refined  taste  and 
acquirements,  who  guided,  though  he  did  not  live 
to  witness,  the  fruits  of  his  daughter’s  talents.  After 
the  death  of  the  rector,  his  widow  and  two  daughters 
retired  to  Southampton,  and  subsequently  to  the 
village  of  Chawton,  in  the  same  county,  where  the 
novels  of  Jane  Austen  were  written.  Of  these,  four 
were  published  anonymously  in  her  lifetime,  namely, 
Sense  and  Sensibility , Pride  and  Prejudice , Mansfield 
Park , and  Emma.  In  May  1817  the  health  of  the 
authoress  rendered  it  necessary  that  she  should 
remove  to  some  place  where  constant  medical  aid 
could  be  procured.  She  went  to  Winchester,  and 
in  that  city  she  expired  on  the  24th  of  July  1817, 
aged  forty-two.  *Her  personal  worth,  beauty,  and 
genius,  made  her  early  death  deeply  lamented; 
while  the  public  had  to  f regret  the  failure  not  only 
of  a source  of  innocent  amusement,  but  also  of 
that  supply  of  practical  good  sense  and  instructive 
example  which  she  would  probably  have  continued 
to  furnish  better  than  any  of  her  contemporaries.’  * 
The  insidious  decay  or  consumption  which  carried 
off  Miss  Austen  seemed  only  to  increase  the  powers 
of  her  mind.  She  wrote  while  she  could  hold  a 
pen  or  pencil,  and  the  day  preceding  her  death 
composed  some  stanzas  replete  with  fancy^and 
vigour.  Shortly  after  her  death,  her  friends  gave 
to  the  world  two  novels,  entitled  Northanger  Abbey 
and  Persuasion,  the  first  being  her  earliest  composi- 
tion, and  the  least  valuable  of  her  productions, 
while  the  latter  is  a highly  finished  work,  especially 
in  the  tender  and  pathetic  passages.  The  great 
charm  of  Miss  Austen’s  fictions  lies  in  their  truth 
and  simplicity.  She  gives  us  plain  representations 
of  English  society  in  the  middle  and  higher  classes 
— sets  us  down,  as  it  were,  in  the  country-house, 
the  villa,  and  cottage,  and  introduces  us  to  various 
classes  of  persons,  whose  characters  are  displayed 
in  ordinary  intercourse  and  most  lifelike  dialogues 
and  conversation.  There  is  no  attempt  to  express 
fine  things , nor  any  /scenes  of  surprising  daring 
or  distress,  to  make  us  forget  that  we  are  among 
common-place  mortals  and  real  existence.  Such 
materials  would  seem  to  promise  little  for  the  novel 
reader,  yet  Miss  Austen’s  minute  circumstances  and 

*Dr  "Whately,  archbishop  of  Dublin  [Quarterly  Review, 
1821).  The  same  critic  thus  sums  up  his  estimate  of  AIis3 
Austen’s  works : ‘ They  may  be  safely  recommended,  not  only 
as  among  the  most  unexceptionable  of  their  class,  but  as  com- 
bining, in  an  eminent  degree,  instruction  with  amusement, 
though  without  the  direct  effort  at  the  former,  of  which  we 
have  complained  as  sometimes  defeating  its  object.  For  those 
who  cannot  or  will  not  learn  anything  from  productions  of 
this  kind,  she  has  provided  entertainment  which  entitles  her 
to  thanks ; for  mere  innocent  amusement  is  in  itself  a good, 
when  it  interferes  with  no  greater,  especially  as  it  may  occupy 
the  place  of  some  other  that  may  not  be  innocent.  The  eastern 
monarch  who  proclaimed  a reward  to  him  who  should  discover 
a new  pleasure,  would  have  deserved  well  of  mankind  had  he 
stipulated  that  it  should  be  blameless.  Those,  again,  who 
delight  in  the  study  of  human  nature,  may  improve  in  the 
knowledge  of  it,  and  in  the  profitable  application  of  that 
knowledge,  by  the  perusal  of  such  fictions  as  those  before  us.’ 
466 


common  details  are  far  from  tiresome.  They  all 
aid  in  developing  and  discriminating  her  characters, 
in  which  her  chief  strength  lies,  and  we  become  so 
intimately  acquainted  with  each,  that  they  appear 
as  old  friends  or  neighbours.  She  is  quite  at 
home  in  describing  the  mistakes  in  the  education 
of  young  ladies — in  delicate  ridicule  of  female  foibles 
and  vanity — in  family  differences,  obstinacy,  and 
pride — in  the  distinctions  between  the  different 
classes  of  society,  and  the  nicer  shades  of  feeling 
and  conduct  as  they  ripen  into  love  or  friendship,  or 
subside  into  indifference  or  dislike.  Her  love  is  not 
a blind  passion,  the  offspring  of  romance ; nor  has 
she  any  of  that  morbid  colouring  of  the  darker 
passions  in  which  other  novelists  excel.  The  clear 
daylight  of  nature,  as  reflected  in  domestic  life,  in 
scenes  of  variety  and  sorrowful  truth,  as  well  as  of 
vivacity  and  humour,  is  her  genial  and  inexhaust- 
ible element.  Instruction  is  always  blended  with 
amusement.  A finer  moral  lesson  cannot  anywhere 
be  found  than  the  distress  of  the  Bertram  family 
in  Mansfield  Park,  arising  from  the  vanity  and 
callousness  of  the  two  daughters,  who  had  been 
taught  nothing  but 4 accomplishments,’  without  any 
regard  to  their  dispositions  and  temper.  These 
instructive  examples  are  brought  before  us  in 
action,  not  by  lecture  or  preachment,  and  they  tell 
with  double  force,  because  they  are  not  inculcated 
in  a didactic  style.  The  genuine  but  unobtrusive 
merits  of  Miss  Austen  have  been  but  poorly 
rewarded  by  the  public  as  respects  fame  and  popu- 
larity, though  her  works  are  now  rising  in  public 
esteem.  4 She  has  never  been  so  popular,’  says  a 
critic  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  4 as  she  deserved  to 
be.  Intent  on  fidelity  of  delineation,  and  averse  to 
the  common-place  tricks  of  her  art,  she  has  not,  in 
this  age  of  literary  quackery,  received  her  reward. 
Ordinary  readers  have  been  apt  to  judge  of  her  as 
Partridge,  in  Fielding’s  novel,  judged  of  Garrick’s 
acting.  He  could  not  see  the  merit  of  a man  who 
merely  behaved  on  the  stage  as  anybody  might  be 
expected  to  behave  under  similar  circumstances 
in  real  life.  He  infinitely  preferred  the  44  robustious 
periwig-pated  fellow,”  who  flourished  his  arms  like 
a windmill,  and  ranted  with  the  voice  of  three.  It 
was  even  so  with  many  of  the  readers  of  Miss 
Austen.  She  was  too  natural  for  them.  It  seemed 
to  them  as  if  there  could  be  very  little  merit  in 
making  characters  act  and  talk  so  exactly  like 
the  people  whom  they  saw  around  them  every  day. 
They  did  not  consider  that  the  highest  triumph  of 
art  consists  in  its  concealment ; and  here  the  art 
was  so  little  perceptible,  that  they  believed  there 
was  none.  Her  works,  like  well-proportioned  rooms, 
are  rendered  less  apparently  grand  and  imposing  by 
the  very  excellence  of  their  adjustment.’  Sir  Walter 
Scott, •after  reading  Pride  and  Prejudice  for  the 
third  time,  thus  mentions  the  merits  of  Miss  Austen 
in  his  private  diary:  4 That  young  lady  had  a 
talent  for  describing  the  involvements,  and  feelings* 
and  characters  of  ordinary  life,  which  is  to  me  the 
most  wonderful  I ever  met  with.  The  big  bow-wow 
strain  I can  do  myself,  like  any  now  going ; but  the 
exquisite  touch  which  renders  ordinary  common- 
place things  and  characters  interesting  from  the 
truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment,  is  denied 
to  me.  What  a pity  such  a gifted  creature  died  so 
early ! * 

MRS  BRUNTON. 

Mrs  Mart  Brunton,  authoress  of  Self-Control 
and  Discipline,  two  novels  of  superior  merit  and 
moral  tendency,  was  born  on  the  1st  of  November 
1778.  She  was  a native  of  Burrey,  in  Orkney,  a 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  BRUNTON. 


small  island  of  about  500  inhabitants,  no  part  of 
which  is  more  than  300  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  and  which  is  destitute  of  tree  or  shrub.  In  this 
remote  and  sea- surrounded  region  the  parents  of 
Mary  Brunton  occupied  a leading  station.  Her 
father  was  Colonel  Balfour  of  Elwick,  and  her 
mother,  an  accomplished  woman,  niece  of  field- 
marshal  Lord  Ligonier,  in  whose  house  she  had 
resided  previous  to  her  marriage.  Mary  was  care- 
fully educated,  and  instructed  by  her  mother  in  the 
French  and  Italian  languages.  She  was  also  sent 
some  time  to  Edinburgh ; but  while  she  was  only 
sixteen,  her  mother  died,  and  the  whole  cares  and 
duties  of  the  household  devolved  on  her.  With 
these  she  was  incessantly  occupied  for  four  years, 
and  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  she  was  married 
to  the  Rev.  Mr  Brunton,  minister  of  Bolton,  in 
Haddingtonshire.  In  1803  Mr  Brunton  was  called 
to  one  of  the  churches  in  Edinburgh,  and  his  lady 
had  thus  an  opportunity  of  meeting  with  persons 
of  literary  talent,  and  of  cultivating  her  own  mind. 
‘Till  I began  Self-Control ,’  she  says  in  one  of  her 
letters,  ‘I  had  never  in  my  life  written  anything  but 
a letter  or  a recipe,  excepting  a few  hundreds  of  vile 
rhymes,  from  which  I desisted  by  the  time  I had 
gained  the  wisdom  of  fifteen  years ; therefore  I was 
so  ignorant  of  the  art  on  which  I was  entering,  that 
I formed  scarcely  any  plan  for  my  tale.  I merely 
intended  to  shew  the  power  of  the  religious  principle 
in  bestowing  self-command,  and  to  bear  testimony 
against  a maxim  as  immoral  as  indelicate,  that 
a reformed  rake  makes  the  best  husband.’  Self- 
Control  was  published  without  the  author’s  name 
in  1811.  The  first  edition  was  sold  in  a month,  and 
a second  and  third  were  called  for.  In  1814,  her 
second  work,  Discipline , was  given  to  the  world, 
and  was  also  well  received.  She  began  a third, 
Emmeline , but  did  not  live  to  finish  it.  She  died  on 
the  7th  of  December  1818.  The  unfinished  tale, 
and  a memoir  of  its  lamented  authoress,  were  pub- 
lished in  one  volume  by  her  husband,  Dr  Brunton. 

Self-Control  bids  fair  to  retain  a permanent  place 
among  British  novels,  as  a sort  of  Scottish  Coelebs, 
recommended  by  its  moral  and  religious  tendency, 
no  less  than  by  the  talent  it  displays.  The  acute 
observation  of  the  authoress  is  seen  in  the  develop- 
ment of  little  traits  of  character  and  conduct,  which 
give  individuality  to  her  portraits,  and  a semblance 
of  truth  to  the  story.  Thus  the  gradual  decay, 
mental  and  bodily,  of  Montreville,  the  account  of 
the  De  Courcys,  and  the  courtship  of  Montague, 
are  true  to  nature,  and  completely  removed  out  of 
the  beaten  track  of  novels.  The  plot  is  very  unskil- 
fully managed.  The  heroine,  Laura,  is  involved  in 
a perpetual  cloud  of  difficulties  and  dangers,  some 
of  which — as  the  futile  abduction  by  Warren,  and 
the  arrest  at  Lady  Pelham’s— are  unnecessary  and 
improbable.  The  character  of  Hargrave  seems  to 
• have  been  taken  from  that  of  Lovelace,  and  Laura 
is  the  Clarissa  of  the  tale.  Her  high  principle  and 
purity,  her  devotion  to  her  father,  and  the  force  and 
energy  of  her  mind — without  over-stepping  feminine 
softness — impart  a strong  interest  to  the  narrative 
of  her  trials  and  adventures.  She  surrounds  the 
whole,  as  it  were,  with  an  atmosphere  of  moral  light 
and  beauty,  and  melts  into  something  like  consist- 
ency and  unity  the  discordant  materials  of  the  tale. 

[Final  Escape  of  Laura.] 

[The  heroine  is  carried  off  by  the  stratagems  of  llargravc, 
put  on  board  a vessel,  and  taken  to  the  shores  of  Canada. 
There,  in  a remote  secluded  cabin,  prepared  for  her  reception, 
she  is  confined  till  Hargrave  can  arrive.  Even  her  wonted 
firmness  and  religious  faith  seem  to  forsake  her  in  this  last  and 


greatest  of  her  calamities,  and  her  health  sinks  under  the  con- 
tinued influence  of  grief  and  fear.  At  length,  in  one  of  her 
solitary  wanderings  by  the  river’s  side,  she  saw  close  to  the 
shore  an  Indian  canoe.] 

She  sprang  into  the  bark;  she  pressed  the  slender 
oar  against  the  bank.  The  light  vessel  yielded  to  her 
touch.  It  floated.  The  stream  bore  it  along.  The 
woods  closed  around  her  prison.  ‘ Thou  hast  delivered 
me  !’  she  cried;  and  sank  senseless. 

A meridian  sun  beat  on  her  uncovered  head  ere  Laura 
began  to  revive.  Recollection  stole  upon  her  like  the 
remembrance  of  a feverish  dream.  As  one  who,  waking 
from  a fearful  vision,  still  trembles  in  his  joy,  she 
scarcely  dared  to  hope  that  the  dread  hour  was 
past,  till  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  dark  woods  bend 
over  her,  and  steal  slowly  away  as  the  canoe  glided  on 
with  the  tide.  The  raptures  of  fallen  man  own  their 
alliance  with  pain,  by  seeking  the  same  expression.  Joy 
and  gratitude,  too  big  for  utterance,  long  poured  them- 
selves forth  in  tears.  At  length,  returning  composure 
permitting  the  language  of  ecstasy,  it  was  breathed  in 
the  accents  of  devotion;  and  the  lone  wild  echoed  to 
a song  of  deliverance. 

The  saintly  strain  arose  unmixed  with  other  sound. 
No  breeze  moaned  through  the  impervious  woods;  no 
ripple  broke  the  stream.  The  dark  shadows  trembled 
for  a moment  in  its  bosom  as  the  little  bark  stole  by, 
and  then  reposed  again.  No  trace  appeared  of  human 
presence.  The  fox  peeping  from  the  brushwood,  the 
wild  duck  sailing  stately  in  the  stream,  saw  the 
unwonted  stranger  without  alarm,  untaught  as  yet  to 
flee  from  the  destroyer. 

The  day  declined,  and  Laura,  with  the  joy  of  her 
escape,  began  to  mingle  a wish  that,  ere  the  darkness 
closed  around  her,  she  might  find  shelter  near  her 
fellow-beings.  She  was  not  ignorant  of  the  dangers  of 
her  voyage.  She  knew  that  the  navigation  of  the  river 
was  interrupted  by  rapids,  which  had  been  purposely 
described  in  her  hearing.  She  examined  her  frail 
vessel,  and  trembled ; for  life  was  again  become  precious, 
and  feeble  seemed  her  defence  against  the  torrent.  The 
canoe,  which  could  not  have  contained  more  than  two 
persons,  was  constructed  of  a slender  frame  of  wood, 
covered  with  the  bark  of  the  birch.  It  yielded  to  the 
slightest  motion,  and  caution  was  necessary  to  poise  in 
it  even  the  light  form  of  Laura. 

Slowly  it  floated  down  the  lingering  tide ; and  when 
a pine  of  larger  size  or  form  more  fantastic  than  his 
fellows  enabled  her  to  measure  her  progress, 'she  thought 
that  through  wilds  less  impassable  her  own  limbs  would 
have  borne  her  more  swiftly.  In  vain,  behind  each 
tangled  point,  did  her  fancy  picture  the  haunt  of  man. 
Vainly  amid  the  mists  of  eve  did  she  trace  the  smoke  of 
sheltered  cottages.  In  vain  at  every  winding  of  the 
stream  she  sent  forward  a longing  eye  in  search  of 
human  dwelling.  The  narrow  view  was  bounded  by  the 
dark  wilderness,  repeating  ever  the  same  picture  of 
dreary  repose. 

The  sun  went  down.  The  shadows  of  evening  fell ; 
not  such  as  in  her  happy  native  land  blend  softly  with 
the  last  radiance  of  day,  but  black  and  heavy,  harshly 
contrasting  with  the  light  of  a naked  sky  reflected  from 
the  waters,  where  they  spread  beyond  the  gloom  of 
impending  woods.  Dark  and  more  dark  the  night  came 
on.  Solemn  even  amid  the  peopled  land,  in  this  vast 
solitude  it  became  more  awful. 

Ignorant  how  near  the  place  of  danger  might  be, 
fearing  to  pursue  darkling  her  perilous  way,  Laura  tried 
to  steer  her  light  bark  to  the  shore,  intending  to  moor 
it,  to  find  in  it  a rude  resting-place,  and  in  the  morning 
to  pursue  her  way.  Laboriously  she  toiled,  and  at 
length  reached  the  bank  in  safety ; but  in  vain  she  tried 
to  draw  her  little  vessel  to  land.  Its  weight  resisted 
her  strength.  Dreading  that  it  should  slip  from  her 
grasp,  and  leave  her  without  means  of  escape,  she 
re-entered  it,  and  again  glided  on  in  her  dismal  voyage. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


She  had  found  in  the  canoe,  a little  coarse  bread  made 
of  Indian  corn ; and  this,  with  the  water  of  the  river, 
formed  her  whole  sustenance.  Her  frame  worn  out 
with  previous  suffering,  awe  and  fear  at  last  yielded  to 
fatigue,  and  the  weary  wanderer  sank  to  sleep. 

It  was  late  on  the  morning  of  a cloudy  day,  when  a 
low  murmuring  sound,  stealing  on  the  silence,  awoke 
Laura  from  the  rest  of  innocence.  She  listened.  The 
murmur  seemed  to  swell  on  her  ear.  She  looked  up. 
The  dark  woods  still  bent  over  her ; but  they  no  longer 
touched  the  margin  of  the  stream.  They  stretched  their 
giant  arms  from  the  summit  of  a precipice.  Then- 
image  was  no  more  reflected  unbroken.  The  gray  rocks 
which  supported  them,  but  half  lent  their  colours  to  the 
rippling  water.  The  wild  duck,  no  longer  tempting  the 
stream,  flew  screaming  over  its  bed.  Each  object 
hastened  on  with  fearful  rapidity,  and  the  murmuring 
sound  was  now  a deafening  roar. 

Fear  supplying  superhuman  strength,  Laura  strove  to 
turn  the  course  of  her  vessel.  She  strained  every  nerve ; 
she  used  the  force  of  desperation.  Half  hoping  that 
the  struggle  might  save  her,  half  fearing  to  note  her 
dreadful  progress,  she  toiled  on  till  the  oar  was  tom 
from  her  powerless  grasp,  and  hurried  along  with  the 
tide. 

The  fear  of  death  alone  had  not  the  power  to  over- 
whelm the  soul  of  Laura.  Somewhat  might  yet  be  done 
perhaps  to  avert  her  fate,  at  least  to  prepare  for  it. 
Feeble  as  was  the  chance  of  life,  it  was  not  to  be  rejected. 
Fixing  her  cloak  more  firmly  round  her,  Laura  bound  it 
to  the  slender  frame  of  the  canoe.  Then  commending 
herself  to  Heaven  with  the  fervour  of  a last  prayer,  she 
in  dread  stillness  awaited  her  doom. 

With  terrible  speed  the  vessel  hurried  on.  It  was 
whirled  round  by  the  torrent,  tossed  fearfully,  and 
hurried  on  again.  It  shot  over  a smoothness  more 
dreadful  than  the  eddying  whirl.  It  rose  upon  its 
prow.  Laura  clung  to  it  in  the  convulsion  of  terror. 
A moment  she  trembled  on  the  giddy  verge.  The  next, 
all  was  darkness ! 

When  Laura  was  restored  to  recollection,  she  found 
herself  in  a plain  decent  apartment.  Several  persons 
of  her  own  sex  were  humanely  busied  in  attending  her. 
Her  mind  retaining  a confused  impression  of  the  past, 
she  inquired  where  she  was,  and  how  she  had  been 
brought  thither.  An  elderly  woman,  of  a prepossessing 
appearance,  answered,  with  almost  maternal  kindness, 

‘ that  she  was  among  friends  all  anxious  for  her  safety ; 
begged  that  she  would  try  to  sleep,  and  promised  to 
satisfy  her  curiosity  when  she*  should  be  more  able  to 
converse.’  This  benevolent  person,  whose  name  was 
Falkland,  then  administered  a restorative  to  her  patient, 
and  Laura,  uttering  almost  incoherent  expressions  of 
gratitude,  composed  herself  to  rest. 

Awaking  refreshed  and  collected,  she  found  Mrs 
Falkland  and  one  of  her  daughters  still  watching  by  her 
bedside.  Laura  again  repeated  her  questions,  and  Mrs 
Falkland  fulfilled  her  promise,  by  relating  that  her 
husband,  who  was  a farmer,  having  been  employed  with 
his  two  sons  in  a field  which  overlooked  the  river,  had 
observed  the  canoe  enter  the  rapid ; that  seeing  it  too 
late  to  prevent  the  accident,  they  had  hurried  down 
to  the  bed  of  the  stream  below  the  fall,  in  hopes  of 
intercepting  the  boat  at  its  reappearance;  that  being 
accustomed  to  float  wood  down  the  torrent,  they  knew 
precisely  the  spot  where  their  assistance  was  most 
likely  to  prove  effectual ; that  the  canoe,  though  covered 
with  foam  for  a moment,  had  instantly  risen  again; 
and  that  Mr  Falkland  and  his  sons  had,  not  without 
danger,  succeeded  in  drawing  it  to  land. 

She  then,  in  her  turn,  inquired  by  what  accident 
Laura  had  been  exposed  to  such  a perilous  adventure ; 
expressing  wonder  at  the  direction  of  her  voyage,  since 
Falkland  farm  was  the  last  inhabited  spot  in  that  district. 
Laura,  mingling  her  natural  reserve  with  a desire  to 
satisfy  her  kind  hostess,  answered  that  she  had  been 
468 


torn  from  her  friends  by  an  inhuman  enemy,  and  that 
her  perilous  voyage  was  the  least  effect  of  his  barbarity. 
‘ Do  you  know,’  said  Mrs  Falkland,  somewhat  mistaking 
her  meaning,  ‘ that  to  his  cruelty  you  partly  owe  your 
life ; for  had  he  not  bound  you  to  the  canoe,  you  must 
have  sunk  while  the  boat  floated  on  !’  Laura  heard  with 
a faint  smile  the  effect  of  her  self-possession;  but 
considering  it  as  a call  to  pious  gratitude  rather  than 
a theme  of  self-applause,  she  forbore  to  offer  any  claim 
to  praise,  and  the  subject  was  suffered  to  drop  without 
further  explanation. 

Having  remained  for  two  days  with  this  hospitable 
family,  Laura  expressed  a wish  to  depart.  She  com- 
municated to  Mr  Falkland  her  desire  of  returning 
immediately  to  Europe,  and  begged  that  he  would 
introduce  her  to  some  asylum  where  she  might  wait  the 
departure  of  a vessel  for  Britain.  She  expressed  hex- 
willingness  to  content  herself  with  the  poorest  accom- 
modation, confessing  that  she  had  not  the  means  of 
purchasing  any  of  a higher  class.  All  the  wealth, 
indeed,  which  she  could  command,  consisted  in  a few 
guineas  which  she  had  accidentally  had  about  her  when 
she  was  taken  from  her  home,  and  a ring  which  Mrs  De 
Courcy  had  given  her  at  parting.  Her  host  kindly  urged 
her  to  remain  with  them  till  they  should  ascertain  that 
a vessel  was  immediately  to  sail,  in  which  she  might 
secure  her  passage;  assuring  her  a week  scarcely  ever 
elapsed  without  some  departure  for  her  native  country. 
Finding,  however,  that  she  was  anxious  to  be  gone,  Mr 
Falkland  himself  accompanied  her  to  Quebec. 

They  travelled  by  land.  The  country  at  first  bore  the 
characters  of  a half-redeemed  wilderness.  The  road 
wound  at  times  through  dreary  woods,  at  others  through 
fields  where  noxious  variety  of  hue  bespoke  imperfect 
cultivation.  At  last  it  approached  the  great  river ; and 
Laura  gazed  with  delight  on  the  ever-changing,  rich, 
and  beautiful  scenes  which  were  presented  to  her  view  ; 
scenes  which  she  had  passed  unheeded  when  grief  and 
fear  veiled  every  prospect  in  gloom. 

One  of  the  nuns  in  the  Hotel  Dieu  was  the  sister  of 
Mrs  Falkland,  and  to  her  care  Mr  Falkland  intended  to 
commit  his  charge.  But  before  he  had  been  an  hour  in 
the  town,  he  received  information  that  a ship  was 
weighing  anchor  for  the  Clyde,  and  Laura  eagerly 
embraced  the  opportunity.  The  captain  being  informed 
by  Mr  Falkland  that  she  could  not  advance  the  price  of 
her  passage,  at  first  hesitated  to  receive  her ; but  when, 
with  the  irresistible  candour  and  majesty  that  shone  in 
all  her  looks  and  words,  she  assured  him  of  his  reward, 
when  she  spoke  to  him  in  the  accents  of  his  native  land, 
the  Scotsman’s  heart  melted ; and  having  satisfied  him- 
self that  she  was  a Highlander,  he  closed  the  bargain  by 
swearing  that  he  was  sure  he  might  trust  her. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  Laura  took  leave  of  her  bene- 
volent host ; yet  her  heax-t  bounded  with  joy  as  she  saw 
the  vessel  cleaving  the  tide,  and  each  object  in  the 
dreaded  land  of  exile  swiftly  retiring  from  her  view. 
In  a few  days  that  dreaded  land  disappeared.  In  a 
few  more  the  mountains  of  Cape  Breton  sank  behind 
the  wave.  The  brisk  gales  of  autumn  wafted  the  vessel 
cheerfully  on  her  way;  and  often  did  Laura  compute 
her  progress. 

In  a clear  fi*osty  morning  towards  the  end  of  Septem- 
ber she  heard  once  more  the  cry  of  ‘Land !’  now  music 
to  her  ear.  Now  with  a beating  breast  she  ran  to  gaze 
upon  a ridge  of  mountains  indenting  the  disk  of  the 
rising  sun ; but  the  tears  of  rapture  dimmed  her  eyes 
when  every  voice  at  once  shouted  ‘ Scotland ! ’ • 

All  day  Laura  remained  on  deck,  oft  measuring  with 
the  light  splinter  the  vessel’s  course  through  the  deep. 
The  winds  favoured  not  her  impatience.  Towards 
evening  they  died  away,  and  scarcely  did  the  vessel 
steal  along  the  liquid  mirror.  Another  and  another 
morniDg  came,  and  Laura’s  ear  was  blessed  with  the 
first  sounds  of  her  native  land.  The  tolling  of  a bell 
was  borne  along  the  water,  now  swelling  loud,  and  now 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  HAMILTON. 


falling  softly  away.  The  humble  village  church  was 
seen  on  the  shore ; and  Laura  could  distinguish  the  gay 
colouring  of  her  countrywomen’s  Sunday  attire;  the 
scarlet  plaid,  transmitted  from  generation  to  generation, 
pinned  decently  over  the  plain  clean  coif;  the  bright 
blue  gown,  the  trophy  of  more  recent  housewifery.  To 
her  every  form  in  the  well-known  garb  seemed  the  form 
of  a friend.  The  blue  mountains  in  the  distance,  the 
scattered  woods,  the  fields  yellow  with  the  harvest,  the 
river  sparkling  in  the  sun,  seemed,  to  the  wanderer 
returning  from  the  land  of  strangers,  fairer  than  the 
gardens  of  Paradise. 

Land  of  my  affections ! — when  ‘ I forget  thee,  may 
my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning !’  Blessed  be  thou 
among  nations  ! Long  may  thy  wanderers  return  to 
thee  rejoicing,  and  their  hearts  throb  with  honest  pride 
when  they  own  themselves  thy  children  ! 

MRS  HAMILTON. 

Elizabeth  Hamilton,  an  amiable  and  accom- 
plished miscellaneous  writer,  was  authoress  of  one 
excellent  little  novel,  or  moral  tale,  The  Cottagers  of 
Glenburnie , which  has  probably  been  as  effective  in 
promoting  domestic  improvement  among  the  rural 
population  of  Scotland  as  Johnson’s  Journey  to  the 
Hebrides  was  in  encouraging  the  planting  of  trees 
by  the  landed  proprietors.  In  both  cases  there  was 
some  exaggeration  of  colouring,  but  the  pictures 
were  too  provokingly  true  and  sarcastic  to  be 
laughed  away  or  denied.  They  constituted  a 
national  reproach,  and  the  only  way  to  wipe  it  off 
was  by  timely  reformation.  There  is  still  much  to 
accomplish,  but  a marked  improvement  in  the 
dwellings  and  internal  economy  of  Scottish  farm- 
houses and  villages  may  be  dated  from  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Cottagers  of  Glenburnie.  Elizabeth 
Hamilton  was  born  in  Belfast  in  the  year  1758. 
Her  father  was  a merchant,  of  a Scottish  family, 
and  died  early,  leaving  a widow  and  three  children. 
The  latter  were  educated  and  brought  up  by 
relatives  in  better  circumstances,  Elizabeth,  the 
youngest,  being  sent  to  Mr  Marshall,  a farmer  in 
Stirlingshire,  married  to  her  father’s  sister.  Her 
brother  obtained  a cadetship  in  the  East  India 
Company’s  service,  and  an  elder  sister  was  retained 
in  Ireland.  A feeling  of  strong  affection  seems  to 
have  existed  among  these  scattered  members  of  the 
unfortunate  family.  Elizabeth  found  in  Mr  and 
Mrs  Marshall  all  that  could  have  been  desired. 
She  was  adopted  and  educated  with  a care  and 
tenderness  that  has  seldom  been  equalled.  ‘No 
child,’  she  says,  ‘ever  spent  so  happy  a life,  nor 
have  I ever  met  with  anything  at  all  resembling  our 
way  of  living,  except  the  description  given  by 
Rousseau  of  Wolmar’s  farm  and  vintage.’  A taste 
for  literature  soon  appeared  in  Elizabeth  Hamilton. 
Wallace  was  the  first  hero  of  her  studies ; but 
meeting  with  Ogilvie’s  translation  of  the  Iliad , she 
idolised  Achilles,  and  dreamed  of  Hector.  She  had 
opportunities  of  visiting  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow, 
after  which  she  carried  on  a learned  correspondence 
with  Dr  Moyse,  a philosophical  lecturer.  She 
wrote  also  many  copies  of  verses — that  ordinary 
outlet  for  the  warm  feelings  and  romantic  sensi- 
bilities of  youth.  Her  first  appearance  in  print  was 
accidental.  Having  accompanied  a pleasure-party 
to  the  Highlands,  she  kept  a journal  for  the  grati- 
fication of  her  aunt,  and  the  good  woman  shewing 
it  to  one  of  her  neighbours,  it  was  sent  to  a pro- 
vincial magazine.  Her  retirement  in  Stirlingshire 
was,  in  1773,  gladdened  by  a visit  from  her  brother, 
then  about  to  sail  for  India.  Mr  Hamilton  seems 
to  have  been  an  excellent  and  able  young  man,  and 


his  subsequent  letters  and  conversations  on  Indian 
affairs  stored  the  mind  of  his  sister  with  the 
materials  for  her  Hindoo  Rajah,  a wrork  equally 
remarkable  for  good  sense  and  sprightliness.  Mr 
Hamilton  was  cut  off  by  a premature  death  in 
1792.  Shortly  after  this  period  commenced  the 
literary  life  of  Elizabeth  Hamilton,  and  her  first 
work  was  that  to  which  we  have  alluded,  con- 
nected with  the  memory  of  her  lamented  brother, 
The  Letters  of  a Hindoo  Rajah,  in  two  volumes, 
published  in  1796.  The  success  of  the  work 
stimulated  her  exertions.  In  1800  she  published 
The  Modern  Philosophers,  in  three  volumes ; and 
between  that  period  and  1806,  she  gave  to  the  world 
Letters  on  Education , Memoirs  of  Agrippina , and 
Letters  to  the  Daughters  of  a Nobleman.  In  1808, 
appeared  her  most  popular,  original,  and  useful 
work,  The  Cottagers  of  Glenburnie;  and  she  subse- 
quently published  Popular  Essays  on  the  Human 
Mind,  and  Hints  to  the  Directors  of  Public  Schools. 
For  many  years  Mrs  Hamilton  had  fixed  her  resi- 
dence in  Edinburgh.  She  was  enfeebled  by  ill 
health,  but  her  cheerfulness  and  activity  of  mind 
continued  unabated,  and  her  society  was  courted  by 
the  most  intellectual  and  influential  of  her  fellow- 
citizens.  The  benevolence  and  correct  judgment 
which  animated  her  writings  pervaded  her  conduct. 
Having  gone  to  Harrowgate  for  the  benefit  of  her 
health,  Mrs  Hamilton  died  at  that  place  on  the  23d 
of  July  1816,  aged  sixty-eight. 

The  Cottagers  of  Glenburnie  is  in  reality  a tale  of 
cottage-life.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a poor  scattered 
Scottish  hamlet,  and  the  heroine  is  a retired  English 
governess,  middle-aged  and  lame,  with  £30  a year ! 
This  person,  Mrs  Mason,  after  being  long  in  a noble 
family,  is  reduced  from  a state  of  ease  and  luxury 
into  one  of  comparative  indigence,  and  having 
learned  that  her  cousin,  her  only  surviving  relative, 
was  married  to  one  of  the  small  farmers  in  Glen- 
burnie, she  agreed  to  fix  her  residence  in  her  house 
as  a lodger.  On  her  way  she  called  at  Gowan-brae, 
the  house  of  the  factor  or  land-steward  on  the  estate, 
to  whom  she  had  previously  been  known,  and  we 
have  a graphic  account  of  the  family  of  this  gentle- 
man, one  of  whose  daughters  figures  conspicuously 
in  the  after-part  of  the  tale.  Mr  Stewart,  the  factor, 
his  youngest  daughter,  and  boys,  accompany  Mrs 
Mason  to  Glenburnie. 

[ Picture  of  Glenburnie  and  Scottish  Rural  Life  in  the 
Last  Century .] 

They  had  not  proceeded  many  paces  until  they  were 
struck  with  admiration  at  the  uncommon  wildness  of 
the  scene  which  now  opened  to  their  view.  The  rocks 
which  seemed  to  guard  the  entrance  of  the  glen  were 
abrupt  and  savage,  and  approached  so  near  each  other, 
that  one  could  suppose  them  to  have  been  riven  asunder 
to  give  a passage  to  the  clear  stream  which  flowed 
between  them.  As  they  advanced,  the  hills  receded  on 
either  side,  making  room  for  meadows  and  cornfields, - 
through  which  the  rapid  burn  pursued  its  way  in  many 
a fantastic  maze. 

The  road,  which  winded  along  the  foot  of  the  hills,  on 
the  north  side  of  the  glen,  owed  as  little  to  art  as  any 
country  road  in  the  kingdom.  It  was  very  narrow,  and 
much  encumbered  by  loose  stones,  brought  down  from 
the  hills  above  by  the  winter  torrents. 

Mrs  Mason  and  Mary  were  so  enchanted  by  the  change 
of  scenery  which  was  incessantly  unfolding  to  their  view, 
that  they  made  no  complaints  of  the  slowness  of  their 
progress,  nor  did  they  much  regret  being  obliged  to  stop 
a few  minutes  at  a time,  where  they  found  so  much  to 
amuse  and  to  delight  them.  But  Mr  Stewart  had  no 
patience  at  meeting  with  obstructions,  which,  with  a 


PROit  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


little  pains,  could  have  been  so  easily  obviated ; and  as 
he  -walked  by  the  side  of  the  car,  expatiated  upon  the 
indolence  of  the  people  of  the  glen,  who,  though  they 
had  no  other  road  to  the  market,  could  contentedly  go 
on  from  year  to  year  without  making  an  effort  to  repair 
it.  ‘ How  little  trouble  would  it  cost,’  said  he,  ‘ to 
throw  the  smaller  of  these  loose  stones  into  these  holes 
and  ruts,  and  to  remove  the  larger  ones  to  the  side, 
where  they  would  form  a fence  between  the  road  and 
the  hill ! There  are  enough  of  idle  boys  in  the  glen  to 
effect  all  this,  by  working  at  it  for  one  hour  a week 
during  the  summer.  But  then  their  fathers  must 
unite  in  setting  them  to  work ; and  there  is  not  one 
in  the  glen  who  would  not  sooner  have  his  horses  lamed, 
and  his  carts  torn  to  pieces,  than  have  his  son  employed 
in  a work  that  would  benefit  his  neighbours  as  much 
as  himself.’ 

As  he  was  speaking,  they  passed  the  door  of  one  of 
these  small  farmers ; and  immediately  turning  a sharp 
corner,  began  to  descend  a steep,  which  appeared  so 
unsafe  that  Mr  Stewart  made  his  boys  alight,  which 
they  could  do  without  inconvenience,  and  going  to  the 
head  of  the  horse,  took  his  guidance  upon  himself. 

At  the  foot  of  this  short  precipice  the  road  again  made 
a sudden  turn,  and  discovered  to  them  a misfortune 
which  threatened  to  put  a stop  to  their  proceeding  any 
further  for  the  present  evening.  It  was  no  other  than 
the  overturn  of  a cart  of  hay,  occasioned  by  the  breaking 
down  of  the  bridge,  along  which  it  had  been  passing. 
Happily  for  the  poor  horse  that  drew  this  ill-fated  load, 
the  harness  by  which  he  was  attached  to  it  was  of  so 
frail  a nature  as  to  make  little  resistance ; so  that  he 
and  his  rider  escaped  unhurt  from  the  fall,  notwith- 
standing its  being  one  of  considerable  depth. 

At  first,  indeed,  neither  boy  nor  horse  was  seen ; but 
as  Mr  Stewart  advanced  to  examine,  whether  by 
removing  the  hay,  which  partly  covered  the  bridge 
and  partly  hung  suspended  on  the  bushes,  the  road 
might  still  be  passable,  he  heard  a child’s  voice  in  the 
hollow  exclaiming  : ‘ Come  on,  ye  muckle  brute ! ye  had 
as  weel  come  on ! I ’ll  gar  ye ! I ’ll  gar  ye ! That ’s  a 
gude  beast  now  ; come  awa’ ! That ’s  it ! Ay,  ye  ’re  a 
gude  beast  now !’ 

As  the  last  words  were  uttered,  a little  fellow  of 
about  ten  years  of  age  was  seen  issuing  from  the  hollow, 
and  pulling  after  him,  with  all  his  might,  a great  long- 
backed  clumsy  animal  of  the  horse  species,  though 
apparently  of  a very  mulish  temper. 

‘ You  have  met  with  a sad  accident,’  said  Mr  Stewart ; 
‘how  did  all  this  happen?’  ‘You  may  see  how  it 
happened  plain  eneugh,’  returned  the  boy;  ‘the  brig 
brak,  and  the  cart  couppet.’  ‘And  did  you  and  the 
horse  coup  likewise?’  said  Mr  Stewart.  ‘0  ay,  we  a’ 
couppet  thegither,  for  I was  ridin’  on  his  back.’  ‘ And 
where  is  your  father,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  folk?’ 

‘ Whaur  sud  they  be  but  in  the  hay-field?  Dinna  ye 
ken  that  we  ’re  takin’  in  our  hay  ? J ohn  Tamson’s  and 
Jamie  Forster’s  was  in  a week  syne,  but  we’re  aye  ahint 
the  lave.’ 

All  the  party  were  greatly  amused  by  the  composure 
which  the  young  peasant  evinced  under  his  misfortune, 
as  well  as  by  the  shrewdness  of  his  answers ; and  having 
learned  from  him  that  the  hay-field  was  at  no  great 
distance,  gave  him  some  halfpence  to  hasten  his  speed, 
and  promised  to  take  care  of  his  horse  till  he  should 
return  with  assistance. 

He  soon  appeared,  followed  by  his  father  and  two 
other  men,  who  came  on  stepping  at  their  usual  pace, 
i ‘Why,  farmer,’  said  Mr  Stewart,  ‘you  have  trusted 
• rather  too  long  to  this  rotten  plank,  I think’  (pointing 
to  where  it  had  given  way) ; ‘ if  you  remember  the  last 
j time  I passed  this  road,  which  was  several  months  since, 
j I then  told  you  that  the  bridge  was  in  danger,  and 
shewed  you  how  easily  it  might  be  repaired?’ 

‘ It  is  a’  true,’  said  the  farmer,  moving  his  bonnet ; 
‘but  I thought  it  would  do  weel  eneugh.  I spoke  to 
470 


Jamie  Forster  and  John  Tamson  about  it;  but  they  said 
they  wadna  fash  themselves  to  mend  a brig  that  was  to 
serve  a’  the  folk  in  the  glen.’ 

‘ But  you  must  now  mend  it  for  your  own  sake,’  said 
Mr  Stewart,  ‘ even  though  a’  the  folk  in  the  glen  should 
be  the  better  for  it.’ 

‘ Ay,  sir,’  said  one  of  the  men,  ‘ that ’s  spoken  like 
yoursel’ ! would  everybody  follow  your  example,  there 
would  be  nothing  in  the  world  but  peace  and  good 
neighbourhood.  Only  tell  us  what  we  are  to  do,  and 
I’ll  work  at  your  bidding  till  it  be  pit-mirk’ 

‘ Well,’  said  Mr  Stewart,  ‘ bring  down  the  planks  that 
I saw  lying  in  the  barn-yard,  and  which,  though  you 
have  been  obliged  to  step  over  them  every  day  since  the 
stack  they  propped  was  taken  in,  have  never  been 
lifted.  You  know  what  I mean?’ 

‘ 0 yes,  sir,’  said  the  farmer  grinning,  ‘ we  ken 
what  ye  mean  weel  eneugh : and  indeed  I may  ken,  for 
I have  fallen  thrice  owre  them  since  they  lay  there, 
and  often  said  they  sud  be  set  by,  but  we  cou’dna  be 
fashed.’ 

While  the  farmer,  with  one  of  the  men,  went  up, 
taking  the  horse  with  them,  for  the  planks  in  question, 
all  that  remained  set  to  work,  under  Mr  Stewart’s 
direction,  to  remove  the  hay,  and  clear  away  the  rubbish ; 
Mrs  Mason  and  Mary  being  the  only  idle  spectators  of 
the  scene.  In  little  more  than  half  an  hour  the  planks 
were  laid,  and  covered  with  sod  cut  from  the  bank,  and 
the  bridge  now  only  wanted  a little  gravel  to  make  it  as 
good  as  new.  This  addition,  however,  was  not  essential 
towards  rendering  it  passable  for  the  car,  which  was 
conveyed  over  it  in  safety ; but  Mr  Stewart,  foreseeing 
the  consequences  of  its  remaining  in  this  unfinished 
state,  urged  the  farmer  to  complete  the  job  on  the 
present  evening,  and  at  the  same  time  promised  to 
reimburse  him  for  the  expense.  The  only  answer  he 
could  obtain  was,  ‘ Ay,  ay,  we  ’ll  do ’t  in  time ; but  I ’se 
warrant  it’ll  do  weel  eneugh.’ 

Our  party  then  drove  off,  and  at  every  turning  of 
the  road  expressed  fresh  admiration  at  the  increasing 
beauty  of  the  scene.  Towards  the  top  of  the  glen  the 
hills  seemed  to  meet,  the  rocks  became  more  frequent 
and  more  prominent,  sometimes  standing  naked  and 
exposed,  and  sometimes  peeping  over  the  tops  of  the 
rowan-tree  and  weeping-birch,  which  grew  in  great 
abundance  on  all  the  steepy  banks.  At  length  the 
village  appeared  in  view.  It  consisted  of  about  twenty 
or  thirty  thatched  cottages,  which,  but  for  their  chim- 
neys, and  the  smoke  that  issued  from  them,  might  have 
passed  fcr  so  many  stables  or  hogsties,  so  little  had  they 
to  distinguish  them  as  the  abodes  of  man.  That  one 
horse,  at  least,  was  the  inhabitant  of  every  dwelling, 
there  was  no  room  to  doubt,  as  every  door  could  not 
only  boast  its  dunghill,  but  had  a small  cart  stuck  up  on 
end,  directly  before  it ; which  cart,  though  often  broken, 
and  always  dirty,  seemed  ostentatiously  displayed  as  a 
proof  of  wealth. 

The  interior  arrangements  and  accommodation  of 
the  cottage  visited  by  Mrs  Mason  are  dirty  and 
uncomfortable.  The  farmer  is  a good  easy  man, 
but  his  wife  is  obstinate  and  prejudiced,  and  the 
children  self-willed  and  rebellious.  Mrs  Mason  finds 
the  family  quite  incorrigible,  but  she  effects  a won- 
derful change  among  their  neighbours.  She  gets  a 
school  established  on  her  own  plan,  and  boys  and 
girls  exert  themselves  to  effect  a reformation  in  the 
cottages  of  their  parents.  The  most  sturdy  stick- 
lers for  the  gude  auld  gaits  are  at  length  convinced 
of  the  superiority  of  the  new  system,  and  the  vil- 
lage undergoes  a complete  transformation.  In  the 
management  of  these  humble  scenes,  and  the 
gradual  display  of  character  among  the  people, 
Mrs  Hamilton  evinces  her  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  her  fine  tact  and  discrimination  as  a 
novelist. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LADY  MORGAN. 


LADY  MORGAN. 

Lady  Morgan  (Sydney  Owenson,  or  Mac  Owen, 
as  the  name  was  originally  written),  during  -the 
last  forty  or  fifty  years,  wrote  in  various  depart- 
ments of  literature— in  poetry,  the  drama,  novels, 
biography,  ethics,  politics,  and  books  of  travels. 
Whether  she  has  written  any  one  book  that  will 
become  a standard  portion  of  our  literature,  is  doubt- 
ful, but  we  are  indebted  to  her  pen  for  a number  of 
clever  lively  national  sketches  and  anecdotes.  She 
had  a masculine  disregard  of  common  opinion  or 
censure,  and  a temperament,  as  she  herself  stated, 

‘ as  cheery  and  genial  as  ever  went  to  that  strange 
medley  of  pathos  and  humour — the  Irish  character.’ 
Mr  Owenson,  the  father  of  our  authoress,  was  a 
respectable  actor,  a favourite  in  the  society  of 
Dublin,  and  author  of  some  popular  Irish  songs. 
His  daughter  inherited  his  predilection  for  national 
music  and  song.  Very  early  in  life  she  published 
a small  volume  of  poetical  effusions,  and  afterwards 
The  Lay  of  the  Irish  Harp , and  a selection  of  twelve 
Irish  melodies,  with  music.  One  of  these  is  the 
popular  song  of  Kate  Kearney , and  we  question 
whether  this  lyric  will  not  outlive  all  Lady  Morgan’s 
other  lucubrations.  While  still  in  her  teens,  Miss 
Owenson  became  a novelist.  She  published  two 
tales  long  since  forgotten,  and  in  1801  a third,  The 
Wild  Irish  Girl,  which  was  exceedingly  popular, 
and  went  through  seven  editions  in  two  years. 
This  success  introduced  the  authoress  into  some 
of  the  higher  circles  of  Irish  and  English  society,  in 
which  she  greatly  delighted.  In  1811,  she  married 
Sir  Charles  Morgan,  a physician,  and  travelled 
with  him  in  France  and  Italy.  She  continued 
her  literary  labours,  and  published  The  Missionary , 
an  Indian  Tale  (1811);  O’Donnel,  a National  Tale 
(1814);  Florence  Macarthy , an  Irish  Tale  (1818); 
and  The  O’Briens  and  the  O’Flahertys  (1827).  In 
these  works  our  authoress  departed  from  the  beaten 
track  of  sentimental  novels,  and  ventured,  like  Miss 
Edgeworth,  to  portray  national  manners.  We  have 
the  high  authority  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  for  the 
opinion,  that  O’Donnel,  though  deficient  as  a story, 
has  1 some  striking  and  beautiful  passages  of  situa- 
tion and  description,  and  in  the  comic  part  is  very 
rich  and  entertaining.’  Lady  Morgan’s  sketches 
of  Irish  manners  are  not  always  pleasing.  Her 
high-toned  society  is  disfigured  with  grossness  and 
profligacy,  and  her  subordinate  characters  are  often 
caricatured.  The  vivacity  and  variety  of  these 
delineations  constitute  one  of  their  attractions : if 
not  always  true,  they  are  lively;  for  it  was  justly 
said,  that  £ whether  it  is  a review  of  volunteers  in 
the  Phoenix  Park,  or  a party  at  the  Castle,  or  a 
masquerade,  a meeting  of  United  Irishmen,  a riot 
in  Dublin,  or  a jug-day  at  Bog-Moy — in  every 
change  of  scene  and  situation  our  authoress  wields 
the  pen  of  a ready  writer.’  One  complaint  against 
these  Irish  sketches  was  their  personality,  the 
authoress  indicating  that  some  of  her  portraits  at 
the  viceregal  court,  and  those  moving  in  the  ‘ best 
society’  of  Dublin,  were  intended  for  well-known 
characters.  Their  conversation  is  often  a sad 
jargon  of  prurient  allusion,  comments  on  dress, 
and  quotations  in  French  and  Italian,  with  which 
almost  every  page  is  patched  and  disfigured.  The 
unfashionable  characters  and  descriptions — even  the 
rapparees,  and  the  lowest  of  the  old  Irish  natives, 
arc  infinitely  more  entertaining  than  these  offshoots 
of  the  aristocracy,  as  painted  by  Lady  Morgan. 
Her  strength  evidently  lies  in  describing  the  broad 
characteristics  of  her  nation,  their  boundless  mirth, 
their  old  customs,  their  love  of  frolic,  and  their  wild 


grief  at  scenes  of  death  and  calamity.  The  other 
works  of  our  authoress  are  France  and  Italy,  con- 
taining dissertations  on  the  state  of  society,  manners, 
literature,  government,  &c.,  of  those  nations : these 
are  writtenjm  a bold  sketchy  style,  and,  with  many 
gross  faults,  they  are  spirited,  acute,  and  entertain- 
ing. Lord  Byron  has  borne  testimony  to  the  fidelity 
and  excellence  of  Italy ; and  if  the  authoress  had 
been  ‘ less  ambitious  of  being  always  fine  and  strik- 
ing,’ and  less  solicitous  to  display  her  reading  and 
high  company,  she  might  have  been  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  of  tourists  and  observers.  Besides  these 
■works,  Lady  Morgan  has  given  to  the  world  The 
Princess  (a  tale  founded  on  the  revolution  in 
Belgium);  Dramatic  Scenes  from  Real  Life  (very 
poor  in  matter,  and  affected  in  style) ; The  Life  and 
Times  of  Salvator  Rosa,  two  volumes  ; The  Boole  of 
the  Boudoir  (autobiographical  sketches  and  remi- 
niscences) ; Woman  and  her  Master  (a  philosophical 
history  of  woman  down  to  the  fall  of  the  Roman 
empire) ; and  various  other  shorter  publications.  In 
1841,  Lady  Morgan  published,  in  conjunction  with 
her  husband,  Sir  T.  C.  Morgan,  M.D.  (author  of 
Sketches  of  the  Philosophy  of  Life  and  Morals , &c.), 
two  volumes,  collected  from  the  portfolios  of  the 
writers,  and  stray  sketches  which  had  previously 
appeared  in  periodicals,  entitling  the  collection  The 
Book  Without  a Name.  In  1859,  she  published 
Passages  from  my  Autobiography,  containing  reminis- 
cences of  high  life  in  London  and  Paris.  A pension 
of  £300  a year  was  conferred  on  her  during  the 
ministry  of  Earl  Grey,  and  the  latter  years  of  Lady 
Morgan  were  spent  in  London.  She  died  in  April 
1859,  aged  nearly  eighty.  In  reviewing  the  literary 
progress  of  Lady  Morgan,  one  of  her  friendly 
admirers  (Mr  Henry  F.  Chorley)  has  the  following 
observations : 

‘ The  strong  national  enthusiasm  of  childhood,  at 
once  somewhat  indiscriminate  in  its  warmth  and 
limited  in  its  scope,  will  be  seen  to  have  ended  in 
fearless  and  decided  political  partisanship,  in  the 
espousing  of  ultra-liberal  doctrines,  abroad  as  well 
as  at  home.  But  let  us  quote  Lady  Morgan’s  own 
words  from  the  preface  to  the  last  edition  of 
O’Donnel.  “After  all,  however,”  says  she,  “if  I 
became  that  reviled  but  now  very  fashionable 
personage,  a female  politician,  it  was  much  in  the 
same  way  as  the  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  spoke  prose 
without  knowing  it,  a circumstance  perhaps  not 
uncommon  with  Irish  writers.  * * For  myself 

at  least,  born  and  dwelling  in  Ireland  amidst  my 
countrymen  and  their  sufferings,  I saw  and  I 
described,  I felt  and  I pleaded : and  if  a political 
bias  was  ultimately  taken,  it  originated  in  the 
natural  condition  of  things,  and  not  in  ‘malice 
aforethought’  of  the  writer.”  In  each  successive 
novel,  too,  the  characters  will  be  found  more  and 
more  boldly  contrasted,  the  scenes  prepared  and 
arranged  with  finer  artifice.  If  we  cannot  but  note 
the  strong  family-likeness  which  exists  between  all 
their  plots,  through  every  one  of  which  a brilliant 
and  devoted  woman  flits  in  masquerade,  now  to 
win  a lover,  now  to  save  a friend,  now  to  make  a 
proselyte,  we  must  also  insist  upon  the  living 
nature  of  many  of  their  dramatis  personae,  especially 
the  broadly  comic  ones,  instancing  the  Crawleys 
{Florence  Macarthy ),  and  Lieutenant  O’Mealy  {The 
O’Briens ),  and  Lawrence  Fegan  and  Sir  Ignatius 
Dogherty  ( The  Princess ),  and  upon  the  thousand 
indications  scattered  here  and  there  with  apparent 
artlessness,  but  real  design,  which  prove  that  though 
their  writer  loves  to  float  upon  the  surface  of  life 
and  society,  she  can  at  will  dive  into  their  depths, 
and  bring  up  truths  new  and  valuable.’ 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  (to  1830. 


MRS  SHELLEY. 

In  the  summer  of  1816,  Lord  Byron  and  Mr  and 
Mrs  Shelley  were  residing  on  the  banks  of  the  Lake 
of  Genera.  They  were  in  habits  of  daily  intercourse, 
and  when  the  weather  did  not  allow  of  their  boating- 
excursions  on  the  lake,  the  Shelleys  often  passed 
their  evenings  with  Byron  at  his  house  at  Diodati. 
‘ During  a week  of  rain  at  this  time,’  says  Mr  Moore, 
‘having  amused  themselves  with  reading  German 
ghost-stories,  they  agreed  at  last  to  write  something 
in  imitation  of  them.  “You  and  I,”  said  Lord 
Byron  to  Mrs  Shelley,  “ will  publish  ours  together.” 
He  then  began  his  tale  of  the  Vampire  ; and  having 
the  whole  arranged  in  his  head,  repeated  to  them  a 
sketch  of  the  story  one  evening,  but  from  the  narra- 
tive being  in  prose,  made  but  little  progress  in  filling 
up  his  outline.  The  most  memorable  result,  indeed, 
of  their  story-telling  compact,  was  Mrs  Shelley’s 
wild  and  powerful  romance  of  Frankenstein — one  of 
those  original  conceptions  that  take  hold  of  the 
public  mind  at  once  and  for  ever.’  Frankenstein 
was  published  in  1817,  and  was  instantly  recognised 
as  worthy  of  Godwin’s  daughter  and  Shelley’s  wife, 
and  as,  in  fact,  possessing  some  of  the  genius  and 
peculiarities  of  both.  It  is  formed  on  the  model  of 
St  Leon,  but  the  supernatural  power  of  that  romantic 
visionary  produces  nothing  so  striking  or  awful  as 
the  grand  conception  of  Frankenstein — the  discovery 
that  he  can,  by  his  study  of  natural  philosophy, 
create  a living  and  sentient  being.  The  hero,  like 
Caleb  Williams,  tells  his  own  story,  and  the  curiosity 
it  excites  is  equally  concentrated  and  intense.  A 
native  of  Geneva,  Frankenstein,  is  sent  to  the 
university  of  Ingolstadt  to  pursue  his  studies.  He 
had  previously  dabbled  in  the  occult  sciences,  and 
the  university  afforded  vastly  extended  facilities  for 
prosecuting  his  abstruse  researches.  He  pores  over 
books  on  physiology,  makes  chemical  experiments, 
visits  even  the  receptacles  of  the  dead  and  the  dis- 
secting-room of  the  anatomist,  and  after  days  and 
nights  of  incredible  labour  and  fatigue,  he  succeeds 
in  discovering  the  cause  of  generation  and  life ; nay 
more,  he  became  capable  of  bestowing  animation 
upon  lifeless  matter ! Full  of  his  extraordinary  dis- 
covery, he  proceeds  to  create  a man,  and  at  length, 
after  innumerable  trials  and  revolting  experiments 
to  seize  and  infuse  the  principle  of  life  into  his 
image  of  clay,  he  constructs  and  animates  a gigantic 
figure,  eight  feet  in  height.  His  feelings  on  com- 
pleting the  creation  of  this  monster  are  powerfully 
described : 

It  was  on  a dreary  night  of  November  that  I beheld 
the  accomplishment  of  my  toils.  With  an  anxiety  that 
almost  amounted  to  agony,  I collected  the  instruments 
of  life  around  me,  that  I might  infuse  a spark  of  being 
into  the  -lifeless  thing  that  lay  at  my  feet.  It  was 
already  one  in  the  morning  ; the  rain  pattered  dismally 
against  the  panes,  and  my  candle  was  nearly  burnt 
out,  when,  by  the  glimrher  of  the  half-extinguished 
light,  I saw  the  dull  yellow  eye  of  the  creature  open  ; 
it  breathed  hard,  and  a convulsive  motion  agitated  its 
limbs. 

How  can  I describe  my  emotions  at  this  catastrophe, 
or  how  delineate  the  wretch  whom  with  such  infinite 
pains  and  care  I had  endeavoured  to  form  ? His  limbs 
were  in  proportion,  and  I had  selected  his  features  as 
beautiful.  Beautiful!  Great  God!  His  yellow  skin 
scarcely  covered  the  work  of  muscles  and  arteries 
beneath ; his  hair  was  of  a lustrous  black,  and  flowing ; 
his  teeth  of  a pearly  whiteness  ; but  these  luxuriances 
only  formed  a more  horrid  contrast  with  his  watery 
eyes,  that  seemed  almost  of  the  same  colour  as  the  dun 
472 


white  sockets  in  which  they  were  set,  his  shrivelled 
complexion,  and  straight  black  lips. 

The  different  accidents  of  life  are  not  so  changeable 
as  the  feelings  of  human  nature.  I had  worked  hard 
for  nearly  two  years,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  infusing 
life  into  an  inanimate  body.  For  this  I had  deprived 
myself  of  rest  and  health.  I had  desired  it  with  an 
ardour  that  far  exceeded  moderation,  but  now  that  I 
had  finished,  the  beauty  of  the  dream  vanished,  and 
breathless  horror  and  disgust  filled  my  heart.  Unable 
to  endure  the  aspect  of  the  being  I had  created,  I 
rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  continued  a long  time 
traversing  my  bed-chamber,  unable  to  compose  my 
mind  to  sleep.  At  length  lassitude  succeeded  to  the 
tumult  I had  before  endured,  and  I threw  myself  on 
the  bed  in  my  clothes,  endeavouring  to  seek  a few 
moments  of  forgetfulness.  But  it  was  in  vain ; I slept 
indeed,  but  I was  disturbed  by  the  wildest  dreams. 

I thought  I saw  Elizabeth,  in  the  bloom  of  health, 
walking  in  the  streets  of  Ingolstadt.  Delighted  and 
surprised,  I embraced  her;  but  as  I imprinted  the 
first  kiss  on  her  lips,  they  became  livid  with  the  hue 
of  death ; her  features  appeared  to  change,  and  I 
thought  that  I held  the  corpse  of  my  dead  mother  in 
my  arms;  a shroud  enveloped  her  form,  and  I saw 
the  grave-worms  crawling  in  the  folds  of  the  flannel. 

I started  from  my  sleep  with  horror,  a cold  dew  covered 
my  forehead,  my  teeth  chattered,  and  every  limb  became 
convulsed  when,  by  the  dim  and  yellow  light  of  the 
moon,  as  it  forced  its  way  through  the  window-shutters, 

I beheld  the  wretch — the  miserable  monster  whom  I 
had  created.  He  held  up  the  curtain  of  the  bed,  and 
his  eyes,  if  eyes' they  may  be  called,  were  fixed  on  me. 
His  jaws  opened,  and  he  muttered  some  inarticulate 
sounds,  while  a grin  wrinkled  his  cheeks.  He  might 
have  spoken,  but  I did  not  hear;  one  hand  was 
stretched  out,  seemingly  to  detain  me,  but  I escaped, 
and  rushed  down  stairs.  I took  refuge  in  the  court- 
yard belonging  to  the  house  which  I inhabited,  where 
I remained  during  the  rest  of  the  night,  walking  up 
and  down  in  the  greatest  agitation,  listening  attentively, 
catching  and  fearing  each  sound  as  if  it  were  to 
announce  the  approach  of  the  demoniacal  corpse  to 
which  I had  so  miserably  given  life. 

Oh ! no  mortal  could  support  the  horror  of  that 
countenance.  A mummy  again  endued  with  animation 
could’ not  be  so  hideous  as  that  wretch.  I had  gazed 
on  him  while  unfinished ; he  was  ugly  then,  but  when 
those  muscles  and  joints  were  rendered  capable  of 
motion,  it  became  a thing  such  as  even  Dante  could 
not  have  conceived. 

I passed  the  night  wretchedly.  Sometimes  my  pulse 
beat  so  quickly  and  hardly  that  I felt  the  palpitation 
of  every  artery ; at  others  I nearly  sank  to  the  ground 
through  languor  and  extreme  weakness.  Mingled  with 
this  horror  I felt  the  bitterness  of  disappointment; 
dreams  that  had  been  my  food  and  pleasant  rest  for 
so  long  a space,  were  now  become  a hell  to  me,  and 
the  change  was  so  rapid,  the  overthrow  so  complete. 

Morning,  dismal  and  wet,  at  length  dawned,  and 
discovered  to  my  sleepless  and  aching  eyes  the  church  of 
Ingolstadt,  its  white  steeple  and  clock,  which  indicated 
the  sixth  hour.  The  porter  opened  the  gates  of  the 
court  which  had  that  night  been  my  asylum,  and  I 
issued  into  the  streets,  pacing  them  with  quick  steps, 
as  if  I sought  to  avoid  the  wretch  whom  I feared  every 
turning  of  the  street  would  present  to  my  view.  I aid 
not  dare  return  to  the  apartment  which  I inhabited, 
but  felt  impelled  to  hurry  on,  although  wetted  by 
the  rain  which  poured  from  a black  and  comfortless 
sky. 

I continued  walking  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  I 
endeavouring,  by  bodily  exercise,  to  ease  the  load 
that  weighed  upon  my  mind.  I traversed  the  streets 
without  any  clear  conception  of  where  I was,  or  what 
I was  doing.  My  heart  palpitated  in  the  sickness  of 


tfOVELISfS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MBS  SHELLEY. 


fear,  and  I hurried  on  with  irregular  steps,  not  daring 
to  look  about  me — 

Like  one  who  on  a lonely  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread.* 

Continuing  thus,  I came  at  length  opposite  to  the  inn 
at  which  the  various  diligences  and  carriages  usually 
stopped.  Here  I paused,  I knew  not  why,  but  I 
remained  some  minutes  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  a coach 
that  was  coming  towards  me  from  the  other  end  of  the 
street.  As  it  drew  nearer,  I observed  that  it  was  the 
Swiss  diligence ; it  stopped  just  where  I was  standing, 
and  on  the  door  being  opened,  I perceived  Henry 
Clerval,  who,  on  seeing  me,  instantly  sprung  out.  ‘ My 
dear  Frankenstein,’  exclaimed  he,  ‘how  glad  I am  to 
see  you ! how  fortunate  that  you  should  be  here  at  the 
very  moment  of  my  alighting ! ’ 

Nothing  could  equal  my  delight  on  seeing  ClerVal ; 
his  presence  brought  back  to  my  thoughts  my  father, 
Elizabeth,  and  all  those  scenes  of  home  so  dear  to  my 
recollection.  I grasped  his  hand,  and  in  a moment 
forgot  my  horror  and  misfortune ; I felt  suddenly,  and 
for  the  first  time  during  many  months,  calm  and  serene 
joy.  I welcomed  my  friend,  therefore,  in  the  most 
cordial  manner,  and  we  walked  towards  my  college. 
Clerval  continued  talking  for  some  time  about  our 
mutual  friends,  and  his  own  good-fortune  in  being 
permitted  to  come  to  Ingolstadt.  ‘ You  may  easily 
believe,’  said  he,  ‘ how  great  was  the  difficulty  to  per- 
suade my  father  that  it  was  not  absolutely  necessary 
for  a merchant  not  to  understand  anything  except  book- 
keeping ; and,  indeed,  I believe  I left  him  incredulous 
to  the  last,  for  his  constant  answer  to  my  unwearied 
entreaties  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  Dutch  school- 
master in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield — “ I have  ten 
thousand  florins  a year  without  Greek ; I eat  heartily 
without  Greek.”  But  his  affection  for  me  at  length 
overcame  his  dislike  of  learning,  and  he  has  permitted 
me  to  undertake  a voyage  of  discovery  to  the  land  of 
knowledge.’ 

‘ It  gives  me  the  greatest  delight  to  see  you ; but  tell 
me  how.you  left  my  father,  brothers,  and  Elizabeth.’ 

‘ Very  well,  and  very  happy,  only  a little  uneasy  that 
they  hear  from  you  so  seldom.  By  the  by,  I mean  to 
lecture  you  a little  upon  their  account  myself.  But,  my 
dear  Frankenstein,’  continued  he,  stopping  short,  and 
gazing  full  in  my  face,  ‘ I did  not  before  remark  how 
very  ill  you  appear ; so  thin  and  pale ; you  look  as  if 
you  had  been  watching  for  several  nights.’ 

‘You  have  guessed  right;  I have  lately  been  so 
deeply  engaged  in  one  occupation,  that  I have  not 
allowed  myself  sufficient  rest,  as  you  see ; but  I hope, 
I sincerely  hope,  that  all  these  employments  are  now 
at  an  end,  and  that  I am  at  length  free.’ 

I trembled  excessively ; I could  not  endure  to  think 
of,  and  far  less  to  allude  to,  the  occurrences  of  the 
preceding  night.  I walked  with  a quick  pace,  and  we 
soon  arrived  at  my  college.  I then  reflected,  and  the 
thought  made  me  shiver,  that  the  creature  whom  I had 
left  in  my  apartment  might  still  be  there,  alive,  and 
walking  about.  I dreaded  to  behold  this  monster ; but 
I feared  still  more  that  Henry  should  see  him.  Entreat- 
ing him,  therefore,  to  remain  a few  minutes  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  I darted  up  towards  my  own  room. 
My  hand  was  already  on  the  lock  of  the  door  before  I 
recollected  myself.  I then  paused,  and  a cold  shivering 
came  over  me.  I threw  the  door  forcibly  open,  as 
children  are  accustomed  to  do  when  they  expect  a 
spectre  to  stand  in  waiting  for  them  on  the  other  side ; 
but  nothing  appeared.  I stepped  fearfully  in;  the 

* Coleridge’s  Ancient  Mariner. 


apartment  was  empty,  and  my  bedroom  was  also  freed 
from  its  hideous  guest.  I could  hardly  believe  that  so 
great  a good-fortune  could  have  befallen  me  ; but  when 
I became  assured  that  my  enemy  had  indeed  fled,  I 
clapped  my  hands  for  joy,  and  ran  down  to  Clerval. 

We  ascended  into  my  room,  and  the  servant  presently 
brought  breakfast ; but  I was  unable  to  contain  myself. 
It  was  not  joy  only  that  possessed  me : I felt  my  flesh 
tingle  with  excess  of  sensitiveness,  and  my  pulse  beat 
rapidly.  I was  unable  to  remain  for  a single  instant 
in  the  same  place  ; I jumped  over  the  chairs,  clapped 
my  hands,  and  laughed  aloud.  Clerval  at  first  attributed 
my  unusual  spirits  to  joy  on  his  arrival ; but  when  he 
observed  me  more  attentively,  he  saw  a wildness  in 
my  eyes  for  which  he  could  not  account ; and  my  loud 
unrestrained  heartless  laughter  frightened  and  astonished 
him. 

‘My  dear  Victor,’  cried  he,  ‘what,  for  God’s  sake, 
is  the  matter  ? Do  not  laugh  in  that  manner.  How 
ill  you  are  ! What  is  the  cause  of  all  this  ? ’ 

‘Do  not  ask  me,’  cried  I,  putting  my  hands  before 
my  eyes,  for  I thought  I saw  the  dreaded  spectre  glide 
into  the  room ; ‘ he  can  tell.  Oh,  save  me  ! save  me  ! ’ 
I imagined  that  the  monster  seized  me;  I struggled 
furiously,  and  fell  down  in  a fit. 

Poor  Clerval ! what  must  have  been  his  feelings  ! 
A meeting  which  he  anticipated  with  such  joy  so 
strangely  turned  to  bitterness.  But  I was  not  the 
witness  of  his  grief ; for  I was  lifeless,  and  did  not 
recover  my  senses  for  a long,  long  time. 

The  monster  ultimately  becomes  a terror  to  his 
creator,  and  haunts  him  like  a spell.  For  two  years 
he  disappears,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  is 
presented  as  the  murderer  of  Frankenstein’s  infant 
brother,  and  as  waging  war  with  all  mankind,  in 
consequence  of  the  disgust  and  violence  with  which 
his  appearance  is  regarded.  The  demon  meets  and 
confronts  his  maker,  demanding  that  he  should 
create  him  a helpmate,  as  a solace  in  his  forced 
expatriation  from  society.  Frankenstein  retires  and 
begins  the  hideous  task,  and  while  engaged  in  it 
during  the  secrecy  of  midnight,  in  one  of  the  lonely 
islands  of  the  Orcades,  the  monster  appears  before 
him. 

A ghastly  grin  wrinkled  his  lips  as  he  gazed  on  me, 
where  I sat  fulfilling  the  task  which  he  allotted  to  me. 
Yes,  he  had  followed  me  in  my  travels ; he  had  loitered 
in  forests,  hid  himself  in  caves,  or  taken  refuge  in 
wide  and  desert  heaths;  and  he  now  came  to  mark*my 
progress,  and  claim  the  fulfilment  of  my  promise.  As 
I looked  on  him,  his  countenance  expressed  the  utmost 
extent  of  malice  and  treachery.  I thought  with  a 
sensation  of  madness  on  my  promise  of  creating  another 
like  to  him,  and,  trembling  with  passion,  tore  to  pieces 
the  thing  on  which  I was  engaged.  The  wrretch  saw 
me  destroy  the  creature  on  whose  future  existence  he 
depended  for  happiness,  and  with  a howl  of  devilish 
despair  and  revenge  withdrew. 

A series  of  horrid  and  malignant  events  now  mark 
the  career  of  the  demon.  He  murders  the  friend  of 
Frankenstein,  strangles  his  bride  on  her  wedding- 
night,  and  causes  the  death  of  his  father  from  grief, 
lie  eludes  detection,  but  Frankenstein,  in  agony 
and  despair,  resolves  to  seek  him  out,  and  sacrifice 
him  to  his  justice  and  revenge.  The  pursuit  is 
protracted  for  a considerable  time,  and  in  various 
countries,  and  at  length  conducts  us  to  the  ice-bound 
shores  and  islands  of  the  northern  ocean.  Franken- 
stein recognises  the  demon,  but  ere  he  can  reach 
him,  the  ice  gives  way,  and  he  is  afterwards  with 
difficulty  rescued  from  the  floating  wreck  by  the 
crew  of  a vessel  that  had  been  embayed  in  that  polar 
region.  Thus  saved  from  perishing,  Frankenstein 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


relates  to  the  captain  of  the  ship  his  ‘wild  and 
wondrous  tale,’  but  the  suffering  and  exhaustion 
had  proved  too  much  for  his  frame,  and  he  expires 
before  the  vessel  had  sailed  for  Britain.  The 
monster^ visits  the  ship,  and  after  mourning  over 
the  dead  body  of  his  victim,  quits  the  vessel, 
resolved  to  seek  the  most  northern  extremity  of  the 
globe,  and  there  to  put  a period  to  his  wretched 
and  unhallowed  existence.  The  power  of  genius  in 
clothing  incidents  the  most  improbable  with  strong 
interest  and  human  sympathies  is  evinced  in  this 
remarkable  story.  The  creation  of  the  demon  is 
admirably  told.  The  successive  steps  by  which 
the  solitary  student  arrives  at  his  great  secret,  after 
two  years  of  labour,  and  the  first  glimpse  which  he 
obtains  of  the  hideous  monster,  form  a narrative 
that  cannot  be  perused  without  sensations  of  awe 
and  terror.  While  the  demon  is  thus  partially 
known  and  revealed,  or  seen  only  in  the  distance, 
gliding  among  cliffs  and  glaciers,  appearing  by 
moonlight  to  demand  justice  from  his  maker,  or 
seated  in  his  car  among  the  tremendous  solitudes 
of  the  northern  ocean,  the  effect  is  striking  and 
magnificent.  The  interest  ceases  when  we  are  told 
of  the  self-education  of  the  monster,  which  is 
disgustingly  minute  in  detail,  and  absurd  in  con- 
ception; and  when  we  consider  the  improbability 
of  his  being  able  to  commit  so  many  crimes  in 
different  countries,  conspicuous  as  he  is  in  form, 
with  impunity,  and  without  detection.  Has  malig- 
nity of  disposition,  and  particularly  his  resentment 
towards  Frankenstein,  do  not  appear  unnatural 
when  we  recollect  how  he  has  been  repelled  from 
society,  and  refused  a companion  by  him  who  could 
alone  create  such  another.  In  his  wildest  outbursts 
we  partly  sympathise  with  him,  and  his  situation 
seems  to  justify  his  crimes.  In  depicting  the  internal 
workings  of  the  mind  and  the  various  phases  of  the 
passions,  Mrs  Shelley  evinces  skill  and  acuteness. 
Like  her  father,  she  excels  in  mental  analysis  and 
in  conceptions  of  the  grand  and  the  powerful,  but 
fails  in  the  management  of  her  fable  where  probable 
incidents  and  familiar  life  are  required  or  attempted. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs  Shelley — 
who  was  left  with  two  children — devoted  herself 
to  literary  pursuits,  and  produced  several  works — 
Yalperga,  The  Last  Man , Lodore,  The  Fortunes  of 
Perkin  Warbeck , and  other  works  of  fiction.  She 
contributed  biographies  of  foreign  artists  and  men 
of  letters  to  the  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia,  edited  and 
wrote  prefaces  to  Shelley’s  Poetical  Works , and  also 
edited  Shelley’s  Essays , Letters  from  Abroad,  Trans- 
lations and  Fragments  (1840).  In  the  writings  of 
Mrs  Shelley  there  is  much  of  that  plaintive  tender- 
ness and  melancholy  characteristic  of  her  father’s 
late  romances,  and  her  style  is  uniformly  pure  and 
graceful.  She  died  in  1851,  aged  fifty-four. 

[Love.] 

It  is  said  that  in  love  we  idolise  the  object,  and 
placing  him  apart,  and  selecting  him  from  his  fellows, 
look  on  him  as  superior  in  nature  to  all  others.  We 
do  so ; but  even  as  we  idolise  the  object  of  our  affec- 
tions, do  we  idolise  ourselves:  if  we  separate  him 
from  his  fellow-mortals,  so  do  we  separate  ourselves, 
and  glorying  in  belonging  to  him  alone,  feel  lifted 
above  all  other  sensations,  all  other  joys  and  griefs, 
to  one  hallowed  circle  from  which  all  but  his  idea  is 
banished : we  walk  as  if  a mist,  or  some  more  potent 
charm,  divided  us  from  all  but  him ; a sanctified  victim, 
which  none  but  the  priest  set  apart  for  that  office  could 
touch  and  not  pollute,  enshrined  in  a cloud  of  glory, 
made  glorious  through  beauties  not  our  own. 

474 


RET.  C.  R.  MATURIN. 

The  Rev.  C.  R.  Matures,  the  poetical  and 
eccentric  curate  of  St  Peter’s,  Dublin,  came  forward 
in  1807  as  an  imitator  of  the  terrific  and  gloomy 
style  of  novel  writing,  of  which  Monk  Lewis  was  the 
modem  master.  Its  higher  mysteries  were  known 
only  to  Mrs  Radcliffe.  The  date  of  that  style,  as 
Maturin  afterwards  confessed,  was  out  when  he  was 
a boy,  and  he  had  not  powers  to  revive  it.  His 
youthful  production  was  entitled  Fatal  Revenge,  or 
the  Family  of  Montorio.  The  first  part  of  this  title 
was  the  invention  of  the  publisher,  and  it  proved  a 
good  bookselling  appellation,  for  the  novel  was 
in  high  favour  in  the  circulating  libraries.  It  is 
undoubtedly  a work  of  genius — full  of  imagination 
and  energetic  language,  though  both  are  sometimes 
carried  to  extravagance  or  bombast.  Between 
1807  and  1820  our  author  published  a number  of 
works  of  romantic  fiction — The  Milesian  Chief ; The 
Wild  Irish  Boy;  Women,  or  Pour  et  Contre ; and 
Melmoth  the  Wanderer — all  works  in  three  or  four 
volumes  each.  Women  was  well  received  by  the 
public,  but  none  of  its  predecessors,  as  the  author 
himself  states,  ever  reached  a second  edition.  In 
Women  he  aimed  at  depicting  real  life  and  manners, 
and  we  have  some  pictures  of  Calvinistic  Methodists, 
an  Irish  Meg  Merrilees,  and  an  Irish  hero,  De 
Courcy,  whose  character  is  made  up  of  contradic- 
tions and  improbabilities.  Two  female  characters, 
Eva  "Wentworth  and  Zaira,  a brilliant  Italian — who 
afterwards  turns  out  to  be  the  mother  of  Eva — are 
drawn  with  delicacy  and  fine  effect.  The  former 
is  educated  in  strict  seclusion,  and  is  purity  itself. 
De  Courcy  is  in  love  with  both,  and  both  are 
blighted  by  his  inconstancy.  Eva  dies  calmly  and 
tranquilly,  elevated  by  religious  hope.  Zaira 
meditates  suicide,  but  desists  from  the  attempt, 
and  lives  on,  as  if  spell-bound  to  the  death-place  of 
her  daughter  and  lover.  De  Courcy  perishes  of 
remorse.  These  scenes  of  deep  passion  and  pathos 
are  coloured  with  the  lights  of  poetry  and  genius. 
Indeed  the  gradual  decay  of  Eva  is  the  happiest  of 
all  Mr  Maturin’s  delineations,  and  has  rarely  been 
surpassed.  The  simple  truthfulness  of  the  descrip- 
tion may  be  seen  in  passages  like  the  following : 

The  weather  was  unusually  fine,  though  it  was 
September,  and  the  evenings  mild  and  beautiful.  Eva 
passed  them  almost  entirely  in  the  garden.  She  had 
always  loved  the  fading  light  and  delicious  tints  of  an 
evening  sky,  and  now  they  were  endeared  by  that 
which  endears  even  indifferent  things — an  internal 
consciousness  that  we  have  not  long  to  behold  them. 
Mrs  Wentworth  remonstrated  against  this  indulgence, 
and  mentioned  it  to  the  physician;  but  he  ‘answered 
neglectingly ; ’ said  anything  that  amused  her  mind 
could  do  her  no  harm,  &c.  Then  Mrs  Wentworth  began 
to  feel  there  was  no  hope;  and  Eva  was  suffered  to 
muse  life  away  unmolested.  To  the  garden  every 
evening  she  went,  and  brought  her  library  with  her ; 
it  consisted  of  but  three  books — the  Bible,  Young’s 
Night  Thoughts , and  Blair’s  Grave.  One  evening  the  1 
unusual  beauty  of  the  sky  made  her  involuntarily  drop  j 
her  book.  She  gazed  upward,  and  felt  as  if  a book  j 
was  open  in  heaven,  where  all  the  lovely  and  varying  j 
phenomena  presented  in  living  characters  to  her  view  j 
the  name  of  the  Divinity.  There  was  a solemn  con-  ! 
geniality  between  her  feelings  of  her  own  state  and 
the  view  of  the  declining  day — the  parting  light  and  I 
the  approaching  darkness.  The  glow  of  the  western 
heaven  was  still  resplendent  and  glorious;  a little  I 
above,  the  blending  hues  of  orange  and  azure  were 
softening  into  a mellow  and  indefinite  light;  and  in 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


REV.  0.  R.  MATTJRIN. 


the  upper  region  of  the  air,  a delicious  blue  darkness 
invited  the  eye  to  repose  in  luxurious  dimness : one 
star  alone  shewed  its  trembling  head — another  and 
another,  like  infant  births  of  light ; and  in  the  dark 
east  the  half-moon,  like  a bark  of  pearl,  came  on 
through  the  deep  still  ocean  of  heaven.  Eva  gazed 
on ; some  tears  came  to  her  eyes ; they  were  a luxury. 
Suddenly  she  felt  as  if  she  were  quite  well;  a glow 
like  that  of  health  pervaded  her  whole  frame — one  of 
those  indescribable  sensations  that  seem  to  assure  us  of 
safety,  while,  in  fact,  they  are  announcing  dissolution. 
She  imagined  herself  suddenly  restored  to  health  and 
to  happiness.  She  saw  De  Courcy  once  more,  as  in 
their  early  hours  of  love,  when  his  face  was  to  her  as 
if  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel;  thought  after 
thought  came  back  on  her  heart  like  gleams  of  paradise. 
She  trembled  at  the  felicity  that  filled  her  whole  soul ; 
it  was  one  of  those  fatal  illusions,  that  disease,  when 
it  is  connected  with  strong  emotions  of  the  mind,  often 
flatters  its  victim  with — that  mirage , when  the  heart 
is  a desert,  which  rises  before  the  wanderer,  to  dazzle, 
to  delude,  and  to  destroy. 

Melmoth , another  of  Mr  Maturin’s  works,  is  the 
wildest  of  his  romances.  The  hero  ‘gleams  with 
demon  light,’  and  owing  to  a compact  with  Satan, 
lives  a century  and  a half,  performing  all  manner 
of  adventures,  the  most  defensible  of  which  is 
frightening  an  Irish  miser  to  death.  Some  of  the 
details  in  Melmoth  are  absolutely  sickening  and 
loathsome.  They  seem  the  last  convulsive  efforts 
and  distortions  of  the  Monk  Lewis  school  of 
romance.  In  1824 — the  year  of  his  premature 
death — Mr  Maturin  published  The  Albigenses , a 
romance  in  four  volumes.  This  work  was  intended 
by  the  author  as  one  of  a series  of  romances  illus- 
trative of  European  feelings  and  manners  in  ancient, 
in  middle,  and  in  modern  times.  Laying  the  scene 
of  his  story  in  France,  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
the  author  connected  it  with  the  wars  between  the 
Catholics  and  the  Albigenses,  the  latter  being  the 
earliest  of  the  reformers  of  the  faith.  Such  a time 
was  well  adapted  for  the  purposes  of  romance ; 
and  Mr  Maturin  in  this  work  presented  some  good 
pictures  of  the  Crusaders,  and  of  the  Albigenses  in 
their  lonely  worship  among  rocks  and  mountains. 
He  had  not,  however,  the  power  of  delineating 
varieties  of  character,  and  his  attempts  at  humour 
are  wretched  failures.  In  constructing  a plot,  he 
was  also  deficient ; and  hence  The  Albigenses , want- 
ing the  genuine  features  of  a historical  romance,  and 
destitute  of  the  supernatural  machinery  which  had 
imparted  a certain  degree  of  wild  interest  to  the 
author’s  former  works,  was  universally  pronounced 
to  be  tedious  and  uninteresting.  Passages,  as  we 
have  said,  are  carefully  finished  and  well  drawn,  and 
we  subjoin  a brief  specimen. 

[A  Lady’s  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth  Century .] 

* I am  weary,’  said  the  lady ; ‘ disarray  me  for  rest. 

| But  thou,  Claudine,  be  near  when  I sleep ; I love  thee 
well,  wench,  though  I have  not  shewn  it  hitherto.  Wear 
this  carkanet  for  my  sake ; but  wear  it  not,  I charge 
thee,  in  the  presence  of  Sir  Paladour.  Now  read  me 
my  riddle  once  more,  my  maidens.’  As  her  head 
sunk  on  the  silken  pillow — ‘ How  may  ladies  sink  most 
sweetly  into  their  first  slumber  ? ’ 

‘ I ever  sleep  best,’  said  Blanche,  ‘ when  some  withered 
crone  is  seated  by  the  hearth  fire  to  tell  me  tales  of 
wizardry  or  goblins,  till  they  are  mingled  with  my 
dreams,  and  I start  up,  tell  my  beads,  and  pray  her  to 
go  on,  till  I see  that  I am  talking  only  to  the  dying 
embers  or  the  fantastic  forms  shaped  by  their  flashes 
on  the  dark  tapestry  or  darker  ceiling.’ 


‘And  I love,’  said  Germonda,  ‘to  he  lulled  to  rest 
by  tales  of  knights  met  in  forests  by  fairy  damsels,  and 
conducted  to  enchanted  halls,  where  they  are  assailed 
by  foul  fiends,  and  do  battle  with  strong  giants ; and 
are,  in  fine,  rewarded  with  the  hand  of  the  fair  dame, 
for  whom  they  have  perilled  all  that  knight  or  Christian 
may  hold  precious  for  the  safety  of  body  and  of  soul.’ 

‘ Peace  and  good  rest  to  you  all,  my  dame  and 
maidens,’  said  the  lady,  in  whispering  tones  from  her 
silken  couch.  ‘None  of  you  have  read  my  riddle. 
She  sleeps  sweetest  and  deepest  who  sleeps  to  dream 
of  her  first  love — her  first — her  last — her  only.  A fair 
good-night  to  all.  Stay  thou  with  me,  Claudine,  and 
touch  thy  lute,  wench,  to  the  strain  of  some  old  ditty 
— old  and  melancholy — such  as  may  so  softly  usher 
sleep  that  I feel  not  his  downy  fingers  closing  mine 
eyelids,  or  the  stilly  rush  of  his  pinions  as  they  sweep 
my  brow.’ 

Claudine  prepared  to  obey  as  the  lady  sunk  to  rest 
amid  softened  lights,  subdued  odours,  and  dying 
melodies.  A silver  lamp,  richly  fretted,  suspended 
from  the  raftered  roof,  gleamed  faintly  on  the  splendid 
bed.  The  curtains  were  of  silk,  and  the  coverlet  of 
velvet,  faced  with  miniver;  gilded  coronals  and  tufts 
of  plumage  shed  alternate  gleam  and  shadow  over  every 
angle  of  the  canopy;  and  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver 
covered  every  compartment  of  the  walls,  save  where 
the  uncouthly  constructed  doors  and  windows  broke 
them  into  angles,  irreconcilable  alike  to  every  rule 
of  symmetry  or  purpose  of  accommodation.  Near  the 
ample  hearth,  stored  with  blazing  wood,  were  placed  a 
sculptured  desk,  furnished  with  a missal  and  breviary 
gorgeously  illuminated,  and  a black  marble  tripod 
supporting  a vase  of  holy- water : certain  amulets,  too, 
lay  on  the  hearth,  placed  there  by  the  care  of  Dame 
Marguerite,  some  in  the  shape  of  relics,  and  others  in 
less  consecrated  forms,  on  which  the  lady  was  often 
observed  by  her  attendants  to  look  somewhat  disregard- 
fully.  The  great  door  of  the  chamber  was  closed  by 
the  departing  damsels  carefully ; and  the  rich  sheet  of 
tapestry  dropt  over  it,  whose  hushful  sweeping  on  the 
floor  seemed  like  the  wish  fot  a deep  repose  breathed 
from  a thing  inanimate.  The  castle  was  still,  the  silver 
lamp  twinkled  silently  and  dimly ; the  perfumes  burn- 
ing in1  small  silver  vases  round  the  chamber,  began 
to  abate  their  gleams  and  odours  ; the  scented  waters, 
scattered  on  the  rushes  with  which  the  floor  was  strewn, 
flaggedj  and  failed  in  their  delicious  tribute  to  the 
sense ; i the  bright  moon,  pouring  its  glories  through 
the  uncurtained  but  richly  tinted  casement,  shed  its 
borrowed  hues  of  crimson,  amber,  and  purple  on  curtain 
and  canopy,  as  in  defiance  of  the  artificial  light  that 
gleamed  so  feebly  within  the  chamber. 

Claudine  tuned  her  lute,  and  murmured  the  rude 
song  of  a troubadour,  such  as  follows : 

Song. 

Sleep,  noble  lady!  They  sleep  well  who  sleep  in 
warded  castles.  4 If  the  Count  de  Monfort,  the  cham- 
pion of  the  church,  and  the  strongest  lance  in  the 
chivalry  of  France,  were  your  foe  as  he  is  your  friend, 
one  hundred  of  the  arrows  of  his  boldest  archers  at 
their  best  flight  would  fail  to  reach  a loophole  of  your 
towers. 

Sleep,  noble  lady  ! They  sleep  well  who  are  guarded 
by  the  valiant.  Five  hundred  belted  knights  feast  in 
your  halls ; they  would  not  see  your  towers  won,  though 
to  defend  them  they  took  the  place  of  your  vassals,  who 
are  tenfold  that  number ; and,  lady,  I wish  they  were 
more  for  your  sake.  Valiant  knights,  faithful  vassals, 
watch  well  your  lady’s  slumbers  ; see  that  they  be  never 
broken  but  by  the  matin-bell,  or  the  sighs  of  lovers 
whispered  between  its  tolls. 

Sleep,  noble  lady  ! Your  castle  is  strong,  and  the 
brave  and  the  loyal  are  your  guard. 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830, 


Then  the  noble  lady  whispered  to  me  through  her 
silken  curtain : ‘A  foe  hath  found  his  way  to  me, 
though  my  towers  are  strong,  and  the  valiant  are  my 
guard,  and  the  brave  and  the  beautiful  woo  me  in 
song,  and  with  many  kissings  of  their  hands.’  And  I 
asked,  what  foe  is  that  ? The  lady  dropt  her  silken 
curtain,  and  slept ; but  methought  in  her  dreams  she 
murmured — ‘ That  foe  is  Love  ! ’ 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

We  have  already  touched  on  the  more  remarkable 
and  distinguishing  features  of  the  Waverley  novels, 
and  the  influence  which  they  exercised  not  only  on 
this  country,  but  over  the  whole  continent  of  Europe. 
That  long  array  of  immortal  fictions  can  only  be 
compared  with  the  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  as  pre- 
senting an  endless  variety  of  original  characters, 
scenes,  historical  situations,  and  adventures.  They 


H—+ 

are  marked  by  the  same  universal  and  genial 
sympathies,  allied  to  every  form  of  humanity,  and 
free  from  all  selfish  egotism  or  moral  obliquity.  In 
painting  historical  personages  or  events,  these  two 
great  masters  evinced  a kindred  taste,  and  not  dis- 
similar powers.  The  highest  intellectual  traits  and 
imagination  of  Shakspeare  were,  it  is  true,  not 
approached  by  Scott : the  dramatist  looked  inwardly 
upon  man  and  nature  with  a more  profound  and 
searching  philosophy.  He  could  effect  more  with 
his  five  acts  than  Scott  with  his  three  volumes. 
The  novelist  only  pictured  to  the  eye  what  his  great 
prototype  stamped  on  the  heart  and  feelings.  Yet 
both  were  great  moral  teachers,  without  seeming 
to  teach.  They  were  brothers  in  character  and 
in  genius,  and  they  poured  out  their  imaginative 
treasures  with  a calm  easy  strength  and  conscious 
mastery,  of  which  the  world  has  seen  no  other 
examples. 

So  early  as  1805,  before  his  great  poems  were 
produced,  Scott  had  entered  on  the  composition  of 
Waverley,  the  first  of  his  illustrious  progeny  of  tales. 
He  wrote  about  seven  chapters,  evidently  taking 
Fielding,  in  his  grave  descriptive  and  ironical  vein, 
for  Iris  model;  but,  getting  dissatisfied  with  his 
attempt,  he  threw  it  aside.  Eight  years  afterwards 
he  met  accidentally  with  the  fragment,  and  deter- 
mined to  finish  the  story.*  In  the  interval  between 
the  commencement  of  the  novel  in  1805  and  its 
resumption  in  1813,  Scott  had  acquired  greater 
freedom  and  self-reliance  as  an  author.  In  Marmion 
and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  he  had  struck  out  a path 
for  himself,  and  the  latter  portion  of  Waverley 
partook  of  the  new  spirit  and  enthusiasm.  A large 
part  of  its  materials  resembles  those  employed  in 
I'he  Lady  of  the  Lake — Highland  feudalism,  military 
bravery  and  devotion,  and  the  most  easy  and 
exquisite  description  of  natural  scenery.  He  added 
also  a fine  vein  of  humour,  chaste  yet  ripened,  and 
peculiarly  his  own,  and  a power  of  uniting  history 
with  fiction,  that  subsequently  became  one  of  the 
great  sources  of  his  strength.  His  portrait  of 
Charles  Edward,  the  noble  old  Baron  of  Bradwardine, 

* He  had  put  the  chapters  aside,  as  he  tells  us,  in  a writing- 
desk  wherein  he  used  to  keep  fishing-tackle.  The  desk— a 
substantial  old  mahogany  cabinet — and  part  of  the  fishing- 
tackle  are  now  in  the  possession  of  the  family  of  Scott’s  friend, 
Mr  William  Laidlaw,  at  Contin,  in  Ross-sliire. 


the  simple  faithful  clansman  Evan  Dhu,  and  the 
poor  fool  Davie  Gellatley,  with  his  fragments  of 
song  and  scattered  gleams  of  fancy  and  sensibility, 
were  new  triumphs  of  the  author.  The  poetry  had 
projected  shadows  and  outlines  of  the  Highland 
chief,  the  gaiety  and  splendour  of  the  court,  and  the 
agitation  of  the  camp  and  battle-field;  but  the 
humorous  contrasts,  homely  observation,  and  pathos, 
displayed  in  Waverley,  disclosed  far  deeper  observa- 
tion and  more  original  powers.  The  work  was  pub- 
lished in  July  1814.  Scott  did  not  prefix  his  name 
to  it,  afraid  that  he  might  compromise  his  poetical 
reputation  by  a doubtful  experiment  in  a new  style 
— particularly  by  his  copious  use  of  Scottish  terms 
and  expressions ; but  the  unmingled  applause  with 
which  the  tale  was  received  was,  he  says,  like  having 
the  property  of  a hidden  treasure, 1 not  less  gratify- 
ing than  if  all  the  world  knew  it  was  his  own.’ 
Henceforward  Scott  resolved,  as  a novelist,  to  pre- 
serve his  mask,  desirous  to  obviate  all  personal  dis- 
cussions respecting  his  own  productions,  and  aware 
also  of  the  interest  and  curiosity  which  his  secrecy 
would  impart  to  his  subsequent  productions. 

In  February  1815 — seven  months  after  Waverley 
— Scott  published  his  second  novel,  Guy  Mannering. 
It  was  the  work  of  six  weeks  about  Christmas,  and 
marks  of  haste  are  visible  in  the  construction  of  the 
plot  and  development  of  incidents.  Yet  what  length 
of  time  or  patience  in  revision  could  have  added  to 
the  charm  or  hilarity  of  such  portraits  as  that  of 
Dandy  Dinmont,  or  the  shrewd  and  witty  Counsellor 
Pleydell — the  finished,  desperate,  sea-beaten  villainy 
of  Hatteraick — the  simple  uncouth  devotion  of  that 
gentlest  of  pedants,  poor  Dominie  Sampson — or  the 
wild  savage  virtues  and  crazed  superstition  of  the 
gipsy-dweller  in  Derncleugh?  The  astrological 
agency  and  predictions  so  marvellously  fulfilled  are 
undoubtedly  excrescences  on  the  story,  though 
suited  to  a winter’s  tale  in  Scotland.  The  love 
scenes  and  female  characters,  and  even  Mannering 
himself,  seem  also  allied  to  the  Minerva  Press 
family,  but  the  Scotch  characters  are  all  admirably 
filled  up.  There  is  also  a captivating  youthful 
feeling  and  spirit  in  the  description  of  the  wander- 
ings and  dangers  of  Bertram,  and  the  events, 
improbable  as  they  appear,  which  restore  him  to 
his  patrimony ; while  the  gradual  decay  and  death 
of  the  old  Laird  of  Ellangowan — carried  out  to  the 
green  as  his  castle  and  effects  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  auctioneer — are  inexpressibly  touching  and 
natural.  The  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained 
throughout  with  dramatic  skill  and  effect. 

In  May  1816  came  forth  The  Antiquary , less 
romantic  and  bustling  in  incidents  than  either  of  its 
predecessors,  but  infinitely  richer  in  character, 
dialogue,  and  humour.  In  this  work  Scott  displayed 
his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  middle  and  lower 
ranks  of  Scottish  life.  He  confined  his  story  chiefly 
to  a small  fishing  town  and  one  or  two  country 
mansions.  His  hero  is  a testy  old  Whig  laird  and 
bachelor,  and  his  dramatis  personae  are  little  better 
than  this  retired  humorist — the  family  of  a poor 
fisherman — a blue-gown  mendicant— an  old  barber 
— and  a few  other  humble  ‘ landward  and  burrows 
town  ’ characters.  The  sentimental  Lord  Glenallan, 
and  the  pompous  Sir  Arthur  Ward  our,  with  Lovel 
the  unknown,  and  the  fiery  Hector  MTntyre — the 
latter  a genuine  Celtic  portrait — are  necessary  to 
the  plot  and  action  of  the  piece,  but  they  constitute 
only  a small  degree  of  the  reader’s  pleasure  or  the 
author’s  fame.  These  rest  on  the  inimitable  deline- 
ation of  Oldbuck,  that  model  of  black-letter  and 
Roman-camp  antiquaries,  whose  oddities  and  con- 
versation are  rich  and  racy  as  any  of  the  old-crusted 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  Walter  scott. 


port  that  John  of  the  Girnel  might  have  held  in  his 
monastic  cellars — on  the  restless,  garrulous,  kind- 
hearted  gaberlunzie,  Edie  Ochiltree,  who  delighted  to 
daunder  down  the  burn-sides  and  green  shaws — on 
the  cottage  of  the  Mucklebackets,  and  the  death 
and  burial  of  Steenie — and  on  that  scene  of  storm 
and  tempest  by  the  sea-side,  which  is  described  with 
such  vivid  reality  and  appalling  magnificence.  The 
amount  of  curious  reading,  knowledge  of  local 
history  and  antiquities,  power  of  description,  and 
breadth  of  humour  in  The  Antiquary , render  it  one  of 
the  most  perfect  of  the  author’s  novels.  If  Cervantes 
and  Fielding  really  excelled  Scott  in  the  novel  (he 
is  unapproached  in  romance),  it  must  be  admitted 
that  The  Antiquary  ranks  only  second  to  Don  Quixote 
and  Tom  Jones.  In  none  of  his  works  has  Scott 
shewn  greater  power  in  developing  the  nicer  shades 
of  feeling  and  character,  or  greater  felicity  of  phrase 
and  illustration.  A healthy  moral  tone  also  per- 
vades the  whole — a clear  and  bracing  atmosphere  of 
real  life ; and  what  more  striking  lesson  in  practical 
benevolence  was  ever  inculcated  than  those  words 
of  the  rough  old  fisherman,  ejaculated  while  he  was 
mending  his  boat  after  returning  from  his  son’s 
funeral — 4 What  would  you  have  me  do,  unless  I 
wanted  to  see  four  children  starve  because  one  is 
drowned  ? It ’s  weel  wi’  you  gentles,  that  can  sit 
in  the  house  wi’  handkerchers  at  your  een,  when  ye 
lose  a freend,  but  the  like  of  us  maun  to  our  wark 
again,  if  our  hearts  were  beating  as  hard  as  my 
hammer.’ 

In  December  of  the  same  year,  Scott  was  ready 
with  two  other  novels,  The  Black  Dwarf,  and  Old 
Mortality.  These  formed  the  first  series  of  Tales  of 
My  Landlord,  and  were  represented,  by  a somewhat 
forced  and  clumsy  prologue,  as  the  composition  of 
a certain  Mr  Peter  Pattieson,  assistant-teacher  at 
Gandercleuch,  and  published  after  his  death  by  his 
pedagogue  superior,  Jedediah  Cleishbotham.  The 
new  disguise — to  heighten  which  a different  pub- 
lisher had  been  selected  for  the  tales — was  as 
unavailing  as  it  was  superfluous.  The  universal 
voice  assigned  the  works  to  the  author  of  Waverley, 
and  the  second  of  the  collection,  Old  Mortality , was 
pronounced  to  be  the  greatest  of  his  performances. 
It  was  another  foray  into  the  regions  of  history 
which  was  rewarded  with  the  most  brilliant  spoil. 
Happy  as  he  had  been  in  depicting  the  era  of  the 
Forty-five,  he  shone  still  more  in  the  gloomy  and 
troublous  times  of  the  Covenanters.  ‘To  repro- 
duce a departed  age,’  says  Mr  Lockhart,  ‘ with  such 
minute  and  lifelike  accuracy  as  this  tale  exhibits, 
demanded  a far  more  energetic  sympathy  of  imagin- 
ation than  had  been  called  for  in  any  effort  of  his 
serious  verse.  It  is  indeed  most  curiously  instruc- 
tive for  any  student  of  art  to  compare  the  Round- 
heads  of  Rolceby  with  the  Blue-bonnets  of  Old 
Mortality.  For  the  rest  the  story  is  framed  with  a 
deeper  skill  than  any  of  the  preceding  novels ; the 
canvas  is  a broader  one ; the  characters  are  con- 
trasted and  projected  with  a power  and  felicity 
which  neither  he  nor  any  other  master  ever  sur- 
passed ; and  notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  urged 
against  him  as  a disparager  of  the  Covenanters,  it 
is  to  me  very  doubtful  whether  the  inspiration  of 
chivalry  ever  prompted  him  to  nobler  emotions  than 
he  has  lavished  on  the  reanimation  of  their  stern 
and  solemn  enthusiasm.  This  work  has  always 
appeared  to  me  the  Marmion  of  his  novels.’  He 
never  surpassed  it  either  for  force  or  variety  of 
character,  or  in  the  interest  and  magnificence  of  the 
train  of  events  described.  The  contrasts  are  also 
managed  with  consummate  art.  In  the  early  scenes, 
Morton  (the  best  of  all  his  young  heroes)  serves  as 


a foil  to  the  fanatical  and  gloomy  Burley,  and  the 
change  effected  in  the  character  and  feelings  of  the 
youth  by  the  changing  current  of  events,  is  traced 
with  perfect  skill  and  knowledge  of  human  natui£. 
The  two  classes  of  actors — the  brave  and  dissolute 
cavaliers,  and  the  resolute  oppressed  Covenanters — 
are  not  only  drawn  in  their  strong  distinguishing 
features  in  bold  relief,  but  are  separated  from  each 
other  by  individual  traits  and  peculiarities,  the 
result  of  native  or  acquired  habits.  The  inter- 
mingling of  domestic  scenes  and  low  rustic  humour 
with  the  stormy  events  of  the  warlike  struggle, 
gives  vast  additional  effect  to  the  sterner  passages 
of  the  tale,  and  to  the  prominence  of  its  principal 
actors.  How  admirably,  for  example,  is  the  reader 
prepared,  by  contrast,  to  appreciate  that  terrible 
encounter  with  Burley  in  his  rocky  fastness,  by  the 
previous  description  of  the  blind  and  aged  widow, 
intrusted  with  the  secret  of  his  retreat,  and  who 
dwelt  alone,  4 like  the  widow  of  Zarephath,’  in  her 
poor  and  solitary  cottage!  The  dejection  and 
anxiety  of  Morton  on  his  return  from  Holland  are 
no  less  strikingly  contrasted  with  the  scene  of  rural 
peace  and  comfort  which  he  witnesses  on  the  banks 
of  the  Clyde,  where  Cuddie  Headrigg’s  cottage  sends 
up  its  thin  blue  smoke  among  the  trees,  4 shewing 
that  the  evening  meal  was  in  the  act  of  being  made 
ready,’  and  his  little  daughter  fetches  water  in  a 
pitcher  from  the  fountain  at  the  root  of  an  old  oak- 
tree  ! The  humanity  of  Scott  is  exquisitely  illus- 
trated by  the  circumstance  of  the  pathetic  verses, 
wrapping  a lock  of  hair,  which  are  found  on  the 
slain  body  of  Bothwell — as  to  shew  that  in  the 
darkest  and  most  dissolute  characters  some  portion 
of  our  higher  nature  still  lingers  to  attest  its  divine 
origin.  In  the  same  sympathetic  and  relenting 
spirit,  Dirk  Hatteraick,  in  Guy  Mannering , is 
redeemed  from  utter  sordidness  and  villainy  by  his 
one  virtue  of  integrity  to  his  employers.  4 1 was 
always  faithful  to  my  ship-owners — always  accounted 
for  cargo  to  the  last  stiver.’  The  image  of  God  is 
never  wholly  blotted  out  of  the  human  mind. 

The  year  1818  witnessed  two  other  coinages  from 
the  Waverley  mint,  Rob  Roy  and  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian , the  latter  forming  a second  series  of  the 
Tales  of  My  Landlord.  The  first  of  these  works 
revived  the  public  enthusiasm,  excited  by  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake  and  Waverley,  with  respect  to  Highland 
scenery  and  manners.  The  sketches  in  the  novel 
are  bold  and  striking — hit  off  with  the  careless 
freedom  of  a master,  and  possessing  perhaps  more 
witchery  of  romantic  interest  than  elaborate  and 
finished  pictures.  The  character  of  Bailie  Nicol 
Jarvie  was  one  of  the  author’s  happiest  conceptions, 
and  the  idea  of  carrying  him  to  the  wild  rugged 
mountains,  among  outlaws  and  desperadoes — at  the 
same  time  that  he  retained  a keen  relish  of  the 
comforts  of  the  Saltmarket  of  Glasgow,  and  a due 
sense  of  his  dignity  as  a magistrate — completed  the 
ludicrous  effect  of  the  picture.  None  of  Scott’s 
novels  was  more  popular  than  Rob  Roy,  yet,  as  a 
story,  it  is  the  most  ill-concocted  and  defective  of 
the  whole  series.  Its  success  was  owing  to  its 
characters  alone.  Among  these,  however,  cannot 
be  reckoned  its  nominal  hero,  Osbaldiston,  who,  like 
Waverley,  is  merely  a walking-gentleman.  Scott’s 
heroes,  as  agents  in  the  piece,  are  generally  inferior 
to  his  heroines.  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian  is  as 
essentially  national  in  spirit,  language,  and  actors, 
as  Rob  Roy,  but  it  is  the  nationality  of  the  Low- 
lands. No  other  author  but  Scott — Galt,  his  best 
imitator  in  this  department,  would  have  failed — 
could  have  dwelt  so  long  and  with  such  circumstan- 
tial minuteness  on  the  daily  life  and  occurrences 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  xo  1830. 

of  a family  like  that  of  Davie  Deans,  the  cowfeeder, 
without  disgusting  his  high-bred  readers  with  what 
must  have  seemed  vulgar  and  uninteresting.  Like 
Bums,  he  made  ‘ rustic  life  and  poverty  * 

Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 

Duchesses,  in  their  halls  and  saloons,  traced  with 
interest  and  delight  the  pages  that  recorded  the 
pious  firmness  and  humble  heroism  of  Jeanie  Deans, 
and  the  sufferings  and  disgrace  of  her  unfortunate 
sister;  and  who  shall  say  that  in  thus  uniting 
different  ranks  in  one  bond  of  fellow-feeling,  and 
exhibiting  to  the  high  and  wealthy  the  virtues  that 
often  dwell  with  the  lowly  and  obscure,  Scott  was 
not  fulfilling  one  of  the  loftiest  and  most  sacred 
missions  upon  earth  ? 

A story  of  still  more  sustained  and  overwhelming 
pathos  is  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  published  in 
1819  in  conjunction  with  The  Legend  of  Montrose, 
and  both  forming  a third  series  of  Tales  of  My 
Landlord.  The  Bride  is  one  of  the  most  finished  of 
Scott’s  tales,  presenting  a unity  and  entireness  of 
plot  and  action,  as  if  the  whole  were  bound  together 
by  that  dreadful  destiny  which  hangs  over  the 
principal  actors,  and  impels  them  irresistibly  to 
destruction.  ‘In  this  tale,’  says  Macaulay,  ‘above 
other  modem  productions,  we  see  embodied  the 
dark  spirit  of  fatalism — that  spirit  which  breathes 
in  the  writings  of  the  Greek  tragedians  when  they 
traced  the  persecuting  vengeance  of  Destiny  against 
the  houses  of  Laius  and  of  Atreus.  Their  mantle 
was  for  a while  worn  unconsciously  by  him  who 
shewed  to  us  Macbeth:  and  here  again,  in  the 
deepening  gloom  of  this  tragic  tale,  we  feel  the 
oppressive  influence  of  this  invisible  power.  From 
the  time  we  hear  the  prophetic  rhymes,  the  spell 
has  begun  its  work,  and  the  clouds  of  misfortune 
blacken  round  us;  and  the  fated  course  moves 
solemnly  onward,  irresistible  and  unerring  as  the 
progress  of  the  sun,  and  soon  to  end  in  a night  of 
horror.  We  remember  no  other  tale  in  which  not 
doubt,  but  certainty,  forms  the  groundwork  of  our 
interest.’  If  Shakspeare  was  unconscious  of  the 
classic  fatalism  he  depicted  with  such  unrivalled 
power,  Scott  was  probably  as  ignorant  of  any 
such  premeditation  and  design.  Both  followed  the 
received  traditions  of  their  country,  and  the  novelist, 
we  know,  composed  his  work  in  intervals  of  such 
acute  suffering,  allayed  only  by  the  most  violent 
remedies,  that  on  his  recovery,  after  the  novel  had 
been  printed,  he  recollected  nothing  but  the  mere 
outline  of  his  story,  with  which  he  had  been  fami- 
liar from  his  youth.  He  had  entirely  forgotten  what 
he  dictated  from  his  sick-bed.  The  main  incident, 
however,  was  of  a nature  likely  to  make  a strong 
impression  on  his  mind,  and  to  this  we  must  impute 
the  grand  simplicity  and  seeming  completeness  of 
art  in  the  management  of  the  fable.  The  character 
of  the  old  butler,  Caleb  Balderston,  has  been  con^ 
demned  as  a ridiculous  and  incongruous  exaggera- 
tion. We  are  not  sure  that  it  does  not  materially 
heighten  the  effect  of  the  tragic  portion  of  the  tale, 
by  that  force  of  contrast  which  we  have  mentioned 
as  one  of  Scott’s  highest  attributes  as  a novelist. 
There  is,  however,  too  much  of  the  butler,  and 
some  of  his  inventions  are  mere  tricks  of  farce. 
As  Shakspeare  descended  to  quibbles  and  conceits, 
Scott  loved  to  harp  upon  certain  phrases — as  in 
Dominie  Sampson,  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie,  and  the 
dowager-lady  of  Tillietudlem— and  to  make  his 
lower  characters  indulge  in  practical  jokes,  like 
those  of  old  Caleb  and  Edie  Ochiltree.  The  proverbs 
of  Sancho,  in  Don  Quixote , may  be  thought  to 
come  under  the  same  class  of  inferior  resources,  to 
478 

be  shunned  rather  than  copied  by  the  novelist  who 
aims  at  truth  and  originality ; but  Sancho’s  sayings 
are  too  rich  and  apposite  to  be  felt  as  mere  surplu- 
sage. The  Legend  of  Montrose  is  a brief  imperfect 
historical  novel,  yet  contains  one  of  the  author’s 
most  lively  and  amusing  characters,  worthy  of 
being  ranked  with  Bailie  Jarvie;  namely,  the 
redoubted  Ritt-master,  Dugald  Dalgetty.  The 
union  of  the  soldado  with  the  pedantic  student  of 
Mareschal  College  is  a conception  as  original  as  the 
Uncle  Toby  of  Sterne. 

The  historical  romance  of  Ivanhoe  appeared  in 
1820.  It  is  the  most  brilliant  of  all  his  pure 
romances,  indeed  the  most  splendid  in  any  litera- 
ture. The  scene  being  laid  in  England,  and  in  the 
England  of  Richard  I.,  the  author  had  to  draw 
largely  on  his  fancy  and  invention,  and  was  debarred 
those  attractive  auxiliaries  of  everyday  life,  speech, 
and  manners,  which  had  lent  such  a charm  to  his 
Scottish  novels.  Here  we  had  the  remoteness  of 
antiquity,  the  old  Saxon  halls  and  feasts,  the 
resuscitation  of  chivalry  in  all  its  pomp  and  pic- 
turesqueness, the  realisation  of  our  boyish  dreams 
about  Coeur-de-lion,  Robin  Hood,  and  Sherwood 
Forest,  with  its  grassy  glades,  and  sylvan  sports, 
and  impenetrable  foliage.  We  were  presented  with 
a series  of  the  most  splendid  pictures,  the  canvas 
crowded  with  life  and  action — with  the  dark  shades 
of  cruelty,  vice,  and  treason,  and  the  brightness  of 
heroic  courage,  dauntless  fortitude,  and  uncorrupted 
faith  and  purity.  The  thrilling  interest  of  the  story 
is  another  of  the  merits  of  Ivanhoe — the  incidents 
all  help  on  the  narrative,  as  well  as  illustrate  ancient 
manners.  In  the  hall  of  Cedric,  at  the  tournament 
or  siege,  we  never  cease  to  watch  over  the  fate  of 
Rowena  and  the  Disinherited  Knight;  and  the 
steps  of  the  gentle  Rebecca— the  meek  yet  high- 
souled  Jewessc— are  traced  with  still  deeper  and 
holier  feeling.*  The  whole  is  a grand  picturesque 
pageant,  yet  full  of  a gentle  nobleness  and  proud 
simplicity. 

The  next  works  of  Scott  were  of  a tamer  cast, 
though  his  foot  was  on  Scottish  ground.  The 
Monastery  and  Abbot,  both  published  in  1820,  are 
defective  in  plot,  and  the  first  disfigured  by  absurd 
supernatural  machinery.  The  character  of  Queen 
Mary  in  the  Abbot  is,  however,  a correct  and 
beautiful  historical  portrait,  and  the  scenery  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Tweed — haunted  glens  and 
woods — is  described  with  the  author’s  accustomed 
felicity.  A counterpart  to  Queen  Mary,  still  more 
highly  finished,  was  soon  afforded  in  the  delineation 
of  her  great  rival,  Elizabeth,  in  the  romance  of 
Kenilworth.  This  work  appeared  in  January  1821, 
and  was  ranked  next  to  Ivanhoe.  There  was  a 
profusion  of  rich  picturesque  scenes  and  objects, 
dramatic  situations,  and  a well-arranged,  involved, 
yet  interesting  plot.  None  of  the  plots  in  the 
Waverley  novels  are  without  blemish.  ‘None,’  as 
•Macaulay  remarks,  ‘have  that  completeness  which 
constitutes  one  of  the  chief  merits  of  Fielding’s 
Tom  Jones : there  is  always  either  an  improbability, 
or  a forced  expedient,  or  an  incongruous  incident, 

* Rebecca  was  considered  by  Scott  himself,  as  well  as  by  the 
public,  to  be  his  finest  female  character.  Mr  Laidlaw,  to  whom 
part  of  the  novel  was  dictated,  used  to  speak  of  the  strong 
interest  which  Sir  Walter  evinced  in  filling  up  his  outline.  * I 
shall  make  something  of  my  Jewess,’  said  he  one  day  in  a tone 
of  unusual  exultation.  * You  will  indeed,’  replied  his  friend ; 

' and  I cannot  help  saying  that  you  are  doing  an  immense 
good,  Sir  Walter,  by  such  sweet  and  noble  tales,  for  the  young 
people  now  will  never  bear  to  look  at  the  vile  trash  of  novels 
that  used  to  be  in  the  circulating  libraries.’  Sir  Walter’s  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  Walter  scott. 


or  an  unpleasant  break,  or  too  much  intricacy,  or 
a hurried  conclusion;  they  are  usually  languid  in 
the  commencement,  and  abrupt  in  the  close;  too 
slowly  opened,  and  too  hastily  summed  up.’  The 
spirit  and  fidelity  of  the  delineations,  the  variety 
of  scenes,  and  the  interest  of  particular  passages 
bearing  upon  the  principal  characters,  blind  the 
reader  to  these  defects,  at  least  on  a first  perusal. 
This  was  eminently  the  case  with  Kenilworth ; nor 
did  this  romance,  amidst  all  its  courtly  gaieties, 
ambition,  and  splendour,  fail  to  touch  the  heart: 
the  fate  of  Amy  Robsart  has  perhaps  drawn  as 
many  tears  as  the  story  of  Rebecca.  The  close  of 
the  same  year  witnessed  another  romantic,  though 
less  powerful  tale — The  Pirate.  In  this  work  Scott 
painted  the  wild  sea-scenery  of  Shetland,  and  gave 
a beautiful  copy  of  primitive  manners  in  the  person 
and  household  of  the  old  Udaller,  Magnus  Troil, 
and  his  fair  daughters  Minna  and  Brenda.  The 
latter  are  flowers  too  delicate  for  such  a cold  and 
stormy  clime,  but  they  are  creations  of  great  love- 
liness, and  are  exquisitely  discriminated  in  their 
individual  characters.  The  novel  altogether  opened 
a new  world  to  the  general  reader,  and  was  welcomed 
with  all  the  zest  of  novelty. 

Another  genuine  English  historical  romance  made 
its  appearance  in  May  1822.  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel 
afforded  a complete  panorama  of  the  times  of  James 
L,  executed  with  wonderful  vigour  and  truth.  The 
fulness  and  variety  of  the  details  shew  how  closely 
Scott  had  studied  the  annals  of  this  period,  particu- 
larly all  relating  to  the  city  and  the  court  of  London. 
His  account  of  Alsatia  surpasses  even  the  scenes  of 
Ben  Jonson,  and  the  dramatic  contemporaries  of 
Ben,  descriptive  of  similar  objects ; and  none  of  his 
historical  likenesses  are  more  faithful,  more  justly 
drawn,  or  more  richly  coloured,  than  his  portrait  of 
the  poor,  and  proud,  and  pedantic  King  James. 
Scott’s  political  predilections  certainly  did  not  in 
this  case  betray  him  into  any  undue  reverence  for 
sovereignty. 

In  1823,  no  less  than  three  separate  works  of 
fiction  were  issued — Peveril  of  the  Peak,  Quentin 
Durward , and  St  Honan's  Well.  The  first  was  a 
volume  longer  than  any  of  its  predecessors,  and 
was  more  than  proportionally  heavy  in  style,  though 
evincing  in  parts  undiminished  strength  and  talent. 
Quentin  Durward  was  a bold  and  successful  inroad 
on  French  history.  The  delineations  of  Louis  XI. 
and  Charles  the  Bold  may  stand  comparison  with 
any  in  the  whole  range  of  fiction  or  history  for  force 
and  discrimination.  They  seemed  literally  called 
up  to  a new  existence,  to  play  their  part  in  another 
drama  of  life,  as  natural  and  spirit-stirring  as  any 
in  which  they  had  been  actors.  The  French  nation 
exulted  in  this  new  proof  of  the  genius  of  Scott, 
and  led  the  way  in  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the 
work.  St  Ronan's  Well  is  altogether  a secondary 
performance  of  the  author,  though  it  furnishes  one 
of  his  best  low  comic  characters,  Meg  Dods  of  the 
Cleikum  Inn.  Redgauntlet  (1824)  must  be  held  to 
belong  to  the  same  class  as  St  Ronan's  Well , in 
spite  of  much  vigorous  writing,  humorous  as  well 
as  pathetic — for  the  career  of  Peter  Peebles  supplies 
both — and  notwithstanding  that  it  embodies  a great 
deal  of  Scott’s  own  personal  history  and  experiences. 
The  Tales  of  the  Crusaders,  published  in  1825,  com- 
prised two  short  stories,  The  Betrothed  and  The 
Talisman,  the  second  a highly  animated  and  splendid 
Eastern  romance.  Shortly  after  this  period  came  the 
calamitous  wreck  of  Scott’s  fortunes— the  shivering 
of  his  household  gods — amidst  declining  health  and 
the  rapid  advances  of  age.  Ilis  novel  of  Woodstock 
(1826)  was  hastily  completed,  but  is  not  unworthy 


of  his  fame.  The  secret  of  the  paternity  of  the 
novels  was  now  divulged— how  could  it  ever  have 
been  doubted  ? — and  there  was  some  satisfaction  in 
having  the  acknowledgment  from  his  own  lips,  and 
under  his  own  hand,  ere  death  had  broken  the  wand 
of  the  magician.  The  Life  of  Napoleon , in  nine 
volumes,  was  the  great  work  of  1827 ; but  at  the 
commencement  of  the  following  year,  Scott  published 
The  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,  first  series,  contain- 
ing The  Two  Drovers,  The  Highland  Widow,  and  The 
Surgeon's  Daughter.  The  second  of  these  short  tales 
is  the  most  valuable,  and  is  pregnant  with  strong  , 
pathetic  interest  and  Celtic  imagination.  The 
preliminary  introductions  to  the  stories  are  all 
finely  executed,  and  constitute  some  of  the  most 
pleasing  of  the  author’s  minor  contributions  to  the 
elucidation  of  past  manners  and  society.  A number 
of  literary  tasks  now  engaged  the  attention  of  Scott, 
the  most  important  of  which  were  his  Tales  of  a 
Grandfather,  a History  of  Scotland  for  Lardner’s 
Cyclopaedia,  Letters  on  Demonology , and  new  intro- 
ductions and  notes  to  the  collected  edition  of  the 
novels.  A second  series  of  the  Chronicles  of  the 
Canongate  appeared  in  1828,  with  only  one  tale,  but 
that  conceived  and  executed  with  great  spirit,  and 
in  his  best  artistical  style — The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 
Another  romance  was  ready  by  May  1829,  and  was 
entitled  Anne  of  Geierstein.  It  was  less  energetic 
than  the  former — more  like  an  attempt  to  revive  old 
forms  and  images  than  as  evincing  the  power  to 
create  new  ones ; yet  there  are  in  its  pages,  as  Mr 
Lockhart  justly  observes,  1 occasional  outbreaks  of 
the  old  poetic  spirit,  more  than  sufficient  to  remove 
the  work  to  an  immeasurable  distance  from  any  of 
its  order  produced  in  this  country  in  our  own  age. 
Indeed,  the  various  play  of  fancy  in  the  combination 
of  persons  and  events,  and  the  airy  liveliness  of  both 
imagery  and  diction,  may  well  justify  us  in  applying 
to  the  author  what  he  beautifully  says  of  his  King 
Rene : 

A mirthful  man  he  was ; the  snows  of  age 
Fell,  but  they  did  not  chill  him.  Gaiety, 

Even  in  life’s  closing,  touched  his  teeming  brain 
With  such  wild  visions  as  the  setting  sun 
Raises  in  front  of  some  hoar  glacier, 

Painting  the  bleak  ice  with  a thousand  hues.’ 

The  gaiety  of  Scott  was  the  natural  concomitant 
of  kindly  and  gentle  affections,  a sound  judgment, 
and  uninterrupted  industry.  The  minds  of  poets,  it 
is  said,  never  grow  old,  and  Scott  was  hopeful  to 
the  last.  Disease,  however,  was  fast  undermining 
his  strength.  His  last  work  of  fiction,  published  in 
1831,  was  a fourth  series  of  Tales  of  My  Landlord, 
containing  Count  Robert  of  Paris  and  Castle 
Dangerous.  They  were  written  after  repeated 
shocks  of  paralysis  and  apoplexy,  and  are  mere 
shadows  of  his  former  greatness.  And  with  this 
effort  closed  the  noble  mind  that  had  so  long  swayed 
the  sceptre  of  romance.  The  public  received  the 
imperfect  volumes  with  tenderness  and  indulgence, 
as  the  farewell  offering  of  the  greatest  of  their  con- 
temporaries— the  last  feeble  gleams  of  a light  soon 
to  be  extinguished : 

A wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell ; 

And  now  ’tis  silent  all ! Enchanter,  fare-thee-well ! 

Quotation  from  works  so  well  known,  and  printed 
in  so  many  cheap  forms,  seems  unnecessary.  But 
we  may  note  the  wonderful  success  of  the  novels 
as  a mercantile  speculation.  When  Sir  Walter  died 
in  1832,  and  his  life  insurances  were  realised,  there 
was  still  a balance  due  of  £30,000.  This  debt, 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


the  publisher  of  Scott’s  works,  Mr  Robert  Cadell, 
ultimately  took  on  himself,  receiving  in  return  the 
copyright  of  the  works ; and  before  his  death  in 
1849,  Mr  Cadell  had  set  the  estate  of  Abbotsford 
free  from  encumbrance,  had  purchased  for  himself 
a small  estate  (Ratho,  near  Edinburgh),  and  was 
able  to  leave  to  his  family  a fortune  of  about 
£100,000.  Within  the  comparatively  short  period 
of  twenty-two  years,  he  had  been  able,  as  was 
remarked  by  a writer  in  the  Athenceum , to  make  as 
large  a fortune  through  the  works  of  one  author 
alone  as  old  Jacob  Tonson  succeeded  in  scraping 
together  after  fifty  years’  dealings  with  at  least 
fifty  authors,  and  with  patent  rights  for  government 
printing,  which  Mr  Cadell  never  had.  Shortly 
before  his  death,  Mr  Cadell  sold  the  remainder  of 
his  copyrights  to  their  present  possessors,  Messrs 
Adam  Black  and  Co.  for,  it  is  said,  a sum  of 
£15,000.  These  facts  evince  the  enduring  popu- 
larity of  Scott’s  works,  and  the  advantage  of 
multiplying  editions  suited  to  all  classes  of  readers. 

JOHN  GALT. 

John  Galt,  author  of  The  Annals  of  the  Parish , 
and  other  novels  which  are  valuable  as  reflecting 
back  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  life  and  manners 
‘ sixty  years  since,’  was  a native  of  Irvine,  in  Ayr- 
shire. He  was  born  on  the  2d  of  May  1779.  His 
father  commanded  a West  India  vessel,  and  when 
the  embryo  novelist  was  in  his  eleventh  year,  the 
family  went  to  live  permanently  at  Greenock.  Here 
Galt  resided  fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  displaying  no 
marked  proficiency  at  school,  but  evincing  a pre- 
dilection for  poetry,  music,  and  mechanics.  He 
was  placed  in  the  custom-house  at  Greenock,  and 
continued  at  the  desk  till  about  the  year  1804,  when, 
without  any  fixed  pursuit,  he  went  to  London  to 
‘ push  his  fortune.’  He  had  written  a sort  of  epic 
poem  on  the  battle  of  Largs,  and  this  he  committed 
to  the  press  ; but,  conscious  of  its  imperfections,  he 
did  not  prefix  his  name  to  the  work,  and  he  almost 
immediately  suppressed,  its  sale.  He  then  formed 
an  unfortunate  commercial  connection,  which  lasted 
three  years,  on  the  termination  of  which  he  entered 
himself  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  with  the  view  of  being  in 
due  time  called  to  the  bar.  Happening  to  visit 
Oxford  in  company  with  some  friends,  he  conceived, 
while  standing  with  them  in  the  quadrangle  of 
Christ-church,  the  design  of  writing  a life  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey.  He  set  about  the  task  with 
ardour  ; but  his  health  failing,  he  went  abroad.  At 
Gibraltar  he  met  with  Lord  Byron  and  Mr  Hob- 
house,  then  embarked  on  their  tour  for  Greece,  and 
the  three  sailed  in  the  same  packet.  Galt  resided 
some  time  in  Sicily,  then  repaired  to  Malta,  and 
afterwards  proceeded  to  Greece,  where  he  again  met 
with  Byron,  and  also  had  an  interview  with  Ali 
Pacha.  After  rambling  for  some  time  among  the 
classic  scenes  of  Greece,  he  proceeded  to  Constanti- 
nople, thence  to  Nicomedia,  and  northwards  to  Kirpe, 
on  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea.  Some  commercial 
speculations,  as  to  the  practicability  of  landing 
British  goods  in  defiance  of  the  Berlin  and  Milan 
decrees,  prompted  these  unusual  wanderings.  At 
one  time,  when  detained  by  quarantine,  Galt  wrote 
or  sketched  out  six  dramas,  which  were  afterwards 
published  in  a volume,  constituting,  according  to 
Sir  "Walter  Scott,  ‘the  worst  tragedies  ever  seen.’ 
On  his  return  he  published  his  Voyages  and  Travels , 
and  Letters  from  the  Levant , which  were  well 
received.  He  next  repaired  to  Gibraltar,  to  con- 
duct a commercial  business  w hich  it  was  proposed 
to  establish  there,  but  the  design  was  defeated  by 
480 


the  success  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in  the 
Peninsula.  He  explored  France  to  see  if  an  opening 
could  be  found  there,  but  no  prospect  appeared,  and 
returning  to  England,  he  contributed  some  dramatic 
pieces  to  the  New  British  Theatre.  One  of  these, 
The  Appeal , was  brought  out  in  the  Edinburgh 
theatre  in  1818,  and  performed  four  nights,  Sir 
Walter  Scott  having  written  an  epilogue  for  the 
play.  He  now  devoted  himself  for  some  time  to 
literary  pursuits,  writing  in  the  periodical  works, 
and  residing  in  Scotland.  Among  his  more  elabor- 
ate compositions  may  be  mentioned  a Life  of 
Benjamin  West , the  artist,  Historical  Pictures , The 
Wandering  Jew , and  The  Earthquake,  a novel  in 
three  volumes.  He  wrote  for  Blackwood’s  Magazine , 
in  1820,  The  Ayrshire  Legatees , a series  of  letters 
containing  an  amusing  Scottish  narrative.  His 
next  work  was  The  Annals  of  the  Parish  (1821), 
which  instantly  became  popular.  It  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  The  Annals  had  been  written  some  ten 
or  twelve  years  .before  the  date  of  its  publication, 
and  anterior  to  the  appearance  of  Waverley  and  Guy 
Mannering , and  that  it  was  rejected  by  the  publishers 
of  those  works,  with  the  assurance,  that  a novel  or 
work  of  fiction  entirely  Scottish  would  not  take 
with  the  public  ! Mr  Galt  went  on  with  his  usual 
ardour  in  the  composition  of  Scotch  novels.  He  had 
now  found  where  his  strength  lay,  and  Sir  Andrew 
Wylie,  The  Entail,  The  Steam-boat,  and  The  Provost, 
were  successively  published — the  two  first  with 
decided  success.  These  were  followed  at  no  long 
intervals  by  JRingan  Gilhaize,  a story  of  the  Scottish 
Covenanters ; by  The  Spaewife,  a tale  of  the  times 
of  James  I.  of  Scotland:  and  Rothelan,  a novel 
partly  historical,  founded  on  the  work  by  Barnes  on 
the  life  and  reign  of  Edward  I.  Mr  Galt  also 
published  anonymously,  in  1824,  an  interesting 
imaginative  little  tale,  The  Omen,  which  was  reviewed 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  Blackwood’s  Magazine.  In 
fertility,  Galt  was  only  surpassed  by  Scott;  and 
perhaps  no  other  author  could  have  written  an 
equal  number  of  works  of  fiction,  varied  in  style 
and  manner,  within  the  same  limited  period. 
His  genius  was  unequal,  and  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  able  to  discriminate  between  the  good 
and  the  bad ; but  the  vigour  and  copiousness  of  his  i 
mind  were  certainly  remarkable.  His  friendly 
biographer,  Dr  Moir  of  Musselburgh,  says  justly,  j 
that  the  i‘  great  drawback  to  Mr  Galt’s  prosperity  ' 
and  happiness  was  the  multitude  of  his  resources,  i 
and  from  his  being  equally  fitted  for  a student  and 
man  of  the  world.  As  the  old  proverb  hath  it,  “ the  ! 
rolling  stone  gathers  no  fog ; ” so  in  the  transition 
from  one  occupation  and  employment  to  another,  he 
expended  those  powers  which,  if  long  concentrated 
on  any  particular  object,  must  have  produced  great 
results.’*  We  next  find  Mr  Galt  engaged  in  the  : 
formation  and  establishment  of  the  Canada  Com- 
pany, which  involved  him  in  a long  labyrinth  of 
troubles,  vexation,  and  embarrassment.  While  the 
preliminary  controversy  was  pending  between  the 
commissioners  of  this  company,  the  Canada  clergy, 
and  the  Colonial  Office,  previous  to  his  departure  ! 
for  the  scene  of  his  new  operations,  Galt  composed 
his  novel,  The  Last  of  the  Lairds,  also  descriptive  of 
Scottish  life.  He  set  out  for  America  in  1826,  his 
mission  being  limited  to  inquiry,  for  accomplishing 
which  eight  months  were  allowed.  His  duties, 
however,  were  increased,  and  his  stay  prolonged,  by 
the  numerous  offers  to  purchase  lots  of  land,  and  for 
determining  on  the  system  of  management  to  be 

* Biographical  Memoir  prefixed  to  Galt’s  novels,  in  Black- 
wood’s Standard  Novels. 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  john  galt. 

pursued  by  the  company.  A million  of  capital  had 
been  intrusted  to  his  management.  On  the  23d  of 
April,  St  George’s  day,  1827,  Mr  Galt  proceeded  to 
found  the  town  of  Guelph,  in  the  upper  province  of 
Canada,  which  he  did  with  due  ceremony.  The  site 
selected  for  the  town  having  been  pointed  out,  ‘a 
large  maple-tree,’  he  says,  ‘ was  chosen ; on  which, 
taking  an  axe  from  one  of  the  woodmen,  I struck 
the  first  stroke.  To  me,  at  least,  the  moment  was 
impressive ; and  the  silence  of  the  woods  that  echoed 
to  the  sound  was  as  the  sigh  of  the  solemn  genius 
of  the  wilderness  departing  for  ever.’  The  city  soon 
prospered : in  three  months  upwards  of  1G0  building 
lots  were  engaged,  and  houses  rising  as  fast  as 
building  materials  could  be  prepared.  Before  the 
end  of  the  year,  however,  the  founder  of  the  city  was 
embroiled  in  difficulties.  Some  secret  enemies  had 
misrepresented  him — he  was  accused  of  lowering  the 
company’s  stock — his  expenditure  was  complained 
of ; and  the  company  sent  out  an  accountant  to  act 
not  only  in  that  capacity,  but  as  cashier.  Matters 
came  to  a crisis,  and  Mr  Galt  determined  to  return 
to  England.  Ample  testimony  has  been  borne  to 
the  skill  and  energy  with  which  he  conducted  the 
•operations  of  this  company ; but  his  fortune  and  his 
prospects  had  fled.  Thwarted  and  depressed,  he  was 
resolved  to  battle  with  his  fate,  and  he  set  himself 
down  in  England  to  build  a new  scheme  of  life,  ‘ in 
which  the  secondary  condition  of  authorship  was 
made  primary.’  In  six  months  he  had  six  volumes 
ready.  His  first  work  was  another  novel  in  three 
volumes,  Lawrie  Todd , which  is  equal  to  The  Annals 
of  the  Parish  or  The  Entail.  It  was  well  received ; 
and  he  soon  after  produced  another,  descriptive  of 
the  customs  and  manners  of  Scotland  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Mary,  and  entitled  Soutliennan.  The  subject 
was  a favourite  with  him,  but  his  mode  of  treating 
it  was  by  no  means  happy ; while  the  public  taste, 
accustomed  to  the  historical  novels  of  Scott,  was 
impatient  of  any  secondary  work  in  this  depart- 
ment. For  a short  time  in  the  same  year  (1830) 
Mr  Galt  conducted  the  Courier  newspaper,  but  this 
new  employment  did  not  suit  him.  It  required 
more  time,  and  incurred  more  responsibilities  of 
opinion  than  he  was  prepared  for,  and  he  gladly 
left  the  daily  drudgery  to  complete  a Life  of  Byron, 
on  -w  hich  he  was  engaged  for  Colburn  the  publisher. 
The  comparative  brevity  of  this  memoir  (one  small 
volume),  the  name  of  Galt  as  its  author,  and  the 
interesting  nature  of  the  subject,  soon  sold  three  or 
four  editions  of  the  work ; but  it  was  sharply  assailed 
by  the  critics.  Some  of  the  positions  taken  up  by 
the  author  (as  that,  ‘ had  Byron  not  been  possessed 
of  genius,  he  might  have  been  a better  man  ’),  and 
some  quaintness  and  affectation  of  expression, 
exposed  him  to  well-merited  ridicule.  Mr  Galt  next 
executed  a series  of  Lives  of  the  Players , an  amusing 
compilation,  and  Boyle  Corbet,  another  novel,  the 
object  of  which,  he  said,  was  to  give  a view  of  society 
generally,  as  The  Provost  was  of  burgh  incidents 
simply,  and  of  the  sort  of  genteel  persons  who  are 
sometimes  found  among  the  emigrants  to  the  United 
States.  Disease  now  invaded  the  robust  frame  of 
the  novelist ; but  he  wrote  on,  and  in  a short  time 
four  other  works  of  fiction  issued  from  his  pen — 
Stanley  Buxton,  The  Member,  The  Radical,  and  Eben 
Erskine.  In  1832,  an  affection  of  the  spine  and  an 
attack  resembling  paralysis,  greatly  reduced  Mr 
Galt,  and  subjected  him  to  acute  pain.  Next  year, 
however,  he  was  again  at  the  press.  Ilis  work  was 
a tale,  entitled  The  Lost  Child,  lie  also  composed  a 
memoir  of  his  own  life  in  two  volumes — a curious 
ill-digested  melange,  but  worthy  of  perusal.  In  1834 
lie  published  Literary  Miscellanies , in  three  volumes, 
83 

dedicated  to  King  William  IV.,  who  generously 
sent  a sum  of  £200  to  the  author.  He  returned  to 
his  native  country  a perfect  wreck,  the  victim  of 
repeated  attacks  of  paralysis ; yet  he  wrote  several 
pieces  for  periodical  works,  and  edited  the  produc- 
tions of  others.  After  severe  and  protracted  suffer- 
ings, borne  with  great  firmness  and  patience,  Mr 
Galt  died  at  Greenock  on  the  11th  of  April  1839. 

Of  the  long  list  of  our  author’s  works,  several  are 
already  forgotten.  Not  a few  of  his  novels,  how- 
ever, bid  fair  to  be  permanent,  and  The  Annals  of  the 
Parish  will  probably  be  read  as  long  as  Waverley  or 
Guy  Mannering.  This  inimitable  little  tale  is  the 
simple  record  of  a country  minister  during  the  fifty 
years  of  his  incumbency.  Besides  many  amusing 
and  touching  incidents,  the  work  presents  us  with  a 
picture  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  a Scottish  rural 
village,  and  its  transition  to  a manufacturing  town, 
as  witnessed  by  the  minister,  a man  as  simple  as 
Abraham  Adams,  imbued  with  all  old-fashioned 
national  feelings  and  prejudices,  but  thoroughly 
sincere,  kind-hearted,  and  pious.  This  Presbyterian 
worthy,  the  Rev.  Micah  Balwhidder,  is  a fine  repre- 
sentative of  the  primitive  Scottish  pastor  ; diligent, 
blameless,  loyal,  and  exemplary  in  his  life,  but 
without  the  fiery  zeal  and  ‘ kirk-filling  eloquence  * 
of  the  supporters  of  the  Covenant.  Micah  is  easy, 
garrulous,  fond  of  a quiet  joke,  and  perfectly 
ignorant  of  the  world.  Little  things  are  great  to 
him  in  his  retirement  and  his  simplicity ; and  thus 
we  find  him  chronicling,  among  his  memorable 
events,  the  arrival  of  a dancing-master,  the  planting 
of  a pear-tree,  the  getting  a new  bell  for  the  kirk,  the 
first  appearance  of  Punch’s  Opera  in  the  country- 
side, and  other  incidents  of  a like  nature,  which 
he  mixes  up  indiscriminately  with  the  breaking  out 
of  the  American  war,  the  establishment  of  manu- 
factures, or  the  spread  of  French  revolutionary 
principles.  Amidst  the  quaint  humour  and  shrewd 
observation  of  honest  Micah  are  some  striking  and 
pathetic  incidents.  Mrs  Malcolm,  the  widow  of  a 
Clyde  shipmaster,  comes  to  settle  in  his  village; 
and  being  4 a genty  body,  calm,  and  methodical,’  she 
brought  up  her  children  in  a superior  manner,  and 
they  all  get  on  in  the  world.  One  of  them  becomes 
a sailor ; and  there  are  few  more  touching  narratives 
in  the  language  than  the  account  of  this  cheerful 
gallant-hearted  lad,  from  his  first  setting  off  to  sea 
to  his  death  as  a midshipman,  in  an  engagement 
with  the  French.  Taken  altogether,  this  work  of 
Mr  Galt’s  is  invaluable  for  its  truth  and  nature, 
its  quiet  unforced  humour  and  pathos,  its  genuine 
nationality  as  a faithful  record  of  Scottish  feeling 
and  manners,  and  its  rich  felicity  of  homely  antique 
Scottish  phrase  and  expression,  which  to  his  coun- 
trymen is  perhaps  the  crowning  excellence  of  the 
author. 

In  the  following  passage  the  placing  of  Mr 
Balwhidder  as  minister  of  Dalmailing  is  admirably 
described : 

[. Placing  of  a Scottish  Minister.] 

It  was  a great  affair ; for  I was  put  in  by  the  patron, 
and  the  people  knew  nothing  whatsoever  of  me,  and 
their  hearts  were  stirred  into  strife  on  the  occasion, 
and  they  did  all  that  lay  within  the  compass  of  their 
power  to  keep  me  out,  insomuch  that  there  was  obliged 
to  be  a guard  of  soldiers  to  protect  the  presbytery ; and 
it  was  a tiling  that  made  my  heart  grieve  when  I heapf"^ ' 
the  drum  beating  and  the  fife  playing  as  we  were 'goiip^ 
to  the  kirk.  The  people  were  really  mad^d-viojdiisi' 
and  flung  dirt  upon  us  as  we  passed,  and.yCvf^h  fls  all,*, 
and  held  out  the  finger  of  scorn  at  me ; but  I endured 

m3: 

| FROM  1800  CY CLOPJ5DIA  OF  to  1830. 

1 it  with  a resigned  spirit,  compassionating  their  wilful- 
: ness  and  blindness.  Poor  old  Mr  Kilfuddy  of  the 
! Braehill  got  such  a clash  of  glaur  [mire]  on  the  side 
of  his  face,  that  his  eye  was  almost  extinguished. 

When  we  got  to  the  kirk  door,  it  was  found  to  be 
| nailed  up,  so  as  by  no  possibility  to  be  opened.  The 
; sergeant  of  the  soldiers  wanted  to  break  it,  but  I was 
I afraid  that  the  heritors  would  grudge  and  complain 
: of  the  expense  of  a new  door,  and  I supplicated  him 
: to  let  it  be  as  it  was ; we  were  therefore  obligated  to  go 
• in  by  a window,  and  the  crowd  followed  us  in  the  most 
1 unreverent  manner,  making  the  Lord’s  house  like  an 
inn  on  a fair-day  with  their  grievous  yelly-hooing. 
i During  the  time  of  the  psalm  and  the  sermon  they 
behaved  themselves  better,  but  when  the  induction  came 
; on,  their  clamour  was  dreadful;  and  Thomas  Thorl, 

: the  weaver,  a pious  zealot  in  that  time,  got  up  and 
protested  and  said : ‘ Yerily,  verily,  I say  unto  you, 
he  that  entereth  not  by  the  door  into  the  sheepfold, 
but  climbeth  up  some  other  way,  the  same  is  a thief 
and  a robber.’  And  I thought  I would  have  a hard  and 
sore  time  of  it  with  such  an  outstrapolous  people. 
Mr  Given,  that  was  then  the  minister  of  Lugton,  was 
a jocose  man,  and  would  have  his  joke  even  at  a 
solemnity.  When  the  laying  of  the  hands  upon  me 
was  a-doing,  he  could  not  get  near  enough  to  put  on 
his,  but  he  stretched  out  his  staff  and  touched  my 
head,  and  said,  to  the  great  diversion  of  the  rest : 
‘ This  will  do  well  enough — timber  to  timber  ; ’ but  it 
was  an  unfriendly  saying  of  Mr  Given,  considering  the 
time  and  the  place,  and  the  temper  of  my  people. 

After  the  ceremony  we  then  got  out  at  the  window, 
and  it  was  a heavy  day  to  me;  but  we  went  to  the 
manse,  and  there  we  had  an  excellent  dinner,  which 
Mrs  Watts  of  the  new  inn  of  Irville  prepared  at  my 
request,  and  sent  her  chaise-driver  to  serve,  for  he  was 
likewise  her  waiter,  she  having  then  but  one  chaise, 
and  that  not  often  called  for. 

But  although  my  people  received  me  in  this  unruly 
manner,  I was  resolved  to  cultivate  civility  among 
them ; and  therefore  the  very  next  morning  I began 
a round  of  visitations ; but  oh ! it  was  a steep  brae 
that  I had  to  climb,  and  it  needed  a stout  heart,  for 
I found  the  doors  in  some  places  barred  against  me ; 
in  others,  the  bairns,  when  they  saw  me  coming,  ran 
crying  to  their  mothers : ‘ Here ’s  the  feckless  Mess- 
John;’  and  then,  when  I went  in  into  the  houses, 
their  parents  would  not  ask  me  to  sit  down,  but  with 
a scornful  way  said : ‘Honest  man,  what’s  your  pleasure 
here  ? ’ Nevertheless,  I walked  about  from  door  to 
door,  like  a dejected  beggar,  till  I got  the  almous  deed 
of  a civil  reception,  and,  who  would  have  thought  it, 
from  no  less  a person  than  the  same  Thomas  Thorl  that 
was  so  bitter  against  me  in  the  kirk  on  the  foregoing 
day. 

Thomas  was  standing  at  the  door  with  his  green 
duffle  apron  and  his  red  Kilmarnock  night-cap — I mind 
him  as  well  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday — and  he  had  seen 
me  going  from  house  to  house,  and  in  what  manner  I 
was  rejected,  and  his  bowels  were  moved,  and  he  said 
to  me  in  a kind  manner : ‘ Come  in,  sir,  and  ease 
yoursel’ ; this  will  never  do : the  clergy  are  ■ God’s 
gorbies,  and  for  their  Master’s  sake  it  behoves  us  to 
respect  them.  There  was  no  ane  in  the  whole  parish 
mair  against  you  than  mysel’,  but  this  early  visitation 
is  a symptom  of  grace  that  I couldna  have  expectit 
from  a bird  out  of  the  nest  of  patronage.’  I thanked 
Thomas,  and  went  in  with  him,  and  we  had  some  solid 
conversation  together,  and  I told  him  that  it  was  not 
so  much  the  pastor  s duty  to  feed  the  flock,  as  to  herd 
them  well;  and  tbat  although  there  might  be  some 
abler  with  the  head  than  me,  there  wasna  a he  within 
the  bounds  of  Scotland  more  willing  to  watch  the  fold 
by  night  and  by  day.  And  Thomas  said  he  had  not 
heard  a mair  sound  observe  for  some  time,  and  tbat 
if  I held  to  that  doctrine  in  the  poopit,  it  wouldna 
482 

be  lang  till  I would  work  a change.  ‘ I was  mindit,’ 
quoth  he,  ‘ never  to  set  my  foot  within  the  kirk  door 
while  you  were  there  ; but  to  testify,  and  no  to  condemn 
without  a trial,  I ’ll  be  there  next  Lord’s  day,  and  egg 
my  neighbours  to  be  likewise,  so  ye  ’ll  no  have  to  preach 
just  to  the  bare  walls  and  the  laird’s  family.’ 

The  Ayrshire  Legatees  is  a story  of  the  same  cast 
as  The  Annals , and  describes  (chiefly  by  means  of  i 
correspondence)  the  adventures  of  another  country  j 
minister  and  his  family  on  a journey  to  London  to  i 
obtain  a rich  legacy  left  him  by  a cousin  in  India. 
The  Provost  is  another  portraiture  of  Scottish  life, 
illustrative  of  the  jealousies,  contentions,  local 
improvements,  and  jobbery  of  a small  burgh  in  the 
olden  time.  Some  of  the  descriptions  in  this  work 
are  very  powerfully  written.  Sir  Andrew  Wylie 
and  The  Entail  are  more  regular  and  ambitious 
performances,  treble  the  length  of  the  others,  but 
not  so  carefully  finished.  The  pawlcie  Ayrshire 
baronet  is  humorous,  but  not  very  natural.  The 
character  of  Leddy  Grippy  in  The  Entail  was  a 
prodigious  favourite  with  Byron.  Both  Scott  and 
Byron,  it  is  said,  read  this  novel  three  times  over — 
no  slight  testimony  to  its  merits.  We  should  be  j 
disposed,  however,  to  give  the  preference  to  another  ; 
of  Mr  Galt’s  three-volume  fictions,  Lawrie  Todd , ! 

or  the  Settlers , a work  which  seems  to  have  no 
parallel,  since  Defoe,  for  apparent  reality,  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  and  fertility  of  invention.  The 
history  of  a real  individual,  a man  named  Grant 
Thorburn,  supplied  the  author  with  part  of  his  | 
incidents,  as  the  story  of  Alexander  Selkirk  did  ! 
Defoe ; but  the  mind  and  the  experience  of  Galt  are 
stamped  on  almost  every  page.  In  his  former  pro- 
ductions our  author  wrought  with  his  recollections 
of  the  Scotland  of  his  youth ; the  mingled  worth, 
simplicity,  pawkiness,  and  enthusiasm  which  he  had 
seen  or  heard  of  as  he  loitered  about  Irvine  or 
Greenock,  or  conversed  with  the  country  sires  and 
matrons ; but  in  Lawrie  Todd  we  have  the  fruit  of 
his  observations  in  the  New  World,  presenting  an 
entirely  different  and  original  phase  of  the  Scottish 
character.  Lawrie  is  by  trade  a nailmaker,  who 
emigrates  with  his  brother  to  America,  and  their 
stock  of  worldly  goods  and  riches,  on  arriving  at 
New  York,  consisted  of  about  five  shillings  in  money, 
and  an  old  chest  containing  some  articles  of  dress 
and  other  necessaries.  Lawrie  works  hard  at  the 
nailmaking,  marries  a pious  and  industrious  maiden 
— who  soon  dies— and  in  time  becomes  master  of  a ' 
grocer’s  shop,  which  he  exchanges  for  the  business  j 
of  a seedsman.  The  latter  is  a bad  affair,  and  i 
Lawrie  is  compelled  to  sell  all  off,  and  begin  the 
world  again.  He  removes  with  his  family  to  the 
backwoods,  and  once  more  is  prosperous.  He  clears, 
builds,  purchases  land,  and  speculates  to  great 
advantage,  till  he  is  at  length  enabled  to  return  to 
Scotland  in  some  style,  and  visit  the  place  of  his 
nativity.  This  Scottish  jaunt  is  a blemish  in  the 
work,  for  the  incidents  and  descriptions  are  ridicu- 
lously exaggerated ; but  nothing  can  be  better  than 
the  account  of  the  early  struggles  of  this  humble 
hero — the  American  sketches  of  character  with 
which  the  work  abounds — the  view  it  gives  of 
life  in  the  backwoods — or  the  peculiar  freshness 
and  vigour  that  seem  to  accompany  every  scene 
and  every  movement  of  the  story.  In  perception 
of  character  and  motive,  within  a certain  sphere, 
Mr  Galt  stands  unrivalled;  and  he  has  energy  as 
well  as  quickness.  His  taste,  however,  was  very 
defective ; and  this,  combined  with  the  hurry  and 
uncertainty  of  his  latter  days,  led  him  to  waste  his 
original  powers  on  subjects  unfitted  for  his  pen,  and 
injurious  to  his  reputation.  The  story  of  his  life  is 

novelists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  hope. 


a melancholy  one  ; but  his  genius  was  an  honour  to 
his  country,  and  merited  a better  reward. 

[The  Windy  Yule,  or  Christmas .] 

[From  The  Provost.] 

In  the  morning,  the  weather  was  blasty  and  sleety, 
waxing  more  and  more  tempestuous,  till  about  mid-day, 
when  the  wind  checked  suddenly  round  from  the  nor- 
east  to  the  sou- west,  and  blew  a gale,  as  if  the  prince 
of  the  powers  of  the  air  was  doing  his  utmost  to  work 
mischief.  The  rain  blattered,  the  windows  clattered, 
the  shop  shutters  flapped,  pigs  from  the  lum-heads  came 
rattling  down  like  thunder-claps,  and  the  skies  were 
dismal  both  with  cloud  and  carry.  Yet,  for  all  that, 
there  was  in  the  streets  a stir  and  a busy  visitation 
between  neighbours,  and  every  one  went  to  their  high 
windows,  to  look  at  the  five  poor  barks,  that  were 
warsling  against  the  strong  arm  of  the  elements  of  the 
storm  and  the  ocean. 

Still  the  lift  gloomed,  and  the  wind  roared ; and  it  was 
as  doleful  a sight  as  ever  was  seen  in  any  town  afflicted 
with  calamity,  to  see  the  sailors’  wives,  with  their  red 
cloaks  about  their  heads,  followed  by  their  hirpling 
and  disconsolate  bairns,  going  one  after  another  to  the 
kirkyard,  to  look  at  the  vessels  where  their  helpless 
breadwinners  were  battling  with  the  tempest.  My  heart 
was  really  sorrowful,  and  full  of  a sore  anxiety  to  think 
| of  what  might  happen  to  the  town,  whereof  so  many 
: were  in  peril,  and  to  whom  no  human  magistracy  could 
I extend  the  arm  of  protection.  Seeing  no  abatement  of 
i the  wrath  of  heaven,  that  howled  and  roared  around  us, 

; I put  on  my  big  coat,  and  taking  my  staff  in  my  hand, 

I having  tied  down  my  hat  with  a silk  handkerchief, 
towards  gloaming  I walked  likewise  to  the  kirkyard, 
where  I beheld  such  an  assemblage  of  sorrow,  as  few 
men  in  situation  have  ever  been  put  to  the  trial  to 
witness. 

In  the  lea  of  the  kirk  many  hundreds  of  the  town 
were  gathered  together ; but  there  was  no  discourse 
among  them.  The  major  part  were  sailors’  wives  and 
weans,  and  at  every  new  thud  of  the  blast,  a sob  rose, 
and  the  mothers  drew  their  bairns  closer  in  about  them, 
as  if  they  saw  the  visible  hand  of  a foe  raised  to  smite 
them.  Apart  from  the  multitude,  I observed  three  or 
four  young  lasses,  standing  behind  the  Whinnyhill 
families’  tomb,  and  I jealoused  that  they  had  joes  in 
the  ships,  for  they  often  looked  to  the  bay,  with 
long  necks  and  sad  faces,  from  behind  the  monument. 
But  of  all  the  piteous  objects  there,  on  that  doleful 
evening,  none  troubled  my  thoughts  more  than  three 
motherless  children,  that  belonged  to  the  mate  of  one 
I of  the  vessels  in  the  jeopardy.  He  was  an  Englishman 
that  had  been  settled  some  years  in  the  town,  where  his 
family  had  neither  kith  nor  kin ; and  his  wife  having 
died  about  a month  before,  the  bairns,  of  whom  the 
eldest  was  but  nine  or  so,  were  friendless  enough,  though 
both  my  gudewife,  and  other  well-disposed  ladies,  paid 
them  all  manner  of  attention,  till  their  father  would 
come  home.  The  three  poor  little  things,  knowing  that 
he  was  in  one  of  the  ships,  had  been  often  out  and 
anxious,  and  they  were  then  sitting  under  the  lea  of 
a headstone,  near  their  mother’s  grave,  chittering  and 
creeping  closer  and  closer  at  every  squall ! Never  was 
j such  an  orphan-like  sight  seen. 

When  it  began  to  be  so  dark,  that  the  vessels  could 
no  longer  be  discerned  from  the  churchyard,  many  went 
down  to  the  shore,  and  I took  the  three  babies  home 
with  me,  and  Mrs  Pawkie  made  tea  for  them,  and  they 
soon  began  to  play  with  our  own  younger  children,  in 
blithe  forgetfulness  of  the  storm  ; every  now  and  then, 
however,  the  eldest  of  them,  when  the  shutters  rattled, 
and  the  lum-head  roared,  would  pause  in  his  innocent 
daffing,  and  cower  in  towards  Mrs  Pawkie,  as  if  he 
"was  daunted  and  dismayed  by  something  he  knew  not 
what. 


Many  a one  that  night  walked  the  sounding  shore  in 
sorrow,  and  fires  were  lighted  along  it  to  a great  extent, 
but  the  darkness  and  the  noise  of  the  raging  deep, 
and  the  howling  wind,  never  intermitted  till  about 
midnight ; at  which  time  a message  was  brought  to  me, 
that  it  might  be  needful  to  send  a guard  of  soldiers  to 
the  beach,  for  that  broken  masts  and  tackle,  had  come 
in,  and  that  surely  some  of  the  barks  had  perished.  I 
lost  no  time  in  obeying  this  suggestion,  which  was  made 
to  me  by  one  of  the  owners  of  the  Louping  Meg;  and 
to  shew  that  I sincerely  sympathised  with  all  those  in 
affliction,  I rose  and  dressed  myself,  and  went  down  to 
the  shore,  where  I directed  several  old  boats  to  be 
drawn  up  by  the  fires,  and  blankets  to  be  brought,  and 
cordials  prepared,  for  them  that  might  be  spared  with 
life  to  reach  the  land ; and  I walked  the  beach  with  the 
mourners  till  the  morning. 

As  the  day  dawned,  the  wind  began  to  abate  in  its 
violence,  and  to  wear  away  from  the  sou-wTest  into  the 
norit;  but  it  was  soon  discovered,  that  some  of  the 
vessels  with  the  corn  had  perished;  for  the  first  thing 
seen,  was  a long  fringe  of  tangle  and  grain,  along  the 
line  of  the  high-water  mark,  and  every  one  strained  with 
greedy  and  grieved  eyes,  as  the  daylight  brightened,  to 
discover  which  had  suffered.  But  I can  proceed  no 
further  with  the  dismal  recital  of  that  doleful  morning. 
Let  it  suffice  here  to  be  known,  that,  through  the  haze, 
we  at  last  saw  three  of  the  vessels  lying  on  their  beam- 
ends,  with  their  masts  broken,  and  the  waves  riding  like 
the  furious  horses  of  destruction  over  them.  What  had 
become  of  the  other  two,  was  never  known;  but  it 
was  supposed  that  they  had  foundered  at  their  anchors, 
and  that  all  on  board  perished. 

The  day  being  now  Sabbath,  and  the  whole  town  idle, 
everybody  in  a manner  was  down  on  the  beach,  to  help 
and  mourn  as  the  bodies,  one  after  another,  were  cast 
out  by  the  waves.  Alas!  few  were  the  better  of  my 
provident  preparation,  and  it  was  a thing  not  to  be 
described,  to  see,  for  more  than  a mile  along  the  coast, 
the  new-made  widows  and  fatherless  bairns,  mourning 
and  weeping  over  the  corpses  of  those  they  loved. 
Seventeen  bodies  were,  before  ten  o’clock,  carried  to  the 
desolated  dwellings  of  their  families;  and  when  old 
Thomas  Pull  the  betherell,  went  to  ring  the  bell  for 
public  worship,  such  was  the  universal  sorrow  of  the 
town,  that  Nanse  Donsie,  an  idiot  natural,  ran  up  the 
street  to  stop  him,  crying,  in  the  voice  of  a pardonable 
desperation  : ‘ Wha,  in  sic  a time,  can  praise  the  Lord?’ 

THOMAS  HOPE. 

Thomas  Hope,  the  author  of  Anastasius,  was  one 
of  the  merchant-princes  of  England  whom  commerce 
had  led  to  opulence,  and  who  repaid  the  compliment 
by  ennobling  his  origin  and  pursuits  with  taste, 
munificence,  and  genius.  He  was  one  of  three 
brothers,  wealthy  merchants  in  Amsterdam.  When 
a young  man,  he  spent  some  years  in  foreign  travel, 
visiting  the  principal  places  in  Europe,  Asia,  and 
Africa.  On  his  return  he  settled  in  London,  pur- 
chased a large  house,  and  a country  mansion  (Deep- 
dene,  near  Dorking),  and  embellished  both  with 
drawings,  picture-galleries,  sculpture,  amphitheatres 
for  antiques,  and  all  other  rare  and  costly  appliances. 
His  appearances  as  an  author  arose  out  of  these 
favourite  occupations  and  studies.  In  1805,  he  pub- 
lished a folio  volume  of  drawings  and  descriptions, 
entitled  Household  Furniture  and  Decorations.  The 
ambitious  style  of  this  work,  and  the  author’s  devo- 
tion to  the  forms  of  chairs,  sofas,  couches,  and  tables, 
provoked  a witty  piece  of  ridicule  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review ; but  the  man  of  taste  and  virtu  triumphed. 
A more  classical  and  appropriate  style  of  furniture 
and  domestic  utensils  gained  ground ; and  with 
Mr  Hope  rests  the  honour  of  having  achieved  the 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


improvement.  Two  other  splendid  publications  pro- 
ceeded from  Mr  Hope,  The  Costume  of  the  Ancients 
(1809),  and  Designs  of  Modern  Costumes  (1812),  both 
works  evincing  extensive  knowledge  and  curious 
research.  In  1819,  Mr  Hope  hurst  forth  as  a 
novelist  of  the  first  order.  He  had  studied  human 
nature  as  well  as  architecture  and  costume,  and  his 
early  travels  had  exhibited  to  him  men  of  various 
creeds  and  countries.  The  result  was  Anastasius, 
or  Memoirs  of  a Modern  Greek , written  at  the  close 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century , in  three  volumes.  The 
author’s  name  was  not  prefixed  to  the  work — as 
it  was  given  forth  as  a veritable  history — hut  the 
secret  soon  became  known,  and  Mr  Hope,  from 
being  reputed  as  something  like  a learned  uphol- 
sterer, or  clever  draughtsman,  was  at  once  elevated 
into  a rivalry  with  Byron  as  a glowing  painter  of 
foreign  scenery  and  manners,  and  with  Le  Sage  and 
the  other  masters  of  the  novel,  in  the  art  of  conduct- 
ing a fable  and  delineating  character.  The  author 
turned  from  fiction  to  metaphysics,  and  composed 
a work  On  the  Origin  and  Prospects  of  Man , which 
he  did  not  live  to  see  through  the  press,  but  which 
was  published  after  his  decease.  His  cosmogony  is 
strange  and  unorthodox ; but  amidst  his  paradoxes, 
conceits,  and  abstruse  speculations,  are  many 
ingenious  views  and  eloquent  disquisitions.  Mr 
Hope  died  on  the  3d  of  February  1831,  and  probate 
was  granted  for  £180,000  personal  property.  Mr 
Beckford  and  Vathek  are  the  only  parallels  to 
Mr  Hope  and  Anastasius  in  oriental  wealth  and 
imagination. 

Anastasius  is  one  of  the  most  original  and  dazz- 
ling of  modern  romances.  The  hero  is,  like  Zeluco, 
a villain  spoiled  by  early  indulgence ; he  becomes  a 
renegade  to  his  faith,  a mercenary,  a robber,  and 
an  assassin ; but  the  elements  of  a better  nature  are 
sown  in  his  composition,  and  break  forth  at  times. 
He  is  a native  of  Chios,  the  son  of  Greek  parents. 
To  avoid  the  consequences  of  an  amour  with  Helena, 
the  consul’s  daughter,  he  runs  off  to  sea  in  a Venetian 
vessel,  which  is  boarded  by  pirates  and  captured. 
The  pirates  are  in  turn  taken  by  a Turkish  frigate, 
.and  carried  before  Hassan  Pasha.  Anastasius  is 
-released,  fights  with  the  Turks  in  the  war  against  the 
Araonoots,  and  accompanies  the  Greek  drogueman 
to  Constantinople.  Disgrace  and  beggary  reduce 
him  to  various  shifts  and  adventures.  He  follows 
a Jew  quack-doctor  selling  nostrums — is  thrown 
into  the  Bagnio,  or  state-prison  — afterwards 
./embraces  the  Turkish  faith — revisits  Greece — pro- 
ceeds to  Egypt— and  subsequently  ranges  over 
Arabia,  and  visits  Malta,  Sicily,  and  Italy.  His 
intrigues,  adventures,  sufferings,  &c.,  are  innumer- 
able. Every  aspect  of  Greek  and  Turkish  society 
is  depicted — sarcasm,  piquant  allusion,  pathos  and 
passion,  and  descriptions  of  scenery,  are  strangely 
intermingled  in  the  narrative.  Wit,  epigram,  and 
the  glitter  of  rhetorical  amplification,  occupy  too 
much  space ; but  the  scene  is  constantly  shifting, 
and  the  work  possesses  the  truth  and  accuracy  of 
.a  book  of  travels  joined  to  those  of  a romance.  The 
traveller,  too,  is  a thorough  man  of  the  world,  has  a 
keen  insight  into  human  weaknesses  and  foibles, 
and  describes  his  adventures  and  impressions  without 
, Jiypocrisy  or  reserve.  The  most  powerful  passages 
are  those  in  which  pathos  is  predominant — such  as 
the  scenes  with  Euphrosyne,  whom  Anastasius  has 
basely  violated — his  sensations  on  revisiting  Greece 
and  the  tomb  of  Helena — his  reflections  on  witness- 
ing the  dead  Araonoot  soldier  whom  he  had  slain — 
the  horrors  of  the  plague  and  famine — and,  above 
all,  the  account  of  the  death  of  Alexis,  the  child  of 
Anastasius,  and  in  -whom  were  centered  the  only 
434 


remains  of  his  human  affection,  his  love  and  hope. 
The  gradual  decay  of  this  youth,  and  the  intense 
anxiety  and  watchfulness  of  his  father,  constitute  a 
scene  of  genuine  grief  and  tenderness.  We  forget 
the  craft  and  villainy  of  Anastasius,  thus  humbled 
and  prostrate.  His  wild  gaiety  and  heartless  jests, 
his  degeneracy  and  sensualism,  have  passed  away. 
They  had  palled  upon  himself,  but  one  spring  of 
pure  affection  remained  to  redeem  his  nature ; and 
it  is  not  without  the  strongest  pity  and  kindred 
commiseration  that  we  see  the  desperate  adventurer 
reduced  to  loneliness  and  heart-broken  despair.  The 
scene  is  introduced  by  an  account  of  his  recover- 
ing his  lost  son  in  Egypt,  and  carrying  him  off  to 
Europe : 

[ The  Death  of  Anastasius s Son.] 

My  cousin’s  letter  had  promised  me  a brilliant  lot,  j 
and — what  was  better — my  own  pockets  insured  me 
a decent  competence.  The  refinements  of  a European 
education  should  add  every  external  elegance  to  my 
boy’s  innate  excellence,  and,  having  myself  moderately 
enjoyed  the  good  things  of  this  world,  while  striving 
to  deserve  the  better  promised  in  the  next,  I should, 
ere  my  friends  became  tired  of  my  dotage,  resign  my 
last  breath  in  the  arms  of  my  child. 

The  blue  sky  seemed  to  smile  upon  my  cheerful 
thoughts,  and  the  green  wave  to  murmur  approbation 
of  my  plan.  Almighty  God ! what  was  there  in  it  so 
heinous  to  deserve  that  an  inexorable  fate  should  cast 
it  to  the  winds  ? 

In  the  midst  of  my  dream  of  happiness,  my  ey$  fell 
upon  the  darling  object  in  which  centered  all  its  sweets. 
Insensibly  my  child’s  prattle  had  diminished,  and  had 
at  last  subsided  in  an  unusual  silence.  I thought  he 
looked  pale ; his  eyes  seemed  heavy,  and  bis  lips  felt 
parched.  The  rose,  that  every  morning,  still  so  fresh, 
so  erect  on  its  stalk,  at  mid-day  hung  its  heavy  head, 
discoloured,  wan,  and  fading ; but  so  frequently  had 
the  billows,  during  the  fury  of  the  storm,  drenched  my 
boy’s  little  crib,  that  I could  not  wonder  he  should 
have  felt  their  effects  in  a severe  cold.  I put  him  to 
bed,  and  tried  to  hush  him  to  sleep.  Soon,  however, 
his  face  grew  flushed,  and  his  pulse  became  feverish. 

I failed  alike  in  my  endeavours  to  procure  him  repose 
and  to  afford  him  amusement : but,  though  playthings 
were  repulsed,  and  tales  no  longer  attended  to,  still  he 
could  not  bear  me  an  instant  out  of  his  sight;  nor 
would  he  take  anything  except  at  my  hands.  Even 
when — as  too  soon  it  did — his  reason  began  to  wander, 
his  filial  affection  retained  its  pristine  hold  of  his  heart. 

It  had  grown  into  an  adoration  of  his  equally  doting 
father;  and  the  mere  consciousness  of  my  presence 
seemed  to  relieve  his  uneasiness. 

Had  not  my  feelings,  a few  moments  only  before, 
been  those  of  such  exceeding  happiness,  I should  not 
so  soon  perhaps  have  conceived  great  alarm;  but  I 
had  throughout  life  found  every  extraordinary  burst 
of  joy  followed  by  some  unforeseen  calamity ; and  my 
exultation  had  just  risen  to  so  unusual  a pitch,  that  a 
deep  dismay  now  at  once  struck  me  to  the  heart.  I 
felt  convinced  that  I had  only  been  carried  to  so  high 
a pinnacle  of  joy,  in  order  to  be  hurled  with  greater 
ruin  into  an  abyss  of  woe.  Such  became  my  anxiety 
to  reach  Trieste,  and  to  obtain  the  best  medical  assist- 
ance, that  even  while  the  ship  continued  to  cleave 
the  waves  like  an  arrow,  I fancied  it  lay  like  a log 
upon  the  main.  How,  then,  did  my  pangs  increase 
when,  as  if  in  resentment  of  my  unjust  complaints, 
the  breeze,  dying  away,  really  left  our  keel  motionless 
on  the  waters  ! My  anguish  baffled  all  expression. 

In  truth,  I do  not  know  how  I preserved  my  senses, 
except  from  the  need  I stood  in  of  their  aid : for,  while 
we  lay  cursed  with  absolute  immobility,  and  the  sun 
ever  found  us,  on  rising,  in  the  same  place  where  it  had 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


left  us  on  setting,  my  child — my  darling  child — was 
every  instant  growing  worse,  and  sinking  apace  under 
the  pressure  of  illness.  To  the  deep  and  flushing  glow 
of  a complexion  far  exceeding  in  its  transient  brilliancy 
even  the  brightest  hues  of  health,  had  succeeded  a 
settled,  unchanging  deadly  paleness.  His  eye,  whose 
round  full  orb  was  wont  to  beam  upon  me  with  mild 
but  fervent  radiance,  now  dim  and  wandering,  for  the 
most  part  remained  half  closed ; and  when,  roused  by 
my  address,  the  idol  of  my  heart  strove  to  raise  his 
languid  look,  and  to  meet  the  fearful  inquiries  of  mine, 
he  only  shewed  all  the  former  fire  of  his  countenance 
extinct.  In  the  more  violent  bursts,  indeed,  of  his 
unceasing  delirium,  his  wasting  features  sometimes 
acquired  a fresh  but  sad  expression.  He  would  then 
start  up,  and  with  his  feeble  hands  clasped  together, 
and  big  tears  rolling  down  his  faded  cheeks,  beg  in  the 
most  moving  terms  to  be  restored  to  his  home : but 
mostly  he  . seemed  absorbed  in  inward  musings,  and,  no 
longer  taking  note  of  the  passing  hour,  he  frequently 
during  the  course  of  the  day  moved  his  pallid  lips,  as 
if  repeating  to  himself  the  little  prayer  which  he  had 
been  wont  to  say  at  bed-time  and  at  rising,  and  the 
blessings  I had  taught  him  to  add,  addressed  to  his 
mother  on  behalf  of  his  father.  If — wretched  to  see 
him  thus,  and  doubly  agonised  to  think  that  I alone 
had  been  the  cause— I burst  out  into  tears  which  I 
strove  to  hide,  his  perception  of  outward  objects 
seemed  all  at  once  for  a moment  to  return.  He  asked 
me  whether  I was  hurt,  and  would  lament  that,  young 
and  feeble  as  he  was,  he  could  not  yet  nurse  me  as  he 
wished ; but  promised  me  better  care  when  he  should 
grow  stronger. 

In  this  way  hour  after  hour  and  day  after  day  rolled 
on,  without  any  progress  in  our  voyage,  while  all  I had 
left  to  do  was  to  sit  doubled  over  my  child’s  couch, 
watching  all  his  wants,  and  studying  all  his  looks, 
trying,  but  in  vain,  to  discover  some  amendment.  ‘ Oh 
for  those  days ! ’ I now  thought,  ‘ when  a calm  at  sea 
appeared  an  intolerable  evil,  only  because  it  stopped 
some  tide  of  folly  or  delayed  some  scheme  of  vice  ! ’ 

At  last  one  afternoon,  when,  totally  exhausted  with 
want  of  sleep,  I sat  down  by  my  child  in  all  the  com- 
posure of  torpid  despair,  the  sailors  rushed  in  one  and 
all — for  even  they  had  felt  my  agony,  and  doted  on 
my  boy.  They  came  to  cheer  me  with  better  tidings. 
A breeze  had  just  sprung  up ! The  waves  had  again 
begun  to  ripple,  and  the  lazy  keel  to  stir.  As  minute 
pressed  on  minute,  the  motion  of  the  ship  became 
swifter  ; and  presently,  as  if  nothing  had  been  wanting 
but  a first  impulse,  we  again  dashed  through  the  waves 
with  all  our  former  speed. 

Every  hour  now  brought  us  visibly  nearer  the  inmost 
recess  of  the  deep  Adriatic  and  the  end  of  our  journey. 
Pola  seemed  to  glide  by  like  a vision : presently  we 
passed  Fiume  : we  saw  Capo  d’lstria  but  a few  minutes  : 
at  last  we  descried  Trieste  itself ! Another  half  hour, 
and  every  separate  house  became  visible,  and  not  long 
after  we  ran  full  sail  into  the  harbour.  The  sails  were 
taken  in,  the  anchor  was  dropped,  and  a boat  instantly 
came  alongside. 

All  the  necessary  preparations  had  been  made  for 
immediately  conveying  my  patient  on  shore.  Wrapped 
up  in  a shawl,  he  was  lifted  out  of  his  crib,  laid  on  a 
pillow,  and  lowered  into  the  boat,  where  I held  him 
in  my  lap,  protected  to  the  best  of  my  power  from  the 
roughness  of  the  blast  and  the  dashing  of  the  spray 
until  we  reached  the  quay. 

In  my  distress  I had  totally  forgotten  the  taint 
contracted  at  Melada,  and  had  purposed,  the  instant 
we  stepped  on  shore,  to  carry  my  child  straight  to  a 
physician.  New  anguish  pierced  my  soul  when  two 
bayonets  crossed  upon  my  breast,  forced  me,  in  spite 
of  my  alternate  supplication  and  rage,  to  remain  on 
the  jettee,  there  to  wait  his  coming,  and  his  previous 
scrutiny  of  all  our  healthy  crew.  All  I could  obtain 


as  a special  favour  was  a messenger  to  hurry  his 
approach,  while,  panting  for  his  arrival,  I sat  down 
with  my  Alexis  in  my  arms  under  a low  shed  which 
kept  off  a pelting  shower.  I scarce  know  how  long 
this  situation  lasted.  My  mind  was  so  wrapped  up  in 
the  danger  of  my  boy  as  to  remain  wholly  unconscious 
of  the  bustle  around,  except  when  the  removal  of  some 
cask  or  barrel  forced  me  to  shift  my  station.  Yet,  while 
wholly  deaf  to  the  unceasing  din  of  the  place,  I could 
discern  the  faintest  rumour  that  seemed  to  announce 
the  approaching  physician.  Oh  how  I cursed  his  unfeel- 
ing delay ! how  I would  have  paved  his  way  with  gold 
to  have  hastened  his  coming ! and  yet  a something 
whispered  continually  in  my  ear  that  the  utmost  speed 
of  man  no  longer  could  avail. 

Ah  ! that  at  least,  confirmed  in  this  sad  persuasion, 
I might  have  tasted  the  heart-rending  pleasure  of 
bestowing  upon  my  departing  child  the  last  earthly 
endearments ! but,  tranquil,  composed,  and  softly 
slumbering  as  he  looked,  I feared  to  disturb  a repose 
on  which  I founded  my  only  remaining  hopes.  All  at 
once,  in  the  midst  of  my  despair,  I saw  a sort  of  smile 
light  up  my  darling’s  features,  and,  hard  as  I strove  to 
guard  against  all  vain  illusions,  I could  not  at  this 
sight  stop  a ray  of  gladness  from  gliding  unchecked 
into  my  trembling  heart.  Short,  however,  was  the 
joy  : soon  vanished  the  deceitful  symptom  ! On  a 
closer  view  it  only  appeared  to  have  been  a slight 
convulsion  which  had  hurried  over  my  child’s  now 
tranquil  countenance,  as  will  sometimes  dart  over  the 
smooth  mirror  of  a dormant  lake  the  image  of  a bird 
in  the  air.  It  looked  like  the  response  of  a departing 
angel,  to  those  already  on  high,  that  hailed  his  speedy 
coming.  The  soul  of  my  Alexis  was  fast  preparing  for 
its  flight. 

Lest  he  might  feel  ill  at  ease  in  my  lap,  I laid  him 
down  upon  my  cloak,  and  kneeled  by  his  side  to  watch 
the  growing  change  in  his  features.  The  present  now 
was  all  to  me  : the  future  I knew  I no  longer  should 
reck.  Feeling  my  breath  close  to  his  cheek,  he  half 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  as  if  after  a long  absence  again 
suddenly  recognising  his  father,  and — putting  out  his 
little  mouth — seemed  to  crave  one  last  token  of  love. 
The  temptation  was  too  powerful : I gently  pressed  my 
lip  upon  that  of  my  babe,  and  gathered  from  it  the 
proffered  kiss.  Life’s  last  faint  spark  was  just  going 
forth,  and  I caught  it  on  the  threshold.  Scarce  had  I 
drawn  back  my  face,  when  all  respiration  ceased.  His 
eye-strings  broke,  his  features  fell,  and  his  limbs 
stiffened  for  ever.  All  was  over : Alexis  was  no  more. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Mr  Washington  Irving,  a native  of  America, 
commenced  a career  of  literary  exertion  in  this 
country  by  the  publication  in  1820  of  The  Sketch- 
Book , a series  of  short  tales  and  essays,  sentimental 
and  humorous,  which  were  originally  printed  in  an 
American  periodical,  but  illustrative  of  English 
manners  and  scenery.  Mr  Irving  had  previously 
published  in  his  native  country  a humorous  History 
of  Neio  York , by  Knickerbocker , being  an  imaginary 
account  of  the  original  Dutch  inhabitants  of  that 
state;  and  he  had  also  issued  a satirical  period- 
ical, entitled  Salmagundi.  The  Sketch-Book  was 
received  with  great  favour  in  Britain ; its  carefully 
elaborated  style  and  beauties  of  diction  were  highly 
praised,  and  its  portraitures  of  English  rural  life  and 
customs,  though  too  antiquated  to  be  strictly  accu- 
rate, were  pleasing  and  interesting.  It  was  obvious 
that  the  author  had  formed  his  taste  upon  the 
works  of  Addison  and  Goldsmith;  but  his  own  great 
country,  its  early  state  of  society,  the  red  Indians, 
and  native  traditions,  had  also  supplied  him  with  a 
fund  of  natural  and  original  description.  His  stories 


FEOir  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TO  1830. 


of  Rip  Yan  Winkle  and  tlie  Sleepy  Hollow  are  per- 
haps the  finest  pieces  of  original  fictitious  writing 
that  this  century  has  produced,  next  to  the  works 


■Washington  Irving. 

of  Scott.  In  1822  Mr  Irving  continued  the  same 
style  of  fanciful  English  delineation  in  his  Bracebridge 
Hall,  in  which  we  are  introduced  to  the  interior  of 
a squire’s  mansion,  and  to  a number  of  original 
characters,  drawn  with  delicacy  and  discrimination 


equal  to  those  in  his  former  work.  In  1824  appeared 
another  series  of  tales  and  sketches,  but  greatly 
inferior,  entitled  Tales  of  a Traveller.  Having  gone  to 
Spain  in  connection  with  the  United  States  embassy, 
Air  Irving  studied  the  history  and  antiquities  of  that 
romantic  country,  and  in  1828  published  The  Life 
and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus , in  four  volumes, 
written  in  a less  ornate  style  than  his  former 
works,  but  valuable  for  the  new  information  it  com- 
municates. Next  year  appeared  The  Conquest  of 
Granada , and  in  1832  The  Alhambra , both  connected 
with  the  ancient  Moorish  kingdom  of  Granada,  and 
partly  fictitious.  Several  lighter  works  have  since 
issued  from  his  fertile  pen — Astoria,  a narrative  of 
American  adventure ; A Tour  on  the  Prairies;  Abbots- 
ford and  Neicstead  Abbey ; Legends  of  the  Conquest 
of  Spain;  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville;  a Life  of 
Goldsmith  (1849);  Mahomet  and  his  Successors;  a Life 
of  Washington;  &c.  The  principal  works  of  Mr  Irving 
are  his  Sketch-Book  and  Bracebridge  B[all;  these  are 
the  corner-stones  of  his  fame,  and  likely  to  be  dur- 
able. In  all  his  writings,  however,  there  are  passages 
evincing  fine  taste,  gentle  affections,  and  graceful 
description.  His  sentiments  are  manly  and  gener- 
ous, and  his  pathetic  and  humorous  sketches  are 
in  general  prevented  from  degenerating  into  extra- 
vagance by  practical  good  sense  and  a correct  judg- 
ment. Modern  authors  have  too  much  neglected 
the  mere  matter  Of  style;  but  the  success  of  Mr 
Irving  should  convince  the  careless  that  the  graces 
of  composition,  when  employed  even  on  paintings 
of  domestic  life  and  the  quiet  scenes  of  nature,  can 
still  charm  as  in  the  days  of  Addison,  Goldsmith, 
and  Mackenzie.  The  sums  obtained  by  Mr  Irving 
for  his  copyrights  in  England  form  an  interesting 
item  in  literary  history.  Mr  Murray  gave  £200  for 


Washington.  Irving’s  Cottage. 


The  Sketch-Book , but  he  afterwards  doubled  the  sum. 
For  Bracebridge  Hall,  the  same  publisher  gave  1000 
guineas ; for  Columbus , 3000  guineas ; and  for  the 
Conquest  of  Granada,  £2000.  On  these  last  two 
works,  the  enterprising  publisher  lost  heavily,  but 
probably  the  continued  sale  of  the  earlier  works 
formed  a compensation. 

Mr  Irving  was  born  in  New  York,  April  3, 1783. 
His  family  was  originally  from  the  island  of  Orkney. 
He  now  lives  in  dignified  retirement  at  a country- 
seat,  ‘ Sunnyside,’  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 

4S6 


[. Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch  Times.] 

The  houses  of  the  higher  class  were  generally  con- 
structed of  wood,  excepting  the  gable-end,  which  was  of 
small  black  and  yellow  Dutch  bricks,  and  always  faced 
on  the  street ; as  our  ancestors,  like  their  descendants, 
were  very  much  given  to  outward  show,  and  were  noted 
for  putting  the  best  leg  foremost.  The  house  was 
always  furnished  with  abundance  of  large  doors  and 
small  windows  on  every  floor ; the  date  of  its  erection 
was  curiously  designated  by  iron  figures  on  the  front ; 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


and  on  the  top  of  the  roof  was  perched  a fierce  little 
weather-cock,  to  let  the  family  into  the  important  secret 
which  way  the  wind  blew.  These,  like  the  weather-cocks 
on  the  tops  of  our  steeples,  pointed  so  many  different 
ways,  that  every  man  could  have  a wind  to  his  mind; 
and  you  would  have  thought  old  iEolus  had  set  all  his 
bags  of  wind  adrift,  pell-mell,  to  gambol  about  this 
windy  metropolis;  the  most  stanch  and  loyal  citizens, 
however,  always  went  according  to  the  weather-cock  on 
the  top  of  the  governor’s  house,  which  was  certainly  the 
most  correct,  as  he  had  a trusty  servant  employed  every 
morning  to  climb  up  and  point  it  whichever  way  the 
wind  blew. 

In  those  good  days  of  simplicity  and  sunshine,  a 
passion'  for  cleanliness  was  the  leading  principle  in 
domestic  economy,  and  the  universal  test  of  an  able 
housewife ; a character  which  formed  the  utmost 
ambition  of  our  unenlightened  grandmothers.  The  front 
door  was  never  opened  except  on  marriages,  funerals, 
New-year’s  days,  the  festival  of  St  Nicholas,  or  some 
such  great  occasion.  It  was  ornamented  with  a gorgeous 
brass  knocker  curiously  wrought,  sometimes  into  the 
device  of  a dog,  and  sometimes  of  a lion’s  head;  and 
was  daily  burnished  with  such  religious  zeal,  that  it 
was  ofttimes  worn  out  by  the  very  precautions  taken 
for  its  preservation.  The  whole  house  was  constantly 
in  a state  of  inundation,  under  the  discipline  of  mops, 
and  brooms,  and  scrubbing-brushes ; and  the  good 
housewives  of  those  days  were  a kind  of  amphibious 
animal,  delighting  exceedingly  to  be  dabbling  in  water, 
insomuch  that  a historian  of  the  day  gravely  tells  us, 
that  many  of  his  townswomen  grew  to  have  webbed 
fingers  like  unto  a duck;  and  some  of  them,  he  had 
little  doubt,  could  the  matter  be  examined  into,  would 
be  found  to  have  the  tails  of  mermaids ; but  this  I look 
upon  to  be  a mere  sport  of  fancy,  or,  what  is  worse,  a 
wilful  misrepresentation. 

The  grand  parlour  was  the  sanctum  sanctorum,  where 
the  passion  for  cleaning  was  indulged  without  control. 
In  this  sacred  apartment  no  one  was  permitted  to  enter 
excepting  the  mistress  and  her  confidential  maid,  who 
visited  it  once  a week  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  a 
thorough  cleaning,  and  putting  things  to  rights,  always 
taking  the  precaution  of  leaving  their  shoes  at  the  door, 
and  entering  devoutly  op  their  stocking-feet.  After 
scrubbing  the  floor,  sprinkling  it  with  fine  white  sand, 
which  was  curiously  stroked  into  angles,  and  curves, 
and  rhomboids,  with  a broom,  after  washing  the  win- 
dows, rubbing  and  polishing  the  furniture,  and  putting 
a new  bunch  of  evergreens  in  the  fireplace,  the  window- 
shutters  were  again  closed  to  keep  out  the  flies,  and  the 
room  carefully  locked  up  until  the  revolution  of  time 
brought  round  the  weekly  cleaning-day. 

As  to  the  family,  they  always  entered  in  at  the  gate, 
and  most  generally  lived  in  the  kitchen.  To  have  seen 
a numerous  household  assembled  around  the  fire,  one 
would  have  imagined  that  he  was  transported  back  to 
those  happy  days  of  primeval  simplicity  which  float 
before  our  imaginations  like  golden  visions.  The  fire- 
places were  of  a truly  patriarchal  magnitude,  where  the 
whole  family,  old  and  young,  master  and  servant,  black 
and  white,  nay,  even  the  very  cat  and  dog,  enjoyed  a 
community  of  privilege,  and  hail  each  a prescriptive 
right  to  a corner.  Here  the  old  burgher  would  sit  in 
perfect  silence,  puffing  his  pipe,  looking  in  the  fire  with 
half-shut  eyes,  and  thinking  of  nothing  for  hours 
together;  the  goede  vrouw  on  the  opposite  side  would 
employ  herself  diligently  in  spinning  her  yarn  or  knit- 
ting stockings.  The  young  folks  would  crowd  around 
the  hearth,  listening  with  breathless  attention  to  some 
old  crone  of  a negro  who  was  the  oracle  of  the  family, 
and  who,  perched  like  a raven  in  a corner  of  the  chim- 
ney, would  croak  forth  for  a long  winter  afternoon  a 
string  of  incredible  stories  about  New  England  witches, 
grisly  ghosts,  horses  without  heads,  and  hairbreadth 
escapes,  and  bloody  encounters  among  the  Indians. 


In  those  happy  days  a well-regulated  family  always 
rose  with  the  dawn,  dined  at  eleven,  and  went  to  bed  at 
sundown.  Dinner  was  invariably  a private  meal,  and 
the  fat  old  burghers  shewed  incontestable  symptoms  of 
disapprobation  and  uneasiness  at  being  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  a neighbour  on  such  occasions.  But  though 
our  worthy  ancestors  were  thus  singularly  averse  to 
giving  dinners,  yet  they  kept  up  the  social  bonds  of 
intimacy  by  occasional  banquetings,  called  tea-parties. 

These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  confined  to 
the  higher  classes  or  noblesse — that  is  to  say,  such  as 
kept  their  own  cows,  and  drove  their  own  wagons.  The 
company  commonly  assembled  at  three  o’clock,  and 
went  away  about  six,  unless  it  was  in  winter-time, 
when  the  fashionable  hours  were  a little  earlier,  that 
the  ladies  might  get  home  before  dark.  I do  not  find 
that  they  ever  treated  their  company  to  iced  creams, 
jellies,  or  syllabubs,  or  regaled  them  with  musty  almonds, 
mouldy  raisins,  or  sour  oranges,  as  is  often  done  in  the 
present  age  of  refinement.  Our  ancestors  were  fond  of 
more  sturdy  substantial  fare.  The  tea-table  was 
crowned  with  a huge  earthen  dish  well  stored  with 
slices  of  fat  pork,  fried  brown,  cut  up  into  morsels,  and 
swimming  in  gravy.  The  company  being  seated  around 
the  genial  board,  and  each  furnished  with  a fork,  evinced 
their  dexterity  in  launching  at  the  fattest  pieces  of 
this  mighty  dish,  in  much  the  same  manner  as  sailors 
harpoon  porpoises  at  sea,  or  our  Indians  spear  salmon 
in  the  lakes.  Sometimes  the  table  was  graced  with 
immense  apple-pies,  or  saucers  full  of  preserved  peaches 
and  pears ; but  it  was  always  sure  to  boast  of  an  enor- 
mous dish  of  balls  of  sweetened  dough  fried  in  hog’s 
fat,  and  called  dough-nuts,  or  oly  koeks;  a delicious 
kind  of  cake,  at  present  scarce  known  in  this  city, 
excepting  in  genuine  Dutch  families. 

The  tea  was  served  out  of  a majestic  delf  tea-pot, 
ornamented  with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch  shepherds 
and  shepherdesses,  tending  pigs — with  boats  sailing  in 
the  air,  and  houses  built  in  the  clouds,  and  sundry 
other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies.  The  beaux  distin- 
guished themselves  by  their  adroitness  in  replenishing 
this  pot  from  a huge  copper  tea-kettle,  which  would 
have  made  the  pigmy  macaronies  of  these  degenerate 
days  sweat  merely  to  look  at  it.  To  sweeten  the  bever- 
age, a lump  of  sugar  was  laid  beside  each  cup,  and  the 
company  alternately  nibbled  and  sipped  with  great 
decorum,  until  an  improvement  was  introduced  by  a 
shrewd  and  economic  old  lady,  which  was,  to  suspend  a 
large  lump  directly  over  the  tea-table  by  a string  from 
the  ceiling,  so  that  it  could  be  swung  from  mouth  to 
mouth — an  ingenious  expedient,  which  is  still  kept  up 
by  some  families  in  Albany,  but  which  prevails,  without 
exception,  in  Communipaw,  Bergen,  Flat-Bush,  and  all 
our  uncontaminated  Dutch  villages. 

At  these  primitive  tea-parties  the  utmost  propriety 
and  dignity  of  deportment  prevailed.  No  flirting  nor 
coquetting — no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden 
chattering  and  romping  of  young  ones — no  self-satisfied 
struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen  with  their  brains  in 
their  pockets ; nor  amusing  conceits  and  monkey  diver- 
tisements  of  smart  young  gentlemen  with  no  brains  at 
all.  On  the  contrary,  the  young  ladies  seated  them- 
selves demurely  in  their  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  knit 
their  own  woollen  stockings ; nor  ever  opened  their  lips, 
excepting  to  say  yah  Mynheer  or  yah  ya  Vrouw  to  any 
question  that  was  asked  them ; behaving  in  all  things 
like  decent  well-educated  damsels.  As  to  the  gentle- 
men, each  of  them  tranquilly  smoked  his  pipe,  and 
seemed  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  blue  and  white  tiles 
with  which  the  fireplaces  were  decorated ; wherein 
sundry  passages  of  Scripture  were  piously  portrayed: 
Tobit  and  his  dog  figured  to  great  advantage;  Hainan 
swung  conspicuously  on  his  gibbet ; and  Jonah  appeared 
most  manfully  bouncing  out  of  the  whale,  like  harle- 
quin through  a barrel  of  fire. 

The  parties  broke  up  without  noise  and  without 

487 


PROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


confusion.  They  were  carried  home  by  their  own  carriages 
— that  is  to  say,  by  the  vehicles  nature  had  provided 
them,  excepting  such  of  the  wealthy  as  could  afford  to 
keep  a wagon.  The  gentlemen  gallantly  attended  their 
fair  ones  to  their  respective  abodes,  and  took  leave  of  them 
with  a hearty  smack  at  the  door ; which,  as  it  was  an 
established  piece  of  etiquette,  done  in  perfect  simplicity 
and  honesty  of  heart,  occasioned  no  scandal  at  that 
time,  nor  should  it  at  the  present : if  our  great-grand- 
fathers approved  of  the  custom,,  it  would  argue  a great 
want  of  reverence  in  their  descendants  to  say  a word 
against  it. 

[Feelings  of  an  American  on  First  Arriving  in  England .] 

To  me  everything  was  full  of  matter;  the  footsteps 
of  history  were  everywhere  to  be  traced;  and  poetry 
had  breathed  over  and  sanctified  the  land.  I expe- 
rienced the  delightful  feeling  of  freshness  of  a child  to 
whom  everything  is  new.  I pictured  to  myself  a set  of 
inhabitants  and  a mode  of  life  for  every  habitation  that 
I saw,  from  the  aristocratical  mansion,  amidst  the  lordly 
repose  of  stately  groves  and  solitary  parks,  to  the  straw- 
thatched  cottage,  with  its  scanty  garden  and  cherished 
woodbine.  I thought  I never  could  be  sated  with  the 
sweetness  and  freshness  of  a country  so  completely 
carpeted  with  verdure ; where  every  air  breathed  of  the 
balmy  pasture,  and  the  honeysuckled  hedge.  I was 
continually  coming  upon  some  little  document  of  poetry 
in  the  blossomed  hawthorn,  the  daisy,  the  cowslip,  the 
primrose,  or  some  other  simple  object  that  has  received 
a supernatural  value  from  the  muse. 

[A  Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn.] 

[From  Bracelridge  Hall.] 

It  was  a rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy  month  of 
November.  I had  been  detained  in  the  course  of  a 
journey  by  a slight  indisposition,  from  which  I was 
recovering ; but  I was  still  feverish,  and  was  obliged  to 
keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the  small  town 
of  Derby.  A wet  Sunday  in  a country  inn ! whoever 
has  had  the  luck  to  experience  one,  can  alone  judge  of 
my  situation.  The  rain  pattered  against  the  casements, 
the  bells  tolled  for  church  with  a melancholy  sound.  I 
went  to  the  windows  in  quest  of  something  to  amuse 
the  eye,  but  it  seemed  as  if  I had  been  placed  completely 
out  of  the  reach  of  all  amusement.  The  windows  of  my 
bedroom  looked  out  among  tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of 
chimneys,  while  those  of  my  sitting-room  commanded  a 
full  view  of  the  stable-yard.  I know  of  nothing  more 
calculated  to  make  a man  sick  of  this  world  than  a 
stable-yard  on  a rainy  day.  The  place  was  littered  with 
wet  straw,  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers 
and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a stagnant  pool  of 
water  surrounding  an  island  of  muck ; there  were 
several  half-drowned  fowls  crowded  together  under  a 
cart,  among  which  was  a miserable  crest-fallen  cock, 
drenched  out  of  all  life  and  spirit,  his  drooping  tail 
matted,  as  it  were,  into  a single  feather,  along  which 
the  water  trickled  from  his  back ; near  the  cart  was  a 
half-dozing  cow  chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently 
to  be  rained  on,  with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from 
her  reeking  hide ; a wall-eypd  horse,  tired  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  stable,  was  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  a 
window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the  eaves ; 
an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a dog-house  hard  by,  uttered 
something  every  now  and  then  between  a bark  and  a 
yelp;  a drab  of  a kitchen  wench  tramped  backwards 
and  forwards  through  the  yard  in  pattens,  looking  as 
sulky  as  the  weather  itself;  everything,  in  short,  was 
comfortless  and  forlorn,  excepting  a crew  of  hard-drink- 
ing ducks,  assembled  like  boon-companions  round  a 
puddle,  and  making  a riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at  the 
people  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petticoats 
463 


hoisted  mid-leg  high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The 
bells  ceased  to  toll,  and  the  streets  became  silent.  I 
then  amused  myself  with  watching  the  daughters  of  a 
tradesman  opposite,  who,  being  confined  to  the  house 
for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery,  played  off  their 
charms  at  the  front  windows,  to  fascinate  the  chance 
tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  summoned 
away  by  a vigilant  vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I had 
nothing  further  from  without  to  amuse  me. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy ; the  slovenly, 
ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily  along ; there  was 
no  variety  even  in  the  rain ; it  was  one  dull,  continued, 
monotonous  patter,  patter,  patter,  excepting  that  now 
and  then  I was  enlivened  by  the  idea  of  a brisk  shower, 
from  the  rattling  of  the  drops  upon  a passing  umbrella. 
It  was  quite  refreshing — if  I may  be  allowed  a hack- 
neyed phrase  of  the  day — when  in  the  course  of  the 
mprning  a horn  blew,  and  a stage-coach  whirled  through 
the  street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck  all  over  ifj 
cowering  under  cotton  umbrellas,  and  seethed  together, 
and  reeking  with  the  steams  of  wet  box-coats  and  upper 
Benjamins.  The  sound  brought  out  from  their  lurking- 
places  a crew  of  vagabond  boys  and  vagabond  dogs,  and 
the  carroty-headed  hostler  and  that  nondescript  animal 
yclept  Boots,  and  all  the  other  vagabond  race  that 
infest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn ; but  the  bustle  was. 
transient ; the  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way ; and  boy 
and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to 
their  holes ; the  street  again  became  silent,  and  the 
rain  continued  to  rain  on. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The  travellers 
read  the  papers  two  or  three  times  over.  Some  drew 
round  the  fire,  and  told  long  stories  about  their  horses, 
about  their  adventures,  their  overturns,  and  breakings- 
down.  They  discussed  the  credits  of  different  merchants 
and  different  inns,  and  the  two  wags  told  several  choice 
anecdotes  of  pretty  chamber-maids  and  kind  landladies. 
All  this  passed  as  they  were  quietly  taking  what  they 
called  their  night-caps — that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of 
brandy  and  water  or  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the 
kind ; after  which  they  one  after  another  rang  for  Boots 
and  the  chamber-maid,  and  walked  off  to  bed  in  old 
shoes  cut  down  into  marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers. 
There  was  only  one  man  left — a short-legged,  long- 
bodied, plethoric  fellow,  with  a very  large,,  sandy  head. 
He  sat  by  himself  with  a glass  of  port-wine  negus 
and  a spoon,  sipping  and  stirring,  and  meditating 
and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left  but  the  spoon.  He 
gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  with 
the  empty  glass  standing  before  him ; and  the  candle 
seemed  to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long  and 
black,  and  cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed  the  little 
light  that  remained  in  the  chamber.  The  gloom  that 
now  prevailed  was  contagious.  Around  hung  the  shape- 
less and  almost  spectral  box-coats  of  departed  travellers, 
long  since  buried  in  deep  sleep.  I only  heard  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clock,  with  the  deep-drawn  breathings  of  the 
sleeping  toper,  and  the  drippings  of  the  rain — drop,, 
drop,  drop — from  the  eaves  of  the  house. 


JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  the  biographer  of  his 
illustrious  father-in-law,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and 
editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review  from  1826  till  1852, 
was  author  of  four  novels — Valerius,  a Roman  Story, 
three  volumes,  1821 ; Adam  Blair,  one  volume, 
1822;  Reginald  Dalton,  three  volumes,  1823;  and 
Matthew  Wald,  one  volume,  1824. 

The  first  of  Mr  Lockhart’s  productions  is  the 
best.  It  is  a tale  of  the  times  of  Trajan,  when  that 
emperor,  disregarding  the  example  of  his  predecessor 
Nerva,  persecuted  the  small  Christian  community 
which  had  found  shelter  in  the  bosom  of  the  Eternal 
City,  and  were  calmly  pursuing  their  pure  worship 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


J.  G.  LOCKHART. 


and  peaceful  lives.  As  the  blood  of  the  martyr  is 
the  seed  of  the  church,  the  Christians  were  extend- 
ing their  numbers,  though  condemned  to  meet  in 
caves  and  sepulchres,  and  forced  to  renounce  the 
honours  and  ambition  of  the  world.  The  hero  of  the 
tale  visits  Rome  for  the  first  time  at  this  interesting 
period.  He  is  the  son  of  a Roman  commander,  who 
had  settled  in  Britain,  and  is  summoned  to  Rome 
after  the  death  of  his  parents  to  take  possession  of 
an  estate  to  which,  as  the  heir  of  the  Yalerii,  he  had 
become  entitled.  His  kinsman  Licinius,  an  eminent 
lawyer,  receives  him  with  affection,  and  introduces 
him  to  his  friends  and  acquaintances.  We  are  thus 


John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


presented  with  sketches  of  the  domestic  society  of 
the  Romans,  with  pictures  of  the  Forum,  the  baths, 
temples,  and  other  marvels  of  Rome,  which  are 
briefly,  but  distinctly  and  picturesquely  delineated. 
At  the  villa  of  Capito,  an  Epicurean  philosopher, 
Valerius  meets  with  the  two  fair  nieces  of  his  host, 
Sempronia  and  Athanasia.  The  latter  is  the  heroine 
of  the  tale— a pure  intellectual  creation,  in  which 
we  see  united  the  Roman  grace  and  feminine  sweet- 
ness of  the  patrician  lady,  with  the  high-souled 
fortitude  and  elevation  of  the  Christian.  Athanasia 
has  embraced  the  new  faith,  and  is  in  close  com- 
munion with  its  professors.  Her  charms  overcome 
Valerius,  who  soon  obtains  possession  of  her  secret ; 
and  after  various  adventures,  in  which  he  succours 
the  persecuted  maiden,  and  aids  in  her  wonderful 
escape,  he  is  at  length  admitted  by  baptism  into 
the  fellowship  of  the  Christians,  and  embarks  with 
Athanasia  for  Britain.  The  materials  of  such  a 
story  are  necessarily  romantic  and  impressive.  The 
taste  and  splendour  of  ancient  Rome  present  a fertile 
field  for  the  imagination,  and  the  transition  from 
these  to  the  sufferings,  the  devotion,  and  dangers  of 
the  early  Christians,  calls  up  a different  and  not 
less  striking  train  of  feelings  and  associations.  In 
his  serious  and  pathetic  scenes  the  author  is  most 
successful.  In  the  low  humour  of  his  attendants, 
the  vulgar  display  of  the  rich  widow,  and  the  servile 
pedantry  of  the  stoic  tutor,  there  appear  to  us 
many  sins  against  good  taste.  Some  of  the  satirical 


touches  and  phrases  are  also  at  variance  with  the 
purity  and  elegance  of  the  general  strain  of  the 
story,  and  with  the  consummate  art  with  which  the 
author  has  wrought  up  his  situations  of  a tragic 
and  lofty  nature,  where  we  are  borne  along  by  a 
deep  and  steady  feeling  of  refined  pleasure,  interest, 
and  admiration.  One  of  the  most  striking  scenes 
in  the  novel  is  a grand  display  at  the  Flavian 
amphitheatre,  given  by  the  emperor  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  the  day  on  which  he  was  adopted  by  Nerva. 
On  this  occasion  a Christian  prisoner  is  brought 
forward,  either  to  renounce  his  faith  in  the  face  of 
the  assembly,  or  to  die  in  the  arena.  Eighty  thousand 
persons  were  there  met,  ‘from  the  lordly  senators 
on  their  silken  couches,  along  the  parapet  of  the 
arena,  up  to  the  impenetrable  mass  of  plebeian 
heads  which  skirted  the  horizon,  above  the  topmost 
wall  of  the  amphitheatre  itself.  The  scene  concludes 
with  the  execution  of  the  Christian.  In  another 
scene  there  is  great  classic  grace,  united  with 
delicacy  of  feeling.  It  describes  Athanasia  in 
prison,  and  visited  there  by  Valerius  through  the 
connivance  of  Silo,  the  jailer,  who  belongs  to  the 
Christian  party : 

[. Athanasia  in  Prison .] 

Alas  ! said  I to  myself,  of  what  tidings  am  I doomed 
ever  to  be  the  messenger ! but  she  was  alone ; and  how 
could  I shrink  from  any  pain  that  might  perhaps  alle- 
viate hers  ? I took  the  key,  glided  along  the  corridors, 
and  stood  once  more  at  the  door,  of  the  chamber  in 
which  I had  parted  from  Athanasia.  No  voice  answered 
to  my  knock;  I repeated  it  three  times,  and  then, 
agitated  with  indistinct  apprehension,  hesitated  no 
longer  to  open  it.  No  lamp  was  burning  within  the 
chamber,  but  from  without  there  entered  a wavering 
glare  of  deep  saffron-coloured  light,  which  shewed  me 
Athanasia  extended  on  her  couch.  Its  ominous  and 
troubled  hue  had  no  power  to  mar  the  image  of  her 
sleeping  tranquillity.  I hung  oyer  her  for  a moment, 
and  was  about  to  disturb  that  slumber — perhaps  the 
last  slumber  of  peace  and  innocence — when  the  chamber 
walls  were  visited  with  a yet  deeper  glare.  ‘ Cams,’  she 
whispered,  as  I stepped  from  beside  the  couch,  ‘ why  do 
you  leave  me  ? Stay,  Valerius.’  I looked  back,  but  her 
eyelids  were  still  closed  ; the  same  calm  smile  wras  upon 
her  dreaming  lips.  The  light  streamed  redder  and  more 
red.  All  in  an  instant  became  as  quiet  without  as 
within.  I approached  the  window,  and  saw  Cotilius 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  court,  Sabinus  and  Silo 
near  him  ; the  horsemen  drawn  up  on  either  side,  and 
a soldier  close  behind'resting  upon  an  unsheathed  sword. 
I saw  the  keen  blue  eye  as  fierce  as  ever.  I saw  that  the 
blood  was  still  fervid  in  his  cheeks  ; for  the  complexion 
of  this  man  was  of  the  same  bold  and  florid  brightness, 
so  uncommon  in  Italy,  which  you  have  seen  represented 
in  the  pictures  of  Sylla  ; and  even  the  blaze  of  the 
torches  seemed  to  strive  in  vain  to  heighten  its  natural 
scarlet.  The  soldier  had  lifted  his  sword,  and  my  eye 
was  fixed,  as  by  fascination,  when  suddenly  a deep  voice 
was  heard  amidst  the  deadly  silence  : ‘ Cotilius  ! — look 
up,  Cotilius  ! ’ 

Aurelius,  the  Christian  priest,  standing  at  an  open 
window  not  far  distant  from  that  at  which  I was  placed, 
stretched  forth  his  fettered  hand  as  he  spake : ‘ Cotilius  ! 
I charge  thee,  look  upon  the  hand  from  which  the 
blessed  water  of  baptism  was  cast  upon  thy  head.  I 
charge  thee,  look  upon  me,  and  say,  ere  yet  the  blow  be 
given,  upon  what  hope  thy  thoughts  are  fixed?  Is  this 
sword  bared  against  the  rebel  of  Csesar,  or  a martyr  of 
Jesus?  I charge  thee,  speak;  and  for  thy  soul’s  sake 
speak  truly.’ 

A bitter  motion  of  derision  passed  over  his  lips, 
and  he  nodded,  as  if  impatiently,  to  the  Prsetorian. 

489 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Instinctively  I turned  me  from  the  spectacle,  and  my 
eye  rested  again  upon  the  couch  of  Athanasia — hut  not 
upon  the  vision  of  her  tranquillity.  The  clap  with 
which  the  corpse  fell  upon  the  stones  had  perhaps 
reached  the  sleeping  ear,  and  we  know  with  what 
swiftness  thoughts  chase  thoughts  in  the  wilderness  of 
dreams.  So  it  was  that  she  started  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  blow  was  given ; and  she  whispered — for  it 
was  still  but  a deep  whisper — ‘ Spare  me,  Trajan,  Caesar, 
Prince — have  pity  on  my  youth — strengthen,  strengthen 
me,  good  Lord ! Fie ! fie  ! we  must  not  lie  to  save 
life.  Felix — Valerius — come  close  to  me  Caius — Fie ! 
let  us  remember  we  are  Romans — ’Tis  the  trumpet’ 

The  Praetorian  trumpet  sounded  the  march  in  the 
court  below,  and  Athanasia,  starting  from  her  sleep, 
gazed  wildly  around  the  reddened  chamber.  The  blast 
of  the  trumpet  was  indeed  in  her  ear — and  Valerius 
I hung  over  her;  but  after  a moment  the  cloud  of  the 
broken  dream  passed  away,  and  the  maiden  smiled  as 
j she  extended  her  hand*to  me  from  the  couch,  and  began 
! to  gather  up  the  ringlets  that  floated  all  down  upon  her 
shoulder.  She  blushed  and  smiled  mournfully,  and 
j asked  me  hastily  whence  I came,  and  for  what  purpose 
| I had  come  ; but  before  I could  answer,  the  glare  that 
was  yet  in  the  chamber  seemed  anew  to  be  perplexing 
! her,  and  she  gazed  from  me  to  the  red  walls,  and  from 
I them  to  me  again ; and  then  once  more  the  trumpet  was 
blown,  and  Athanasia  sprung  from  her  couch.  I know 
not  in  what  terms  I was  essaying  to  tell  her  what  was  the 
truth ; but  I know,  that  ere  I had  said  many  words, 
she  discovered  my  meaning.  For  a moment  she  looked 
deadly  pale,  in  spite  of  all  the  glare  of  the  torch  beams ; 
but  she  recovered  herself,  and  said  in  a voice  that 
sounded  almost  as  if  it  came  from  a light  heart : ‘ But, 
Caius,  I must  not  go  to  Caesar  without  having  at  least  a 
garland  on  my  head.  Stay  here,  Valerius,  and  I shall 
be  ready  anon — quite  ready.’ 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  were  less  hasty  than  she 
had  promised ; yet  many  minutes  elapsed  not  ere  she 
returned.  She  plucked  a blossom  from  her  hair  as  she 
drew  near  me,  and  said  : ‘ Take  it : you  must  not  refuse 
one  token  more  ; this  also  is  a sacred  gift.  Caius,  you 
must  learn  never  to  look  upon  it  without  kissing  these 
red  streaks — these  blessed  streaks  of  the  Christian 
flower.’ 

I took  the  flower  from  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  my 
lips,  and  I remembered  that  the  very  first  day  I saw 
Athanasia  she  had  plucked  such  a one  when  apart  from 
all  the  rest  in  the  gardens  of  Capito.  I told  her  what  I 
remembered,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  little  circumstance 
had  called  up  all  the  image  of  peaceful  days,  for  once 
more  sorrowfulness  gathered  upon  her  countenance.  If 
the  tear  was  ready,  however,  it  was  not  permitted  to 
drop  ; and  Athanasia  returned  again  to  her  flower. 

‘Do  you  think  there  are  any  of  them  in  Britain?’ 
said  she  ; ‘ or  do  you  think  that  they  would  grow  there  ? 
You  must  go  to  my  dear  uncle,  and  he  will  not  deny 
you  when  you  tell  him  that  it  is  for  my  sake  he  is  to 
give  you  some  of  his.  They  call  it  the  passion-flower — 
’tis  an  emblem  of  an  awful  thing.  Caius,  these  purple 
streaks  are  like  trickling  drops  ; and  here,  look  ye,  they 
are  all  round  the  flower.  Is  it  not  very  like  a bloody 
crown  upon  a pale  brow  ? I will  take  one  of  them  in 
my  hand,  too,  Caius  ; and  methinks  I shall  not  disgrace 
myself  when  I look  upon  it,  even  though  Trajan  should 
be  frowning  upon  me.’ 

I had  not  the  heart  to  interrupt  her;  but  heard 
silently  all  she  said,  and  I thought  she  said  the  words 
quickly  and  eagerly,  as  if  she  feared  to  be  interrupted. 

The  old  priest  came  into  the  chamber,  while  she  was 
yet  speaking  so,  and  said  very  composedly : ‘ Come,  my 
dear  child,  our  friend  has  sent  again  for  us,  and  the 
soldiers  have  been  waiting  already  some  space,  who  are 
to  convey  us  to  the  Palatine.  Come,  children,  we  must 
part  for  a moment — perhaps  it  may  be  but  for  a moment 
— and  Valerius  may  remain  here  till  we  return  to  him. 


Here,  at  least,  dear  Caius,  you  shall  have  the  earliest 
tidings  and  the  surest.’ 

The  good  man  took  Athanasia  by  the  hand,  and  she, 
smiling  now  at  length  more  serenely  than  ever,  said  only : 
‘Farewell  then,  Caius,  for  a little  moment  !’  And  so, 
drawing  her  veil  over  her  face,  she  passed  away  from 
before  me,  giving,  I think,  more  support  to  the  ancient 
Aurelius  than  in  her  turn  she  received  from  him.  I 
began  to  follow  them,  but  the  priest  waved  his  hand  as 
if  to  forbid  me.  The  door  closed  after  them,  and  I was 
alone. 

Adam  Blair,  or,  as  the  title  runs,  Some  Passages 
in  the  Life  of  Mr  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel 
at  Cross-Meikle,  is  a narrative  of  the  fall  of  a Scottish 
minister  from  the  purity  and  dignity  of  the  pastoral 
character,  and  his  restoration,  after  a season  of  deep 
penitence  and  contrition,  to  the  duties  of  his  sacred 
profession,  in  the  same  place  which  had  formerly 
witnessed  his  worth  and  usefulness.  The  unpleasant 
nature  of  the  story,  and  a certain  tone  of  exaggera- 
tion and  sentimentalism  in  parts  of  it,  render  the 
perusal  of  the  work  somewhat  painful  and  disagree- 
able, and  even  of  doubtful  morality.  But  Adam 
Blair  is  powerfully  written,  with  an  accurate  concep- 
tion of  Scottish  feeling  and  character,  and  passages 
of  description  equal  to  any  in  the  author’s  other 
works.  The  tender-hearted'  enthusiastic  minister 
of  Cross-Meikle  is  hurried  on  to  his  downfall,  ‘by 
fate  and  metaphysical  aid,’  and  never  appears 
in  the  light  of  a guilty  person;  while  his  faithful 
elder,  John  Maxwell,  and  his  kind  friends  at  Sem- 
plehaugh,  are  just  and  honourable  representatives 
of  the  good  old  Scotch  rural  classes. 

Reginald  Dalton  is  the  most  extended  of  Mr 
Lockhart’s  fictions,  and  gives  us  more  of  the  ‘ gene- 
ral form  and  pressure  ’ of  humankind  and  society 
than  his  two  previous  works.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
England,  and  we  have  a full  account  of  college-life 
in  Oxford,  where  Reginald,  the  hero,  is  educated,  and 
where  he  learns  to  imbibe  port,  if  not  prejudice. 
The  dissipation  and  extravagance  of  the  son  almost 
ruin  his  father,  an  English  clergyman:  and  some 
scenes  of  distress  and  suffering  consequent  on  this 
misconduct  are  related  with  true  and  manly  feeling. 
Reginald  joins  in  the  rows  and  quarrels  of  the  gowns- 
men— which  are  described  at  considerable  length, 
and  with  apparently  complete  knowledge  of  similar 
scenes — but  he  has  virtue  enough  left  to  fall  in  love ; 
and  the  scene  where  he  declares  his  passion  to  the 
fair  Helen  Hesketh  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  beautiful  in  the  book.  A duel,  an  elopement, 
the  subtlety  and  craft  of  lawyers,  and  the  final 
succession  of  Reginald  to  the  patrimony  of  his 
ancestors,  supply  the  usual  excitement  for  novel 
readers ; but  much  of  this  machinery  is  clumsily 
managed,  and  the  value  of  the  book  consists  in  its 
pictures  of  English  modern  manners,  and  in  its 
clear  and  manly  tone  of  thought  and  style. 

[ Description  of  an  old  English  Mansion .] 

They  halted  to  bait  their  horses  at  a little  village  on 
the  main  coast  of  the  Palatinate,  and  then  pursued 
their  course  leisurely  through  a rich  and  level  country, 
until  the  groves  of  Grypherwast  received  them  amidst 
all  the  breathless  splendour  of  a noble  sunset.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  express  the  emotions  with  which  young 
Reginald  regarded,  for  the  first  time,  the  ancient 
demesne  of  his  race.  The  scene  was  one  which  a 
stranger,  of  years  and  experience  very  superior  to  his, 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  contemplating  with 
some  enthusiasm ; but  to  him  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
venerable  front,  embosomed  amidst  its 
* Old  contemporary  trees,’ 


novelists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


PROFESSOR  WILSON. 


was  the  more  than  realisation  of  cherished  dreams. 
Involuntarily  he  drew  in  his  rein,  and  the  whole  party 
as  involuntarily  following  the  motion,  they  approached 
the  gateway  together  at  the  slowest  pace. 

The  gateway  is  almost  in  the  heart  of  the  village,  for 
the  hall  of  Grypherwast  had  been  reared  long  before 
English  gentlemen  conceived  it  to  be  a point  of  dignity 
to  have  no  humble  roofs  near  their  own.  A beautiful 
stream  runs  hard  by,  and  the  hamlet  is  almost  within 
the  arms  of  the  princely  forest,  whose  ancient  oaks,  and 
beeches,  and  gigantic  pine-trees  darken  and  ennoble  the 
aspect  of  the  whole  surrounding  region.  The  peasantry, 
who  watch  the  flocks  and  herds  in  those  deep  and 
grassy  glades — the  fishermen,  who  draw  their  subsistence 
from  the  clear  waters  of  the  river — and  the  woodmen, 
whose  axes  resound  all  day  long  among  the  inexhaustible 
thickets,  are  the  sole  inhabitants  of  the  simple  place. 
Over  their  cottages  the  hall  of  Grypherwast  has  pre- 
dominated for  many  long  centuries,  a true  old  northern 
manor-house,  not  devoid  of  a certain  magnificence  in  its 
general  aspect,  though  making  slender  pretensions  to 
anything  like  elegance  in  its  details.  The  central  tower, 
square,  massy,  rude,  and  almost  destitute  of  windows, 
recalls  the  knightly  and  troubled  period  of  the  old  Border 
wars ; while  the  overshadowing  roofs,  carved  balconies, 
and  multifarious  chimneys  scattered  over  the  rest  of 
the  building,  attest  the  successive  influence  of  many 
more  or  less  tasteful  generations.  Excepting  in  the 
original  baronial  tower,  the  upper  parts  of  the  house  are 
all  formed  of  oak,  but  this  with  such  an  air  of  strength 
and  solidity  as  might  well  shame  many  modern  struc- 
tures raised  of  better  materials.  Nothing  could  be  more 
perfectly  in  harmony  with  the  whole  character  of  the 
place  than  the  autumnal  brownness  of  the  stately  trees 
around.  The  same  descending  rays  were  tinging  with 
rich  lustre  the  outlines  of  their  bare  trunks,  and  the 
projecting  edges  of  the  old-fashioned  bay-windows  which 
they  sheltered ; and  some  rooks  of  very  old  family  were 
cawing  overhead  almost  in  the  midst  of  the  hospitable 
smoke-wreaths.  Within  a couple  of  yards  from  the 
door  of  the  house  an  eminently  respectable-looking  old 
j man,  in  a powdered  wig  and  very  rich  livery  of  blue 
and  scarlet,  was  sitting  on  a garden-chair  with  a pipe 
! in  his  mouth,  and  a cool  tankard  within  his  reach  upon 
the  ground. 

The  tale  of  Matthew  Wald  is  related  in  the  first 
person,  and  the  hero  experiences  a great  variety  of 
fortune.  He  is  not  of  the  amiable  or  romantic 
school,  and  seems  to  have  been  adopted — in  the 
manner  of  Godwin — merely  as  a medium  for  por- 
traying strong  passions  and  situations  in  life.  The 
story  of  Matthew’s  first  love,  and  some  of  the  epi- 
I sodical  narratives  of  the  work,  are  interesting  and 
j ably  written.  There  is  also  much  worldly  shrewd- 
ness and  observation  evinced  in  the  delineation  of 
some  of  the  scenes  and  characters ; but  on  the  whole, 
it  is  the  poorest  of  Mr  Lockhart’s  novels.  The 
awkward  improbable  manner  in  which  the  events 
are  brought  about,  and  the  carelessness  and 
inelegance  of  the  language  in  many  places,  are 
remarkable  in  a writer  of  critical  habits  and  high 
attainments  as  a scholar.  Mr  Lockhart,  we  suspect, 
like  Sheridan,  required  time  and  patient  revision  to 
bring  out  fully  his  conceptions,  and  nevertheless  was 
often  tempted  or  impelled  to  hurry  to  a close. 

Mr  Lockhart  was  born  on  the  14th  of  June  1794 
in  the  manse  or  parsonage  of  Cambusnethan,  county 
of  Lanark.  His  father  was  minister  of  that  parish, 
but  being  presented  to  the  College  Church,  Glasgow, 
he  removed  thither,  and  his  son  was  educated  at 
Glasgow  University.  He  was  selected  as  one  of  the 
two  students  whom  Glasgow  College  sends  annually 
to  Oxford,  in  virtue  of  an  endowment  named 
‘Snell’s  Foundation.’  Having  taken  his  degree, 
Mr  Lockhart  repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and  applied 


himself  to  the  study  of  the  law.  He  entered  at  the 
bar,  but  was  quickly  induced  to  devote  himself 
chiefly  to  literature.  Besides  the  works  we  have 
mentioned,  Mr  Lockhart  was  a regular  contributor 
to  Blackwood’s  Magazine , and  imparted  to  that  work 
a large  portion  of  the  spirit,  originality,  and 
determined  political  character  which  it  has  long 
maintained.  In  1820  he  was  married  to  Sophia, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  a lady  who 
possessed  much  of  the  conversational  talent,  the 
unaffected  good-humour,  and  liveliness  of  her  father. 
Mrs  Lockhart  died  on  the  17th  of  May  1837,  in 
London,  whither  Mr  Lockhart  had  gone  to  reside 
as  successor  to  Mr  Gifford  in  the  editorship  of  the 
Quarterly  Review. 

In  1843  Mr  Lockhart  received  from  Sir  Robert 
Peel  the  sinecure  appointment  of  Auditor  of  the 
Duchy  of  Cornwall,  to  which  was  attached  a salary 
of  <£400  per  annum.  In  point  of  fortune  and  con- 
nections, therefore,  Mr  Lockhart  was  more  success- 
ful than  most  authors  who  have  elevated  themselves 
by  their  talents ; but  ill  health  and  private  calam- 
ities darkened  his  latter  days.  He  survived  all  the 
family. of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  his  own  two  sons. 
He  had  another  child,  a daughter,  married  to  Mr 
Hope  Scott  of  Abbotsford,  and  at  Abbotsford  Mr 
Lockhart  died,  on  the  25th  of  November  1854. 


PROFESSOR  WILSON. 

Professor  Wilson  carried  the  peculiar  features 
and  characteristics  of  his  poetry  into  his  prose  com- 
positions. The  same  amiable  gentleness,  tenderness, 
love  of  nature,  pictures  of  solitary  life,  humble  affec- 
tions and  pious  hopes,  expressed  in  an  elaborate  but 
rich  structure  of  language,  which  fixed  upon  the 
author  of  the  Isle  of  Palms  the  title  of  a Lake  Poet, 
may  be  seen  in  all  his  tales.  The  first  of  these 
appeared  in  1822,  under  the  name  of  Lights  and 
Shadows  of  Scottish  Life  ; a Selection  from  the  Papers 
of  the  late  Arthur  Austin.  This  volume  consists  of 
twenty-four  short  tales,  three  of  which — The  Elder’s 
Funeral,  The  Snow- storm,  and  The  Forgers — had 
previously  been  published  in  Blackwoods  Magazine. 
Most  of  them  are  tender  and  pathetic,  and  relate  to 
Scottish  rural  and  pastoral  life.  The  innocence, 
simplicity,  and  strict  piety  of  ancient  manners  are 
described  as  still  lingering  in  our  vales  ; but,  with  a 
fine  spirit  of  homely  truth  and  antique  Scriptural 
phraseology,  the  author’s  scenes  and  characters  are 
too  Arcadian  to  be  real.  His  second  work,  The 
Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay  (one  volume,  1823),  is 
more  regular  in  construction  and  varied  in  incident. 
The  heroine  is  a maiden  in  humble  life,  whose  father 
imbibes  the  opinions  of  Paine,  and  is  imprisoned 
on  a charge  of  sedition,  but  afterwards  released. 
He  becomes  irreligious  and  profane  as  well  as  dis- 
affected, and  elopes  with  the  mistress  of  a brother- 
reformer.  The  gradual  ruin  and  deepening  dis- 
tress of  this  man’s  innocent  family  are  related  with 
much  pathos.  Margaret,  the  eldest  daughter,  endea- 
vours to  maintain  the  family  by  keeping  a school ; 
one  of  her  brothers  goes  to  sea,  and  Margaret 
forms  an  attachment  to  a sailor,  the  shipmate  of  her 
brother,  who  is  afterwards  drowned  by  the  upset- 
ting of  a boat  in  the  Firth  of  Forth.  Sorrows  and 
disasters  continually  accumulate  on  the  amiable 
heroine.  Her  fortitude  is  put  to  a series  of  severe 
trials,  and  though  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the 
mournful  interest  of  the  story,  we  feel  that  the 
author  has  drawn  too  largely  on  the  sympathies  of 
his  readers,  and  represented  the  path  of  virtuous 
duty  in  far  too  melancholy  and  oppressive  a light. 
The  successive  bereavements  and  afflictions  of 

491 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


Margaret  Lyndsay  are  little  relieved  by  episode  or  j 
dialogue:  they  proceed  in  unvaried  measure,  with  no  j 
bright  allurements  of  imagination  to  reconcile  us  to 
the  scenes  of  suffering  that  are  so  forcibly  depicted. 
In  many  parts  of  the  tale  we  are  reminded  of 
the  affecting  pictures  of  Crabbe — so  true  to  human 
nature,  so  heart-rending  in  their  reality  and  their 
grief.  Of  this  kind  is  the  description  of  the 
removal  of  the  Lyndsays  from  their  rural  dwelling 
to  one  of  the  close  lanes  of  the  city,  which  is  as 
natural  and  as  truly  pathetic  as  any  scene  in 
modem  fiction : 


[The  1 Flitting  ’ or  Removal  of  the  Lyndsays .] 

The  twenty-fourth  day  of  November  came  at  last — 
a dim,  dull,  dreary,  and  obscure  day,  fit  for  parting 
everlastingly  from  a place  or  person  tenderly  beloved. 
There  was  no  sun,  no  wind,  no  sound,  in  the  misty  and 
unechoing  air.  A deadness  lay  over  the  wet  earth,  and 
there  was  no  visible  heaven.  Their  goods  and  chattels 
were  few;  but  many  little  delays  occurred,  some  acci- 
dental, and  more  in  the  unwillingness  of  their  hearts  to 
take  a final  farewell.  A neighbour  had  lent  his  cart 
for  the  flitting,  and  it  was  now  standing  loaded  at  the 
door  ready  to  move  away.  The  fire,  which  had  been 
kindled  in  the  morning  with  a few  borrowed  peats,  was 
now  out,  the  shutters  closed,  the  door  was  locked,  and 
the  key  put  into  the  hand  of  the  person  sent  to  receive 
it.  And  now  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  or  done, 
and  the  impatient  horse  started  briskly  away  from 
Braehead.  The  blind  girl  and  poor  Marion  were  sitting 
in  the  cart — Margaret  and  her  mother  were  on  foot. 
Esther  had  two  or  three  small  flower-pots  in  her  lap, 
for  in  her  blindness  she  loved  the  sweet  fragrance  and 
the  felt  forms  and  imagined  beauty  of  flowers ; and  the 
innocent  carried  away  her  tame  pigeon  in  her  bosom. 
Just  as  Margaret  lingered  on  the  threshold,  the  Robin 
Redbreast,  that  had  been  their  boarder  for  several 
winters,  hopped  upon  the  stone-seat  at  the  side  of  the 
door,  and  turned  up  its  merry  eyes  to  her  face.  £ There,’ 
said  she,  ‘ is  your  last  crumb  from  us,  sweet  Roby,  but 
there  is  a God  who  takes  care  o’  us  a’.’  The  widow 
had  by  this  time  shut  down  the  lid  of  her  memory,  and 
left  all  the  hoard  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  joyful  or 
despairing,  buried  in  darkness.  The  assembled  group 
of  neighbours,  mostly  mothers,  with  their  children  in 
their  arms,  had  given  the  ‘ God  bless  you,  Alice,  God 
bless  you,  Margaret,  and  the  lave,’  and  began  to 
disperse ; each  turning  to  her  own  cares  and  anxieties, 
in  which,  before  night,  the  Lyndsays  would  either  be 
forgotten,  or  thought  on  with  that  unpainful  sympathy 
which  is  all  the  poor  can  afford  or  expect,  but  which,  as 
in  this  case,  often  yields  the  fairest  fruits  of  charity 
and  love. 

A cold  sleety  rain  accompanied  the  cart  and  the  foot- 
travellers  all  the  way  to  the  city.  Short  as  the  distance 
was,  they  met  with  several  other  Sittings,  some  seem- 
ingly cheerful,  and  from  good  to  better — others  with 
woebegone  faces,  going  like  themselves  down  the  path 
of  poverty  on  a journey  from  which  they  were  to  rest  at 
night  in  a bare  and  hungry  house.  * * 

The  cart  stopped  at  the  foot  of  a lane  too  narrow  to 
admit  the  wheels,  and  also  too  steep  for  a laden  horse. 
Two  or  three  of  their  new  neighbours — persons  in 
the  very  humblest  condition,  coarsely  and  negligently 
dressed,  but  seemingly  kind  and  decent  people — came 
out  from  their  houses  at  the  stopping  of  the  cart-wheels, 
and  one  of  them  said : ‘ Ay,  ay,  here ’s  the  flitting,  I ’se 
warrant,  frae  Braehead.  Is  that  you,  Mrs  Lyndsay? 
Hech,  sers,  but  you’ve  gotten  a nasty  cauld  wet  day  for 
coming  into  Auld  Reekie,  as  you  kintra  folks  ca’  Embro. 
Hae  ye  had  ony  tidings,  say  ye,  o’  your  gudeman  since 
he  gaed  aff  wi’  that  limmer  ? Dool  be  wi’  her  and  a’ 
siclike.’  Alice  replied  kindly  to  such  questioning,  for 


she  knew  it  was  not  meant  unkindly.  The  cart  was 
I soon  unladen,  and  the  furniture  put  into  the  empty 
room.  A cheerful  fire  was  blazing,  and  the  animated 
and  interested  faces  of  the  honest  folks  who  crowded 
into  it,  on  a slight  acquaintance,  unceremoniously  and 
curiously,  but  without  rudeness,  gave  a cheerful  welcome 
to  the  new  dwelling.  In  a quarter  of  an  hour  the  beds 
were  laid  down — the  room  decently  arranged — one  and 
all  of  the  neighbours  said : ‘ Gude-night,’  and  the  door 
was  closed  upon  the  Lyndsays  in  their  new  dwelling. 

They  blessed  and  ate  their  bread  in  peace.  The 
Bible  was  then  opened,  and  Margaret  read  a chapter. 
There  was  frequent  and  loud  noise  in  the  lane  of  pass- 
ing merriment  or  anger,  but  this  little  congregation 
worshipped  God  in  a hymn,  Esther’s  sweet  voice  lead- 
ing the  sacred  melody,  and  they  knelt  together  in 
prayer.  It  has  been  beautifully  said  by  one  whose 
works  are  not  unknown  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor : 

Tired  Nature’s  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  ! 

He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 

"Where  fortune  smiles;  the  wretched  he  forsakes; 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinions  flies  from  woe, 

And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a tear. 

Not  so  did  sleep  this  night  forsake  the  wretched. 
He  came  like  moonlight  into  the  house  of  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless,  and,  under  the  shadow  of  his  wings, 
their  souls  lay  in  oblivion  of  all  trouble,  or  perhaps 
solaced  even  with  delightful  dreams. 

In  1824,  Mr  Wilson  published  another  but  infe- 
rior story,  The  Foresters.  It  certainly  is  a singular 
and  interesting  feature  in  the  genius  of  an  author 
known  as  an  active  man  of  the  world,  who  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  the  higher  social  circles  of  his 
native  country  and  in  England,  and  whose  scholastic 
and  political  tastes  would  seem  to  point  to  a different 
result,  that,  instead  of  portraying  the  manners  with 
which  he  was  familiar — instead  of  indulging  in 
witty  dialogue  or  humorous  illustration,  he  should 
have  selected  homely  Scottish  subjects  for  his 
works  of  fiction,  and  appeared  never  so  happy  or 
so  enthusiastic  as  when  expatiating  on  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  his  humble  countrymen  in  the  sequestered 
and  unambitious  walks  of  life. 

Various  other  novels  issued  about  this  time  from 
the  Edinburgh  press.  Mrs  Johnstone  published 
anonymously  Clan  Albyn  (1815),  a tale  written 
before  the  appearance  of  Waverley , and  approach- 
ing that  work  in  the  romantic  glow  which  it  casts 
over  Highland  character  and  scenery.  Mrs  Grant 
of  Laggan — a highly  competent  authority — has 
borne  testimony  to  the  correctness  of  the  Highland 
descriptions  in  Clan  Albyn.  A second  novel, 
Elizabeth  de  Bruce , was  published  by  Mrs  Johnstone 
in  1827.  This  lady  was  also  authoress  of  some 
interesting  tales  for  children,  The  Diversions  of 
Holhjcot,  The  Nights  of  the  Round  Table,  &c.,  and 
was  also  an  extensive  contributor  to  the  periodical 
literature  of  the  day.  She  died  in  1857.  Her  style 
is  easy  and  elegant,  and  her  writings  marked  by 
good  sense  and  a richly  cultivated  mind. 

Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder,  Bart.,  wrote  two 
novels  connected  with  Scottish  life  and  history, 
Lochandhu,  1825,  and  The  Wolf  of  Badenoch , 1827. 
In  1830,  Sir  Thomas  wrote  an  interesting  account  of 
the  Great  Floods  in  Morayshire,  which  happened  in 
the  autumn  of  1S29.  He  was  then  a resident  among 
the  romantic  scenes  of  this  unexampled  inundation, 
and  has  described  its  effects  with  great  picturesque- 
ness and  beauty,  and  with  many  homely  and  pathetic 
episodes  relative  to  the  suffering  people.  Sir  Thomas 
also  published  a series  of  Highland  Rambles , much 
inferior  to  his  early  novels,  though  abounding, 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


like  them,  in  striking  descriptions  of  natural 
scenery.  He  edited  Gilpin’s  Forest  Scenery , and  Sir 
Uvedale  Price’s  Essays  on  the  Picturesque,  adding 
much  new  matter  to  each;  and  he  was  commissioned 
to  write  a memorial  of  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria’s 
visit  to  Scotland  in  1842.  A complete  knowledge 
of  his  native  country,  its  scenery,  people,  history, 
and  antiquities — a talent  for  picturesque  delineation 
— and  a taste  for  architecture,  landscape-gardening, 
and  its  attendant  rural  and  elegant  pursuits,  distin- 
guished this  author.  Sir  Thomas  was  of  an  old 
Scottish  family,  representing  lineally  the  houses  of 
Lauder  and  Bass,  and,  through  a female,  Dick  of 
Braid  and  Grange.  He  died  in  1848,  aged  sixty- 
four. 

The  Youth  and  Manhood  of  Cyril  Thornton,  1827, 
was  hailed  as  one  of  the  most  vigorous  and  interest- 
ing fictions  of  the  day.  It  contained  sketches  of 
college-life,  military  campaigns,  and  other  hustling 
scenes  and  adventures  strongly  impressed  with  truth 
and  reality.  Some  of  the  foreign  scenes  in  this 
work  are  very  vividly  drawn.  It  was  the  production 
of  the  late  Thomas  Hamilton,  captain  in  the  29th 
regiment,  who  died  in  1842,  aged  fifty- three.  He 
visited  America,  and  wrote  a lively  ingenious  work 
on  the  new  world,  entitled  Men  and  Manners  in 
America , 1833.  Captain  Hamilton  was  one  of  the 
many  travellers  who  disliked  the  peculiar  customs, 
the  democratic  government,  and  social  habits  of  the 
Americans;  and  he  spoke  his  mind  freely,  but 
apparently  in  a spirit  of  truth  and  candour. 

Among  the  other  writers  of  fiction  who  at  this 
time  published  anonymously  in  Edinburgh  was  an 
English  divine,  Dr  James  Hook  (1771-1828),  the 
only  brother  of  Theodore  Hook,  and  who  was  dean 
of  Worcester  and  archdeacon  of  Huntingdon.  To 
indulge  his  native  wit  and  humour,  and  perhaps  to 
spread  those  loyal  Tory  principles  which,  like  his 
brother,  he  carried  to  their  utmost  extent,  Dr 
Hook  wrote  two  novels,  Pen  Owen , 1822,  and  Percy 
Mallory,  1823.  They  are  clever,  irregular  works, 
touching  on  modern  events  and  living  characters, 
and  discussing  various  political  questions  which 
then  engaged  attention.  Pen  Owen  is  the  superior 
novel,  and  contains  some  good-humour  and  satire  on 
Welsh  genealogy  and  antiquities.  Dr  Hook  wrote 
several  political  pamphlets,  sermons,  and  charges. 

Andrew  Picken  was  born  at  Paisley  in  the  year 
1788.  He  was  the  son  of  a manufacturer,  and 
brought  up  to  a mercantile  life.  He  was  engaged 
in  business  for  some  time  in  the  West  Indies, 
afterwards  in  a bank  in  Ireland,  in  Glasgow,  and 
in  Liverpool.  At  the  latter  place  he  established 
himself  as  a bookseller,  but  was  unsuccessful,  chiefly 
through  some  speculations  entered  into  at  that 
feverish  period,  which  reached  its  ultimatum  in  the 
panic  of  182G.  Mr  Picken  then  went  to  London  to 
pursue  literature  as  a profession.  While  resident 
in  Glasgow,  he  published  his  first  work,  Tales  and 
Sketches  of  the  West  of  Scotland,  which  gave  offence 
by  some  satirical  portraits,  but  was  generally 
esteemed  for  its  local  fidelity  and  natural  painting. 
His  novel  of  The  Sectarian;  or  the  Church  and  the 
Meeting-house,  three  volumes,  1829,  displayed  more 
vigorous  and  concentrated  powers ; but  the  subject 
■was  unhappy,  and  the  pictures  which  the  author 
drew  of  the  Dissenters,  representing  them  as  selfish, 
hypocritical,  and  sordid,  irritated  a great  body  of 
the  public.  Next  year  Mr  Picken  made  a more 
successful  appearance.  The  Dominie's  Legacy,  three 
volumes,  was  warmly  welcomed  by  novel  readers, 
and  a second  edition  was  called  for  by  the  end  of 
the  year.  This  work  consists  of  a number  of 
Scottish  stories— like  Mr  Carleton’s  Irish  Tales — 


T.  HAMILTON — MARY  FERRIEP, 


some  humorous  and  some  pathetic.  Minister  Tam 
and  Mary  Ogilvy  approach  near  to  the  happiest 
efforts  of  Galt.  The  characters  and  incidents  are 
alike  natural  and  striking.  The  same  year  our 
author  conciliated  the  evangelical  dissenters  by 
an  interesting  religious  compilation — Travels  and 
Researches  of  Eminent  English  Missionaries ; including 
a Historical  Sketch  of  the  Progress  and  Present  State 
of  the  Principal  Protestant  Missions  of  late  Years.  In 
1831  Mr  Picken  issued  The  Club-Book,  a collection 
of  original  tales  by  different  authors.  Mr  James, 
Tyrone  Power,  Galt,  Mr  Moir,  James  Hogg,  Mr 
Jerdan,  and  Allan  Cunningham,  contributed  each  a 
story,  and  the  editor  himself  added  two — The  Deer 
Stalkers,  and  the  Three  Kearneys.  His  next  work 
was  Traditionary  Stories  of  Old  Families,  the  first 
part  of  a series  which  was  to  embrace  the  legendary 
history  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland.  Such 
a work  might  be  rendered  highly  interesting  and 
popular,  for  almost  every  old  family  has  some 
traditionary  lore — some  tale  of  love,  or  war,  or 
superstition — that  is  handed  down  from  generation 
to  generation.  Mr  Picken  now  applied  himself 
to  another  Scottish  novel,  The  Black  Watch  (the 
original  name  of  the  gallant  42d  regiment) ; and  he 
had  just  completed  this  work  when  he  was  struck 
with  an  attack  of  apoplexy,  which  in  a fortnight 
proved  fatal.  He  died  on  the  23d  of  November 
1833.  Mr  Picken,  according  to  one  of  his  friends, 

‘ was  the  dominie  of  his  own  tales — simple,  affec- 
tionate, retiring ; dwelling  apart  from  the  world, 
and  blending  in  all  his  views  of  it  the  gentle  and 
tender  feelings  reflected  from  his  own  mind.’ 

MARY  FERRIER. 

This  lady  was  authoress  of  Marriage,  published 
in  1818,  The  Inheritance,  1824,  and  Destiny,  or  the 
Chief's  Daughter,  1831 — all  novels  in  three  volumes 
each.  We  learn  from  Mr  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Scott, 
that  Miss  Eerrier  was  daughter  of  James  Eerrier, 
Esq.,  ‘one  of  Sir  Walter’s  brethren  of  the  clerk’s 
table ; ’ and  the  great  novelist,  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  alluded  to  his  ‘ sister 
shadow,’  the  author  of  ‘ the  very  lively  work  entitled 
Marriage ,’  as  one  of  the  labourers  capable  of  gather- 
ing in  the  large  harvest  of  Scottish  character  and 
fiction.*  In  his  private  diary  he  has  also  mentioned 

* In  describing  the  melancholy  situation  of  Sir  'Walter  the 
year  before  his  death,  Mr  Lockhart  introduces  Miss  Ferrier  in 
a very  amiable  light.  To  assist  them  (the  family  of  Scott)  in 
amusing  him  in  the  hours  which  he  spent  out  of  his  study,  and 
especially  that  he  might  be  tempted  to  make  those  hours  more 
frequent,  his  daughters  had  invited  his  friend  the  authoress 
of  Marriage  to  come  out  to  Abbotsford ; and  her  coming  was 
serviceable : for  she  knew  and  loved  him  well,  and  she  had 
seen  enough  of  affliction  akin  to  his  to  be  well  skilled  in  deal- 
ing with  it.  She  could  not  be  an  hour  in  his  company  without 
observing  what  filled  his  children  with  more  sorrow  than  all 
the  rest  of  the  case.  He  would  begin  a story  as  gaily  as  ever, 
and  go  on,  in  spite  of  the  hesitation  in  his  speech,  to  tell  it 
with  highly  picturesque  effect,  but  before  he  reached  the  point, 
it  would  seem  as  if  some  internal  spring  had  given  way;  he 
paused,  and  gazed  round  him  with  the  blank  anxiety  of  look 
that  a blind  man  has  when  he  has  dropped  his  staff.  Unthink- 
ing friends  sometimes  pained  him  sadly  by  giving  him  the 
catch-word  abruptly.  1 noticed  the  delicacy  of  Miss  Ferrier 
on  such  occasions.  Iler  sight  was  bad,  and  she  took  care  not 
to  use  her  glasses  when  ho  was  speaking ; and  she  affected  to 
be  also  troubled  with  deafness,  and  would  say  : “ Well,  I am 
getting  as  dull  as  a post;  I have  not  heard  a word  since  you 
said  so  and  so,”  being  sure  to  mention  a circumstance  behind 
that  at  w’hich  he  had  really  halted.  Ho  then  took  up  the 
thread  with  his  habitual  smile  of  courtesy,  as  if  forgetting  his 
case  entirely  in  the  consideration  of  the  lady’s  infirmity.’ 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


Miss  Perrier  as  4 a gifted  personage,  having,  besides 
her  great  talents,  conversation  the  least  exigeante  of 
any  author,  female  at  least,  whom  he  had  ever  seen 
among  the  long  list  he  had  encountered  with ; 
simple,  full  of  humour,  and  exceedingly  ready  at 
repartee ; and  all  this  without  the  least  affectation 
of  the  blue  stocking.’  This  is  high  praise ; but  the 
readers  of  Miss  Ferrier’s  novels  will  at  once  recog- 
nise it  as  characteristic,  and  exactly  what  they 
wrould  have  anticipated.  This  lady  was  a Scottish 
Miss  Edgeworth — of  a lively,  practical,  penetrating 
cast  of  mind;  skilful  in  depicting  character  and 
seizing  upon  national  peculiarities ; caustic  in  her 
wit  and  humour,  with  a quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous ; 
and  desirous  of  inculcating  sound  morality  and 
attention  to  the  courtesies  and  charities  of  life.  In 
some  passages,  indeed,  she  evinces  a deep  religious 
feeling,  approaching  to  the  evangelical  views  of 
Hannah  More ; but  the  general  strain  of  her 
writing  relates  to  the  foibles  and  oddities  of  man- 
kind, and  no  one  has  drawn  them  with  greater 
breadth  of  comic  humour  or  effect.  Her  scenes 
often  resemble  the  style  of  our  best  old  comedies, 
and  she  may  boast,  like  Poote,  of  adding  many  new 
and  original  characters  to  the  stock  of  our  comic 
literature.  Her  first  work  is  a complete  gallery 
of  this  kind.  The  plot  is  very  inartificial;  but 
after  the  first  twenty  pages,  when  Douglas  conducts 
his  pampered  and  selfish  Lady  Juliana  to  Glenfern 
Castle,  the  interest  never  flags.  The  three  maiden- 
aunts  at  Glenfern — Miss  Jacky,  who  was  all  over 
sense,  the  universal  manager  and  detected,  Miss 
Grizzy,  the  letter-writer,  and  Miss  Nicky,  who 
was  not  wanting  for  sense  either,  are  an  inimitable 
family  group.  Mrs  Violet  MacShake,  the  last 
remaining  branch  of  the  noble  race  of  Girnachgowl, 
is  a representative  of  the  old  hard-featured,  close- 
handed,  proud,  yet  kind-hearted,  Scottish  matron, 
vigorous  and  sarcastic  at  the  age  of  ninety,  and 
despising  all  modern  manners  and  innovations. 
Then  there  is  the  sentimental  Mrs  Gaffaw,  who 
had  weak  nerves  and  headaches ; was  above 
managing  her  house,  read  novels,  dyed  ribbons, 
and  altered  her  gowns  according  to  every  pattern 
she  could  see  or  hear  of.  There  is  a shade  of 
caricature  in  some  of  these  female  portraits,  not- 
withstanding the  explanation  of  the  authoress  that 
they  lived  at  a time  when  Scotland  was  very  differ- 
ent from  what  it  is  now — when  female  education 
was  little  attended  to  even  in  families  of  the  highest 
rank;  and  consequently  the  ladies  of  those  days 
possessed  a raciness  in  their  manners  and  ideas  that 
we  should  vainly  seek  for  in  this  age  of  cultivation 
and  refinement.  It  is  not  only,  however,  in  satirising 
the  foibles  of  her  own  sex  that  Miss  Perrier  displays 
such  original  talent  and  humour.  Dr  Redgill,  a 
medical  hanger-on  and  diner-out,  is  a gourmand 
of  the  first  class,  who  looks  upon  bad  dinners 
to  be  the  source  of  much  of  the  misery  we  hear 
of  in  the  married  life,  and  who  compares  a woman’s 
reputation  to  a beef-steak — 4 if  once  breathed  upon, 
’tis  good  for  nothing.’  Many  sly  satirical  touches 
occur  throughout  the  work.  In  one  of  Miss  Grizzy’s 
letters  we  hear  of  a Major  MacTavish  of  the  militia, 
who,  independent  of  his  rank,  which  Grizzy  thought 
was  very  high,  distinguished  himself,  and  shewed 
the  greatest  bravery  once  when  there  was  a very 
serious  riot  about  the  raising  the  potatoes  a penny 
a peck,  when  there  was  no  occasion  for  it,  in  the 
town  of  Dunoon.  We  are  told  also  that  country 
visits  should  seldom  exceed  three  days— the  rest 
day,  the  dressed  day,  and  the  pressed  day.  There 
is  a great  shrewdness  and  knowledge  of  human 
nature  in  the  manner  in  which  the  three  aunts  got 
494 


over  their  sorrow  for  the  death  of  their  father,  the 
old  laird.  4 They  sighed  and  mourned  for  a time, 
but  soon  found  occupation  congenial  to  their  nature 
in  the  little  department  of  life : dressing  crape ; 
reviving  black  silk;  converting  narrow  hems  into 
broad  hems ; and,  in  short,  who  so  busy,  so 
important,  as  the  ladies  of  Glenfern?’  The  most 
striking  picture  in  the  book  is  that  of  Mrs  Violet 
MacShake,  who  is  introduced  as  living  in  a lofty 
lodging  in  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh,  where  she 
is  visited  by  her  grand-nephew  Mr  Douglas,  and  his 
niece  Mary.  In  person  she  is  tall  and  hard-favoured, 
and  dressed  in  an  antiquated  style : 

[ A Scotch  Lady  of  the  Old  School .] 

As  soon  as  she  recognised  Mr  Douglas,  she  welcomed 
him  with  much  cordiality,  shook  him  long  and  heartily 
by  the  hand,  patted  him  on  the  back,  looked  into  his 
face  with  much  seeming  satisfaction ; and,  in  short, 
gave  all  the  demonstrations  of  gladness  usual  with 
gentlewomen  of  a certain  age.  Her  pleasure,  however, 
appeared  to  be  rather  an  impromptu  than  a habitual 
feeling  ; for,  as  the  surprise  wore  off,  her  visage  resumed 
its  harsh  and  sarcastic  expression,  and  she  seemed  eager 
to  efface  any  agreeable  impression  her  reception  might 
have  excited. 

4 And  wha  thought  o’  seein’  ye  enoo  ? ’ said  she,  in  a 
quick  gabbling  voice  ; 4 what ’s  brought  you  to  the 
toon  ? Are  you  come  to  spend  your  honest  faither’s 
siller  ere  he ’s  weel  cauld  in  his  grave,  puir  man  ? ’ 

Mr  Douglas  explained  that  it  was  upon  account  of  | 
his  niece’s  health. 

4 Health  ! ’ repeated  she  with  a sardonic  smile,  4 it 
wad  mak  an  ool  laugh  to  hear  the  wark  that ’s  made 
aboot  young  fowk’s  health  noo-a-days.  I wonder  what 
ye’re  a’  made  o’,’  grasping  Mary’s  arm  in  her  great 
bony  hand — 4 a wheen  puir  feckless  windlestraes — ye 
maun  awa’  to  Ingland  for  your  healths.  Set  ye  ,up  ! I 
wonder  what  cam  o’  the  lasses  i’  my  time  that  bute 
[behoved]  to  bide  at  hame?  And  whilk  o’  ye,  I sude 
like  to  ken,  ’ll  e’er  leive  to  see  ninety-sax,  like  me. 
Health  ! he,  he  ! ’ 

Mary,  glad  of  a pretence  to  indulge  the  mirth  the 
old  lady’s  manner  and  appearance  had  excited,  joined 
most  heartily  in  the  laugh. 

4 Tak  aff  yer  bannet,  bairn,  an’  let  me  see  your 
face ; wha  can  tell  what  like  ye  are  wi’  that  snule  o’ 
a thing  on  your  head  ? ’ Then  after  taking  an  accurate 
survey  of  her  face,  she  pushed  aside  her  pelisse  : 

4 Weel,  its  ae  mercy  I see  ye  hae  neither  the  red 
head  nor  the  muckle  cuits  o’  the  Douglases.  I kenna 
whuther  your  faither  has  them  or  no.  I ne’er  set  een 
on  him:  neither  him  nor  his  braw  leddy  thought  it 
worth  their  while  to  speer  after  me ; but  I was  at  nae 
loss,  by  a’  accounts.’ 

‘You  have  not  asked  after  any  of  your  Glenfern 
friends,’  said  Mr  Douglas,  hoping  to  touch  a more 
sympathetic  cord. 

‘Time  eneugh — wull  ye  let  me  draw  my  breath, 
man — fowk  canna  say  awthing  at  ance.  An’  ye  bute 
to  hae  an  Inglish  wife  tu,  a Scotch  lass  wadna  ser’ 
ye.  An’  yer  wean,  I ’se  warran’  it’s  ane  o’  the  warld’s 
wonders — it’s  been  unca  lang  o’  cornin’ — he,  he  !’ 

4 He  has  begun  life  under  very  melancholy  auspices, 
poor  fellow ! ’ said  Mr  Douglas,  in  allusion  to  his 
father’s  death. 

4 An’  wha’s  faut  was  that?  I ne’er  heard  tell  o’  the 
like  o’t,  to  hae  the  bairn  kirsened  an’  its  grandfaither 
deein’ ! But  fowk  are  naither  torn,  nor  kirsened, 
nor  do  they  wad  or  dee  as  they  used  to  du — awthing ’s 
changed.’ 

4 You  must,  indeed,  have  witnessed  many  changes?’ 
observed  Mr  Douglas,  rather  at  a loss  how  to  utter 
anything  of  a conciliatory  nature. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


‘ Changes ! — weel  a wat  I sometimes  wunder  if  it ’s 
the  same  warkl,  an’  if  it ’s  my  ain  heed  that ’s  upon 
my  shoothers.’ 

‘But  with  these  changes  you  must  also  have  seen 
many  improvements  ? ’ said  Mary  in  a tone  of  diffidence. 

‘ Impruvements  ! ’ turning  sharply  round  upon  her  ; 
‘what  ken  ye  about  impruvements,  hairn?  A bonny 
impruvement,  or  ens  no,  to  see  tyleyors  and  sclaters 
leavin’  whar  I mind  jewks  and  yerls.  An’  that  great 
glowerin’  New  Toon  there,’  pointing  out  of  her  windows, 

‘ whar  I used  to  sit  an’  luck  oot  at  bonny  green  parks, 
an’  see  the  coos  milket,  and  the  bits  o’  bairnies  rowin’ 
an’  tumlin’,  an’  the  lasses  trampin’  i’  their  tubs — what 
see  I noo  but  stane  an’  lime,  an’  stoor  an’  dirt,  an’  idle 
cheels  an’  dinkit  oot  madams  prancin’.  Impruvements, 
indeed ! ’ 

Mary  found  she  was  not  likely  to  advance  her  uncle’s 
fortune  by  the  judiciousness  of  her  remarks,  therefore 
prudently  resolved  to  hazard  no  more.  Mr  Douglas,  who 
was  more  au  fait  to  the  prejudices  of  old  age,  and  who 
was  always  amused  with  her  bitter  remarks,  when  they 
did  not  touch  himself,  encouraged  her  to  continue 
the  conversation  by  some  observation  on  the  prevailing 
manners. 

‘Mainers  !’  repeated  she,  with  a contemptuous  laugh ; 

‘ what  ca’  ye  mainers  noo,  for  I dinna  ken  ? ilk  ane 
gangs  bang  intill  their  neebor’s  hoos,  an’  bang  oot  o ’t, 
as  it  war  a chynge-hoos ; an’  as  for  the  maister  o ’t, 
he’s  no  o’  sae  muckle  vaalu  as  the  flunky  ahint  his 
chyre.  I’  my  grandfaither’s  time,  as  I hae  heard  him 
tell,  ilka  maister  o’  a family  had  his  ain  sate  in  his 
ain  hoos ; ay  ! an’  sat  wi’  his  hat  on  his  heed  afore 
the  best  o’  the  land,  an’  had  his  ain  dish,  an’  was  ay 
helpit  first,  an’  keepit  up  his  owthority  as  a man  sude 
du.  Paurents  war  paurents  than — bairns  dardna  set 
up  their  gabs  afore  them  than  as  they  du  noo.  They 
ne’er  presumed  to  say  their  heeds  war  their  ain  i’ 
thae  days — wife  an’  servants,  reteeners  an’  childer,  a ’ 
trummelt  i’  the  presence  o’  their  heed.’ 

Here  a long  pinch  of  snuff  caused  a pause  in  the  old 
lady’s  harangue.  * * 

Mr  Douglas  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to 
rise  and  take  leave. 

‘ Oo,  what ’s  takin’  ye  awa’,  Archie,  in  sic  a hurry  ? 
Sit  doon  there,’  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  ‘an’ 
rest  ye,  an’  tak  a glass  o’  wine  an’  a bit  breed  ; or 
maybe,’  turning  to  Mary,  ‘ye  wad  rather  hae  a drap 
broth  to  warm  ye  ? What  gars  ye  look  sae  blae,  bairn  ? 
I’m  sure  it’s  no  cauld;  but  ye’re  just  like  the  lave  : 
ye  gang  a’  skiltin’  about  the  streets  half  naked,  an’ 
than  ye  maun  sit  an’  birsle  yoursels  afore  the  fire  at 
hanfe.’ 

She  had  now  shuffled  along  to  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  and  opening  a press,  took  out  wine  and  a 
plateful  of  various-shaped  articles  of  bread,  which  she 
handed  to  Mary. 

‘ Hae,  bairn — tak  a cookie — tak  it  up — what  are  you 
feared  for  ! it’ll  no  bite  ye.  Here’s  t’  ye,  Glenfern,  an’ 
your  wife  an’  your  wean ; puir  tead,  it ’s  no  had  a very 
chancy  ootset,  weel  a wat.’ 

The  wine  being  drank,  and  the  cookies  discussed, 
Mr  Douglas  made  another  attempt  to  withdraw,  but 

in  vain. 

‘ Canna  ye  sit  still  a wee,  man,  an’  let  me  speer  after 
my  auld  freens  at  Glenfern?  Hoo’s  Grizzy,  an’  Jacky, 
an’  Nicky  ? — aye  workin’  awa’  at  the  peels  an’  the  drogs 
— he,  he  ! I ne’er  swallowed  a peel  nor  gied  a doit  for 
drogs  a’  my  days,  an’  see  an  ony  o’  them  ’ll  rin  a race 
wi’  me  whan  they’re  naur  fivescore.’ 

Mr  Douglas  here  paid  some  compliments  upon  her 
appearance,  which  were  pretty  graciously  received ; and 
added  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a letter  from  his  aunt 
Grizzy,  which  he  would  send  along  with  a roebuck  and 
brace  of  moor-game. 

‘ Gin  your  roebuck’s  nae  better  than  your  last,  atweel 
it ’s  no  worth  the  sendin’  : poor  dry  fissinless  dirt,  no 


MARY  PERRIER. 


worth  the  ch  owin’ ; weel  a wat  I begrudged  my  teeth 
on’t.  Your  muirfowl  war  nae  that  ill,  but  they’re  no 
worth  the  carryin’ ; they  ’re  doug  cheap  i’  the  market 
enoo,  so  it’s  nae  great  compliment.  Gin  ye  had  brought 
me  a leg  o’  gude  mutton,  or  a cauler  sawmont,  there 
would  hae  been  some  sense  in ’t ; but  ye  ’re  .ane  o’  the 
fowk  that’ll  ne’er  harry  yoursel’  wi’  your  presents  ; it’s 
but  the  pickle  powther  they  cost  ye,  an’  I’se  warran’ 
ye  ’re  thinkin’  mair  o’  your  ain  diversion  than  o’  my 
stamick  whan  ye’re  at  the  shootin’  o’  them,  puir 
beasts.’ 

Mr  Douglas  had  borne  the  various  indignities  levelled 
against  himself  and  his  family  with  a philosophy  that 
had  no  parallel  in  his  life  before,  but  to  this  attack 
upon  his  game  he  was  not  proof.  His  colour  rose,  his 
eyes  flashed  fire,  and  something  resembling  an  oath 
burst  from  his  lips  as  he  strode  indignantly  towards 
the  door. 

His  friend,  however,  was  too  nimble  for  him.  She 
stepped  before  him,  and,  breaking  into  a discordant 
laugh  as  she  patted  him  on  the  back : ‘ So  I see  ye  ’re 
just  the  auld  man,  Archie — ave  ready  to  tak  the 
strums  an’  ye  dinna  get  a’  thing  your  ain  wye.  Mony 
a time  I had  to  fleech  ye  oot  o’  the  dorts  when  ye  was 
a callant.  Do  ye  mind  hoo  ye  was  affronted  because 
I set  ye  doon  to  a cauld  pigeon -pye  an’  a tanker 
o’  tippenny  ae  night  to  your  fowerhoors  afore  some 
leddies — he,  he,  he ! Weel  a wat  yere  wife  maun  hae 
her  ain  adoos  to  manage  ye,  for  ye’re  a cumstairy 
chield,  Archie.’ 

Mr  Douglas  still  looked  as  if . he  was  irresolute 
whether  to  laugh  or  be  angry. 

‘ Come,  come,  sit  ye  doon  there  till  I speak  to  this 
bairn,’  said  she,  as  she  pulled  Mary  into  an  adjoining 
bedchamber,  which  wore  the  same  aspect  of  chilly 
neatness  as  the  one  they  had  quitted.  Then  pulling 
a huge  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  she  opened  a 
drawer,  out  of  which  she  took  a pair  of  diamond  ear- 
rings. ‘Hae,  bairn,’  said  she,  as  she  stuffed  them 
into  Mary’s  hand ; ‘ they  belanged  to  your  faither’s 
grandmother.  She  was  a gude  woman,  an’  had  four- 
an’ -twenty  sons  an’  dochters,  an’  I wuss  ye  nae  waur 
fortin  than  just  to  hae  as  mony.  But  mind  ye,’  with 
a shake  of  her  bony  finger,  ‘they  maun  a’  be  Scots. 
Gin  I thought  ye  wad  mairry  ony  pock-puddin’,  fient 
haed  wad  ye  hae  gotten  frae  me.  Noo  had  your  tongue, 
and  dinna  deive  me  wi’  thanks,’  almost  pushing  her 
into  the  parlour  again;  ‘and  sin  ye’re  gawn  awa’  the 
morn,  I’ll  see  nae  mair  o’  ye  enoo — so  fare-ye-weel. 
But,  Archie,  ye  maun  come  an’  tak  your  breakfast  wi’ 
me.  I hae  muckle  to  say  to  you ; but  ye  mauna  be  sae 
hard  upon  my  baps  as  ye  used  to  be,’  with  a facetious 
grin  to  her  mollified  favourite  as  they  shook  hands  and 
parted. 

Aware,  perhaps,  of  the  defective  outline  or  story 
of  her  first  novel,  Miss  Eerrier  bestowed  much 
more  pains  on  the  construction  of  The  Inheritance. 
It  is  too  complicated  for  an  analysis  in  this  place ; 
but  we  may  mention  that  it  is  connected  with  high- 
life  and  a wide  range  of  characters,  the  heroine  being 
a young  lady  born  in  France,  and  heiress  to  a 
splendid  estate  and  peerage  in  Scotland,  to  which, 
after  various  adventures  and  reverses,  she  finally 
succeeds.  The  tale  is  well  arranged  and  developed. 
Its  chief  attraction,  however,  consists  in  the  deli- 
neation of  characters.  Uncle  Adam  and  Miss  Pratt 
— the  former  a touchy,  sensitive,  rich  East  Indian, 
and  the  latter  another  of  Miss  Ferrier’s  inimitable 
old  maids — are  among  the  best  of  the  portraits ; but 
the  canvas  is  full  of  happy  and  striking  sketches. 
Destiny  is  connected  with  Highland  scenery  and 
Highland  manners,  but  is  far  from  romantic.  Miss 
Ferrier  is  as  human  and  as  discerning  in  her  tastes 
and  researches  as  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  chief,  Glen- 
roy,  is  proud  and  irascible,  spoiled  by  the  fawning 

495 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


of  his  inferiors,  and  in  his  family  circle  is  generous 
without  kindness,  and  profuse  without  benevolence. 
The  Highland  minister,  Mr  Duncan  MacDow, 
is  an  admirable  character,  though  no  very  prepos- 
sessing specimen  of  the  country  pastor.  Edith,  the 
heroine,  is  a sweet  and  gentle  creation,  and  there 
is  strong  feeling  and  passion  in  some  of  the  scenes. 
In  the  case  of  masculine  intellects,  like  those  of  the 
authoress  of  Marriage  and  the  great  Irish  novelist, 
the  progress  of  years  seems  to  impart  greater  soft- 
ness and  sensibility,  and  call  forth  the  gentler 
affections.  Miss  Ferrier  died  in  1851,  aged  seventy- 
two. 

JAMES  MORIER. 

Mr  James  Morier,  author  of  a Journey  through 
Persia , and  sometime  secretary  of  embassy  to  the 
court  of  Persia,  embodied  his  knowledge  of  the 


East  in  a series  of  novels — The  Adventures  of  Hajji 
Baba  of  Ispahan,  three  volumes,  1821  (with  a 
second  part  published  in  two  volumes  in  1828); 
Zohrab,  the  Hostage , three  volumes,  1832 ; Ayesha , 
the  Maid  of  Kars,  three  volumes,  1831;  and  The 
Mirza,  three  volumes,  1811.  The  object  of  his  first 
work  was,  he  says,  the  single  idea  of  illustrating 
Eastern  manners  by  contrast  with  those  of  England, 
and  the  author  evinces  a minute  and  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  habits  and  customs  of  the 
Persians.  The  truth  of  his  satirical  descriptions  and 
allusions  was  felt  even  by  the  court  of  Persia ; for 
Mr  Morier  published  a letter  from  a minister  of 
state  in  that  country,  expressing  the  displeasure 
which  the  king  felt  at  the  ‘ very  foolish  business  ’ of 
the  book.  It  is  probable,  however,  as  the  author 
supposes,  that  this  irritation  may  lead  to  reflection, 
and  reflection  to  amendment,  as  he  conceived  the 
Persians  to  be,  in  talent  and  natural  capacity,  equal 
to  any  nation  in  the  world,  and  would  be  no  less  on 
496 


: a level  with  them  in  feeling,  honesty,  and  the  higher 
; moral  qualities,  were  their  education  favourable. 

; The  hero  of  Mr  Morier’s  tale  is  an  adventurer  like 
Gil  Bias,  and  as  much  buffeted  about  in  the  world. 
He  is  the  son  of  a barber  of  Ispahan,  and  is  suc- 
cessively one  of  a band  of  Turkomans,  a menial 
servant,  a pupil  of  the  physician-royal  of  Persia,  an 
attendant  on  the  chief-executioner,  a religious 
devotee,  and  a seller  of  tobacco-pipes  in  Constan- 
tinople. Having  by  stratagem  espoused  a rich 
Turkish  widow,  he  becomes  an  official  to  the  Shah ; 
and  on  his  further  distinguishing  himself  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  Europeans,  he  is  appointed 
secretary  to  the  mission  of  Mirzah  Eirouz,  and 
accompanies  the  Persian  ambassador  to  the  court  of 
England.  In  the  course  of  his  multiplied  adventures, 
misfortunes,  and  escapes,  the  volatile  unprincipled 
Hajji  mixes  with  all  classes,  and  is  much  in  Teheran, 
Koordistan,  Georgia,  Bagdad,  Constantinople,  &c. 
The  work  soon  became  popular.  ‘ The  novelty  of 
the  style,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘which  was  at  once 
perceived  to  be  genuine  oriental  by  such  internal 
evidence  as  establishes  the  value  of  real  old  China — 
the  gay  and  glowing  descriptions  of  Eastern  state 
and  pageantry — the  character  of  the  poetry  occa- 
sionally introduced — secured  a merited  welcome  for 
the  Persian  picaroon.  As  a picture  of  oriental 
manners,  the  work  had,  indeed,  a severe  trial  to 
sustain  by  a comparison  with  the  then  recent 
romance  of  Anastasius.  But  the  public  found 
appetite  for  both  ; and  indeed  they  differ  as  comedy 
and  tragedy,  the  deep  passion  and  gloomy  interest 
of  Mr  Hope’s  work  being  of  a kind  entirely  different 
from  the  light  and  lively  turn  of  our  friend  Hajji’s 
adventures.  The  latter,  with  his  morals  sitting  easy 
about  him,  a rogue  indeed,  but  not  a malicious  one, 
with  as  much  wit  and  cunning  as  enable  him  to 
dupe  others,  and  as  much  vanity  as  to  afford  them 
perpetual  means  of  retaliation;  a sparrow-hawk, 
who,  while  he  floats  through  the  air  in  quest  of 
the  smaller  game,  is  himself  perpetually  exposed 
to  be  pounced  upon  by  some  stronger  bird  of  prey, 
interests  and  amuses  us,  while  neither  deserving  nor 
expecting  serious  regard  or  esteem ; and  like  Will 
Vizard  of  the  hill,  “the  knave  is  our  very  good 
friend.”  Mr  Morier,  however,  in  the  episode  of 
Yusuf,  the  Armenian,  and  the  account  of  the  death 
of  Zeenab,  has  successfully  entered  into  the  arena  of 
pathetic  and  romantic  description.  The  oriental 
scenes  are  the  most  valuable  and  original  portions 
of  Hajji  Baba,  and  possess  the  attraction  of  novelty 
to  ordinary  readers,  yet  the  account  of  the  constant 
embarrassment  and  surprise  of  the  Persians  at  Eng- 
lish manners  and  customs  is  highly  amusing.  The 
ceremonial  of  the  dinner-table,  that  seemed  to  them 
“absolutely  bristling  with  instruments  of  offence,” 
blades  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions,  sufficient  to  have 
ornamented  the  girdles  of  the  Shah’s  household, 
could  not  but  puzzle  those  who  had  been  accustomed 
simply  to  take  everything  up  in  their  fingers.  The 
mail-coach,  "the  variety  of  our  furniture  and  accom- 
modation, and  other  domestic  observances,  were 
equally  astonishing;  but,  above  all,  the  want  of  cere- 
monial among  our  statesmen  and  public  officers  sur- 
prised the  embassy.  The  following  burst  of  oriental 
wonder  and  extravagance  succeeds  to  an  account  of 
a visit  paid  them  by  the  chairman  and  deputy-chair- 
man of  the  East  India  Company,  who  came  in  a 
hackney-coach,  and  after  the  interview,  walked 
away  upon  their  own  legs. 

“ When  they  were  well  off,  we  all  sat  mute,  only 
occasionally  saying : ‘ Allah ! Allah ! there  is  but 
one  Allah!’  so  wonderfully  astonished  were  we. 
What ! India  ? that  great,  that  magnificent  empire ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


I 


NOVELISTS. 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER. 


— that  scene  of  Persian  conquest  and  Persian  glory ! 
— the  land  of  elephants  and  precious  stones,  the* 
seat  of  shawls  and  kincobs! — that  paradise  sung 
by  poets,  celebrated  by  historians  more  ancient 
than  Iran  itself! — at  whose  boundaries  the  sun  is 
permitted  to  rise,  and  around  whose  majestic  moun- 
tains, some  clad  in  eternal  snows,  others  in  eternal 
verdure,  the  stars  and  the  moon  are  allowed  to 
gambol  and  carouse ! What ! is  it  so  fallen,  so 
degraded,  as  to  be  swayed  by  two  obscure  mortals, 
living  in  regions  that  know  not  the  warmth  of  the 
sun?  Two  swine-eating  infidels,  shaven,  impure 
walkers  on  foot,  and  who,  by  way  of  state,  travel  in 
dirty  coaches  filled  with  straw ! This  seemed  to  us 
a greater  miracle  in  government  than  even  that  of 
Beg  Ian,  the  plaiter  of  whips,  who  governed  the 
Turcomans  and  the  countries  of  Samarcand  and 
Bokhara,  leading  a life  more  like  a beggar  than  a 
potentate.”  ’ 

Zohrab  is  a historical  novel,  of  the  time  of  Aga 
Mohammed  Shah,  a famous  Persian  prince,  described 
by  Sir  John  Malcolm  as  having  taught  the  Russians 
to  beat  the  French  by  making  a desert  before  the 
line  of  the  invader’s  march,  and  thus  leaving  the 
enemy  master  of  only  so  much  ground  as  his  cannon 
could  command.  This  celebrated  Shah  is  the  real 
hero  of  the  tale,  though  the  honour  is  nominally 
awarded  to  Zohrab,  an  independent  Mazanderini 
chief,  who  falls  in  love  with  the  gentle  and  beautiful 
Amima,  niece  of  the  Shah.  The  style  of  the  work 
is  light,  pleasant,  and  animated,  and  it  is  full  of 
Persian  life.  Ayesha , the  Maid  of  Kars,  is  inferior 
to  its  predecessors,  though  certain  parts— as  the 
description  of  the  freebooter  Corah  Bey,  and  the 
ruins  of  Anni,  the  Spectre  City,  the  attack  on  the 
Russian  posts,  the  voyage  to  Constantinople,  &c. — 
are  in  the  author’s  happiest  and  most  graphic 
manner.  In  this  work  Mr  Morier  introduces  a 
novelty — he  makes  an  English  traveller,  Lord 
Osmond,  fall  in  love  with  a Turkish  maiden,  and 
while  the  Englishman  is  bearing  off  the  Maid  of 
Kars  to  Constantinople,  Corah  Bey  intercepts  them, 
and  gets  the  lover  sent  off  to  the  galleys.  He  is 
released  through  the  intercession  of  the  English 
ambassador,  and  carries  his  Eastern  bride  to  Eng- 
land. Ayesha,  the  heroine,  turns  out  to  be  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Edward  Wortley ! There  are 
improbabilities  in  this  story  which  cannot  be  recon- 
ciled, and  the  mixture  of  European  costume  and 
characters  among  the  scenery  and  society  of  the 
East,  destroys  that  oriental  charm  which  is  so 
entire  and  so  fascinating  in  Zohrab.  The  Mirza  is 
a series  of  Eastern  stories,  connected  by  an  outline 
of  fiction  like  Moore’s  Lalla  Roolch.  In  concluding 
this  work,  Mr  Morier  says : ‘ I may  venture  to 
assert  that  the  East,  as  we  have  known  it  in 
oriental  tales,  is  now  fast  on  the  change — “ C’est  le 
commencement  de  la  fin”  Perhaps  we  have  gleaned 
the  last  of  the  beards,  and  obtained  an  expiring 
glimpse  of  the  heavy  caofik  and  the  ample  shalwar 
ere  they  are  exchanged  for  the  hat  and  the  spruce 
pantaloon.  How  wonderful  is  it — how  full  of  serious 
contemplation  is  the  fact,  that  the  whole  fabric  of 
Mohammedanism  should  have  been  assailed,  almost 
suddenly  as  well  as  simultaneously,  by  events 
which  nothing  human  could  have  foreseen.  Barbary, 
Egypt,  Syria,  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  and 
Tigris,  the  Red  Sea,  Constantinople,  Asia  Minor, 
Persia,  and  Afghanistan,  all  more  or  less  have  felt 
the  influence  of  European  or  anti-Mohammedan 
agencies.  Perhaps  the  present  generation  may  not 
see  a new  structure  erected,  but  true  it  is  they  have 
seen  its  foundations  laid.’ 

In  1838  appeared  The  Banished,  a Swabian 
84 


Historical  Tale,  edited  by  Mr  Morier.  This  publica- 
tion caused  some  disappointment,  as  the  name  of 
the  author  of  Hajji  Baba  excited  expectations  which 
The  Banished  did  not  realise.  The  work  is  a 
translation  from  the  German,  a tale  of  the  Swabian 
league  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Mr  Morier  died 
at  Brighton  in  1849,  aged  sixty-nine. 

JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER. 

Mr  James  Baillie  Eraser,  like  Mr  Morier 
described  the  life  and  manners  of  the  Persians  by, 
fictitious  as  well  as  true  narratives.  In  1828  he 
published  The  Kuzzilbash,  a Tale  of  Khorasan,  three 
volumes,  to  which  he  afterwards  added  a continua- 
tion under  the  name  of  The  Persian  Adventurer,  the 
title  of  his  first  work  not  being  generally  under- 
stood : it  was  often  taken,  he  says,  for  a cookery 
book!  The  term  Kuzzilbash,  which  is  Turkish, 
signifies  Red-head,  and  was  an  appellation  originally 
given  by  Shah  Ismael  I.  to  seven  tribes  bound  to 
defend  their  king.  These  tribes  wore  a red  cap  as 
a distinguishing  mark,  which  afterwards  became  the 
military  head-dress  of  the  Persian  troops;  hence 
the  word  Kuzzilbash  is  used  to  express  a Persian 
soldier ; and  often,  particularly  among  the  Toorko- 
mans  and  Oozbeks,  is  applied  as  a national  designa- 
tion to  the  people  in  general.  Mr  Eraser’s  hero 
relates  his  own  adventures,  which  begin  almost 
from  his  birth ; for  he  is  carried  off  while  a child 
by  a band  of  Toorkoman  robbers,  who  plunder  his 
father’s  lands  and  village,  situated  in  Khorasan,  on 
the  borders  of  the  great  desert  which  stretches  from 
the  banks  of  the  Caspian  Sea  to  those  of  the  river 
Oxus.  The  infant  bravery  of  Ismael,  the  Kuzzil- 
bash, interests  Omer  Khan,  head  of  a tribe  or  camp 
of  the  plunderers,  and  he  spares  the  child,  and  keeps 
him  to  attend  on  his  own  son  Selim.  In  the  camp 
of  his  master  is  a beautiful  girl,  daughter  of  a 
Persian  captive ; and  with  this  young  beauty, 
‘lovely  as  a child  of  the  Peris,’  Ismael  forms  an 
attachment  that  increases  with  their  years.  These 
early  scenes  are  finely  described ; and  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  fair  Shireen  are  related  with  much 
pathos.  The  consequences  of  Ismael’s  passion  force 
him  to  flee.  He  assumes  the  dress  of  the  Kuzzil- 
bash, and  crossing  the  desert,  joins  the  army  of  the 
victorious  Nadir  Shah,  and  assists  in  recovering  the 
holy  city  of  Mushed,  the  capital  of  Khorasan.  His 
bravery  is  rewarded  with  honours  and  dignities ; 
and  after  various  scenes  of  love  and  war,  the 
Kuzzilbash  is  united  to  his  Shireen.  ‘ Scenes  of 
active  life  are  painted  by  the  author  with  the  same 
truth,  accuracy,  and  picturesque  effect  which  he 
displays  in  landscapes  or  single  figures.  In  war, 
especially,  he  is  at  home ; and  gives  the  attack,  the 
retreat,  the  rally,  the  bloody  and  desperate  close 
combat,  the  flight,  pursuit,  and  massacre,  with  all 
the  current  of  a heady  fight,  as  one  who  must  have 
witnessed  such  terrors.’ 

A brief  but  characteristic  scene — a meeting  of 
two  warriors  in  the  desert — is  strikingly  described, 
though  the  reader  is  probably  impressed  with  the 
idea  that  European  thoughts  and  expressions  mingle 
with  the  author’s  narrative : 

[Meeting  of  Eastern  Warriors  in  the  Desert .] 

By  the  time  I reached  the  banks  of  this  stream  the 
sun  had  set,  and  it  was  necessary  to  seek  some  retreat 
where  I might  pass  the  night  and  refresh  myself  and 
my  horse  without  fear  of  discovery.  Ascending  the 
river-bed,  therefore,  with  this  intention,  I soon  found  a 
recess  where  I could  repose  myself,  surrounded  by  green 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


pasture,  in  which  my  horse  might  feed ; but  as  it  would 
have  been  dangerous  to  let  him  go  at  large  all  night,  I 
employed  myself  for  a while  in  cutting  the  longest  and 
thickest  of  the  grass  which  grew  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream  for  his  night’s  repast,  permitting  him  to  pasture 
at  will  until  dark ; and  securing  him  then  close  to  the 
spot  I meant  to  occupy,  after  a moderate  meal,  I 
commended  myself  to  Allah,  and  lay  down  to  rest. 

The  loud  neighing  of  my  horse  awoke  me  with  a 
start,  as  the  first  light  of  dawn  broke  in  the  east 
Quickly  springing  on  my  feet,  and  grasping  my  spear 
and  scimitar,  which  lay  under  my  head,  I looked  around 
for  the  cause  of  alarm.  Nor  did  it  long  remain  doubt- 
ful ; for,  at  the  distance  of  scarce  two  hundred  yards,  I 
saw  a single  horseman  advancing.  To  tighten  my  girdle 
round  my  loins,  to  string  my  bow,  and  prepare  two  or 
three  arrows  for  use,  was  but  the  work  of  a few 
moments;  before  these  preparations,  however,  were 
completed,  the  stranger  was  close  at  hand.  Fitting  an 
arrow  to  my  bow,  I placed  myself  upon  guard,  and 
examined  him  narrowly  as  he  approached.  He  was  a 
man  of  goodly  stature  and  powerful  frame ; his  counte- 
nance hard,  strongly  marked,  and  furnished  with  a thick 
black  beard,  bore  testimony  of  exposure  to  many  a 
blast,  but  it  still  preserved  a prepossessing  expression  of 
good-humour  and  benevolence.  His  turban,  which  was 
formed  of  a cashmere  shawl,  sorely  tashed  and  tom, 
and  twisted  here  and  there  with  small  steel  chains, 
according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  was  wound  around 
a red  cloth  cap  that  rose  in  four  peaks  high  above  the 
head.  His  oemah,  or  riding  coat,  of  crimson  cloth, 
much  stained  and  faded,  opening  at  the  bosom,  shewed 
the  links  of  a coat-of-mail  which  he  wore  below;  a 
yellow  shawl  formed  his  girdle ; his  huge  shulwars,  or 
riding  trousers,  of  thick  fawn-coloured  Kerman  woollen 
stuff,  fell  in  folds  over  the  large  red  leather  boots  in 
which  his  legs  were  cased ; by  his  side  hung  a crooked 
scimitar  in  a black  leather  scabbard,  and  from  the 
holsters  of  his  saddle  peeped  out  the  but-ends  of  a 
pair  of  pistols — weapons  of  which  I then  knew  not  the 
use,  any  more  than  of  the  matchlock  which  was  slung 
at  his  back.  He  was  mounted  on  a powerful  but  jaded 
| horse,  and  appeared  to  have  already  travelled  far. 

When  this  striking  figure  had  approached  within 
} thirty  yards,  I called  out  in  the  Turkish  language, 

! commonly  used  in  the  country : ‘ Whoever  thou  art, 
come  no  nearer  on  thy  peril,  or  I shall  salute  thee  with 
this  arrow  from  my  bow!’  ‘Why,  boy,’  returned  the 
stranger  in  a deep  manly  voice,  and  speaking  in  the 
same  tongue,  ‘thou  art  a bold  lad,  truly ! but  set  thy 
heart  at  rest,  I mean  thee  no  harm.’  ‘Nay,’  rejoined 
I,  ‘ I am  on  foot,  and  alone.  I know  thee  not,  nor  thy 
intentions.  Either  retire  at  once,  or  shew  thy  sincerity 
by  setting  thyself  on  equal  terms  with  me : dismount 
from  thy  steed,  and  then  I fear  thee  not,  whatever  be 
thy  designs.  Beware !’  And  so  saying,  I drew  my  arrow 
to  the  head,  and  pointed  it  towards  him.  ‘ By  the  head 
of  my  father ! ’ cried  the  stranger,  ‘ thou  art  an  absolute 
youth ! but  I like  thee  well ; thy  heart  is  stout,  and 
thy  demand  is  just;  the  sheep  trusts  not  the  wolf  when 
it  meets  him  in  the  plain,  nor  do  we  acknowledge  every 
stranger  in  the  desert  for  a friend.  See,’  continued  he, 
dismounting  actively,  yet  with  a weight  that  made  the 
turf  ring  again — ‘see,  I yield  my  advantage;  as  for 
thy  arrows,  boy,  I fear  them  not.’  With  that,  he  slimg 
a small  shield,  which  he  bore  at  his  back,  before  him, 
as  if  to  cover  his  face,  in  case  of  treachery  on  my  part, 
and  leaving  his  horse  where  it  stood,  he  advanced  to  me. 

Taught  from  my  youth  to  suspect  and  to  guard 
against  treachery,  I still  kept  a wary  eye  on  the  motions 
of  the  stranger.  But  there  was  something  in  his  open 
though  rugged  countenance  and  manly  bearing  that 
claimed  and  won  my  confidence.  Slowly  I lowered  my 
hand,  and  relaxed  the  still  drawn  string  of  my  bow,  as 
he  strode  up  to  me  with  a firm  composed  step. 

‘Youth,’  said  he,  ‘had  my  intentions  been  hostile, 
498 


it  is  not  thy  arrows  or  thy  bow,  no,  nor  thy  sword  and 
spear,  that  could  have  stood  thee  much  in  stead.  I 
am  too  old  a soldier,  and  too  well  defended  against 
such  weapons,  to  fear  them  from  so  young  an  arm.  But 
I am  neither  enemy  nor  traitor  to  attack  thee  unawares. 

I have  travelled  far  during  the  past  night,  and  mean  to 
refresh  myself  awhile  in  this  spot  before  I proceed  on 
my  journey ; thou  meanest  not,’  added  he  with  a smile, 

‘ to  deny  me  the  boon  which  Allah  extends  to  all  his 
creatures?  What!  still  suspicious?  Come,  then,  I 
will  increase  thy  advantage,  and  try  to  win  thy  con- 
fidence.’ With  that  he  unbuckled  his  sword,  and  threw 
it,  with  his  matchlock,  upon  the  turf  a little  way  from 
him,  ‘ See  me  now  unarmed ; wilt  thou  yet  trust  me  ?’ 
Who  could  have  doubted  longer?  I threw  down  my 
bow  and  arrows : ‘ Pardon,’  cried  I,  ‘ my  tardy  con- 
fidence; but  he  that  has  escaped  with  difficulty  from 
many  perils,  fears  even  their  shadow : here,’  continued 
I,  ‘ are  bread  and  salt,  eat  thou  of  them ; thou  art  then 
my  guest,  and  that  sacred  tie  secures  the  faith  of  both.’ 
The  stranger,  with  another  smile,  took  the  offered  food. 

The  following  passage,  describing  the  Kuzzilbash’s  i 
return  to  his  native  village,  affects  us  both  by  the  j 
view  which  it  gives  of  the  desolation  caused  in  \ 
half-barbarous  countries  by  war  and  rapine,  and  the  j 
beautiful  strain  of  sentiment  which  the  author  puts  | 
into  the  mouth  of  his  hero : 

[Desolation  of  TFar.] 

We  continued  for  some  time  longer,  riding  over  a i 
track  once  fertile  and  well  cultivated,  but  now  returned  j 
to  its  original  desolation.  The  wild  pomegranate,  the  j 
thorn,  and  the  thistle,  grew  high  in  the  fields,  and 
overran  the  walls  that  formerly  enclosed  them.  At 
length  we  reached  an  open  space,  occupied  by  the  ruins 
of  a large  walled  village,  among  which  a square  build- 
ing, with  walls  of  greater  height,  and  towers  at  each 
comer,  rose  particularly  conspicuous. 

As  we  approached  this  place  I felt  my  heart  stirred 
within  me,  and  my  whole  frame  agitated  with  a secret 
and  indescribable  emotion ; visions  of  past  events 
seemed  hovering  dimly  in  my  memory,  but  my  sensa- 
tions were  too  indistinct  and  too  confused  to  be  intel- 
ligible to  myself.  At  last  a vague  idea  shot  through 
my  brain,  and  thrilled  like  a fiery  arrow  in  my  heart ; 
with  burning  cheeks  and  eager  eyes  I looked  towards 
my  companion,  and  saw  his  own  bent  keenly  upon  me. 

‘Knowest  thou  this  spot,  young  man?’  said  he,  after 
a pause : ‘ if  thy  memory  does  not  serve  thee,  cannot 
thy  heart  tell  thee  what  walls  are  these?’  I gasped  for 
breath,  but  could  not  speak.  ‘ Yes,  Ismael,’  continued 
he,  ‘these  are  the  ruined  walls  of  thy  father’s  house; 
there  passed  the  first  days  of  thy  childhood;  within 
that  broken  tower  thy  eyes  first  saw  the  light!  But 
its  courts  are  now  strewed  with  the  unburied  dust  of 
thy  kindred,  and  the  foxes  and  wolves  of  the  desert 
rear  their  young  among  its  roofless  chambers.  These 
are  the  acts  of  that  tribe  to  which  thou  hast  so  long 
been  in  bondage — such  is  the  debt  of  blood  which  cries 
out  for  thy  vengeance !’ 

I checked  my  horse  to  gaze  on  the  scene  of  my  infant . 
years,  and  my  companion  seemed  willing  to  indulge  me. 

Is  it  indeed  true,  as  some  sages  have  taught,  that  man’s 
good  angel  hovers  over  the  place  of  his  birth,  and 
dwells  with  peculiar  fondness  on  the  innocent  days  of 
his  childhood?  and  that  in  after-years  of  sorrow  and  of 
crime  she  pours  the  recollection  of  those  pure  and 
peaceful  days  like  balm  over  the  heart,  to  soften  and 
improve  it  by  their  influence  ? How  could  it  be,  without 
some  agency  like  this,  that,  gazing  thus  unexpectedly  on 
the  desolate  home  of  my  fathers,  the  violent  passions, 
the  bustle,  and  the  misery  of  later  years,  vanished  from 
my  mind  like  a dream;  and  the  scenes  and  feelings 
of  my  childhood  came  fresh  as  yesterday  to  my 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THEODORE  E.  HOOK. 


remembrance  ? I heard  the  joyous  clamour  of  my  little 
brothers  and  sisters ; our  games,  our  quarrels,  and  our 
reconciliations,  were  once  more  present  to  me ; the  grave 
smile  of  my  father,  the  kind  but  eternal  gabble  of  my 
good  old  nurse ; and,  above  all,  the  mild  sweet  voice  of 
my  beloved  mother,  as  she  adjusted  our  little  disputes, 
or  soothed  our  childish  sorrows — all  rushed  upon  my 
mind,  and  for  a while  quite  overpowered  me : I covered 
my  face  with  my  hands  and  wept  in  silence. 

Besides  his  Eastern  tales,  Mr  Fraser  wrote  a 
story  of  his  native  country,  The  Highland  Smugglers , 
in  which  he  displays  the  same  talent  for  descrip- 
tion, with  much  inferior  powers  in  constructing  a 
probable  or  interesting  narrative.  He  died  at  his 
seat  at  Moniack,  Inverness-shire,  in  1856,  aged 
seventy-three. 

THEODORE  EDWARD  HOOK. 

Theodore  Edward  Hook,  a late  fashionable  and 
copious  novelist,  was  born  in  London,  September  22, 
1788.  He  was  the  son  of  a distinguished  musical 


composer ; and  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen — after  an 
imperfect  course  of  education  at  Harrow  School — he 
became  a sort  of  partner  in  his  father’s  business  of 
music  and  song.  In  1805  he  composed  a comic  opera, 
The  Soldier's  Return , the  overture  and  music,  as  well 
as  the  dialogues  and  songs,  entirely  by  himself.  The 
opera  was  highly  successful,  and  young  Theodore 
was  ready  next  year  with  another  after-piece,  Catch 
Him  Who  Can , which  exhibited  the  talents  of  Liston 
and  Mathews  in  a popular  and  effective  light,  and 
had  a great  run  of  success.  Several  musical  operas 
were  then  produced  in  rapid  succession  by  Hook, 
as  The  Invisible  Girl , Music  Mad,  Darkness  Visible , 
Trial  by  Jury , The  Fortress , Telceli,  Exchange  no 
Robbery , and  Killing  no  Murder.  Some  of  these 
still  keep  possession  of  the  stage,  and  evince  wonder- 
ful knowledge  of  dramatic  art,  musical  skill,  and 
literary  powers  in  so  young  an  author.  They  were 
followed  (1808)  by  a novel  which  has  been  described 


as  a mere  farce  in  a narrative  shape.  The  remark- 
able conversational  talents  of  Theodore  Hook,  and 
his  popularity  as  a writer  for  the  stage,  led  him 
much  into  society.  Flushed  with  success,  full  of 
the  gaiety  and  impetuosity  of  youth,  and  conscious 
of  his  power  to  please  and  even  fascinate  in  company, 
he  surrendered  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
passing  hour,  and  became  noted  for  his  ‘boisterous 
buffooneries,’  his  wild  sallies  of  wit  and  drollery, 
and  his  practical  hoaxes. 

Amongst  his  various  talents  was  one  which, 
though  familiar  in  some  other  countries,  whose 
language  affords  it  facilities,  has  hitherto  been  rare, 
if  not  unknown  in  ours,  namely  the  power  of 
improvisatising , or  extemporaneous  composition  of 
songs  and  music.  Hook  would  at  table  turn  the 
whole  conversation  of  the  evening  into  a song, 
sparkling  with  puns  or  witty  allusions,  and  perfect 
in  its  rhymes.  ‘He  accompanied  himself,’  says 
Lockhart,  in  the  Quarterly  Review , ‘on  the  pianoforte, 
and  the  music  was  frequently,  though  not  always, 
as  new  as  the  verse.  He  usually  stuck  to  the  com- 
mon ballad  measures ; but  one  favourite  sport  was 
a mimic  opera,  and  then  he  seemed  to  triumph 
without  effort  over  every  variety  of  metre  and  com- 
plication of  stanza.  About  the  complete  extempor- 
aneousness of  the  whole  there  could  rarely  be  the 
slightest  doubt.’  This  power  of  extempore  verse 
seems  to  have  been  the  wonder  of  all  Hook’s 
associates;  it  astonished  Sheridan,  Coleridge,  and 
the  most  illustrious  of  his  contemporaries,  who 
used  to  hang  delighted  over  such  rare  and  unequi- 
vocal manifestations  of  genius.  Hook  had  been 
introduced  to  the  prince-regent,  afterwards  George 
IV.,  and  in  1812  he  received  the  appointment  of 
accomptant-general  and  treasurer  to  tlie  colony  of 
the  Mauritius,  with  a salary  of  about  £2000  per 
annum.  This  handsome  provision  he  enjoyed  for 
five  years.  The  duties  of  the  office  were,  however, 
neglected,  and  an  examination  being  made  into 
the  books  of  the  accomptant,  various  irregularities, 
omissions,  and  discrepancies  were  detected.  There 
was  a deficiency  of  a large  amount,  and  Hook  was 
ordered  home  under  the  charge  of  a detachment 
of  military.  Thus  a dark  cloud  hung  over  him  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life  ; but  it  is  believed  that  he 
was  in  reality  innocent  of  all  but  gross  negligence. 
On  reaching  London  in  1819,  he  was  subjected  to 
a scrutiny  by  the  Audit  Board,  which  did  not  ter- 
minate until  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  five  years. 
He  was  then  pronounced  to  be  liable  to  the  crown 
for  the  deficit  of  £12,000.  In  the  meantime  he 
laboured  assiduously  at  literature  as  a profession. 
He  became,  in  1820,  editor  of  the  John  Bull  news- 
paper, which  he  made  conspicuous  for  its  advocacy 
of  high  aristocratic  principles,  some  virulent  person- 
alities, and  much  wit  and  humour.  His  political 
songs  were  generally  admired  for  their  point  and 
brilliancy  of  fancy.  In  1823,  after  the  award  had 
been  given  finding  him  a debtor  to  the  crown  in  the 
sum  mentioned,  Hook  was  arrested,  and  continued 
nearly  two  years  in  confinement.  His  literary 
labours  went  on,  however,  without  interruption,  and 
in  1824,  appeared  the  first  series  of  his  tales, 
entitled  Sayings  and  Doings,  which  were  so  well 
received  that  the  author  was  made  £2000  richer  by 
the  production.  In  1825,  he  issued  a second  series, 
and  shortly  after  that  publication  he  was  released  { 
from  custody,  with  an  intimation,  however,  that  the 
crown  abandoned  nothing  of  its  claim  for  the 
Mauritius  debt.  The  popular  novelist  now  pursued 
his  literary  career  with  unabated  diligence  and 
spirit.  In  1828,  he  published  a third  series  of 
Sayings  and  Doings ; in  1830,  Maxwell;  in  1832, 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


The  Life  of  Sir  David  Baird;  in  1833,  The  Parson's 
Daughter , and  Love  and  Pride.  In  1836,  he  became 
editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine , and  contributed 
to  its  pages,  in  chapters,  Gilbert  Gurney,  an'd  the 
far  inferior  sequel,  Gurney  Married,  each  afterwards 
collected  into  a set  of  three  volumes.  In  1837, 
appeared  Jack  Brag ; in  1839,  Births,  Deaths,  and 
Marriages;  Precepts  and  Practice  ; and  Fathers  and 
Sons.  His  last  avowed  work,  Peregrine  Bunce,  sup- 
posed not  to  have  been  wholly  written  by  him, 
appeared  some  months  after  his  death.  The  pro- 
duction of  thirty-eight  volumes  within  sixteen 
years — the  author  being  all  the  while  editor,  and 
almost  sole  writer,  of  a newspaper,  and  for  several 
years  the  efficient  conductor  of  a magazine — 
certainly  affords,  as  Mr  Lockhart  remarks,  suffi- 
cient proof  that  he  never  sank  into  idleness.  At 
the  same  time  Theodore  Hook  Avas  the  idol  of 
the  fashionable  circles,  and  ran  a heedless  round 
of  dissipation.  Though  in  the  receipt  of  a large 
income — probably  not  less  than  £3000  per  annum — 
by  his  writings,  he  became  involved  in  pecuniary 
embarrassments  ; and  an  unhappy  connection  which 
he  had  formed,  yet  dared  not  avow,  entailed  upon 
him  the  anxieties  and  responsibilities  of  a fa  mil}". 
Parts  of  a diary  which  he  kept  have  been  published, 
and  there  are  passages  in  it  disclosing  his  struggles, 
his  alternations  of  hope  and  despair,  and  his  ever- 
deepening  distresses  and  difficulties,  which  are 
inexpressibly  touching  as  well  as  instructive.  At 
length,  overwhelmed  with  difficulties,  his  children 
unprovided  for,  and  himself  a victim  to  disease  and 
exhaustion  before  he  had  completed  his  fifty-third 
year,  he  died  at  Fulham  on  the  24th  of  August  1842. 

The  works  of  Theodore  Hook  are  very  unequal, 
and  none  of  them  perhaps  display  the  rich  an<l  varied 
powers  of  his  conversation.  He  was  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  English  life  in  the  higher  and 
middle  ranks,  and  his  early  familiarity  with  the 
stage  had  taught  him  the  effect  of  dramatic  situations 
and  pointed  dialogue.  The  theatre,  however,  is  not 
always  a good  school  for  taste  in  composition,  and 
Hook’s  witty  and  tragic  scenes  and  contrasts  of 
character  are  often  too  violent  in  tone,  and  too  little 
discriminated.  Hence,  though  his  knowledge  of  high- 
life  was  undoubted,  and  his  powers  of  observation 
rarely  surpassed,  his  pictures  of  existing  manners 
seem  to  wear  an  air  of  caricature,  imparted  insen- 
sibly by  the  peculiar  habits  and  exuberant  fancy 
of  the  novelist.  His  pathos  is  often  overdone,  and 
his  mirth  and  joyousness  carried  into  the  regions  of 
farce.  He  is  very  felicitous  in  exposing  all  ridicu- 
lous pretences  and  absurd  affectation,  and  in  such 
scenes  his  polished  ridicule  and  the  practical  saga- 
city of  the  man  of  the  world,  conversant  with  its 
different  ranks  and  artificial  distinctions,  are  strik- 
ingly apparent.  We  may  collect  from  his  novels 
— especially  the  Sayings  and  Doings,  which  were 
carefully  written — as  correct  a notion  of  English 
society  in  certain  spheres  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
as  Fielding’s  works  display  of  the  manners  of  the 
eighteenth.  To  regularity  of  fable  he  made  little 
pretension,  and  we  suspect  he  paid  little  attention 
to  style.  He  aimed  at  delineation  of  character — at 
striking  scenes  and  situations — at  reflecting  the 
language  and  habits  of  actual  life— and  all  this  he 
successfully  accomplished  as  respects  that  conven- 
tional world  of  which  he  was  a worshipper. 

THOMAS  COLLEY  GRATTAN — MR  T.  H.  LISTER — 
MARQUIS  OF  NORMANBY. 

Thomas  Colley  Grattan — born  in  Dublin  in 
1796— commenced  his  literary  career  in  1819  with 
500 


a poetical  romance,  entitled  Philibert , which  was 
smoothly  versified,  but  possessed  no  great  merit.  In 
1823  appeared  his  Highways  and  Byways,  tales  of 
continental  wandering  and  adventure,  written  in  a 
light,  picturesque,  and  pleasing  manner.  These 
were  so  well  received  that  the  author  wrote  a second 
series,  published  in  1824,  and  a third  in  1827.  In 
1830  he  came  forth  with  a novel  in  four  volumes, 
The  Heiress  of  Bruges,  a Tale  of  the  Year  Sixteen 
Hundred.  The  plot  of  this  work  is  connected  with 
the  attempts  made  by  the  Flemish  to  emancipate 
themselves  from  the  foreign  sway  of  Spain,  in  which 
they  were  assisted  by  the  Dutch,  under  Prince 
Maurice.  Mr  Grattan  is  author  also  of  Tales  of 
Travel,  and  histories  of  the  Netherlands  and  of 
Switzerland.  As  a writer  of  fiction,  a power  of  vivid 
description  and  observation  of  nature  appears  to  be 
Mr  Grattan’s  principal  merit.  His  style  is  often 
diffuse  and  careless ; and  he  does  not  seem  to  have 
laboured  successfully  in  constructing  his  stories. 
His  pictures  of  ordinary  life  in  the  French  provinces, 
as  he  wandered  among  the  highways  and  byways 
of  that  country  with  a cheerful  observant  spirit, 
noting  the  peculiarities  of  the  people,  are  his 
happiest  and  most  original  efforts. 

Mr  T.  H.  Lister,  a gentleman  of  rank  and  aris- 
tocratic connections,  was  author  of  three  novels, 
descriptive  of  the  manners  of  the  higher  classes; 
namely,  Granby,  1826 ; Herbert  Lacy,  1827 ; and 
Arlington,  1832.  These  works  are  pleasingly  written, 
and  may  be  considered  as  affording  correct  pictures 
of  domestic  society,  but  they  possess  no  features  of 
novelty  or  originality  to  preserve  them  for  another 
generation.  A strain  of  graceful  reflection,  in  the 
style  of  the  essays  in  the  Mirror  and  Lounger,  is 
mingled  with  the  tale,  and  shews  the  author  to  have 
been  a man  .of  refined  and  cultivated  taste  and 
feeling.  In  1838  Mr  Lister  published  a Memoir  of 
the  Life  and  Administration  of  the  Earl  of  Clarendon, 
in  three  volumes,  a work  of  considerable  talent  and 
research,  in  preparing  which  the  author  had  access 
to  documents  and  papers  unknown  to  his  predeces- 
sors. Mr  Lister  died  in  June  1842,  at  which  time 
he  held  the  government  appointment  of  Kegistrar- 
general  of  births,  marriages,  and  deaths.  The 
following  brief  description  in  Granby  may  be  com- 
pared with  Mr  Wordsworth’s  noble  sonnet  composed 
upon  Westminster  Bridge: 

[London  at  Sunrise .] 

Granby  followed  them  with  his  eyes ; and  now,  too 
full  of  happiness  to  be  accessible  to  any  feelings  of 
jealousy  or  repining,  after  a short  reverie  of  the  purest 
satisfaction,  he  left  the  ball,  and  sallied  out  into  the 
fresh  cool  air  of  a summer  morning — suddenly  passing  I 
from  the  red  glare  of  lamplight  to  the  clear  sober  bright- 
ness of . returning  day.  He  walked  cheerfully  onward, 
refreshed  and  exhilarated  by  the  air  of  morning,  and 
interested  with  the  scene  around  him.  It  was  broad 
daylight,  and  he  viewed  the  town  under  an  aspect  in 
which  it  is  alike  presented  to  the  late-retiring  votary 
of  pleasure,  and  to  the  early-rising  sons  of  business. 
He  stopped  on  the  pavement  of  Oxford  Street  to  con-  i 
template  the  effect.  The  whole  extent  of  that  long 
vista,  unclouded  by  the  mid-day  smoke,  was  distinctly 
visible  to  his  eye  at  once.  The  houses  shrunk  to  half 
their  span,  while  the  few  visible  spires  of  the  adjacent 
churches  seemed  to  rise  less  distant  than  before,  gaily 
tipped  with  early  sunshine,  and  much  diminished  in 
apparent  size,  but  heightened  in  distinctness  and  in 
beauty.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  cool  gray  tint  which 
slightly  mingled  with  every  object,  the  brightness  was 
almost  that  of  noon.  But  the  life,  the  bustle,  the 
busy  din,  the  flowing  tide  of  human  existence,  were  all 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  lady  c.  lamb — e.  p.  ward. 


wanting  to  complete  the  similitude.  All  was  hushed 
and  silent ; and  this  mighty  receptacle  of  human  beings, 
which  a few  short  hours  would  wake  into  active  energy 
and  motion,  seemed  like  a city  of  the  dead. 

There  was  little  to  break  this  solemn  illusion. 
Around  were  the  monuments  of  human  exertion,  but 
the  hands  which  formed  them  were  no  longer  there. 
Few,  if  any,  were  the  symptoms  of  life.  No  sounds 
were  heard  but  the  heavy  creaking  of  a solitary 
wagon,  the  twittering  of  an  occasional  sparrow,  the 
monotonous  tone  of  the  drowsy  watchman,  and  the 
distant  rattle  of  the  retiring  carriage,  fading  on  the 
ear  till  it  melted  into  silence : and  the  eye  that 
searched  for  living  objects  fell  on  nothing  but  the  grim 
greatcoated  guardian  of  the  night,  muffled  up  into  an 
appearance  of  doubtful  character  between  bear  and  man, 
and  scarcely  distinguishable,  by  the  colour  of  his  dress, 
from  the  brown  flags  along  which  he  sauntered. 

Two  novels  of  the  same  class  with  those  of  Mr 
Lister  were  written  by  the  present  Marquis  of 
Normanby;  namely,  Matilda,  published  in  1825, 
and  Yes  and  No,  a Tale  of  the  Day,  1827.  They 
were  well  received  by  the  public,  being  in  taste, 
correctness  of  delineation,  and  general  good  sense, 
superior  to  the  ordinary  run  of  fashionable  novels, 
but  deficient  in  originality  and  vigour. 

LADY  CAROLINE  LAMB — LADY  DACRE — COUNTESS  OF 
MORLEY — LADY  CHARLOTTE  BURY. 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb  (1785-1828)  was  authoress 
of  three  works  of  fiction,  which,  from  extrinsic  cir- 
cumstances, were  highly  popular  in  their  day.  The 
first,  Glenarvon,  was  published  in  1816,  and  the  hero 
was  understood  to  ‘ body  forth  ’ the  character  and 
sentiments  of  Lord  Byron.  It  was  a representation 
of  the  dangers  attending  a life  of  fashion.  The 
second,  Graham  Hamilton,  depicted  the  difficulties 
and  dangers  inseparable,  even  in  the  most  amiable 
minds,  from  weakness  and  irresolution  of  character. 
The  third,  Ada  Reis  (1823),  is  a wild  Eastern  tale, 
the  hero  being  introduced  as  the  Don  Juan  of  his 
day,  a Georgian  by  birth,  who,  like  Othello,  is  ‘ sold 
to  slavery,’  but  rises  to  honours  and  distinctions. 
In  the  end  Ada  is  condemned,  for  various  misdeeds, 
to  eternal  punishment ! The  history  of  Lady 
Caroline  Lamb  is  painfully  interesting.  She  was 
united,  before  the  age  of  twenty,  to  the  Honourable 
William  Lamb  (afterwards  Lord  Melbourne),  and  was 
long  the  delight  of  the  fashionable  circles,  from  the 
singularity  as  well  as  the  grace  of  her  manners,  her 
literary  accomplishments,  and  personal  attractions. 
On  meeting  with  Lord  Byron,  she  contracted  an 
unfortunate  attachment  for  the  noble  poet,  which 
continued  three  years,  and  was  the  theme  of  much 
remark.  The  poet  is  said  to  have  trifled  with  her 
feelings,  and  a rupture  took  place.  ‘ For  many  years 
Lady  Caroline  led  a life  of  comparative  seclusion, 
principally  at  Brocket  Hall.  This  was  interrupted 
by  a singular  and  somewhat  romantic  occurrence. 
Riding  with  Mr  Lamb,  she  met,  just  by  the  park- 
gates,  the  hearse  which  was  conveying  the  remains 
of  Lord  Byron  to  Newstead  Abbey.  She  was  taken 
home  insensible : an  illness  of  length  and  severity 
succeeded.  Some  of  her  medical  attendants  imputed 
her  fits,  certainly  of  great  incoherence  and  long 
continuance,  to  partial  insanity.  At  this  supposi- 
tion she  was  invariably  and  bitterly  indignant. 
Whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  certain  from  that  time 
her  conduct  and  habits  materially  changed ; and 
about  three  years  before  her  death  a separation  took 
place  between  her  and  Mr  Lamb,  who  continued, 
however,  frequently  to  visit,  and,  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  to  correspond  with  her.  It  is  just  to  both 


parties  to  add,  that  Lady  Caroline  constantly  spoke 
of  her  husband  in  the  highest  and  most  affectionate 
terms  of  admiration  and  respect.’*  A romantic 
susceptibility  of  temperament  and  character  seems 
to  have  been  the  bane  of  this  unfortunate  lady.  Her 
fate  illustrates  the  wisdom  of  Thomson’s  advice : 
Tfien  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear, 

Trust  me,  the  tender  are  the  most  severe. 

The  Recollections  of  a Chaperon , 1833,  by  Lady 
Dacre,  are  a series  of  tales  written  with  taste, 
feeling,  and  passion.  This  lady  is,  we  believe,  also 
authoress  of  Trevelyan,  1833,  a novel  which  was 
considered  at  the  time  of  its  publication  as  the  best 
feminine  novel,  in  many  respects,  that  had  appeared 
since  Miss  Edgeworth’s  Vivian.  Among  other 
works  of  this  class  may  be  mentioned  the  tale  of 
Dacre,  1834,  by  the  Countess  of  Morley;  and 
several  fashionable  novels — The  Divorced,  Family 
Records , Love,  The  Courtier's  Daughter,  &c. — by  Lady 
Charlotte  Bury.  This  lady  is  the  supposed 
authoress  of  a Diary  Illustrative  of  the  Times  of 
George  IV.,  a scandalous  chronicle,  published  in 
1838.  It  appears  that  her  ladyship — then  Lady 
Charlotte  Campbell — had  held  an  appointment  in 
the  household  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  during 
this  time  she  kept  a diary,  in  which  she  recorded 
the  foibles  and  failings  of  the  unfortunate  princess 
and  other  members  of  the  court.  The  work  was 
strongly  condemned  by  the  two  leading  critical 
journals — the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Review — and 
was  received  generally  with  disapprobation. 

E.  PLUMER  WARD. 

Mr  R.  Plumer  Ward  published  in  1825  a sin- 
gular metaphysical  and  religious  romance,  entitled 
Tremaine,  or  the  Man  of  Refinement.  The  author’s 
name  was  not  prefixed  to  his  work ; and  as  he 
alluded  to  his  intimacy  with  English  statesmen  and 
political  events,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  the  evan- 
gelical party  in  the  church,  much  speculation  took 
place  as  to  the  paternity  of  the  novel.  The  writer 
was  evidently  well-bred  and  intellectual — prone  to 
philosophical  and  theological  disquisitions,  but  at 
the  same  time  capable  of  forcible  delineation  of 
character,  and  the  management  of  natural  dialogue 
and  incidents.  The  prolixity  of  some  of  the  dissert- 
ations and  dialogues,  where  the  story  stood  still  for 
half  a volume,  that  the  parties  might  converse  and 
dispute,  rendered  Tremaine  somewhat  heavy  and 
tedious,  in  spite  of  the  vigour  and  originality  of 
talent  it  displayed.  In  a subsequent  work,  De  Vere, 
or  the  Man  of  Independence,  1827,  the  public  dwelt 
with  keen  interest  on  a portraiture  of  Mr  Canning, 
whose  career  was  then  about  to  close  in  his  prema- 
ture death.  The  contention  in  the  mind  of  this 
illustrious  statesman  between  literary  tastes  and  the 
pursuits  of  ambition,  is  beautifully  delineated  in  one 
passage  which  has  been  often  quoted.  It  represents 
a conversation  between  Wentworth  (Canning),  Sir 
George  Deloraine,  a reserved  and  sentimental  man, 
and  Dr  Herbert.  The  occasion  of  the  conversation 
was  Wentworth’s  having  observed  Deloraine  coming 
out  of  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  door  at  Poets’ 
Corner.  Meeting  at  dinner,  Sir  George  is  rallied 
by  Wentworth  on  his  taste  for  the  monuments  of 
departed  genius ; which  he  defends ; and  he  goes  on 
to  add : 

[Power  of  Literary  Genius .] 

‘ It  would  do  all  you  men  of  power  good  if  you  were 
to  visit  them  too;  for  it  would  shew  you  how  little 

* Annual  Obituary  for  1829. 

601 


* 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


more  than  npon  a level  is  often  the  reputation  of  the 
greatest  statesman  with  the  fame  of  those  who,  by  their 
genius,  their  philosophy,  or  love  of  letters,  improve 
and  gladden  life  even  after  they  are  gone.’  The 
whole  company  saw  the  force  of  this  remark,  and 
Wentworth  not  the  least  among  them.  ‘ You  have 
touched  a theme,’  said  he,  ‘which  has  often  engaged 
me,  and  others  before  me,  with  the  keenest  interest. 
I know  nothing  so  calculated  as  this  very  reflection 
to  cure  ns  poor  political  slaves — especially  when  we 
feel  the  tugs  we  are  obliged  to  sustain — of  -being 
dazzled  by  meteors.’  ‘Meteors  do  you  call  them?’ 
said  Dr  Herbert.  ‘Men  do  not  run  after  meteors 
with  such  rapid  and  persevering  steps  as  you  great 
people  pursue  ambition.’  ‘ I grant  you,’  returned  his 
friend ; ‘ and  if  we  did  not  think  them  something 
better,  who  would  give  himself  [5.  themselves]  up  to 
such  labour,  such  invasions  of  their  privacy  and 
leisure,  as  we  are  forced  to  undergo?’  ‘What  is  it, 
then,  that  so  seduces  you ? ’ ‘A  little  intoxication,’ 
returned  Mr  Wentworth,  laughing  off  a subject  which 
he  did  not  wish  carried  too  far ; ‘ for  which  you  philos- 
ophers say  we  ought  to  be  whipped,  and  for  which 
whipped  we  often  are.  Those,  however,  who  want  this 
whipping  would  do  well  to  take  Sir  George’s  advice,  and 
visit  the  shrines  of  the  mighty  dead.  They  would  see 
how  inferior  most  of  themselves  are  in  present  estima- 
tion to  beings  who,  when  alive,  could  not,  in  splendour 
at  least,  compare  with  them.  I have  too  often  made 
the  reflection,  and  was  not  the  happier  for  it.’ ' ‘You 
cannot  be  serious,’  said  the  divine ; ‘ since  who  are 
such  real  benefactors  to  mankind  as  enlightened  legis- 
lators and  patriot  warriors?  What  poet,  I had  almost 
said  what  philosopher,  can  stand  in  competition  with 
the  founder  or  defender  of  his  country?’  ‘Ask  your 
own  Homer,  your  own  Shakspeare,’  answered  Went- 
worth, forgetting  his  ambition  for  a moment  in  his 
love  of  letters.  ‘ You  take  me  in  my  weak  part,’  said 
Herbert,  ‘ and  the  subject  would  carry  us  too  far.  I 
would  remark,  however,  that  but  for  the  Solons,  the 
Romuluses,  the  Charlemagnes,  and  Alfreds,  we  should 
have  no  Homer  or  Shakspeare  to  charm  us.’  ‘ I know 
this  is  your  favourite  theme,’  said  the  minister,  ‘ and 
you  know  how  much  I agree  with  you.  But  this  is  not 
precisely  the  question  raised  by  Sir  George ; which  is, 
the  superiority  in  the  temple  of  fame  enjoyed  by  men 
distinguished  for  their  efforts  in  song  or  history — but 
who  might  have  been  mere  beggars  when  alive — over 
those  who  flaunted  it  superciliously  over  them  in  a 
pomp  and  pride  which  are  now  absolutely  forgotten.’ 

‘ I will  have  nothing  to  do  with  supercilious  Saunters,’ 
replied  Herbert ; ‘ I speak  of  the  liberal,  the  patriotic, 
who  seek  power  for  the  true  uses  of  power,  in  order  to 
diffuse  blessing  and  protection  all  around  them.  These 
can  never  fail  to  be  deservedly  applauded ; and  I honour 
such  ambition  as  of  infinitely  more  real  consequence  to 
the  world  than  those  whose  works — however  I may  love 
them  in  private — can,  from  the  mere  nature  of  things, 
be  comparatively  known  only  to  a few.’  ‘ All  that  is 
most  true,’  said  Mr  Wentworth ; ‘ and  for  a while  public 
men  of  the  description  you  mention  fill  a larger  space  in 
I the  eye  of  mankind  ; that  is,  of  contemporary  mankind. 

But  extinguish  their  power,  no  matter  by  what  means, 
j whether  by  losing  favour  at  court,  or  being  turned  out 
by  the  country,  to  both  which  they  are  alike  subject ; 

! let  death  forcibly  remove  them,  or  a queen  die,  and 
their  light,  like  Bolingbroke’s,  goes  out  of  itself ; their 
influence  is  certainly  gone,  and  where  is  even  their 
reputation?  It  may  glimmer  for  a minute,  like  the 
dying  flame  of  a taper,  after  which  they  soon  cease  to 
be  mentioned,  perhaps  even  remembered.’  ‘ Surely,’ 
said  the  doctor,  ‘ this  is  too  much  in  extremes.’  * And 
yet,’  continued  Wentworth,  ‘ have  we  not  all  heard  of 
a maxim  appalling  to  all  lovers  of  political  fame,  “ that 
nobody  is  missed  ? ” Alas ! then,  are  we  not  compelled 
to  burst  out  with  the  poet : 

502 


“ What  boots  it  with  incessant  care, 

To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd’s  trade. 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera’s  hair  ? ” * 

Both  Sir  George  and  De  Vere  kindled  at  this ; and  the 
doctor  himself  smiled,  when  the  minister  proceeded. 

* In  short,’  said  he,  ‘ when  a statesman,  or  even  a con- 
queror is  departed,  it  depends  upon  the  happier  poet  or 
philosophic  historian  to  make  even  his  name  known  to 
posterity ; while  the  historian  or  poet  acquires  immor- 
tality for  himself  in  conferring  upon  his  heroes  an 
inferior  existence.’  ‘ Inferior  existence  ! ’ exclaimed 
Herbert.  ‘Yes;  for  look  at  Plutarch,  and  ask  which 
are  most  esteemed,  himself  or  those  he  records  ? Book 
at  the  old  Claudii  and  Manlii  of  Livy ; or  the  characters 
in  Tacitus ; or  Maecenas,  Agrippa,  or  Augustus  himself 
— princes,  emperors,  ministers,  esteemed  by  contem- 
poraries as  gods!  Fancy  their  splendour  in  the  eye 
of  the  multitude  while  the  multitude  followed  them ! 
Look  at  them  now ! Spite  even  of  their  beautiful 
historians,  we  have  often  difficulty  in  rummaging  out 
their  old  names ; while  those  who  wrote  or  sang  of  them 
live  before  our  eyes.  The  benefits  they  conferred  passed 
in  a minute,  while  the  compositions  that  record  them 
last  for  ever.’  Mr  Wentworth’s  energy  moved  his 
hearers,  and  even  Herbert,  who  was  too  classical  not  to 
be  shaken  by  these  arguments.  ‘Still,  however,’  said 
the  latter,  ‘we  admire,  and  even  wish  to  emulate 
Camillus  and  Miltiades,  and  Alexander ; a Sully  and  a 
Clarendon.’  ‘Add  a Lord  Burleigh,*  replied  the  min- 
ister, ‘ who,  in  reference  to  Spenser,  thought  a hundred 
pounds  an  immense  sum  for  a song ! Which  is  now 
most  thought  of,  or  most  loved  ? — the  calculating  min- 
ister or  the  poor  poet?  the  puissant  treasurer  or  he 
who  was  left  “in  suing  long  to  bide?”’  Sir  George 
and  De  Yere,  considering  the  quarter  whence  it  came, 
were  delighted  with  this  question.  The  doctor  was 
silent,  and  seemed  to  wish  his  great  friend  to'  go  on. 

He  proceeded  thus  : ‘ I might  make  the  same  question 
as  to  Horace  and  Maecenas ; and  yet,  I daresay,  Horace 
was  as  proud  of  being  taken  in  Maecenas’s  coach  to  the 
Capitol,  as  the  dean  of  St  Patrick’s  in  Oxford’s  or 
Bolingbroke’s  to  Windsor.  Yet  Oxford  is  even  now 
chiefly  remembered  through  that  very  dean,  and  so 
perhaps  would  Bolingbroke,  but  that  he  is  an  author, 
and  a very  considerable  one  himself.  We  may  recollect,’ 
continued  he,  ‘the  manner  in  which  Whiteloeke  mentions 
Milton — that  “ one  Milton,  a blind  man,”  was  made 
secretary  to  CromwelL  Whiteloeke  was  then  the  first  I 
subject  in  the  state,  and  lived  in  all  the  pomp  of  the 
seals,  and  all  the  splendour  of  Bulstrode ; while  the 
blind  man  waked  at  early  mom  to  listen  to  the  lark 
bidding  him  good-morrow  at  his  cottage-window.  Where 
is  the  lord-keeper  now  ? — where  the  blind  man  ? What 
is  known  of  Addison  as  secretary  of  state  ? and  how  can 
his  excellency  compare  with  the  man  who  charms  us  so 
exquisitely  in  his  writings  ? When  I have  visited  his  inter- 
esting house  at  Bilton,  in  Warwickshire,  sat  in  his  very 
study,  and  read  his  very  books,  no  words  can  describe 
my  emotions.  I breathe  his  official  atmosphere  here, 
but  without  thinking  of  him  at  all.  In  short,  there  is 
this  delightful  superiority  in  literary  over  political  fame,  > 
that  the  one,  to  say  the  best  of  it,  stalks  in  cold  gran- 
deur upon  stilts,  like  a French  tragedy  actor,  while  the  j 
other  winds  itself  into  our  warm  hearts,  and  is  hugged 
there  with  all  the  affection  of  a friend  and  all  the 
admiration  of  a lover.’  ‘ Hear ! hear ! ’ cried  Sir  George, 
which  was  echoed  by  De  Yere  and  Herbert  himself. 

De  Clifford , or  the  Constant  Man , produced  in 
1841,  is  also  a tale  of  actual  life ; and  as  the  hero  is 
at  one  time  secretary  to  a cabinet  minister,  Mr 
Ward  revels  in  official  details,  rivalries,  and  intrigue. 

In  1844  our  author  produced  Chatsworth,  or  the 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  BANIM. 


Romance  of  a Week.  Mr  Ward  wrote  some  histor- 
ical and  political  works  now  forgotten,  and  held 
office  under  government  in  the  Admiralty  and 
other  departments  for  twenty-five  years.  He  died 
in  1846,  aged  eighty-two. 

JOHN  BANIM. 

The  Tales  of  the  O'Hara  Family , first  and  second 
series,  1825  and  1826,  produced  a strong  and  vivid 
impression  on  all  readers  of  fiction.  The  author 
seemed  to  unite  the  truth  and  circumstantiality  of 
Crabbe  with  the  dark  and  gloomy  power  of  Godwin ; 
and  in  knowledge  of  Irish  character,  habits,  customs, 
and  feeling,  he  was  superior  even  to  Miss  Edge- 
worth  or  Lady  Morgan.  The  story  of  the  Nowlans, 
and  that  of  Croohore  of  the  Bill-Hook,  can  never  be 
forgotten  by  those  who  have  once  perused  them. 
The  force  of  the  passions,  and  the  effects  of  crime, 
turbulence,  and  misery,  have  rarely  been  painted 
with  such  overmastering  energy,  or  wrought  into 
narratives  of  more  sustained  and  harrowing  interest. 
The  probability  of  his  incidents  was  not  much 
attended  to  by  the  author,  and  he  indulged  largely 
in  scenes  of  horror  and  violence — in  murders, 
abductions,  pursuits,  and  escapes — but  the  whole 
was  related  with  such  spirit,  raciness,  and  truth  of 
costume  and  colouring,  that  the  reader  had  neither 
time  nor  inclination  to  note  defects.  The  very 
peculiarities  of  the  Irish  dialect  and  pronunciation 
— though  constituting  at  first  a difficulty  in  perusal, 
and  always  too  much  persisted  in  by  Mr  Banim — 
heightened  the  wild  native  flavour  of  the  stories, 
and  enriched  them  with  many  new  and  picturesque 
words  and  phrases.  These  original  and  striking 
tales  were  followed  up  in  1828  by  another  Irish 
story,  The  Croppy , connected  with  the  insurrection 
in  1798.  lWe  paint,’  said  the  author,  ‘from  the 
people  of  a land  amongst  whom,  for  the  last  six 
hundred  years,  national  provocations  have  never 
ceased  to  keep  alive  the  strongest  and  often  the 
worst  passions  of  our  nature ; whose  pauses,  during 
that  long  lapse  of  a country’s  existence,  from  actual 
conflict  in  the  field,  have  been  but  so  many  changes 
into  mental  strife,  and  who  to  this  day  are  held 
prepared,  should  the  war-cry  be  given,  to  rush  at 
each  other’s  throats,  and  enact  scenes  that,  in  the 
columns  of  a newspaper,  would  shew  more  terribly 
vivid  than  any  selected  by  us  from  former  facts, 
for  the  purposes  of  candid,  though  slight  illustra- 
tion.’ There  was  too  much  of  this  strong  ‘writing’ 
in  The  Croppy , and  worse  faults  were  found  in  the 
prolixity  of  some  of  the  dialogues  and  descriptions, 
and  a too  palpable  imitation  of  the  style  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  his  historical  romances.  The  scenes 
peculiarly  Irish  are,  however,  written  with  Mr 
Banim’s  characteristic  vigour:  he  describes  the 
burning  of  a cabin  till  we  seem  to  witness  the  spec- 
tacle ; and  the  massacre  at  Vinegar  Hill  is  portrayed 
with  the  distinctness  of  dramatic  action.  Nanny 
the  knitter  is  also  one  of  his  happiest  Irish  like- 
nesses. The  experiment  made  by  the  author  to 
depict,  like  Scott,  the  manners  and  frivolities  of  the 
higher  classes — to  draw  a sprightly  heroine,  a maiden 
aunt,  or  the  ordinary  characters  and  traits  of  genteel 
society — was  decidedly  a failure.  His  strength  lay 
in  the  cabin  and  the  wild  heath,  not  in  the  drawing- 
room. In  1830  Mr  Banim  published  The  Denounced , 
in  three  volumes,  a work  consisting  of  two  tales 
— The  Last  Baron  of  Crana,  and  The  Conformists. 
The  same  beauties  and  defects  which  characterise 
The  Croppy  are  seen  in  The  Denounced ; but  The 
Conformists  is  a deeply  interesting  story,  and  calls 
forth  Mr  Banim’s  peculiarities  of  description  and 


knowledge  of  character  in  a very  striking  light.  His 
object  is  to  depict  the  evils  of  that  system  of  anti- 
Catholic  tyranny  when  the  penal  laws  were  in  full 
force,  by  which  home  education  was  denied  to  Catho- 
lic families  unless  by  a Protestant  teacher.  The 
more  rigid  of  the  Catholics  abjured  all  instruction 
thus  administered;  and  Mr  Banim  describes  the 
effects  of  ignorance  and  neglect  on  the  second  son  of 
a Catholic  gentleman,  haughty,  sensitive,  and  pain- 
fully alive  to  the  disadvantages  and  degradation  of 
his  condition.  The  whole  account  of  this  family, 
the  D’Arcys,  is  written  with  great  skill  and  effect. 
In  1838  Mr  Banim  collected  several  of  his  contribu- 
tions to  periodical  works,  and  published  them  under 
the  title  of  The  Bit  o’  Writin ’,  and  other  Tales.  In 
1842  he  came  forward  with  an  original  and  excellent 
novel,  in  three  volumes,  Father  Connell , the  hero 
being  an  aged  and  benevolent  Catholic  priest,  not 
unworthy  of  association  with  the  Protestant  Vicar 
of  Wakefield.  This  primitive  pastor  becomes  the 
patron  of  a poor  vagrant  boy,  Neddy  Fennell,  whose 
adventures  furnish  the  incidents  for  the  story.  There 
is,  as  usual  with  Mr  Banim,  a variety  of  incidents 
minutely  related — scenes  of  gloom  and  terror— and 
a complete  knowledge  of  the  moral  anatomy  of  our 
nature.  This  was  destined  to  be  the  last  work  of  the 
author.  He  died  in  August  1842,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Kilkenny,  which  also 
was  his  birthplace.  ‘Mr  Banim  began  life  as  a 
miniature-painter ; but,  seduced  from  his  profession 
by  promptings  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  by  the 
success  of  a tragedy,  Damon  and  Pythias , he  early 
abandoned  art,  and  adopted  literature  as  a profes- 
sion ; and  he  will  be  long  remembered  as  the  writer 
of  that  powerful  and  painful  series  of  novels,  The 
O'Hara  Tales.  Some  years  previous,  the  general 
sympathy  was  attracted  to  Mr  Banim’s  struggle 
against  the  suffering  and  privation  which  came  in 
the  train  of  disease  that  precluded  all  literary  exer- 
tion ; and  on  that  occasion  Sir  Robert  Peel  came  to 
the  aid  of  the  distressed  author,  whose  latter  years 
were  restored  to  his  native  country,  and  made  easy 
by  a yearly  pension  of  £150  from  the  civil  list,  to 
which  an  addition  of  £40  a year  was  afterwards 
made  for  the  education  of  his  daughter,  an  only 
child.’*  Besides  the  works  we  have  mentioned, 
Mr  Banim  wrote  Boyne  Water , and  other  poetical 
pieces ; and  he  contributed  largely  to  the  different 
magazines  and  annuals.  The  O'Hara  Tales  had 
given  him  a name  that  carried  general  attraction  to 
all  lovers  of  light  literature ; and  there  are  few  of 
these  short  and  hasty  tales  that  do  not  contain  some 
traces  of  his  unrivalled  Irish  power  and  fidelity  of 
delineation.  In  some  respects  Mr  Banim  was  a 
mannerist : his  knowledge  extended  over  a wide 
surface  of  Irish  history  and  of  character,  under  all 
its  modifications ; but  his  style  and  imagination 
were  confined  chiefly  to  the  same  class  of  subjects, 
and  to  a peculiar  mode  of  treating  them.  ‘Thus 
the  consciousness  of  power  in  the  description  of 
unhallowed  and  unregulated  impulse,  appears  to 
draw  him  often  away  from  contemplating  those 
feelings  of  a more  pleasing  kind,  to  comprehend  and 
to  delineate  which  is  so  necessary  a condition  to  the 
attainment  of  perfection  in  his  art.  Thus  the  bold- 
ness and  minuteness  of  detail,  which  give  reality  to 
his  frequent  scenes  of  lawlessness  and  violence,  are 
too  often  forced  close  on  the  verge  of  vulgar  honour 
and  melodramatic  artifice.  To  be  brief,  throughout 
the  whole  of  his  writings  there  is  a sort  of  over- 
strained excitement,  a wilful  dwelling  upon  tur- 
bulent and  unchastened  passions,  which,  as  it  is  a 

* Athenceum  for  1842. 

COS 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPiEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


vice  most  often  incident  to  the  workings  of  real 
genius,  more  especially  of  Irish  genius,  so  perhaps  it 
is  one  which  meets  with  least  mercy  from  well- 
behaved  prosaic  people.’  * This  defect  he  partially 
overcame  in  his  later  writings.  Father  Connell  is 
fall  of  gentle  affectionate  feelings  and  delineation, 
and  some  of  his  smaller  tales  are  distinguished  by 
great  delicacy  and  tenderness.  A life  of  Banim, 
with  extracts  from  his  correspondence — unfolding 
a life  of  constant  struggle  and  exertion — was 
published  in  1857,  written  by  Mr  P.  J.  Murray. 

[Description  of  the  Burning  of  a Croppy's  House.] 

The  smith  kept  a brooding  and  gloomy  silence ; his 
almost  savage  yet  steadfast  glare  fastened  upon  the 
element  that,  not  more  raging  than  his  own  bosom, 
devoured  his  dwelling.  Fire  had  been  set  to  the  house 
in  many  places  within  and  without ; and  though  at 
first  it  crept  slowly  along  the  surface  of  the  thatch, 
or  only  sent  out  bursting  wreaths  of  vapour  from  the 
interior,  or  through  the  doorway,  few  minutes  elapsed 
until  the  whole  of  the  combustible  roof  was  one  mass 
of  flame,  shooting  up  into  the  serene  air  in  a spire 
of  dazzling  brilliancy,  mixed  -with  vivid  sparks,  and 
relieved  against  a background  of  dark-gray  smoke. 

Sky  and  earth  appeared  reddened  into  common 
ignition  with  the  blaze.  The  houses  around  gleamed 
hotly ; the  very  stones  and  rocks  on  the  hillside  seemed 
portions  of  fire ; and  Shawn-a-G-ow’s  bare  head  and 
herculean  shoulders  were  covered  with  spreading  showers 
of  the  ashes  of  his  own  roof. 

His  distended  eye  fixed,  too,  upon  the  figures  of  the 
actors  in  this  scene,  now  rendered  fiercely  distinct,  and 
their  scabbards,  their  buttons,  and  their  polished  black 
helmets,  bickering  redly  in  the  glow,  as,  at  a command 
from  their  captain,  they  sent  up  the  hillside  three  shouts 
over  the  demolition  of  the  Croppy’s  dwelling.  But  still, 
though  his  breast  heaved,  and  though  wreaths  of  foam 
edged  his  lips,  Shawn  was  silent ; and  little  Peter  now 
feared  to  address  a word  to  him.  And  other  sights 
and  occurrences  claimed  whatever  attention  he  was  able 
to  afford.  Rising  to  a pitch  of  shrillness  that  over- 
mastered the  cheers  of  the  yeomen,  the  cries  of  a man 
in  bodily  agony  struck  on  the  ears  of  the  listeners  on 
the  hill,  and  looking  hard  towards  a spot  brilliantly 
illuminated,  they  saw  Saunders  Smyly  vigorously 
engaged  in  one  of  his  tasks  as  disciplinarian  to  the 
Bally breehoone  cavalry.  With  much  ostentation,  his 
instrument  of  torture  was  flourished  round  his  head, 
and  though  at  every  lash  the  shrieks  of  the  sufferer  came 
loud,  the  lashes  themselves  were  scarce  less  distinct. 

A second  group  challenged  the  eye.  Shawn-a- Cow’s 
house  stood  alone  in  the  village.  A short  distance 
before  its  door  was  a lime-tree,  with  benches  contrived 
all  round  the  trunk,  upon  which,  in  summer  weather, 
the  gossipers  of  the  village  used  to  seat  themselves. 
This  tree,  standing  between  our  spectators  and  the 
blaze,  cut  darkly  against  the  glowing  objects  beyond  it ; 
and  three  or  four  yeomen,  their  backs  turned  to  the 
hill,  their  faces  to  the  burning  house,  and  consequently 
their  figures  also  appearing  black,  seemed  busily  occu- 
pied in  some  feat  that  required  the  exertion  of  pulling 
with  their  hands  lifted  above  their  heads.  Shawn 
flashed  an  inquiring  glance  upon  them,  and  anon  a 
human  form,  still,  like  their  figures,  vague  and  unde- 
fined in  blackness,  gradually  became  elevated  from  the 
ground  beneath  the  tree,  until  its  head  almost  touched 
a projecting  branch,  and  then  it  remained  stationary, 
suspended  from  that  branch. 

Shawn’s  rage  increased  to  madness  at  this  sight, 
though  he  did  not  admit  it  to  be  immediately  connected 
with  his  more  individual  causes  for  wrath.  And  now 
came  an  event  that  made  a climax,  for  the  present,  to 

* Westminster  Review , 1828. 

£04 


his  emotions,  and  at  length  caused  some  expressions 
of  his  pent-up  feelings.  A loud  crackling  crash  echoed 
from  his  house;  a volume  of  flame,  taller  and  more 
dense  than  any  by  which  it  was  preceded,  darted  up 
to  the  heavens ; then  almost  former  darkness  fell  on 
the  hillside;  a gloomy  red  glow  alone  remained  on  the 
objects  below;  and  nothing  but  thick  smoke,  dotted 
with  sparks,  continued  to  issue  from  his  dwelling. 
After  everything  that  could  interiorly  supply  food  to 
the  flame  had  been  devoured,  it  was  the  roof  of  his  old 
house  that  now  fell  in. 

‘ By  the  ashes  o’  my  cabin,  burnt  down  before  me  this 
night — an’  I stannin’  a houseless  beggar  on  the  hillside 
lookin’  at  id — while  I can  get  an  Orangeman’s  house 
to  take  the  blaze,  an’  a wisp  to  kindle  the  blaze  up,  I ’ll 
burn  ten  houses  for  that  one  ! ’ 

And  so  asseverating,  he  recrossed  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  and,  followed  by  Peter  Rooney,  descended  into  the 
little  valley  of  refuge. 

The  national  character  of  Ireland  was  farther 
illustrated  by  two  collections  of  tales  published 
anonymously,  entitled  To-day  in  Ireland , 1825  ; and 
Yesterday  in  Ireland , 1829.  Though  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  the  art  of  a novelist,  this  writer 
is  often  correct  and  happy  in  his  descriptions  and 
historical  summaries.  Like  Banim,  he  has  ventured 
on  the  stormy  period  of  1798,  and  has  been  more 
minute  than  his  great  rival  in  sketching  the  circum- 
stances of  the  rebellion.  Mr  Eyre  Evans  Crowe, 
author  of  a History  of  France  and  of  The  English  in 
Italy  and  France , a work  of  superior  merit,  is  the 
author  of  these  tales.  The  Rev.  Caesar  Otway, 
of  Dublin,  in  his  Sketches  of  Ireland , and  his  Tour  in 
Connaught , &c.,  has  displayed  many  of  the  most 
valuable  qualities  of  a novelist,  without  attempting 
the  construction  of  a regular  story.  His  lively  style 
and  humorous  illustrations  of  the  manners  of  the 
people  render  his  topographical  works  very  pleasant 
as  well  as  instructive  reading.  Mr  Otway  was  a 
keen  theologian,  a determined  anti- Catholic,  but 
fall  of  Irish  feeling  and  universal  kindliness.  He 
died  in  March  1842. 

GERALD  GRIFFIN. 

Gerald  Griffin,  author  of  some  excellent  Irish 
tales,  was  born  at  Limerick  on  the  12  th  of  December  j 
1803.  His  first  schoolmaster  appears  to  have  been  j 
a true  Milesian  pedant  and  original,  for  one  of  his 
advertisements  begins:  ‘When  ponderous  polly- 
syllables  promulgate  professional  powers ! ’ — and  he 
boasted  of  being  one  of  three  persons  in  Ireland  who 
knew  how  to  read  correctly;  namely,  the  Bishop 
of  Killaloe,  the  Earl  of  Clare,  and  himself,  Mr 
MacEligot!  Gerald  was  afterwards  placed  under 
a private  tutor,  whence  he  was  removed  to  attend 
a school  at  Limerick.  While  a mere  youth,  he 
became  connected  with  the  Limerick  Advertiser 
newspaper ; but  having  written  a tragedy,  he 
migrated  to  London  in  his  twentieth  year,  with  the 
hope  of  distinguishing  himself  in  literature  and 
the  drama.  Disappointment  very  naturally  followed, 
and  Gerald  betook  himself  to  reporting  for  the 
daily  press  and  contributing  to  the  magazines.  In 
1825  he  succeeded  in  getting  an  operatic  melodrama 
brought  out  at  the  English  Opera  House;  and  in 
1827  appeared  his  Holland-Tide , or  Munster  Popular 
Tales,  a series  of  short  stories,  thoroughly  Irish, 
and  evincing  powers  of  observation  and  description 
from  which  much  might  be  anticipated.  This 
fortunate  beginning  was  followed  up  the  same  year 
by  Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals,  containing  Card- 
Drawing,  the  Half-Sir,  and  Suil  Dhuv  the  Coiner , 
three  volumes.  The  nationality  of  these  tales,  and 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


ifOVULISTS. 


the  talent  of  the  author  in  depicting  the  mingled 
levity  and  pathos  of  the  Irish  character,  rendered 
them  exceedingly  popular.  His  reputation  was 
still  further  increased  by  the  publication,  in  1829, 
of  the  Collegians;  a Second  Series  of  Tales  of  the 
Munster  Festivals , three  volumes,  which  proved  to  be 
the  most  popular  of  all  his  works,  and  was  thought 
by  many  to  place  Griffin  as  an  Irish  novelist  above 
Banim  and  Carleton.  Some  of  the  scenes  possess 
a deep  and  melancholy  interest ; for,  in  awakening 
terror,  and  painting  the  sterner  passions  and  their 
results,  Griffin  displayed  the  art  and  power  of  a 
master.  ‘ The  Collegians'  says  a writer  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  ‘is  a very  interesting  and  well- 
constructed  tale,  full  of  incident  and  passion.  It 
is  a history  of  the  clandestine  union  of  a young 
man  of  good  birth  and  fortune  with  a girl  of  far 
inferior  rank,  and  of  the  consequences  which  too 
naturally  result.  The  gradual  decay  of  an  attach- 
ment which  was  scarcely  based  on  anything  better 
than  sensual  love — the  irksomeness  of  concealment 
— the  goadings  of  wounded  pride — the  suggestions 
of  self-interest,  which  had  been  hastily  neglected 
for  an  object  which  proves  inadequate  when  gained 
— all  these  combining  to  produce,  first,  neglect, 
and  lastly,  aversion,  are  interestingly  and  vividly 
described.  An  attachment  to  another,  superior 
both  in  mind  and  station,  springs  up  at  the  same 
time ; and  to  effect  a union  with  her,  the  unhappy 
wife  is  sacrificed.  It  is  a terrible  representation 
of  the  course  of  crime ; and  it  is  not  only  forcibly, 
but  naturally  displayed.  The  characters  sometimes 
express  their  feelings  with  unnecessary  energy, 
strong  emotions  are  too  long  dwelt  upon,  and 
incidents  rather  slowly  developed ; but  there  is  no 
common  skill  and  power  evinced  in  the  conduct  of 
the  tale.’  In  1830  Mr  Griffin  was  again  in  the 
field  with  his  Irish  sketches.  Two  tales,  The  Rivals, 
and  Tracey's  Ambition,  were  well  received,  though 
improbable  in  plot  and  ill  arranged  in  incident. 
The  author  continued  his  miscellaneous  labours  for 
the  press,  and  published,  besides  a number  of  con- 
tributions to  periodicals,  another  series  of  stories, 
entitled  Tales  of  the  Five  Senses.  These  are  not 
equal  to  his  Munster  Tales,  but  are,  nevertheless, 
full  of  fine  Irish  description  and  character,  and  of 
that  ‘ dark  and  touching  power  ’ which  Mr  Carleton 
assigns  as  the  distinguishing  excellence  of  his 
brother-novelist.  In  1832  the  townsmen  of  Mr 
Griffin  devolved  upon  him  a very  pleasing  duty 
— to  wait  upon  Mr  Moore  the  poet,  and  request 
that  he  would  allow  himself  to  be  put  in  nomination 
for  the  representation  of  the  city  of  Limerick  in 
parliament.  Mr  Moore  prudently  declined  this 
honour,  but  appears  to  have  given  a character- 
istically kind  and  warm  reception  to  his  young 
enthusiastic  visitor. 

Notwithstanding  the  early  success  and  growing 
reputation  of  Mr  Griffin,  he  soon  became  tired  of 
the  world,  and  anxious  to  retreat  from  its  toils  and 
its  pleasures.  He  had  been  educated  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  and  one  of  his  sisters  had,  about 
the  year  1830,  taken  the  veil.  This  circumstance 
awakened  the  poetical  and  devotional  feelings  and 
desires  that  formed  part  of  his  character,  and  he 
grew  daily  more  anxious  to  quit  the  busy  world  for 
a life  of  religious  duty  and  service.  The  following 
verses,  written  at  this  time,  are  expressive  of  his 
new  enthusiasm : 

Seven  dreaiy  winters  gone  and  spent, 

Seven  blooming  summers  vanished  too, 

Since  on  an  eager  mission  bent, 

I left  my  Irish  home  and  you. 


How  passed  those  years  I will  not  say ; 

They  cannot  be  by  words  renewed — 

God  wash  their  sinful  parts  away  ! 

And  blest  be  He  for  all  their  good. 

With  even  mind  and  tranquil  breast 
I left  my  youthful  sister  then, 

And  now  in  sweet  religious  rest 
I see  my  sister  there  again. 

Returning  from  that  stormy  world, 

How  pleasing  is  a sight  like  this  ! 

To  see  that  bark  with  canvas  furled 
Still  riding  in  that  port  of  peace. 

Oh,  darling  of  a heart  that  still, 

By  earthly  joys  so  deeply  trod, 

At  moments  bids  its  owner  feel 
The  warmth  of  nature  and  of  God  ! 

Still  be  his  care  in  future  years 

To  learn  of  thee  truth’s  simple  way, 

And  free  from  foundless  hopes  or  fears, 

Serenely  live,  securely  pray. 

And  when  our  Christmas  days  are  past, 

And  life’s  vain  shadows  faint  and  dim, 

Oh,  be  my  sister  heard  at  last, 

When  her  pure  hands  are  raised  for  him  ! 

Christmas,  1830. 

His  mind,  fixed  on  this  subject,  still  retained 
its  youthful  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness,  and  he 
made  a tour  in  Scotland,  which  afforded  him  the 
highest  satisfaction  and  enjoyment.  He  retired 
from  the  world  in  the  autumn  of  1838,  and  joined 
the  Christian  Brotherhood — whose  duty  it  is  to 
instruct  the  poor— in  the  monastery  at  Cork.  In 
the  second  year  of  his  noviciate  he  was  attacked 
with  typhus  fever,  and  died  on  the  12th  of  June 
1840. 

WILLIAM  CARLETON. 

William  Carleton,  author  of  Traits  and  Stories 
of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  was  born  at  Prillisk,  in  the 
parish  of  Clogher,  and  county  of  Tyrone,  in  the 
year  1798.  His  father  was  a person  in  lowly  station 
— a peasant — but  highly  and  singularly  gifted.  His 
memory  was  unusually  retentive,  and  as  a teller  of 
old  tales,  legends,  and  historical  anecdotes,  he  was 
unrivalled  ; and  his  stock  of  them  was  inexhaustible. 
He  spoke  the  Irish  and  English  languages  with 
nearly  equal  fluency.  His  mother  was  skilled  in 
the  native  music  of  the  country,  and  possessed  the 
sweetest  and  most  exquisite  of  human  voices.* 
She  was  celebrated  for  the  effect  she  gave  to  the 
Irish  cry  or  ‘ keene.’  ‘ I have  often  been  present,’ 
says  her  son,  ‘when  she  has  “raised  the  keene” 
over  the  corpse  of  some  relative  or  neighbour,  and 
my  readers  may  judge  of  the  melancholy  charm 
which  accompanied  this  expression  of  her  sympathy, 
when  I assure  them  that  the  general  clamour  of 
violent  grief  was  gradually  diminished,  from  admir- 
ation, until  it  became  ultimately  hushed,  and  no 
voice  was  heard  but  her  own — wailing  in  sorrowful 
but  solitary  beauty.’  With  such  parents  Carleton 
could  not  fail  to  imbibe  the  peculiar  feelings  and 
superstitions  of  his  country.  His  humble  home 
was  a fitting  nursery  for  Irish  genius.  His  first 
schoolmaster  was  a Connaught  man,  named  Rat 
Frayne,  the  prototype  of  Mat  Kavanagh  in  the 
Hedge  School.  He  also  received  some  instruction 

* These  particulars  concerning  the  personal  history  of  tho 
novelist  are  contained  in  bis  introduction  to  the  last  edition  of 
the  Traits  and  Stories. 

605 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


from  a classical  teacher,  a ‘tyrannical  blockhead’ 
who  settled  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  it  was 
afterwards  agreed  to  send  him  to  Munster,  as  a 
poor  scholar,  to  complete  his  education.  The  poor 
scholars  of  Munster  are  indebted  for  nothing  but 
their  bed  and  board,  which  they  receive  from  the 
parents  of  the  scholars.  In  some  cases  a collec- 
tion is  made  to  provide  an  outfit  for  the  youth 
thus  leaving  home;  but  Carleton’s  own  family 
supplied  the  funds  supposed  to  be  necessary.  The 
circumstances  attending  his  departure  Mr  Carleton 
has  related  in  his  fine  tale,  The  Poor  Scholar.  As 
he  journeyed  slowly  along  the  road,  his  superstitious 
fears  got  the  better  of  his  ambition  to  be  a scholar, 
and  stopping  for 'the  night  at  a small  inn  by  the 
way,  a disagreeable  dream  determined  the  home- 
sick lad  to  return  to  his  father’s  cottage.  His  affec- 
tionate parents  were  equally  joyed  to  receive  him ; 
and  Carleton  seems  to  have  done  little  for  some  years 
but  join  in  the  sports  and  pastimes  of  the  people, 
and  attend  every  wake,  dance,  fair,  and  merry- 
making in  the  neighbourhood.  In  his  seventeenth 
year  he  went  to  assist  a distant  relative,  a priest, 
who  had  opened  a classical  school  near  Glasslough, 
county  of  Monaghan,  where  he  remained  two  years. 
A pilgrimage  to  the  far-famed  Lough-derg,  or  St 
Patrick’s  Purgatory,  excited  his  imagination,  and 
the  description  of  that  performance,  some  years 
afterwards,  ‘not  only,’  he  says,  ‘constituted  my 
debut  in  literature,  but  was  also  the  means  of  pre- 
venting me  from  being  a pleasant  strong-bodied 
parish  priest  at  this  day ; indeed  it  was  the  cause  of 
changing  the  whole  destiny  of  my  subsequent  life.’ 
About  this  time  chance  threw  a copy  of  Gil  Bias  in 
his  way,  and  his  love  of  adventure  was  so  stimu- 
lated by  its  perusal,  that  he  left  his  native  place, 
and  set  off  on  a visit  to  a Catholic  clergyman  in  the 
county  of  Louth.  He  stopped  with  him  a fortnight, 
and  succeeded  in  procuring  a tuition  in  the  house  of 
a farmer  near  Corcreagh.  This,  however,  was  a tame 
life  and  a hard  one,  and  he  resolved  on  precipitating 
himself  on  the  Irish  metropolis,  with  no  other  guide 
than  a certain  strong  feeling  of  vague  and  shapeless 
ambition.  He  entered  Dublin  with  only  2s.  9d.  in 
his  pocket.  Erom  this  period  we  suppose  we  must 
date  the  commencement  of  Mr  Carleton’s  literary 
career.  In  1830  appeared  his  Traits  and  Stories, 
two  volumes,  published  in  Dublin,  but  without  the 
author’s  name.  Mr  Carleton,  in  his  preface,  ‘assures 
the  public,  that  what  he  offers  is,  both  in  manufac- 
ture and  material,  genuine  Irish ; yes,  genuine  Irish 
as  to  character,  drawn  by  one  born  amidst  the  scenes 
he  describes — reared  as  one  of  the  people  whose  char- 
acters and  situations  he  sketches — and  who  can  cut 
and  dress  a shillaly  as  well  as  any  man  in  his 
majesty’s  dominions  ; ay,  and  use  it  too ; so  let  the 
critics  take  care  of  themselves.’  The  critics  were 
unanimous  in  favour  of  the  Irish  sketcher.  His 
account  of  the  northern  Irish — the  Ulster  creachts 
— was  new  to  the  reading  public,  and  the  ‘dark 
mountains  and  green  vales  ’ of  his  native  Tyrone,  of 
Donegal,  and  Derry,  had  been  left  untouched  by  the 
previous  writers  on  Ireland.  A second  series  of  these 
tales  was  published  by  Mr  Carleton  in  1832,  and 
was  equally  well  received.  In  1839  he  sent  forth  a 
powerful  Irish  story,  Fardorougha  the  Miser,  or  the 
Convicts  of  Lisnamona,  in  which  the  passion  of 
avarice  is  strikingly  depicted,  without  its  victim 
being  wholly  dead  to  natural  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion. Scenes  of  broad  humour  and  comic  extrava- 
gance are  interspersed  throughout  the  work.  Two 
years  afterwards  (1841)  appeared  The  Fawn  of 
Spring  Vale,  The  Clarionet,  and  other  Tales,  three 
volumes.  There  is  more  of  pathetic  composition  in 
606 


this  collection  than  in  the  former ; but  one  genial 
light-hearted  humorous  story,  The  Misfortunes  of 
Barney  Branagan,  was  a prodigious  favourite.  The 
collection  was  pronounced  by  a judicious  critic  to 
be  calculated  ‘ for  those  quiet  country  haunts  where 
the  deep  and  natural  pathos  of  the  lives  of  the  poor 
may  be  best  read  and  taken  to  heart.  Hence  Mr 
Carleton  appropriately  dedicates  his  pages  to  Words- 
worth. But  they  have  the  fault  common  to  other 
modern  Irish  novels,  of  an  exaggerated  display  of 
the  darker  vicissitudes  of  life : none  better  than  the 
Rydal  philosopher  could  teach  the  tale- writer  that 
the  effect  of  mists,  and  rains,  and  shadows,  is  lost 
without  sun-breaks  to  relieve  the  gloom.’  In  1845 
Mr  Carleton  published  another  Irish  novel,  Valentine 
M‘Clutchy,  and  in  1855  Willey  Reilly.  A pension  of 
£200  was  settled  upon  the  popular  Irish  novelist. 
The  great  merit  of  Mr  Carleton  is  the  truth 
of  his  delineations  and  the  apparent  artlessness  of 
his  stories.  If  he  has  not  the  passionate  energy — 
or,  as  he  himself  has  termed  it,  ‘ the  melancholy  but 
indignant  reclamations  ’ of  J ohn  Banim,  he  has  not 
his  party  prejudices  or  bitterness.  He  seems  to 
have  formed  a fair  and  just  estimate  of  the  character 
of  his  countrymen,  and  to  have  drawn  it  as  it  actu- 
ally appeared  to  him  at  home  and  abroad — in  feud 
and  in  festival — in  the  various  scenes  which  passed 
before  him  in  his  native  district  and  during  his 
subsequent  rambles.  In  examining  into  the  causes 
which  have  operated  in  forming  the  character  of  the 
peasantry,  Mr  Carleton  alludes  to  the  long  want  of 
any  fixed  system  of  wholesome  education.  The 
clergy,  until  lately,  took  no  interest  in  the  matter, 
and  the  instruction  of  the  children — where  any 
instruction  was  obtained — was  left  altogether  to 
hedge-schoolmasters,  a class  of  men  who,  with  few 
exceptions,  bestowed  ‘such  an  education  upon  the 
people  as  is  sufficient  almost,  in  the  absence  of  all 
other  causes,  to  account  for  much  of  the  agrarian 
violence  and  erroneous  principles  which  regulate 
their  movements  and  feelings  on  that  and  similar 
subjects.’  The  lower  Irish,  too,  he  justly  remarks, 
were,  until  a comparatively  recent  period,  treated 
with  apathy  and  gross  neglect  by  the  only  class  to 
whom  they  could  or  ought  to  look  up  for  sympathy 
or  protection.  Hence  those  deep-rooted  prejudices 
and  fearful  crimes  which  stain  the  history  of  a 
people  remarkable  for  their  social  and  domestic 
virtues.  ‘ In  domestic  life,’  says  Mr  Carleton,  ‘ there 
is  no  man  so  exquisitely  affectionate  and  humanised 
as  the  Irishman.  The  national  imagination  is  active, 
and  the  national  heart  warm,  and  it  follows  very 
naturally  that  he  should  be,  and  is,  tender  and 
strong  in  all  his  domestic  relations.  Unlike  the 
people  of  other  nations,  his  grief  is  loud  but  lasting ; 
vehement,  but  deep ; and  whilst  its  shadow  has  been 
chequered  by  the  laughter  and  mirth  of  a cheerful 
disposition,  still,  in  the  moments  of  seclusion,  at  his 
bed-side  prayer,  or  over  the  grave  of  those  he  loved, 
it  will  put  itself  forth,  after  half  a life,  with  a vivid 
power  of  recollection  which  is  sometimes  almost 
beyond  belief.’  A people  thus  cast  in  extremes — 
melancholy  and  humorous — passionate  in  affection 
and  in  hatred — cherishing  the  old  language,  tradi- 
tions, and  recollections  of  their  country — their  wild 
music,  poetry,  and  customs— ready  either  for  good 
or  for  evil — such  a people  certainly  affords  the 
novelist  abundant  materials  for  his  fictions.  The 
field  is  ample,  and  it  has  been  richly  cultivated. 

[Picture  of  an  Irish  Village  and  School-house .] 

The  village  of  Findramore  was  situated  at  the  foot 
of  a long  green  hill,  the  outline  of  which  formed  a low 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  CAELETON. 


arch,  as  it  rose  to  the  eye  against  the  horizon.  This 
hill  was  studded  with  clumps  of  beeches,  and  sometimes 
enclosed  as  a meadow.  In  the  month  of  J uly,  when  the 
grass  on  it  was  long,  many  an  hour  have  I spent  in 
solitary  enjoyment,  watching  the  wavy  motion  produced 
upon  its  pliant  surface  by  the  sunny  winds,  or  the 
flight  of  the  cloud-shadows,  like  gigantic  phantoms,  as 
they  swept  rapidly  over  it,  whilst  the  murmur  of  the 
rocking  trees,  and  the  glancing  of  their  bright  leaves 
in  the  sun,  produced  a heartfelt  pleasure,  the  very 
memory  of  which  rises  in  my  imagination  like  some 
fading  recollection  of  a brighter  world. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill  ran  a clear  deep -banked  river, 
bounded  on  one  side  by  a slip  of  rich  level  meadow, 
and  on  the  other  by  a kind  of  common  for  the  village 
geese,  whose  white  feathers  during  the  summer  season 
lay  scattered  over  its  green  surface.  It  was  also  the 
playground  for  the  boys  of  the  village-school ; for  there 
ran  that  part  of  the  river  which,  with  very  correct 
judgment,  the  urchins  had  selected  as  their  bathing- 
place.  A little  slope  or  watering-ground  in  the  bank 
brought  them  to  the  edge  of  the  stream,  where  the 
bottom  fell  away  into  the  fearful  depths  of  the  whirl- 
pool under  the  hanging  oak  on  the  other  bank.  Well 
do  I remember  the  first  time  I ventured  to  swim  across 
it,  and  even  yet  do  I see  in  imagination  the  two 
bunches  of  water-flagons  on  which  the  inexperienced 
swimmers  trusted  themselves  in  the  water. 

About  two  hundred  yards  above  this,  the  boreen* 
which  led  from  the  village  to  the  main  road  crossed 
the  river  by  one  of  those  old  narrow  bridges  whose 
arches  rise  like  round  ditches  across  the  road — an  almost 
impassable  barrier  to  horse  and  car.  On  passing  the 
bridge  in  a northern  direction,  you  found  a range  of 
low  thatched  houses  on  each  Side  of  the  road ; and  if 
one  o’clock,  the  hour  of  dinner,  drew  near,  you  might 
observe  columns  of  blue  smoke  curling  up  from  a 
row  of  chimneys,  some  made  of  wicker-creels  plastered 
over  with  a rich  coat  of  mud,  some  of  old  narrow 
bottomless  tubs,  and  others,  with  a greater  appearance 
of  taste,  ornamented  with  thick  circular  ropes  of  straw 
sewed  together  like  bees’  skeps  with  the  peel  of  a brier ; 
and  many  having  nothing  but  the  open  vent  above. 
But  the  smoke  by  no  means  escaped  by  its  legitimate 
aperture,  for  you  might  observe  little  clouds  of  it 
bursting  out  of  the  doors  and  windows;  the  panes  of 
the  latter  being  mostly  stopped  at  other  times  with 
old  hats  and  rags,  were  now  left  entirely  open  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  it  a free  escape. 

Before  the  doors,  on  right  and  left,  was  a series  of 
dunghills,  each  with  its  concomitant  sink  of  green  rotten 
water ; and  if  it  happened  that  a stout-looking  woman 
with  watery  eyes,  and  a yellow  cap  hung  loosely  upon 
her  matted  locks,  came,  with  a chubby  urchin  on  one 
arm  and  a pot  of  dirty  water  in  her  hand,  its  uncere- 
monious ejection  in  the  aforesaid  sink  would  be  apt 
to  send  you  up  the  village  with  your  finger  and  thumb 
— for  what  purpose  you  would  yourself  perfectly  under- 
stand— closely,  but  not  knowingly,  applied  to  your 
nostrils.  But,  independently  of  this,  you  would  be 
apt  to  have  other  reasons  for  giving  your  horse,  whose 
heels  are  by  this  time  surrounded  by  a dozen  of  barking 
curs,  and  the  same  number  of  shouting  urchins,  a pretty 
sharp  touch  of  the  spurs,  as  well  as  for  complaining 
bitterly  of  the  odour  of  the  atmosphere.  , It  is  no 
landscape  without  figures;  and  you  might  notice — if 
you  are,  as  I suppose  you  to  be,  a man  of  observation — 
in  every  sink  as  you  pass  along,  a ‘slip  of  a pig  ’ stretched 
in  the  middle  of  the  mud,  the  very  beau-idtal  of  luxury, 
giving  occasionally  a long  luxuriant  grunt,  highly 
expressive  of  his  enjoyment ; or  perhaps  an  old  farrower, 
lying  in  indolent  repose,  with  half-a-dozen  young  ones 
jostling  each  other  for  their  draught,  and  punching  her 
belly  with  their  little  snouts,  reckless  of  the  fumes  they 

* A little  road. 


are  ci’eating ; whilst  the  loud  crow  of  the  cock,  as  he 
confidently  flaps  his  wings  on  his  own  dunghill,  gives 
the  warning-note  for  the  hour  of  dinner. 

As  you  advance,  you  will  also  perceive  several  faces 
thrust  out  of  the  doors,  and  rather  than  miss  a sight 
of  you,  a grotesque  visage  peeping  by  a short-cut  through 
the  paneless  windows,  or  a tattered  female  flying  to 
snatch  up  her  urchin  that  has  been  tumbling  itself 
heels  up  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  lest  ‘the  gintleman’s 
horse  might  ride  over  it;’  and  if  you  happen  to  look 
behind,  you  may  observe  a shaggy-headed  youth  in 
tattered  frize,  with  one  hand  thrust  indolently  in  his 
breast,  standing  at  the  door  in  conversation  with  the 
inmates,  a broad  grin  of  sarcastic  ridicule  on  his  face, 
in  the  act  of  breaking  a joke  or  two  upon  yourself  or 
your  horse ; or  perhaps  your  jaw  may  be  saluted  with 
a lump  of  clay,  just  hard  enough  not  to  fall  asunder 
as  it  flies,  cast  by  some  ragged  gorsoon  from  behind  a 
hedge,  who  squats  himself  in  a ridge  of  corn  to  avoid 
detection. 

Seated  upon  a hob  at  the  door,  you  may  observe  a 
toilworn  man  without  coat  or  waistcoat,  his  red  muscu- 
lar sunburnt  shoulder  peering  through  the  remnant  of 
a shirt,  mending  his  shoes  with  a piece  of  twisted  flax, 
called  a lingel,  or  perhaps  sewing  two  footless  stockirigs, 
or  martyeens,  to  his  coat,  as  a substitute  for  sleeves. 

In  the  gardens,  which  are  usually  fringed  with  nettles, 
you  will  see  a solitary  labourer,  working  with  that 
carelessness  and  apathy  that  characterise  an  Irishman 
when  he  labours  for  himself , leaning  upon  his  spade 
to  look  after  you,  and  glad  of  any  excuse  to  be  idle. 

The  houses,  however,  are  not  all  such  as  I have 
described — far  from  it.  You  see  here  and  there, 
between  the  more  humble  cabins,  a stout  comfortable- 
looking farmhouse  with  ornamental  thatching  and 
well-glazed  windows  ; adjoining  to  which  is  a hay-yard 
with  five  or  six  large  stacks  of  corn,  well-trimmed  and 
roped,  and  a fine  yellow  weather-beaten  old  hayrick, 
half-cut — not  taking  into  account  twelve  or  thirteen 
circular  strata  of  stones  that  mark  out  the  foundations 
on  which  others  had  been  raised.  Neither  is  the  rich 
smell  of  oaten  or  wheaten  bread,  which  the  good-wife 
is  baking  on  the  griddle,  unpleasant  to  your  nostrils; 
nor  would  the  bubbling  of  a large  pot,  in  which  you 
might  see,  should  you  chance  to  enter,  a prodigious 
square  of  fat,  yellow,  and  almost  transparent  bacon 
tumbling  about,  to  be  an  unpleasant  object;  truly,  as 
it  hangs  over  a large  fire,  with  well-swept  hearthstone, 
it  is  in  'good  keeping  with  the  white  settle  and  chairs, 
and  the  dresser  with  noggins,  wooden  trenchers,  and 
pewter  dishes,  perfectly  clean,  and  as  well  polished  as  a 
French  courtier. 

As  you  leave  the  village,  you  have,  to  the  left,  a view 
of  the  hill  which  I have  already  described,  and  to  the 
right  a level  expanse  of  fertile  country,  bounded  by  a 
good  view  of  respectable  mountains  peering  decently 
into  the  sky ; and  in  a line  that  forms  an  acute  angle 
from  the  point  of  the  road  where  you  ride,  is  a delight- 
ful valley,  in  the  bottom  of  which  shines  a pretty  lake ; 
and  a little  beyond,  on  the  slope  of  a green  hill,  rises  a 
splendid  house  surrounded  by  a park  well  wooded  and 
stocked  with  deer.  You  have  now  topped  the  little  hill 
above  the  village,  and  a straight  line  of  level  road,  a mile 
long,  goes  forward  to  a country  town  which  lies  imme- 
diately behind  that  white  church  with  its  spire  cutting 
into  the  sky  before  you.  You  descend  on  the  other  side, 
and  having  advanced  a few  perches,  look  to  the  left, 
where  you  see  a long  thatched  chapel,  only  distinguished 
from  a dwelling-house  by  its  want  of  chimneys,  and  a 
small  stone  cross  that  stands  on  the  top  of  the  eastern 
gable ; behind  it  is  a grave-yard,  and  beside  it  a snug 
public-house,  well  whitewashed;  then,  to  the  right, 
you  observe  a door  apparently  in  the  side  of  a clay  bank, 
which  rises  considerably  above  the  pavement  of  the  road. 
What ! you  ask  yourself,  can  this  be  a human  habita- 
tion? But  ere  you  have  time  to  answer  the  question, 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


a confused  buzz  of  voices  from  within  reaches  your  ear, 
and  the  appearance  of  a little  gorsoon,  with  a red  close- 
cropped  head  and  Milesian  face,  having  in  his  hand 
a short  white  stick,  or  the  thigh-bone  of  a horse,  which 
you  at  once  recognise  as  ‘the  pass’  of  a village-school, 
gives  you  the  full  information.  He  has  an  inkhorn, 
covered  with  leather,  dangling  at  the  button-hole  (for 
he  has  long  since  played  away  the  buttons)  of  his  frize 
jacket — his  mouth  is  circumscribed  with  a streak  of 
ink — his  pen  is  stuck  knowingly  behind  his  ear — his 
shins  are  dotted  over  with  fire-blisters,  black,  red,  and 
blue — on  each  heel  a kibe — his  ‘leather  crackers’ — 
videlicet , breeches — shrunk  up  upon  him,  and  only 
reaching  as  far  down  as  the  caps  of  his  knees.  Having 
spied  you,  he  places  his  hand  over  his  brows,  to  throw 
back  the  dazzling  light  of  the  sun,  and  peers  at  you  from 
under  it,  till  he  breaks  out  into  a laugh,  exclaiming, 
half  to  himself,  half  to  you : 

‘ You  a gintleman  ! — no,  nor  one  of  your  breed  never 
was,  you  procthorin’  thief  you  !’ 

You  are  now  immediately  opposite  the  door  of  the 
seminary,  when  half-a-dozen  of  those  seated  next  it 
notice  you. 

‘ Oh,  sir,  here ’s  a gintleman  on  a horse  ! — masther, 
sir,  here’s  a gintleman  on  a horse,  wid  boots  and  spurs 
on  him,  that ’s  looking  in  at  us.’ 

‘ Silence  ! ’ exclaims  the  master ; ‘ back  from  the  door 
— boys  rehearse — every  one  of  you  rehearse,  I say,  you 
Boeotians,  till  the  gintleman  goes  past !’ 

‘ I want  to  go  out,  if  you  plase,  sir.’ 

‘ No,  you  don’t,  Phelim.’ 

‘ I do,  indeed,  sir.’ 

‘What!  is  it  afther  conthradictin’  me  you’d  be? 
Don’t  you  see  the  “porter’s”  out,  and  you  can’t  go.’ 

‘ Well,  ’tis  Mat  Meehan  has  it,  sir ; and  he ’s  out  this 
half-hour,  sir  ; I can’t  stay  in,  sir !’ 

‘You  want  to  be  idling  your  time  looking  at  the 
gintleman,  Phelim.’ 

‘No,  indeed,  sir.’ 

‘ Phelim,  I know  you  of  ould — go  to  your  sate.  I tell 
you,  Phelim,  you  were  born  for  the  encouragement 
of  the  hemp  manufacture,  and  you  ’ll  die  promoting  it.’ 
In  the  meantime  the  master  puts  his  head  out  of 
the  door,  his  body  stooped  to  a ‘ half -bend  ’ — a phrase, 
and  the  exact  curve  which  it  forms,  I leave  for  the 
present  to  your  own  sagacity — and  surveys  you  until 
you  pass.  That  is  an  Irish  hedge-school,  and  the 
personage  who  follows  you  with  his  eye  a hedge- 
schoolmaster. 


MISS  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  the  painter  of 
English  rural-life  in  its  happiest  and  most  genial 
aspects,  was  born  in  1789  at  Alresford,  in  Hamp- 
shire. Reminiscences  of  her  early  boarding-school 
days  are  scattered  through  her  works,  and  she 
appears  to  have  been  always  an  enthusiastic  reader. 
Her  father,  Dr  Mitford,  was  at  one  time  possessed 
of  a considerable  fortune — on  one  occasion  he  won 
a lottery-prize  of  £20,000 — but  he  squandered  it  in 
folly  and  extravagance,  and  was  latterly  supported 
by  the  pen  of  his  daughter.  When  very  young,  she 
published  a volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  and  a 
metrical  tale  in  the  style  of  Scott,  entitled  Christine , 
the  Maid  of  the  South  Seas,  founded  on  the  discovery 
of  the  mutineers  of  the  Bounty.  In  1823  was  pro- 
duced her  effective  and  striking  tragedy  of  Julian, 
dedicated  to  Mr  Macready  the  actor,  ‘ for  the  zeal 
with  which  he  befriended  the  production  of  a 
stranger,  for  the  judicious  alterations  which  he 
suggested,  and  for  the  energy,  the  pathos,  and 
the  skill  with  which  he  more  than  embodied  its 
principal  character.’  Next  year  Miss  Mitford  pub- 
lished the  first  volume  of  Our  Village , Sketches  of 


Rural  Character  and  Scenery,  to  which  four  other 
volumes  were  subsequently  added,  the  fifth  and  last 
in  1832.  ‘Every  one,’  says  a lively  writer,*  ‘now 
knows  Our  Village , and  every  one  knows  that  the 
nooks  and  corners,  the  haunts  and  the  copses  so 
delightfully  described  in  its  pages,  will  be  found 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Reading,  and 
more  especially  around  Three-Mile  Cross,  a cluster 
of  cottages  on  the  Basingstoke  road,  in  one  of  which 
our  authoress  has  now  resided  for  many  years.  But 


Mary  Russell  Mitford. 


so  little  were  the  peculiar  and  original  excellence 
of  her  descriptions  understood,  in  the  first  instance, 
that,  after  having  gone  the  round  of  rejection 
through  the  more  important  periodicals,  they  at 
last  saw  the  light  in  no  worthier  publication  than 
the  Lady's  Magazine.  But  the  series  of  rural 
pictures  grew,  and  the  venture  of  collecting  them 
into  a separate  volume  was  tried.  The  public  began 
to  relish  the  style  so  fresh,  yet  so  finished,  to  enjoy 
the  delicate  humour  and  the  simple  pathos  of  the 
tales ; and  the  result  was,  that  the  popularity  of 
these  sketches  outgrew  that  of  the  works  of  loftier 
order  proceeding  from  the  same  pen ; that  young 
writers,  English  and  American,  began  to  imitate  so 
artless  and  charming  a manner  of  narration ; and 
that  an  obscure  Berkshire  hamlet,  by  the  magic  of 
talent  and  kindly  feeling,  was  converted  into  a 
place  of  resort  and  interest  for  not  a few  of  the 
finest  spirits  of  the  age.’  Extending  her  observa- 
tion from  the  country-village  to  the  market-town, 
Miss  Mitford  published  another  interesting  volume 
of  descriptions,  entitled  Belford  Regis.  She  also 
gleaned  from  the  new  world  three  volumes  of  Stories 
of  American  Life , by  American  Writers,  of  which  she 
remarks : ‘ The  scenes  described  and  the  personages 
introduced,  are  as  various  as  the  authors,  extending 
in  geographical  space  from  Canada  to  Mexico,  and 
including  almost  every  degree  of  civilisation,  from 
the  wild  Indian  and  the  almost  equally  wild  hunter 
of  the  forest  and  prairies,  to  the  cultivated  inhabit- 
ant of  the  city  and  plain.’  Besides  her  tragedies — 
which  are  little  inferior  to  those  of  Miss  Baillie  as 

* Mr  Chorley—  The  Authors  of  England. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MARY  R.  MITFORD. 


intellectual  productions,  while  one  of  them,  Rienzi , 
has  been  highly  successful  on  the  stage — Miss 
Mitford  contributed  numerous  tales  to  the  annuals 
and  magazines,  shewing  that  her  industry  was  equal 
to  her  talents.  It  is  to  her  English  tales,  however, 
that  she  must  chiefly  trust  her  fame  with  posterity ; 
and  there  is  so  much  truth  and  observation,  as 
well  as  beauty,  in  these  rural  delineations,  that  we 
cannot  conceive  their  ever  being  considered  obsolete 
or  uninteresting.  In  them  she  has  treasured  not 
only  the  results  of  long  and  familiar  observation, 
but  the  feelings  and  conceptions  of  a truly  poetical 
mind.  She  is  a prose  Cowper,  without  his  gloom 
or  bitterness.  In  1838,  Miss  Mitford’s  name  was 
added  to  the  pension-list — a well-earned  tribute  to 
one  whose  genius  had  been  devoted  to  the  honour 
and  embellishment  of  her  country.  Though  suffer- 
ing almost  constantly  for  many  years  from  debility 
or  acute  pain,  Miss  Mitford  continued  her  literary 
pursuits.  In  1852,  she  published  Recollections  of  a 
Literary  Life , three  volumes — a work  consisting 
chiefly  of  extracts — and  in  1854,  Atherston,  and  other 
Tales,  three  volumes.  The  same  year  she  published 
a collected  edition  of  her  Dramatic  Works.  She 
died  at  her  residence  near  Reading  in  January  1855, 
aged  sixty-six. 

[ Tom  Cordery , the  Poacher.] 

This  human  oak  grew  on  the  wild  North-of-Hampshire 
country ; a country  of  heath  and  hill,  and  forest,  partly 
reclaimed,  enclosed,  and  planted  by  some  of  the  greater 
proprietors,  but  for  the  most  part  uncultivated  and 
uncivilised,  a proper  refuge  for  wild  animals  of  every 
species.  Of  these  the  most  notable  was  my  friend  Tom 
Cordery,  who  presented  in  his  own  person  no  unfit 
emblem  of  the  district  in  which  he  lived — the  gentlest 
of  savages,  the  wildest  of  civilised  men.  He  was  by 
calling  rat-catcher,  hare-finder,  and  broom-maker;  a 
triad  of  trades  which  he  had  substituted  for  the  one 
grand  profession  of  poaching,  which  he  followed  in  his 
younger  days  with  unrivalled  talent  and  success,  and 
would,  undoubtedly,  have  pursued  till  liis  death,  had 
not  the  bursting  of  an  overloaded  gun  unluckily  shot  off 
his  left  hand.  As  it  was,  he  still  contrived  to  mingle 
a little  of  his  old  unlawful  occupation  with  his  honest 
callings;  was  a reference  of  high  authority  amongst  the 
young  aspirants,  an  adviser  of  undoubted  honour  and 
secrecy — suspected,  and  more  than  suspected,  as  being 
one  ‘ who,  though  he  played  no  more,  o’erlooked  the 
cards.’  Yet  he  kept  to  windward  of  the  law,  and 
indeed  contrived  to  be  on  such  terms  of  social  and  even 
friendly  intercourse  with  the  guardians  of  the  game  on 

M Common,  as  may  be  said  to  prevail  between 

reputed  thieves  and  the  myrmidons  of  justice  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bow  Street. 

Never  did  any  human  being  look  more  like  that  sort 
of  sportsman  commonly  called  a poacher.  He  was  a 
tall,  finely-built  man,  with  a prodigious  stride,  that 
cleared  the  ground  like  a horse,  and  a power  of  con- 
tinuing his  slow  and  steady  speed,  that  seemed  nothing 
less  than  miraculous.  Neither  man,  nor  horse,  nor  dog, 
could  out-tire  him.  He  had  a bold,  undaunted  pres- 
ence, and  an  evident  strength  and  power  of  bone  and 
muscle.  You  might  sec,  by  looking  at  him,  that  he  did 
not  know  what  fear  meant.  In  his  youth  he  had  fought 
more  battles  than  any  man  in  the  forest.  He  was  as 
if  born  without  nerves,  totally  insensible  to  the  recoils 
and  disgusts  of  humanity.  I have  known  him  take  up 
a huge  adder,  cut  off  its  head,  and  then  deposit  the 
living  and  writhing  body  in  his  brimless  hat,  and  walk 
with  it  coiling  and  wreathing  about  his  head,  like 
another  Medusa,  till  the  sport  of  the  day  was  over,  and 
he  carried  it  home  to  secure  the  fat.  With  all  this 
iron  stubbornness  of  nature,  he  was  of  a most  mild  and 


gentle  demeanour,  had  a fine  placidity  of  countenance, 
and  a quick  blue  eye  beaming  with  good-humour.  His 
face  was  sunburnt  into  one  general  pale  vermilion  hue 
that  overspread  all  his  features;  his  very  hair  was 
sunburnt  too. 

Everybody  liked  Tom  Cordery.  He  had  himself  an 
aptness  to  like,  which  is  certain  to  be  repaid  in  kind ; 
the  very  dogs  knew  him,  and  loved  him,  and  would 
beat  for  him  almost  as  soon  as  for  their  master.  Even 
May,  the  most  sagacious  of  greyhounds,  appreciated  his 
talents,  and  would  as  soon  listen  to  Tom  sohoing  as  to 
old  Tray  giving  tongue. 

Behind  those  sallows,  in  a nook  between  them  and 
the  hill,  rose  the  uncouth  and  shapeless  cottage  of 
Tom  Cordery.  It  is  a scene  which  hangs  upon  the  eye 
and  the  memory,  striking,  grand — almost  sublime,  and, 
above  all,  eminently  foreign.  No  English  painter  would 
choose  such  a subject  for  an  English  landscape ; no  one, 
in  a picture,  would  take  it  for  English.  It  might  pass 
for  one  of  those  scenes  which  have  furnished  models 
to  Salvator  Rosa.  Tom’s  cottage  was,  however,  very 
thoroughly  national  and  characteristic ; a low,  ruinous 
hovel,  the  door  of  which  was  fastened  with  a sedulous 
attention  to  security,  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
tattered  thatch  of  the  roof  and  the  half-broken  windows. 
No  garden,  no  pigsty,  no  pens  for  geese,  none  of  the 
usual  signs  of  cottage  habitation ; yet  the  house  was 
covered  with  nondescript  dwellings,  and  the  very 
walls  were  animate  with  their  extraordinary  tenants — 
pheasants,  partridges,  rabbits,  tame  wild-ducks,  half- 
tame  hares,  and  their  enemies  by  nature  and  education, 
the  ferrets,  terriers,  and  mongrels,  of  whom  his  retinue 
consisted.  Great  ingenuity  had  been  evinced  in  keep- 
ing separate  these  jarring  elements ; and  by  dint  of 
hutches,  cages,  fences,  kennels,  and  half-a-dozen  little 
hurdled  enclosures,  resembling  the  sort  of  courts  which 
children  are  apt  to  build  round  their  card-houses,  peace 
was  in  general  tolerably  well  preserved.  Frequent 
sounds,  however,  of  fear  or  of  anger,  as  their  several 
instincts  were  aroused,  gave  token  that  it  was  but  a 
forced  and  hollow  truce ; and  at  such  times  the 
clamour  was  prodigious.  Tom  had  the  remarkable 
tenderness  for  animals  when  domesticated,  which  is 
so  often  found  in  those  whose  sole  vocation  seems  to 
be  their  destruction  in  the  field ; and  the  one  long, 
straggling,  unceiled,  barn-like  room,  which  served 
for  kitchen,  bed-chamber,  and  hall,  was  cumbered 
with  bipeds  and  quadrupeds  of  all  kinds  and  descrip- 
tions— the  sick,  the  delicate,  the  newly  caught,  the 
lying-in.  In  the  midst  of  this  menagerie  sat  Tom’s 
wife — for  he  was  married,  though  without  a family — 
married  to  a woman  lame  of  a leg,  as  he  himself  was 
minus  an  arm — now  trying  to  quiet  her  noisy  inmates, 
now  to  outscold  them.  How  long  his  friend,  the  keeper, 
would  have  continued  to  wink  at  this  den  of  live  game, 
none  can  say : the  roof  fairly  fell  in  during  the  deep 
snow  of  last  winter,  killing,  as  poor  Tom  observed,  two 
as  fine  litters  of  rabbits  as  ever  were  kittened. 
Remotely,  I have  no  doubt  that  he  himself  fell  a sacri- 
fice to  this  misadventure.  The  overseer,  to  whom  he 
applied  to  reinstate  his  beloved  habitation,  decided 
that  the  walls  would  never  bear  another  roof,  and 
removed  him  and  his  wife,  as  an  especial  favour,  to  a 
tidy,  snug,  comfortable  room  in  the  workhouse.  The 
workhouse  ! From  that  hour  poor  Tom  visibly  altered. 
He  lost  his  hilarity  and  independence.  It  was  a change 
such  as  he  had  himself  often  inflicted — a complete 
change  of  habits,  a transition  from  the  wild  to  the 
tame.  No  labour  was  demanded  of  him ; he  went 
about  as  before,  finding  hares,  killing  rats,  selling 
brooms ; but  the  spirit  of  the  man  was  departed.  He 
talked  of  the  quiet  of  his  old  abode,  and  the  noise 
of  his  new;  complained  of  children  and  other  bad 
company ; and  looked  down  on  his  neighbours  with  the 
sort  of  contempt  with  which  a cock-pheasant  might 
regard  a barn-door  fowl.  Most  of  all  did  he,  braced 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


into  a gipsy-like  defiance  of  wet  and  cold,  grumble  at 
the  warmth  and  dryness  of  his  apartment.  He  used  to 
foretell  that  it  would  kill  him,  and  assuredly  it  did  so. 
Never  could  the  typhus  fever  have  found  out  that  wild 
hillside,  or  have  lurked  under  that  broken  roof.  The 
free  touch  of  the  air  would  have  chased  the  demon. 
Alas,  poor  Tom ! warmth,  and  snugness,  and  comfort, 
whole  windows,  and  an  entire  ceiling,  were  the  death 
of  him.  Alas,  poor  Tom  1 

MR  J.  L.  PEACOCK. 

This  gentleman  has  written  some  lively,  natural, 
and  humorous  novels — Headlong  Hall,  1816;  Night- 
mare Abbey,  1818;  Maid  Marian,  1822;  and  Ci'otchet 
Castle,  1831.  These  were  republished  in  1837  in  one 
volume  of  Bentley’s  Standard  Library,  and  no  single 
volume  of  fiction  of  modern  production  contains 
more  witty  or  sarcastic  dialogue,  or  more  admirable 
sketches  of  eccentric  and  ludicrous  characters.  His 
dramatis  personae  are  finely  arranged  and  diversified, 
and  are  full  of  life,  argument,  and  observation. 
From  the  ‘ higher  mood  ’ of  the  author,  we  extract 
one  short  sketch  in  the  tale  of  Maid  Marian. 

[ Freebooter  Life  in  the  Forest .] 

, ‘ I am  in  fine  company,’  said  the  baron. 

‘In  the  very  best  of  company,’  said  the  friar;  ‘in 
the  high  court  of  Nature,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  own 
nobility.  Is  it  not  so  ? This  goodly  grove  is  our  palace ; 
the  oak  and  the  beech  are  its  colonnade  and  its  canopy ; 
the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  are  its  everlasting 
lamps ; the  grass,  and  the  daisy,  and  the  primrose,  and 
the  violet,  are  its  many-coloured  floor  of  green,  white, 
yellow,  and  blue;  the  Mayflower,  and  the  woodbine, 
and  the  eglantine,  and  the  ivy,  are  its  decorations,  its 
curtains,  and  its  tapestry;  the  lark,  and  the  thrush, 
and  the  linnet,  and  the  nightingale,  are  its  unhired 
minstrels  and  musicians.  Robin  Hood  is  king  of  the 
forest  both  by  dignity  of  birth  and  by  virtue  of  his 
standing  army,  to  say  nothing  of  the  free  choice  of  his 
people,  which  he  has  indeed;  but  I pass  it  by  as  an 
illegitimate  basis  of  power.  He  holds  his  dominion 
over  the  forest,  and  its  horned  multitude  of  citizen-deer, 
and  its  swinish  multitude  or  peasantry  of  wild  boars, 
by  right  of  conquest  and  force  of  arms.  He  levies 
contributions  among  them  by  the  free  consent  of  his 
archers,  their  virtual  representatives.  If  they  should 
find  a voice  to  complain  that  we  are  “tyrants  and 
usurpers,  to  kill  and  cook  them  up  in  their  assigned 
and  native  dwelling-place,”  we  should  most  convin- 
cingly admonish  them,  with  point  of  arrow,  that  they 
have  nothing  to  do  with  our  laws  but  to  obey  them. 
Is  it  not  written  that  the  fat  ribs  of  the  herd  shall  be 
fed  upon  by  the  mighty  in  the  land?  And  have  not 
they,  withal,  my  blessing? — my  orthodox,  canonical, 
and  archiepiscopal  blessing  ? Do  I not  give  thanks  for 
them  when  they  are  well  roasted  and  smoking  under 
my  nose?  What  title  had  William  of  Normandy  to 
England  that  Robin  of  Locksley  has  not  to  merry 
Sherwood?  William  fought  for  his  claim.  So  does 
Robin.  With  whom  both?  With  any  that  would  or 
will  dispute  it.  William  raised  contributions.  So  does 
Robin.  From  whom  both  ? From  all  that  they  could 
or  can  make  pay  them.  Why  (did  any  pay  them  to 
William?  Why  do  any  pay  them  to  Robin?  For  the 
same  reason  to  both — because  they  could  not  or  cannot 
help  it.  They  differ,  indeed,  in  this,  that  William  took 
from  the  poor  and  gave  to  the  rich,  and  Robin  takes 
from  the  rich  and  gives  to  the  poor ; and  therein  is 
Robin  illegitimate,  though  in  all  else  he  is  true  prince. 
Scarlet  and  John,  are  they  not  peers  of  the  forest? — 
lords  temporal  of  Sherwood?  And  am  not  I lord 
spiritual  ? Am  I not  archbishop  ? Am  I not  Pope  ? 
Do  I not  consecrate  their  banner  and  absolve  their  sins  ? 

510 


Are  not  they  State,  and  am'  not  I Church  ? Are  not 
they  State  monarchical,  and  am  not  I Church  militant  ? 
Do  I not  excommunicate  our  enemies  from  venison  and 
brawn,  and,  by  ’r  Lady ! when  need  calls,  beat  them 
down  under  my  feet?  The  State  levies  tax,  and  the 
Church  levies  tithe.  Even  so  do  we.  Mass  ! — we  take 
all  at  once.  What  then?  It  is  tax  by  redemp- 
tion, and  tithe  by  commutation.  Your  William  and 
Richard  can  cut  and  come  again,  but  our  Robin  deals 
with  slippery  subjects  that  come  not  twice  to  his 
exchequer.  What  need  we,  then,  to  constitute  a court, 
except  a fool  and  a laureate  ? For  the  fool,  his  only 
use  is  to  make  false  knaves  merry  by  art,  and  we  are 
true  men,  and  are  merry  by  nature.  For  the  laureate, 
his  only  office  is  to  find  virtues  in  those  who  have  none, 
and  to  drink  sack  for  his  pains.  We  have  quite  virtue 
enough  to  need  him  not,  and  can  drink  our  sack  for 
ourselves.’ 


HISTORIANS. 

In  depth  of  research  and  intrinsic  value,  the 
historical  works  of  the  last  fifty  years  exceed  those 
of  any  of  our  former  sections.  Access  has  been  more 
readily  obtained  to  all  public  documents,  and  private 
collections  have  been  thrown  open  with  a spirit  of 
enlightened  liberality.  Certain  departments  of 
history — as  the  Anglo-Saxon  period,  and  the  pro- 
gress generally  of  the  English  constitution — have 
also  been  cultivated  with  superior  learning  and 
diligence.  The  great  works  of  Hume,  Robertson, 
and  Gibbon,  still  maintain  their  pre-eminence  with 
the  general  reader,  but  the  historical  value  of 
the  first  two  has  been  materially  diminished  by 
subsequent  investigations  and  new  information. 

WILLIAM  MITFORD. 

The  most  elaborate  and  comprehensive  work  we 
have  here  to  notice,  is  The  History  of  Greece  from  the 
Earliest  Period,  by  William  Mitford,  Esq.  (1744- 
1827).  The  first  volume  of  Mr  Mitford’s  history 
came  before  the  public  in  1784,  a second  was  pub- 
lished in  1790,  and  a third  in  1797.  It  was  not, 
however,  till  the  year  1810  that  the  work  was 
completed.  Mr  Mitford,  descended  of  an  ancient 
family  in  Northumberland,  was  born  in  London  on 
the  10th  of  February  1744,  and  was  educated  first 
at  Cheam  School,  Surrey,  and  afterwards  at  Queen’s 
College,  Oxford.  He  studied  the  law,  but  abandoned 
it  on  obtaining  a commission  in  the  South  Hamp- 
shire Militia,  of  which  regiment  he  was  afterwards 
lieutenant-colonel.  In  1761,  he  succeeded  to  the 
family  estate  in  Hampshire,  and  was  thus  enabled 
to  pursue  those  classical  and  historical  studies  to 
which  he  was  ardently  devoted.  His  first  publi- 
cation was  an  Essay  on  the  Harmony  of  Language , 
intended  principally  to  illustrate  that  of  the  English 
Language , 1774,  which  afterwards  reached  a second 
edition.  While  in  the  militia,  he  published  a 
Treatise  on  the  Military  Force,  and  particularly  of 
the  Militia  of  the  Kingdom.  This  subject  seems  to 
have  engrossed  much  of  his  attention,  for  at  a 
subsequent  period  of  his  life,  when  a member  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  Mr  Mitford  advocated  the 
cause  of  the  militia  with  much  fervour,  and  recom- 
mended a salutary  jealousy  relative  to  a standing 
army  in  this  country.  He  was  nevertheless  a 
general  supporter  of  ministers,  and  held  the  govern- 
ment appointment  of  Verdurer  of  the  New  Forest. 
Mr  Mitford  was  twice  elected  member  of  parliament 
for  the  borough  of  Beeralston,  in  Devonshire,  and 
afterwards  for  New  Romney,  in  Kent.  The  History 
of  Greece  has  passed  through  several  editions. 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  MITFORD. 


Byron  says  of  Mr  Mitford  as  a historian : 4 His 
great  pleasure  consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing 
Plutarch,  spelling  oddly,  and  writing  quaintly ; and 
what  is  strange,  after  all,  his  is  the  best  modern 
history  of  Greece  in  any  language,  and  he  is  per- 
haps the  best  of  all  modern  historians  whatsoever. 
Having  named  his  sins,’  adds  the  noble  poet,  4 it  is 
but  fair  to  state  his  virtues — learning,  labour, 
research,  wrath,  and  partiality.  I call  the  latter 
virtues  in  a writer,  because  they  make  him  write 
in  earnest.’  The  earnestness  of  Mr  Mitford  is  too 
often  directed  against  what  he  terms  4 the  inherent 
weakness  and  the  indelible  barbarism  of  democrati- 
cal  government.’  He  was  a warm  admirer  of  the 
English  constitution  and  of  the  monarchical  form  of 
government,  and  this  bias  led  him  to  be  unjust  to  the 
Athenian  people,  whom  he  on  one  occasion  terms 
‘the  sovereign  beggars  of  Athens.’  His  fidelity 
as  a reporter  of  facts  has  also  been  questioned. 

4 He  contracts  the  strongest  individual  partialities, 
and  according  as  these  lead,  he  is  credulous  or  mis- 
trustful— he  exaggerates  or  he  qualifies — he  expands 
or  he  cuts  down  the  documents  on  which  he  has  to 
proceed.  With  regard  to  the  bright  side  of  almost 
every  king  -whom  he  has  to  describe,  Mr  Mitford  is 
more  than  credulous ; for  a credulous  man  believes 
all  that  he  is  told : Mr  Mitford  believes  more  than 
he  is  told.  With  regard  to  the  dark  side  of  the 
same  individuals,  his  habits  of  estimating  evidence 
are  precisely  in  the  opposite  extreme.  In  treating 
of  the  democracies  or  of  the  democratical  leaders, 
his  statements  are  not  less  partial  and  exaggerated.’  * 
It  is  undeniable  that  Mr  Mitford  over-coloured  the 
evils  of  popular  government,  but  there  is  so  much 
acuteness  and  spirit  in  his  political  disquisitions, 
and  his  narrative  of  events  is  so  animated,  full, 
and  distinct,  that  he  is  always  read  with  pleasure. 
His  qualifications  were  great,  and  his  very  defects 
constitute  a sort  of  individuality  that  is  not  without 
its  attraction  in  so  long  a history.  A more  demo- 
cratic view  of  Grecian  history  has  since  been  taken 
by  Mr  Grote. 

[Condemnation  and  Death  of  Socrates .] 

We  are  not  informed  when  Socrates  first  became 
distinguished  as  a sophist;  for  in  that  description  of 
men  he  was  in  his  own  day  reckoned.  When  the  wit 
of  Aristophanes  was  directed  against  him  in  the  theatre, 
he  was  already  among  the  most  eminent,  but  his 
eminence  seems  to  have  been  then  recent.  It  was  about 
the  tenth  or  eleventh  year  of  the  Peloponnesian  war, 
when  he  was  six  or  seven  and  forty  years  of  age,  that, 
after  the  manner  of  the  old  comedy,  he  was  offered  to 
public  derision  upon  the  stage  by  his  own  name,  as 
one  of  the  persons  of  the  drama,  in  the  comedy  of 
Aristophanes,  called  The  Clouds , which  is  yet  extant. 
Some  antipathy,  it  appears,  existed  between  the  comic 
poets  collectively  and  the  sophists  or  philosophers.  The 
licentiousness  of  the  former  could  indeed  scarcely  escape 
the  animadversion  of  the  latter,  who,  on  the  contrary, 
favoured  the  tragic  poets,  competitors  with  the  com- 
edians for  public  favour.  Euripides  and  Aristophanes 
were  particularly  enemies ; and  Socrates  not  only 
lived  in  intimacy  with  Euripides,  but  is  said  to  have 
assisted  him  in  some  of  his  tragedies.  We  are  informed 
of  no  other  cause  for  the  injurious  representation 
which  the  comic  poet  has  given  of  Socrates,  whom  he 
exhibits  in  The  Clouds  as  a flagitious  yet  ridiculous 
pretender  to  the  occult  sciences,  conversing  with  the 
clouds  as  divinities,  and  teaching  the  principal  youths 
of  Athens  to  despise  the  received  gods  and  to  cozen  men. 
The  audience,  accustomed  to  look  on  defamation  with 

* Westminster  Review  for  1826. 


carelessness,  and  to  hold  as  lawful  and  proper  whatever 
might  amuse  the  multitude,  applauded  the  wit,  and 
even  gave  general  approbation  to  the  piece;  but  the 
high  estimation  of  the  character  of  Socrates  sufficed  to 
prevent  that  complete  success  which  the  poet  had  pro- 
mised himself.  The  crown  which  rewarded  him  whose 
drama  most  earned  the  public  favour,  and  which 
Aristophanes  had  so  often  won,  was  on  this  occasion 
refused  him. 

Two  or  three  and  twenty  years  had  elapsed  since 
the  first  representation  of  The  Clouds ; the  storms  of 
conquest  suffered  from  a foreign  enemy,  and  of  four 
revolutions  in  the  civil  government  of  the  country,  had 
passed ; nearly  three  years  had  followed  of  that  quiet 
which  the  revolution  under  Thrasybulus  produced,  and 
the  act  of  amnesty  should  have  confirmed,  when  a 
young  man  named  Melitus  went  to  the  king-archon,  and 
in  the  usual  form  delivered  an  information  against 
Socrates,  and  bound  himself  to  prosecute.  The  infor- 
mation ran  thus:  ‘Melitus,  son  of  Melitus,  of  the 
borough  of  Pitthos,  declares  these  upon  oath  against 
Socrates,  son  of  Sophroniscus,  of  the  borough  of  Alopece : 
Socrates  is  guilty  of  reviling  the  gods  whom  the  city 
acknowledges,  and  of  preaching  other  new  gods  : more- 
over, he  is  guilty  of  corrupting  the  youth.  Penalty, 
death.’ 

Xenophon  begins  his  memorials  of  his  revered  master, 
with  declaring  his  wonder  how  the  Athenians  could 
have  been  persuaded  to  condemn  to  death  a man  of 
such  uncommonly  clear  innocence  and  exalted  worth. 
iElian,  though  for  authority  he  can  bear  no  comparison 
with  Xenophon,  has  nevertheless,  I think,  given  the 
solution.  4 Socrates,’  he  says,  4 disliked  the  Athenian 
constitution ; for  he  saw  that  democracy  is  tyrannical, 
and  abounds  with  all  the  evils  of  absolute  monarchy.’ 
But  though  the  political  circumstances  of  the  times 
made  it  necessary  for  contemporary  writers  to  speak 
with  caution,  yet  both  Xenophon  and  Plato  have 
declared  enough  to  shew  that  the  assertion  of  iElian 
was  well  founded ; and  further  proof,  were  it  wanted, 
may  be  derived  from  another  early  writer,  nearly  con- 
temporary, and  deeply  versed  in  the  politics  of  his  age, 
the  orator  iEschines.  Indeed,  though  not  stated  in  the 
indictment,  yet  it  was  urged  against  Socrates  by  his 
prosecutors  before  the  court,  that  he  was  disaffected 
to  the  democracy ; and  in  proof,  they  affirmed  it  to  be 
notorious  that  he  had  ridiculed  what  the  Athenian 
constitution  prescribed,  the  appointment  to  magistracy 
by  lot.  ‘Thus,’  they  said,  ‘he  taught  his  numerous 
followers,  youths  of  the  principal  families  of  the  city, 
to  despise  the  established  government,  and  to  be 
turbulent  and  seditious  ; and  his  success  had  been  seen 
in  the  conduct  of  two  of  the  most  eminent,  Alcibiades 
and  Critias.  Even  the  best  things  he  converted  to 
these  ill  purposes : from  the  most  esteemed  poets,  and 
particularly  from  Homer,  he  selected  passages  to  enforce 
his  anti-democratical  principles.’ 

Socrates,  it  appears,  indeed,  was  not  inclined  to  deny 
his  disapprobation  of  the  Athenian  constitution.  His. 
defence  itself,  as  it  is  reported  by  Plato,  contains  matter 
on  which  to  found  an  accusation  against  him  of  dis- 
affection to  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  such  as, 
under  the  jealous  tyranny  of  the  Athenian  democracy, 
would  sometimes  subject  a man  to  the  penalties  of  high 
treason.  4 You  well  know,’  he  says,  4 Athenians,  that 
had  I engaged  in  public  business,  I should  long  ago 
have  perished  without  procuring  any  advantage  either 
to  you  or  to  myself.  Let  not  the  truth  offend  you  : it  is 
no  peculiarity  of  your  democracy,  or  of  your  national 
character;  but  wherever  the  people  is  sovereign,  no  man 
who  shall  dare  honestly  to  oppose  injustice — frequent 
and  extravagant  injustice — can  avoid  destruction.’ 

Without  this  proof,  indeed,  we  might  reasonably 
believe,  that  though  Socrates  was  a good  and  faithful 
subject  of  the  Athenian  government,  and  would  pro- 
mote no  sedition,  no  political  violence,  yet  he  could 

511 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


I not  like  the  Athenian  constitution.  He  wished  for 
' wholesome  changes  by  gentle  means ; and  it  seems  even 
j to  have  been  a principal  object  of  the  labours  to  which 
he  dedicated  himself,  to  infuse  principles  into  the 
I rising  generation  that  might  bring  about  the  desirable 
i change  insensibly.  His  scholars  were  chiefly  sons  of  the 
| wealthiest  citizens,  whose  easy  circumstances  afforded 
! leisure  to  attend  him ; and  some  of  these  zealously 
adopting  his  tenets,  others  merely  pleased  with  the 
ingenuity  of  his  arguments  and  the  liveliness  of  his 
I manner,  and  desirous  to  emulate  his  triumphs  over 
| his  opponents,  were  forward,  after  his  example,  to 
j engage  in  disputation  upon  all  the  subjects  on  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  discourse.  Thus  employed,  and 
thus  followed,  though  himself  avoiding  office  and  public 
i business,  those  who  governed  or  desired  to  govern  the 
i commonwealth  through  their  influence  among  the  many, 
might  perhaps  not  unreasonably  consider  him  as  one 
who  was  or  might  become  a formidable  adversary,  nor 
might  it  be  difficult  to  excite  popular  jealousy  against 
i him. 

Melitus,  who  stood  forward  as  his  principal  accuser, 
j was,  as  Plato  informs  us,  noway  a man  of  any  great 
consideration.  His  legal  description  gives  some  proba- 
; bility  to  the  conjecture,  that  his  father  was  one  of  the 
| commissioners . sent  to  Lacedaemon  from  the  moderate 
j party,  who  opposed  the  ten  successors  of  the  thirty 
! tyrants,  while  Thrasybulus  held  Piraeus,  and  Pausanias 
was  encamped  before  Athens.  He  was  a poet,  and 
stood  forward  as  in  a common  cause  of  the  poets,  who 
esteemed  the  doctrine  of  Socrates  injurious  to  their 
interest  Unsupported,  his  accusation  would  have  been 
little  formidable ; but  he  seems  to  have  been  a mere 
, instrument  in  the  business.  He  was  soon  joined  by 
Lycon,  one  of  the  most  powerful  speakers  of  his  time. 
Lycon  was  the  avowed  patron  of  the  rhetoricians,  who, 
as  well  as  the  poets,  thought  their  interest  injured  by 
the  moral  philosopher’s  doctrine.  I know  not  that  on 
any  other  occasion  in  Grecian  history  we  have  any 
account  of  this  kind  of  party-interest  operating;  but 
from  circumstances  nearly  analogous  in  our  own  country 
— if  we  substitute  for  poets  the  clergy,  and  for 
rhetoricians  the  lawyers — we  may  gather  what  might 
be  the  party-spirit,  and  what  the  weight  of  influence 
of  the  rhetoricians  and  poets  in  Athens.  With  Lycon, 
Anytus,  a man  scarcely  second  to  any  in  the  com- 
monwealth in  rank  and  general  estimation,  who  had 
held  high  command  with  reputation  in  the  Pelopon- 
nesian war,  and  had  been  the  principal  associate  of 
Thrasybulus  in  the  war  against  the  thirty  and  the 
restoration  of  the  democracy,  declared  himself  a sup- 
porter of  the  prosecution.  Nothing  in  the  accusation 
could,  by  any  known  law  of  Athens,  affect  the  life  of 
the  accused.  In  England,  no  man  would  be  put  upon 
trial  on  so  vague  a charge — no  grand  jury  would  listen 
to  it.  But  in  Athens,  if  the  party  was  strong  enough, 
j it  signified  little  what  was  the  law.  When  Lycon 
and  Anytus  came  forward,  Socrates  saw  that  his 
condemnation  was  already  decided. 

By  the  course  of  his  life,  however,  and  by  the  turn 
; of  his  thoughts  for  many  years,  he  had  so  prepared 
himself  for  all  events,  that,  far  from  alarmed  at  the 
probability  of  his  condemnation,  he  rather  rejoiced  at 
it,  as  at  his  age  a fortunate  occurrence.  He  was  per- 
I suaded  of  the  soul’s  immortality,  and  of  the  superin- 
i tending  providence  of  an  all-good  Deity,  whose  favour 
he  had  always  been  assiduously  endeavouring  to  deserve. 
Men  fear  death,  he  said,  as  if  unquestionably  the 
greatest  evil,  and  yet  no  man  knows  that  it  may  not  be 
! the  greatest  good.  If,  indeed,  great  joys  were  in  pros- 
pect, he  might,  and  his  friends  for  him,  with  somewhat 
j more  reason,  regret  the  event;  but  at  his  years,  and 
with  his  scanty  fortune — though  he  was  happy  enough 
! at  seventy  still  to  preserve  both  body  and  mind  in 
| vigour — yet  even  his  present  gratifications  must  neces- 
sarily soon  decay.  To  avoid,  therefore,  the  evils  of  age, 
512 


pain,  sickness,  decay  of  sight,  decay  of  hearing,  perhaps 
decay  of  understanding,  by  the  easiest  of  deaths  (for 
such  the  Athenian  mode  of  execution — by  a draught  of 
hemlock — was  reputed),  cheered  with  the  company  of 
surrounding  friends,  could  not  be  otherwise  than  a 
blessing. 

Xenophon  says  that,  by  condescending  to  a little 
supplication,  Socrates  might  easily  have  obtained  his 
acquittal.  No  admonition  or  entreaty  of  his  friends, 
however,  could  persuade  him  to  such  an  unworthiness. 
On  the  contrary,  when  put  upon  his  defence,  he  told 
the  people  that  he  did  not  plead  for  his  own  sake,  but 
for  theirs,  wishing  them  to  avoid  the  guilt  of  an 
unjust  condemnation.  It  was  usual  for  accused  persons 
to  bewail  their  apprehended  lot,  with  tears  to  suppli- 
cate favour,  and,  by  exhibiting  their  children  upon  the 
bema,  to  endeavour  to  excite  pity.  He  thought  it,  he 
said,  more  respectful  to  the  court,  as  well  as  more 
becoming  himself,  to  omit  all  this ; however  aware 
that  their  sentiments  were  likely  so  far  to  differ  from 
his,  that  judgment  would  be  given  in  anger  for  it. 

Condemnation  pronounced  wrought  no  change  upon 
him.  He  again  addressed  the  court,  declared  his  inno- 
cence of  the  matters  laid  against  him,  and  observed 
that,  even  if  every  charge  had  been  completely  proved,  j 
still,  all  together  did  not,  according  to  any  known 
law,  amount  to  a capital  crime.  ‘But,’  in  conclusion 
he  said,  ‘ it  is  time  to  depart — I to  die,  you  to  live ; 
but  which  for  the  greater  good,  God  only  knows.’ 

It  was  usual  at  Athens  for  execution  very  soon  to 
follow  condemnation — commonly  on  the  morrow;  but 
it  happened  that  the  condemnation  of  Socrates  took 
place  on  the  eve  of  the  day  appointed  for  the  sacred 
ceremony  of  crowning  the  galley  which  carried  the 
annual  offerings  to  the  gods  worshipped  at  Delos,  and 
immemorial  tradition  forbade  all  executions  till  the 
sacred  vessel’s  return.  Thus,  the  death  of  Socrates  was 
respited  thirty  days,  while  his  friends  had  free  access  to  j 
him  in  the  prison.  During  all  that  time  he  admirably 
supported  his  constancy.  Means  were  concerted  for  j 
his  escape;  the  jailer  was  bribed,  a vessel  prepared, 
and  a secure  retreat  in  Thessaly  provided.  No  argu- 
ments, no  prayers,  could  persuade  him  to  use  the  oppor- 
tunity. He  had  always  taught  the  duty  of  obedience  to 
the  laws,  and  he  would  not  furnish  an  example  of  the 
breach  of  it.  To  no  purpose  it  was  urged  that  he  had 
been  unjustly  condemned — he  had  always  held  that 
wrong  did  not  justify  wrong.  He  waited  with  perfect 
composure  the  return  of  the  sacred  vessel,  reasoned  on 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  advantage  of  virtue, 
the  happiness  derived  from  having  made  it  through  life 
his  pursuit,  and,  with  his  friends  about  him,  took  the 
fatal  cup  and  died. 

Writers  who,  after  Xenophon  and  Plato,  have  related 
the  death  of  Socrates,  seem  to  have  held  themselves 
bound  to  vie  with  those  who  preceded  them  in  giving 
pathos  to  the  story.  The  purpose  here  has  been  rather 
to  i-ender  it  intelligible — to  shew  its  connection  with  the 
political  history  of  Athens — to  derive  from  it  illustra- 
tion of  the  political  history.  The  magnanimity  of  j 
Socrates,  the  principal  efficient  of  the  pathos,  surely  | 
deserves  admiration ; yet  it  is  not  that  in  which  he  has 
most  outshone  other  men.  The  circumstances  of  Lord  j 
Russell’s  fate  were  far  more  trying.  Socrates,  we  may 
reasonably  suppose,  would  have  borne  Lord  Russell’s  j 
trial ; but  with  Bishop  Burnet  for  his  eulogist,  instead 
of  Plato  and  Xenophon,  he  would  not  have  had  his 
present  splendid  fame.  The  singular  merit  of  Socrates 
lay  in  the  purity  and  the  usefulness  of  his  manners  and  | 
conversation  ; the  clearness  with  which  he  saw,  and  the  j 
steadiness  with  which  he  practised,  in  a blind  and 
corrupt  age,  all  moral  duties ; the  disinterestedness  and  i 
the  zeal  with  which  he  devoted  himself  to  the  benefit  of 
others ; and  the  enlarged  and  warm  benevolence,  whence  ! 
his  supreme  and  almost  only  pleasure  seems  to  have 
consisted  in  dotog  good.  The  purity  of  Christian  J 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH'  LITERATURE. 


DR  J.  GILLIES — 0.  J.  FOX. 


morality,  little  enough,  indeed,  seen  in  practice,  never- 
theless is  become  so  familiar  in  theory,  that  it  passes 
almost  for  obvious,  and  even  congenial  to  the  human 
mind.  Those  only  will  justly  estimate  the  merit  of 
that  near  approach  to  it  which  Socrates  made,  who  will 
take  the  pains  to  gather — as  they  may  from  the  writings 
of  his  contemporaries  and  predecessors — how  little  con- 
ception was  entertained  of  it  before  his  time ; how  dull 
to  a just  moral  sense  the  human  mind  has  really  been  : 
how  slow  the  progress  in  the  investigation  of  moral 
duties,  even  where  not  only  great  pains  have  been 
taken,  but  the  greatest  abilities  zealously  employed; 
and  when  discovered,  how  difficult  it  has  been  to 
establish  them  by  proofs  beyond  controversy,  or  proofs 
even  that  should  be  generally  admitted  by  the  reason  of 
men.  It  is  through  the  light  which  Socrates  diffused 
by  his  doctrine,  enforced  by  his  practice,  with  the 
advantage  of  having  both  the  doctrine  and  the  practice 
exhibited  to  highest  advantage  in  the  incomparable 
writings  of  disciples  such  as  Xenophon  and  Plato,  that 
his  life  forms  an  era  in  the  history  of  Athens  and 
of  man. 

DR  JOHN  GILLIES — MR  SHARON  TURNER— WILLIAM  COXE 
— GEORGE  CHALMERS — C.  J.  FOX. 

While  the  first  volume  of  Mitford’s  history  was 
before  the  public,  and  experiencing  that  degree  of 
favour  which  induced  the  author  to  continue  his 
work,  Dr  John  Gillies,  historiographer  to  his 
majesty  for  Scotland,  published  The  History  of 
Ancient  Greece , its  Colonies  and  Conquests , two 
volumes,  quarto,  1786.  The  monarchical  spirit  of 
the  new  historian  was  scarcely  less  decided  than 
that  of  Mr  Mitford,  though  expressed  with  less  zeal 
and  idiomatic  plainness.  ‘The  history  of  Greece,’ 
says  Dr  Gillies,  ‘exposes  the  dangerous  turbulence 
of  democracy,  and  arraigns  the  despotism  of  tyrants. 
By  describing  the  incurable  evils  inherent  in  every 
republican  policy,  it  evinces  the  inestimable  benefits 
resulting  to  liberty  itself  from  the  lawful  dominion 
of  heredit  ary  kings,  and  the  steady  operation  of  well- 
regulated  monarchy.’  The  history  of  Dr  Gillies  was 
executed  with  considerable  ability  and  care ; a sixth 
j edition  of  the  work  (London,  1820,  four  volumes, 
8vo)  has  been  called  for,  and  it  may  still  be  consulted 
with  advantage.  Dr  Gillies  also  wrote  a View  of 
the  Reign  of  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia,  a History  of 
the  World  from  the  Reign  of  Alexander  to  Augustus 
(1807-10),  a translation  of  Aristotle’s  Rhetoric 
(1823),  &c.  He  died  in  1836,  aged  eighty-nine. 

In  1799  Mr  Sharon  Turner,  a London  solicitor, 
commenced  the  publication  of  a series  of  works  on 
English  history,  by  which  he  obtained  a highly 
respectable  reputation.  The  first  was  a History  of 
the  Anglo-Saxons , the  second  a History  of  England 
during  the  Middle  Ages : in  subsequent  publications 
he  continued  the  series  to  the  end  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth ; the  whole  being  comprised  in  twelve 
volumes,  and  containing  much  new  and  interesting 
information  on  the  government,  laws,  literature,  and 
manners,  as  well  as  on  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
history  of  the  country.  From  an  ambitious  attempt 
to  rival  Gibbon  in  loftiness  of  style  and  diction,  Mr 
Turner  has  disfigured  his  history  by  a pomp  of 
expression  and  involved  intricacy  of  style,  that  often 
border  on  the  ludicrous,  and  mar  the  effect  of  his 
narrative.  This  defect  is  more  conspicuous  in  his 
latter  volumes.  The  early  part  of  his  history,  devoted 
to  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  the  labour,  as  he  informs 
us,  of  sixteen  years,  is  by  far  the  most  valuable. 
Mr  Turner  also  published  a Sacred  History  of  the 
World,  in  two  volumes.  So  late  as  1845  Mr 
Turner  published  a historical  poem,  Richard  III. 


He  latterly  enjoyed  a pension  of  £200  per  annum,  J 
and  died  at  his  residence  in  London,  February  13,  ! 
1847,  aged  seventy-nine. 

History  has*  been  largely  indebted  to  the  perse- 
vering labours  of  the  Rev.  William  Coxe,  Arch- 
deacon of  Wilts  (1747-1828).  In  the  capacity  of 
tutor  to  young  noblemen,  Mr  Coxe  travelled  over 
various  countries,  and  published  'Travels  in  Switzer-  | 
land  (1778—1801),  and  Travels  in  Poland,  Russia , ! 
Sweden,  and  Denmark  (1778-84).  Settling  at  j 
home,  and  obtaining  church  preferment,  he  entered  ! 
on  those  historical  works,  derived  from  family  ! 
papers  and  other  authentic  sources,  which  form  his  j 
most  valuable  publications.  In  1798  appeared  his  j 
Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Administration  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole;  in  1802,  Memoirs  of  Lord  Walpole;  in 
1807,  History  of  the  House  of  Austria;  in  1813, 
Memoirs  of  the  Kings  of  Spain  of  the  House  of  Bourbon; 
in  1816-19,  Memoirs  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  ; in 
1821,  Correspondence  of  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury  ; and 
in  1829,  Memoirs  of  the  Pelham  Administration.  The 
last  was  a posthumous  publication.  The  Memoirs  of 
Walpole  and  Marlborough  are  valuable  works,  con- 
taining letters,  private,  official,  and  diplomatic,  with  j 
other  details  drawn  from  manuscript  collections. 

As  a biographer,  Coxe  was  apt  to  fall  into  the 
common  error  of  magnifying  the  merits  and  sinking 
the  defects  of  his  hero ; but  the  -service  he  rendered 
to  history  by  the  collection  of  such  a mass  of 
materials  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 

Resembling  Turner  and  Coxe  in  the  vastness  of  his 
undertakings,  but  inferior  as  a writer,  was  George 
Chalmers  (1742-1825),  a native  of  Fochabers, 
county  of  Elgin,  and  originally  a barrister  in  one  of 
the  American  colonies  before  their  disjunction  from 
Britain.  His  first  composition,  A History  of  the 
United  Colonies,  from  their  Settlement  till  the  Peace 
of  1763,  appeared  in  1780,  and  from  time  to  time 
he  gave  to  the  world  many  works  connected  with 
history,  politics,  and  literature.  Among  these  was 
a Life  of  Sir  David  Lyndsay,  with  an  edition  of  his 
works  ; a Life  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  from  the  State 
Papers,  &c.  In  1807,  he  commenced  the  publica- 
tion of  his  Caledonia , of  which  three  large  volumes 
had  appeared,  when  his  death  precluded  the  hope 
of  its  being  completed.  It  contains  a laborious 
antiquarian  detail  of  the  earlier  periods  of  Scottish 
history,  with  minute  topographical  and  historical 
accounts  of  the  various  provinces  of  the  country. 

Charles  James  Fox  (1749-1806)  the  celebrated 
statesman  and  orator,  during  his  intervals  of  relaxa- 
tion from  public  life,  among  other  literary  studies 
and  occupations,  commenced  a history  of  the  reign 
of  King  James  II.,  intending  to  continue  it  to  the 
settlement  at  the  Revolution  of  1688.  An  intro- 
ductory chapter,  giving  a rapid  view  of  our  consti- 
tutional history  from  the  time  of  Henry  VII.,  he 
completed.  He  wrote  also  some  chapters  of  his 
history,  but  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  had  made 
but  little  progress  in  his  work.  Fublic  affairs,  and 
a strong  partiality  and  attachment  to  the  study  of 
the  classics,  and  to  works  of  imagination  and  poetry, 
were  constantly  drawing  him  off  from  historical 
researches ; added  to  which,  he  was  fastidiously 
scrupulous  as  to  all  the  niceties  of  language,  and 
wished  to  form  his  plan  exclusively  on  the  model 
of  ancient  writers,  without  note,  digression,  or  dis- 
sertation. ‘ He  once  assured  me,’  says  his  nephew, 
Lord  Holland,  ‘ that  he  would  admit  no  word  into 
his  book  for  which  he  had  not  the  authority  of 
Dryden.’  We  need  not  therefore  wonder  that  Mr 
Fox  died  before  completing  his  history.  Such 
minute  attention  to  style,  joined  to  equal  regard 
for  facts  and  circumstances,  must  have  weighed 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


down  any  writer  even  of  active  habits  and  unin- 
terrupted application.  In  1808,  the  unfinished 
composition  was  given  to  the  world  by  Lord 
Holland,  under  the  title  of  A History  of  the  Early 
Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  II.,  with  an  Introductory 
Chapter.  An  appendix  of  original  papers  was  also 
added.  The  history  is  plainly  written,  without  the 
slightest  approach  to  pedantry  or  pretence;  but 
the  style  of  the  great  statesman,  with  all  the  care 
bestowed  upon  it,  is  far  from  being  perfect.  It 
wants  force  and  vivacity,  as  if,  in  the  process  of 
elaboration,  the  graphic  clearness  of  narrative  and 
distinct  perception  of  events  and  characters  neces- 
sary to  the  historian  had  evaporated.  The  senti- 
ments and  principles  of  the  author  are,  however, 
worthy  of  his  liberal  and  capacious  mind. 

SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 

As  a philosophical  historian,  critic,  and  politician, 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  deserves  honourable  men- 
tion. He  was  also  one  of  the  last  of  the  Scottish 


Sir  James  Mackintosh. 


metaphysicians,  and  one  of  the  most  brilliant  con- 
verses of  his  times — qualifications  apparently  very 
dissimilar.  His  candour,  benevolence,  and  liber- 
ality, gave  a grace  and  dignity  to  his  literary  specu- 
lations and  to  his  daily  life.  Mackintosh  was  a 
native  of  Inverness-shire,  and  was  born  at  Aldourie- 
house,  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Ness,  October  24,  1765. 
His  father  was  a brave  Highland  officer,  who  pos- 
sessed a small  estate,  called  Kylachy,  in  his  native 
county,  which  James  afterwards  sold  for  £9000. 
From  ills  earliest  days  James  Mackintosh  had  a 
passion  for  books ; and  though  all  his  relatives  were 
Jacobites,  he  was  a stanch  Whig.  After  studying 
at  Aberdeen — where  he  had  as  a college-companion 
and  friend  the  pious  and  eloquent  Robert  Hall — 
Mackintosh  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  studied  medi- 
cine. In  1788,  he  repaired  to  London,  wrote  for  the 
press,  and  afterwards  applied  himself  to  the  study 
of  law.  In  1791,  he  published  his  Vindicice  Gallicce, 
a defence  of  the  French  Revolution,  in  reply  to 
Burke,  -which,  for  cogency  of  argument,  historical 
knowledge,  and  logical  precision,  is  a remarkable 
work  to  be  written  by  a careless  and  irregular  young 
514 


man  of  twenty-six.  Though  his  bearing  to  his 
great  antagonist  was  chivalrous  and  polite,  Mackin- 
tosh attacked  his  opinions  with  the  ardour  and 
impetuosity  of  youth,  and  his  work  was  received 
with  great  applause.  Four  years  afterwards  he 
acknowledged  to  Burke  that  he  had  been  the  dupe 
of  his  own  enthusiasm,  and  that  a ‘ melancholy 
experience’  had  undeceived  him.  The  excesses  of 
the  French  Revolution  had  no  doubt  contributed  to 
this  change,  which,  though  it  afterwards  was  made 
the  cause  of  obloquy  and  derision  to  Mackintosh, 
seems  to  have  been  adopted  with  perfect  sincerity 
and  singleness  of  purpose.  He  afterwards  delivered 
and  published  a series  of  lectures  on  the  law  of 
nature  and  nations,  which  greatly  extended  his 
reputation.  In  1795,  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  and 
in  his  capacity  of  barrister,  in  1803,  he  made  a 
brilliant  defence  of  M.  Peltier,  an  emigrant  royalist 
of  France,  who  had  been  indicted  for  a libel  on 
Napoleon,  then  first  consul.  The  forensic  display 
of  Mackintosh  is  too  much  like  an  elaborate  essay 
or  dissertation,  but  it  marked  him  out  for  legal  pro- 
motion, and  he  received  the  appointment — to  which 
his  poverty,  not  his  will,  consented — of  Recorder  of 
Bombay.  He  was  knighted,  sailed  from  England 
in  the  beginning  of  1804,  and  after  discharging 
faithfully  his  high  official  duties,  returned  at  the 
end  of  seven  years,  the  earliest  period  that  entitled 
him  to  his  retiring  pension  of  £1200  per  annum. 
Mackintosh  now  obtained  a seat  in  parliament,  and 
stuck  faithfully  by  his  old  friends  the  Whigs,  with- 
out one  glimpse  of  favour,  till  in  1827  his  friend 
Mr  Canning,  on  the  formation  of  his  administration, 
made  him  a privy-councillor.  On  the  accession 
of  the  Whig  ministry  in  1830,  he  was  appointed  a 
commissioner  for  the  affairs  of  India.  On  questions 
of  criminal  law  and  national  policy  Mackintosh 
spoke  forcibly,  but  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
a successful  parliamentary  orator.  Amid  the  bustle 
of  public  business  he  did  not  neglect  literature, 
though  he  wanted  resolution  for  continuous  and 
severe  study.  The  charms  of  society,  the  inter- 
ruptions of  public  business,  and  the  debilitating 
effects  of  his  residence  in  India,  also  co-operated 
with  his  constitutional  indolence  in  preventing  the 
realisation  of  the  ambitious  dreams  of  his  youth. 
He  contributed,  however,  various  articles  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review , and  wrote  a masterly  Dissertation 
on  the  Progress  of  Ethical  Philosophy  for  the  Ency- 
clopaedia Britannica.  He  wrote  three  volumes  of  a 
compendious  and  popular  History  of  England  for 
Lardner’s  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia,  which,  though  defi- 
cient in  the  graces  of  narrative  and  style,  contains 
some  admirable  views  of  constitutional  history  and 
antiquarian  research.  His  learning  was  abundant ; 
he  wanted  only  method  and  elegance.  He  also 
contributed  a short  but  valuable  life  of  Sir  Thomas 
More — which  sprung  out  of  his  researches  into  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  was  otherwise  a subject 
congenial  to  his  taste — to  the  same  miscellany ; and 
he  was  engaged  on  a History  of  the  Revolution  of 
1688,  when  his  life  was  somewhat  suddenly  termin- 
ated on  the  30th  of  May  1832.  The  portion  of  his 
history  of  the  Revolution  which  he  had  written 
and  corrected — amounting  to  about  350  pages — 
was  published  in  1834,  with  a continuation  by  some 
writer  who  was  opposed  to  Sir  James  in  many 
essential  points.  In  the  works  of  Mackintosh  we 
have  only  the  fragments  of  a capacious  mind ; but 
in  all  of  them  his  learning,  his  candour,  his  strong 
love  of  truth,  his  justness  of  thinking  and  clearness 
in  perceiving,  and  his  genuine  philanthropy,  are 
conspicuous.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  had  no 
Boswell  to  record  his  conversation. 


historians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  james  mackintosh. 

[ Chivalry  and  Modern  Manners .] 

[From  the  Vindicice  Gallicce.] 

The  collision  of  armed  multitudes  [in  Paris]  ter- 
minated in  unforeseen  excesses  and  execrable  crimes. 
In  the  eye  of  Mr  Burke,  however,  these  crimes  and 
excesses  assume  an  aspect  far  more  important  than 
can  be  communicated  to  them  by  their  own  insulated 
guilt.  They  form,  in  his  opinion,  the  crisis  of  a 
revolution  far  more  important  than  any  change  of 
government — a revolution  in  which  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  that  have  formed  the  manners  of  the 
European  nations  are  to  perish.  ‘ The  age  of  chivalry 
is  gone,  and  the  glory  of  Europe  extinguished  for  ever.’ 
He  follows  this  exclamation  by  an  eloquent  eulogium 
on  chivalry,  and  by  gloomy  predictions  of  the  future 
state  of  Europe,  when  the  nation  that  has  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  give  her  the  tone  in  arts  and  manners  is 
thus  debased  and  corrupted.  A caviller  might  remark, 
that  ages  much  more  near  the  meridian  fervour  of 
chivalry  than  ours  have  witnessed  a treatment  of  queens 
as  little  gallant  and  generous  as  that  of  the  Parisian 
mob.  He  might  remind  Mr  Burke  that,  in  the  age 
and  country  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  a queen  of  France, 
whom  no  blindness  to  accomplishment,  no  malignity 
of  detraction,  could  reduce  to  the  level  of  Maria 
Antoinette,  was,  by  ‘a  nation  of  men  of  honour  and 
cavaliers,’  permitted  to  languish  in  captivity,  and  expire 
on  a scaffold ; and  he  might  add,  that  the  manners  of  a 
country  are  more  surely  indicated  by  the  systematic 
cruelty  of  a sovereign,  than  by  the  licentious  frenzy  of 
a mob.  He  might  remark,  that  the  mild  system  of 
modern  manners  which  survived  the  massacres  with 
which  fanaticism  had  for  a century  desolated  and 
almost  barbarised  Europe,  might  perhaps  resist  the 
shock  of  one  day’s  excesses  committed  by  a delirious 
populace. 

But  the  subject  itself  is,  to  an  enlarged  thinker, 
fertile  in  reflections  of  a different  nature.  That  sys- 
tem of  manners  which  arose  among  the  Gothic  nations 
of  Europe,  of  which  chivalry  was  more  properly  the 
effusion  than  the  source,  is,  without  doubt,  one  of  the 
most  peculiar  and  interesting  appearances  in  human 
affairs.  The  moral  causes  which  formed  its  character 
have  not  perhaps  been  hitherto  investigated  with  the 
happiest  success.  But  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  sub- 
ject before  us,  chivalry  was  certainly  one  of  the  'most 
prominent  features  and  remarkable  effects  of  this  system 
of  manners.  Candour  must  confess  that  this  singular 
institution  is  not  alone  admirable  as  a corrector  of  the 
ferocious  ages  in  which  it  flourished.  It  contributed 
to  polish  and  soften  Europe.  It  paved  the  way  for 
that  diffusion  of  knowledge  and  extension  of  commerce 
which  afterwards  in  some  measure  supplanted  it,  and 
gave  a new  character  to  manners.  Society  is  inevitably 
progressive.  In  government,  commerce  has  overthrown 
that  ‘ feudal  and  chivalrous  ’ system  under  whose  shade 
it  first  grew.  In  religion,  learning  has  subverted  that 
superstition  whose  opulent  endowments  had  first  fostered 
it.  Peculiar  circumstances  softened  the  barbarism  of  the 
middle  ages  to  a degree  which  favoured  the  admission 
of  commerce  and  the  growth  of  knowledge.  These 
circumstances  were  connected  with  the  manners  of 
chivalry ; but  the  sentiments  peculiar  to  that  insti- 
tution could  only  be  preserved  by  the  situation  which 
gave  them  birth.  They  were  themselves  enfeebled  in 
the  progress  from  ferocity  and  turbulence,  and  almost 
obliterated  by  tranquillity  and  refinement.  But  the 
auxiliaries  which  the  manners  of  chivalry  had  in  rude 
ages  reared,  gathered  strength  from  its  weakness, 
and  flourished  in  its  decay.  Commerce  and  diffused 
knowledge  have,  in  fact,  so  completely  assumed  the 
ascendant  in  polished  nations,  that  it  will  be  difficult  to 
discover  any  relics  of  Gothic  manners  but  in  a fantastic 
exterior,  which  has  survived  the  generous  illusions  that 

made  these  manners  splendid  and  seductive.  Their 
direct  influence  has  long  ceased  in  Europe ; but  their 
indirect  influence,  through  the  medium  of  those  causes, 
which  would  not  perhaps  have  existed  but  for  the 
mildness  which  chivalry  created  in  the  midst  of  a 
barbarous  age,  still  operates  with  increasing  vigour. 
The  manners  of  the  middle  age  were,  in  the  most 
singular  sense,  compulsory.  Enterprising  benevolence 
was  produced  by  general  fierceness,  gallant  courtesy  by 
ferocious  rudeness,  and  artificial  gentleness  resisted  the 
torrent  of  natural  barbarism.  But  a less  incongruous 
system  has  succeeded,  in  which  commerce,  which  unites 
men’s  interests,  and  knowledge,  which  excludes  those 
prejudices  that  tend  to  embroil  them,  present  a broader 
basis  for  the  stability  of  civilised  and  beneficent 
manners. 

Mr  Burke,  indeed,  forebodes  the  most  fatal  conse- 
quences to  literature,  from  events  which  he  supposes 
to  have  given  a mortal  blow  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry. 

I have  ever  been  protected  from  such  apprehensions 
by  my  belief  in  a very  simple  truth — that  diffused 
knowledge  immortalises  itself.  A literature  which  is 
confined  to  a few,  may  be  destroyed  by  the  massacre 
of  scholars  and  the  conflagration  of  libraries,  but  the 
diffused  knowledge  of  the  present  day  could  only  be 
annihilated  by  the  extirpation  of  the  civilised  part 
of  mankind. 

[ Extract  from  Speech  in  Defence  of  Mr  Peltier , for  a 
Libel  on  Napoleon  Bonaparte , February  1803.] 

Gentlemen — There  is  one  point  of  view  in  which  this 
case  seems  to  merit  your  most  serious  attention.  The 
real  prosecutor  is  the  master  of  the  greatest  empire  the 
civilised  world  ever  saw — the  defendant  is  a defence- 
less proscribed  exile.  I consider  this  case,  therefore, 
as  the  first  of  a long  series  of  conflicts  between  the 
greatest  power  in  the  world,  and  the  only  free  press 
remaining  in  Europe.  Gentlemen,  this  distinction  of  the 
English  press  is  new — it  is  a proud  and  a melancholy 
distinction.  Before  the  great  earthquake  of  the  French 
Revolution  had  swallowed  up  all  the  asylums  of  free 
discussion  on  the  continent,  we  enjoyed  that  privilege, 
indeed,  more  fully  than  others,  but  we  did  not  enjoy 
it  exclusively.  In  Holland,  in  Switzerland,  in  the 
imperial  towns  of  Germany,  the  press  was  either  legally 
or  practically  free.  Holland  and  Switzerland  are  no 
more  ; and  since  the  commencement  of  this  prosecution, 
fifty  imperial  town&  have  been  erased  from  the  list  of 
independent  states  by  one  dash  of  the  pen.  Three  or 
four  still  preserve  a precarious  and  trembling  existence. 

I will  not  say  by  what  compliances  they  must  purchase 
its  continuance.  I will  not  insult  the  feebleness  of 
states  whose  unmerited  fall  I do  most  bitterly  deplore. 

These  governments  were,  in  many  respects,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  ancient  system  of 
Europe.  The  perfect  security  of  such  inconsiderable 
and  feeble  states,  their  undisturbed  tranquillity  amidst  ! 
the  wars  and  conquests  that  surrounded  them,  attested, 
beyond  any  other  part  of  the  European  system,  the 
moderation,  the  justice,  the  civilisation,  to  which 
Christian  Europe  had  reached  in  modern  times.  Their 
weakness  was  protected  only  by  the  habitual  reverence 
for  justice  which,  during  a long  series  of  ages,  had 
grown  up  in  Christendom.  This  was  the  only  forti- 
fication which  defended  them  against  those  mighty 
monarchs  to  whom  they  offered  so  easy  a prey.  And,  till 
the  French  Revolution,  this  was  sufficient.  Consider, 
for  instance,  the  republic  of  Geneva;  think  of  her 
defenceless  position  in  the  very  jaws  of  France ; but 
think  also  of  her  undisturbed  security,  of  her  profound 
quiet,  of  the  brilliant  success  with  which  she  applied  to 
industry  and  literature  while  Louis  XIV.  was  pouring 
his  myriads  into  Italy  before  her  gates ; call  to  mind, 
if  ages  crowded  into  vears  have  not  effaced  them  from 
your  memory,  that  happy  period  when  we  scarcely 

615 

from  1800 


CYCLOPiEDLA  OF 


to  1830. 


dreamed  more  of  the  subjugation  of  the  feeblest 
republic  in  Europe  than  of  the  conquest  of  her  mightiest 
empire,  and  tell  me  if  you  can  imagine  a spectacle  more 
beautiful  to  the  moral  eye,  or  a more  striking  proof 
of  progress  in  the  noblest  principles  of  civilisation. 
These  feeble  states,  these  monuments  of  the  justice 
of  Europe,  the  asylum  of  peace,  of  industry,  and  of 
literature : the  organs  of  public  reason,  the  refuge  of 
oppressed  innocence  and  persecuted  truth,  hare  perished 
•with  those  ancient  principles  winch  were  their  sole 
guardians  and  protectors.  They  have  been  swallowed 
up  by  that  fearful  convulsion  which  has  shaken  the 
uttermost  corners  of  the  earth.  They  are  destroyed, 
and  gone  for  ever!  One  asylum  of  free  discussion  is 
still  inviolate.  There  is  still  one  spot  in  Europe  where 
man  can  freely  exercise  his  reason  on  the  most  import- 
ant concerns  of  society,  where  he  can  boldly  publish  his 
judgment  on  the  acts  of  the  proudest  and  most  power- 
ful tyrants.  The  press  of  England  is  still  free.  It  is 
guarded  by  the  free  constitution  of  our  forefathers.  It 
is  guarded  by  the  hearts  and  arms  of  Englishmen,  and 
I trust  I may  venture  to  say,  that  if  it  be  to  fall,  it 
will  fall  only  under  the  ruins  of  the  British  empire. 
It  is  an  awful  consideration,  gentlemen.  Every  other 
monument  of  European  liberty  has  perished.  That 
ancient  fabric  which  has  been  gradually  reared  by  the 
wisdom  and  virtue  of  our  fathers,  still  stands.  It 
stands,  thanks  be  to  God ! solid  and  entire — but  it 
stands  alone,  and  it  stands  in  ruins ! Believing,  then, 
as  I do,  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  a great  struggle, 
that  this  is  only  the  first  battle  between  reason  and 
power — that  you  have  now  in  your  hands,  committed 
to  your  trust,  the  only  remains  of  free  discussion  in 
Europe,  now  confined  to  this  kingdom ; addressing  you, 
therefore,  as  the  guardians  of  the  most  important 
interests  of  mankind  : convinced  that  the  unfettered 
exercise  of  reason  depends  more  on  your  present  verdict 
than  on  any  other  that  was  ever  delivered  by  a jury,  I 
tmst  I may  rely  with  confidence  on  the  issue — I trust 
that  you  will  consider  yourselves  as  the  advanced-guard 
of  liberty — as  having  this  day  to  fight  the  first  battle  of 
free  discussion  against  the  most  formidable  enemy  that 
it  ever  encountered ! 


DR  JOHN  LINGARD,  ETC. 

Dr  John  Lingard,  a Roman  Catholic  priest, 
published  in  1819  three  volumes  of  a History  of 
England  from  the  Invasion  by  the  Romans.  He 
subsequently  continued  his  work  in  five  more 
volumes,  bringing  down  his  narrative  to  the  abdi- 
cation of  James  H.  To  talents  of  a high  order, 
both  as  respects  acuteness  of  analysis  and  powers 
of  description  and  narrative,  Dr  Lingard  added 
unconquerable  industry  and  access  to  sources  of 
information  new  and  important.  He  is  generally 
as  impartial  as  Hume,  or  even  Robertson ; but 
it  is  undeniable  that  his  religious  opinions  have  in 
several  cases  perverted  the  fidelity  of  his  history, 
leading  him  to  palliate  the  atrocities  of  the  Bar- 
tholomew massacre,  and  to  darken  the  shades  in 
the  characters  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Cranmer,  Anne 
Boleyn,  and  others  connected  Tjith  the  reformation 
in  the  church.  His  work  was  subjected  to  a rigid 
scrutiny  by  Dr  John  Allen,  in  two  elaborate  articles 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review , by  the  Rev.  Mr  Todd — 
who  published  a defence  of  the  character  of  Cran- 
mer— and  by  other  zealous  Protestant  writers.  To 
these  antagonists  Dr  Lingard  replied  in  1826  by 
a vindication  of  his  fidelity  as  a historian,  which 
affords  an  excellent  specimen  of  calm  controversial 
writing.  His  work  has  now  taken  its  place  among 
the  most  valuable  of  our  national  histories.  It  has 
gone  through  three  editions,  and  has  been  received 
with  equal  favour  on  the  continent.  The  most  able 


of  his  critics  (though  condemning  his  account  of  the 
English  Reformation,  and  other  passages  evincing 
a peculiar  bias)  admits  that  Dr  Lingard  possesses, 

I what  he  claims,  the  rare  merit  of  having  collected 
' his  materials  from  original  historians  and  records, 
j by  which  his  narrative  receives  a freshness  of  char- 
1 acter,  and  a stamp  of  originality,  not  to  be  found  in 
any  general  history  of  England  in  common  use. 
We  give  one  specimen  of  the  narrative  style  of  the 
author : 

[Cromweirs  Expulsion  of  the  Parliament  in  1653.] 

At  length  Cromwell  fixed  on  his  plan  to  procure  the 
dissolution  of  the  parliament,  and  to  vest  for  a time  the 
sovereign  authority  in  a council  of  forty  persons,  with 
himself  at  their  head.  It  was  his  wish  to  effect  this 
quietly  by  the  votes  of  the  parliament — his  resolution 
to  effect  it  by  open  force,  if  such  votes  were  refused. 
Several  meetings  were  held  by  the  officers  and  members 
at  the  lodgings  of  the  lord-general  in  Whitehall.  St 
John  and  a few  others  gave  their  assent ; the  rest, 
under  the  guidance  of  Whitelock  and  Widrington, 
declared  that  the  dissolution  would  be  dangerous,  and 
the  establishment  of  the  proposed  council  unwarrantable. 
In  the  meantime  the  House  resumed  the  consideration  of 
the  new  representative  body ; and  several  qualifications 
were  voted,  to  all  of  which  the  officers  raised  objections, 
but  chiefly  to  the  ‘ admission  of  members,’  a project  to 
strengthen  the  government  by  the  introduction  of  the 
Presbyterian  interest.  ‘Never,’  said  Cromwell,  ‘shall 
any  of  that  judgment  who  have  deserted  the  good  cause 
be  admitted  to  power.’  On  the  last  meeting,  held  on 
the  19  th  of  April,  all  these  points  were  long  and  warmly 
debated.  Some  of  the  officers  declared  that  the  parlia- 
ment must  be  dissolved  ‘one  way  or  other;’  but  the 
general  checked  their  indiscretion  and  precipitancy,  and 
the  assembly  broke  up  at  midnight,  with  an  understand- 
ing that  the  leading  men  on  each  side  should  resume 
the  subject  in  the  morning. 

At  an  early  hour  the  conference  was  recommenced, 
and,  after  a short  time,  interrupted,  in  consequence  of  the 
receipt  of  a notice  by  the  general,  that  it  was  the  inten- 
tion of  the  House  to  comply  with  the  desires  of  the  army. 
This  was  a mistake ; the  opposite  party  had  indeed 
resolved  to  pass  a bill  of  dissolution ; not,  however, 
the  bill  proposed  by  the  officers,  but  their  own  bill, 
containing  all  the  obnoxious  provisions,  and  to  pass  it 
that  very  morning,  that  it  might  obtain  the  force  of 
law  before  their  adversaries  could  have  time  to  appeal 
to  the  power  of  the  sword.  While  Harrison  ‘ most 
strictly  and  humbly’  conjured  them  to  pause  before 
they  took  so  important  a step,  Ingoldsby  hastened  to 
inform  the  lord-general  at  Whitehall.  His  resolution 
was  immediately  formed,  and  a company  of  musketeers 
received  orders  to  accompany  him  to  the  House.  At 
this  eventful  moment,  big  with  the  most  important 
consequences  both  to  himself,  and  his  country,  whatever 
were  the  workings  of  Cromwell’s  mind,  he  had  the  art  to 
conceal  them  from  the  eyes  of  the  beholders.  Leaving 
the  military  in  the  lobby,  he  entered  the  House  and 
composedly  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  outer  benches. 
His  dress  was  a plain  suit  of  black  cloth,  with  gray 
worsted  stockings.  For  a while  he  seemed  to  listen 
with  interest  to  the  debate  ; but  when  the  speaker  was 
going  to  put  the  question,  he  whispered  to  Harrison, 

‘ This  is  the  time  ; I must  do  it ; ’ and  rising,  put  off  his 
hat  to  address  the  House.  At  first  his  language  was 
decorous,  and  even  laudatory.  Gradually  he  became 
more  warm  and  animated ; at  last  he  assumed  all  the 
vehemence  of  passion,  and  indulged  in  personal  vituper- 
ation. He  charged  the  members  with  self-seeking  and 
profaneness,  with  the  frequent  denial  of  justice,  and 
numerous  acts  of  oppression ; with  idolising  the  lawyers, 
the  constant  advocates  of  tyranny  ; with  neglecting  the 
men  who  had  bled  for  them  in  the  field,  that  they  might 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  BRODlE— HENRY  HALLAM. 


gain  the  Presbyterians  who  had  apostatised  from  the 
cause ; and  with  doing  all  this  in  order  to  perpetuate 
their  own  power  and  to  replenish  their  own  purses. 
Put  their  time  was  come  ; the  Lord  had  disowned  them  ; 
he  had  chosen  more  worthy  instruments  to  perform  his 
work.  Here  the  orator  was  interrupted  by  Sir  Peter 
Wentworth,  wrho  declared  that  he  had  never  heard 
language  so  unparliamentary — language,  too,  the  more 
offensive,  because  it  was  addressed  to  them  by  their  own 
servant,  whom  they  had  too  fondly  cherished,  and  whom, 
by  their  unprecedented  bounty,  they  had  made  what  he 
was.  At  these  words  Cromwell  put  on  his  hat,  and, 
springing  from  his  place,  exclaimed : ‘ Come,  come,  sir, 
I will  put  an  end  to  your  prating.’  For  a few  seconds, 
apparently  in  the  most  violent  agitation,  he  paced  for- 
ward and  backward,  and  then,  stamping  on  the  floor, 
added  : ‘ You  are  no  parliament ; I say  you  are  no  par- 
liament ; bring  them  in,  bring  them  in.’  Instantly  the 
door  opened,  and  Colonel  Worsley  entered,  followed  by 
more  than  twenty  musketeers.  ‘This,’  cried  Sir  Henry 
Yane,  ‘is  not  honest ; it  is  against  morality  and  com- 
mon honesty.’  ‘Sir  Henry  Yane,’  replied  Cromwell; 

‘ 0,  Sir  Henry  Yane ! The  Lord  deliver  me  from  Sir 
Henry  Yane  ! He  might  have  prevented  this.  But  he 
is  a juggler,  and  has  not  common  honesty  himself!’ 
From  Vane  he  directed  his  discourse  to  Whitelock,  on 
whom  he  poured  a torrent  of  abuse ; then  pointing  to 
Chaloner,  ‘There,’  he  cried,  ‘sits  a drunkard;’  next  to 
Marten  and  Wentworth,  ‘ There  are  two  whoremasters ; ’ 
and  afterwards  selecting  different  members  in  succession, 
described  them  as  dishonest  and  corrupt  livers,  a shame 
and  scandal  to  the  profession  of  the  gospel.  Suddenly, 
however,  checking  himself,  he  turned  to  the  guard  ancl 
ordered  them  to  clear  the  House.  At  these  words 
Colonel  Harrison  took  the  speaker  by  the  hand  and  led 
him  from  the  chair ; Algernon  Sidney  was  next  com- 
pelled to  quit  his  seat ; and  the  other  members,  eighty  in 
number,  on  the  approach  of  the  military,  rose  and  moved 
towards  the  door.  Cromwell  now  resumed  his  discourse. 
‘It  is  you,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘that  have  forced  me  to  do 
this.  I have  sought  the  Lord  both  day  and  night  that 
he  would  rather  slay  me  than  put  me  on  the  doing  of 
this  work.’  Alderman  Allan  took  advantage  of  these 
words  to  observe,  that  it  was  not  yet  too  late  to  undo 
what  had  been  done ; but  Cromwell  instantly  charged 
him  with  peculation,  and  gave  him  into  custody.  When 
all  were  gone,  fixing  his  eye  on  the  mace,  ‘What,’  said 
he,  ‘ shall  we  do  with  this  fool’s  bauble  ? Here,  carry  it 
away.’  Then,  taking  the  act  of  dissolution  from  the 
clerk,  he  ordered  the  doors  to  be  locked,  and,  accom- 
panied by  the  military,  returned  to  Whitehall. 

That  afternoon  the  members  of  the  council  assembled 
in  their  usual  place  of  meeting.  Bradshaw  had  just 
taken  the  chair,  when  the  lord-general  entered,  and  told 
them  that  if  they  were  there  as  private  individuals, 
they  were  welcome  ; but  if  as  the  Council  of  State,  they 
must  know  that  the  parliament  was  dissolved,  and  with 
it  also  the  council.  ‘ Sir,’  replied  Bradshaw,  with  the 
spirit  of  an  ancient  Roman,  4 we  have  heard  what  you 
did  at  the  House  this  morning,  and  before  many 
hours  all  England  will  know  it.  But,  sir,  your  are  mis- 
taken to  think  that  the  parliament  is  dissolved.  No 
power  under  heaven  can  dissolve  them  but  themselves  ; 
therefore,  take  you  notice  of  that.’  After  this  protest 
they  withdrew.  Thus,  by  the  parricidal  hands  of  its 
own  children,  perished  the  Long  Parliament,  which, 
under  a variety  of  forms,  had,  for  more  than  twelve 
years,  defended  and  invaded  the  liberties  of  the  nation. 
It  fell  without  a struggle  or  a groan,  unpitied  and  unre- 
gretted. The  members  slunk  away  to  their  homes, 
where  they  sought  by  submission  to  purchase  the  for- 
bearance of  their  new  master  ; and  their  partisans,  if 
partisans  they  had,  reserved  themselves  in  silence  for  a 
day  of  retribution,  which  came  not  before  Cromwell 
slept  in  his  grave.  The  royalists  congratulated  each 
other  on  an  event  which  they  deemed  a preparatory 


step  to  the  restoration  of  the  king  ; the  army  and  navy, 
in  numerous  addresses,  declared  that  they  would  live 
and  die,  stand  and  fall,  with  the  lord-general ; and  in 
every  part  of  the  country  the  congregations  of  the  saints 
magnified  the  arm  of  the  Lord,  which  had  broken  the 
mighty,  that  in  lieu  of  the  sway  of  mortal  men,  the 
fifth  monarchy,  the  reign  of  Christ  might  be  established 
on  earth. 

It  would,  however,  be  unjust  to  the  memory  of  those  i 
who  exercised  the  supreme  power  after  the  death  of  the 
king,  not  to  acknowledge  that  there  existed  among  them 
men  capable  of  wielding  with  energy  the  destinies  of  a 
great  empire.  They  governed  only  four  years ; yet, 
under  their  auspices,  the  conquests  of  Ireland  and 
Scotland  were  achieved,  and  a navy  was  created,  the 
rival  of  that  of  Holland  and  the  terror  of  the  rest  of 
Europe.  But  there  existed  an  essential  error  in  their 
form  of  government.  Deliberative  assemblies  are  always 
slow  in  their  proceedings;  yet  the  pleasure  of  parlia- 
ment, as  the  supreme  power,  was  to  be  taken  on  every 
subject  connected  with  the  foreign  relations  or  the 
internal  administration  of  the  country  ; and  hence  it  i 
happened,  that  among  the  immense  variety  of  questions 
which  came  before  it,  those  commanded  immediate 
attention  which  were  deemed  of  immediate  necessity ; 
while  the  others,  though  often  of  the  highest  importance 
to  the  national  welfare,  were  first  postponed,  then 
neglected,  and  ultimately  forgotten.  To  this  habit  of 
procrastination  was  perhaps  owing  the  extinction  of  its 
authority.  It  disappointed  the  hopes  of  the  country,  and 
supplied  Cromwell  with  the  most  plausible  arguments 
in  defence  of  his  conduct. 

Besides  his  elaborate  History  of  England , Dr  Lingard 
was  author  of  a work  evincing  great  erudition  and 
research,  on  the  Antiquities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Church , published  in  1809.  Dr  Lingard  died  at 
Hornby,  near  Lancaster,  his  birthplace,  in  July 
1851,  aged  eighty-two. 

The  great  epoch  of  the  English  Commonwealth, 
and  the  struggle  by  which  it  was  preceded,  has 
been  illustrated  by  Mr  George  Brodie’s  History  of 
the  British  Empire  from  the  Accession  of  Charles  I.  to 
the  Restoration , four  volumes,  1822,  and  by  Mr 
Godwin’s  History  of  the  Commonwealth  of  England , 
four  volumes,  1824-27.  The  former  work  is  chiefly 
devoted  to  an  exposure  of  the  errors  and  misrepre- 
sentations of  Hume ; while  Mr  Godwin  writes  too 
much  in  the  spirit  of  a partisan,  without  the  calm- 
ness and  dignity  of  the  historian.  Both  works, 
however,  afford  new  and  important  facts  and  illus-  | 
trations  of  the  momentous  period  of  which  they 
treat. 

Mr  Southey’s  History  of  Brazil,  three  volumes 
quarto,  1810,  and  his  History  of  the  Peninsular  War , 
two  volumes  quarto,  1823-28,  are  proofs  of  the 
laureate’s  untiring  industry,  and  of  the  easy  and 
admirable  English  style  of  which  he  was  so  consum- 
mate a master.  The  first  is  a valuable  work,  though 
too  diffuse  and  minutely  circumstantial. 

HENRY  HALLAM. 

The  greatest  historical  name  in  this  period,  and 
one  of  the  most  learned  of  our  constitutional  writers 
and  critics,  was  Mr  Henry  Hallam,  son  of  Dr 
Hallam,  dean  of  Wells.  He  was  born  in  1778,  was 
educated  at  Eton  and  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  and 
was  called  to  the  bar  by  the  Inner  Temple.  He 
was  early  appointed  a Commissioner  of  Audit,  an 
office  which  at  once  afforded  him  leisure  and  a 
competency,  and  enabled  him  to  prosecute  those 
studies  on  which  his  fame  rests.  Mr  Hallam  was  j 
one  of  the  early  contributors  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  | 
Scott’s  edition  of  Dryden  was  criticised  bv  Mr  ; 

617 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  To  1830. 


Hallam  in  the  Review  for  October  1808,  with  great 
ability  and  candour.  His  first  important  work  was 
a View  of  the  State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages , 
two  volumes  quarto,  1818,  being  an  account  of  the 
progress  of  Europe  from  the  middle  of  the  fifth  to 
the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  In  1S27  he  pub- 
lished The  Constitutional  History  of  England  from  the 
Accession  of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of  George  II., 
also  in  two  volumes ; and  in  1837-38  an  Introduction 
to  the  Literature  of  Europe  in  the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth , 
and  Seventeenth  Centuries,  in  four  volumes.  With 
vast  stores  of  knowledge,  and  indefatigable  applica- 
tion, Mr  Hallam  possessed  a clear  and  independent 
judgment,  and  a style  grave  and  impressive,  yet 
enriched  with  occasional  imagery  and  rhetorical 
graces.  His  introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe 
j is  a great  monument  of  his  erudition.  His  know- 
: ledge  of  the  language  and  literature  of  each  nation 
{ was  critical  and  profound,  and  his  opinions  were  con- 
| veyed  in  a style  remarkable  for  its  succinctness 
! and  perspicuous  beauty.  In  his  first  two  works,  Mr 
| Hallam’s  views  of  political  questions  are  those  gene- 
j rally  adopted  by  the  Whig  party,  but  are  stated 
| with  calmness  and  moderation.  He  was  peculiarly  a 
supporter  of  principles,  not  of  men,  and  he  judged  of 
characters  without  party  prejudice  or  passion.  Mr 
Hallam,  like  Burke,  in  his  latter  years,  ‘ lived  in  an 
inverted  order : they  who  ought  to  have  succeeded 
him  had  gone  before  him ; they  who  should  have 
j been  to  him  as  posterity  were  in  the  place  of 
j ancestors.’  His  eldest  son,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam 
— the  subject  of  Tennyson’s  In  Memoriam — died  in 
1833,  and  another  son,  Henry  Fitzmaurice  Hallam, 
was  taken  from  him  shortly  after  he  had  been  called 
to  the  bar  in  1850.  The  afflicted  father  collected 
and  printed  for  private  circulation  the  Remains,  in 
Verse  and  Prose,  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  (1834), 
and  some  friend  added  memorials  of  the  second  son. 
Both  were  eminently  accomplished,  amiable,  and 
promising  young  men.  The  historian  died  January 
22, 1859,  having  reached  the  great  age  of  eighty-one. 

[ Effects  of  the  Feudal  System] 

[From  the  View  of  the  Middle  Ages .] 

It  is  the  previous  state  of  society,  under  the  grand- 
children of  Charlemagne,  which  we  must  always  keep 
in  mind,  if  we  would  appreciate  the  effects  of  the 
feudal  system  upon  the  welfare  of  mankind.  The 
institutions  of  the  eleventh  ceiitury  must  be  compared 
with  those  of  the  ninth,  not  with  the  advanced  civil- 
isation of  modern  times.  The  state  of  anarchy  which 
we  usually  term  feudal,  was  the  natural  result  of  a 
vast  and  barbarous  empire  feebly  administered,  and  the 
cause,  rather  than  the  effect,  of  the  general  establish- 
ment of  feudal  tenures.  These,  by  preserving  the 
mutual  relations  of  the  whole,  kept  alive  the  feeling  of 
a common  country  and  common  duties;  and  settled, 
after  the  lapse  of  ages,  into  the  free  constitution  of 
England,  the  firm  monarchy  of  France,  and  the  federal 
union  of  Germany. 

The  utility  of  any  form  of  policy  may  be  estimated 
by  its  effects  upon  national  greatness  and  security, 
upon  civil  liberty  and  private  rights,  upon  the  tran- 
quillity and  order  of  society,  upon  the  increase  and 
diffusion  of  wealth,  or  upon  the  general  tone  of  moral 
sentiment  and  energy.  The  feudal  constitution  was 
little  adapted  for  the  defence  of  a mighty  kingdom, 
far  less  for  schemes  of  conquest.  But  as  it  prevailed 
alike  in  several  adjacent  countries,  none  had  anything 
to  fear  from  the  military  superiority  of  its  neighbours. 
It  was  this  inefficiency  of  the  feudal  militia,  perhaps, 
that  saved  Europe,  during  the  middle  ages,  from  the 
danger  of  universal  monarchy.  In  times  when  princes 
518 


had  little  notions  of  confederacies  for  mutual  protec- 
tion, it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not  have  been  the 
successes  of  an  Otho,  a Frederic,  or  a Philip  Augustus, 
if  they  could  have  wielded  the  whole  force  of  their 
subjects  whenever  their  ambition  required.  If  an 
empire  equally  extensive  with  that  of  Charlemagne, 
and  supported  by  military  despotism,  had  been  formed 
about  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  centuries,  the  seeds  of 
commerce  and  liberty,  just  then  beginning  to  shoot, 
would  have  perished ; and  Europe,  reduced  to  a bar- 
barous servitude,  might  have  fallen  before  the  free 
barbarians  of  Tatary. 

If  we  look  at  the  feudal  polity  as  a scheme  of  civil 
freedom,  it  bears  a noble  countenance.  To  the  feudal 
law  it  is  owing  that  the  very  names  of  right  and 
privilege  were  not  swept  away,  as  in  Asia,  by  the 
desolating  hand  of  power.  The  tyranny  which,  on  every 
favourable  moment,  was  breaking  through  all  barriers, 
would  have  rioted  without  control,  if,  when  the  people 
were  poor  and  disunited,  the  nobility  had  not  been 
brave  and  free.  So  far  as  the  sphere  of  feudality 
extended,  it  diffused  the  spirit  of  liberty  and  the  notions 
of  private  right.  Every  one  will  acknowledge  this  who 
considers  the  limitations  of  the  services  of  vassalage, 
so  cautiously  marked  in  • those  law'-books  which  are 
the  records  of  customs ; the  reciprocity  of  obligation 
between  the  lord  and  his  tenant ; the  consent  required 
in  every  measure  of  a legislative  or  general  nature ; the 
security,  above  all,  which  every  vassal  found  in  the 
administration  of  justice  by  his  peers,  and  even — we 
may  in  this  sense  say — in  the  trial  by  combat.  The 
bulk  of  the  people,  it  is  true,  were  degraded  by  servi- 
tude ; but  this  had  no  connection  with  the  feudal 
tenures. 

The  peace  and  good  order  of  society  were  not  pro- 
moted by  this  system.  Though  private  wars  did  not 
originate  in  the  feudal  customs,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt  that  they  were  perpetuated  by  so  convenient  an 
institution,  which  indeed  owed  its  universal  establish- 
ment to  no1  other  cause.  And  as  predominant  habits  of 
warfare  are  totally  irreconcilable  with  those  of  industry, 
not  merely  by  the  immediate  works  of  destruction 
which  render  its  efforts  unavailing,  but  through  that 
contempt  of  peaceful  occupations  which  they  produce, 
the  feudal  system  must  have  been  intrinsically  adverse 
to  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  the  improvement 
of  those  arts  which  mitigate  the  evils  or  abridge  the 
labours  of  mankind. 

But,  as  a school  of  moral  discipline,  the  feudal 
institutions  were  perhaps  most  to  be  valued.  Society 
had  sunk  for  several  centuries  after  the  dissolution  of 
the  Roman  empire,  into  a condition  of  utter  depravity ; 
where,  if  any  vices  could  be  selected  as  more  eminently 
characteristic  than  others,  they  were  falsehood,  treachery, 
and  ingratitude.  In  slowly  purging  off  the  lees  of  this 
extreme  corruption,  the  feudal  spirit  exerted  its  ameli- 
orating influence.  Violation  of  faith  stood  first  in  the 
catalogue  of  crimes,  most  repugnant  to  the  very  essence 
of  a feudal  tenure,  most  severely  and  promptly  avenged, 
most  branded  by  general  infamy.  The  feudal  law-books 
breathe  throughout  a spirit  of  honourable  obligation. 
The  feudal  course  of  jurisdiction  promoted,  what  trial 
by  peers  is  peculiarly  calculated  to  promote,  a keener 
feeling,  as  well  as  readier  perception,  of  moral  as  well 
as  of  legal  distinctions.  In  the  reciprocal  services  of 
lord  and  vassal,  there  was  ample  scope  for  every 
magnanimous  and  disinterested  energy.  The  'heart 
of  man,  when  placed  in  circumstances  that  have  a 
tendency  to  excite  them,  will  seldom  be  deficient  in 
such  sentiments.  No  occasions  could  be  more  favour- 
able than  the  protection  of  a faithful  supporter,  or 
the  defence  of  a beneficent  sovereign,  against  such 
powerful  aggression  as  left  little  prospect  except  of 
sharing  in  his  ruin. 

It  has  been  justly  remarked,  that  in  Mr  Hallam’s 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


P.  F.  TYTLER — COLONEL  NAPIER. 


Literature  of  Europe  there  is  more  of  sentiment  than 
could  have  been  anticipated  from  the  calm,  unim- 
passioned tenor  of  his  historic  style.  We  may 
illustrate  this  by  two  short  extracts. 

[Shalcspeare' s Self -Retrospection] 

There  seems  to  have  been  a period  of  Shakspeare’s 
life  when  his  heart  was  ill  at  ease,  and  ill  content  with 
the  world  and  his  own  conscience ; the  memory  of  hours 
misspent,  the  pang  of  affection  misplaced  or  unrequited, 
the  experience  of  mans  worser  nature,  which  intercourse 
with  unworthy  associates,  by  choice  or  circumstances, 
peculiarly  teaches ; these,  as  they  sank  into  the  depths 
of  his  great  mind,  seem  not  only  to  have  inspired  into 
it  the  conception  of  Lear  and  Timon,  but  that  of  one 
primary  character,  the  censurer  of  mankind.  This  type 
is  first  seen  in  the  philosophic  melancholy  of  Jaques, 
gazing  with  an  undiminished  serenity,  and  with  a gaiety 
of  fancy,  though  not  of  manners,  on  the  follies  of  the 
world.  It  assumes  a graver  cast  in  the  exiled  Duke  of 
the  same  play,  and  next  one  rather  more  severe  in  the 
Duke  of  Measure  for  Measure.  In  all  these,  however, 
it  is  merely  contemplative  philosophy.  In  Hamlet  this 
is  mingled  with  the  impulses  of  a perturbed  heart  under 
the  pressure  of  extraordinary  circumstances ; it  shines 
no  longer,  as  in  the  former  characters,  with  a steady 
light,  but  plays  in  fitful  coruscations  amidst  feigned 
gaiety  and  extravagance.  In  Lear,  it  is  the  flash  of 
sudden  inspiration  across  the  incongruous  imagery  of 
madness ; in  Timon,  it  is  obscured  by  the  exaggerations 
of  misanthropy.  These  plays  all  belong  to  nearly  the 
same  period : As  You,  Lilce  It  being  usually  referred 
to  1600,  Timon  to  the  same  year,  Measure  for  Measure 
to  1603,  and  Lear  to  1604.  In  the  later  plays  of 
Shakspeare,  especially  in  Macbeth  and  the  Tempest, 
much  of  moral  speculation  will  be  found,  but  he 
has  never  returned  to  this  type  of  character  in  the 
personages. 

[Milton's  Blindness  and  Remembrance  of  his  Early 
Reading .] 

In  the  numerous  imitations,  and  still  more  numerous 
traces  of  older  poetry  which  we  perceive  in  Paradise 
Lost,  it  is  always  to  be  kept  in  mind  that  he  had  only 
his  recollection  to  rely  upon.  His  blindness  seems  to 
have  been  complete  before  1654  ;*  and  I scarcely  think 
he  had  begun  his  poem  before  the  anxiety  and  trouble 
into  which  the  public  strife  of  the  Commonwealth  and 
Restoration  had  thrown  him,  gave  leisure  for  immortal 
occupations.  Then  the  remembrance  of  early  reading 
came  over  his  dark  and  lonely  path,  like  the  moon 
emerging  from  the  clouds.  Then  it  was  that  the  Muse 
was  truly  his;  not  only  as  she  poured  her  creative 
inspiration  into  his  mind,  but  as  the  daughter  of 
Memory,  coming  with  fragments  of  ancient  melodies, 
the  voice  of  Euripides,  and  Homer,  and  Tasso;  sounds 
that  he  had  loved  in  youth,  and  treasured  up  for  the 
solace  of  his  age.  They  who,  though  not  enduring  the 
calamity  of  Milton,  have  known  what  it  is,  when  afar 
from  books,  in  solitude  or  in  travelling,  or  in  the 
intervals  of  worldly  care,  to  feed  on  poetical  recollec- 
tions, to  murmur  over  the  beautiful  lines  whose  cadence 
has  long  delighted  their  ear,  to  recall  the  sentiments 
and  images  which  retain  by  association  the  charm  that 
early  years  once  gave  them — they  will  feel  the  inesti- 
mable value  of  committing  to  the  memory,  in  the  prime 
of  its  power,  what  it  will  easily  receive  and  indelibly 

* Todd  publishes  a letter  addressed  by  Milton  to  Andrew 
Marvell,  dated  February  21,  1652-3,  and  assumes  that  the  poet 
‘had  still  the  use  of  one  eye,  which  could  direct  his  hand.’ 
The  editor  of  this  work  has  inspected  the  letter  to  Marvell 
in  the  State-Paper  Office,  and  ascertained  that  it  is  not  in 
Milton’s  handwriting.  It  is  in  a fine  current,  elerk-like  hand. 


retain.  I know  not,  indeed,  whether  an  education  that 
deals  much  with  poetry,  such  as  is  still  usual  in 
England,  has  any  more  solid  argument  among  many  in 
its  favour,  than  that  it  lays  the  foundation  of  intellec- 
tual pleasures  at  the  other  extreme  of  life. 

P.  F.  TYTLER — COLONEL  NAPIER — ETC. 

The  History  of  Scotland,  by  Patrick  Fraser 
Tytler,  Esq.,  is  an  attempt  to  ‘ build  the  history 
of  that  country  upon  unquestionable  muniments.’ 
The  author  professed  to  have  anxiously  endeavoured 
to  examine  the  most  authentic  sources  of  infor- 
mation, and  to  convey  a true  picture  of  the  times, 
without  prepossession  or  partiality.  He  commences 
with  the  accession  of  Alexander  III.,  because  it  is 
at  that  period  that  our  national  annals  become 
particularly  interesting  to  the  general  reader.  The 
first  volume  of  Mr  Tytler’s  history  was  published 
in  1828,  and  a continuation  appeared  at  intervals, 
conducting  the  narrative  to  the  year  1603,  when 
James  VI.  ascended  the  throne  of  England.  The 
style  of  the  history  is  plain  and  perspicuous,  with 
just  sufficient  animation  to  keep  alive  the  attention 
of  the  reader.  Mr  Tytler  added  considerably  to  the 
amount  and  correctness  of  our  knowledge  of  Scottish 
history.  He  took  up  a few  doubtful  or  erroneous 
opinions  on  questions  of  fact  (such  as  that  John 
Knox  was  accessary  to  the  murder  of  Rizzio,  of 
which  he  failed  to  give  any  satisfactory  proof) ; but 
the  industry  and  talent  he  evinced  entitle  him  to 
the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen.  A second  edition 
of  this  work,  up  to  the  period  already  mentioned, 
extends  to  nine  volumes.  Mr  Tytler  was  author 
of  the  Lives  of  Scottish  Worthies  and  a Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  and  he  edited  two  volumes  of  Letters 
illustrative  of  the  history  of  England  under  Elizabeth 
and  Mary.  This  gentleman  was  grandson  of  Mr 
Tytler,  wdiom  Burns  has  characterised  as 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

and  his  father,  Lord  Woodhouselee,  a Scottish 
judge,  wrote  a popular  Universal  History.  Latterly, 
Mr  Patrick  F.  Tytler  enjoyed  a pension  of  £200 
per  annum.  He  died  at  Malvern,  in  December  1849. 
A life  of  Mr  Tytler  has  been  published  (1859)  by 
the  Rev.  John  Burgon,  M.A.,  of  Oriel  College, 
Oxford.  It  represents  the  historian  in  a very  pre- 
possessing light,  as  affectionate,  pious,  and  cheerful, 
beloved  by  all  who  knew'  him. 

The  History  of  the  War  in  the  Peninsula,  and  in  the 
South  of  France,  from  the  year  1807  to  the  year  1814, 
in  six  volumes,  1828-40,  by  Colonel  Sir  W.  F.  P. 
Napier,  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  most  valuable 
record  of  that  war  wdiich  England  waged  against  the 
power  of  Napoleon.  Mr  Southey  had  previously 
written  a history  of  this  period,  but  it  was  heavy  and 
uninteresting,  and  is  now  rarely  met  with.  Sir  W. 
Napier  was  an  actor  in  the  great  struggle  he  records, 
and  peculiarly  conversant  with  the  art  of  war.  The 
most  ample  testimony  has  been  borne  to  the  accur- 
acy of  the  historian’s  statements,  and  to  the  dili- 
gence and  acuteness  with  which  he  has  collected  his 
materials.  Sir  William  Napier  is  son  of  Colonel 
the  Hon.  George  Napier,  by  Lady  Sarah  Lennox, 
daughter  of  the  second  Duke  of  Richmond.  He 
wa3  born  at  Castletown,  in  Ireland,  in  1785.  Besides 
his  important  History,  he  is  author  of  an  account 
of  The  Conquest  of  Scinde,  of  The  Life  and  Opinions 
of  Sir  Charles  Napier,  the  celebrated  military  com- 
mander and  conqueror  of  Scinde.  Further  light  has 
been  thrown  on  the  Spanish  war,  as  well  as  on  the 
whole  of  our  other  military  operations  from  1799 
to  1818,  by  the  publication  of  The  Dispatches  of 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


Field-marshal  the  Duke  of  W tiling  ton,  by  Lieutenant- 
colonel  Gurwood,  twelve  volumes,  1836-8.  The 
skill,  moderation,  and  energy  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  are  strikingly  illustrated  by  this  com- 
pilation. ‘No  man  ever  before,’  says  a critic  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review , ‘ had  the  gratification  of  himself 
witnessing  the  formation  of  such  a monument  to 
his  glory.  His  dispatches  will  continue  to  furnish, 
through  every  age,  lessons  of  practical  wisdom  which 
cannot  be  too  highly  prized  by  public  men  of  every 
station ; whilst  they  will  supply  to  military  com- 
manders, in  particular,  examples  for  their  guidance 
which  they  cannot  too  carefully  study,  nor  too 
anxiously  endeavour  to  emulate.’ 

The  History  of  British  India , by  James  Mill 
(1773-1836),  is  by  far  the  ablest  work  on  our 
Indian  empire.  It  was  published  in  1817-18  in 
five  volumes.  This  work  led  to  the  author  being 
employed  in  conducting  the  correspondence  of  the 
East  India  Company.  Mr  Mill  was  a man  of  acute 
and  vigorous  mind.  He  was  a native  of  Logie 
Pert,  near  Montrose,  and  soon  rose  above  his 
originally  humble  station  by  the  force  of  his  talents. 
He  contributed  to  the  leading  review’s,  co-operated 
with  Jeremy  Bentham  and  other  zealous  reformers, 
and  also  took  a high  position  as  an  original  thinker 
and  metaphysician.  Mr  Mill’s  History  has  been 
continued  to  the  close  of  the  government  of  Lord 
W.  Bentinck  in  1835,  by  Mr  Horace  H.  Wilson, 
the  work  now  forming  nine  volumes,  1848. 


BIOGRAPHERS. 

After  the  death  of  Cowper  in  1800,  every  poetical 
reader  was  anxious  to  learn  the  personal  history 
and  misfortunes  of  a poet  who  had  afforded  such 
exquisite  glimpses  of  his  own  life  and  habits,  and 
the  amiable  traits  of  whose  character  shone  so  con- 
spicuously in  his  verse.  His  letters  and  manuscripts 
were  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Hayley,  whose  talents 
as  a poet  were  then  greatly  overrated,  but  who  had 
personally  known  Cowper.  Accordingly,  in  1803-4, 
appeared  The  Life  and  Posthumous  Works  of  William 
Covjper,  three  volumes  quarto.  The  wrork  wras  a 
valuable  contribution  to  English  biography.  The 
inimitable  letters  of  Cowper  wrere  themselves  a 
treasure  beyond  price ; and  Hayley’s  prose,  though 
often  poor  enough,  was  better  than  his  poetry. 
What  the  ‘hermit  of  Eartham’  left  undone  has 
since  been  supplied  by  Southey,  who  in  1835  gave 
the  world  an  edition  of  Cowper  in  fifteen  volumes, 
j about  three  of  which  are  filled  with  a life  and  notes. 
The  lives  of  both  Hayley  and  Southey  are  written 
in  the  style  of  Mason’s  memoir,  letters  being  freely 
interspersed  throughout  the  narrative.  Of  a similar 
description,  but  not  to  be  compared  with  these  in 
point  of  interest  or  execution,  is  the  life  of  Dr 
Beattie,  by  Sir  William  Forbes,  published  in  1806, 
in  two  volumes. 

In  the  same  year  Lord  Holland  published  an 
Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Lope  Felix  de 
Vega,  the  celebrated  Spanish  dramatist.  De  Yega 
j was  one  of  the  most  fertile  writers  upon  record : his 
miscellaneous  works  fill  twenty-two  quarto  volumes, 
and  his  dramas  twenty-five  volumes.  He  died  in 
j 1635,  aged  seventy-three.  His  fame  has  been 
eclipsed  by  abler  Spanish  writers,  but  De  Yega 
j gave  a great  impulse  to  the  literature  of  his  nation, 

| and  is  considered  the  parent  of  the  continental 
j drama.  The  amiable  and  accomplished  nobleman 
I who  recorded  the  life  of  this  Spanish  prodigy  has 
i himself  paid  the  debt  of  nature ; he  died  at  Holland 
House,  October  23,  1840,  aged  sixty-seven.  Lord 
520 


Holland  was  a generous  patron  of  literature  and  art. 
Holland  House  was  but  another  name  for  refined 
hospitality  and  social  freedom,  in  which  men  of  all 
shades  of  opinion  participated.  As  a literary  man, 
the  noble  lord  has  left  few  or  no  memorials  that 
will  survive ; but  he  will  long  be  remembered  as 
a generous-hearted  English  nobleman,  who,  with 
princely  munificence  and  varied  accomplishments, 
ever  felt  a strong  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the 
great  mass  of  the  people ; who  was  an  intrepid 
advocate  of  popular  rights  in  the  most  difficult  and 
trying  times  ; and  who,  amidst  all  his  courtesy  and 
hospitality,  held  fast  his  integrity  and  consistency 
to  the  last. 

The  Life  of  Nelson , by  Southey,  published  in 
two  small  volumes — since  compressed  into  one — in 
1813,  rose  into  instant  and  universal  favour,  and 
may  be  considered  as  one  of  our  standard  popular 
biographies.  Its  merit  consists  in  the  clearness 
and  beautiful  simplicity  of  its  style,  and  its  lucid 
arrangement  of  facts,  omitting  all  that  is  unimport- 
ant or  strictly  technical.  The  substance  of  this 
Life  was  originally  an  article  in  the  Quarterly 
Review;  Mr  Murray,  the  publisher,  gave  Southey 
£100  to  enlarge  the  essay,  and  publish  it  in  a 
separate  form  with  his  name,  and  this  sum  he 
handsomely  doubled.  Southey  afterwards  pub- 
lished a Life  of  Wesley,  the  celebrated  founder 
of  the  Methodists,  in  which  he  evinces  a minute 
acquaintance  with  the  religious  controversies  and 
publications  of  that  period,  joined  to  the  art  of  the 
biographer,  in  giving  prominence  and  effect  to  his 
delineations.  His  sketches  of  field-preaching  and 
lay-preachers  present  some  curious  and  interesting 
pictures  of  human  nature  under  strong  excitement. 
The  same  author  contributed  a series  of  lives  of 
British  admirals  to  the  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia , edited 
by  Dr  Lardner. 

The  most  valuable  historical  biography  of  this 
•period  is  the  Life  of  John  Knox , by  Dr  Thomas 
M‘Crie  (1772-i835),  a Scottish  minister.  Dr 
M‘Crie  had  a warm  sympathy  with  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  of  his  hero ; and  on  every  point  of  his 
history  he  possessed  the  most  complete  information. 
He  devoted  himself  to  his  task  as  to  a great  Chris- 
tian duty,  and  not  only  gave  a complete  account  of 
the  principal  events  of  Knox’s  life,  ‘ his  sentiments, 
writings,  and  exertions  in  the  cause  of  religion  and 
liberty,’  but  illustrated,  with  masterly  ability,  the 
whole  contemporaneous  history  of  Scotland.  Men 
may  differ  as  to  the  views  taken  by  Dr  M‘Crie  of 
some  of  those  subjects,  but  there  can  be  no  variety 
of  opinion  as  to  the  talents  and  learning  he  displayed. 
His  life  of  Knox  was  first  published  in  1813,  and 
has  passed  through  six  editions.  Following  up  his 
historical  and  theological  retrospect,  the  same 
author  afterwards  published  a Life  of  Andrew 
Melville,  but  the  subject  is  less  interesting  than 
that  of  his  first  biography.  He  wrote  also  memoirs 
of  Yeitch  and  Brysson — Scottish  ministers  and 
supporters  of  the  Covenant— and  histories  of  the 
Reformation  in  Italy  and  in  Spain.  Dr  M‘Crie 
published,  in  1817,  a series  of  papers  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Christian  Instructor,  containing  a vindica- 
tion of  the  Covenanters  from  the  distorted  view 
which  he  believed  Sir  Walter  Scott  to  have  given 
of  them  in  his  tale  of  Old  Mortality.  Sir  Walter 
replied  anonymously,  by  reviewing  his  own  work 
in  the  Quarterly  Review!  There  were  faults  and 
absurdities  on  the  side  both  of  the  Covenanters  and 
the  Royalists,  but  the  cavalier  predilections  of  the 
great  novelist  certainly  led  him  to  look  with  more 
regard  on  the  latter— heartless  and  cruel  as  they 
were — than  on  the  poor  persecuted  peasants. 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT — LORD  NUGENT. 


The  general  demand  for  biographical  composition 
tempted  some  of  our  most  popular  original  writers 
to  embark  in  this  delightful  department  of  litera- 
ture. Southey,  as  we  have  seen,  was  early  in  the 
field ; and  his  more  distinguished  poetical  contem- 
poraries, Scott,  Moore,  and  Campbell,  also  joined. 
The  first,  besides  his  admirable  memoirs  of  Dryden 
and  Swift,  prefixed  to  their  works,  contributed  a 
series  of  lives  of  the  English  novelists  to  an  edition 
of  their  works  published  by  Ballantyne,  which  he 
executed  with  great  taste,  candour,  and  discrim- 
ination. He  afterwards  undertook  a Life  of  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  which  was  at  first  intended  as  a counter- 
part to  Southey’s  Life  of  Nelson,  but  ultimately 
swelled  out  into  nine  volumes.  The  hurried  com- 
position of  this  work,  and  the  habits  of  the  author, 
accustomed  to  the  dazzling  creations  of  fiction, 
rather  than  the  sober  plodding  of  historical  inquiry 
and  calm  investigation,  led  to  many  errors  and 
imperfections.  It  abounds  in  striking  and  eloquent 
passages ; the  battles  of  Napoleon  are  described 
with  great  clearness  and  animation ; and  the  view 
taken  of  his  character  and  talents  is,  on  the  whole, 
just  and  impartial,  very  different  from  the  manner 
in  which  Scott  had  alluded  to  Napoleon  in  his 
Vision  of  Bon  Roderick.  The  great  diffuseness  of 
the  style,  however,  and  the  want  of  philosophical 
analysis,  render  the  Life  of  Napoleon  more  a brilliant 
chronicle  of  scenes  and  events  than  a historical 
memoir  worthy  the  genius  of  its  author.  The  friends 
of  Sir  Walter  attributed  his  mental  disease  in  great 
measure  to  the  labour  entailed  upon  him  by  this 
Life  of  Napoleon.  A Life  of  Napoleon,  in  four  volumes, 
1828,  was  published  by  William  Hazlitt,  the 
essayist  and  critic  (1778-1830),  but  it  is  a partial 
and  prejudiced  work. 

Mr  Moore  published  a Life  of  Richard  Brinsley 
Sheridan , 1825;  Notices  of  the  Life  of  Lord  Byron, 
1830 ; and  Memoirs  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
1831.  The  last  has  little  interest.  The  Life  of  Byron, 
by  its  intimate  connection  with  recent  events  and 
living  persons,  was  a duty  of  very  delicate  and 
difficult  performance.  This  was  further  increased 
by  the  freedom  and  licentiousness  of  the  poet’s 
opinions  and  conduct,  and  by  the  versatility  or 
mobility  of  his  mind,  which  changed  with  every 
passing  impulse  and  impression.  ‘As  well,’  says 
Mr  Moore,  ‘from  the  precipitance  with  which  he 
gave  way  to  every  impulse,  as  from  the  passion  he 
had  for  recording  his  own  impressions,  all  those 
heterogeneous  thoughts,  fantasies,  and  desires  that, 
in  other  men’s  minds,  “come  like  shadows,  so 
depart,”  were  by  him  fixed  and  embodied  as  they 
presented  themselves,  and  at  once  taking  a shape 
cognizable  by  public  opinion,  either  in  his  actions  or 
his  words,  in  the  hasty  letter  of  the  moment,  or  the 
poem  for  all  time,  laid  open  such  a range  of  vulner- 
able points  before  his  judges,  as  no  one  individual 
ever  before,  of  himself,  presented.’  Byron  left  ample 
materials  for  his  biographer.  His  absence  from 
England,  and  his  desire  ‘to  keep  the  minds  of 
the  English  public  for  ever  occupied  about  him 
— if  not  with  his  merits,  with  his  faults ; if  not  in 
applauding,  in  blaming  him,’  led  him  to  maintain 
a regular  correspondence  with  Mr  Moore  and  his 
publisher  Mr  Murray.  He  also  kept  a journal,  and 
recorded  memoranda  of  his  opinions,  his  reading, 
&c.,  something  in  the  style  of  Burns.  His  letters 
are  rich  and  varied,  but  too  often  display  an  affec- 
tation of  wit  and  smartness,  and  a still  worse  ambi- 
tion of  appearing  more  profligate  than  he  was  in 
reality.  Byron  had  written  memoirs  of  his  own  life, 
which  he  presented  to  Moore,  who  sold  the  manu- 
script to  Murray,  the  publisher,  for  2000  guineas. 


The  friends  of  the  noble  poet  became  alarmed  on 
account  of  the  disclosures  said  to  have  been  made 
in  the  memoir,  and  offered  to  advance  the  money 
paid  for  the  manuscript,  in  order  that  Lady  Byron 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  might  have  an  opportunity 
of  deciding  whether  the  work  should  be  published 
or  suppressed.  The  result  was,  that  the  manuscript 
was  destroyed  by  Mr  Wilmot  Horton  and  Colonel 
Doyle,  as  the  representatives  of  Mrs  Leigh,  Byron’s 
half-sister.  Moore  repaid  the  2000  guineas  to 
Murray,  and  the  latter  engaged  him  to  write  the 
Life  of  Byron,  contributing  a great  mass  of  materials, 
and  ultimately  giving  no  less  than  £4870  for  the 
Life — (Quarterly  Review,  1853).  Moore  was,  strictly 
speaking,  not  justified  in  destroying  the  manuscript 
which  Byron  had  intrusted  him  with  as  a vindication 
of  his  name  and  honour.  He  might  have  expunged 
the  objectionable  passages.  But  it  is  urged  in  his 
defence,  that  while  part  of  the  work  never  could 
have  been  published,  all  that  was  valuable  or  inter- 
esting to  the  public  was  included  in  the  journals 
and  memorandum-books.  Mr  Moore’s  Notices  are 
written  with  taste  and  modesty,  and  in  very  pure 
and  unaffected  English.  As  an  editor  he  preserved 
too  much  of  what  was  worthless  and  unimportant ; 
as  a biographer  he  was  too  indulgent  to  the  faults 
of  his  hero ; yet  who  could  have  wished  a friend  to 
dwell  on  the  errors  of  Byron  ? 

Mr  Campbell,  besides  the  biographies  in  his 
Specimens  of  the  Poets,  published  a Life  of  Mrs 
Siddons,  the  distinguished  actress,  and  a Life  of 
Petrarch.  The  latter  is  homely  and  earnest,  though 
on  a romantic  and  fanciful  subject.  There  is  a 
reality  about  Campbell’s  biographies  quite  distinct 
from  what  might  be  expected  to  emanate  from  the 
imaginative  poet,  but  he  was  too  indolent  to  be  exact. 

Amongst  other  additions  to  our  standard  biography 
may  be  mentioned  the  Life  of  Lord  Clive,  by  Sir 
John  Malcolm  ; and  the  Life  of  Lord  Clarendon,  by 
Mr  T.  H.  Lister.  The  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
by  Mr  Patrick  Eraser  Tytler  (published  in  one 
volume  in  the  Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library ),  is  also 
valuable  for  its  able  defence  of  that  adventurous 
and  interesting  personage,  and  for  its  careful  digest 
of  state-papers  and  contemporaneous  events.  Free 
access  to  all  public  documents  and  libraries  is  now 
easily  obtained,  and  there  is  no  lack  of  desire  on 
the  part  of  authors  to  prosecute,  or  of  the  public  to 
reward  these  researches.  A Life  of  Lord  William 
Russell,  by  Lord  John  Russell,  is  enriched  with 
information  from  the  family  papers  at  Woburn 
Abbey ; and  from  a similarly  authentic  private 
source,  Lord  Nugent  wrote  Memoirs  of  Hampden. 
The  Diaries  and  Journals  of  Evelyn  and  Pepys,  so 
illustrative  of  the  court  and  society  during  the 
seventeenth  century,  have  already  been  noticed.  To 
these  we  may  add  the  Memoirs  of  Colonel  Hutchinson , 
written  by  his  wife,  Mrs  Lucy  Hutchinson,  and  first 
published  in  1808.  Colonel  Hutchinson  was  gover- 
nor of  Nottingham  Castle  during  the  period  of  the 
Civil  Wars,  lie  was  one  of  the  best  of  the  Puritans, 
and  his  devoted  wife  has  done  ample  justice  to  his 
character  and  memory  in  her  charming  domestic 
narrative.  Another  work  of  the  same  description, 
published  from  family  papers  in  1822,  is  Memoirs  of 
the  Lives  and  Characters  of  the  Right  Hon.  George 
Baillie  of  Jerviswood,  and  of  Lady  Grisell  Baillie, 
written  by  their  daughter,  Lady  Murray  of  Stan- 
hope. These  memoirs  refer  to  a later  period  than 
that  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  illustrate  Scottish 
history.  George  Baillie — whose  father  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  vindictive  tyranny  of  the  government 
of  Charles  II. — was  a Presbyterian  and  Covenanter, 
but  neither  gloomy  nor  morose.  He  held  office 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  lo  1830. 


under  Queen  Anne  and  George  I.,  and  died  in  1738, 
aged  seventy-five.  His  daughter,  Lady  Murray, 
who  portrays  the  character  of  her  parents  with  a 
skilful  yet  tender  hand,  and  relates  many  interest- 
ing incidents  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived,  was 
distinguished  in  the  society  of  the  court  of  Queen 
Anne,  and  has  been  commemorated  by  Gay,  as  one 
of  the  friends  of  Pope,  and  as  4 the  sweet-tongued 
Murray.’ 

While  the  most  careful  investigation  is  directed 
towards  our  classic  authors — Shakspeare,  Milton, 
Spenser,  Chaucer,  &c.,  forming  each  the  subject  of 
numerous  memoirs — scarcely  a person  of  the  least 
note  has  been  suffered  to  depart  without  the  honours 
of  biography.  The  present  century  has  amply 
atoned  for  any  want  of  curiosity  on  the  part  of 
former  generations,  and  there  is  some  danger  that 
this  taste  or  passion  may  be  carried  too  far.  Memoirs 
of  ‘ persons  of  quality  ’ — of  wits,  dramatists,  artists, 
and  actors,  appear  every  season.  Authors  have 
become  as  familiar  to  us  as  our  personal  associates. 
Shy,  retired  men  like  Charles  Lamb,  and  dreamy 
recluses  like  Wordsworth,  have  been  portrayed  in  all 
their  strength  and  weakness.  We  have  lives  of 
Shelley,  of  Keats,  Hazlitt,  Hannah  More,  Mrs 
Hemans,  Mrs  Maclean  (L.  E.  L.),  of  James  Smith 
(one  of  the  authors  of  The  Rejected  Addresses), 
of  Monk  Lewis,  Hayley,  and  many  authors  of  less 
distinction.  In  this  influx  of  biographies  worthless 
materials  are  often  elevated  for  a day,  and  the 
gratification  of  a prurient  curiosity  or  idle  love  of 
gossip  is  more  aimed  at  than  literary  excellence  or 
sound  instruction.  The  error,  however,  is  one  on 
the  right  side.  ‘ Better,’  says  the  traditional  maxim 
of  English  law,  ‘ that  nine  guilty  men  should  escape 
than  that  one  innocent  man  should  suffer’ — and 
better,  perhaps,  that  nine  useless  lives  should  be 
written  than  that  one  valuable  one  should  be 
neglected.  The  chaff  is  easily  winnowed  from  the 
wheat ; and  even  in  the  memoirs  of  comparatively 
insignificant  persons,  some  precious  truth,  some 
lesson  of  dear-bought  experience,  may  be  found 
treasured  up  for  ‘ a life  beyond  life.’  In  what  may 
be  termed  professional  biography,  facts  and  prin- 
ciples not  known  to  the  general  reader  are  often 
conveyed.  In  lives  like  those  of  Sir  Samuel  Romilly, 
Mr  Wilberforce,  Mr  Erancis  Horner,  and  Jeremy 
Bentham,  new  light  is  thrown  on  the  characters  of 
public  men,  and  on  the  motives  and  sources  of 
public  events.  Statesmen,  lawyers,  and  philosophers 
both  act  and  are  acted  upon  by  the  age  in  which 
they  live,  and,  to  be  useful,  their  biography  should 
be  copious.  In  the  life  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy  by 
his  brother,  and  of  James  Watt  by  M.  Arago,  we 
have  many  interesting  facts  connected  with  the 
progress  of  scientific  discovery  and  improvement ; 
and  in  the  lives  of  Curran,  Grattan,  and  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  (each  in  two  volumes),  by  their  sons, 
the  public  history  of  the  country  is  illustrated.  Sir 
J ohn  Barrow’s  lives  of  Howe  and  Anson  are  excel- 
lent specimens  of  naval  biography;  and  we  have 
also  lengthy  memoirs  of  Lord  St  Vincent,  Lord 
Collingwood,  Sir  Thomas  Munro,  Sir  John  Moore, 
Sir  David  Baird,  Lord  Exmouth,  Lord  Iveppel,  &c. 
On  the  subject  of  biography  in  general,  we  quote 
with  pleasure  an  observation  of  Mr  Carlyle : 

‘ If  an  individual  is  really  of  consequence  enough 
to  have  his  life  and  character  recorded  for  public 
remembrance,  we  have  always  been  of  opinion  that 
the  public  ought  to  be  made  acquainted  with  all  the 
inward  springs  and  relations  of  his  character.  How 
did  the  world  and  man’s  life,  from  his  particular 
position,  represent  themselves  to  his  mind  ? How 
did  co-existing  circumstances  modify  him  from 
622 


without — how  did  he  modify  these  from  within? 
With  what  endeavours  and  what  efficacy  rule  over 
them?  with  what  resistance  and  what  suffering 
sink  under  them  ? In  one  word,  what  and  how 
produced  was  the  effect  of  society  on  him?  what 
and  how  produced  was  his  effect  on  society?  He 
who  should  answer  these  questions  in  regard  to  any 
individual,  would,  as  we  believe,  furnish  a model  of 
perfection  in  biography.  Few  individuals,  indeed, 
can  deserve  such  a study ; and  many  lives  will  be 
written,  and,  for  the  gratification  of  innocent  curio- 
sity, ought  to  be  written,  and  read,  and  forgotten, 
which  are  not  in  this  sense  biographies.’ 

We  have  enumerated  the  most  original  biogra- 
phical works  of  this  period,  but  a complete  list  of 
all  the  memoirs,  historical  and  literary,  that  have 
appeared  would  fill  pages.  Two  general  biographical 
dictionaries  have  also  been  published;  one  in  ten 
volumes  quarto,  published  between  the  years  1799 
and  1815  by  Dr  Aikin;  and  another  in  thirty- two 
volumes  octavo,  re-edited,  with  great  additions, 
between  1812  and  1816  by  Mr  Alexander  Chalmers. 
An  excellent  epitome  was  published  in  1828,  in 
two  large  volumes,  by  John  Gorton.  A general 
biographical  dictionary  by  the  Rev.  H.  I.  Rose, 
editor  of  the  Encyclopcedia  Metropolitana — who  died 
in  1838,  aged  fifty-seven — has  been  published  in 
twelve  volumes.  In  Lardner’s  Cyclopcedia,  Murray’s 
Family  Library , and  the  publications  of  the  Society 
for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge,  are  some 
valuable  short  biographies  by  authors  of  established 
reputation.  The  Lives  of  the  Scottish  Poets  have 
been  published  by  Mr  David  Irving,  and  a Bio- 
graphical Dictionary  of  Eminent  Scotsmen  by  Mr 
Robert  Chambers,  in  four  volumes  octavo.  A 
more  extended  and  complete  general  biographical 
dictionary  is  still  a desideratum. 

METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

We  have  no  profound  original  metaphysician  in 
this  period,  but  some  rich  and  elegant  commenta- 
tors. Professor  Dugald  Stewart  expounded  and 
illustrated  the  views  of  his  distinguished  teacher, 
Dr  Reid ; and  by  his  essays  and  treatises,  no  less 
than  by  his  lectures,  gave  additional  grace  and 
popularity  to  the  system.  Mr  Stewart  was  the  son 
of  Dr  Matthew  Stewart,  professor  of  mathematics  in 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  was  born  in  the 
college  buildings,  November  22,  1753.  At  the  early 
age  of  nineteen  he  undertook  to  teach  his  father’s 
mathematical  classes,  and  in  two  years  was  appointed 
his  assistant  and  successor.  A more  congenial 
opening  occurred  for  him  in  1780,  when  Dr  Adam 
Fergusson  retired  from  the  moral  philosophy  chair. 
Stewart  was  appointed  his  successor,  and  continued 
to  discharge  the  duties  of  the  office  till  1810,  when 
Dr  Thomas  Brown  was  conjoined  with  him  as 
colleague.  The  latter  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in 
literary  retirement  at  Kinneil  House,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Firth  of  Forth,  about  twenty  miles  from 
Edinburgh.  His  political  friends,  when  in  office  in 
1806,  created  for  him  the  sinecure  office  of  Gazette 
writer  for  Scotland,  with  a salary  of  £600  per 
annum.  Mr  Stewart  died  in  Edinburgh  on  the 
11th  of  June  1828.  No  lecturer  -was  ever  more 
popular  than  Dugald  Stewart — his  taste,  dignity, 
and  eloquence  rendered  him  both  fascinating  and 
impressive.  His  writings  are  marked  by  the  same 
characteristics,  and  can  be  read  with  pleasure  even 
by  those  who  have  no  great  partiality  for  the  meta- 
physical studies  in  which  he  excelled.  They  consist 
of  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind , one  volume  of 
which  was  published  in  1792,  a second  in  1813,  and 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  THOMAS  BROWN. 


a third  in  1827 ; also  Philosophical  Essays , 1810  ; a 
Dissertation  on  the  Progress  of  Metaphysical  and 
Ethical  Philosophy , written  in  1815  for  the  Encyclo- 
paedia ; and  a View  of  the  Active  and  Moral  Powers  of 
Man,  published  only  a few  weeks  before  his  death. 
Mr  Stewart  also  published  Outlines  of  Moral  Philos- 
ophy, and  wrote  memoirs  of  Robertson  the  historian, 
and  Dr  Reid.  ‘All  the  years  I remained  about 
Edinburgh,’  says  Mr  James  Mill,  himself  an  able 
metaphysician,  ‘ I used,  as  often  as  I could,  to  steal 
into  Mr  Stewart’s  class  to  hear  a lecture,  which  was 
always  a high  treat.  I have  heard  Pitt  and  Eox 
deliver  some  of  their  most  admired  speeches,  but  I 
never  heard  anything  nearly  so  eloquent  as  some  of 
the  lectures  of  Professor  Stewart.  The  taste  for  the 
studies  which  have  formed  my  favourite  pursuits, 
and  which  will  be  so  to  the  end  of  my  life,  I owe  to 
him.’  A handsome  edition  of  the  collected  works  of 
Dugald  Stewart,  edited  by  Sir  William  Hamilton, 
vols.  I.  to  IX.  was  published  in  Edinburgh,  1854-56. 

Dr  Thomas  Brown  (1778-1820),  the  successor 
of  Stewart  in  the  moral  philosophy  chair  of  Edin- 
burgh, was  son  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Brown,  minister 
of  Kirkmabreck,  in  Galloway.  His  taste  for  meta- 
physics was  excited  by  the  perusal  of  Professor 
Stewart’s  first  volume,  a copy  of  which  had  been 
lent  to  him  by  Dr  Currie  of  Liverpool.  He  appeared 
as  an  author  before  his  twentieth  year,  his  first 
work  being  a Review  of  Dr  Darwin’s  Zoonomia.  On 
the  establishment  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  he 
became  one  of  the  philosophical  contributors ; and 
when  a controversy  arose  in  regard  to  Mr  Leslie, 
who  had,  in  his  essay  on  heat,  stated  his  approba- 
tion of  Hume’s  theory  of  causation,  Brown  warmly 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  philosopher,  and  vindi- 
cated his  opinions  in  an  Inquiry  into  the  Relation  of 
Cause  and  Effect.  At  this  time  our  author  practised 
as  a physician,  but  without  any  predilection  for  his 
profession.  His  appointment  to  the  chair  of  moral 
philosophy  seems  to  have  fulfilled  his  destiny,  and 
he  continued  to  discharge  its  duties  amidst  universal 
approbation  and  respect  till  his  death.  Part  of  his 
leisure  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  a talent,  or 
rather  taste  for  poetry,  which  he  early  entertained  : 
and  he  published  The  Paradise  of  Coquettes,  1814 ; 
The  Wanderer  of  Norway,  1815  ; and  The  Bower  of 
Spring,  1816.  Though  correct  and  elegant,  with 
occasionally  fine  thoughts  and  images,  the  poetry  of 
Dr  Brown  wants  force  and  passion,  and  is  now 
utterly  forgotten.  As  a philosopher  he  was  acute 
and  searching,  and  a master  of  the  power  of 
analysis.  His  style  wants  the  rich  redundancy  of 
that  of  Dugald  Stewart,  but  is  also  enlivened  with 
many  eloquent  passages,  in  which  there  is  often  a 
large  infusion  of  the  tenderest  feeling.  He  quoted 
largely  from  the  poets,  especially  Akenside ; and 
was  sometimes  too  flowery  in  his  illustrations.  His 
Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind  are 
highly  popular,  and  form  a class-book  in  the 
university.  In  some  of  his  views  Dr  Brown  differed 
from  Reid  and  Stewart.  Ilis  distinctions  have 
been  pronounced  somewhat  hypercritical ; but 
Mackintosh  considers  that  he  rendered  a new  and 
important  service  to  mental  science  by  what  he 
calls  ‘ secondary  laws  of  suggestion  or  association — 
circumstances  which  modify  the  action  of  the  general 
law,  and  must  be  distinctly  considered,  in  order  to 
explain  its  connection  with  the  phenomena.’ 

[Desire  of  the  Happiness  of  Others .] 

[From  Dr  Brown’s  Lectures.] 

It  is  this  desire  of  the  happiness  of  those  whom 
we  love,  which  gives  to  the  emotion  of  love  itself  its 


principal  delight,  by  affording  to  us  constant  means  of 
gratification.  He  who  truly  wishes  the  happiness  of 
any  one,  cannot  be  long  without  discovering  some  mode 
of  contributing  to  it.  Reason  itself,  with  all  its  light, 
is  not  so  rapid  in  discoveries  of  this  sort  as  simple 
affection,  which  sees  means  of  happiness,  and  of  import- 
ant happiness,  where  reason  scarcely  could  think  that 
any  happiness  was  to  be  found,  and  has  already  by 
many  kind  offices  produced  the  happiness  of  hours 
before  reason  could  have  suspected  that  means  so  slight 
could  have  given  even  a moment’s  pleasure.  It  is  this, 
indeed,  which  contributes  in  no  inconsiderable  degree 
to  the  perpetuity  of  affection.  Love,  the  mere  feeling 
of  tender  admiration,  would  in  many  cases  have  soon 
lost  its  power  over  the  fickle  heart,  and  in  many  other 
cases  would  have  had  its  power  greatly  lessened,  if  the 
desire  of  giving  happiness,  and  the  innumerable  little 
courtesies  and  cares  to  which  this  desire  gives  birth, 
had  not  thus  in  a great  measure  diffused  over  a single 
passion  the  variety  of  many  emotions.  The  love  itself 
seems  new  at  every  moment,  because  there  is  every 
moment  some  new  wish  of  love  that  admits  of  being 
gratified ; or  rather,  it  is  at  once,  by  the  most  delightful 
of  all  combinations,  new,  in  the  tender  wishes  and  cares 
with  which  it  occupies  us,  and  familiar  to  us,  and 
endeared  the  more  by  the  remembrance  of  hours  and 
years  of  well-known  happiness. 

The  desire  of  the  happiness  of  others,  though  a desire 
always  attendant  on  love,  does  not,  however,  neces- 
sarily suppose  the  previous  existence  of  some  one 
of  those  emotions  which  may  strictly  be  termed 
love.  This  feeling  is  so  far  from  arising  necessarily 
from  regard  for  the  sufferer,  that  it  is  impossible  for 
us  not  to  feel  it  when  the  suffering  is  extreme,  and 
before  our  very  eyes,  though  we  may  at  the  same  time 
have  the  utmost  abhorrence  of  him  who  is  agonising  in 
our  sight,  and  whose  very  look,  even  in  its  agony,  still 
seems  to  speak  only  that  atrocious  spirit  which  could 
again  gladly  perpetrate  the  very  horrors  for  which 
public  indignation  as  much  as  public  justice  had  doomed 
it  to  its  dreadful  fate.  It  is  sufficient  that  extreme 
anguish  is  before  us ; we  wish  it  relief  before  we  have 
paused  to  love,  or  without  reflecting  on  our  causes  of 
hatred ; the  wish  is  the  direct  and  instant  emotion  of 
our  soul  in  these  circumstances — an  emotion  which,  in 
such  peculiar  circumstances,  it  is  impossible  for  hatred 
to  suppress,  and  which  love  may  strengthen  indeed,  but 
is  not  necessary  for  producing.  It  is  the  same  with  our 
general  desire  of  happiness  to  others.  We  desire,  in  a 
particular  degree,  the  happiness  of  those  whom  we  love, 
because  we  cannot  think  of  them  without  tender  admir- 
ation. But  though  we  had  known  them  for  the  first 
time  simply  as  human  beings,  we  should  still  have 
desired  their  happiness ; that  is  to  say,  if  no  opposite 
interests  had  arisen,  we  should  have  wished  them  to  be 
happy  rather  than  to  have  any  distress;  yet  there  is 
nothing  in  this  case  which  corresponds  with  the  tender 
esteem  that  is  felt  in  love.  There  is  the  mere  wish  of 
happiness  to  them — a wish  which  itself,  indeed,  is 
usually  denominated  love,  and  which  may  without  any 
inconvenience  be  so  denominated  in  that  general 
humanity  which  we  call  a love  of  mankind,  but  which 
1 we  must  always  remember  does  not  afford,  on  analysis, 
the  same  results  as  other  affections  of  more  cordial 
regard  to  which  we  give  the  same  name.  To  love  a friend 
is  to  wish  his  happiness  indeed,  but  it  is  to  have  other 
emotions  at  the  same  instant,  emotions  without  which 
this  mere  wish  would  be  poor  to  constant  friendship. 
To  love  the  natives  of  Asia  or  Africa,  of  whose  indi- 
vidual virtues  or  vices,  talents  or  imbecility,  wisdom  or 
ignorance,  we  know  nothing,  is  to  wish  their  happiness ; 
but  this  wish  is  all  which  constitutes  the  faint  and 
feeble  love.  It  is  a wish,  however,  which,  unless  when 
the  heart  is  absolutely  corrupted,  renders  it  impossible 
for  man  to  be  wholly  indifferent  to  man  ; and  this  great 
object  is  that  which  nature  had  in  view.  She  has  by 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


a provident  arrangement,  which  we  cannot  but  admire 
the  more  the  more  attentively  we  examine  it,  accommo- 
dated our  emotions  to  our  means,  making  our  love  most 
ardent  where  our  wish  of  giving  happiness  might  be 
most  effectual,  and  less  gradually  and  less  in  proportion 
to  our  diminished  means.  From  the  affection  of  the 
mother  for  her  new-born  infant,  which  has  been  ren- 
dered the  strongest  of  all  affections,  because  it  was  to 
arise  in  circumstances  where  affection  would  be  most 
needed,  to  that  general  philanthropy  which  extends 
itself  to  the  remotest  stranger  on  spots  of  the  earth 
which  we  never  are  to  visit,  and  which  we  as  little 
think  of  ever  visiting  as  of  exploring  any  of  the  distant 
planets  of  our  system,  there  is  a scale  of  benevolent 
desire  which  corresponds  with  the  necessities  to  be 
relieved,  and  our  power  of  relieving  them,  or  with  the 
happiness  to  be  afforded,  and  our  power  of  affording 
happiness.  How  many  opportunities  have  we  of  giving 
delight  to  those  who  live  in  our  domestic  circle,  which 
would  be  lost  before  we  could  diffuse  it  to  those  who  are 
distant  from  us!  Our  love,  therefore,  our  desire  of 
giving  happiness,  our  pleasure  in  having  given  it,  are 
stronger  within  the  limits  of  this  sphere  of  daily  and 
hourly  intercourse  than  beyond  it.  Of  those  who  are 
beyond  this  sphere,  the  individuals  most  familiar  to  us 
are  those  whose  happiness  we  must  always  know  better 
how  to  promote  than  the  happiness  of  strangers,  with 
whose  particular  habits  and  inclinations  we  are  little  if 
at  all  acquainted.  Our  love,  and  the  desire  of  general 
j happiness  which  attends  it,  are  therefore,  by  the  con- 
I currence  of  many  constitutional  tendencies  of  our  nature 
J in  fostering  the  generous  wish,  stronger  as  felt  for  an 
intimate  friend  than  for  one  who  is  scarcely  known  to 
j us.  If  there  be  an  exception  to  this  gradual  scale  of 
importance  according  to  intimacy,  it  must  be  in  the 
j case  of  one  who  is  absolutely  a stranger — a foreigner 
j who  comes  among  a people  with  whose  general  manners 
i he  is  perhaps  unacquainted,  and  who  has  no  friend  to 
: whose  attention  he  can  lay  claim  from  any  prior  inti- 
j macv.  In  this  case,  indeed,  it  is  evident  that  our 
j benevolence  might  be  more  usefully  directed  to  one  who 
i is  absolutely  unknown,  than  to  many  who  are  better 
| known  by  us,  that  live  in  our  very  neighbourhood,  in 
j the  enjoyment  of  domestic  loves  and  friendships  of 
I their  own.  Accordingly  we  find,  that  by  a provision 
j which  might  be  termed  singular — if  we  did  not  think  of 
j the  universal  bounty  and  wisdom  of  God — a modifi- 
i cation  of  our  general  regard  has  been  prepared  in  the 
j sympathetic  tendencies  of  our  nature  for  this  case  also. 

I There  is  a species  of  affection  to  which  the  stranger 
j gives  birth  merely  as  being  a stranger.  He  is  received 
and  sheltered  by  our  hospitality  almost  with  the  zeal 
j with  which  our  friendship  delights  to  receive  one  with 
j whom  we  have  lived  in  cordial  union,  whose  virtues  we 
know  and  revere,  and  whose  kindness  has  been  to  us  no 
small  part  of  the  happiness  of  our  life. 

Is  it  possible  to  perceive  this  general  proportion  of 
our  desire  of  giving  happiness,  in  its  various  degrees, 

‘ to  the  means  which  we  possess,  in  various  circumstances 
: of  affording  it,  without  admiration  of  an  arrangement 
! so  simple  in  the  principles  from  which  it  flows,  and 
: at  the  same  time  so  effectual — an  arrangement  which 
! exhibits  proofs  of  goodness  in  our  very  wants,  of  wisdom 
in  our  very  weaknesses,  by  the  adaptation  of  these  to 
each  other,  and  by  the  ready  resources  which  want  and 
weakness  find  in  these  affections  which  everywhere 
j surround  them,  like  the  presence  and  protection  of  God 
! himself  ? 

I ‘ 0 humanity  ! * exclaims  Philocles,  in  the  Travels 
of  Anacharsis , ‘generous  and  sublime  inclination, 
announced  in  infancy  by  the  transports  of  a simple 
tenderness,  in  youth  by  the  rashness  of  a blind  but 
happy  confidence,  in  the  whole  progress  of  life  by  the 
facility  with  which  the  heart  is  ever  ready  to  contract 
attachment ! 0 cries  of  nature  ! which  resound  from 

one  extremity  of  the  universe  to  the  other,  which 
524 


fill  us  with  remorse  when  we  oppress  a single  human 
being ; with  a pure  delight  when  we  have  been  able 
to  give  one  comfort!  love,  friendship,  beneficence, 
sources  of  a pleasure  that  is  inexhaustible!  Men 
are  unhappy  only  because  they  refuse  to  listen  to  your 
voice ; and,  ye  divine  authors  of  so  many  blessings  ! 
j what  gratitude  do  those  blessings  demand ! If  all 
which  was  given  to  man  had  been  a mere  instinct,  that 
j led  beings,  overwhelmed  with  wants  and  evils,  to  lend 
j to  each  other  a reciprocal  support,  this  might  have  been 
I sufficient  to  bring  the  miserable  near  to  the  miserable ; 

1 but  it  is  only  a goodness,  infinite  as  yours,  which  could 
, have  formed  the  design  of  assembling  us  together  by 
the  attraction  of  love,  and  of  diffusing,  through  the 
great  associations  which  cover  the  earth,  that  vital 
warmth  which  renders  society  eternal  by  rendering  it 
: delightful.’ 

The  Discourse  on  Ethical  Philosophy — already 
' alluded  to — by  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and  his 
review  of  Madame  de  Stael’s  Germany  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  unfold  some  interesting  speculations 
on  moral  science.  He  agrees  with  Butler,  Stewart, 
and  the  most  eminent  preceding  moralists,  in  admit- 
ting the  supremacy  of  the  moral  sentiments  ; but  he 
I proceeds  a step  further  in  the  analysis  of  them.  He 
attempts  to  explain  the  origin  and  growth  of  the 
| moral  faculty,  or  principle,  derived  from  Hartley’s 
j Theory  of  Association,  and  insists  repeatedly  on  the 
; value  of  utility,  or  beneficial  tendency,  as  the  great 
1 test  or  criterion  of  moral  action.  Some  of  the  posi- 
tions in  Mackintosh’s  Discourse  were  combated  with 
unnecessary  and  unphilosophical  asperity  by  James 
Mill,  author  of  an  able  Analysis  of  the  Phenomena  of 
the  Human  Mind , 1829,  in  an  anonymous  Fragment 
on  Mackintosh.  Mill  was  a bold  and  original  thinker, 
but  somewhat  coarse  and  dogmatical.  In  1830  Du 
John  Abercrombie  (1781-1841)  published  Inquiries 
! Concerning  the  Intellectual  Powers  and  the  Investigation 
l of  Truth — a popular  metaphysical  work,  directed 
! chiefly  against  materialism.  The  same  author 
published  The  Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings , 1833, 
and  some  medical  treatises. 

None  of  these  writers  viewed  mind  in  connection 
with  organisation,  but  this  mode  of  inquiry  has  been 
pursued  by  Dr  Gall  and  his  followers,  with  results 
which  are  popular  with  a considerable  portion  of  the 
public,  both  in  this  country  and  in  America.  The 
leading  doctrines  of  Gall  are,  that  the  brain  is  the 
organ  of  the  mind,  that  various  portions  of  the 
encephalon  are  the  organs  of  various  faculties  of  the 
mind,  and  that  volume  or  size  of  the  whole  brain 
and  its  various  parts  is,  other  circumstances  being 
equal,  the  measure  of  the  powers  of  the  mind  and 
its  various  faculties  in  individuals.  This  system  is 
founded  upon  observation — that  is  to  say,  it  was 
observed  that  large  brains,  unless  when  of  inferior 
quality,  or  in  an  abnormal  condition,  were  accom- 
panied by  superior  intellect  and  force  of  character ; 
also  that,  in  a vast  number  of  instances  which  were 
accurately  noticed,  a large  development  of  a special 
part  of  the  brain  was  accompanied  by  an  unusual 
demonstration  of  a certain  mental  character,  and 
never  by  the  opposite.  From  these  demonstrations 
the  fundamental  character  of  the  various  facul- 
ties was  sought  to  be  eliminated.  The  system  is 
well  known  under  the  name  of  Phrenology  ; and  it 
has  been  expounded  and  enforced,  in  clear  and 
admirable  English,  by  the  late  Mr  George  Comde 
(1788-1858).  Mr  Combe  was  a Writer  to  the 
Signet  in  Edinburgh,  but  strongly  attached  to 
literary  and  philosophical  pursuits.  He  was  much 
respected  by  his  fellow-citizens,  and  was  known 
over  all  Europe  and  America  for  his  speculations  on 
mental  science,  the  criminal  law,  the  currency,  &c. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  COMBE. 


The  principal  works  of  Mr  Combe  are  Essays  on 
Phrenology , 1819  ; The  Constitution  of  Man , 1828  ; 
System  of  Phrenology , 1836;  Notes  on  the  United 


and  to  tame  those  passions  which  are  never  to  rage.’ 
In  Crabbe’s  Tales  of  the  Hall  a character  is  thus 
described : 


George  Combe. 


States  of  America,  three  volumes,  1841 ; Phrenology 
applied  to  Painting  and  Sculpture;  and  pamphlets 
on  the  Relation  between  Science  and  Religion,  on 
Capital  Punishments , on  National  Education , the 
Currency  Question,  &c. 


[ Distinction  between  Power  and  Activity.] 

[From  the  System  of  Phrenology.'] 

There  is  a great  distinction  between  power  and 
activity  of  mind;  and  it  is  important  to  keep  this 
difference  in  view.  Power,  strictly  speaking,  is  the 
capability  of  thinking,  feeling,  or  perceiving,  however 
small  in  amount  that  capability  may  be  ; and  in  this 
sense  it  is  synonymous  with  faculty : action  is  the 
exercise  of  power ; while  activity  denotes  the  quickness, 
great  or  small,  with  which  the  action  is  performed,  and 
also  the  degree  of  proneness  to  act.  The  distinction 
between  power,  action,  and  activity  of  the  mental 
faculties,  is  widely  recognised  by  describers  of  human 
nature.  Thus  Cowper  says  of  the  more  violent  affective 
faculties  of  man : 


‘ His  passions,  like  the  watery  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep, 

Wait  but  the  lashes  of  a wintry  storm, 

To  frown,  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form.’— Hope. 


I 


Again : 


* In  every  heart 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war; 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze.’ 

— The  Task 


, B. 


Dr  Thomas  Brown,  in  like  manner,  speaks  of  latent 
propensities;  that  is  to  say,  powers  not  in  action. 
* Vice  already  formed,’  says  he,  ‘ is  almost  beyond  our 
power ; it  is  only  in  the  state  of  latent  propensity 
that  we  can  with  much  reason  expect  to  overcome  it 
by  the  moral  motives  which  we  are  capable  of  present- 
ing : ’ ancl  he  alludes  to  the  great  extent  of  knowledge 
of  human  nature  requisite  to  enable  us  ‘ to  distinguish 
this  propensity  before  it  has  expanded  itself,  and  even 
before  it  is  known  to  the  very  mind  in  which  it  exists, 


‘ He  seemed  without  a passion  to  proceed. 

Or  one  whose  passions  no  correction  need ; 

Yet  some  believed  those  passions  only  slept. 

And  were  in  bounds  by  early  habit  kept.’ 

‘Nature,’  says  Lord  Bacon,  ‘will  be  buried  a great 
time,  and  yet  revive  upon  the  occasion  or  temptation ; 
like  as  it  was  with  iEsop’s  damsel,  turned  from  a cat 
to  a woman,  who  sat  very  demurely  at  the  board’s  end 
till  a mouse  ran  before  her.’  In  short,  it  is  plain  that  we 
may  have  the  capability  of  feeling  an  emotion — as  anger 
fear,  or  pity — and  that  yet  this  power  may  be  inactive, 
insomuch  that,  at  any  particular  time,  these  emotions 
may  be  totally  absent  from  the  mind ; and  it  is  no 
less  plain,  that  we  may  have  the  capability  of  seeing, 
tasting,  calculating,  reasoning,  and  composing  music, 
without  actually  performing  these  operations. 

It  is  equally  easy  to  distinguish  activity  from  action 
and  power.  When  power  is  exercised,  the  action  may 
be  performed  with  very  different  degrees  of  rapidity. 
Two  individuals  may  each  be  solving  a problem  in 
arithmetic,  but  one  may  do  so  with  far  greater  quickness 
than  the  other;  in  other  words,  his  faculty  of  Number 
may  be  more  easily  brought  into  action.  He  who  solves 
abstruse  problems  slowly,  manifests  much  power  with 
little  activity;  while  he  who  can  quickly  solve  easy 
problems,  and  them  alone,  has  much  activity  with  little 
power.  The  man  who  calculates  difficult  problems  with 
great  speed,  manifests  in  a high  degree  both  power  and 
activity  of  the  faculty  of  Number. 

As  commonly  employed,  the  word  power  is  synony- 
mous with  strength,  or  much  power,  instead  of  denoting 
mere  capacity,  whether  much  or  little,  to  act;  while 
by  activity  is  usually  understood  much  quickness  of 
action,  and  great  proneness  to  act.  As  it  is  desirable, 
however,  to  avoid  every  chance  of  ambiguity,  I shall 
employ  the  words  power  and  activity  in  the  sense  first 
before  explained ; and  to  high  degrees  of  power  I shall 
apply  the  terms  energy,  intensity,  strength,  or  vigour; 
while  to  great  activity  I shall  apply  the  terms  vivacity, 
agility,  rapidity,  or  quickness. 

In  physics,  strength  is  quite  distinguishable  from 
quickness.  The  balance-wheel  of  a watch  moves  with 
much  rapidity,  but  so  slight  is  its  impetus,  that  a hair 
would  suffice  to  stop  it ; the  beam  of  a steam-engine 
progresses  slowly  and  massively  through  space,  but  its 
energy  is  prodigiously  great. 

In  muscular  action  these  qualities  are  recognised  with 
equal  facility  as  different.  The  greyhound  bounds  over 
hill  and  dale  with  animated  agility  ; but  a slight  obstacle 
would  counterbalance  his  momentum,  and  arrest  his 
progress.  The  elephant,  on  the  other  hand,  rolls  slowly 
and  heavily  along ; but  the  impetus  of  his  motion  would 
sweep  away  an  impediment  sufficient  to  resist  fifty 
greyhounds  at  the  summit  of  their  speed. 

In  mental  manifestations — considered  apart  from 
organisation — the  distinction  between  energy  and  viva- 
city is  equally  palpable.  On  the  stage  Mrs  Siddons 
and  Mr  John  Kemble  were  remarkable  for  the  solemn 
deliberation  of  their  manner,  both  in  declamation  and 
in  action,  and  yet  they  were  splendidly  gifted  with 
energy.  They  carried  captive  at  once  the  sympathies 
and  the  understanding  of  the  audience,  and  made  every 
man  feel  his  faculties  expanding,  and  his  whole  mind 
becoming  greater  under  the  influence  of  their  power. 
Other  performers,  again,  are  remarkable  for  agility  of 
action  and  elocution,  who,  nevertheless,  are  felt  to  be 
feeble  and  ineffective  in  rousing  an  audience  to  emotion. 
Vivacity  is  their  distinguishing  attribute,  with  an 
absence  of  vigour.  At  the  bar,  in  the  pulpit,  and  in  the 
senate,  the  same  distinction  prevails.  Many  members 
of  the  learned  professions  display  great  fluency  of 
elocution  and  felicity  of  illustration,  surprising  us  with 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


the  quickness  of  their  parts,  who,  nevertheless,  are  felt 
to  he  neither  impressive  nor  profound.  They  exhibit 
acuteness  without  depth,  and  ingenuity  without  compre- 
hensiveness of  understanding.  This  also  proceeds  from 
vivacity  with  little  energy.  There  are  other  public 
speakers,  again,  who  open  heavily  in  debate — their 
faculties  acting  slowly  but  deeply,  like  the  first  heave  of 
a mountain  wave.  Their  words  fall  like  minute-guns 
upon  the  ear,  and  to  the  superficial  they  appear  about 
to  terminate  ere  they  have  begun  their  efforts.  But 
even  their  first  accent  is  one  of  power ; it  rouses 
and  arrests  attention ; their  very  pauses  are  expressive, 
and  indicate  gathering  energy  to  be  embodied  in  the 
sentence  that  is  to  come.  "When  fairly  animated,  they 
are  impetuous  as  the  torrent,  brilliant  as  the  lightning’s 
beam,  and  overwhelm  and  take  possession  of  feebler 
minds,  impressing  them  irresistibly  with  a feeling  of 
gigantic  power. 

The  distinction  between  vivacity  and  energy  is  well 
illustrated  by  Cowper  in  one  of  his  letters.  ‘The  mind 
and  body,’  says  he,  ‘have  in  this  respect  a striking 
resemblance  of  each  other.  In  childhood  they  are  both 
nimble,  but  not  strong ; they  can  skip  and  frisk  about 
with  wonderful  agility,  but  hard  labour  spoils  them 
both.  In  maturer  years  they  become  less  active  but 
more  vigorous,  more  capable  of  fixed  application,  and 
can  make  themselves  sport  with  that  which  a little 
earlier  would  have  affected  them  with  intolerable 
fatigue.’  Dr  Charlton  also,  in  his  Brief  Discourse 
concerning  the  Different  TT7fs  of  Men,  has  admirably 
described  two  characters,  in  one  of  which  strength  is 
displayed  without  vivacity,  and  in  the  other  vivacity 
without  strength ; the  latter  he  calls  the  man  of  ‘ nimble 
wit,’  the  former  the  man  of  ‘ slow  but  sure  wit’  In  this 
respect  the  French  character  may  be  contrasted  with  the 
Scotch. 

As  a general  rule,  the  largest  organs  in  each  head 
have  naturally  the  greatest,  and  the  smallest  the  least, 
tendency  to  act,  and  to  perform  their  functions  with 
rapidity. 

The  temperaments  also  indicate  the  amount  of  this 
tendency.  The  nervous  is  the  most  vivacious,  next 
the  sanguine,  then  the  bilious,  while  the  lymphatic  is 
characterised  by  proneness  to  inaction. 

In  a lymphatic  brain,  great  size  may  be  present  and 
few  manifestations  occur  through  sluggishness;  but  if 
a strong  external  stimulus  be  presented,  energy  often 
appears.  If  the  brain  be  very  small,  no  degree  of 
stimulus,  either  external  or  internal,  will  cause  great 
power  to  be  manifested. 

A certain  combination  of  organs — namely,  Combat- 
iveness, Destructiveness,  Hope,  Firmness,  Acquisitiveness, 
and  Love  of  Approbation,  all  large — is  favourable  to 
general  vivacity  of  mind  ; and  another  combination — 
namely,  Combativeness,  Destructiveness,  Hope,  Firm- 
ness, and  Acquisitiveness,  small  or  moderate,  with  Vener- 
ation and  Benevolence  large — is  frequently  attended  with 
sluggishness  of  the  mental  character ; but  the  activity 
of  the  whole  brain  is  constitutionally  greater  in  some 
individuals  than  in  others,  as  already  explained.  It 
may  even  happen  that,  in  the  same  individual,  one 
organ  is  naturally  more  active  than  another,  without 
reference  to  size,  just  as  the  optic  nerve  is  sometimes 
more  irritable  than  the  auditory;  but  this  is  by  no 
means  a common  occurrence.  Exercise  greatly  increases 
activity  as  well  as  power,  and  hence  arise  the  benefits 
of  education.  Dr  Spurzheim  thinks  that  ‘long  fibres 
produce  more  activity,  and  thick  fibres  more  intensity.’ 

The  doctrine,  that  size  is  a measure  of  power,  is  not 
to  be  held  as  implying  that  much  power  is  the  only  or 
even  the  most  valuable  quality  which  a mind  in  all 
circumstances  can  possess.  To  drag  artillery  over  a 
mountain,  or  a ponderous  wagon  through  the  streets  of 
London,  we  would  prefer  an  elephant  or  a horse  of  great 
size  and  muscular  power  ; while,  for  graceful  motion, 
agility,  and  nimbleness,  we  would  select  an  Arabian 


palfrey.  In  like  manner,  to  lead  men  in  gigantic  and 
difficult  enterprises — to  command  by  native  greatness, 
in  perilous  times,  when  law  is  trampled  under  foot — to 
call  forth  the  energies  of  a people,  and  direct  them 
against  a tyrant  at  home,  or  an  alliance  of  tyrants 
abroad — to  stamp  the  impress  of  a single  mind  upon  a 
nation — to  infuse  strength  into  thoughts,  and  depth 
into  feelings,  which  shall  command  the  homage  of 
| enlightened  men  in  every  age — in  short,  to  be  a Bruce, 
Bonaparte,  Luther,  Knox,  Demosthenes,  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  or  Cromwell — a large  brain  is  indispensably 
requisite.  But  to  display  skill,  enterprise,  and  fidelity 
in  the  various  professions  of  civil  life — to  cultivate  with 
success  the  less  arduous  branches  of  philosophy — to 
excel  in  acuteness,  taste,  and  felicity  of  expression — 
to  acquire  extensive  erudition  and  refined  manners — a 
brain  of  a moderate  size  is  perhaps  more  suitable  than 
one  that  is  very  large ; for  wherever  the  energy  is  intense, 
it  is  rare  that  delicacy,  refinement,  and  taste  are  present, 

; in  an  equal  degree.  Individuals  possessing  moderate- 
I sized  brains  easily  find  their  proper  sphere,  and  enjoy  in 
it  scope  for  all  their  energy.  In  ordinary  circumstances 
they  distinguish  themselves,  but  they  sink  when  diffi- 
culties accumulate  around  them.  Persons  with  large 
brains,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  readily  attain  their 
appropriate  place ; common  occurrences  do  not  rouse  or 
call  them  forth,  and,  while  unknown,  they  are  not  trusted 
with  great  undertakings.  Often,  therefore,  such  men 
pine  and  die  in  obscurity.  When,  however,  they  attain 
their  proper  element,  they  are  conscious  of  greatness,  and 
glory  in  the  expansion  of  their  powers.  Their  mental 
energies  rise  in  proportion  to  the  obstacles  to  be 
surmounted,  and  blaze  forth  in  all  the  magnificence 
of  self-sustaining  energetic  genius,  on  occasions  when 
feebler  minds  would  sink  in  despair. 


THEOLOGIANS. 

DR  SAMUEL  PARR. 

Dr  Samuel  Parr  (1747-1825)  was  better  known 
as  a classical  scholar  than  a theologian.  His  sermons 
on  education  (1780)  are,  however,  marked  with 
cogency  of  argument  and  liberality  of  feeling.  His 
celebrated  Spital  sermon  (1800),  when  printed, 
presented  the  singular  anomaly  of  fifty-one  pages 
of  text  and  two  hundred  and  twelve  of  notes.  Mr 
Godwin  attacked  some  of  the  principles  laid  down 
I in  this  discourse,  as  not  sufficiently  democratic  for 
I his  taste ; for  though  a stanch  Whig,  Parr  was  no 
revolutionist  or  leveller.  His  object  was  to  extend 
education  among  the  poor,  and  to  ameliorate  their 
condition  by  gradual  and  constitutional  means.  Dr 
Parr  was  long  head-master  of  Norwich  School ; and 
in  knowledge  of  Greek  literature  was  not  surpassed 
by  any  scholar  of  his  day.  His  uncompromising 
support  of  Whig  principles,  his  extensive  learning, 
and  a certain  pedantry  and  oddity  of  character, 
rendered  him  always  conspicuous  among  his  brother- 
churchmen.  He  died  at  Hatton,  in  Warwickshire, 
the  perpetual  curacy  of  which  he  had  enjoyed  for 
above  forty  years,  and  where  he  had  faithfully 
discharged  his  duties  as  a parish  pastor. 

DR  EDWARD  MALTBT. 

Edward  Maltby,  successively  Bishop  of  Chiches- 
ter and  Durham,  was  bom  in  Norwich,  April  6, 
1770.  In  his  eighth  year  he  became  a pupil  of  Dr 
Parr,  who  was  afterwards  his  warm  friend  and  con- 
stant correspondent.  In  1785  Dr  Parr  retired  from 
the  school  at  Norwich,  and  as  his  pupil  was  too 
young  to  go  to  the  university,  Parr  said  to  him: 
‘ Ned,  you  have  got  Greek  and  Latin  enough.  You 
must  go  to  Dr  Warton  at  Winchester,  and  from  him 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  T.  H.  HORNE — REV.  R.  HALL. 


acquire  taste  and  the  art  of  composition.’  In  1788 
Mr  Maltby  commenced  his  residence  at  Pembroke 
Hall  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  where  he 
became  a distinguished  scholar,  carrying  off  the 
highest  academical  honours.  Having  entered  the 
church,  he  received  in  1794  the  living  of  Buckden 
in  Huntingdonshire,  and  Holbeaoli  in  Lincolnshire. 
In  1823,  he  was  elected  preacher  of  Lincoln’s  Inn; 
in  1831,  he  was  promoted  to  the  see  of  Chichester ; 
and  in  1836,  was  translated  to  that  of  Durham. 
After  holding  the  see  of  Durham  for  about  twenty 
years,  his  sight  began  to  fail,  with  other  infirmities 
of  age,  and  he  obtained  permission  to  resign  the 
see  in  the  year  1856.  Bishop  Maltby  is  author  of 
Illustrations  of  the  Truth  of  the  Christian  Religion 
(1802),  several  volumes  of  Sermons,  an  improved 
edition  of  Morell’s  Thesaurus — a work  of  great 
research  and  value — and  several  detached  sermons, 
charges,  &c.  While  Bishop  of  Durham,  Dr  Maltby 
was  of  eminent  service  to  the  university  there,  and 
was  distinguished  no  less  for  his  scholastic  tastes 
and  acquirements  than  for  his  liberality  towards 
all  other  sects  and  churches. 


HR  THOMAS  H.  HORNE — HR  HERBERT  MARSH. 

One  of  the  most  useful  of  modern  Biblical  works 
is  The  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Scriptures,  by 
Thomas  Hartwell  IIorne,  D.D.  (born  in  1780, 
and  one  of  the  scholars  of  Christ’s  Hospital).  The 
first  edition  of  the  Introduction  appeared  in  1818, 
in  three  volumes,  and  it  has  since  been  enlarged 
into  five  volumes : the  tenth  edition  appeared 
in  1856.  The  most  competent  critical  authorities 
have  concurred  in  eulogising  this  work  as  the  most 
valuable  introduction  to  the  sacred  writings  which 
has  ever  been  published.  The  venerable  author 
still  officiates  as  rector  of  a London  parish,  and  has 
a prebend  in  St  Paul’s  Cathedral.  He  is  author  of 
a vast  number  of  theological  treatises  and  of  con- 
tributions to  periodical  works. 

Dr  Herbert  Marsh,  bishop  of  Peterborough, 
who  died  in  May  1839  at  an  advanced  age,  obtained 
distinction  as  the  translator  and  commentator  of 
Michaelis’s  Introduction  to  the  New  Testament,  one 
of  the  most  valuable  of  modern  Avorks  on  divinity. 
In  1807  this  divine  was  appointed  Lady  Margaret’s 
professor  of  divinity  in  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
in  1816  he  was  made  bishop  of  Llandaff,  and  in 
1819  he  succeeded  to  the  see  of  Peterborough. 
Besides  his  edition  of  Michaelis,  Dr  Marsh  published 
Lectures  on  Divinity,  and  a Comparative  View  of  the 
Churches  of  England  and  Rome.  He  Avas  author  also 
of  some  controversial  tracts  on  the  Catholic  question, 
the  Bible  society,  &c.,  in  which  he  evinced  great 
acuteness,  tinctured  with  asperity.  In  early  life, 
during  a residence  in  Germany,  Dr  Marsh  published, 
in  the  German  language,  various  tracts  in  defence 
of  the  policy  of  his  own  country  in  the  continental 
wars ; and  more  particularly  a very  elaborate  His- 
tory of  the  Politics  of  Great  Britain  and  France,  from 
the  Time  of  the  Con  ference  at  Pilnitz  to  the  Declaration 
of  War,  a work  which  is-  said  to  have  produced  a 
marked  impression  on  the  state  of  public  opinion  in 
Germany,  and  for  Avliich  he  received  a very  consider- 
able pension  on  the  recommendation  of  Mr  Pitt. 

ARCHBISHOP  ANH  BISHOP  SUMNER— 

HR  D’OYLY — ETC. 

The  brothers,  Drs  Sumner,  have  earned  merited 
distinction  and  high  preferment  in  the  church. 
The  primate  of  England,  Dr  John  Bird  Sumner, 
lord-archbishop  of  Canterbury  (born  in  1780  at 


Kenilworth,  in  Warwickshire)  in  1816  published  an 
Examination  of  St  Paul's  Epistles ; in  1821,  Sermons 
on  the  Christian  Faith  and  Character;  in  1822, 
Treatise  on  the  Records  of  Creation  (appealed  to  by 
Sir  Charles  Lyell  as  a proof  that  revelation  and 
geology  are  not  discordant) ; in  1824,  Evidences  of 
Christianity,  &c.  These  works  have  all  been  very 
popular,  and  have  gone  through  a great  number  of 
editions.  Dr  Charles  Richard  Sumner  (born  in 
1790)  in  1822  published  a treatise  on  the  Ministerial 
Character  of  Christ.  In  1823  he  was  intrusted  Avith 
the  editing  and  translating  Milton’s  long-lost  trea- 
tise on  Christian  Doctrine,  and  Macaulay  has  warmly 
praised  the  manner  in  Avhich  he  discharged  his  task. 
The  charges  and  public  appearances  of  this  prelate 
have  all  been  of  a liberal  evangelical  character. 

Dr  George  D’Oyly  (1778-1846),  in  conjunction 
with  Dr  Richard  Mant — afterwards  bishop  of 
DoAvn  and  Connor — prepared  an  annotated  edition 
of  the  Bible,  1813-14,  to  be  published  by  the  Society 
for  the  Promotion  of  Christian  Knowledge.  This 
Avork  has  been  frequently  reprinted  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  and  is  held  in  high  repute  as  a popular 
library  of  divinity.  Dr  D’Oyly  published  various 
volumes  of  sermons  and  other  theological  treatises, 
and  Avas  a contributor  to  the  Quarterly  Review.  Dr 
Mant  Avas  also  a popular  Avriter  of  sermons. — The 
Rev.  Christopher  Benson,  prebendary  of  Wor- 
cester, is  author  of  the  Chronology  of  our  Saviour’s 
Life,  1819  ; Twenty  Discourses  preached  before  the 
University  of  Cambridge , 1820 ; the  Hulsean  Lectures 
for  1822,  On  Scripture  Difficulties,  &c. — The  sermons 
of  the  Rev.  Charles  Webb  Le  Bas,  professor  in 
the  East  India  College,  Hertfordshire  (1828),  have 
also  been  well  received. 

An  American  divine,  Dr  Timothy  Dwight 
(1752-1817),  is  author  of  a comprehensive  work, 
Theology  Explained  and  Defended,  Avhich  has  long 
been  popular  in  this  country  as  Avell  as  in  the 
United  States.  It  consists  of  a series  of  173  ser- 
mons, developing  a scheme  of  didactic  theology, 
founded  upon  moderate  Calvinism.  The  work  has 
gone  through  six  or  eight  editions  in  England, 
besides  almost  innumerable  editions  in  America. 
Dr  Dwight  Avas  president  of  Yale  College  from  1795 
until  his  death,  and  was  a voluminous  Avriter  in 
poetry,  history,  philosophy,  and  divinity.  Plis 
latest  work,  Travels  in  New  England  and  Neiv  York, 
four  volumes,  gives  an  interesting  and  faithful 
account  of  the  author’s  native  country,  its  progress, 
and  condition. 


REV.  ROBERT  HALL. 

The  Rev.  Robert  Hall,  A.M.,  is  justly  regarded 
as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  the 
body  of  English  dissenters.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
Baptist  minister,  and  born  at  Arnsby,  near  Leicester, 
on  the  2d  of  May  1764.  He  studied  divinity  at  an 
academy  in  Bristol  for  the  education  of  young  men 
preparing  for  the  ministerial  office  among  the 
Baptists,  and  was  admitted  a preacher  in  1780,  but 
next  year  attended  King’s  College,  Aberdeen.  Sir 
James  Mackintosh  was  at  the  same  time  a student 
of  the  university,  and  the  congenial  tastes  and  pur- 
suits of  the  young  men  led  to  an  intimate  friendship 
between  them.  From  their  partiality  to  Greek 
literature,  they  Avere  named  by  their  class-fellows 
‘ Plato  and  Herodotus.’  Both  were  also  attached  to 
the  study  of  morals  and  metaphysics,  which  they 
cherished  through  life.  Hall  entered  the  church  as 
assistant  to  a Baptist  minister  at  Bristol,  whence  he 
removed  in  1790  to  Cambridge.  He  first  appeared 
as  an  author  by  publishing  a controversial  pamphlet, 


FROM  1800 


entitled  Christianity  Consistent  with  a Love  of  Free- 
\ dom,  which  appeared  in  1791 ; in  1793  he  published 
i his  eloquent  and  powerful  treatise,  An  Apology  for 
the  Freedom  of  the  Press ; and  in  1799  his  sermon, 
Modern  Infidelity  considered  with  respect  to  its  Influence 
on  Society.  The  latter  was  designed  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  infidelity  which  had  set  in  with  the  French 
Revolution,  and  is  no  less  remarkable  for  profound 
thought  than  for  the  elegance  of  its  style,  and  the 


Rev.  Robert  Hall. 


splendour  of  its  imagery.  His  celebrity  as  a writer 
was  further  extended  by  his  Reflections  on  War , a 
sermon  published  in  1802 ; and  The  Sentiments  proper 
to  the  Present  Crisis,  another  sermon  preached  in 
1803,  The  latter  is  highly  eloquent  and  spirit- 
stirring — possessing,  indeed,  the  fire  and  energy  of 
a martial  lyric  or  Avar-song.  In  November  1804 
the  noble  intellect  of  Mr  Hall  Avas  deranged,  in  con- 
sequence of  severe  study  operating  on  an  ardent  and 
susceptible  temperament.  His  friends  set  on  foot 
a subscription  for  pecuniary  assistance,  and  a life- 
annuity  of  £100  Avas  procured  for  him.  He  shortly 
afterwards  resumed  his  ministerial  functions,  but  in 
about  twelve  months  he  had  another  attack.  This 
also  was  speedily  removed ; but  Mr  Hall  resigned  his 
church  at  Cambridge.  On  his  complete  recovery, 
he  became  pastor  of  a congregation  at  Leicester, 
Avhere  he  resided  for  about  twenty  years.  During 
this  time  he  published  a few  sermons  and  criticisms 
in  the  Eclectic  Review.  The  labour  of  writing  for 
the  press  Avas  opposed  to  his  habits  and  feelings. 
He  Avas  fastidious  as  to  style,  and  he  suffered  under 
a disease  in  the  spine  which  entailed  upon  him 
acute  pain.  A sermon  on  the  death  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte  in  1819  was  justly  considered  one  of  the 
most  impressive,  touching,  and  lofty  of  his  dis- 
courses. In  1826  he  removed  from  Leicester  to 
Bristol,  Avhere  he  officiated  in  charge  of  the  Baptist 
congregation  till  Avithin  a fortnight  of  his  death, 
which  took  place  on  the  21st  of  February  1831. 
The  masculine  intellect  and  extensive  acquirements 
of  Mr  Hall  have  seldom  been  found  united  to  so 
much  rhetorical  and  even  poetical  brilliancy  of 
imagination.  His  taste  was  more  refined  than  that 
of  Burke,  and  his  style  more  chaste  and  correct. 

528 


to  1830. 


His  solid  learning  and  unfeigned  piety  gave  a 
Aveight  and  impressiveness  to  all  he  uttered  and 
wrote,  Avhile  his  classic  taste  enabled  him  to  clothe 
his  thoughts  and  imagery  in  language  the  most 
appropriate,  beautiful,  and  commanding.  Those  who 
listened  to  his  pulpit  ministrations  Avere  entranced 
by  his  fervid  eloquence,  Avhich  truly  disclosed  the 
‘ beauty  of  holiness,’  and  melted  by  the  aAve  and 
fervour  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the  mysteries  of 
death  and  eternity.  His  published  writings  give 
but  a brief  and  inadequate  picture  of  his  varied 
talents ; yet  they  are  so  highly  finished,  and  display 
such  a combination  of  different  powers — of  logical 
precision,  metaphysical  acuteness,  practical  sense 
and  sagacity,  with  a rich  and  luxuriant  imagination, 
and  all  the  graces  of  composition — that  they  must 
be  considered  among  the  most  valuable  contributions 
made  to  modern  theological  literature.  A complete 
edition  of  his  Avorks  has  been  published,  Avith  a 
life,  by  Dr  Olinthus  Gregory,  in  six  volumes. 

[On  Wisdom .] 

Every  other  quality  besides  is  subordinate  and  inferior 
to  wisdom,  in  the  same  sense  as  the  mason  who  lays 
the  bricks  and  stones  in  a building  is  inferior  to  the 
architect  who  dreAv  the  plan  and  superintends  the  work. 
The  former  executes  only  what  the  latter  contrives  and 
directs.  Now,  it  is  the  prerogative  of  wisdom  to  preside 
OA'er  every  inferior  principle,  to  regulate  the  exercise  of 
every  power,  and  limit  the  indulgence  of  every  appetite, 
as  shall  best  conduce  to  one  great  end.  It  being  the 
province  of  wisdom  to  preside,  it  sits  as  umpire  on 
every  difficulty,  and  so  gives  the  final  direction  and 
control  to  all  the  powers  of  our  nature.  Hence  it  is 
entitled  to  be  considered  as  the  top  and  summit  of  per- 
fection. It  belongs  to  wisdom  to  determine  when  to 
act,  and  when  to  cease — when  to  reveal,  and  when  to 
conceal  a matter — when  to  speak,  and  when  to  keep 
silence — when  to  give,  and  when  to  receive ; in  short, 
to  regulate  the  measure  of  all  things,  as  well  as  to 
determine  the  end,  and  provide  the  means  of  obtaining 
the  end  pursued  in  every  deliberate  course  of  action. 
Every  particular  faculty  or  skill,  besides,  needs  to 
derive  direction  from  this ; they  are  all  quite  incapable 
of  directing  themselves.  The  art  of  navigation,  for 
instance,  will  teach  us  to  steer  a ship  across  the  ocean, 
but  it  will  never  teach  us  on  Avhat  occasions  it  is  proper 
to  take  a voyage.  The  art  of  war  will  instruct  us  how 
to  marshal  an  army,  or  to  fight  a battle  to  the  greatest 
advantage,  but  you  must  learn  from  a higher  school 
when  it  is  fitting,  just,  and  proper  to  wage  war  or  to 
make  peace.  The  art  of  the  husbandman  is  to  sow  and 
bring  to  maturity  the  precious  fruits  of  the  earth  ; it 
belongs  to  another  skill  to  regulate  their  consumption 
by  a regard  to  our  health,  fortune,  and  other  circum- 
stances. In  short,  there  is  no  faculty  we  can  exert,  no 
species  of  skill  we  can  apply,  but  requires  a superin- 
tending hand — but  looks  up,  as  it  were,  to  some  higher 
principle,  as  a maid  to  her  mistress  for  direction,  and 
this  universal  superintendent  is  Avisdom. 

[From  the  Funerul  Sermon  for  the  Princess  Charlotte 
of  Wales.'] 

Born  to  inherit  the  most  illustrious  monarchy  in  the 
world,  and  united  at  an  early  period  to  the  object  of 
her  choice,  whose  virtues  amply  justified  her  preference, 
she  enjoyed  (what  is  not  always  the  privilege  of  that 
rank)  the  highest  connubial  felicity,  and  had  the  pros- 
pect of  combining  all  the  tranquil  enjoyments  of  private 
life  with  the  splendour  of  a royal  station.  Placed  on 
the  summit  of  society,  to  her  every  eye  was  turned,  in 
her  every  hope  was  centered,  and  nothing  was  wanting 
to  complete  her  felicity  except  perpetuity.  To  a 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THEOLOGIANS. 


REV.  JOHN  FOSTER. 


grandeur  of  mind  suited  to  her  royal  birth  and  lofty 
destination,  she  joined  an  exquisite  taste  for  the 
beauties  of  nature  and  the  charms  of  retirement,  where, 
far  from  the  gaze  of  the  multitude,  and  the  frivolous 
agitations  of  fashionable  life,  she  employed  her  hours  in 
visiting,  with  her  distinguished  consort,  the  cottages  of 
the  poor,  in  improving  her  virtues,  in  perfecting  her 
reason,  and  acquiring  the  knowledge  best  adapted  to 
qualify  her  for  the  possession  of  power  and  the  cares  of 
empire.  One  thing  only  was  wanting  to  render  our 
satisfaction  complete  in  the  prospect  of  the  accession  of 
such  a princess ; it  was,  that  she  might  become  the 
living  mother  of  children. 

The  long-wished-for  moment  at  length  arrived ; but, 
alas  ! the  event  anticipated  with  such  eagerness  will 
form  the  most  melancholy  part  of  our  history. 

It  is  no  reflection  on  this  amiable  princess  to  suppose 
that  in  her  early  dawn,  with  the  dew  of  her  youth  so 
fresh  upon  her,  she  anticipated  a long  series  of  years, 
and  expected  to  be  led  through  successive  scenes  of 
enchantment,  rising  above  each  other  in  fascination  and 
beauty.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  she  identified  herself 
with  this  great  nation  which  she  was  born  to  govern ; 
and  that,  while  she  contemplated  its  pre-eminent  lustre 
in  arts  and  in  arms,  its  commerce  encircling  the  globe, 
its  colonies  diffused  through  both  hemispheres,  and  the 
beneficial  effects  of  its  institutions  extending  to  the 
whole  earth,  she  considered  them  as  so  many  component 
parts  of  her  grandeur.  Her  heart,  we  may  well  con- 
ceive, would  often  be  ruffled  with  emotions  of  trembling 
ecstasy  when  she  reflected  that  it  was  her  province  to 
live  entirely  for  others,  to  compass  the  felicity  of  a great 
people,  to  move  in  a sphere  which,  would  afford  scope 
for  the  exercise  of  philanthropy  the  most  enlarged,  of 
wisdom  the  most  enlightened ; and  that,  while  others 
are  doomed  to  pass  through  the  world  in  obscurity,  she 
was  to  supply  the  materials  of  history,  and  to  impart 
that  impulse  to  society  which  was  to  decide  the  destiny 
of  future  generations.  Fired  with  the  ambition  of 
equalling  or  surpassing  the  most  distinguished  of  her 
predecessors,  she  probably  did  not  despair  of  reviving 
the  remembrance  of  the  brightest  parts  of  their  story, 
and  of  once  more  attaching  the  epoch  of  British  glory 
to  the  annals  of  a female  reign.  It  is  needless  to  add 
that  the  nation  went  with  her,  and  probably  outstripped 
her  in  these  delightful  anticipations.  We  fondly  hoped 
that  a life  so  inestimable  would  be  protracted  to  a 
distant  period,  and  that,  after  diffusing  the  blessings  of 
a just  and  enlightened  administration,  and  being  sur- 
rounded by  a numerous  progeny,  she  would  gradually, 
in  a good  old  age,  sink  under  the  horizon  amidst  the 
embraces  of  her  family  and  the  benedictions  of  her 
country.  But,  alas  ! these  delightful  visions  are  fled ; 
and  what  do  we  behold  in  their  room  but  the  funeral- 
pall  and  shroud,  a palace  in  mourning,  a nation  in 
tears,  and  the  shadow  of  death  settled  over  both  like  a 
cloud ! Oh  the  unspeakable  vanity  of  human  hopes ! 
— the  incurable  blindness  of  man  to  futurity ! — ever 
doomed  to  grasp  at  shadows ; ‘ to  seize  ’ with  avidity 
what  turns  to  dust  and  ashes  in  his  hands;  to  sow  the 
wind,  and  reap  the  whirlwind. 


REV.  JOHN  FOSTER. 

The  Rev.  John  Foster  (1770-1843)  was  author 
of  a volume  of  Essays , in  a Series  of  Letters , pub- 
lished in  1805,  which  was  justly  ranked  among  the 
most  original  and  valuable  works  of  the  day.  The 
essays  are  four  in  number — On  a Man’s  Writing 
Memoirs  of  Himself;  On  Decision  of  Character; 
On  the  Application  of  the  Epithet  Romantic ; and 
On  Some  of  the  Causes  by  which  Evangelical  Reli- 
gion has  been  rendered  less  acceptable  to  Persons 
of  Cultivated  Taste.  Mr  Foster’s  essays  are  excel- 
lent models  of  vigorous  thought  and  expression, 


uniting  metaphysical  nicety  and  acuteness  with  prac- 
tical sagacity  and  common  sense.  He  also  wrote  a 
volume  on  the  Evils  of  Popular  Ignorance , 1819,  and 
Contributions  to  the  Eclectic  Review , two  volumes, 
1844.  His  Lectures  delivered  at  Broadmead  Chapel, 
Bristol,  were  collected  and  published  1844-47. 
Like  Hall,  Mr  Foster  was  pastor  of  a Baptist 
congregation.  He  died  at  Stapleton,  near  Bristol. 

In  the  essay  On  a Man’s  Writing  Memoirs  of 
Himself,  Mr  Foster  speculates  on  the  various  phases 
of  a changeable  character,  and  on  the  contempt 
which  we  entertain  at  an  advanced  period  of  life  for 
what  we  were  at  an  earlier  period. 

[Changes  in  Life  and  Opinions .] 

Though  in  memoirs  intended  for  publication  a large 
share  of  incident  and  action  would  generally  be  neces- 
sary, yet  there  are  some  men  whose  mental  history 
alone  might  be  very  interesting  to  reflective  readers; 
as,  for  instance,  that  of  a thinking-man  remarkable  for 
a number  of  complete  changes  of  his  speculative  system. 
From  observing  the  usual  tenacity  of  views  once  deliber- 
ately adopted  in  mature  life,  we  regard  as  a curious 
phenomenon  the  man  whose  mind  has  been  a kind  of 
caravansera  of  opinions,  entertained  a while,  and  then 
sent  on  pilgrimage ; a man  who  has  admired  and  dis- 
missed systems  with  the  same  facility  with  which  John 
Buncle  found,  adored,  married,  and  interred  his  succes- 
sion of  wives,  each  one  being,  for  the  time,  not  only 
better  than  all  that  went  before,  but  the  best  in  the 
creation.  You  admire  the  versatile  aptitude  of  a mind 
sliding  into  successive  forms  of  belief  in  this  intellectual 
metempsychosis,  by  which  it  animates  so  many  new 
bodies  of  doctrines  in  their  turn.  And  as  none  of 
those  dying  pangs  which  hurt  you  in  a tale  of  India 
attend  the  desertion  of  each  of  these  speculative  forms 
which  the  soul  has  a while  inhabited,  you  are  extremely 
amused  by  the  number  of  transitions,  and  eagerly  ask 
what  is  to  be  the  next,  for  you  never  deem  the  present 
state  of  such  a man’s  views  to  be  for  permanence, 
unless  perhaps  when  he  has  terminated  his  course  of 
believing  everything  in  ultimately  believing  nothing. 
Even  then,  unless  he  is  very  old,  or  feels  more  pride  in 
being  a sceptic,  the  conqueror  of  all  systems,  than  he 
ever  felt  in  being  the  champion  of  one,  even  then  it  is 
very  possible  he  may  spring  up  again,  like  a vapour  of 
fire  from  a bog,  and  glimmer  through  new  mazes,  or 
retrace  his  course  through  half  of  those  which  he  trod 
before.  You  will  observe  that  no  respect  attaches  to 
this  Proteus  of  opinion  after  his  changes  have  been 
multiplied,  as  no  party  expect  him  to  remain  with  them, 
nor  deem  him  much  of  an  acquisition  if  he  should.  One, 
or  perhaps  two,  considerable  changes  will  be  regarded 
as  signs  of  a liberal  inquirer,  and  therefore  the  party 
to  which  his  first  or  his  second  intellectual  conversion 
may  assign  him  will  receive  him  gladly.  But  he  will  be 
deemed  to  have  abdicated  the  dignity  of  reason  when  it 
is  found  that  he  can  adopt  no  principles  but  to  betray 
them ; and  it  will  be  perhaps  justly  suspected  that  there 
is  something  extremely  infirm  in  the  structure  of  that 
mind,  whatever  vigour  may  mark  some  of  its  operations, 
to  which  a series  of  very  different,  and  sometimes  con- 
trasted theories,  can  appear  in  succession  demonstratively 
true,  and  which  imitates  sincerely  the  perverseness 
which  Petruchio  only  affected,  declaring  that  which  was 
yesterday  to  a certainty  the  sud,  to  be  to-day  as  certainly 
the  moon. 

It  would  be  curious  to  observe  in  a man,  who  should 
make  such  an  exhibition  of  the  course  of  his  mind,  the 
sly  deceit  of  self-love.  While  he  despises  the  system 
which  he  has  rejected,  he  does  not  deem  it  to  imply  so 
great  a want  of  sense  in  him  once  to  have  embraced  it, 
as  in  the  rest  who  were  then  or  are  now  its  disciples 
and  advocates.  No ; in  him  it  was  no  debility  of 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


reason ; it  was  at  the  utmost  ty.it  a merge  of  it ; and 
probably  be  is  prepared  to  explain  to  you  that  such 
peculiar  circumstances,  as  might  warp  even  a very  strong 
and  liberal  mind,  attended  bis  consideration  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  misled  him  to  admit  the  belief  of  what  others 
prove  themselves  fools  by  believing. 

Another  thing  apparent  in  a record  of  changed 
opinions  would  be,  what  I have  noticed  before,  that 
there  is  scarcely  any  such  thing  in  the  world  as  simple 
conviction.  It  would  he  amusing  to  observe  how  reason 
had,  in  one  instance,  been  overruled  into  acquiescence 
by  the  admiration  of  a celebrated  name,  or  in  another 
into  opposition  by  the  envy  of  it ; how  most  opportunely 
reason  discovered  the  truth  just  at  the  time  that 
interest  could  be  essentially  served  by  avowing  it ; how 
easily  the  impartial  examiner  could  he  induced  to  adopt 
some  part  of  another  man’s  opinions,  after  that  other 
had  zealously  approved  some  favourite,  especially  if 
unpopular  part  of  his,  as  the  Pharisees  almost  became 
partial  even  to  Christ  at  the  moment  that  he  defended 
one  of  their  doctrines  against  the  Sadducees.  It  would 
be  curious  to  see  how  a professed  respect  for  a man’s 
character  and  talents,  and  concern  for  his  interests, 
might  be  changed,  in  consequence  of  some  personal 
inattention  experienced  from  him,  into  illiberal  invective 
against  him  or  his  intellectual  performances,  and  yet 
the  railer,  though  actuated  solely  by  petty  revenge, 
account  himself  the  model  of  equity  and  candour  all  the 
while.  It  might  be  seen  how  the  patronage  of  power 
could  elevate  miserable  prejudices  into  revered  wisdom, 
while  poor  old  Experience  was  mocked  with  thanks  for 
her  instruction ; and  how  the  vicinity  or  society  of  the 
rich,  and,  as  they  are  termed,  great,  could  perhaps  melt 
a soul  that  seemed  to  be  of  the  stern  consistence  of  early 
Rome,  into  the  gentlest  wax  on  which  Corruption  could 
wish  to  imprint  the  venerable  creed — ‘ The  right  divine 
of  kings  to  govern  wrong,’  with  the  pious  inference 
that  justice  was  outraged  when  virtuous  Tarquin  was 
expelled.  I am  supposing  the  observer  to  perceive  all 
these  accommodating  dexterities  of  reason ; for  it  were 
probably  absurd  to  expect  that  any  mind  should  itself 
be  able  in  its  review  to  detect  all  its  own  obliquities, 
after  having  been  so  long  beguiled,  like  the  mariners  in 
a story  which  I remember  to  have  read,  who  followed 
the  direction  of  their  compass,  infallibly  right  as  they 
thought,  till  they  arrived  at  an  enemy’s  port,  where 
they  were  seized  and  doomed  to  slavery.  It  happened 
that  the  wicked  captain,  in  order  to  betray  the  ship, 
had  concealed  a large  loadstone  at  a little  distance  on 
one  side  of  the  needle. 

On  the  notions  and  expectations  of  one  stage  of  life  I 
suppose  all  reflecting  men  look  back  with  a kind  of  con- 
tempt, though  it  may  be  often  with  the  mingling  wish 
that  some  of  its  enthusiasm  of  feeling  could  be  recovered 
— I mean  the  period  between  proper  childhood  and 
maturity.  They  will  allow  that  their  reason  was  then 
feeble,  and  they  are  prompted  to  exclaim,  What  fools  we 
have  been — while  they  recollect  how  sincerely  they 
entertained  and  advanced  the  most  ridiculous  specula- 
tions on  the  interests  of  life  and  the  questions  of  truth ; 
how  regretfully  astonished  they  were  to  find  the  mature 
sense  of  some  of  those  around  them  so  completely  wrong  ; 
yet  in  other  instances,  what  veneration  they  felt  for 
authorities  for  which  they  have  since  lost  all  their 
respect ; what  a fantastic  importance  they  attached 
to  some  most  trivial  things;  what  complaints  against 
their  fate  were  uttered  on  account  of  disappointments 
which  they  have  since  recollected  with  gaiety  or  self- 
congratulation  ; what  happiness  of  Elysium  they  expected 
from  sources  which  would  soon  have  failed  to  impart 
even  common  satisfaction ; and  how  certain  they  were 
that  the  feelings  and  opinions  then  predominant  would 
continue  through  life. 

If  a reflective  aged  man  were  to  find  at  the  bottom  of 
an  old  chest — where  it  had  lain  forgotten  fifty  years — 
a record  which  he  had  written  of  himself  when  he  was 
530 


young,  simply  and  vividly  describing  his  whole  heart 
and  pursuits,  and  reciting  verbatim  many  passages  of 
the  language  which  he  sincerely  uttered,  would  he  not 
read  it  with  more  wonder  than  almost  every  other 
writing  could  at  his  age  inspire?  He  would  half  lose 
the  assurance  of  his  identity,  under  the  impression 
of  this  immense  dissimilarity.  It  would  seem  as  if  it 
must  be  the  tale  of  the  juvenile  days  of  some  ancestor, 
with  whom  he  had  no  connection  but  that  of  name. 

DR  ADAM  CLARKE. 

Another  distinguished  dissenter  was  Dr  Adam 
Clarke  (1760-1832),  a profound  oriental  scholar, 
author  of  a Commentary  on  the  Bible — a very  valu- 
able work — of  various  religious  treatises,  a Biblio- 
graphical Dictionary , &c.  He  was  also  editor  of  a 
collection  of  state-papers  supplementary  to  Rymer’s 
Fcedera.  Dr  Clarke  was  a native  of  Moybeg,  a 
village  in  Londonderry,  Ireland,  where  his  father  was 
a schoolmaster.  He  was  educated  at  Kingswood 
School,  an  establishment  of  Wesley’s  projecting  for 
the  instruction  of  itinerant  preachers.  In  due  time 
he  himself  became  a preacher ; and  so  indefatigable 
was  he  in  propagating  the  doctrines  of  the  Wesleyan 
persuasion,  that  he  twice  visited  Shetland,  and 
established  there  a Methodist  mission.  In  the  midst 
of  his  various  journeys  and  active  duties,  Dr  Clarke 
continued  those  researches  which  do  honour  to  his 
name.  He  fell  a victim  to  the  cholera  when  that 
fatal  pestilence  visited  our  shores. 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

The  Rev.  Archibald  Alison  (1757-1838)  was 
senior  minister  of  St  Paul’s  Chapel,  Edinburgh. 
After  a careful  education  at  Glasgow  University 
and  Balliol  College,  Oxford — where  he  took  his 
degree  of  B.C.L.  in  1784 — Mr  Alison  entered  into 
sacred  orders,  and  was  presented  to  different  livings 
by  Sir  William  Pulteney,  Lord  Loughborough,  and 
Dr  Douglas,  Bishop  of  Salisbury.  Having,  in  1784, 
married  the  daughter  of  Dr  John  Gregory  of  Edin- 
burgh, Mr  Alison  looked  forward  to  a residence  in 
Scotland,  but  it  was  not  till  the  close  of  the  last 
century  that  he  was  able  to  realise  his  wishes.  In 
1790  he  published  his  Essay  on  the  Nature  and 
Principles  of  Taste , and  in  1814  two  volumes  of 
sermons,  justly  admired  for  the  elegance  and  beauty 
of  their  language,  and  their  gentle  persuasive  incul- 
cation of  Christian  duty.  On  points  of  doctrine 
and  controversy  the  author  is  wholly  silent:  his 
writings,  as  one  of  his  critics  remarked,  were 
designed  for  those  who  ‘want  to  be  roused  to  a 
sense  of  the  beauty  and  the  good  that  exist  in  the 
universe  around  them,  and  who  are  only  indifferent 
to  the  feelings  of  their  fellow-creatures  and  negligent 
of  the  duties  they  impose,  for  want  of  some  persua- 
sive monitor  to  awake  the  dormant  capacities  of 
their  nature,  and  to  make  them  see  and  feel  the 
delights  which  providence  has  attached  to  their 
exercise.’  A selection  from  the  sermons  of  Mr 
Alison,  consisting  of  those  on  the  four  seasons, 
spring,  summer,  autumn,  and  winter,  was  afterwards 
printed  in  a small  volume. 

\From  the  Sermon  on  Autumn.] 

There  is  an  eventide  in  the  day — an  hour  when 
the  sun  retires  and  the  shadows  fall,  and  when  nature 
assumes  the  appearances  of  soberness  and  silence.  It 
is  an  hour  from  which  everywhere  the  thoughtless  fly, 
as  peopled  only  in  their  imagination  with  images  of 
gloom ; it  is  the  hour,  on  the  other  hand,  which,  in 


theologians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  dr  a.  Thomson — dr  t.  chalmers. 


every  age  the  wise  have  loved,  as  bringing  with  it 
sentiments  and  affections  more  valuable  than  all  the 
splendours  of  the  day. 

Its  first  impression  is  to  still  all  the  turbulence  of 
thought  or  passion  which  the  day  may  have  brought 
forth.  We  follow  with  our  eye  the  descending  sun — we 
listen  to  the  decaying  sounds  of  labour  and  of  toil ; and, 
when  all  the  fields  are  silent  around  us,  we  feel  a kin- 
dred stillness  to  breathe  upon  our  souls,  and  to  calm 
them  from  the  agitations  of  society.  From  this  first 
impression  there  is  a second  which  naturally  follows  it : 
in  the  day  we  are  living  with  men,  in  the  eventide  we 
begin  to  live  with  nature ; we  see  the  world  withdrawn 
from  us,  the  shades  of  night  darken  over  the  habita- 
tions of  men,  and  we  feel  ourselves  alone.  It  is  an 
hour  fitted,  as  it  would  seem,  by  Him  who  made  us  to 
still,  but  with  gentle  hand,  the  throb  of  every  unruly 
passion,  and  the  ardour  of  every  impure  desire;  and, 
while  it  veils  for  a time  the  world  that  misleads  us,  to 
awaken  in  our  hearts  those  legitimate  affections  which 
the  heat  of  the  day  may  have  dissolved.  There  is  yet  a 
further  scene  it  presents  to  us.  While  the  world  with- 
draws from  us,  and  while  the  shades  of  the  evening 
darken  upon  our  dwellings,  the  splendours  of  the  firma- 
ment come  forward  to  our  view.  In  the  moments 
when  earth  is  overshadowed,  heaven  opens  to  our  eyes 
the  radiance  of  a sublimer  being ; our  hearts  follow  the 
successive  splendours  of  the  scene ; and  while  we  forget 
for  a time  the  obscurity  of  earthly  concerns,  we  feel 
that  there  are  ‘ yet  greater  things  than  these.’ 

There  is,  in  the  second  place,  an  ‘eventide’  in  the 
year — a season,  as  we  now  witness,  when  the  sun  with- 
draws his  propitious  light,  when  the  winds  arise  and 
the  leaves  fall,  and  nature  around  us  seems  to  sink 
into  decay.  It  is  said,  in  general,  to  be  the  season  of 
melancholy ; and  if  by  this  word  be  meant  that  it  is 
the  time  of  solemn  and  of  serious  thought,  it  is  undoubt- 
edly the  season  of  melancholy ; yet  it  is  a melancholy 
so  soothing,  so  gentle  in  its  approach,  and  so  prophetic 
in  its  influence,  that  they  who  have  known  it  feel,  as 
instinctively,  that  it  is  the  doing  of  God,  and  that  the 
heart  of  man  is  not  thus  finely  touched  but  to  fine  issues. 

When  we  go  out  into  the  fields  in  the  evening  of  the 
year,  a different  voice  approaches  us.  We  regard,  even 
in  spite  of  ourselves,  the  still  but  steady  advances  of 
time.  A few  days  ago,  and  the  summer  of  the  year 
was  grateful,  and  every  element  was  filled  with  life,  and 
the  sun  of  heaven  seemed  to  glory  in  his  ascendant.  He 
is  now  enfeebled  in  his  power;  the  desert  no  more 
‘blossoms  like  the  rose;’  the  song  of  joy  is  no  more 
heard  among  the  branches;  and  the  earth  is  strewed 
with  that  foliage  which  once  bespoke  the  magnificence 
of  summer.  Whatever  may  be  the  passions  which 
society  has  awakened,  we  pause  amid  this  apparent 
desolation  of  nature.  We  sit  down  in  the  lodge  ‘ of  the 
wayfaring  man  in  the  wilderness,’  and  we  feel  that  all 
we  witness  is  the  emblem  of  our  own  fate.  Such  also 
in  a few  years  will  be  our  own  condition.  The  blossoms 
of  our  spring,  the  pride  of  our  summer,  will  also  fade 
into  decay ; and  the  pulse  that  now  beats  high  with  virtu- 
ous or  with  vicious  desire,  will  gradually  sink,  and  then 
must  stop  for  ever.  We  rise  from  our  meditations  with 
hearts  softened  and  subdued,  and  we  return  into  life 
as  into  a shadowy  scene,  where  we  have  ‘disquieted 
ourselves  in  vain.’ 

Yet  a few  years,  we  think,  and  all  that  now  bless, 
or  all  that  now  convulse  humanity,  will  also  have 
perished.  The  mightiest  pageantry  of  life  will  pass — 
the  loudest  notes  of  triumph  or  of  conquest  will  be 
silent  in  the  grave ; the  wicked,  wherever  active,  ‘ will 
cease  from  troubling,’  and  the  weary,  wherever  suffer- 
ing, ‘ will  be  at  rest.’  Under  an  impression  so  profound 
we  feel  our  own  hearts  better.  The  cares,  the  ani- 
mosities, the  hatreds  which  society  may  have  engen- 
dered, sink  unperceived  from  our  bosoms.  In  the 
general  desolation  of  nature  we  feel  the  littleness  of  our 


own  passions — we  look  forward  to  that  kindred  evening 
which  time  must  bring  to  all — we  anticipate  the  graves 
of  those  we  hate  as  of  those  we  love.  Every  unkind 
passion  falls  with  the  leaves  that  fall  around  us ; and 
we  return  slowly  to  our  homes,  and  to  the  society  which 
surround  us,  with  the  wish  only  to  enlighten  or  to 
bless  them. 

If  there  were  no  other  effects,  my  brethren,  of  such 
appearances  of  nature  upon  our  minds,  they  would 
still  be  valuable — they  would  teach  us  humility,  and 
with  it  they  would  teach  us  charity. 

DR  ANDREW  THOMSON. 

Dr  Andrew  Thomson  (1779-1831),  an  active 
and  able  minister  of  the  Scottish  church,  was  author 
of  various  sermons  and  lectures,  and  editor  of  the 
Scottish  Christian  Instructor , a periodical  which 
exercised  no  small  influence  in  Scotland  on  eccle- 
siastical questions.  Dr  Thomson  was  successively 
minister  of  Sprouston,  in  the  presbytery  of  Kelso, 
of  the  East  Church,  Perth,  and  of  St  George’s 
Church,  Edinburgh.  In  the  annual  meetings  of 
the  General  Assembly  he  displayed  great  ardour 
and  eloquence  as  a debater,  and  was  the  recognised 
leader  of  one  of  the  church-parties.  Pie  waged 
a long  and  keen  warfare  with  the  British  and 
Eoreign  Bible  Society  for  circulating  the  books  of 
the  Apocrypha  along  with  the  Bible,  and  his 
speeches  on  this  subject,  though  exaggerated  in 
tone  and  manner,  produced  a powerful  effect.  There 
was,  in  truth,  always  more  of  the  debater  than  the 
divine  in  his  public  addresses;  and  he  was  an 
unmerciful  opponent  in  controversy.  When  the 
question  of  the  abolition  of  colonial  slavery  was 
agitated  in  Scotland,  he  took  his  stand  on  the 
expediency  of  immediate  abolition,  and  by  his 
public  appearances  on  this  subject,  and  the  energy 
of  his  eloquence,  carried  the  feelings  of  his  country- 
men completely  along  with  him.  The  life  of  this 
ardent,  impetuous,  and  independent-minded  man 
was  brought  suddenly  and  awfully  to  a close.  In 
the  prime  of  health  and  vigour  he  fell  down  dead  at 
the  threshold  of  his  own  door.  The  sermons  of  Dr 
Thomson  scarcely  support  his  high  reputation  as  a 
church-leader  and  debater. 


DR  THOMAS  CHALMERS. 

The  most  distinguished  and  able  of  Scottish 
divines  during  this  period  was  Thomas  Chalmers, 
D.D.,  and  LL.D.,  one  of  the  first  Presbyterian 
ministers  who  obtained  an  honorary  degree  from 
the  university  of  Oxford,  and  one  of  the  few 
Scotsmen  who  have  been  elected  corresponding 
members  of  the  Royal  Institute  of  France.  He  was 
a native  of  Anstruther,  in  the  county  of  Fife,  and 
born  March  17,  1780.  His  father  was  a shipowner 
and  general  merchant  in  the  town,  and  Thomas, 
when  not  twelve  years  of  age,  was  sent  to  college 
at  St  Andrews.  The  Scottish  universities  have 
been  too  much  regarded  as  elementary  seminaries, 
and  efforts  are  now  making  to  elevate  their 
character  by  instituting  some  preliminary  test  of 
admission,  and  improving  the  professorial  chairs. 
Chalmers  had  little  preparation,  and  never  attained 
to  critical  proficiency  as  a scholar,  but  he  had  a 
strong  predilection  for  mathematical  studies,  which 
he  afterwards  pursued  in  Edinburgh  under  Professor 
Playfair.  He  was  also  assistant-mathematical 
teacher  at  St  Andrews.  Having  studied  for  the 
church,  he  was,  in  1803,  ordained  minister  of 
Kilmany,  a rural  parish  in  his  native  county. 
Here  the  activity  of  his  mind  was  strikingly 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1880. 


displayed.  In  addition  to  his  parochial  labours,  he 
‘ lectured  in  the  different  towns  on  chemistry  and 
other  subjects ; he  became  an  officer  of  a volunteer 
corps ; and  he  wrote  a book  on  the  resources  of  the 
country,  besides  pamphlets  on  some  of  the  topics  of 
the  day ; and  when  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia  was 
projected,  he  was  invited  to  be  a contributor,  and 


Dr  Thomas  Chalmers. 


engaged  to  furnish  the  article  “Christianity,”  which 
he  afterwards  completed  with  so  much  ability.’  At 
Kilmany,  Dr  Chalmers  received  more  serious  and 
solemn  impressions  as  to  his  clerical  duties,  and  in 
an  address  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  parish,  there  is 
the  following  remarkable  passage : 

[Inefficacy  of  mere  Moral  Preaching .] 

And  here  I cannot  but  record  the  effect  of  an  actual 
though  undesigned  experiment  which  I prosecuted  for 
upwards  of  twelve  years  amongst  you.  For  the  greater 
part  of  that  time  I could  expatiate  on  the  meanness 
of  dishonesty,  on  the  villainy  of  falsehood',  on  the 
despicable  arts  of  calumny — in  a word,  upon  all  those 
deformities  of  character  which  awaken  the  natural 
indignation  of  the  human  heart  against  the  pests  and 
the  disturbers  of  human  society.  Now,  could  I,  upon  the 
strength  of  these  warm  expostulations,  have  got  the 
thief  to  give  up  his  stealing,  and  the  evil-speaker  his 
censoriousness,  and  the  liar  his  deviations  from  truth,  I 
should  have  felt  all  the  repose  of  one  who  had  gotten 
his  ultimate  object.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  all 
this  might  have  been  done,  and  yet  every  soul  of  every 
hearer  have  remained  in  full  alienation  from  God ; and 
that  even  could  I have  established,  in  the  bosom  of  one 
who  stole,  such  a principle  of  abhorrence  at  the  mean- 
ness of  dishonesty  that  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  steal 
no  more,  he  might  still  have  retained  a heart  as  com- 
pletely unturned  to  God,  and  as  totally  unpossessed  by 
a principle  of  love  to  Him,  as  before.  In  a word, 
though  I might  have  made  him  a more  upright  and 
honourable  man,  I might  have  left  him  as  destitute  of 
the  essence  of  religious  principle  as  ever.  But  the 
interesting  fact  is,  that  during  the  whole  of  that  period 
in  which  I made  no  attempt  against  the  natural  enmity 
of  the  mind  to  God,  while  I was  inattentive  to  the  way 
in  which  this  enmity  is  dissolved,  even  by  the  free  offer 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  believing  acceptance  on  the  I 
532 


other,  of  the  gospel  salvation  ; while  Christ,  through 
whose  blood  the  sinner,  who  by  nature  stands  afar  off, 
is  brought  near  to  the  heavenly  Lawgiver  whom  he  has 
offended,  was  scarcely  ever  spoken  of,  or  spoken  of  in 
such  a way  as  stripped  him  of  all  the  importance  of  his 
character  and  his  offices,  even  at  this  time  I certainly 
did  press  the  reformations  of  honour,  and  truth,  and 
integrity  among  my  people ; but  I never  once  heard  of 
any  such  reformations  having  been  effected  amongst  them. 
If  there  was  anything  at  all  brought  about  in  this 
way,  it  was  more  than  ever  I got  any  account  of.  I 
am  not  sensible  that  all  the  vehemence  with  which  I 
urged  the  virtues  and  the  proprieties  of  social  life  had 
the  weight  of  a feather  on  the  moral  habits  of  my 
parishioners.  And  it  was  not  till  I got  impressed  by 
the  utter  alienation  of  the  heart  in  all  its  desires  and 
affections  from  God;  it  was  not  till  reconciliation  to 
Him  became  the  distinct  and  the  prominent  object  of 
my  ministerial  exertions;  it  was  not  till  I took  the 
Scriptural  way  of  laying  the  method  of  reconciliation 
before  them;  it  was  not  till  the  free  offer  of  forgive- 
ness through  the  blood  of  Christ  was  urged  upon  their 
acceptance,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  given  through  the 
channel  of  Christ’s  mediatorship  to  all  who  ask  him, 
was  set  before  them  as  the  unceasing  object  of  their 
dependence  and  their  prayers  ; it  was  not,  in  one  word, 
till  the  contemplations  of  my  people  were  turned 
to  these  great  and  essential  elements  in  the  business 
of  a soul  providing  for  its  interest  with  God  and  the 
concerns  of  its  eternity,  that  I ever  heard  of  any  of 
those  subordinate  reformations  which  I aforetime  made 
the  earnest  and  the  zealous,  but,  I am  afraid,  at  the 
same  time  the  ultimate  object  of  my  earlier  ministra- 
tions. Ye  servants,  whose  scrupulous  fidelity  bas  now 
attracted  the  notice  and  drawn  forth  in  my  hearing  a 
delightful  testimony  from  your  masters,  what  mischief 
you  would  have  done  had  your  zeal  for  doctrines  and 
sacraments  been  accompanied  by  the  sloth  and  the 
remissness,  and  what,  in  the  prevailing  tone  of  moral 
relaxation,  is  counted  the  allowable  purloining  of  your 
earlier  days ! But  a sense  of  your  heavenly  Master’s 
eye  has  brought  another  influence  to  bear  upon  you; 
and  while  you  are  thus  striving  to  adorn  the  doctrine 
of  God  your  Saviour  in  all  things,  you  may,  poor  as 
you  are,  reclaim  the  great  ones  of  the  land  to  the 
acknowledgment  of  the  faith.  You  have  at  least  taught 
me  that  to  preach  Christ  is  the  only  effective  way  of 
preaching  morality  in  all  its  branches ; and  out  of  your 
humble  cottages  have  I gathered  a lesson,  which  I pray 
God  I may  be  enabled  to  carry  with  all  its  simplicity 
into  a wider  theatre,  and  to  bring  with  all  the  power  of 
its  subduing  efficacy  upon  the  vices  of  a more  crowded 
population. 

From  Kilmany  Dr  Chalmers  removed,  in  1815,  to 
the  new  church  of  St  John’s  in  Glasgow,  where  his 
labours  were  unceasing  and  meritorious.  Here  his 
principal  sermons  were  delivered  and  published ; 
and  his  fame  as  a preacher  and  author  was  diffused 
not  only  over  Great  Britain,  but  throughout  all 
Europe  and  America.  His  appearance  and  manner 
were  not  prepossessing.  Two  acute  observers — 
John  Gibson  Lockhart  and  Henry  Cockburn — have 
described  his  peculiarities  minutely.  His  voice  was 
neither  strong  nor  melodious,  his  gestures  awkward, 
his  pronunciation  broadly  provincial,  his  counte- 
nance large,  dingy,  and,  when  in  repose,  unanimated. 
He  also  read  his  sermons,  adhering  closely  to  his 
manuscript.  What  then,  it  may  be  asked,  consti- 
tuted the  charm  of  his  oratory  ? 4 The  magic,’  says 

Cockburn,  ‘ lies  in  the  concentrated  intensity  which 
agitates  every  fibre  of  the  man,  and  brings  out  his 
meaning  by  words  and  emphasis  of  significant  force, 
and  rolls  his  magnificent  periods  clearly  and  irre- 
sistibly along,  and  kindles  the  whole  composition 
with  living  "fire.  He  no  sooner  approaches  the 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  THOMAS  CHALMERS. 


edge  of  his  high  region,  than  his  animation  makes 
the  commencing  awkwardness  be  forgotten,  and 
then  converts  his  external  defects  into  positive 
advantages,  by  shewing  the  intellectual  power  that 
overcomes  them ; and  getting  us  at  last  within  the 
flame  of  his  enthusiasm.  Jeffrey’s  description,  that 
he  “ buried  his  adversaries  under  the  fragments  of 
burning  mountains,”  is  the  only  image  that  suggests 
an  idea  of  his  eloquent  imagination  and  terrible 
energy.’  * A writer  in  the  London  Magazine  gives 
a graphic  account  of  Dr  Chalmers’s  appearance  in 
London : * When  he  visited  London,  the  hold  that 
he  took  on  the  minds  of  men  was  unprecedented. 
It  was  a time  of  strong  political  feeling ; but  even 
that  was  unheeded,  and  all  parties  thronged  to  hear 
the  Scottish  preacher.  The  very  best  judges  were 
not  prepared  for  the  display  that  they  heard. 
Canning  and  Wilberforce  went  together,  and  got 
into  a pew  near  the  door.  The  elder  in  attendance 
stood  close  by  the  pew.  Chalmers  began  in  his 
usual  unpromising  way,  by  stating  a few  nearly 
self-evident  propositions  neither  in  the  choicest 
language  nor  in  the  most  impressive  voice.  “If 
this  be  all,”  said  Canning  to  his  companion,  “ it  will 
never  do.”  Chalmers  went  on — the  shuffling  of  the 
congregation  gradually  subsided.  He  got  into  the 
mass  of  his  subject;  his  weakness  became  strength, 
his  hesitation  was  turned  into  energy ; and,  bringing 
the  whole  volume  of  his  mind  to  bear  upon  it,  he 
poured  forth  a torrent  of  the  most  close  and  con- 
clusive argument,  brilliant  with  all  the  exuberance 
of  an  imagination  which  ranged  over  all  nature  for 
illustrations,  and  yet  managed  and  applied  each  of 
them  with  the  same  unerring  dexterity,  as  if  that 
single  one  had  been  the  study  of  a whole  life.  “ The 
tartan  beats  us,”  said  Mr  Canning;  “we  have  no 
preaching  like  that  in  England.”’  Chalmers,  like 
the  celebrated  French  divines — according  to  Gold- 
smith— assumed  all  that  dignity  and  zeal  which 
become  men  who  are  ambassadors  from  Christ.  The 
English  divines,  like  timorous  envoys,  seem  more 
solicitous  not  to  offend  the  court  to  which  they  are 
sent,  than  to  drive  home  the  interests  of  their 
employers.  The  style  of  Dr  Chalmers  became  the 
rage  in  Scotland  among  the  young  preachers,  but 
few  could  do  more  than  copy  his  defects.  His 
glowing  energy  and  enthusiasm  were  wanting.  In 
Glasgow,  Chalmers  laboured  incessantly  for  the 
benefit  of  his  parishioners,  and  organised  a system 
of  Sabbath- schools  and  pauper  management  which 
attracted  great  attention.  He  was  strongly  opposed 
to  the  English  system  of  a legal  provision  for  the 
poor,  and  in  his  own  district  of  Glasgow  voluntary 
contributions,  well  managed,  were  for  many  years 
found  to  be  sufficient ; but  as  a law  of  residence 
could  not  be  established  between  the  different 
parishes  of  the  city,  to  prevent  one  parish  becoming 
burdened  with  a pauperism  which  it  did  not  create, 
his  voluntary  system  was  ultimately  abandoned. 
In  1823  Dr  Chalmers  removed  to  St  Andrews,  as 
professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  United  College; 
and  in  1828  he  was  appointed  professor  of  divinity 
in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  This  appointment 
he  relinquished  in  1843,  on  his  secession  from  the 
Established  Church.  He  continued  an  active  and 
zealous  member  of  the  rival  establishment,  the 
Free  Church,  until  his  death,  May  30,  1847.  Ilis 
death,  like  that  of  his  friend,  Dr  Andrew  Thomson, 
was  awfully  sudden.  lie  had  retired  to  rest  in  his 
usual  health,  and  was  found  next  morning  dead  in 
bed,  ‘ the  expression  of  the  face  undisturbed  by  a 
single  trace  of  suffering.’ 

* Memorials  of  his  Time,  by  Henry  Cockburn,  185G. 


The  collected  works  of  Dr  Chalmers,  published 
during  his  life,  fill  twenty-five  duodecimo  volumes. 
Of  these  the  first  two  are  devoted  to  Natural 
Theology , volumes  three  and  four  to  Evidences  of 
Christianity ; five,  Moral  Philosophy ; six,  Commercial 
Discourses ; seven,  Astronomical  Discourses ; eight, 
nine,  and  ten,  Congregational  Sermons ; eleven,  Ser- 
mons on  Public  Occasions ; twelve,  Tracts  and  Essays  ; 
thirteen,  Introductory  Essays,  originally  prefixed  to 
editions  of  Select  Christian  Authors ; fourteen, 
fifteen,  and  sixteen,  Christian  and  Economic  Polity  of 
a Nation,  more  especially  with  reference  to  its  Large 
Towns ; seventeen,  On  Church  and  College  Endow- 
ments; eighteen,  On  Church  Extension;  nineteen 
and  twenty,  Political  Economy;  twenty-one,  The 
Sufficiency  of  a Parochial  System  without  a Poor-rate  ; 
twenty-two,  three,  four,  and  five,  Lectures  on  the 
Romans.  In  all  Dr  Chalmers’s  works  there  is  great 
energy  and  earnestness,  accompanied  with  a vast 
variety  of  illustration.  His  knowledge  was  more 
useful  than  profound ; it  was  extensive,  including 
science  no  less  than  literature,  the  learning  of  the 
philosopher  with  the  fancy  of  the  poet,  and  a fami- 
liar acquaintance  with  the  habits,  feelings,  and  daily 
life  of  the  Scottish  poor  and  middle  classes.  The 
ardour  with  which  he  pursues  any  favourite  topic, 
presenting  it  to  the  reader  or  hearer  in  every 
possible  point  of  view,  and  investing  it  with  the 
charms  of  a rich  poetical  imagination,  is  a striking 
feature  in  his  intellectual  character.*  It  gave 
peculiar  effect  to  his  pulpit  ministrations;  for  by 
concentrating  his  attention  on  one  or  two  points 
at  a time,  and  pressing  these  home  with  almost 
unexampled  zeal  and  animation,  a distinct  and  vivid 
impression  was  conveyed  to  the  mind,  unbroken  by 
any  extraneous  or  discursive  matter.  His  pictures 
have  little  or  no  background — the  principal  figure 
or  conception  fills  the  canvas.  The  style  of  Dr 
Chalmers  is  far  from  being  correct  or  elegant — it 
is  often  turgid,  loose,  and  declamatory,  vehement 
beyond  the  bounds  of  good  taste,  and  disfigured  by 
a singular  and  by  no  means  graceful  phraseology. 
These  blemishes  are,  however,  more  than  redeemed 
by  his  piety  and  eloquence,  the  originality  of  many 
of  his  views,  and  the  astonishing  force  and  ardour 
of  his  mind.  His  Astronomical  Discourses  contain 
passages  of  great  sublimity  and  beauty,  and  even 
the  most  humble  and  prosaic  subject,  treated  by 
him,  becomes  attractive  and  poetical.  His  triumphs 
are  those  of  genius,  aided  by  the  deepest  conviction 
of  the  importance  of  the  truths  he  inculcates. 

After  the  death  of  this  popular  divine,  no  less 

* Robert  Hall  seems  to  have  been  struck  with  this  peculi- 
arity. In  some  Gleanings  from  Hall’s  Conversational  Remarks, 
appended  to  Dr  Gregory’s  Memoir,  we  find  the  following  criti- 
cism, understood  to  refer  to  the  Scottish  divine : ‘ Mr  Hall 

repeatedly  referred  to  Dr , and  always  in  terms  of  great 

esteem  as  well  as  high  admiration  of  his  general  character, 
exercising,  however,  his  usual  free  and  independent  judgment. 
The  following  are  some  remarks  on  that  extraordinary  indi- 
vidual : “ Pray,  sir,  did  you  ever  know  any  man  who  had  that 

singular  faculty  of  repetition  possessed  by  Dr  ? Why, 

sir,  he  often  reiterates  the  same  thing  ten  or  twelve  times  in 
the  course  of  a few  pages.  Even  Burke  himself  had  not  so 
much  of  that  peculiarity.  His  mind  resembles  that  optical 
instrument  lately  invented;  what  do  you  call  it?”  “You 
mean,  I suppose,  the  kaleidoscope.”  “ Yes,  sir,  an  idea  thrown 
into  his  mind  is  just  as  if  thrown  into  a kaleidoscope.  Every 
turn  presents  the  object  in  a new  and  beautiful  form ; but 
the  object  presented  is  still  the  same.  * * His  mind  seems 
to  move  on  hinges,  not  on  wheels.  There  is  incessant  motion, 
but  no  progress.  When  he  was  at  Leicester,  he  preached  a most 
admirable  sermon  on  the  necessity  of  immediate  repentance ; 
but  there  were  only  two  ideas  in  it,  and  on  these  his  mind 
revolved  as  on  a pivot.”  * 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


than  nine  volumes  were  added  to  his  works — Daily 
Scripture  Readings , Sabbath  Scripture  Readings , Ser- 
mons, Institutes  of  Theology,  and  Prelections  on  Butler's 
Analogy,  &c.  These  were  edited  by  the  son-in-law 
of  the  deceased,  the  Eev.  Dr  Hanna,  who  also  wrote 
a copious  life  - of  his  illustrious  relative,  extending, 
with  extracts  from  writings  and  correspondence,  to 
four  volumes. 


[Picture  of  the  Chase — Cruelty  to  Animals .] 

The  sufferings  of  the  lower  animals  may,  when  out 
of  sight,  be  out  of  mind.  But  more  than  this,  these 
sufferings  may  be  in  sight,  and  yet  out  of  mind.  This 
is  strikingly  exemplified  in  the  sports  of  the  field,  in 
the  midst  of  whose  varied  and  animating  bustle  that 
cruelty  which  all  along  is  present  to  the  senses  may 
not  for  one  moment  have  been  present  to  the  thoughts. 
There  sits  a somewhat  ancestral  dignity  and  glory  on 
this  favourite  pastime  of  joyous  old  England;  when 
the  gallant  knighthood,  and  the  hearty  yeomen,  and 
the  amateurs  or  virtuosos  of  the  chase,  and  the  full 
assembled  jockeyship  of  half  a province,  muster  together 
in  all  the  pride  and  pageantry  of  their  great  emprize — 
and  the  panorama  of  some  noble  landscape,  lighted  up 
with  autumnal  clearness  from  an  unclouded  heaven, 
pours  fresh  exhilaration  into  every  blithe  and  choice 
spirit  of  the  scene — and  every  adventurous  heart  is 
braced  and  impatient  for  the  hazards  of  the  coming 
enterprise — and  even  the  high-breathed  coursers  catch 
the  general  sympathy,  and  seem  to  fret  in  all  the 
restiveness  of  their  yet  checked  and  irritated  fire,  till 
the  echoing  horn  shall  set  them  at  liberty — even  that 
horn  which  is  the  knell  of  death  to  some  trembling 
victim  now  brought  forth  of  its  lurking-place  to  the 
delighted  gaze,  and  borne  down  upon  with  the  full  and 
open  cry  of  its  ruthless  pursuers.  Be  assured  that, 
amid  the  whole  glee  and  fervency  of  this  tumultuous 
enjoyment,  there  might  not,  in  one  single  bosom,  be 
aught  so  fiendish  as  a principle  of  naked  and  abstract 
cruelty.  The  fear  which  gives  its  lightning-speed  to 
the  unhappy  animal ; the  thickening  horrors,  which,  in 
the  progress  of  exhaustion,  must  gather  upon  its  flight ; 
its  gradually  sinking  energies,  and,  at  length,  the  terrible 
certainty  of  that  destruction  which  is  awaiting  it ; that 
piteous  cry  which  the  ear  can  sometimes  distinguish 
amid  the  deafening  clamour  of  the  blood-hounds  as  they 
spring  exultingly  upon  their  prey ; the  dread  massacre 
and  dying  agonies  of  a creature  so  miserably  tom — all 
this  weight  of  suffering,  we  admit,  is  not  once  sympa- 
thised with ; but  it  is  just  because  the  suffering  itself  is 
not  once  thought  of.  It  touches  not  the  sensibilities  of 
the  heart ; but  just  because  it  is  never  present  to  the 
notice  of  the  mind.  We  allow  that  the  hardy  followers 
in  the  wild  romance  of  this  occupation,  we  allow  them 
to  be  reckless  of  pain,  but  this  is  not  rejoicing  in  pain. 
Theirs  is  not  the  delight  of  the  savage,  but  the  apathy 
of  unreflecting  creatures.  They  are  wholly  occupied 
with  the  chase  itself  and  its  spirit-stirring  accompani- 
ments, nor  bestow  one  moment’s  thought  on  the  dread 
violence  of  that  infliction  upon  sentient  nature  which 
marks  its  termination.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  competi- 
tion, and  it  alone,  which  goads  onward  this  hurrying 
career;  and  even  he  who  in  at  the  death  is  foremost 
in  the  triumph,  although  to  him  the  death  itself  is  in 
sight,  the  agony  of  its  wretched  sufferer  is  wholly  out  of 
mind. 

Man  is  the  direct  agent  of  a wide  and  continual  dis- 
tress to  the  lower  animals,  and  the  question  is,  Can  any 
method  be  devised  for  its  alleviation  ? On  this  subject 
that  Scriptural  image  is  strikingly  realised  : ‘ The  whole 
inferior  creation  groaning  and  travailing  together  in 
pain,’  because  of  him.  It  signifies  not  to  the  substan- 
tive amount  of  the  suffering  whether  this  be  prompted 
by  the  hardness  of  his  heart,  or  only  permitted  through 
534 


the  heedlessness  of  his  mind.  In  either  way  it  holds 
true,  not  only  that  the  arch-devourer  man  stands 
pre-eminent  over  the  fiercest  children  of  the  wilderness 
as  an  animal  of  prey,  but  that  for  his  lordly  and 
luxurious  appetite,  as  well  as  for  his  service  or  merest 
curiosity  and  amusement,  Nature  must  be  ransacked 
throughout  all  her  elements.  Bather  than  forego  the 
veriest  gratifications  of  vanity,  he  will  wring  them  from 
the  anguish  of  wretched  and  ill-fated  creatures;  and 
whether  for  the  indulgence  of  his  barbaric  sensuality  or 
barbaric  splendour,  can  stalk  paramount  over  the  suffer- 
ings of  that  prostrate  creation  which  has  been  placed 
beneath  his  feet.  That  beauteous  domain  whereof  he 
has  been  constituted  the  terrestrial  sovereign,  gives  out 
so  many  blissful  and  benignant  aspects ; and  whether 
we  look  to  its  peaceful  lakes,  or  to  its  flowery  landscapes, 
or  its  evening  skies,  or  to  all  that  soft  attire  which  over- 
spreads the  hills  and  the  valleys,  lighted  up  by  smiles 
of  sweetest  sunshine,  and  where  animals  disport  them- 
selves in  all  the  exuberance  of  gaiety — this  surely  were 
a more  befitting  scene  for  the  rule  of  clemency,  than  for 
the  iron  rod  of  a murderous  and  remorseless  tyrant. 
But  the  present  is  a mysterious  world  wherein  we  dwell. 
It  still  bears  much  upon  its  materialism  of  the  impress 
of  Paradise.  But  a breath  from  the  air  of  Pandemonium 
has  gone  over  its  living  generations ; and  so  ‘ the  fear 
of  man  and  the  dread  of  man  is  now  upon  every  beast 
of  the  earth,  and  upon  every  fowl  of  the  air,  and  upon 
all  that  moveth  upon  the  earth,  and  upon  all  the  fishes 
of  the  sea ; into  man’s  hands  are  they  delivered : every 
moving  thing  that  liveth  is  meat  for  him ; yea,  even  as 
the  green  herbs,  there  have  been  given  to  him  all  things.’ 
Such  is  the  extent  of  his  jurisdiction,  and  with  most 
full  and  wanton  licence  has  he  revelled  among  its 
privileges.  The  whole  earth  labours  and  is  in  violence 
because  of  his  cruelties ; and  from  the  amphitheatre  of 
sentient  Nature  there  sounds  in  fancy’s  ear  the  bleat  of 
one  wide  and  universal  suffering — a dreadful  homage  to 
the  power  of  Nature’s  constituted  lord. 

These  sufferings  are  really  felt.  The  beasts  of  the 
field  are  not  so  many  automata  without  sensation,  and 
just  so  constructed  as  to  give  forth  all  the  natural  signs 
and  expressions  of  it.  Nature  hath  not  practised  tbis 
universal  deception  upon  our  species.  These  poor  ani- 
mals just  look,  and  tremble,  and  give  forth  the  very 
indications  of  suffering  that  we  do.  Theirs  is  the 
distinct  cry  of  pain.  Theirs  is  the  unequivocal  physiog- 
nomy of  pain.  They  put  on  the  same  aspect  of  terror 
on  the  demonstrations  of  a menaced  blow.  They  exhibit 
the  same  distortions  of  agony  after  the  infliction  of  it. 
The  bruise,  or  the  burn,  or  the  fracture,  or  the  deep 
incision,  or  the  fierce  encounter  with  one  of  equal  or 
superior  strength,  just  affects  them  similarly  to  our- 
selves. Their  blood  circulates  as  ours.  They  have 
pulsations  in'various  parts  of  the  body  like  ours.  They 
sicken,  and  they  grow  feeble  with  age,  and,  finally,  they 
die  just  as  we  do.  They  possess  the  same  feelings ; 
and,  what  exposes  them  to  like  suffering  from  another 
quarter,  they  possess  the  same  instincts  with  our  own 
species.  The  lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps  causes  the 
wilderness  to  ring  aloud  with  the  proclamation  of  her 
wrongs ; or  the  bird  whose  little  household  has  been 
stolen,  fills  and  saddens  all  the  grove  with  melodies  of 
deepest  pathos.  All  this  is  palpable  even  to  the  general 
and  unlearned  eye : and  when  the  physiologist  lays  open 
the  recesses  of  their  system  by  means  of  that  scalpel, 
under  whose  operation  they  just  shrink  and  are  con- 
vulsed as  any  living  subject  of  our  own  species — there 
stands  forth  to  view  the  same  sentient  apparatus,  and 
furnished  with  the  same  conductors  for  the  transmis- 
sion of  feeling  to  every  minutest  pore  upon  the  surface. 
Theirs  is  unmixed  and  unmitigated  pain — the  agonies 
of  martyrdom  without  the  alleviation  of  the  hopes  and 
the  sentiments  whereof  they  are  incapable.  When  they 
lay  them  down  to  die,  their  only  fellowship  is  with 
suffering ; for  in  the  prison-house  of  their  beset  and 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  THOMAS  CHALMERS. 


bounded  faculties  there  can  no  relief  be  afforded  by 
communion  with  other  interests  or  other  things.  The 
attention  does  not  lighten  their  distress  as  it  does  that 
of  man,  by  carrying  off  his  spirit  from  that  existing 
pungency  and  pressure  which  might  else  be  overwhelm- 
ing. There  is  but  room  in  their  mysterious  economy  for 
one  inmate,  and  that  is,  the  absorbing  sense  of  their 
own  single  and  concentrated  anguish.  And  so  in  that 
bed  of  torment  whereon  the  wounded  animal  lingers 
and  expires,  there  is  an  unexplored  depth  and  intensity 
of  suffering  which  the  poor  dumb  animal  itself  cannot 
tell,  and  against  which  it  can  offer  no  remonstrance — 
an  untold  and  unknown  amount  of  wretchedness  of 
which  no  articulate  voice  gives  utterance.  But  there 
is  an  eloquence  in  its  silence;  and  the  very  shroud 
which  disguises  it  only  serves  to  aggravate  its  horrors. 
— Sermons. 

[. Insignificance  of  this  Earth .] 

Though  the  earth  were  to  be  burned  up,  though  the 
trumpet  of  its  dissolution  were  sounded,  though  yon 
sky  were  to  pass  away  as  a scroll,  and  every  visible 
glory  which  the  finger  of  the  Divinity  has  inscribed  on 
it  were  extinguished  for  ever — an  event  so  awful  to  us, 
and  to  every  world  in  our  vicinity,  by  which  so  many 
suns  would  be  extinguished,  and  so  many  varied  scenes 
of  life  and  population  would  rush  into  forgetfulness — 
what  is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the  Almighty’s  work- 
manship? a mere  shred,  which,  though  scattered  into 
nothing,  would  leave  the  universe  of  God  one  entire 
scene  of  greatness  and  of  majesty.  Though  the  earth 
and  the  heavens  were  to  disappear,  there  are  other 
worlds  which  roll  afar;  the  light  of  other  suns  shines 
upon  them ; and  the  sky  which  mantles  them  is  gar- 
nished with  other  stars.  Is  it  presumption  to  say  that 
the  moral  world  extends  to  these  distant  and  unknown 
regions  ? that  they  are  occupied  with  people  ? that  the 
charities  of  home  and  of  neighbourhood  flourish  there  ? 
that  the  praises  of  God  are  there  lifted  up,  and  his 
goodness  rejoiced  in  ? that  there  piety  has  its  temples 
and  its  offerings  ? and  the  richness  of  the  divine 
attributes  is  there  felt  and  admired  by  intelligent 
worshippers  ? 

And  what  is  this  world  in  the  immensity  which  teems 
with  them;  and  what  are  they  who  occupy  it?  The 
universe  at  large  would  suffer  as  little  in  its  splendour 
and  variety  by  the  destruction  of  our  planet,  as  the 
verdure  and  sublime  magnitude  of  a forest  would  suffer 
by  the  fall  of  a single  leaf.  The  leaf  quivers  on  the 
branch  which  supports  it.  It  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the 
slightest  accident.  A breath  of  wind  tears  it  from  its 
stem,  and  it  lights  on  the  stream  of  water  which  passes 
underneath.  In  a moment  of  time  the  life,  which  we 
know  by  the  microscope  it  teems  with,  is  extinguished ; 
and  an  occurrence  so  insignificant  in  the  eye  of  man, 
and  on  the  scale  of  his  observation,  carries  in  it  to  the 
myriads  which  people  this  little  leaf  an  event  as  terrible 
and  as  decisive  as  the  destruction  of  a world.  Now,  on 
the  grand  scale  of  the  universe,  we,  the  occupiers  of  this 
ball,  which  performs  its  little  round  among  the  suns 
and  the  systems  that  astronomy  has  unfolded — we  may 
feel  the  same  littleness  and  the  same  insecurity.  We 
differ  from  the  leaf  only  in  this  circumstance,  that  it 
would  require  the  operation  of  greater  elements  to 
destroy  us.  But  these  elements  exist.  The  fire  which 
rages  within  may  lift  its  devouring  energy  to  the  surface 
of  our  planet,  and  transform  it  into  one  wide  and 
wasting  volcano.  The  sudden  formation  of  elastic 
matter  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth — and  it  lies  within 
the  agency  of  known  substances  to  accomplish  this — 
may  explode  it  into  fragments.  The  exhalation  of 
noxious  air  from  below  may  impart  a virulence  to  the 
air  that  is  around  us ; it  may  affect  the  delicate  pro- 
portion of  its  ingredients ; and  the  whole  of  animated 
nature  may  wither  and  die  under  the  malignity  of  a 


tainted  atmosphere.  A blazing  comet  may  cross  this 
fated  planet  in  its  orbit,  and  realise  all  the  terrors 
which  superstition  has  conceived  of  it.  We  cannot 
anticipate  with  precision  the  consequences  of  an  event 
which  every  astronomer  must  know  to  lie  within  the 
limits  of  chance  and  probability.  It  may  hurry  our 
globe  towards  the  sun,  or  drag  it  to  the  outer  regions  of 
the  planetary  system,  or  give  it  a new  axis  of  revolution 
— and  the  effect,  which  I shall  simply  announce  without 
explaining  it,  would  be  to  change  the  place  of  the  ocean, 
and  bring  another  mighty  flood  upon  our  islands  and 
continents. 

These  are  changes  which  may  happen  in  a single 
instant  of  time,  and  against  which  nothing  known  in 
the  present  system  of  things  provides  us  with  any 
security.  They  might  not  annihilate  the  earth,  but 
they  would  unpeople  it,  and  we,  who  tread  its  surface 
with  such  firm  and  assured  footsteps,  are  at  the  mercy 
of  devouring  elements,  which,  if  let  loose  upon  us  by 
the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  would  spread  solitude,  and 
silence,  and  death  over  the  dominions  of  the  world. 

Now,  it  is  this  littleness  and  this  insecurity  which 
make  the  protection  of  the  Almighty  so  dear  to  us,  and 
bring  with  such  emphasis  to  every  pious  bosom  the  holy 
lessons  of  humility  and  gratitude.  The  God  who  sitteth 
above,  and  presides  in  high  authority  over  all  worlds,  is 
mindful  of  man ; and  though  at  this  moment  his  energy 
is  felt  in  the  remotest  provinces  of  creation,  we  may  feel 
the  same  security  in  his  providence  as  if  we  were  the 
objects  of  his  undivided  care. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  bring  our  minds  up  to  this  myste- 
rious agency.  But  such  is  the  incomprehensible  fact, 
that  the  same  being,  whose  eye  is  abroad  over  the  whole 
universe,  gives  vegetation  to  every  blade  of  grass,  and 
motion  to  every  particle  of  blood  which  circulates 
through  the  veins  of  the  minutest  animal ; that  though 
his  mind  takes  into  his  comprehensive  grasp  immensity 
and  all  its  wonders,  I am  as  much  known  to  him  as  if  I 
were  the  single  object  of  his  attention ; that  he  marks 
all  my  thoughts;  that  he  gives  birth  to  every  feeling 
and  every  movement  within  me;  and  that,  with  an 
exercise  of  power  which  I can  neither  describe  nor  com- 
prehend, the  same  God  who  sits  in  the  highest  heaven, 
and  reigns  over  the  glories  of  the  firmament,  is  at  my 
right  hand  to  give  me  every  breath  which  I draw,  and 
every  comfort  which  I enjoy. — Astronomical  Discourses. 

[The  Statute-booh  not  necessary  towards  Christianity .] 

How  comes  it  that  Protestantism  made  such  triumph- 
ant progress  in  these  realms  when  it  had  pains  and 
penalties  to  struggle  with?  and  how  came  this  progress 
to  be  arrested  from  the  moment  it  laid  on  these  pains 
and  penalties  in  its  turn?  What  have  all  the  enact- 
ments of  the  statute-book  done  for  the  cause  of 
Protestantism  in  Ireland?  and  how  is  it,  that  when 
single-handed  truth  walked  through  our  island  with 
the  might  and  prowess  of  a conqueror,  so  soon  as 
propped  by  the  authority  of  the  state,  and  the  armour 
of  intolerance  was  given  to  her,  the  brilliant  career  of 
her  victories  was  ended  ? It  was  when  she  took  up  the 
carnal  and  laid  down  the  spiritual  weapon — it  was  then 
that  strength  went  out  of  her.  She  was  struck  with 
impotency  on  the  instant  that,  from  a warfare  of 
principle,  it  became  a warfare  of  politics.  There  are 
gentlemen  opposed  to  us  profound  in  the  documents 
of  history ; but  she  has  really  nothing  to  offer  half  so 
instructive  as  the  living  history  that  is  now  before  our 
eyes.  With  the  pains  and  penalties  to  fight  against,  the 
cause  of  Reformation  did  almost  everything  in  Britain ; 
with  the  pains  and  penalties  on  its  side,  it  has  done 
nothing,  and  worse  than  nothing,  in  Ireland. 

But  after  all,  it  is  a question  which  does  not  require 
the  evidence  of  history  for  its  elucidation.  There  shines 
upon  it  an  immediate  light  from  the  known  laws  and 
principles  of  human  nature.  When  truth  and  falsehood 

535 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


enter  into  collision  upon  equal  terms,  and  do  so  with 
their  own  appropriate  weapons,  the  result  is  infallible. 
Magna,  est  veritas  et  prcevalebii.  But  if  to  strengthen 
the  force  of  truth,  you  put  the  forces  of  the  statute- 
book  under  her  command,  there  instantly  starts  up  on 
the  side  of  falsehood  an  auxiliary  far  more  formidable. 
You  may  lay  an  incapacity  on  the  persons,  or  you  may 
put  restraint  and  limitation  on  the  property  of  Catho- 
lics; but  the  Catholic  mind  becomes  tenfold  more 
impregnable  than  before.  * * It  is  not  because  I am 
indifferent  to  the  good  of  Protestantism  that  I want  to 
displace  these  artificial  crutches  from  under  her ; but 
because  I want  that,  freed  from  every  symptom  of 
decrepitude  and  decay,  she  should  stand  forth  in  her  own 
native  strength,  and  make  manifest  to  all  men  how  firm 
a support  she  has  on  the  goodness  of  her  cause,  and  on 
the  basis  of  her  orderly  and  well-laid  arguments.  It  is 
because  I count  so  much — and  will  any  Protestant  here 
present  say  that  I count  too  much  ? — on  her  Bible  and 
her  evidences,  and  the  blessing  of  Grod  upon  her 
churches,  and  the  force  of  her  resistless  appeals  to 
the  conscience  and  the  understandings  of  men ; it  is 
because  of  her  strength  and  sufficiency  in  these  that  I 
would  disclaim  the  aids  of  the  statute-book,  and  own  no 
dependence  or  obligation  whatever  on  a system  of 
intolerance.  These  were  enough  for  her  in  the  days 
of  her  suffering,  and  should  be  more  than  enough  for 
her  in  the  days  of  her  comparative  safety.  It  is  not  by 
our  fears  and  our  false  alarms  that  we  do  honour  to 
Protestantism.  A far  more  befitting  honour  to  the 
great  cause  is  the  homage  of  our  confidence ; for  what 
Sheridan  said  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  admits  of  most 
emphatic  application  to  this  religion  of  truth  and 
liberty.  ‘Grive,’  says  that  great  orator — ‘give  to  minis- 
ters a corrupt  House  of  Commons ; give  them  pliant 
and  a servile  House  of  Lords ; give  them  the  keys  of  the 
treasury  and  the  patronage  of  the  crown ; and  give  me 
the  liberty  of  the  press,  and  with  this  mighty  engine  I 
will  overthrow  the  fabric  of  corruption,  and  establish 
upon  its  ruins  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  people.’ 
In  like  manner,  give  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  their 
emancipation;  give  them  a seat  in  the  parliament  of 
their  country ; give  them  a free  and  equal  participation 
in  the  politics  of  the  realm ; give  them  a place  at  the 
right  ear  of  majesty,  and  a voice  in  his  counsels ; and 
give  me  the  circulation  of  the  Bible,  and  with  this 
mighty  engine  I will  overthrow  the  tyranny  of  Anti- 
christ, and  establish  the  fair  and  original  form  of 
Christianity  on  its  ruins. — Speech  on  the  Catholic 
Question. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

WILLIAM  COBBETT. 

William  Cobbett  (1762-1835),  by  his  Rural 
Rides , his  Cottage  Economy , his  works  on  America, 
and  various  parts  of  his  Political  Register , is  justly 
entitled  to  be  remembered  among  the  miscellaneous 
writers  of  England.  He  was  a native  of  Farnham,  in 
Surrey,  and  brought  up  as  an  agricultural  labourer. 
He  afterwards  served  as  a soldier  in  British  America, 
and  rose  to  be  sergeant-major.  He  first  attracted 
notice  as  a political  writer  by  publishing  a series  of 
pamphlets  under  the  name  of  Peter  Porcupine.  He 
was  then  a decided  loyalist  and  high  churchman; 
but  having,  as  is  supposed,  received  some  slight 
from  Mr  Pitt,  he  attacked  his  ministry  with  great 
bitterness  in  his  Register.  After  the  passing  of  the 
Reform  Bill,  he  was  returned  to  parliament  for  the 
borough  of  Oldham,  but  he  was  not  successful  as  a 
public  speaker.  He  was  apparently  destitute  of  the 
faculty  of  generalising  his  information  and  details, 
and  evolving  from  them  a lucid  whole.  His  un- 
fixedness of  principle  also  operated  strongly  against 
536 


him ; for  no  man  who  is  not  considered  honest  and 
sincere,  or  can  be  relied  upon,  will  ever  make  a 
lasting  impression  on  a popular  assembly.  Cobbett’s 
inconsistency  as  a political  writer  was  so  broad  and 
undisguised,  as  to  have  become  proverbial.  He  had 
made  the  whole  round  of  politics,  from  ultra-Toryism 
to  ultra-Radicalism,  and  had  praised  and  abused 
nearly  every  public  man  and  measure  for  thirty 


years.  Jeremy  Bentham  said  of  him : ‘ He  is  a 
man  filled  with  odium  humani  generis.  His  malevo- 
lence and  lying  are  beyond  anything.’  The  retired 
philosopher  did  not  make  sufficient  allowance  for 
Cobbett : the  latter  acted  on  the  momentary  feeling 
or  impulse,  and  never  calculated  the  consequence 
to  himself  or  others.  We  admit  he  was  eager  to 
escape  when  a difficulty  arose,  and  did  not  scruple 
as  to  the  means ; but  we  are  considering  him  only 
as  a public  writer.  No  individual  in  Britain  was 
better  known  than  Cobbett,  down  to  the  minutest 
circumstance  in  his  character,  habits,  and  opinions. 
He  wrote  freely  of  himself,  as  he  did  of  other  men ; 
and  in  all  his  writings  there  was  much  natural 
freshness,  liveliness,  and  vigour.  He  had  the  power 
of  making  every  one  who  read  him,  feel  and  under-  j 
stand  completely  what  he  himself  felt  and  described. 
The  idiomatic  strength,  copiousness,  and  purity  of 
his  style  have  been  universally  acknowledged ; and 
when  engaged  in  describing  rural  subjects,  or 
depicting  local  manners,  he  is  very  happy.  On 
questions  of  politics  or  criticism  he  fails,  because 
he  seems  resolved  to  attack  all  great  names  and 
established  opinions.  He  remarks  on  one  occasion 
that  anybody  could,  at  the  time  he  wrote,  be  made 
a$ baronet,  since  Walter  Scott  and  Dudley  Coutts 
Trotter  — what  a classification ! — had  been  so 
elevated.  ‘ It  has  become,’  he  says,  4 of  late  years 
the  fashion  to  extol  the  virtues  of  potatoes,  as  it 
has  been  to  admire  the  writings  of  Milton  and 
Shakspeare;’  and  he  concludes  a ludicrous  criticism 
on  Paradise  Lost  by  wondering  how  it  could  have 
been  tolerated  by  a people  amongst  whom  astronomy, 
navigation,  and  chemistry  are  understood!  Yet 
Cobbett  had  a taste  for  what  may  be  termed  the 
poetry  of  nature.  He  is  loud  in  his  praises  of  the 
singing-birds  of  England — which  he  missed  so  much 
in  America — and  he  loved  to  write  on  green  lanes 
and  meadows.  The  following  description  is  like 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COMBE — ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


the  simple  and  touching  passages  in  Richardson’s 
Pamela : 

[. Boyish  Scenes  and  Recollections.'] 

After  living  within  a few  hundreds  of  yards  of  "West- 
minster Hall,  and  the  Ahbey  Church,  and  the  Bridge, 
and  looking  from  my  own  windows  into  St  James’s 
Park,  all  other  buildings  and  spots  appear  mean  and 
insignificant.  I went  to-day  to  see  the  house  I formerly 
occupied.  How  small ! It  is  always  thus  : the  words 
large  and  small  are  carried  about  with  us  in  our  minds, 
and  we  forget  real  dimensions.  The  idea,  such  as  it  was 
received,  remains  during  our  absence  from  the  object. 
When  I returned  to  England  in  1800,  after  an  absence  i 
from  the  country  parts  of  it  of  sixteen  years,  the  trees, 
the  hedges,  even  the  parks  and  woods,  seemed  so  small ! 
It  made  me  laugh  to  hear  little  gutters,  that  I could 
jump  over,  called  rivers  ! The  Thames  was  but  a 
‘ creek  ! ’ But  when,  in  about  a month  after  my 
arrival  in  London,  I went  to  Farnham,  the  place  of 
my  birth,  what  was  my  surprise!  Everything  was 
become  so  pitifully  small ! I had  to  cross,  in  my  post- 
chaise,  the  long  and  dreary  heath  of  Bagshot.  Then, 
at  the  end  of  it,  to  mount  a hill  called  Hungry  Hill ; 
and  from  that  hill  I knew  that  I should  look  down  into 
the  beautiful  and  fertile  vale  of  Farnham.  My  heart 
fluttered  with  impatience,  mixed  with  a sort  of  fear,  to 
see  all  the  scenes  of  my  childhood ; for  I had  learned 
before  the  death  of  my  father  and  mother.  There  is  a 
hill  not  far  from  the  town  called  Crooksbury  Hill,  which 
rises  up  out  of  a flat  in  the  form  of  a cone,  and  is 
planted  with  Scotch  fir-trees.  Here  I used  to  take  the 
eggs  and  young  ones  of  crows  and  magpies.  This  hill 
was  a famous  object  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  served  as 
the  superlative  degree  of  height.  ‘ As  high  as  Crooks- 
bury Hill,’  meant,  with  us,  the  utmost  degree  of  height. 
Therefore  the  first  object  that  my  eyes  sought  was  this 
hill.  I could  not  believe  my  eyes  ! Literally  speaking, 

I for  a moment  thought  the  famous  hill  removed,  and  a 
little  heap  put  in  its  stead ; for  I had  seen  in  New 
Brunswick  a single  rock,  or  hill  of  solid  rock,  ten  times 
as  big,  and  four  or  five  times  as  high ! The  post-boy, 
going  down-hill,  and  not  a bad  road,  whisked  me  in  a 
few  minutes  to  the  Bush  Inn,  from  the  garden  of  which 
I could  see  the  prodigious  sand-hill  where  I had  begun 
my  gardening  works.  What  a nothing  ! But  now  came 
rushing  into  my  mind  all  at  once  my  pretty  little  garden, 
my  little  blue  smock-frock,  my  little  nailed  shoes,  my 
pretty  pigeons  that  I used  to  feed  out  of  my  hands,  the 
last  kind  words  and  tears  of  my  gentle  and  tender- 
hearted and  affectionate  mother ! I hastened  back  into 
the  room.  If  I had  looked  a moment  longer  I should 
have  dropped.  When  I came  to  reflect,  what  a change  ! 

I looked  down  at  my  dress.  What  a change ! What 
scenes  I had  gone  through ! How  altered  my  state ! 

I had  dined  the  day  before  at  a secretary  of  state’s 
in  company  with  Mr  Pitt,  and  had  been  waited  upon 
by  men  in  gaudy  liveries ! I had  had  nobody  to  assist 
me  in  the  world.  No  teachers  of  any  sort.  Nobody  to 
shelter  me  from  the  consequence  of  bad,  and  no  one  to 
counsel  me  to  good  behaviour.  I felt  proud.  The 
distinctions  of  rank,  birth,  and  wealth,  all  became 
nothing  in  my  eyes ; and  from  that  moment — less  than 
a month  after  my  arrival  in  England — I resolved  never 
to  bend  before  them. 

There  are  good  sense  and  right  feeling  in  the 
following  sentence 

[On  Field-sports.] 

Taking  it  for  granted,  then,  that  sportsmen  are  as 
good  as  other  folks  on  the  score  of  humanity,  the  sports 
of  the  field,  like  everything  else  done  in  the  fields,  tend 
to  produce  or  preserve  health.  I prefer  them  to  all 
other  pastime,  because  they  produce  early  rising ; 


because  they  have  a tendency  to  lead  young  men  into 
virtuous  habits.  It  is  where  men  congregate  that  the 
vices  haunt.  A hunter  or  a shooter  may  also  be  a 
gambler  and  a drinker ; but  he  is  less  likely  to  be  fond 
of  the  two  latter  if  he  be  fond  of  the  former.  Boys  will 
take  to  something  in  the  way  of  pastime  ; and  it  is 
better  that  they  take  to  that  which  is  innocent,  healthy, 
and  manly,  than  that  which  is  vicious,  unhealthy,  and 
effeminate.  Besides,  the  scenes  of  rural  sport  are 
necessarily  at  a distance  from  cities  and  towns.  This 
is  another  great  consideration ; for  though  great  talents 
are  wanted  to  be  employed  in  the  hives  of  men,  they  are 
very  rarely  acquired  in  these  hives  ; the  surrounding 
objects  are  too  numerous,  too  near  the  eye,  too  frequently 
under  it,  and  too  artificial. 

WILLIAM  COMBE. 

William  Combe  (1741-1823)  was  an  extensive 
miscellaneous  writer  both  in  prose  and  verse.  To 
none  of  his  works  did  he  affix  his  name,  but  he  had 
no  reluctance  in  assuming  the  names  of  others. 
Among  his  literary  frauds  was  a collection  of  Letters 
of  the  late  Lord  Lyttelton , 1780-82.  Thomas,  the 
second  or  ‘ Wicked  Lord  Lyttelton,’  was  remarkable 
for  his  talents  and  profligacy,  and  for  the  romantic 
circumstances  attending  his  death,  which,  he  said, 
had  been  foretold  by  an  apparition,  but  which  it  is 
now  believed  was  an  act  of  suicide.  Combe  per- 
sonated the  character  of  this  dissolute  nobleman — 
with  whom  he  had  been  at  school  at  Eton — and  the 
spurious  letters  are  marked  by  ease,  elegance,  and 
occasional  force  of  style.  An  attempt  was  made  in 
the  Quarterly  Review , 1852,  to  prove  that  these 
letters  were  genuine,  and  that  Lyttelton  was  the 
author  of  Junius's  Letters.  The  proof  was  wholly 
inconclusive,  and  there  seems  no  doubt  that  Combe 
wrote  the  pseudo-Lyttelton  epistles.  In  the  same 
vein  he  manufactured  a series  of  Letters  supposed 
to  have  passed  between  Sterne  and  Eliza.  He  wrote 
a satirical  work,  The  Diaboliad , and  a continuation 
or  imitation  of  Le  Sage,  entitled  The  Devil  upon 
Two  Sticks  in  England,  1790 ; but  the  most  popular 
of  all  Combe’s  works  was  The  Tour  of  Dr  Syntax 
in  Search  of  the  Picturesque , which  was  originally 
published  in  the  Poetical  Magazine,  with  humorous 
illustrations  by  Rowlandson,  and  afterwards  (1812) 
printed  separately  in  one  volume.  The  Tour  went 
through  several  editions ; the  descriptions,  in  lively 
verse,  were  attractive,  and  the  coloured  engravings 
— in  which  the  appearance  of  Syntax  was  well 
preserved — formed  an  excellent  comment  on  the 
text.  Combe  wrote  other  poems  in  the  style  of 
Syntax — as  Johnny  Quce  Genus,  The  English  Dance 
of  Death,  The  Dance  of  Life,  &c.  None  of  these, 
though  aided  by  humorous  illustrations,  had  much 
success,  and  Syntax  itself,  once  so  popular,  is  now 
rarely  seen.  A voluminous  History  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  in  two  volumes  quarto,  was  written  by 
Combe,  who  up  to  his  eightieth  year,  and  often  in 
prison,  continued  to  pour  forth  anonymous  produc- 
tions in  almost  every  department  of  literature.  He 
was  well  connected,  and  at  one  time  rich,  but  a 
life  of  folly  and  extravagance  kept  him  always  in 
embarrassment. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

The  miscellaneous  writings  of  Mr  Southey  are 
numerous,  and  all  are  marked  by  an  easy  flowing 
style,  by  extensive  reading,  a strain  of  thought  and 
reflection  simple  and  antiquated,  occasional  dialogues 
full  of  quaint  speculation  and  curious  erudition,  and 
a vein  of  poetical  feeling  that  runs  through  the 
whole,  whether  critical,  historical,  or  political.  In 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


PROM  1800 

*"  ' ♦ 

1807,  Mr  Southey  published  a series  of  observations 
on  our  national  manners  and  prospects,  entitled 
Letters  from  England , by  Don  Manuel  Alvarez 
Espriella,  three  volumes.  The  foreign  disguise  was 
too  thinly  and  lightly  worn  to  insure  concealment, 
but  it  imparted  freedom  and  piquancy  to  the  author’s 
observations.  On  the  subject  of  the  church,  on 
political  economy,  and  on  manufactures,  Mr  Southey 
seems  to  have  thought  then  in  much  the  same  spirit 
displayed  in  his  later  works.  His  fancy,  however, 
was  more  sportive,  and  his  Spanish  character,  as 
well  as  the  nature  of  the  work,  led  to  frequent  and 
copious  description,  in  which  he  excelled. 

In  1829,  Mr  Southey  published  Colloquies  on  the 
Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society , two  volumes,  in 
which  the  author,  or  ‘ Montesinos,’  holds  conversa- 
tions with  the  ghost  of  Sir  Thomas  More ! The 
decay  of  national  piety,  the  evil  effects  of  extended 
commerce,  and  the  alleged  progress  of  national 
insecurity  and  disorganisation,  are  the  chief  topics  in 
these  colloquies,  which,  though  occasionally  relieved 
by  passages  of  beautiful  composition,  are  diffuse  and 
tedious,  and  greatly  overstrained  in  sentiment.  The 
other  prose  works  of  Mr  Southey — exclusive  of  a 
vast  number  of  essays  in  the  Quarterly  Review , 
and  omitting  his  historical  and  biographical  works 
already  noticed— consist  of  his  early  Letters  from 
Spain;  A Short  Residence  in  Portugal ; Omniana , a 
collection  of  critical  remarks  and  curious  quota- 
tions; and  The  Doctor , a work  partly  fictitious, 
but  abounding  in  admirable  description  and  quaint 
fanciful  delineation  of  character — with  something,  as 
he  said,  of  Tristram  Shandy , something  of  Kabelais, 
more  of  Montaigne,  and  a little  of  old  Burton,  yet 
the  predominant  characteristic  of  the  book  is  still 
his  own.  The  easy,  graceful,  pellucid  flow  of 
Southey’s  prose  would  require  greater  space  for 
display  than  our  limits  afford,  but  we  subjoin  two 
specimens. 

[Effects  of  the  Mohammedan  Religion .] 

The  Moslem,  in  proof  of  their  religion,  appeal  to  the 
plenary  and  manifest  inspiration  of  the  Koran.  They 
rest  the  divinity  of  their  holy  book  upon  its  inimitable 
excellence;  but  instead  of  holding  it  to  be  divine 
because  it  is  excellent,  they  believe  its  excellence 
because  they  admit  its  divinity.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  Koran  which  affects  the  feelings,  nothing  which 
elevates  the  imagination,  nothing  which  enlightens  the 
understanding,  nothing  which  ameliorates  the  heart : it 
contains  no  beautiful  narrative,  no  proverbs  of  wisdom 
or  axioms  of  morality;  it  is  a chaos  of  detached  sen- 
tences, a mass  of  dull  tautology.  Not  a solitary  passage 
to  indicate  the  genius  of  a poet  can  be  found  in  the 
whole  volume.  Inspired  by  no  fanaticism,  of  a meagre 
mind,  and  with  morals  of  open  and  impudent  profligacy, 
Mohammed  has  effected  a revolution  which  in  its  ruin- 
ous consequences  still  keeps  in  barbarism  the  greatest 
and  finest  part  of  the  old  world.  His  were  common 
talents,  and  it  is  by  common  talents  that  great  revolu- 
tions have  most  frequently  been  effected ; when  the 
train  is  ready  there  needs  no  lightning  to  kindle  it,  any 
spark  suffices.  That  his  character  was  not  generally 
mistaken,  is  evident  from  the  number  of  imitators  who 
started  up : there  is  also  reason  to  suspect  that  it  was 
as  well  understood  by  many  of  his  friends  as  by  his 
enemies.  Ali  indeed  believed  in  him  with  all  the  ardour 
of  youth  and  affection ; but  they  who  were  convinced  by 
the  sword  are  suspicious  converts,  and  among  these  are 
Abbas,  and  Amrou,  and  Caled,  the  holiest  heroes  of 
Islamism.  Ambition  and  the  hope  of  plunder  soon 
filled  his  armies,  and  they  who  followed  him  for  these 
motives  could  teach  their  children  what  they  did  not 
believe  themselves. 

538 


The  political  and  moral  system  of  the  impostor,  if 
system  it  may  be  called,  is  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  one  who  aimed  only  at  his  own  aggrandisement, 
and  had  no  generous  views  or  hopes  beyond  it.  That 
his  language  and  his  institutions  have  spread  together 
is  not  to  be  attributed  to  him : this  great  political 
advantage  necessarily  arises  when  nations  are  either 
civilised  or  converted  by  force,  and  it  is  only  by  force 
that  this  religion  has  been  propagated ; its  missionaries 
have  marched  in  armies,  and  its  only  martyrs  are  those 
who  have  fallen  in  the  field  of  battle.  Mohammed 
attempted  nothing  like  a fabric  of  society:  he  took 
abuses  as  he  found  them.  The  continuance  of  polygamy 
was  his  great  and  ruinous  error;  where  this  pernicious 
custom  is  established,  there  will  be  neither  connubial, 
nor  paternal,  nor  brotherly  affection;  and  hence  the 
unnatural  murders  with  which  Asiatic  history  abounds. 
The  Mohammedan  imprisons  his  wives,  and  sometimes 
knows  not  the  faces  of  his  own  children;  he  believes 
that  despotism  must  be  necessary  in  the  state,  because 
he  knows  it  to  be  necessary  at  home : thus  the  domestic 
tyrant  becomes  the  contented  slave,  and  the  atrocity  of 
the  ruler  and  the  patience  of  the  people  proceed  from 
the  same  cause.  It  is  the  inevitable  tendency  of  poly- 
gamy to  degrade  both  sexes ; wherever  it  prevails,  the 
intercourse  between  them  is  merely  sexual.  Women 
are  only  instructed  in  wantonness,  sensuality  becomes 
the  characteristic  of  whole  nations,  and  humanity  is 
disgraced  by  crimes  the  most  loathsome  and  detestable. 
This  is  the  primary  and  general  cause  of  that  despotism 
and  degradation  which  are  universal  throughout  the 
East : not  climate,  or  the  mountaineers  would  be  free 
and  virtuous ; not  religion,  for  through  all  the  changes 
of  belief  which  the  East  has  undergone,  the  evil  and 
the  effect  have  remained  the  same. 

Mohammed  inculcated  the  doctrine  of  fatalism, 
because  it  is  the  most  useful  creed  for  a conqueror. 
The  blind  passiveness  which  it  causes  has  completed  the 
degradation,  and  for  ever  impeded  the  improvement  of 
all  Mohammedan  nations.  They  will  not  struggle 
against  oppression,  for  the  same  reason  that  they  will 
not  avoid  the  infection  of  the  plague.  If  from  this 
state  of  stupid  patience  they  are  provoked  into  a 
paroxysm  of  brutal  fury,  they  destroy  the  tyrant ; but 
the  tyranny  remains  unaltered.  Oriental  revolutions 
are  like  the  casting  a stone  into  a stagnant  pool;  the 
surface  is  broken  for  a moment,  and  then  the  green 
weeds  close  over  it  again. 

Such  a system  can  produce  only  tyrants  and  slaves, 
those  who  are  watchful  to  commit  any  crime  for  power, 
and  those  who  are  ready  to  endure  any  oppression  for 
tranquillity.  A barbarous  and  desolating  ambition  has 
been  the  sole  motive  of  their  conquering  chiefs;  the 
wisdom  of  their  wisest  sovereigns  has  produced  nothing 
of  public  benefit : it  has  ended  in  idle  moralisings,  and 
the  late  discovery  that  all  is  vanity.  One  tyrant  at 
the  hour  of  death  asserts  the  equality  of  mankind; 
another,  who  had  attained  empire  by  his  crimes,  exposes 
his  shroud  at  last,  and  proclaims  that  now  nothing  but 
that  is  left  him.  ‘ I have  slain  the  princes  of  men,’  said 
Azzud  ad  Dowlah,  ‘ and  have  laid  waste  the  palaces  of 
kings.  I have  dispersed  them  to  the  east,  and  scattered 
them  to  the  west,  and  now  the  grave  calls  me,  and  I 
must  go !’  and  he  died  with  the  frequent  exclamation : 
‘ What  avails  my  wealth  ? my  empire  is  departing  from 
me  !’  When  Mahmoud,  the  great  Graznevide,  was  dying 
of  consumption  in  his  Palace  of  Happiness,  he  ordered 
that  all  his  treasures  should  be  brought  out  to  amuse 
him.  They  were  laid  before  him,  silk  and  tapestry, 
jewels,  vessels  of  silver  and  gold,  coffers  of  money,  the 
spoils  of  the  nations  whom  he  had  plundered : it  was 
the  spectacle  of  a whole  day ; but  pride  yielded  to  the 
stronger  feeling  of  nature;  Mahmoud  recollected  that 
he  was  in  his  mortal  sickness,  and  wept  and  moralised 
upon  the  vanity  of  the  world. 

It  were  wearying  to  dwell  upon  the  habitual  crimes 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


of  which  their  history  is  composed;  we  may  estimate 
their  guilt  by  what  is  said  of  their  virtues.  Of  all  the 
Abbasides,  none  but  Mutaded  equalled  Almanzor  in 
goodness.  A slave  one  day,  when  fanning  away  the 
flies  from  him,  struck  off  his  turban,  upon  which 
Mutaded  only  remarked,  that  the  boy  was  sleepy ; but 
the  vizier,  who  was  present,  fell  down  and  kissed  the 
ground,  and  exclaimed : ‘ 0 Commander  of  the  Faithful, 
I never  heard  of  such  a thing  ! I did  not  think  such 
clemency  had  been  possible!’  for  it  was  the  custom 
of  this  caliph,  when  a slave  displeased  him,  to  have  the 
offender  buried  alive. 

The  Mohammedan  sovereigns  have  suffered  their  just 
punishment;  they  have  been  miserable  as  well  as 
wicked.  For  others  they  can  feel  no  sympathy,  and 
have  learned  to  take  no  interest ; for  themselves  there 
is  nothing  but  fear ; their  situation  excludes  them  from 
hope,  and  they  have  the  perpetual  sense  of  danger,  and 
the  dread  of  that  inevitable  hour  wherein  there  shall  be 
no  distinction  of  persons.  This  fear  they  have  felt  and 
confessed;  in  youth  it  has  embittered  enjoyment,  and 
it  has  made  age  dreadful.  A dream,  or  the  chance 
words  of  a song,  or  the  figures  of  the  tapestry,  have 
terrified  them  into  tears.  Haroun  A1  Raschid  opened 
a volume  of  poems,  and  read:  ‘Where  are  the  kings, 
and  where  are  the  rest  of  the  world  ? They  are  gone 
the  way  which  thou  shalt  go.  0 thou  who  choosest 
a perishable  world,  and  callest  him  happy  whom  it 
glorifies,  take  what  the  world  can  give  thee,  but 
death  is  at  the  end!’  And  at  these  words,  he  who 
had  murdered  Yahia  and  the  Barmecides,  wept  aloud. 

In  these  barbarous  monarchies  the  people  are  indolent, 
because  if  they  acquire  wealth  they  dare  not  enjoy  it. 
Punishment  produces  no  shame,  for  it  is  inflicted  by 
caprice,  not  by  justice.  They  who  are  rich  or  powerful 
become  the  victims  of  rapacity  or  fear.  If  a battle  or 
fortress  be  lost,  the  commander  is  punished  for  his 
misfortune ; if  he  become  popular  for  his  victories,  he 
incurs  the  jealousy  and  hatred  of  the  ruler.  Nor  is  it 
enough  that  wealth,  and  honour,  and  existence  are  at 
the  despot’s  mercy;  the  feelings  and  instincts  must 
yield  at  his  command.  If  he  take  the  son  for  his 
eunuch,  and  the  daughter  for  his  concubine;  if  he 
order  the  father  to  execute  the  child,  it  is  what  destiny 
has  appointed,  and  the  Mohammedan  says : ‘ God’s  will 
be  done.’  But  insulted  humanity  has  not  unfrequently 
been  provoked  to  take  vengeance;  the  monarch  is 
always  in  danger,  because  the  subject  is  never  secure. 
These  are  the  consequences  of  that  absolute  power  and 
passive  obedience  which  have  resulted  from  the  doctrines 
of  Mohammed ; and  this  is  the  state  of  society  wher- 
ever his  religion  has  been  established. — Chronicle  of  the 
Cid. 

[Effects  of  the  Death  of  Nelson .] 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as  some- 
thing more  than  a public  calamity : men  started  at  the 
intelligence,  and  turned  pale,  as  if  they  had  heard  of 
the  loss  of  a dear  friend.  An  object  of  our  admiration 
and  affection,  of  our  pride  and  of  our  hopes,  was 
suddenly  taken  from  us ; and  it  seemed  as  if  we  had 
never,  till  then,  known  how  deeply  we  loved  and 
reverenced  him.  What  the  country  had  lost  in  its 
great  naval  hero — the  greatest  of  our  own,  and  of  all 
former  times — was  scarcely  taken  into  the  account  of 
grief.  So  perfectly,  indeed,  had  he  performed  his  part, 
that  the  maritime  war,  after  the  battle  of  Trafalgar, 
was  considered  at  an  end : the  fleets  of  the  enemy  were 
not  merely  defeated,  but  destroyed:  new  navies  must 
be  built,  and  a new  race  of  seamen  reared  for  them, 
before  the  possibility  of  their  invading  our  shores  could 
again  be  contemplated.  It  was  not,  therefore,  from  any 
selfish  reflection  upon  the  magnitude  of  our  loss  that  we 
mourned  for  him : the  general  sorrow  was  of  a higher 
character.  The  people  of  England  grieved  that  funeral 


ceremonies,  and  public  monuments,  and  posthumous 
rewards  were  all  which  they  could  now  bestow  upon 
him,  whom  the  king,  the  legislature,  and  the  nation, 
would  have  alike  delighted  to  honour;  whom  every 
tongue  would  have  blessed;  whose  presence  in  every 
village  through  which  he  might  have  passed  would  have 
wakened  the  church-bells,  have  given  school-boys  a 
holiday,  have  drawn  children  from  their  sports  to  gaze 
upon  him,  and  ‘ old  men  from  the  chimney  comer,’  to 
look  upon  Nelson  ere  they  died.  The  victory  of 
Trafalgar  was  celebrated,  indeed,  with  the  usual  forms 
of  rejoicing,  but  they  were  without  joy ; for  such  already 
was  the  glory  of  the  British  navy,  through  Nelson’s 
surpassing  genius,  that  it  scarcely  seemed  to  receive 
any  addition  from  the  most  signal  victory  that  ever 
was  achieved  upon  the  seas : and  the  destruction  of 
this  mighty  fleet,  by  which  all  the  maritime  schemes  of 
France  were  totally  frustrated,  hardly  appeared  to  add 
to  our  security  or  strength;  for,  while  Nelson  was 
living,  to  watch  the  combined  squadrons  of  the  enemy, 
we  felt  ourselves  as  secure  as  now,  when  they  were  no 
longer  in  existence. 


There  was  reason  to  suppose,  from  the  appearances 
upon  opening  the  body,  that,  in  the  course  of  nature,  he 
might  have  attained,  like  his  father,  to  a good  old  age. 
Yet  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  fallen  prematurely  whose 
work  was  done ; nor  ought  he  to  be  lamented,  who  died 
so  full  of  honours,  and  at  the  height  of  human  fame. 
The  most  triumphant  death  is  that  of  the  martyr ; the 
most  awful  that  of  the  martyred  patriot ; the  most 
splendid  that  of  the  hero  in  the  hour  of  victory : and 
if  the  chariot  and  the  horses  of  fire  had  been  vouchsafed 
for  Nelson’s  translation,  he  could  scarcely  have  departed 
in  a brighter  blaze  of  glory.  He  has  left  us,  not  indeed 
his  mantle  of  inspiration,  but  a name  and  an  example, 
which  are  at  this  hour  inspiring  thousands  of  the  youth 
of  England ; a name  which  is  our  pride,  and  an  example 
which  will  continue  to  be  our  shield  and  our  strength. 
Thus  it  is  that  the  spirits  of  the  great  and  the  wise 
continue  to  live  and  to  act  after  them. — Life  of  Nelson. 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  miscellaneous 
writers  of  this  period  was  William  Hazlitt,  whose 
bold  and  vigorous  tone  of  thinking,  and  acute  criti- 
cism on  poetry,  the  drama,  and  fine  arts,  found 
many  admirers,  especially  among  young  minds.  He 
was  a man  of  decided  talent,  but  prone  to  paradox, 
and  swayed  by  prejudice.  He  was  well  read  in  the 
old  English  authors,  and  had  in  general  a just  and 
delicate  perception  of  their  beauties.  His  style  was 
strongly  tinged  by  the  peculiarities  of  his  taste 
and  reading;  it  was  often  sparkling,  pungent,  and 
picturesque  in  expression.  Hazlitt  was  a native  of 
Shropshire,  the  son  of  a Unitarian  minister.  He 
began  life  as  a painter,  but  failed  in  attaining  excel- 
lence in  the  profession,  though  he  retained  through 
life  the  most  vivid  and  intense  appreciation  of  its 
charms.  His  principal  support  was  derived  from 
the  literary  and  political  journals,  to  which  he  con- 
tributed essays,  reviews,  and  criticisms.  He  wrote 
a metaphysical  treatise  on  the  Principles  of  Human 
Action;  Characters  of  Shakspeare’s  Plays;  A View 
of  the  English  Stage ; two  volumes  of  Table  Talk ; 
The  Spirit  of  the  Age  (containing  criticisms  on 
eminent  public  characters) ; Lectures  on  the  English 
Poets , delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution ; Lectures 
on  the  Literature  of  the  Elizabethan  Age  ; and  various 
sketches  of  the  galleries  of  art  in  England.  He  was 
author  also  of  Notes  of  a Journey  through  France  and 
Italy , originally  contributed  to  one  of  the  daily 
journals ; an  Essay  on  the  Fine  Arts  for  the  Ency- 
clopaedia Britannica ; and  some  articles  on  the 
English  novelists  and  other  standard  authors,  first 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


published  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  His  most 
elaborate  work  was  a Life  of  Napoleon,  in  four 
volumes,  which  evinces  all  the  peculiarities  of  his 
mind  and  opinions,  but  is  very  ably  and  powerfully 
written.  Shortly  before  his  death — which  took 
place  in  London  on  the  18th  of  September  1830 — 
he  had  committed  to  the  press  the  Conversations  of 
James  Northcote,  Esq.,  containing  remarks  on  arts 
and  artists.  The  toils,  uncertainties,  and  disappoint- 
ments of  a literary  life,  and  the  contests  of  bitter 
political  warfare,  soured  and  warped  the  mind  of 
Hazlitt,  and  distorted  his  opinions  of  men  and 
things ; but  those  who  trace  the  passionate  flights 
of  his  imagination,  his  aspirations  after  ideal  excel- 
lence and  beauty,  the  brilliancy  of  his  language 
while  dwelling  on  some  old  poem,  or  picture,  or 
dream  of  early  days,  and  the  undisguised  freedom 
with  which  he  pours  out  his  whole  soul  to  the 
reader,  will  readily  assign  to  him  both  strength 
and  versatility  of  genius.  He  had  felt  more  than  he 
had  reflected  or  studied ; and  though  proud  of  his 
acquirements  as  a metaphysician,  he  certainly  could 
paint  emotions  better  than  he  could  unfold  prin- 
ciples. The  only  son  of  Mr  Hazlitt  has,  with  pious 
diligence  and  care,  collected  and  edited  his  father’s 
works  in  a series  of  handsome  portable  volumes. 

{The  Character  of  Falstaff.] 

FalstafTs  wit  is  an  emanation  of  a fine  constitution ; 
an  exuberation  of  good-humour  and  good-nature;  an 
overflowing  of  his  love  of  laughter  and  good-fellowship ; 
a giving  vent  to  his  heart’s  ease  and  over-contentment 
with  himself  and  others.  He  would  not  be  in  character 
if  he  were  not  so  fat  as  he  is ; for  there  is  the  greatest 
keeping  in  the  boundless  luxury  of  his  imagination,  and 
the  pampered  self-indulgence  of  his  physical  appetites. 
He  manures  and  nourishes  his  mind  with  jests,  as  he 
does  his  body  with  sack  and  sugar.  He  carves  out  his 
jokes  as  he  would  a capon  or  a haunch  of  venison,  where 
there  is  cut  and  come  again ; and  pours  out  upon  them 
the  oil  of  gladness.  His  tongue  drops  fatness,  and  in 
the  chambers  of  his  brain  ‘ it  snows  of  meat  and  drink.’ 
He  keeps  up  perpetual  holiday  and  open  house,  and  we 
live  with  him  in  a round  of  invitations  to  a rump  and 
dozen.  Yet  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  he  was  a mere 
sensualist.  All  this  is  as  much  in  imagination  as  in 
reality.  His  sensuality  does  not  engross  and  stupify 
his  other  faculties,  but  ‘ ascends  me  into  the  brain,  clears 
away  all  the  dull  crude  vapours  that  environ  it,  and 
makes  it  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delectable  shapes.’ 
His  imagination  keeps  up  the  ball  after  his  senses  have 
done  with  it.  He  seems  to  have  even  a greater  enjoy- 
ment of  the  freedom  from  restraint,  of  good  cheer,  of 
his  ease,  of  his  vanity,  in  the  ideal  exaggerated  descrip- 
tion which  he  gives  of  them,  than  in  fact.  He  never 
fails  to  enrich  his  discourse  with  allusions  to  eating  and 
drinking ; but  we  never  see  him  at  table.  He  carries 
liis  own  larder  about  with  him,  and  he  is  himself  ‘ a tun 
of  man.’  His  pulling  out  the  bottle  in  the  field  of  battle 
is  a joke  to  shew  his-  contempt  for  glory  accompanied 
with  danger,  his  systematic  adherence  to  his  Epicurean 
philosophy  in  the  most  trying  circumstances.  Again, 
such  is  his  deliberate  exaggeration  of  his  own  vices, 
that  it  does  not  seem  quite  certain  whether  the  account 
of  his  hostess’s  bill,  found  in  his  pocket,  with  such  an 
out-of-the-way  charge  for  capons  and  sack,  with  only 
one  halfpenny-worth  of  bread,  was  not  put  there  by 
himself  as  a trick  to  humour  the  jest  upon  his  favourite 
propensities,  and  as  a conscious  caricature  of  himself. 
He  is  represented  as  a liar,  a braggart,  a coward,  a 
glutton,  &c.,  and  yet  we  are  not  offended,  but  delighted 
with  him ; for  he  is  all  these  as  much  to  amuse  others 
as  to  gratify  himself  He  openly  assumes  all  these 
characters  to  shew  the  humorous  part  of  them.  The 
540 


unrestrained  indulgence  of  his  own  ease,  appetites,  and 
convenience,  has  neither  malice  nor  hypocrisy  in  it.  In 
a word,  he  is  an  actor  in  himself  almost  as  much  as 
. upon  the  stage,  and  we  no  more  object  to  the  character 
of  Falstaff  in  a moral  point  of  view,  than  we  should 
think  of  bringing  an  excellent  comedian,  who  should 
represent  him  to  the  life,  before  one  of  the  police-offices. 

{The  Character  of  Hamlet.'] 

It  is  the  one  of  Shakspeare’s  plays  that  we  think  of 
the  oftenest,  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  reflec- 
tions on  human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of 
Hamlet  are  transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the 
general  account  of  humanity.  Whatever  happens  to  him, 
we  apply  to  ourselves,  because  he  applies  it  to  himself 
as  a means  of  general  reasoning.  He  is  a great  moraliser ; 
and  what  makes  him  worth  attending  to  is,  that  he 
! moralises  on  his  own  feelings  and  experience.  He  is  not 
a common-place  pedant.  If  Lear  is  distinguished  by  the 
greatest  depth  of  passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remark- 
able for  the  ingenuity,  originality,  and  unstudied 
development  of  character.  Shakspeare  had  more  mag- 
nanimity than  any  other  poet,  and  he  has  shewn  more  | 
of  it  in  this  play  than  in  any  other.  There  is  no  attempt  | 
to  force  an  interest:  everything  is  left  for  time  and 
circumstances  to  unfold.  The  attention  is  excited  { 
without  effort;  the  incidents  succeed  each  other  as  j 
matters  of  course ; the  characters  think,  and  speak,  and  ! 
act  just  as  they  might  do  if  left  entirely  to  themselves. 
There  is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a point.  The 
observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — the  | 
gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  j 
on  the  wind.  The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  j 
what  might  be  supposed  to  have  taken  place  at  the  1 
court  of  Denmark  at  the  remote  period  of  time  fixed  j 
upon,  before  the  modern  refinements  in  morals  and  i 
manners  were  heard  of.  It  would  have  been  interesting 
enough  to  have  been  admitted  as  a bystander  in  such  a ' 
scene,  at  such  a time,  to  have  heard  and  witnessed  i 
something  of  what  was  going  on.  But  here  we  are  j 
more  than  spectators.  We  have  not  only  ‘the  outward  j 
pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief,’  but  ‘we  have  that  i 
within  which  passes  show.’  We  read  the  thoughts  of 
the  heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise. 
Other  dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and 
paraphrases  of  nature;  but  Shakspeare,  together  with 
his  own  comments,  gives  us  the  original  text,  that  we 
may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a veiy  great  advantage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by  itself.  It 
is  not  a character  marked  by  strength  of  will  or  even 
of  passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  sentiment. 
Hamlet  is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  a man  can  well  be ; 
but  he  is  a young  and  princely  novice,  full  of  high 
enthusiasm  and  quick  sensibility — the  sport  of  circum- 
stances, questioning  with  fortune,  and  refining  on  his 
own  feelings,  and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of  his 
disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situation.  He 
seems  incapable  of  deliberate  action,  and  is  only  hurried 
into  extremities  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  when  he 
has  no  time  to  reflect — as  in  the  scene  where  he  kills 
Polonius ; and,  again,  where  he  alters  the  letters  which 
Rosencrantz  and  Gruildenstern  are  taking  with  them  to 
England,  purporting  his  death.  At  other  times,  when 
he  is  most  bound  to  act,  he  remains  puzzled,  undecided, 
and  sceptical ; dallies  with  his  purposes  till  the  occasion 
is  lost,  and  finds  out  some  pretence  to  relapse  into 
indolence  and  thoughtfulness  again.  For  this  reason  he 
refuses  to  kill  the  king  when  he  is  at  his  prayers ; and, 
by  a refinement  in  malice,  which  is  in  truth  only  an 
excuse  for  his  own  want  of  resolution,  defers  his  revenge 
to  a more  fatal  opportunity. 

* * * * 

The  moral  perfection  of  this  character  has  been  called 
in  question,  we  think,  by  those  who  did  not  understand 
it.  It  is  more  interesting  than  according  to  rules; 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH. 


amiable,  though  not  faultless.  The  ethical  delineations 
of  ‘ that  noble  and  liberal  casuist  ’ — as  Shakspeare  has 
been  well  called — do  not  exhibit  the  drab-coloured 
Quakerism  of  morality.  His  plays  are  not  copied  either 
from  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man , or  from  The  Academy 
of  Compliments!  We  confess  we  are  a little  shocked 
at  the  want  of  refinement  in  those  who  are  shocked  at 
the  want  of  refinement  in  Hamlet.  The  neglect  of 
punctilious  exactness  in  his  behaviour  either  partakes 
of  the  ‘ licence  of  the  time,’  or  else  belongs  to  the  very 
excess  of  intellectual  refinement  in  the  character,  which 
makes  the  common  rules  of  life,  as  well  as  his  own 
purposes,  sit  loose  upon  him.  He  may  be  said  to  be 
amenable  only  to  the  tribunal  of  his  own  thoughts,  and 
is  too  much  taken  up  with  the  airy  world  of  contem- 
plation, to  lay  as  much  stress  as  he  ought  on  the 
practical  consequences  of  things.  His  habitual  prin- 
ciples of  action  are  unhinged  and  out  of  joint  with  the 
time.  His  conduct  to  Ophelia  is  quite  natural  in  his 
circumstances.  It  is  that  of  assumed  severity  only.  It 
is  the  effect  of  disappointed  hope,  of  bitter  regrets,  of 
affection  suspended,  not  obliterated,  by  the  distractions 
of  the  scene  around  him ! Amidst  the  natural  and 
preternatural  horrors  of  his  situation,  he  might  be 
excused  in  delicacy  from  carrying  on  a regular  courtship. 
When  ‘ bis  father’s  spirit  was  in  arms,’  it  was  not  a time 
for  the  son  to  make  love  in.  He  could  neither  marry 
Ophelia,  nor  wound  her  mind  by  explaining  the  cause  of 
his  alienation,  which  he  durst  hardly  trust  himself  to 
think  of.  It  would  have  taken  him  years  to  have  come 
to  a direct  explanation  on  the  point.  In  the  harassed 
state  of  his  mind,  he  could  not  have  done  much  otherwise 
than  he  did.  His  conduct  does  not  contradict  what  he 
says  when  he  sees  her  funeral : 

I loved  Ophelia ; forty  thousand  brothers 

Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 

Make  up  my  sum. 

REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH. 

One  of  the  most  witty,  popular,  and  influential 
writers  of  the  age  was  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  born 


Rev.  Sydney  Smith. 


at  Woodford,  in  Essex,  in  1771.  He  was  one  of  the 
three  sons  of  a somewhat  eccentric  and  improvident 
English  gentleman,  who  out  of  the  wreck  of  his 
fortune  was  able  to  give  his  family  a good  education, 


and  place  them  in  positions  favourable  for  their 
advancement.  The  eldest,  Robert — best  known  by 
the  nam^  given  by  his  school-fellows  at  Eton,  of 
Bobus — was  distinguished  as  a classical  scholar,  and 
adopted  the  profession  of  the  law.  Sydney,  the 
second  son,  was  educated  at  Winchester  and  Oxford, 
and  entered  the  church.  Courtenay,  the  youngest 
son,  went  to  India,  and  acquired  great  wealth,  as 
well  as  reputation,  as  a judge  and  oriental  scholar. 
The  opinion  or  hypothesis  that  men  of  genius  more 
generally  inherit  their  intellectual  eminence  from 
the  side  of  the  mother  than  that  of  the  father,  is 
illustrated  by  the  history  of  this  remarkable  family, 
for  the  mother  of  the  young  Smiths,  the  daughter  of 
a French  emigrant,  was  a woman  of  strong  sense, 
energy  of  character,  and  constitutional  vivacity  or 
gaiety.  Sydney  having  gained  a fellowship  at  New 
College,  Oxford,  worth  about  £100  per  annum,  was 
cast  upon  his  own  resources.  He  obtained  a 
curacy  in  a small  village  in  the  midst  of  Salisbury 
Plain.  The  squire  of  the  parish,  Mr  Beach,  two 
years  afterwards,  engaged  him  as  tutor  to  his  eldest 
son,  and  it  was  arranged  that  tutor  and  pupil  should 
proceed  to  the  university  of  Weimar,  in  Saxony. 
They  set  out,  but  ‘ before  we  could  get  there,’  said 
Smith,  4 Germany  became  the  seat  of  war,  and  in 
stress  of  politics  we  put  into  Edinburgh,  where  I 
remained  five  years.’  He  officiated  in  the  Episcopal 
chapel  there.  After  two  years’  residence  in  Edin- 
burgh, he  returned  to  England  to  marry  a Miss 
Pybus,  daughter  of  a deceased  banker.  The  lady 
had  a brother,  one  of  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty, 
under  Pitt,  but  he  was  highly  incensed  at  the 
marriage  of  his  sister  with  a decided  Whig  without 
fortune,  and  the  prospects  of  the  young  pair  were 
far  from  brilliant.  The  lady,  however,  had  a small 
fortune  of  her  own,  and  she  realised  £500  by  the 
sale  of  a fine  necklace  which  her  mother  had  given 
her.  The  Salisbury  squire  added  £1000  for  Sydney’s 
care  of  his  son,  and  thus  the  more  sordid  of  the  ills 
of  poverty  were  averted.  Literature  also  furnished 
an  additional  source.  The  Edinburgh  Review  was 
started  in  1802,  and  Sydney  Smith  was  the  original 
projector  of  the  scheme : 

‘The  principles  of  the  French  Revolution,’  he 
says,  ‘ were  then  fully  afloat,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
conceive  a more  violent  and  agitated  state  of 
society.  Among  the  first  persons  with  whom  I 
became  acquainted,  were  Lord  Jeffrey,  Lord  Murray 
— late  Lord  Advocate  for  Scotland — and  Lord 
Brougham  ; all  of  them  maintaining  opinions  upon 
political  subjects  a little  too  liberal  for  the  dynasty 
of  Dundas,  then  exercising  supreme  power  over  the 
northern  division  of  the  island.  One  day  we 
happened  to  meet  in  the  eighth  or  ninth  story  or 
flat  in  Buccleuch  Place,  the  elevated  residence  of 
the  then  Mr  Jeffrey.  I proposed  that  we  should  set 
up  a Review ; this  was  acceded  to  with  acclamation. 

I was  appointed  editor,  and  remained  long  enough 
in  Edinburgh  to  edit  the  first  number  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  The  motto  I proposed  for  the 
Review  was : 

* Tenui  musam  meditamur  avena’— 

We  cultivate  literature  upon  a little  oatmeal. 

But  this  was  too  near  the  truth  to  be  admitted,  and 
so  we  took  our  present  grave  motto  from  Publius 
Syrus,  of  whom  none  of  us  had,  I am  sure,  ever  read 
a single  line  ;*  and  so  began  what  has  since  turned 
out  to  be  a very  important  and  able  journal.  When 

* Judex  damnatur  cum  nocens  absolvitur — The  judge  is  con- 
demned when  the  guilty  are  absolved.  The  young  adventurers, 
it  was  said,  had  hung  out  the  bloody  flag  on  their  title-page ! 

541 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1880. 


I left  Edinburgh  it  fell  into  the  stronger  hands  of 
Lord  Jeffrey  and  Lord  Brougham,  and  reached  the 
highest  point  of  popularity  and  success.’ 

Jeffrey’s  more  sober  account  of  this  literary 
enterprise  will  afterwards  be  given,  but  one  feature 
in  the  scheme,  important  to  Smith,  as  to  all  the 
others,  was  that  the  writers  were  to  receive  for  their 
contributions  ten  guineas  a sheet,  or  sixteen  printed 
pages.  In  1801,  Mr  Smith  sought  the  wider  field  of 
London.  He  officiated  for  some  time  as  preacher 
of  the  Foundling  Hospital  at  £50  per  annum,  and 
obtained  another  preachership  in  Berkeley  Square. 
His  sermons  were  highly  popular,  and  a course  of 
lectures  on  moral  philosophy,  which  he  delivered  in 
1801,  1805,  and  1806,  at  the  Royal  Institution — and 
which  wrere  published  after  his  death — still  more 
widely  extended  his  reputation.  In  Holland  House, 
and  in  other  distinguished  circles,  his  extraordinary 
conversational  powers  had  already  made  him  famous. 
His  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review  also 
added  to  his  popularity,  though  their  liberality  of 
tone  and  spirit  rendered  him  obnoxious  to  the  party 
in  power.  During  the  short  period  of  the  Whig 
administration  in  1806-7,  he  obtained  the  living  of 
Foston-le-Clay,  in  Yorkshire,  and  here  he  wrote  a 
highly  amusing  and  powerful  political  tract,  entitled 
Letters  on  the  Subject  of  the  Catholics , to  my  Brother 
Abraham , who  lives  in  the  Country , by  Peter  Plymley. 
The  success  of  the  Letters  was  immense — they  have 
gone  through  twenty-one  editions.  Since  the  days 
of  Swift  no  such  masterly  political  irony,  combined 
with  irresistible  argument,  had  been,  witnessed.  In 
ridiculing  the  idea  prevalent  among  many  timid 
though  excellent  persons  at  the  time,  that  a con- 
spiracy had  been  formed  against  the  Protestant 
religion,  headed  by  the  pope,  Mr  Smith  places  the 
subject  in  a light  highly  ludicrous  and  amusing : 

The  pope  has  not  landed — nor  are  there  any  curates 
sent  out  after  him — nor  has  he  been  hid  at  St  Albans 
by  the  Dowager  Lady  Spencer — nor  dined  privately  at 
Holland  House — nor  been  seen  near  Dropmore.  If 
these  fears  exist — which  I -do  not  believe — they  exist 
only  in  the  mind  of  the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer  [the 
late  Mr  Spencer  Perceval] ; they  emanate  from  his  zeal 
for  the  Protestant  interest ; and  though  they  reflect  the 
highest  honour  upon  the  delicate  irritability  of  his 
faith,  must  certainly  be  considered  as  more  ambiguous 
proofs  of  the  sanity  and  vigour  of  his  understanding. 
By  this  time,  however,  the  best  informed  clergy  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  metropolis  are  convinced  that  the 
rumour  is  without  foundation : and  though  the  pope  is 
probably  hovering  about  our  coast  in  a fishing-smack,  it 
is  most  likely  he  will  fall  a prey  to  the  vigilance  of  the 
cruisers : and  it  is  certain  he  has  not  yet  polluted  the 
Protestantism  of  our  soil.  Exactly  in  the  same  manner 
the  story  of  the  wooden  gods  seized  at  Charing  Cross, 
by  an  order  from  the  Foreign  Office,  turns  out  to  be 
without  the  shadow  of  a foundation : instead  of  the 
angels  and  archangels  mentioned  by  the  informer,  nothing 
was  discovered  but  a wooden  image  of  Lord  Mulgrave 
going  down  to  Chatham  as  a head-piece  for  the  Spanker 
gun-vessel : it  was  an  exact  resemblance  of  his  lordship 
in  his  military  uniform ; and  therefore  as  little  like  a 
god  as  can  well  be  imagined. 

The  effects  of  the  threatened  French  invasion  are 
painted  in  similar  colours.  Mr  Smith  is  arguing 
that,  notwithstanding  the  fears  entertained  in 
England  on  this  subject,  the  British  rulers  neglected 
the  obvious  means  of  self-defence : 

As  for  the  spirit  of  the  peasantry  in  making  a gallant 
defence  behind  hedgerows,  and  through  plate-racks  and 
hen-coops,  highly  as  I think  of  their  bravery,  I do  not 
know  any  nation  in  Europe  so  likely  to  be  struck  with 
642 


panic  as  the  English ; and  this  from  their  total  unac- 
quaintance with  sciences  of  war.  Old  wheat  and  beans 
blazing  for  twenty  miles  round ; cart  mares  shot ; sows 
of  Lord  Somerville’s  breed  running  wild  over  the 
country ; the  minister  of  the  parish  wounded  sorely  in 
his  hinder  parts ; Mrs  Plymley  in  fits ; all  these  scenes 
of  war  an  Austrian  or  a Russian  has  seen  three  or  four 
times  over;  but  it  is  now  three  centuries  since  an 
English  pig  has  fallen  in  a fair  battle  upon  English 
ground,  or  a farmhouse  been  rifled,  or  a clergyman’s 
wife  been  subjected  to  any  other  proposals  of  love  than 
the  connubial  endearments  of  her  sleek  and  orthodox 
mate.  The  old  edition  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  which  lies 
in  the  corner  of  your  parlour-window,  has  contributed 
to  work  you  up  to  the  most  romantic  expectations  of 
our  Roman  behaviour.  You  are  persuaded  that  Lord 
Amherst  will  defend  Kew  Bridge  like  Codes ; that 
some  maid  of  honour  will  break  away  from  her  captivity 
and  swim  over  the  Thames;  that  the  Duke  of  York 
will  burn  his  capitulating  hand ; and  little  Mr  Sturges 
Bourne  give  forty  years’  purchase  for  Moulsham  Hall 
while  the  French  are  encamped  upon  it.  I hope  we 
shall  witness  all  this,  if  the  French  do  come;  but  in 
the  meantime  I am  so  enchanted  with  the  ordinary 
English  behaviour  of  these  invaluable  persons,  that  I 
earnestly  pray  no  opportunity  may  be  given  them  for 
Roman  valour,  and  for  those  very  un-Roman  pensions 
which  they  would  all,  of  course,  take  especial  care  to 
claim  in  consequence. 

In  Yorkshire  Mr  Smith  became  a farmer,  as 
well  as  zealous  parish  minister,  and  having  in  his 
youth  applied  himself  to  the  occasional  study  of 
medicine,  he  was  useful  among  Iris  rural  neighbours. 
To  make  the  most  of  his  situation  in  life  was  always 
his  policy,  and  no  man,  with  a tithe  of  his  talents, 
was  ever  more  of  a contented  practical  philosopher. 
Patronage  came  slowly.  About  1825  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  presented  him  with  the  living  of  Londes- 
borough,  to  hold  till  the  duke’s  nephew  came  of 
age;  and  in  1828  Lord  Lyndhurst,  disregarding 
mere  party  considerations,  gave  him  a prebend’s 
stall  at  Bristol.  ‘Moralists  tell  you,’  he  said,  ‘of 
the  evils  of  wealth  and  station,  and  the  happiness  of 
poverty.  I have  been  very  poor  the  greatest  part 
of  my  life,  and  have  borne  it  as  well,  I believe,  as 
most  people,  but  I can  safely  say  that  I have  been 
happier  every  guinea  I have  gained.’  Lord  Lynd- 
hurst conferred  another  favour:  he  enabled  Mr 
Smith  to  exchange  Foston  for  Combe  Florey,  near 
Taunton,  and  the  rector  and  his  family  removed 
from  Yorkshire  to  Somersetshire.  In  1831  the 
advent  of  the  Whigs  to  power  procured  for  Mr 
Smith  a prebendal  stall  at  St  Paul’s,  in  exchange 
for  the  inferior  one  he  held  at  Bristol.  The  poli- 
tical agitation  during  the  unsettled  state  of  the 
Reform  Bill  elicited  from  his  vigorous  pen  some 
letters  intended  for  circulation  amongst  the  poor, 
and  some  short  but  decidedly  liberal  speeches.  In 
one  of  these,  delivered  at  Taunton  in  1831,  he  intro- 
duced the  famous  episode  of  Mrs  Partington,  which 
is  one  of  the  happiest  specimens  of  his  peculiar 
humour : 

[Story  of  Mrs  Partington .] 

I do  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  but  the  attempt  of 
the  Lords  to  stop  the  progress  of  reform  reminds  me 
very  forcibly  of  the  great  storm  of  Sidmouth,  and  of 
the  conduct  of  the  excellent  Mrs  Partington  on  that 
occasion.  In  the  winter  of  1824  there  set  in  a great 
flood  upon  that  town — the  tide  rose  to  an  incredible 
height — the  waves  rushed  in  upon  the  houses — and 
everything  was  threatened  with  destruction.  In  the 
midst  of  this  sublime  storm,  Dame  Partington,  who 
lived  upon  the  beach,  was  seen  at  the  door  of  her  house 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH. 


with  mop  and  pattens,  trundling  her  mop,  and  squeez- 
ing out  the  sea- water,  and  vigorously  pushing  away 
the  Atlantic  Ocean.  The  Atlantic  was  roused.  Mrs 
Partington’s  spirit  was  up ; hut  I need  not  tell  you  that 
the  contest  was  unequal.  The  Atlantic  Ocean  heat  Mrs 
Partington.  She  was  excellent  at  a slop  or  a puddle,  hut 
she  should  not  have  meddled  with  a tempest. 

Illustrations  of  this  kind  are  highly  characteristic 
of  their  author.  They  display  the  fertility  of  his 
fancy  and  the  richness  of  his  humour,  at  the  same 
time  that  they  drive  home  his  argument  with 
irresistible  effect.  Sydney  Smith,  like  Swift,  seems 
never  to  have  taken  up  his  pen  from  the  mere  love 
of  composition,  hut  to  enforce  practical  views  and 
opinions  on  which  he  felt  strongly.  His  wit  and 
banter  are  equally  direct  and  cogent.  Though  a 
professed  joker  and  convivial  wit — 4 a diner  out  of 
the  first  lustre,’  as  he  has  himself  characterised  Mr 
Canning — there  is  not  one  of  his  humorous  or  witty 
sallies  that  does  not  seem  to  flow  naturally,  and 
without  effort,  as  if  struck  out  or  remembered  at 
the  moment  it  is  used.  In  his  latter  years,  Sydney 
Smith  waged  war  with  the  Ecclesiastical  Commis- 
sioners in  a series  of  letters  addressed  to  Archdeacon 
Singleton.  He  considered  that  the  commission  had 
been  invested  with  too  much  power,  and  that  the 
interests  of  the  inferior  clergy  had  not  been  suffi- 
ciently regarded.  The  rights  of  the  Dean  and 
Chapter  he  defended  with  warmth  and  spirit,  and 
his  tone  was  at  times  unfriendly  to  his  old  Whig 
associates.  The  letters  contain  some  admirable 
portrait-painting,  bordering  on  caricature,  and  a 
variety  of  rich  illustration.  In  1839,  the  death  of 
his  youngest  brother,  Courtenay,  in  India,  put  him 
in  possession  of  a considerable  fortune:  4 in  my 
grand  climacteric,’  he  said,  4 1 became  unexpectedly 
a rich  man.’  This  wealth  enabled  him  to  invest 
money  in  Pennsylvanian  bonds,  and  when  Penn- 
sylvania and  other  states  sought  to  repudiate  the 
debt  due  to  England,  the  witty  canon  of  St  Paul’s 
took  the  field,  and  by  a petition  and  letters  on  the 
subject,  roused  all  Europe  against  the  repudiating 
States.  His  last  work  was  a short  treatise  on  the 
use  of  the  ballot  at  elections,  and  this  shewed  no 
diminution  in  his  powers  of  ridicule  or  reasoning. 
His  useful  and  distinguished  life  was  closed  on  the 
22d  of  February  1845.  Sydney  Smith  was  a fine 
representative  of  the  intellectual  Englishman — 
manly,  fearless,  and  independent.  His  talents  were 
always  exercised  on  practical  subjects;  to  correct 
what  he  deemed  abuses,  to  enforce  religious  tolera- 
tion, to  expose  cant  and  hypocrisy,  and  to  inculcate 
timely  reformation.  No  politician  was  ever  more 
disinterested  or  effective.  He  had  the  wit  and 
energy  of  Swift,  without  his  coarseness  or  cynicism, 
and  if  inferior  to  Swift  in  the  high  attribute  of 
original  inventive  genius,  he  had  a peculiar  and 
inimitable  breadth  of  humour  and  drollery  of  illus- 
tration that  served  as  potent  auxiliaries  to  his  clear 
and  logical  argument.  Shortly  after  Mr  Smith’s 
death  a paper  was  published,  entitled  A Fragment 
on  the  Irish  Roman  Catholic  Church , which  he  had 
left  in  an  incomplete  state.  A memoir  of  his  life, 
with  a selection  from  his  letters,  was  given  to  the 
world  in  1855,  by  his  daughter,  Lady  Holland. 

[Wit  the  Flavour  of  the  Mind.] 

When  wit  is  combined  with  sense  and  information  ; 
when  it  is  softened  by  benevolence  and  restrained  by 
principle ; when  it  is  in  the  hands  of  a man  who  can  use 
it  and  despise  it ; who  can  be  witty  and  something  more 
than  witty ; who  loves  honour,  justice,  decency,  good- 
nature, morality,  and  religion  ten  thousand  times  better 


than  wit,  wit  is  then  a beautiful  and  delightful  part  of 
our  nature.  Genuine  and  innocent  wit  like  this  is 
surely  the  flavour  of  the  mind.  Man  could  direct  his 
ways  by  plain  reason,  and  support  his  life  by  tasteless 
food  ; but  God  has  given  us  wit,  and  flavour,  and  bright- 
ness, and  laughter,  and  perfumes,  to  enliven  the  days  of 
man’s  pilgrimage,  and  to  charm  his  pained  steps  over 
the  burning  marl. 

[Difficulty  of  Governing  a Nation .] 

It  would  seem  that  the  science  of  government  is  an 
unappropriated  region  in  the  universe  of  knowledge. 
Those  sciences  with  which  the  passions  can  never  inter- 
fere, are  considered  to  be  attainable  only  by  study  and 
by  reflection  ; while  there  are  not  many  young  men  who 
doubt  of  their  ability  to  make  a constitution,  or  to 
govern  a kingdom  : at  the  same  time  there  cannot, 
perhaps,  be  a more  decided  proof  of  a superficial 
understanding  than  the  depreciation  of  those  difficulties 
which  are  inseparable  from  the  science  of  government. 
To  know  well  the  local  and  the  natural  man  ; to  track 
the  silent  march  of  human  affairs  ; to  seize,  with  happy 
intuition,  on  those  great  laws  which  regulate  the 
prosperity  of  empires  ; to  reconcile  principles  to  circum- 
stances, and  be  no  wiser  than  the  times  will  permit ; to 
anticipate  the  effects  of  every  speculation  upon  the 
entangled  relations  and  awkward  complexity  of  real 
life ; and  to  follow  out  the  theorems  of  the  senate  to 
the  daily  comforts  of  the  cottage,  is  a task  which  they 
will  fear  most  who  know  it  best — a task  in  which  the 
great  and  the  good  have  often  failed,  and  which  it  is 
not  only  wise,  but  pious  and  just  in  common  men  to 
avoid. 

[Means  of  Acquiring  Distinction .] 

It  is  natural  to  every  man  to  wish  for  distinction ; 
and  the  praise  of  those  who  can  confer  honour  by  their 
praise,  in  spite  of  all  false  philosophy,  is  sweet  to  every 
human  heart ; but  as  eminence  can  be  but  the  lot  of  a 
few,  patience  of  obscurity  is  a duty  which  we  owe  not 
more  to  our  own  happiness  than  to  the  quiet  of  the 
world  at  large.  Give  a loose,  if  you  are  young  and 
ambitious,  to  that  spirit  ■ which  throbs  within  you ; 
measure  yourself  with  your  equals ; and  learn,  from 
frequent  competition,  the  place  which  nature  has  allotted 
to  you  ; make  of  it  no  mean  battle,  but  strive  hard ; 
strengthen  your  soul  to  the  search  of  truth,  and  follow 
that  spectre  of  excellence  wlffch'.beckons  you  on  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  world  to  something  better  than  man  has 
yet  done.  It  may  be  you  shall  burst  out  into  light  and 
glory  at  the  last ; but  if  frequent  failure  convince  you  of 
that  mediocrity  of  nature  which  is  incompatible  with 
great  actions,  submit  wisely  and  cheerfully  to  your  lot ; 
let  no  mean  spirit  of  revenge  tempt  you  to  throw  off  your 
loyalty  to  your  country,  and  to  prefer  a vicious  celebrity 
to  obscurity  crowned  with  piety  and  virtue.  If  you  can 
throw  new  light  upon  moral  truth,  or  by  any  exertions 
multiply  the  comforts  or  confirm  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind, this  fame  guides  you  to  the  true  ends  of  your 
nature ; but  in  the  name  of  God,  as  you  tremble  at 
retributive  justice,  and  in  the  name  of  mankind,  if 
mankind  be  dear  to  you,  seek  not  that  easy  and  accursed 
fame  which  is  gathered  in  the  work  of  revolutions ; and 
deem  it  better  to  be  for  ever  unknown,  than  to  found 
a momentary  name  upon  the  basis  of  anarchy  and 
irreligion. 

[Locking  in  on  Railways .] 

Railway  travelling  is  a delightful  improvement  of 
human  life.  Man  is  become  a bird ; he  can  fly  longer 
and  quicker  than  a solan  goose.  The  mamma  rushes 
sixty  miles  in  two  hours  to  the  aching  finger  of  her 
conjugating  and  declining  grammar-boy.  The  early 
Scotchman  scratches  himself  in  the  morning  mists  of 

513 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


the  north,  and  has  his  porridge  in  Piccadilly  before  the 
setting  sun.  The  Puseyite  priest,  after  a rush  of  a 
hundred  miles,  appears  with  his  little  volume  of  non- 
sense at  the  breakfast  of  his  bookseller.  Everything 
is  near,  everything  is  immediate — time,  distance,  and 
delay  are  abolished.  But,  though  charming  and  fascin- 
ating as  all  this  is,  we  must  not  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
price  we  shall  pay  for  it.  There  will  be  every  three 
or  four  years  some  dreadful  massacre — whole  trains  will 
be  hurled  down  a precipice,  and  two  hundred  or  three 
hundred  persons  will  be  killed  on  the  spot.  There 
will  be  every  now  and  then  a great  combustion  of 
human  bodies,  as  there  has  been  at  Paris ; then  all 
the  newspapers  up  in  arms — a thousand  regulations, 
forgotten  as  soon  as  the  directors  dare — loud  screams 
of  the  velocity  whistle — monopoly  locks  and  bolts  as 
before. 

The  locking  plea  of  directors  is  philanthropy ; and  I 
admit  that  to  guard  men  from  the  commission  of  moral 
evil  is  as  philanthropical  as  to  prevent  physical  suffer- 
ing. There  is,  I allow,  a strong  propensity  in  mankind 
to  travel  on  railways  without  paying ; and  to  lock  man- 
kind in  till  they  have  completed  their  share  of  the  con- 
tract is  benevolent,  because  it  guards  the  species  from 
degrading  and  immoral  conduct ; but  to  burn  or  crush 
a whole  train,  merely  to  prevent  a few  immoral  insides 
from  not  paying,  is,  I hope,  a little  more  than  Ripon  or 
Gladstone  will  permit. 

We  have  been,  up  to  this  point,  very  careless  of  our 
railway  regulations.  The  first  person  of  rank  who  is 
killed  will  put  everything  in  order,  and  produce  a code 
of  the  most  careful  rules.  I hope  it  will  not  be  one  of 
the  bench  of  bishops  ; but  should  it  be  so  destined,  let 
the  burnt  bishop — the  unwilling  Latimer — remember 
that,  however  painful  gradual  concoction  by  fire  may  be, 
his  death  will  produce  unspeakable  benefits  to  the  public. 
Even  Sodor  and  Man  will  be  better  than  nothing. 
From  that  moment  the  bad  effects  of  the  monopoly 
are  destroyed ; no  more  fatal  deference  to  the  directors ; 
no  despotic  incarceration,  no  barbarous  inattention  to 
the  anatomy  and  physiology  of  the  human  body;  no 
commitment  to  locomotive  prisons  with  warrant.  We 
shall  then  find  it  possible  voyager  libre  sans  mourir. 

[A  Real  Bishop.] 

A grave  elderly  man,  full  of  Greek,  with  sound  views 
of  the  middle  voice  and  preterperfect  tense,  gentle  and 
kind  to  his  poor  clergy,  %f  powerful  and  commanding 
eloquence;  in  parliament  never  to  be  put  down  when 
the  great  interests  of  mankind  were  concerned ; leaning 
to  the  government  when  it  was  right,  leaning  to  the 
people  when  they  were  right ; feeling  that  if  the  Spirit 
of  God  had  called  him  to  that  high  office,  he  was  called 
for  no  mean  purpose,  but  rather  that  seeing  clearly,  and 
acting  boldly,  and  intending  purely,  he  might  confer 
lasting  benefits  on  mankind. 

[ All  Curates  hope  to  draw  Great  Prizes.] 

I am  surprised  it  does  not  strike  the  mountaineers 
how  very  much  the  great  emoluments  of  the  church 
are  flung  open  to  the  lowest  ranks  of  the  community. 
Butchers,  bakers,  publicans,  schoolmasters,  are  perpet- 
ually seeing  their  children  elevated  to  the  mitre.  Let 
a respectable  baker  drive  through  the  city  from  the 
west  end  of  the  town,  and  let  him  cast  an  eye  on  the 
battlements  of  Northumberland  House,  has  his  little 
muffin-faced  son  the  smallest  chance  of  getting  in 
among  the  Percies,  enjoying  a share  of  their  luxury 
and  splendour,  and  of  chasing  the  deer  with  hound  and 
horn  upon  the  Cheviot  Hills  ? But  let  him  drive  his 
alum-steeped  loaves  a little  further,  till  he  reaches  St 
Paul’s  Churchyard,  and  all  his  thoughts  are  changed 
when  he  sees  that  beautiful  fabric ; it  is  not  impossible 
that  his  little  penny-roll  may  be  introduced  into  that 
514 


splendid  oven.  Young  Crumpet  is  sent  to  school — takes 
to  his  books — spends  the  best  years  of  his  life,  as  all 
eminent  Englishmen  do,  in  making  Latin  verses — knows 
that  the  crum  in  crumpet  is  long,  and  the  pet  short — 
goes  to  the  university — gets  a prize  for  an  Essay  on 
the  Dispersion  of  the  Jews — takes  orders — becomes  a 
bishop’s  chaplain — has  a young  nobleman  for  his 
pupil — publishes  a useless  classic,  and  a serious  call 
to  the  unconverted — and  then  goes  through  the  Elysian 
transitions  of  prebendary,  dean,  prelate,  and  the  long 
train  of  purple,  profit,  and  power. 

FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 

Francis  Jeffrey,  who  exercised  greater  influence 
on  the  periodical  literature  and  criticism  of  this 
century  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  was  a native 
of  Edinburgh,  born  on  the  23d  of  October  1773. 
His  father  was  a depute-clerk  in  the  Court  of 


Francis  Jeffrey. 


Session.  After  education  at  the  High  School  of 
Edinburgh,  two  sessions  at  the  University  of 
Glasgow,  and  one  session — from  October  to  June 
1791-92 — at  Queen’s  College,  Oxford,  Mr  Jeffrey 
studied  Scots  law,  and  passed  as  an  advocate  in 
1794.  For  many  years  his  income  did  not  exceed 
£100  per  annum,  but  his  admirable  economy  and 
independent  spirit  kept  him  free  from  debt,  and  he 
was  indefatigable  in  the  cultivation  of  his  intellec- 
tual qualities.  He  was  already  a Whig  in  politics. 
His  literary  ambition  and  political  sentiment  found 
scope  in  the  Edinburgh  Review , the  first  number  of 
which  appeared  in  October  1802.  We  have  quoted 
Sydney  Smith’s  account  of  the  origin  of  this  work ; 
the  following  is  a statement  on  the  subject  made  by 
Jeffrey  to  Mr  Robert  Chambers  in  1846 : 

‘I  cannot  say  exactly  where  the  project  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  was  first  talked  of  among  the 
projectors.  But  the  first  serious  consultations  about 
it— and  which  led  to  our  application  to  a publisher 
— were  held  in  a small  house,  where  I then  lived,  in 
Buccleuch  Place  (I  forget  the  number).  They  were 
attended  by  S.  Smith,  F.  Horner,  Dr  Thomas 
Brown,  Lord  Murray  (John  Archibald  Murray,  a 
Scottish  advocate,  and  now  one  of  the  Scottish 


miscellaneous  writers. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY, 


judges),*  and  some  of  them  also  by  Lord  Webb 
Seymour,  Dr  John  Thomson,  and  Thomas  Thomson. 
The  first  three  numbers  were  given  to  the  publisher 
— he  taking  the  risk  and  defraying  the  charges. 
There  was  then  no  individual  editor,  but  as  many 
of  us  as  could  be  got  to  attend  used  to  meet  in  a 
dingy  room  of  Willison’s  printing- oflice,  in  Craig’s 
Close,  where  the  proofs  of  our  own  articles  were 
read  over  and  remarked  upon,  and  attempts  made 
also  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  few  manuscripts 
which  were  then  offered  by  strangers.  But  we  had 
seldom  patience  to  go  through  with  this ; and  it  was 
soon  found  necessary  to  have  a responsible  editor, 
and  the  office  was  pressed  upon  me.  About  the 
same  time,  Constable  (the  publisher)  was  told  that 
he  must  allow  ten  guineas  a sheet  to  the  contribu- 
tors, to  which  he  at  once  assented;  and  not  long 
after  the  minimum  was  raised  to  sixteen  guineas,  at 
which  it  remained  during  my  reign.  Two-thirds  of 
the  articles  were  paid  much  higher — averaging,  I 
should  think,  from  twenty  to  twenty -five  guineas  a 
sheet  on  the  whole  number.  I had,  I might  say,  an 
unlimited  discretion  in  this  respect,  and  must  do  the 
publishers  the  justice  to  say  that  they  never  made 
the  slightest  objection.  Indeed,  as  we  all  knew 
that  they  had — for  a long  time,  at  least — a very 
great  profit,  they  probably  felt  that  they  were  at 
our  mercy.  Smith  was  by  far  the  most  timid  of  the 
confederacy,  and  believed  that,  unless  our  incognito 
was  strictly  maintained,  we  could  not  go  on  a day ; 
and  this  was  his  object  for  making  us  hold  our  dark 
divans  at  Willison’s  office,  to  which  he  insisted  on 
our  repairing  singly,  and  by  back-approaches  or 
different  lanes.  He  had  also  so  strong  an  impression 
of  Brougham’s  indiscretion  and  rashness,  that  he 
would  not  let  him  be  a member  of  our  association, 
though  wished  for  by  all  the  rest.  He  was  admitted, 
however,  after  the  third  number,  and  did  more  work 
for  us  than  anybody.  Brown  took  offence  at  some 
alterations  Smith  had  made  in  a trifling  article  of 
his  in  the  second  number,  and  left  us  thus  early  ; 
publishing,  at  the  same  time,  in  a magazine  the 
fact  of  his  secession — a step  which  we  all  deeply 
regretted,  and  thought  scarcely  justified  by  the 
provocation.  Nothing  of  the  kind  occurred  ever 
after.’ 

Jeffrey’s  own  emoluments  as  editor  were,  we 
believe,  £30  each  number  from  1803  to  1809,  and 
afterwards  £200  each  number.  The  youth  of  the 
Edinburgh  reviewers  was  a fertile  source  of  ridicule 
and  contempt,  but  the  fact  was  exaggerated. 
Smith,  its  projector,  was  thirty-one ; Jeffrey, 
twenty-nine ; Brougham,  Horner,  and  Brown, 
twenty-four  each — ‘ excellent  ages  for  such  work,’ 
as  Henry  Cock^urn,  the  biographer  of  Jeffrey,  has 
remarked.  The  world  was  all  before  the  young 
adventurers ! The  only  critical  journal  of  any 
reputation  was  the  Monthly  Review , into  which 
Mackintosh,  Southey,  and  William  Taylor  of  Nor- 
wich, occasionally  threw  a few  pages  of  literary  or 
political  speculation,  but  without  aiming  at  such 
lengthy  disquisitions  or  severe  critical  analysis  as 
those  attempted  by  the  new  aspirants. 

The  chief  merit  and  labour  attaching  to  the  con- 
tinuance and  the  success  of  the  Edinburgh  Review 
fell  on  its  accomplished  editor.  From  1803  to  1829 
Mr  Jeffrey  had  the  sole  management  of  the  Review ; 
and  when  we  consider  the  distinguished  ability 
which  it  has  uniformly  displayed,  and  the  high 
moral  character  it  has  upheld,  together  with  the 

* This  gentleman,  distinguished  for  his  liberality  and  muni- 
ficence, died  at  Edinburgh,  on  the  7th  of  March  1859,  aged 
eighty-one. 

87 


independence  and  fearlessness  with  which  from  the 
first  it  has  promulgated  its  canons  of  criticism  on 
literature,  science,  and  government,  we  must  admit 
that  few  men  have  exercised  such  influence  as 
Francis  J effrey  on  the  whole  current  of  contemporary 
literature  and  public  opinion.  Besides  his  general 
superintendence,  Mr  Jeffrey  was  a large  contributor 
to  the  Review.  The  departments  of  poetry  and 
elegant  literature  seem  to  have  been  his  chosen 
field ; and  he  constantly  endeavoured,  as  he  says, 
‘ to  combine  ethical  precepts  with  literary  criticism, 
and  earnestly  sought  to  impress  his  readers  with 
a sense  both  of  the  close  connection  between  sound 
intellectual  attainments  and  the  higher  elements  of 
duty  and  enjoyment,  and  of  the  just  and  ultimate 
subordination  of  the  former  to  the  latter.’  This  was 
a vocation  of  high  mark  and  responsibility,  and  on 
the  whole  the  critic  discharged  his  duty  with  honour 
and  success.  As  a moral  writer  he  was  unimpeach- 
able. The  principles  of  his  criticism  are  generally 
sound  and  elevated.  In  some  instances  he  was  harsh 
and  unjust.  His  reviews  of  Southey,  Wordsworth, 
Lamb,  and  Montgomery,  are  indefensible,  inasmuch 
as  the  writer  seems  intent  on  finding  fault  rather 
than  in  discovering  beauties,  and  to  be  more  piqued 
with  occasional  deviation  from  established  and  con- 
ventional rules,  than  gratified  with  originality  of 
thought  and  indications  of  true  genius.  No  excuse 
can  be  offered  for  the  pertness  and  flippancy  of 
expression  in  which  many  of  these  critiques  abound, 
and  their  author  has  himself  expressed  his  regret 
for  the  undue  severity  into  which  he  was  betrayed. 
There  is  some  ground,  therefore,  for  charging  upon 
the  Edinburgh  Review , in  its  earlier  career,  an 
absence  of  proper  respect  and  enthusiasm  for  the 
works  of  living  genius.  Where  no  prejudice  or 
prepossession  of  the  kind  intervened,  Jeffrey  was 
an  admirable  critic.  If  he  was  not  profound,  he 
was  interesting  and  graceful.  His  dissertations  on 
the  works  of  Cowper,  Crabbe,  Byron,  Scott,  and 
Campbell,  and  on  the  earlier  and  greater  lights  of  our 
poetry,  as  well  as  those  on  moral  science,  national 
manners,  and  views  of  actual  life,  are  expressed  with 
great  eloquence  and  originality,  and  in  a fine  spirit 
of  humanity.  His  powers  of  perception  and  analysis 
were  quick,  subtle,  and  penetrating,  and  withal 
comprehensive ; while  his  brilliant  imagination 
invested  subjects,  that  in  ordinary  hands  would  have 
been  dry  and  uninviting,  with  strong  interest  and 
attraction.  He  seldom  gave  full  scope  to  his  feelings 
and  sympathies,  but  they  occasionally  broke  forth 
with  inimitable  effect,  and  kindled  up  the  pages  of 
his  criticism.  At  times,  indeed,  his  language  is 
poetical  in  a high  degree.  The  following  glowing 
tribute  to  the  universal  genius  of  Shakspeare  is 
worthy  of  the  subject : 


[On  the  Genius  of  Shalcspeare. ] 

Many  persons  are  very  sensible  of  the  effect  of  fine 
poetry  upon  their  feelings,  who  do  not  well  know  how 
to  refer  these  feelings  to  their  causes ; and  it  is  always 
a delightful  thing  to  be  made  to  see  clearly  the  sources 
from  which  our  delight  lias  proceeded,  and  to  trace 
the  mingled  stream  that  has  flowed  upon  our  hearts  to 
the  remoter  fountains  from  which  it  has  been  gathered  ; 
and  when  this  is  done  with  warmth  as  well  as  precision, 
and  embodied  in  an  eloquent  description  of  the  beauty 
which  is  explained,  it  forms  one  of  the  most  attractive, 
and  not  the  least  instructive,  of  literary  exercises.  In 
all  works  of  merit,  however,  and  especially  in  all  works 
of  original  genius,  there  are  a thousand  retiring  and 
less  obtrusive  graces,  which  escape  hasty  and  super- 
ficial observers,  and  only  give  out  their  beauties  to  fond 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830, 


and  patient  contemplation ; a thousand  slight  and 
harmonising  touches,  the  merit  and  the  effect  of  which 
are  equally  imperceptible  to  vulgar  eyes;  and  a thou- 
sand indications  of  the  continual  presence  of  that 
poetical  spirit  which  can  only  be  recognised  by  those 
who  are  in  some  measure  under  its  influence,  and  have 
prepared  themselves  to  receive  it,  by  worshipping 
meekly  at  the  shrines  which  it  inhabits. 

In  the  exposition  of  these  there  is  room  enough  for 
originality,  and  more  room  than  Mr  Hazlitt  has  yet 
filled.  In  many  points,  however,  he  has  acquitted  him- 
self excellently ; particularly  in  the  development  of  the 
principal  characters  with  which  Shakspeare  has  peopled 
the  fancies  of  all  English  readers — but  principally,  we 
think,  in  the  delicate  sensibility  with  which  he  has 
traced,  and  the  natural  eloquence  with  which  he  has 
pointed  out,  that  familiarity  with  beautiful  forms  and 
images — that  eternal  recurrence  to  what  is  sweet  or 
majestic  in  the  simple  aspects  of  nature — that  inde- 
structible love  of  flowers  and  odours,  and  dews  and  clear 
waters — and  soft  airs  and  sounds,  and  bright  skies,  and 
woodland  solitudes,  and  moonlight  bowers,  which  are 
the  material  elements  of  poetry — and  that  fine  sense  of 
their  undefinable  relation  to  mental  emotion,  which  is 
its  essence  and  vivifying  soul — and  which,  in  the  midst 
of  Shakspeare’ s most  busy  and  atrocious  scenes,  falls 
like  gleams  of  sunshine  on  rocks  and  ruins — contrasting 
with  all  that  is  rugged  and  repulsive,  and  reminding  us 
of  the  existence  of  purer  and  brighter  elements — which 
he  alone  has  poured  out  from  the  richness  of  his  own 
mind  without  effort  or  restraint,  and  contrived  to  inter- 
mingle with  the  play  of  all  the  passions,  and  the  vulgar 
course  of  this  world’s  affairs,  without  deserting  for  an 
instant  the  proper  business  of  the  scene,  or  appearing 
to  pause  or  digress  from  love  of  ornament  or  need  of 
repose;  he  alone  who,  when  the  subject  requires  it,  is 
always  keen,  and  worldly,  and  practical,  and  who  yet, 
without  changing  his  hand,  or  stopping  his  course, 
scatters  around  him  as  he  goes  all  sounds  and  shapes  of 
sweetness,  and  conjures  up  landscapes  of  immortal 
fragrance  and  freshness,  and  peoples  them  with  spirits 
of  glorious  aspect  and  attractive  grace,  and  is  a thousand 
times  more  full  of  imagery  and  splendour  than  those 
who,  for  the  sake  of  such  qualities,  have  shrunk  back 
from  the  delineation  of  character  or  passion,  and 
declined  the  discussion  of  human  duties  and  cares. 
More  full  of  wisdom,  and  ridicule,  and  sagacity,  than  all 
the  moralists  and  satirists  in  existence,  he  is  more  wild, 
airy,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic  and  fantastic, 
than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  and  ages  of  the  world ; 
and  has  all  those  elements  so  happily  mixed  up  in  him, 
and  bears  his  high  faculties  so  temperately,  that  the 
most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of  him  for  want  of 
strength  or  of  reason,  nor  the  most  sensitive  for  defect 
I of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  Everything  in  him  is  in 
l unmeasured  abundance  and  unequalled  perfection ; but 
everything  so  balanced  and  kept  in  subordination  as  not 
! to  jostle  or  disturb  or  take  the  place  of  another.  The 
| most  exquisite  poetical  conceptions,  images,  and  descrip- 
; tions,  are  given  with  such  brevity,  and  introduced  with 
such  skill,  as  merely  to  adorn  without  loading  the 
sense  they  accompany.  Although  his  sails  are  purple, 
and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of  beaten  gold,  they  waft 
him  on  his  voyage,  not  less,  but  more  rapidly  and 
directly,  than  if  they  had  been  composed  of  baser 
materials.  All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature 
herself,  are  thrown  out  together ; and  instead  of  inter- 
j fering  with,  support  and  recommend  each  other.  His 
flowers  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits 
crushed  into  baskets,  but  spring  living  from  the  soil,  in 
all  the  dew  and  freshness  of  youth ; while  the  graceful 
foliage  in  which  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches, 
the  rough  and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spreading 
roots  on  which  they  depend,  are  present  along  with 
them,  and  share,  in  their  places,  the  equal  care  of  their 
Creator. 

616 


Of  the  invention  of  the  steam-engine  he  remarks 
with  a rich  felicity  of  illustration : 

It  has  become  a thing  stupendous  alike  for  its  force 
and  its  flexibility — for  the  prodigious  power  which  it 
can  exert,  and  the  ease,  and  precision,  and  ductility 
with  which  it  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and  applied. 
The  trunk  of  an  elephant,  that  can  pick  up  a pin  or 
rend  an  oak,  is  as  nothing  to  it.  It  can  engrave  a 
seal,  and  crush  masses  of  obdurate  metal  before  it — 
draw  out,  without  breaking,  a thread  as  fine  as  gossamer, 
and  lift  up  a ship  of  war  like  a bauble  in  the  air.  It  ! 
can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchors,  cut  steel  into  ! 
ribbons,  and  impel  loaded  vessels  against  the  fury  of 
the  winds  and  waves. 

How  just,  also,  and  how  finely  expressed,  is  the 
following  refutation  of  a vulgar  error  that  even 
Byron  condescended  to  sanction,  namely,  that 
genius  is  a source  of  peculiar  unhappiness  to  its 
possessors : 

Men  of  truly  great  powers  of  mind  have  generally 
been  cheerful,  social,  and  indulgent ; while  a tendency 
to  sentimental  whining  or  fierce  intolerance  may  be 
ranked  among  the  surest  symptoms  of  little  souls  and 
inferior  intellects.  In  the  whole  list  of  our  English 
poets  we  can  only  remember  Shenstone  and  Savage — 
two  certainly  of  the  lowest — who  were  querulous  and 
discontented.  Cowley,  indeed,  used  to  call  himself 
melancholy ; but  he  was  not  in  earnest,  and  at  any  rate 
was  full  of  conceits  and  affectations,  and  has  nothing 
to  make  us  proud  of  him.  Shakspeare,  the  greatest  of 
them  all,  was  evidently  of  a free  and  joyous  tempera- 
ment; and  so  was  Chaucer,  their  common  master. 
The  same  disposition  appears  to  have  predominated  in 
Fletcher,  Jonson,  and  their  great  contemporaries.  The  | 
genius  of  Milton  partook  something  of  the  austerity  of  i 
the  party  to  which  he  belonged,  and  of  the  controversies 
in  which  he  was  involved;  but  even  when  fallen  on 
evil  days  and  evil  tongues,  his  spirit  seems  to  have 
retained  its  serenity  as  well  as  its  dignity ; and  in  his  | 
private  life,  as  well  as  in  his  poetry,  the  majesty  of  a | 
high  character  is  tempered  with  great  sweetness,  genial  j 
indulgences,  and  practical  wisdom.  In  the  succeeding  j 
age  our  poets  were  but  too  gay ; and  though  we  forbear 
to  speak  of  living  authors,  we  know  enough  of  them  to  j 
say  with  confidence,  that  to  be  miserable  or  to  be  hated  I 
is  not  now,  any  more  than  heretofore,  the  common  lot  j 
of  those  who  excel. 

Innumerable  observations  of  this  kind,  remark- 
able for  ease  and  grace,  and  for  original  reflection, 
may  be  found  scattered  through  Lord  Jeffrey’s 
critiques.  His  political  remarks  and  views  of  public  i 
events  are  equally  discriminating,  but  of  course  ' 
will  be  judged  of  according  to  the  opinions  of 
the  reader.  None  will  be  found  at  variance  with  j 
national  honour  or  morality,  which  are  paramount  ; 
to  all  mere  party  questions.  As  a literary  critic, 
we  may  advert  to  the  singular  taste  and  judg-  I 
ment  which  Lord  Jeffrey  exercised  in  making  ' 
selections  from  the  works  he  reviewed,  and  inter- 
weaving them,  as  it  were,  with  the  text  of  his  J 
criticism.  Whatever  was  picturesque,  solemn, 
pathetic,  or  sublime,  caught  his  eye,  and  was  thus 
introduced  to  a new  and  vastly  extended  circle  of  \ 
readers,  besides  furnishing  matter  for  various  collec-  j 
tions  of  extracts  and  innumerable  school-exercises. 
The  chief  defect  of  his  writing  is  the  occasional  ! 
diffuseness  and  carelessness  of  his  style.  He  wrote  J 
as  he  spoke,  with  great  rapidity  and  with  a flood  of  : 
illustration. 

At  the  bar,  Jeffrey’s  eloquence  and  intrepi- 
dity were  not  less  conspicuous  than  his  literary 
talents.  In  1829  he  was,  by  the  unanimous  suffrages 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  LORD  BROUGHAM. 


of  his  legal  brethren,  elected  Dean  of  the 
Faculty  of  Advocates,  and  he  then  resigned  the 
editorship  of  the  Review  into  the  hands  of  another 
Scottish  advocate,  the  late  Mr  Macvey  Napier 
(1777-1847).  In  1830,  on  the  formation  of  Earl 
Grey’s  ministry,  Jeffrey  was  nominated  to  the 
first  office  under  the  crown  in  Scotland — Lord 
Advocate — and  sat  for  some  time  in  parliament.  In 
1834  he  gladly  exchanged  the  turmoil  of  politics  for 
the  duties  of  a Scottish  judge ; and  as  Lord  Jeffrey, 
he  sat  on  the  bench  until  within  a few  days  of  his 
death,  on  the  26th  of  January  1850.  As  a judge  he 
was  noted  for  undeviating  attention,  uprightness, 
and  ability;  as  a citizen,  he  was  esteemed  and 
beloved.  He  practised  a generous  though  unosten- 
tatious hospitality,  preserved  all  the  finer  qualities 
of  his  mind  undiminished  to  the  last,  and  delighted 
a wide  circle  of  ever-welcome  triends  and  visitors 
by  his  rich  conversational  powers,  candour,  and 
humanity.  The  more  important  of  Jeffrey’s  contri- 
butions to  the  Edinburgh  Review  were  collected  by 
him  in  1844,  and  published  in  four  volumes,  since 
reprinted  in  one  large  volume.  We  add  a specimen, 
from  a review  of  Campbell’s  Specimens  of  the  British 
Poets , 1819. 

[The  Perishable  Nature  of  Poetical  Fame.] 

Next  to  the  impression  of  the  vast  fertility,  compass, 
and  beauty  of  our  English  poetry,  the  reflection  that 
recurs  most  frequently  and  forcibly  to  us  in  accom- 
panying Mr  Campbell  through  his  wide  survey,  is  the 
perishable  nature  of  poetical  fame,  and  the  speedy 
oblivion  that  has  overtaken  so  many  of  the  promised 
heirs  of  immortality.  Of  near  two  hundred  and  fifty 
authors,  whose  works  are  cited  in  these  volumes,  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  whom  were  celebrated  in  their 
generation,  there  are  not  thirty  who  now  enjoy  any 
thing  that  can  be  called  popularity — whose  works  are 
to  be  found  in  the  hands  of  ordinary  readers,  in  the 
shops  of  ordinary  booksellers,  or  in  the  press  for 
republication.  About  fifty  more  may  be  tolerably 
familiar  to  men  of  taste  or  literature  : the  rest  slumber 
on  the  shelves  of  collectors,  and  are  partially  known 
to  a few  antiquaries  and  scholars.  Now,  the  fame  of 
a poet  is  popular,  or  nothing.  He  does  not  address 
himself,  like  the  man  of  science,  to  the  learned,  or  those 
who  desire  to  learn,  but  to  all  mankind ; and  his  pur- 
pose being  to  delight  and  to  be  praised,  necessarily 
extends  to  all  who  can  receive  pleasure,  or  join  in 
applause.  It  is  strange,  and  somewhat  humiliating,  to 
see  how  great  a proportion  of  those  who  had  once 
fought  their  way  successfully  to  distinction,  and  sur- 
mounted the  rivalry  of  contemporary  envy,  have  again 
sunk  into  neglect.  We  have  great  deference  for  public 
opinion ; and  readily  admit  that  nothing  but  what  is 
good  can  be  permanently  popular.  But  though  its 
vivat  be  generally  oracular,  its  pereat  appears  to  us  to 
be  often  sufficiently  capricious;  and  while  we  would 
foster  all  that  it  bids  to  live,  we  would  willingly  revive 
much  that  it  leaves  to  die.  The  very  multiplication  of 
works  of  amusement  necessarily  withdraws  many  from 
notice  that  deserve  to  be  kept  in  remembrance ; for  we 
should  soon  find  it  labour,  and  not  amusement,  if  we 
were  obliged  to  make  use  of  them  all,  or  even  to  take 
all  upon  trial.  As  the  materials  of  enjoyment  and 
instruction  accumulate  around  us,  more  and  more  must 
thus  be  daily  rejected  and  left  to  waste : for  while  our 
tasks  lengthen,  our  lives  remain  as  short  as  ever ; and 
the  calls  on  our  time  multiply,  while  our  time  itself  is 
flying  swiftly  away.  This  superfluity  and  abundance  of 
our  treasures,  therefore,  necessarily  renders  much  of 
them  worthless ; and  the  veriest  accidents  may,  in  such 
a case,  determine  what  part  shall  be  preserved,  and 
what  thrown  away  and  neglected.  When  an  army  is 


decimated , the  very  bravest  may  fall ; and  many  poets, 
worthy  of  eternal  remembrance,  have  been  forgotten, 
merely  because  there  was  not  room  in  our  memories 
for  all. 

By  such  a work  as  the  Specimens , however,  this 
injustice  of  fortune  may  be  partly  redressed — some 
small  fragments  of  an  immortal  strain  may  still  be 
rescued  from  oblivion — and  a wreck  of  a name  pre- 
served, which  time  appeared  to  have  swallowed  up  for 
ever.  There  is  something  pious,  we  think,  and  endear- 
ing, in  the  office  of  thus  gathering  up  the  ashes  of 
renown  that  has  passed  away;  or  rather,  of  calling 
back  the  departed  life  for  a transitory  glow,  and  en- 
abling those  great  spirits  which  seemed  to  be  laid  for 
ever,  still  to  draw  a tear  of  pity,  or  a throb  of  admira- 
tion, from  the  hearts  of  a forgetful  generation.  The 
body  of  their  poetry,  probably,  can  never  be  revived; 
but  some  sparks  of  its  spirit  may  yet  be  preserved,  in 
a narrower  and  feebler  frame. 

When  we  look  back  upon  the  havoc  which  two 
hundred  years  have  thus  made  in  the  ranks  of  our 
immortals — and,  above  all,  when  we  refer  their  rapid 
disappearance  to  the  quick  succession  of  new  compe- 
titors, and  the  accumulation  of  more  good  works  than 
there  is  time  to  peruse — we  cannot  help  being  dismayed 
at  the  prospect  which  lies  before  the  writers  of  the 
present  day.  There  never  was  an  age  so  prolific  of 
popular  poetry  as  that  in  which  we  now  live ; and  as 
wealth,  population,  and  education  extend,  the  produce 
is  likely  to  go  on  increasing.  The  last  ten  years  have 
produced,  we  think,  an  annual  supply  of  about  ten 
thousand  lines  of  good  staple  poetry — poetry  from  the 
very  first  hands  that  we  can  boast  of — that  runs  quickly 
to  three  or  four  large  editions — and  is  as  likely  to  be 
permanent  as  present  success  can  make  it.  Now,  if 
this  goes  on  for  a hundred  years  longer,  what  a task 
will  await  the  poetical  readers  of  1919  ! Our  living 
poets  will  then  be  nearly  as  old  as  Pope  and  Swift  are 
at  present,  but  there  will  stand  between  them  and  that 
generation  nearly  ten  times  as  much  fresh  and  fashion- 
able poetry  as  is  now  interposed  between  us  and  those 
writers ; and  if  Scott,  and  Byron,  and  Campbell,  have 
already  cast  Pope  and  Swift  a good  deal  into  the  shade, 
in  what  form  and  dimensions  are  they  themselves  likely 
to  be  presented  to  the  eyes  of  their  great-grandchildren  ? 
The  thought,  we  own,  is  a little  appalling;  and,  we 
confess,  we  see  nothing  better  to  imagine  than  that 
they  may  find  a comfortable  place  in  some  new  collec- 
tion of  specimens — the  centenary  of  the  present  pub- 
lication. There — if  the  future  editor  have  anything 
like  the  indulgence  and  veneration  for  antiquity  of  his 
predecessor — there  shall  posterity  still  hang  with 
rapture  on  the  half  of  Campbell,  and  the  fourth  part 
of  Byron,  and  the  sixth  of  Scott,  and  the  scattered 
tithes  of  Crabbe,  and  the  three  per  cent,  of  Southey ; 
while  some  good-natured  critic  shall  sit  in  our  moulder- 
ing chair,  and  more  than  half  prefer  them  to  those  by 
whom  they  have  been  superseded ! It  is  an  hyperbole 
of  good-nature,  however,  we  fear,  to  ascribe  to  them 
even  those  dimensions  at  the  end  of  a century.  After 
a lapse  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  we  are  afraid  to 
think  of  the  space  they  may  have  shrunk  into.  We 
have  no  Shakspeare,  alas ! to  shed  a never-setting  light 
on  his  contemporaries ; and  if  we  continue  to  write  and 
rhyme  at  the  present  rate  for  two  hundred  years  longer, 
there  must  be  some  new  art  of  short-hand  reading 
invented,  or  all  reading  must  be  given  up  in  despair. 


HENRY  LORD  BROUGHAM. 

Of  the  original  contributors  to  the  Edinburgh 
Review , the  most  persevering,  voluminous,  and  varied 
was  Henry  Brougham,  also,  like  Jeffrey,  a native 
of  Edinburgh.  His  family,  however,  belonged  to  the 
north  of  England.  The  father  of  the  future  lord 

847 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


I PROM  1800 

chancellor  came  to  reside  in  Edinburgh,  and  lodged 
with  the  widow  of  a Scottish  minister,  a sister  of 
Dr  Robertson,  the  historian.  This  lady  had  a 
daughter,  and  Eleanora  Syme  became  the  wife  of 
Henry  Brougham,  younger  of  Brougham  Hall  in 
Westmoreland.  The  first  offspring  of  the  marriage 
was  a son,  born  in  1778  or  1779,  and  named,  after  Ids 
father,  Henry.*  At  an  early  age,  Henry  Brougham 
was  sent  to  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  and  his 


contemporary,  Lord  Cookburn,  in  his  Memorials  of 
his  Time , relates  a characteristic  anecdote,  typical  of 
Brougham’s  future  career.  ‘Brougham,’  he  says, 
‘made  his  first  public  explosion  in  Fraser’s  (the 
Latin)  class.  He  dared  to  differ  from  Fraser,  a 
hot,  but  good-natured  old  fellow,  on  some  small  bit 
of  Latinity.  The  master,  like  other  men  in  power, 
maintained  his  own  infallibility,  punished  the  rebel, 
and  flattered  himself  that  the  affair  was  over.  But 


Henry  Lord  Brougham. 


Brougham  reappeared  next  day,  loaded  with  books, 
returned  to  the  charge  before  the  whole  class,  and 
compelled  honest  Luke  to  acknowledge  he  had  been 
wrong.  This  made  Brougham  famous  throughout 
the  whole  school.  I remember  having  had  him 
pointed  out  to  me  as  the  fellow  who  had  heat  the 
master.’  From  the  High  School,  Brougham  entered 
the  University,  and  applied  himself  so  assiduously 
to  the  study  of  mathematics,  that  in  1796  he  was 
able  to  contribute  to  the  Philosophical  Transactions 
a paper  on  Experiments  and  Observations  on  the 
Inflection , Reflection , and  Colours  of  Light.  In  1798 
he  had  another  paper  in  the  same  work,  General 

* The  peerage  hooks  give  the  19th  September  1778  as  Lord 
Brougham’s  birthday,  but  the  Scots  Magazine  records  the 
father’s  marriage  under  the  date  of  25th  May  1778. 


Theorems , chiefly  Porisms  in  the  Higher  Geometry. 
Thomas  Campbell,  who  then  lived  in  Edinburgh, 
said  the  best  judges  there  regarded  these  theorems,  as 
proceeding  from  a youth  of  twenty,  ‘ with  astonish- 
ment.’ Having  finished  his  university  course,  Henry 
Brougham  studied  for  the  Scottish  bar,  at  which  he 
practised  till  1807.  In  1803,  besides  co-operating 
zealously  in  the  Edinburgh  Review , he  published  an 
elaborate  work  in  two  volumes,  An  Inquiry  into  the 
Colonial  Policy  of  the  European  Powers , in  which  he 
discussed  the  colonial  systems  of  America,  France, 
Spain,  and  England.  His  unwearied  application, 
fearlessness,  and  vehement  oratory  made  him  distin- 
guished as  an  English  barrister,  and  in  1810  he 
entered  the  House  of  Commons,  and  joined  the 
Whig  opposition.  There  he  rose  to  still  greater 
| eminence.  His  political  career  does  not  fall  within 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ISAAC  DISRAELI. 


the  scope  of  this  work,  but  it  strikingly  illustrates 
the  sagacity  of  his  friend,  Erancis  Horner,  who  said 
of  him  in  January  1810:  ‘I  would  predict  that, 
though  he  may  very  often  cause  irritation  and 
uncertainty  about  him  to  be  felt  by  those  with  whom 
he  is  politically  connected,  his  course  will  prove,  in 
the  main,  serviceable  to  the  true  faith  of  liberty  and 
liberal  principles.’  In  the  course  of  his  ambitious 
career,  Henry  Brougham  fell  off  from  his  early 
friends.  We  have  no  trace  of  him  in  the  genial 
correspondence  of  Horner,  Sydney  Smith,  or  Jeffrey. 
Politicians  neither  love  nor  hate,  according  to 
Dryden;  but  though  Brougham  could  not  inspire 
affection,  and  was  erratic  and  inconsistent  in  much 
of  his  conduct,  amidst  all  his  personal  ambition, 
rashness,  and  indiscretion,  he  was  the  steady  friend 
of  public  improvement,  of  slave  abolition,  popular 
education,  religious  toleration,  free-trade,  and  law 
reform.  Here  were  ample  grounds  for  public  admir- 
ation; and  when  in  1830  he  received  the  highest 
professional  advancement,  by  his  elevation  to  the 
office  of  Lord  Chancellor,  and  the  name  of  the  great 
commoner,  Henry  Brougham,  was  merged  in  that 
of  Lord  Brougham  and  Yaux,  the  nation  generally 
felt  and  acknowledged  that  the  honours  were  well 
won,  and  worthily  bestowed.  Lord  Brougham  held 
the  Great  Seal  for  four  years,  retiring  with  his 
party  in  November  1834.  This  terminated  his 
official  life,  but  he  has  since  laboured  unceasingly 
as  a law  reformer.  His  withdrawal  from  office  also 
left  him  leisure  for  those  literary  and  scientific 
pursuits  which  he  had  never  wholly  relinquished. 
Since  that  period  the  noble  lord  has  brought  out  a 
variety  of  work s — Memoirs  of  the  Statesmen  of  the 
Reign  of  George  III.;  Lives  of  Men , and  Letters  and 
Science  in  the  Reign  of  George  III. ; Political  Phil- 
osophy ; Speeches , with  Historical  Introductions , and 
Dissertation  upon  the  Eloquence  of  the  Ancients ; 
Discourse  on  Palefs  Natural  Philosophy  ; Analytical 
View  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton’s  Principia ; Contributions 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review ; and  several  pamphlets  on 
Law  Reform.  A cheap  collected  edition  of  these 
works,  in  ten  volumes,  was  issued  in  1855-6.  In 
his  youth,  the  noble  lord  is  said  to  have  written  a 
novel,  and  to  have  tried  his  liand  at  poetry ! There 
is,  perhaps,  no  department  of  science  or  literature 
into  which  he  has  not  made  incursions.  He  has 
only,  however,  reaped  laurels  on  the  fields  of  forensic 
and  senatorial  eloquence.  As  an  essayist  or  critic, 
he  must  rank  below  his  youthful  associates,  Francis 
Jeffrey  and  Sydney  Smith.  His  style  is  generally 
heavy,  verbose,  and  inelegant;  and  his  time  was, 
during  the  better  part  of  his  life,  too  exclusively 
devoted  to  public  affairs  to  enable  him  to  keep  pace 
with  the  age,  either  in  exact  scientific  knowledge  or 
correct  literary  information.  In  his  sketches  of 
modern  statesmen,  however,  we  have  occasionally 
new  facts  and  letters,  to  which  ordinary  writers  had 
not  access,  illustrative  of  interesting  and  important 
events. 


ISAAC  DISRAELI. 

A taste  for  literary  history  and  anecdote  was 
diffused  by  Mr  Isaac  Disraeli,  author  of  the 
Curiosities  of  Literature,  and  other  works.  The  first 
volume  of  the  Curiosities  was  published  in  1791 ; a 
second  appeared  a few  years  afterwards ; and  a third 
in  1817.  A second  series  was  afterwards  published,  in 
three  volumes.  The  other  works  of  Mr  Disraeli  are 
entitled  Literary  Miscellanies ; Quarrels  of  Authors  ; 
Calamities  of  Authors  ; Character  of  James  I. ; and 
The  Literary  Character.  The  whole  of  these  are  now 
printed  in  one  large  volume.  In  1841  this  author, 


though  labouring  under  partial  blindness,  followed 
up  the  favourite  studies  of  his  youth  by  another 
work,  in  three  volumes,  entitled  The  Amenities  of 
Literature , consisting,  like  the  Curiosities  and  Mis- 
cellanies, of  detached  papers  and  dissertations  on 
literary  and  historical  subjects,  written  in  a plea- 
sant philosophical  style,  which  presents  the  fruits 
of  antiquarian  research  and  study — not,  however, 
always  well  digested  or  accurately  stated — without 
their  dryness  and  general  want  of  connection.  Few 


authors  have  traversed  so  many  fields  of  literature, 
and  gleaned  such  a variety  of  curious  and  interest- 
ing particulars.  After  a long  life  spent  in  literary 
research  and  composition,  Mr  Disraeli  died  at  his 
seat  of  Bradenham  House,  Bucks,  in  1848,  aged 
eighty-two.  In  the  following  year  a new  edition 
— the  fourteenth — of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature 
was  published,  accompanied  with  a memoir  from 
the  pen  of  his  son,  the  Right  Hon.  Benjamin 
Disraeli,  who  Ins  since  (1858)  published  a collected 
edition  of  his  father’s  works  in  seven  handsome 
portable  volumes.  The  family  of  Disraeli  settled 
in  England  in  1748.  The  father  of  Isaac  was  an 
Italian  descendant  of  one  of  the  Hebrew  families 
whom  the  Inquisition  forced  to  emigrate  from 
the  Spanish  peninsula  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  who  found  a refuge  in  the  Venetian 
republic.  ‘ His  ancestors,’  says  Mr  Benjamin 
Disraeli,  ‘ had  dropped  their  Gothic  surname  on 
their  settlement  in  the  Terra  Firma,  and,  grateful 
to  the  God  of  Jacob  who  had  sustained  them 
through  unprecedented  trials,  and  guarded  them 
through  unheard-of  perils,  they  assumed  the  name 
of  Disraeli  [more  correctly  DTsraeli,  for  so  it  was 
written  down  to  the  time  of  its  present  political 
owner],  a name  never  borne  before  or  since  by 
any  other  family,  in  order  that  their  race  might 
be  for  ever  recognised.’  This  seems  a poetical 
genealogy.  Benjamin  Disraeli,  the  first  English 
settler  of  the  race,  entered  into  business  in  London, 
made  a fortune  while  still  in  middle  life,  and  retired 
to  Enfield,  where  he  died  in  1817,  at  the  ago  of 
ninety.  Isaac,  his  son,  was  wholly  devoted  to 
literature.  Ilis  parents  considered  him  moon- 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


struck,  but  after  various  efforts  to  make  him  a 
man  of  business,  they  acquiesced  in  his  determina- 
tion to  become  a man  of  letters.  He  wrote  a poem 
against  Wolcot,  a satire  On  the  Abuse  of  Satire,  and 
then  entered  on  that  course  of  antiquarian  literary 
research  which  has  made  his  name  known  to  the 
world.  His  fortune  was  sufficient  for  his  wants, 
his  literary  reputation  was  considerable,  and  he 
possessed  a happy  equanimity  of  character.  ‘ His 
feelings,’  says  his  son,  ‘though  always  amiable, 
were  not  painfully  deep,  and  amid  joy  or  sorrow, 
the  philosophic  vein  was  ever  evident.’  His  thoughts 
all  centered  in  his  library!  The  Curiosities  of 
Literature  still  maintain  their  place.  Some  errors 
— chiefly  in  boasted  discoveries  and  second-hand 
quotations — have  been  pointed  out  by  Mr  Bolton 
Corney,  in  his  amusing  and  sarcastic  volume  of 
Illustrations  (1838),  but  the  labours  of  Disraeli  are 
not  likely  to  be  soon  superseded.  He  was  not  the 
first  in  the  field.  ‘Among  my  earliest  literary 
friends,’  he  says,  ‘ two  distinguished  themselves  by 
their  anecdotical  literature ; James  Petit  Andrews, 
by  his  Anecdotes  Ancient  and  Modern , and  William 
Seward,  by  his  Anecdotes  of  Distinguished  Persons. 
These  volumes  were  favourably  received,  and  to 
such  a degree,  that  a wit  of  that  day,  and  who  is 
still  (1839)  a wit  as  well  as  a poet,  considered  that 
we  were  far  gone  in  our  ‘ anecdotage.’  * Disraeli’s 
work,  The  Literary  Character , or  the  History  of  Men 
of  Genius  drawn  from  their  own  Feelings  and  Con- 
fessions, is  his  ablest  production.  It  was  a favourite 
with  Byron — ‘often  a consolation,  and  always  a 
pleasure.’ 

CALEB  C.  COLTON. 

An  excellent  collection  of  apophthegms  and  moral 
reflections  was  published  in  1820,  under  the  title  of 
Lacon,  or  Many  Things  in  Few  Words ; addressed  to 
those  who  Think.  Six  editions  of  the  work  were 
disposed  of  within  a twelvemonth,  and  the  author 
in  1822  added  a second  volume  to  the  collection. 
The  history  of  the  author  of  Lacon  conveys  a moral 
more  striking  than  any  of  his  maxims.  The  Rev. 
Caleb  C.  Colton  was  vicar  of  Kew  and  Petersham ; 
gambling  and  extravagance  forced  him  to  leave 
England,  and  he  resided  some  time  in  America  and 
in  Paris.  In  the  French  capital  he  is  said  to  have 
been  so  successful  as  a gamester  that  in  two  years 
he  realised  £25,000.  He  committed  suicide  at 
Fontainbleau  in  1832.  We  subjoin  a few  of  the 
reflections  from  Lacon. 

[ True  Genius  always  United  to  Reason.~\ 

The  great  examples  of  Bacon,  of  Milton,  of  Newton, 
of  Locke,  and  of  others,  happen  to  be  directly  against 
the  popular  inference,  that  a certain  wildness  of  eccen- 
tricity and  thoughtlessness  of  conduct  are  the  necessary 
accompaniments  of  talent,  and  the  sure  indications  of 
genius.  Because  some  have  united  these  extravagances 
with  great  demonstrations  of  talent,  as  a Rousseau,  a 
Chatterton,  a Savage,  a Burns,  or  a Byron,  others,  find- 
ing it  less  difficult  to  be  eccentric  than  to  be  brilliant, 
have  therefore  adopted  the  one,  in  the  hope  that  the 

* Those  works  are  now  rarely  met  with.  The  Anecdotes  of 
James  Petit  Andrews  (1737-1797)  were  published  in  1789-90. 
He  wrote  also  a Continuation  of  Henry’s  History  of  England, 
and  other  historical  and  antiquarian  works.  William  Seward 
(1747-1799)  published  his  Anecdotes  of  Some  Distinguished 
Persons,  in  two  volumes,  in  1794.  He  added  three  more 
volumes,  and  afterwards  another  work  of  the  same  kind, 
Biographiana,  two  volumes,  1799.  Mr  Seward  was  the  son  of 
a wealthy  brewer,  partner  in  the  firm  of  Calvert  and  Co. 
Notices  of  him  will  be  found  in  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson. 


world  would  give  them  credit  for  the  other.  But  the 
greatest  genius  is  never  so  great  as  when  it  is  chastised 
and  subdued  by  the  highest  reason ; it  is  from  such  a 
combination,  like  that  of  Bucephalus  reined  in  by 
Alexander,  that  the  most  powerful  efforts  have  been 
produced.  And  be  it  remembered,  that  minds  of  the 
very  highest  order,  who  have  given  an  unrestrained 
course  to  their  caprice,  or  to  their  passions,  would  have 
been  so  much  higher,  by  subduing  them ; and  that  so 
far  from  presuming  that  the  world  would  give  them 
credit  for  talent,  on  the  score  of  their  aberrations  and 
their  extravagances,  all  that  they  dared  hope  or  expect 
has  been,  that  the  world  would  pardon  and  overlook 
those  extravagances,  on  account  of  the  various  and 
manifold  proofs  they  were  constantly  exhibiting  of 
superior  acquirement  and  inspiration.  We  might  also 
add,  that  the  good  effects  of  talent  are  universal,  the 
evil  of  its  blemishes  confined.  The  light  and  heat  of 
the  sun  benefit  all,  and  are  by  all  enjoyed ; the  spots 
on  his  surface  are  discoverable  only  to  the  few.  But 
the  lower  order  of  aspirers  to  fame  and  talent  have 
pursued  a very  different  course;  instead  of  exhibiting 
talent  in  the  hope  that  the  world  would  forgive  their 
eccentricities,  they  have  exhibited  only  their  eccentri- 
cities in  the  hope  that  the  world  would  give  them 
credit  for  talent. 

[ Error  only  to  be  Combated  by  Argument .] 

We  should  justly  ridicule  a general,  who,  just  before 
an  action,  should  suddenly  disarm  his  men,  and  putting 
into  the  hands  of  all  of  them  a Bible,  should  order  them, 
thus  equipped,  to  march  against  the  enemy.  Here  we 
plainly  see  the  folly  of  calling  in  the  Bible  to  support 
the  sword ; but  is  it  not  as  great  a folly  to  call  in  the 
sword  to  support  the  Bible  ? Our  Saviour  divided  force 
from  reason,  and  let  no  man  presume  to  join  what  God 
hath  put  asunder.  When  we  combat  error  with  any 
other  weapon  than  argument,  we  err  more  than  those 
whom  we  attack. 


[ Mystery  and  Intrigue .] 

There  are  minds  so  habituated  to  intrigue  and 
mystery  in  themselves,  and  so  prone  to  expect  it  from 
others,  that  they  will  never  accept  of  a plain  reason 
for  a plain  fact,  if  it  be  possible  to  devise  causes  for 
it  that  are  obscure,  far-fetched,  and  usually  not  worth 
the  carriage.  Like  the  miser  of  Berkshire,  who  would 
ruin  a good  horse  to  escape  a turnpike,  so  these  gentle- 
men ride  their  high-bred  theories  to  death,  in  order  to 
come  at  truth,  through  by-paths,  lanes,  .and  alleys; 
while  she  herself  is  jogging  quietly  along,  upon  the 
high  and  beaten  road  of  common  sense.  The  conse- 
quence is,  that  those  who  take  this  mode  of  arriving  at 
truth,  are  sometimes  before  her,  and  sometimes  behind 
her,  but  very  seldom  with  her.  Thus  the  great  states- 
man who  relates  the  conspiracy  against  Doria,  pauses 
to  deliberate  upon,  and  minutely  to  scrutinise  into 
divers  and  sundry  errors  committed,  and  opportunities 
neglected,  whereby  he  would  wish  to  account  for  the 
total  failure  of  that  spirited  enterprise.  But  the  plain 
fact  was,  that  the  scheme  had  been  so  well  planned  and 
digested,  that  it  was  victorious  in  every  point  of  its 
operation,  both  on  the  sea  and  on  the  shore,  in  the 
harbour  of  Genoa,  no  less  than  in  the  city,  until  that 
most  unlucky  accident  befell  the  Count  de  Fiesque,  who 
was  the  very  life  and  soul  of  the  conspiracy.  In  step- 
ping from  one  galley  to  another,  the  plank  on  which  he 
stood  upset,  and  he  fell  into  the  sea.  His  armour 
happened  to  be  very  heavy — the  night  to  be  very  dark 
— the  water  to  be  very  deep — and  the  bottom  to  be 
very  muddy.  And  it  is  another  plain  fact,  that  water, 
in  all  such  cases,  happens  to  make  no  distinction  what- 
ever between  a conqueror  and  a cat. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 


[ Magnanimity  in  Humble  Life.] 

In  the  obscurity  of  retirement,  amid  the  squalid 
poverty  and  revolting  privations  of  a cottage,  it  has 
often  been  my  lot  to  witness  scenes  of  magnanimity  and 
self-denial,  as  much  beyond  the  belief  as  the  practice 
of  the  great;  a heroism  borrowing  no  support,  either 
from  the  gaze  of  the  many,  or  the  admiration  of  the 
few,  yet  flourishing  amidst  ruins,  and  on  the  confines 
of  the  grave  ; a spectacle  as  stupendous  in  the  moral 
world,  as  the  falls  of  the  Missouri  in  the  natural ; and, 
like  that  mighty  cataract,  doomed  to  display  its  grandeur 
only  where  there  are  no  eyes  to  appreciate  its  magni- 
ficence. 

[Avarice.] 

Avarice  begets  more  vices  than  Priam  did  children, 
and,  like  Priam,  survives  them  all.  It  starves  its  keeper 
to  surfeit  those  who  wish  him  dead ; and  makes  him 
submit  to  more  mortifications  to  lose  heaven,  than  the 
martyr  undergoes  to  gain  it.  Avarice  is  a passion  full 
of  paradox,  a madness  full  of  method ; for  although  the 
miser  is  the  most  mercenary  of  all  beings,  yet  he  serves 
the  worst  master  more  faithfully  than  some  Christians 
do  the  best,  and  will  take  nothing  for  it.  He  falls 
down  and  worships  the  god  of  this  world,  but  will  have 
neither  its  pomps,  its  vanities,  nor  its  pleasures,  for  his 
trouble.  He  begins  to  accumulate  treasure  as  a mean 
to  happiness,  and  by  a common  but  morbid  association, 
he  continues  to  accumulate  it  as  an  end.  He  lives  poor, 
to  die  rich,  and  is  the  mere  jailer  of  his  house,  and  the 
turnkey  of  his  wealth.  Impoverished  by  his  gold,  he 
slaves  harder  to  imprison  it  in  his  chest,  than  his 
brother-slave  to  liberate  it  from  the  mine.  The  avarice 
of  the  miser  may  be  termed  the  grand  sepulchre  of  all 
his  other  passions,  as  they  successively  decay.  But, 
unlike  other  tombs,  it  is  enlarged  by  repletion,  and 
strengthened  by  age.  This  latter  paradox,  so  peculiar 
to  this  passion,  must  be  ascribed  to  that  love  of  power 
so  inseparable  from  the  human  mind.  There  are  three 
kinds  of  power — wealth,  strength,  and  talent;  but  as 
old  age  always  weakens,  often  destroys  the  two  latter, 
the  aged  are  induced  to  cling  with  the  greater  avidity 
to  the  former.  And  the  attachment  of  the  aged  to 
wealth  must  be  a growing  and  a progressive  attach- 
ment, since  such  are  not  slow  in  discovering  that  those 
same  ruthless  years  which  detract  so  sensibly  from  the 
strength  of  their  bodies  and  of  their  minds,  serve  only 
to  augment  and  to  consolidate  the  strength  of  their 
purse. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 

William  Ellery  Ciianning  (1780-1842)  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  of  the  American  prose  writers. 
He  was  pastor  of  a Unitarian  congregation,  but 
‘ more  nearly  related,’  as  he  himself  said,  ‘ to  Fene- 
lon  than  to  Priestley.’  He  was  the  earnest  advocate 
of  peace,  and  the  decided  enemy  of  that  great  social 
evil  of  the  United  States,  slavery.  His  best  works 
are  a series  of  essays,  the  first  appearing  in  1823, 
on  National  Literature , on  The  Character  and  Writ- 
ings of  Milton , on  The  Life  and  Character  of  Napoleon 
Bonaparte , and  on  Self -culture  and  the  Elevation  of 
the  Labouring-classes.  These  essays  are  distinguished 
by  purity  and  elevation  of  thought,  and  though  rather 
too  measured  and  diffuse  in  style  and  expression, 
cannot  be  read  without  delight  as  well  as  instruc- 
tion. The  expansive  benevolence  and  Christian 
ardour  of  the  writer  shine  through  the  whole. 

[The  Intellectual  and  Moral  Character  of  Napoleon  3 
Bonaparte.] 

His  intellect  was  distinguished  by  rapidity  of  thought. 
He  understood  by  a glance  what  most  men,  and  superior 


men,  could  learn  only  by  study.  He  darted  to  a con- 
clusion rather  by  intuition  than  reasoning.  In  war, 
which  was  the  only  subject  of  which  he  was  master,  he 
seized  in  an  instant  on  the  great  points  of  his  own  and 
his  enemy’s  positions ; and  combined  at  once  the  move- 
ments by  which  an  overpowering  force  might  be  thrown 
with  unexpected  fury  on  a vulnerable  part  of  the  hostile 
line ; and  the  fate  of  an  army  be  decided  in  a day.  He 
understood  war  as  a science ; but  his  mind  was  too  bold, 
rapid,  and  irrepressible,  to  be  enslaved  by  the  technics  of 
his  profession.  He  found  the  old  armies  fighting  by 
rule,  and  he  discovered  the  true  characteristic  of  genius, 
which,  without  despising  rules,  knows  when  and  how  to 
break  them.  He  understood  thoroughly  the  immense 
moral  power  which  is  gained  by  originality  and  rapidity 
of  operation.  He  astonished  and  paralysed  his  enemies 
by  his  unforeseen  and  impetuous  assaults,  by  the  sudden- 
ness with  which  the  ptorm  of  battle  burst  upon  them ; 
and  whilst  giving  to  his  soldiers  the  advantages  of 
modern  discipline,  breathed  into  them,  by  his  quick 
and  decisive  movements,  the  enthusiasm  of  ruder  ages. 
The  power  of  disheartening  the  foe,  and  of  spreading 
through  his  own  ranks  a confidence  and  exhilarating 
courage,  which  made  war  a pastime,  and  seemed  to 
make  victory  sure,  distinguished  Napoleon  in  an  age  of 
uncommon  military  talent,  and  was  one  main  instrument 
of  his  future  power. 

The  wonderful  effects  of  that  rapidity  of  thought  by 
which  Bonaparte  was  marked,  the  signal  success  of  his 
new  mode  of  warfare,  and  the  almost  incredible  speed 
with  which  his  fame  was  spread  through  nations,  had 
no  small  agency  in  fixing  his  character,  and  determining 
for  a period  the  fate  of  empires.  These  stirring  influ- 
ences infused  a new  consciousness  of  his  own  might. 
They  gave  intensity  and  audacity  to  his  ambition ; gave 
form  and  substance  to  his  indefinite  visions  of  glory, 
and  raised  his  fiery  hopes  to  empire.  The  burst  of 
admiration  which  his  early  career  called  forth,  must  in 
particular  have  had  an  influence  in  imparting  to  his 
ambition  that  modification  by  which  it  was  characterised, 
and  which  contributed  alike  to  its  success  and  to  its 
fall.  He  began  with  astonishing  the  world,  with  pro- 
ducing a sudden  and  universal  sensation,  such  as  modern 
times  had  not  witnessed.  To  astonish  as  well  as  to  sway 
by  his  energies,  became  the  great  end  of  his  life.  Hence- 
forth to  rule  was  not  enough  for  Bonaparte.  He  wanted 
to  amaze,  to  dazzle,  to  overpower  men’s  souls,  by  strik- 
ing, bold,  magnificent,  and  unanticipated  results.  To 
govern  ever  so  absolutely  would  not  have  satisfied  him, 
if  he  must  have  governed  silently.  He  wanted  to  reign 
through  wonder  and  awe,  by  the  grandeur  and  terror  of 
his  name,  by  displays  of  power  which  would  rivet  on 
him  every  eye,  and  make  him  the  theme  of  every  tongue. 
Power  was  his  supreme  object ; but  a power  which 
should  be  gazed  at  as  well  as  felt,  which  should  strike 
men  as  a prodigy,  which  should  shake  old  thrones  as  an 
earthquake,  and  by  the  suddenness  of  its  new  creations, 
should  awaken  something  of  the  submissive  wonder 
which  miraculous  agency  inspires. 

His  history  shews  a spirit  of  self-exaggeration,  unri- 
valled in  enlightened  ages,  and  which  reminds  us  of  an 
oriental  king  to  whom  incense  had  been  burned  from 
his  birth  as  to  a deity.  This  was  the  chief  source  of  his 
crimes.  He  wanted  the  sentiment  of  a common  nature 
with  his  fellow-beings.  He  had  no  sympathies  with  his 
race.  That  feeling  of  brotherhood,  which  is  developed 
in  truly  great  souls  with  peculiar  energy,  and  through 
which  they  give  up  themselves  willing  victims,  joyful 
sacrifices,  to  the  interests  of  mankind,  was  wholly 
unknown  to  him.  His  heart,  amidst  all  its  wild  beat- 
ings, never  had  one  throb  of  disinterested  love.  The 
ties  which  bind  man  to  man  he  broke  asunder.  The 
proper  happiness  of  a man,  which  consists  in  the  victory 
of  moral  energy  and  social  affection  over  the  selfish 
passions,  he  cast  away  for  the  lonely  joy  of  a despot. 
With  powers  which  might  have  made  him  a glorious 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ?0  1830, 


representative  and  minister  of  the  beneficent  Divinity, 
and  with  natural  sensibilities  which  might  have  been 
exalted  into  sublime  virtues,  he  chose  to  separate  him- 
self from  his  kind,  to  forego  their  love,  esteem,  and 
gratitude,  that  he  might  become  their  gaze,  their  fear, 
their  wonder,  and,  for  this  selfish  solitary  good,  parted 
with  peace  and  imperishable  renown* 

The  spirit  of  self-exaggeration  wrought  its  own  misery, 
and  drew  down  upon  him  terrible  punishments;  and 
this  it  did  by  vitiating  and  perverting  his  high  powers. 
First,  it  diseased  his  fine  intellect,  gave  imagination  the 
ascendency  over  judgment,  turned  the  inventiveness 
and  fruitfulness  of  his  mind  into  rash,  impatient,  rest- 
less energies,  and  thus  precipitated  him  into  projects 
which,  as  the  wisdom  of  his  counsellors  pronounced, 
were  fraught  with  ruin.  To  a man  whose  vanity  took 
him  out  of  the  rank  of  human  beings,  no  foundation  for 
reasoning  was  left.  All  things  seemed  possible.  His 
genius  and  his  fortune  were  not  to  be  bounded  by  the 
barriers  which  experience  had  assigned  to  human 
powers.  Ordinary  rules  did  not  apply  to  him.  His 
imagination,  disordered  by  his  egotism,  and  by  unbounded 
flattery,  leaped  over  appalling  obstacles  to  the  prize 
which  inflamed  his  ambition. 


[Great  Ideas.] 

What  is  needed  to  elevate  the  soul  is,  not  that  a man 
should  know  all  that  has  been  thought  and  written  in 
regard  to  the  spiritual  nature — not  that  a man  should 
become  an  encyclopsedia ; but  that  the  great  ideas,  in 
which  all  discoveries  terminate,  which  sum  up  all 
sciences,  which  the  philosopher  extracts  from  infinite 
details,  may  be  comprehended  and  felt.  It  is  not  the 
quantity,  but  the  quality  of  knowledge,  which  deter- 
mines the  mind’s  dignity.  A man  of  immense  informa- 
tion may,  through  the  want  of  large  and  comprehensive 
ideas,  be  far  inferior  in  intellect  to  a labourer,  who, 
with  little  knowledge,  has  yet  seized  on  great  truths. 
For  example,  I do  not  expect  the  labourer  to  study 
theology  in  the  ancient  languages,  in  the  writings  of  the 
Fathers,  in  the  history  of  sects,  &c. ; nor  is  this  needful. 
All  theology,  scattered  as  it  is  through  countless  volumes, 
is  summed  up  in  the  idea'  of  God ; and  let  this  idea 
shine  bright  and  clear  in  the  labourer’s  soul,  and  he  has 
the  essence  of  theological  libraries,  and  a far  higher 
light  than  has  visited  thousands  of  renowned  divines. 
A great  mind  is  formed  by  a few  great  ideas,  not  by  an 
infinity  of  loose  details.  I have  known  very  learned 
men,  who  seemed  to  me  very  poor  in  intellect,  because 
they  had  no  grand  thoughts.  What  avails  it  that  a 
man  has  studied  ever  so  minutely  the  histories  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  if  the  great  ideas  of  freedom,  and  beauty, 
and  valour,  and  spiritual  energy,  have  not  been  kindled 
by  those  records  into  living  fires  in  his  soul?  The 
illumination  of  an  age  does  not  consist  in  the  amount 

* We  may  illustrate  Channing’s  argument  by  quoting  part 
of  Coleridge's  criticism  on  Milton’s  Satan  : ‘ The  character  of 
Satan  is  pride  and  sensual  indulgence,  finding  in  itself  the 
motive  of  action.  It  is  the  character  so  often  seen  in  little  on 
the  political  stage.  It  exhibits  all  the  restlessness,  temerity,  and 
cunning  which  have  marked  the  mighty  hunters  of  mankind 
from  Nimrod  to  Napoleon.  The  common  fascination  of  man  is, 
that  these  great  men,  as  they  are  called,  must  act  from  some 
great  motive.  Milton  has  carefully  marked  in  his  Satan  the 
intense  selfishness,  the  alcohol  of  egotism,  which  would  rather 
reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven.  To  place  this  lust  of  self  in 
opposition  to  denial  of  self  or  duty,  and  to  shew  what  exertions 
it  would  make,  and  what  pains  endure  to  accomplish  its  end, 
is  Milton’s  particular  object  in  the  character  of  Satan.  But 
around  this  character  he  has  thrown  a singularity  of  daring, 
a grandeur  of  sufferance,  and  a ruined  splendour,  which  con- 
stitute the  very  height  of  poetic  sublimity.’  The  career  of 
Napoleon  certainly  exemplifies  the  principle  here  so  finely 
enunciated. 

552 


of  its  knowledge,  but  in  the  broad  and  noble  principles 
of  which  that  knowledge  is  the  foundation  and  inspirer. 
The  truth  is,  that  the  most  laborious  and  successful 
student  is  confined  in  his  researches  to  a very  few  of 
God’s  works ; but  this  limited  knowledge  of  things  may 
still  suggest  universal  laws,  broad  principles,  grand 
ideas,  and  these  elevate  the  mind.  There  are  certain 
thoughts,  principles,  ideas,  which  by  their  nature  rule 
over  all  knowledge,  which  are  intrinsically  glorious, 
quickening,  all-comprehending,  eternal. 


JOHN  NICHOLS — ARTHUR  YOUNG. 

One  of  the  most  industrious  of  literary  collectors 
and  editors  was  John  Nichols  (1745-1826),  who  for 
nearly  half  a century  conducted  the  Gentleman’s 
Magazine.  Mr  Nichols  was  early  put  apprentice  to 
William  Bowyer,  an  eminent  London  printer 
(1699-1778),  who,  with  scholarship  that  reflected 
honour  on  himself  and  his  craft , edited  an  edition  of 
the  New  Testament,  with  notes,  and  was  author  of 
several  philological  tracts.  On  the  death  of  Bowyer, 
Mr  Nichols  carried  on  the  printing  business — in 
which  he  had  previously  been  a partner — and 
became  associated  with  David  Henry,  the  brother- 
in-law  of  Cave,  the  original  proprietor  of  the 
Gentleman’s  Magazine.  Henry  died  in  1792,  and 
the  whole  labours  of  the  magazine  and  business 
devolved  on  Mr  Nichols,  whose  industry  was  never 
relaxed.  The  most  important  of  his  numerous 
labours  are  his  Anecdotes,  Literary  and  Biographical, 
of  William  Bowyer , 1782  ; The  History  and  Antiquities 
of  Leicester , 1795-1811  ; Literary  Anecdotes  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century , eight  volumes,  1812-14  ; and 
Illustrations  of  the  Literature  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 
— supplementary  to  the  Anecdotes — three  volumes 
octavo.  Additions  have  from  time  to  time  been  made 
to  these  works  by  Mr  Nichols’s  son  and  successor,  so 
that  the  Anecdotes  form  nine  large  volumes,  and  the 
Illustrations  eight  volumes,  the  seventeenth — com- 
pleting the  series — having  been  issued  in  1859.  Mr 
Nichols  edited  the  correspondence  of  Atterbury 
and  Steele,  Fuller’s  Worthies,  Swift’s  works,  &c., 
and  compiled  accounts  of  the  Royal  Progresses  and 
Processions  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  James  I.,  each 
in  three  volumes  quarto. 

Arthur  Young  (1721-1820)  was  eminent  for  his 
writings  and  services  in  the  promotion  of  agri- 
culture. He  was  one  of  the  first  who  succeeded  in 
elevating  this  great  national  interest  to  the  dignity 
of  a science,  and  rendering  it  popular  among  the 
higher  classes  of  the  country.  He  was  for  many 
years  an  unsuccessful  theorist  and  experimenter  on 
a small  paternal  estate  in  Suffolk  to  which  he  suc- 
ceeded, but  the  knowledge  thus  acquired,  he  turned 
to  good  account.  In  1770  he  commenced  a period- 
ical, entitled  The  Farmer’s  Calendar , and  he  after- 
wards edited  another  periodical,  The  Annals  of 
Agriculture , to  which  King  George  III.  was  an 
occasional  contributor.  A list  of  his  published 
letters,  pamphlets,  &c.,  on  subjects  of  rural  economy, 
would  fill  one  of  our  pages  ; but  the  most  important 
of  Young’s  works  are  a Tour  in  Ireland,  1776-79, 
and  Travels  in  France , 1787-89.  These  journeys 
were  undertaken  by  the  recommendation  and  assist- 
ance of  government,  with  a view  of  ascertaining  the 
cultivation,  wealth,  resources,  and  prosperity  of 
Ireland  and  France.  He  was  author  also  of  surveys 
of  the  counties  of  Suffolk,  Norfolk,  Lincoln, 
Hertford,  Essex,  and  Oxford ; with  reports  on 
waste  lands,  enclosures,  &c.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion alarmed  Young  with  respect  to  its  probable 
effects  on  the  English  lower  classes,  and  he  wrote 
several  warning  treatises  and  political  tracts.  Sir 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


political  Economists. 


John  Sinclair — another  devoted  and  patriotic  agri- 
culturist— having  prevailed  on  Pitt  to  establish 
a Board  of  Agriculture,  Arthur  Young  was 
appointed  its  secretary,  with  a salary  of  £400  per 
annum,  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  exertions 
to  carry  out  the  views  of  the  association.  To  the 
end  of  his  long  life,  even  after  he  was  afflicted  with 
blindness,  the  attention  of  Mr  Young  was  devoted 
to  pursuits  of  practical  utility.  Some  of  his  theories 
as  to  the  system  of  large  farms — for  which  he  was 
a strenuous  advocate — and  other  branches  of  agri- 
cultural labour,  may  be  questioned,  but  he  was  a 
valuable  pioneer,  who  cleared  the  way  for  many 
improvements  since  accomplished. 

SIR  JOHN  care. 

A series  of  light  descriptive  and  gossiping  tours, 
by  Sir  John  Carr  (1772-1832),  made  considerable 
noise  in  their  day.  The  first  and  best  was  The 
Stranger  in  France , 1803.  This  was  followed  by 
Travels  Round  the  Baltic , 1804-5;  The  Stranger  in 
Ireland , 1806  ; Tour  through  Holland , 1807 ; Cale- 
donian Sketches,  1809  ; Travels  in  Spain,  1811.  Sir 
John  was  also  author  of  some  indifferent  poems  and 
dramas.  This  indefatigable  tourist  had  been  an 
attorney  in  Dorsetshire,  but  the  success  of  his  first 
work  on  Prance,  induced  him  to  continue  a series 
of  similar  publications.  In  Ireland  he  was  knighted 
by  the  lord-lieutenant  (the  Duke  of  Bedford),  and 
his  Irish  tour  wras  ridiculed  in  a witty  jeu  d’esprit, 
My  Pocket  Book,  written  by  Mr  E.  Dubois  of  the 
Temple.  Sir  John  prosecuted  the  publishers  of  this 
satire,  but  was  non-suited.  His  Caledonian  Sketches 
were  happily  ridiculed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  the 
Quarterly  Review,  and  Byron— who  had  met  the 
knight-errant  at  Cadiz,  and  implored  1 not  to  be  put 
down  in  black  and  white  ’ — introduced  him  into 
some  suppressed  stanzas  of  Childe  Harold,  in  which 
he  is  styled  ‘ Green  Erin’s  knight  and  Europe’s 
wandering  star.’ 

REV.  JAMES  BERESFORD. 

A humorous  work,  in  the  form  of  dialogues, 
entitled  TV ie  Miseries  of  Human  Life,  1806-7,  had 
great  success  and  found  numerous  imitators.  It 
went  through  nine  editions  in  a twelvemonth — 
partly,  perhaps,  because  it  formed  the  subject  of 
a very  amusing  critique  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
from  the  pen  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  ‘ It  is  the  English 
only,’  as  Scott  remarks,  ‘ who  submit  to  the  same 
tyranny,  from  all  the  incidental  annoyances  and 
petty  vexations  of  the  day,  as  from  the  serious 
calamities  of  life ; ’ and  it  is  these  petty  miseries 
which  in  this  work  form  the  subject  of  dialogues 
between  the  imaginary  interlocutors,  Timothy  Testy 
and  Samuel  Sensitive.  The  jokes  are  occasionally 
heavy,  and  the  classical  quotations  forced,  but  the 
object  of  the  author  was  attained — the  book  sold, 
and  its  readers  laughed.  We  subjoin  two  short 
‘ groans.’ 

After  having  left  a company  in  which  you  have  been 
galled  by  the  raillery  of  some  wag  by  profession,  think- 
ing at  your  leisure  of  a repartee,  which,  if  discharged  at 
the  proper  moment,  would  have  blown  him  to  atoms. 

Rashly  confessing  that  you  have  a slight  cold  in  the 
hearing  of  certain  elderly  ladies  ‘ of  the  faculty,’  who 
instantly  form  themselves  into  a consultation  upon  your 
case,  and  assail  you  with  a volley  of  nostrums,  all  of 
) which,  if  you  would  have  a moment’s  peace,  you  must 
solemnly  promise  to  take  off  before  night — though  well 
satisfied  that  they  would  retaliate  by  ‘ taking  you  off  ’ 
before  morning. 


The  author  of  this  jeu  d’esprit  was  a clergyman, 
the  Rev.  James  Beresford,  Fellow  of  Merton 
College,  Oxford  (1764-1840).  Mr  Beresford  was 
author  of  several  translations  and  essays. 


BRIDGES — DOUCE — ETC. 

In  the  style  of  popular  literary  illustration,  with 
imagination  and  poetical  susceptibility,  may  be 
mentioned  Sir  Egerton  Brtdges,  who  published 
the  Censura  Liter  aria,  1805-9,  in  ten  volumes ; the 
British  Bibliographer,  in  three  volumes  ; an  enlarged 
edition  of  Collins’s  British  Peerage;  Letters  on  the 
Genius  of  Lord  Byron,  &c.  As  principal  editor  of 
the  Retrospective  Review,  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  drew 
public  attention  to  the  beauties  of  many  old  writers, 
and  extended  the  feeling  of  admiration  which 
Charles  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  others,  had  awakened 
for  the  early  masters  of  the  English  lyre.  In  1835 
this  veteran  author  edited  an  edition  of  Milton’s 
poetical  works  in  six  volumes.  A tone  of  querulous 
egotism  and  complaint  pervades  most  of  the  original 
works  of  this  author,  but  his  taste  and  exertions  in 
English  literature  entitle  him  to  high  respect. 

The  Illustrations  of  Shakspeare , published  in  1807, 
by  Mr  Francis  Douce,  and  the  British  Monachism, 
1802,  and  Encyclopaedia  of  Antiquities , 1824,  by  the 
Rev.  T.  D.  Fosbrooke,  are  works  of  great  researcli 
and  value  as  repositories  of  curious  information. 
Works  of  this  kind  illustrate  the  pages  of  our 
poets  and  historians,  besides  conveying  pictures  of 
national  manners'  now  faded  into  oblivion. 

A record  of  English  customs  is  preserved  in 
Brand’s  Popular  Antiquities , published,  with  addi- 
tions, by  Sir  Henry  Ellis,  in  two  volumes  quarto, 
in  1808  ; and  in  1842  in  two  cheap  portable  volumes. 
The  work  relates  to  the  customs  at  country-wakes, 
sheep-shearings,  and  other  rural  practices,  and  is  an 
admirable  delineation  of  olden  life  and  manners. 

Robert  Mudie  (1777-1842),  an  indefatigable 
writer,  self-educated,  was  a native  of  Forfarshire, 
and  for  some  time  connected  with  the  London  press. 
He  wrote  and  compiled  altogether  about  ninety 
volumes,  including  Babylon  the  Great,  a Picture  of 
Men  and  Things  in  London  ; Modern  Athens,  a sketch 
of  Edinburgh  society  ; The  British  Naturalist ; The 
Feathered  Tribes  of  Great  Britain ; A Popular  Guide 
to  the  Observation  of  Nature ; two  series  of  four 
volumes  each,  entitled  The  Heavens,  the  Earth,  the 
Sea,  and  the  Air ; and  Spring , Summer,  Autumn , and 
Winter : and  next,  Man ; Physical,  Moral,  Social,  and 
Intellectual;  The  World  Described,  &c.  He  furnished 
the  letter-press  to  Gilbert’s  Modern  Atlas,  the 
natural  history  to  the  British  Cyclopaedia,  and 
numerous  other  contributions  to  periodical  works. 
Mudie  was  a nervous  and  able  writer,  deficient  in 
taste  in  works  of  light  literature  and  satire,  but  an 
acute  and  philosophical  observer  of  nature,  and 
peculiarly  happy  in  his  geographical  dissertations 
and  works  on  natural  history.  His  imagination 
could  lighten  up  the  driest  details  ; but  it  was  often 
too  excursive  and  unbridled.  His  ivorks  were  also 
hastily  produced,  1 to  provide  for  the  day  that  was 
passing  over  him;’  but,  considering  these  disadvant- 
ages, his  intellectual  energy  and  acquirements  were 
wonderful. 


POLITICAL  ECONOMISTS. 

There  were  in  this  period  several  writers  on  the 
science  of  political  economy,  ‘ treating  of  the  for- 
mation, the  distribution,  and  the  consumption  of 
wealth ; the  causes  which  promote  or  prevent  its 

653 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


increase,  and  their  influence  on  the  happiness  or 
misery  of  society.’  Adam  Smith  laid  the  foundations 
of  this  science ; and  as  our  population  and  commerce 
went  on  increasing,  thereby  augmenting  the  power 
of  the  democratical  part  of  our  constitution,  and  the 
number  of  those  who  take  an  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  government,  political  economy  became  a more 
important  and  popular  study.  It  now  forms  one 
of  the  subjects  for  lectures  in  the  universities  of 
Cambridge  and  Oxford. 

A singular  but  eminent  writer  in  this  department 
and  in  the  kindred  studies  of  jurisprudence  and 
morals,  Mr  Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832),  was  for 


Jeremy  Bentham. 


more  than  half  a century  distinguished  as  an  author 
and  utilitarian  philosopher.  He  lived  in  intercourse 
with  the  leading  men  of  several  generations  and  of 
various  countries,  and  was  unceasingly  active  in  the 
propagation  of  his  opinions.  Mr  Bentham  was  the 
son  of  a wealthy  London  solicitor,  and  was  educated 
at  Westminster  School  and  Queen’s  College,  Oxford. 
He  was  only  thirteen  when  he  entered  college,  but 
even  then  he  was  known  by  the  name  of  ‘the 
philosopher.’  He  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in  1763, 
and  afterwards  studying  the  law  in  Lincoln’s  Inn, 
was  called  to  the  bar.  He  had  a strong  dislike  to 
the  legal  profession,  and  never  pleaded  in  public. 
His  first  literary  performance  was  an  examination 
of  a passage  in  Blackstone’s  Commentaries , and  was 
entitled,  A Fragment  on  Government,  1776.  The 
work  was  prompted,  as  he  afterwards  stated,  by  ‘ a 
passion  for  improvement  in  those  shapes  in  which 
the  lot  of  mankind  is  meliorated  by  it.’  His  zeal 
was  increased  by  a pamphlet  which  had  been  issued 
by  Priestley.  ‘ In  the  phrase,  “ the  greatest  happi- 
ness of  the  greatest  number,”  I then  saw  delineated,’ 
says  Bentham,  ‘ for  the  first  time,  a plain  as  well 
as  a true  standard  for  whatever  is  right  or  wrong, 
useful,  useless,  or  mischievous  in  human  conduct,^ 
whether  in  the  field  of  morals  or  of  politics.’  The 
phrase  is  a good  one,  whether  invented  by  Priestley 
or  Bentham ; but  it  still  leaves  the  means  by  which 
happiness  is  to  be  extended  as  undecided  as  ever, 
to  be  determined  by  the  judgment  and  opinions  of 
men.  To  insure  it,  Bentham  considered  it  neces- 
sary to  reconstruct  the  laws  and  government — to 
have  annual  parliaments  and  universal  suffrage, 
secret  voting,  and  a return  to  the  ancient  practice 
of  paying  wages  to  parliamentary  representatives. 
In  all  his  political  writings  this  doctrine  of  utility, 
554  j / 


so  understood,  is  the  leading  and  pervading  prin- 
ciple. In  1778  he  published  a pamphlet  on  The 
Hard  Labour  Bill,  recommending  an  improvement 
in  the  mode  of  criminal  punishment ; Letters  on 
Usury , 1787;  Introduction  to  the  Principles  of  Morals 
and  Politics,  1789  ; Discourses  on  Civil  and  Penal 
Legislation,  1802 ; A Theory  of  Punishments  and 
Rewards , 1811 ; A Treatise  on  Judicial  Evidence, 
1813 ; Paper  relative  to  Codification  and  Public 
Instruction,  1817 ; The  Booh  of  Fallacies,  1824,  &c. 
By  the  death  of  his  father  in  1792,  Bentham 
succeeded  to  property  in  London,  and  to  farms  in 
Essex,  yielding  from  £500  to  £600  a year.  He  lived 
frugally,  but  with  elegance,  in  one  of  his  London 
houses — kept  young  men  as  secretaries— corre- 
sponded and  wrote  daily— and  by  a life  of  temperance 
and  industry,  with  great  self-complacency,  and  the 
society  of  a few  devoted  friends,  the  eccentric 
philosopher  attained  to  the  age  of  eighty-four.  His 
various  productions  have  been  collected  and  edited  by 
Dr  (now  Sir)  John  Bowring  and  Mr  John  Hill  Burton, 
advocate,  and  published  in  eleven  volumes.  In  his 
latter  works  Bentham  adopted  a peculiar  uncouth 
style  or  nomenclature,  which  deters  ordinary 
readers,  and  indeed  has  rendered  his  works  almost 
a dead-letter.  Fortunately,  however,  part  of  them 
were  arranged  and  translated  into  French  by  M. 
Dumont.  Another  disciple,  Mr  Mill,  made  known 
his  principles  at  home ; Sir  Samuel  Romilly  criti- 
cised them  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  in  the  ethical  dissertation  which  he 
wrote  for  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica.  In  the 
science  of  legislation,  Bentham  evinced  a profound 
capacity  and  extensive  knowledge : the  error 

imputed  to  his  speculations  is  that  of  not  sufficiently 
‘ weighing  the  various  circumstances  which  require 
his  rules  to  be  modified  in  different  countries  and 
times,  in  order  to  render  them  either  more  useful, 
more  easily  introduced,  more  generally  respected, 
or  more  certainly  executed.’  As  an  ethical  philos- 
opher, he  carried  his  doctrine  of  utility  to  an  extent 
which  would  be  practically  dangerous,  if  it  were 
possible  to  make  the  bulk  of  mankind  act  upon  a 
speculative  theory. 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  political  econo- 
mists was  the  Rev.  T.  R.  Malthus,  an  English 
clergyman,  and  Fellow  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge. 
Mr  Malthus  was  born  of  a good  family  in  1766,  at 
his  father’s  estate  in  Surrey.  In  1798  appeared  his 
celebrated  work,  an  Essay  on  the  Principle  of  Popu- 
lation as  it  affects  the  Future  Improvement  of  Society. 
The  principle  here  laid  down  is,  that  population 
has  a tendency  to  increase  faster  than  the  means  of 
subsistence.  ‘ Population  not  only  rises  to  the  level 
of  the  present  supply  of  food,  but  if  you  go  on  every 
year  increasing  the  quantity  of  food,  population 
goes  on  increasing  at  the  same  time,  and  so  fast  that 
the  food  is  commonly  still  too  small  for  the  people.’ 
After  the  publication  of  this  work,  Mr  Malthus  went 
abroad  with  Dr  Clarke  and  some  other  friends ; and 
in  the  course  of  a tour  through  Sweden,  Norway, 
Finland,  and  part  of  Russia,  he  collected  facts  in 
illustration  of  his  theory.  These  he  embodied  in  a 
second  and  greatly  improved  edition  of  his  work, 
which  was  published  in  1803.  The  most  important 
of  his  other  works  are,  An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature 
and  Progress  of  Rent,  1815 ; and  Principles  of  Poli- 
tical Economy,  1820.  Several  pamphlets  on  the 
corn-laws,  the  currency,  and  the  poor-laws,  pro- 
ceeded from  his  pen.  Mr  Malthus  was  in  1805 
appointed  professor  of  modern  history  and  political 
economy  in  Haileybury  College,  and  he  held  the 
situation  till  his  death  in  1836. 

Mr  David  Ricardo  (1772-1823)  was  author  of 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DENHAM  AND  CLAPPERTON. 


several  original  and  powerful  treatises  connected 
with  political  economy.  His  first  was  on  the  High 
Price  of  Bullion , 1809 ; and  he  published  succes- 
sively Proposals  for  an  Economical  and  Secure  Cur- 
rency, 1816  ; and  Principles  of  Political  Economy  and 
Taxation , 1817.  The  latter  work  is  considered 
the  most  important  treatise  on  that  science,  with 
the  single  exception  of  Smith’s  Wealth  of  Nations. 
Mr  Ricardo  afterwards  wrote  pamphlets  on  the 
Funding  System,  and  on  Protection  to  Agriculture. 
He  had  amassed  great  wealth  as  a stockbroker, 
and  retiring  from  business,  he  entered  into  parlia- 
ment as  representative  for  the  small  borough  of 
Portarlington.  He  seldom  spoke  in  the  House,  and 
only  on  subjects  connected  with  his  favourite  studies. 
He  died,  much  regretted  by  his  friends,  at  his  seat, 
Gatcomb  Park,  in  Gloucestershire,  on  the  11th  of 
September  1823. 

The  Elements  of  Political  Economy,  by  Mr  James 
Mill,  the  historian  of  India,  1821,  were  designed 
by  the  author  as  a school-book  of  the  science,  as 
modelled  or  improved  by  Ricardo.  Dr  Whately 
(afterwards  archbishop  of  Dublin)  published  two 
introductory  lectures,  which,  as  professor  of  political 
economy,  he  had  delivered  to  the  university  of 
Oxford  in  1831.  This  eminent  person  is  also  author 
of  a highly  valued  work,  Elements  of  Logic,  which 
has  attained  an  extensive  utility  among  young 
students  ; Thoughts  on  Secondary  Punishments,  and 
other  works,  all  displaying  marks  of  a powerful 
intellect.  A good  elementary  work,  Conversations  on 
Political  Economy,  by  Mrs  Marcet,  was  published 
in  1827.  The  Rev.  Dr  Chalmers  on  various 
occasions  supported  the  views  of  Malthus,  particu- 
larly in  his  work  On  Political  Economy  in  Connection 
with  the  Moral  Prospects  of  Society,  1832.  He 
maintains  that  no  human  skill  or  labour  could 
make  the  produce  of  the  soil  increase  at  the  rate 
at  which  population  would  increase,  and  therefore 
he  urges  the  expediency  of  a restraint  upon  marriage, 
successfully  inculcated  upon  the  people  as  the  very 
essence  of  morality  and  religion  by  every  pastor 
and  instructor  in  the  kingdom.  Eew  clergymen 
would  venture  on  such  a task!  Another  zealous 
commentator  is  Mr  J.  Ramsay  M‘Culloch,  author 
of  Elements  of  Political  Economy , and  of  various 
contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  which  have 
spread  more  widely  a knowledge  of  the  subject. 
Mr  M‘Culloch  has  also  edited  an  edition  of  Adam 
Smith,  and  compiled  several  useful  and  able 
statistical  works,  the  most  important  of  which  are  a 
Dictionary  of  Commerce,  a Statistical  Account  of  the 
British  Empire,  and  a Geographical  Dictionary. 
This  gentleman  is  a native  of  Galloway,  born  about 
the  year  1790.  He  enjoys  a pension  of  £200  per 
annum,  and  holds  a government  appointment  in  the 
Stationery  Office. 

The  opponents  of  Malthus  and  the  economists, 
though  not  numerous,  have  been  determined  and 
active.  Cobbett  never  ceased  for  years  to  inveigh 
against  them.  Coleridge  also  joined  in  the  cry. 
Mr  Godwin  came  forward  in  1821,  with  an  Inquiry 
Concerning  the  Power  of  Increase  in  the  Numbers  of 
Mankind,  a treatise  very  unworthy  the  author  of 
Caleb  Williams.  In  1830  Michael  Thomas  Sadler 
published  The  Law  of  Population : a Treatise  in 
Disproof  of  the  Superfecundity  of  Human  Beings,  and 
Developing  the  Real  Principle  of  their  Increase.  A 
third  volume  to  this  work  was  in  preparation  by  the 
author  when  he  died.  Mr  Sadler  (1780-1835)  was 
a mercantile  man,  partner  in  an  establishment  at 
Leeds.  In  1829  he  became  representative  in  parlia- 
ment for  the  borough  of  Newark,  and  distinguished 
himself  by  his  speeches  against  the  removai  of  the 


Catholic  disabilities  and  the  Reform  Bill.  He  also 
wrote  a work  on  the  condition  of  Ireland.  Mr  Sadler 
was  an  ardent  benevolent  man,  an  impracticable 
politician,  and  a florid  speaker.  His  literary  pursuits 
and  oratorical  talents  were  honourable  and  graceful 
additions  to  his  character  as  a man  of  business,  but 
in  knowledge  and  argument  he  was  greatly  inferior 
to  Malthus  and  Ricardo.  On  the  same  subject  we 
may  notice — though  anticipating  the  chronological 
order — An  Essay  on  the  Distribution  of  Wealth,  and 
the  Sources  of  Taxation,  1831,  by  the  Rev.  Richard 
Jones.  This  work  is  chiefly  confined  to  the  con- 
sideration of  rent,  as  to  which  the  author  differs 
from  Ricardo.  Mr  Nassau  William  Senior,  pro- 
fessor of  political  economy  in  the  university  of 
Oxford  in  1831,  published  Two  Lectures  on  Popula- 
tion, and  has  also  written  pamphlets  on  the  poor- 
laws,  the  commutation  of  tithes,  &c.  He  was  the 
ablest  of  all  the  opponents  of  Malthus. 


TRAVELLERS. 

To  explore  the  interior  of  Africa  continued  still 
to  be  an  object  of  adventurous  ambition.  Mungo 
Park  had  conjectured  that  the  Niger  and  Congo 
were  one  river;  and  in  1816  a double  expedition 
was  planned,  one  part  of  which  was  destined  to 
ascend  the  Congo,  and  the  other  to  descend  the 
Niger,  hopes  being  entertained  that  a meeting 
would  take  place  at  some  point  of  the  mighty 
stream.  The  command  of  this  expedition  was  given 
to  Captain  Tuckey,  an  experienced  naval  officer, 
and  he  was  accompanied  by  Mr  Smith,  a botanist, 
Mr  Cranch,  a zoologist,  and  by  Mr  Galway,  an  intel- 
ligent friend.  The  expedition  was  unfortunate — all 
died  but  Captain  Tuckey,  and  he  was  compelled  to 
abandon  the  enterprise  from  fever  and  exhaustion. 
In  the  narrative  of  this  expedition,  there  is  an 
interesting  account  of  the  country  of  Congo,  which 
appears  to  be  an  undefined  tract  of  territory, 
hemmed  in  between  Loango  on  the  north  and 
Angola  on  the  south,  and  stretching  far  inland. 
The  military  part  of  this  expedition,  under  Major 
Peddie,  was  equally  unfortunate.  He  did  not  ascend 
the  Gambia,  but  pursued  the  route  by  the  Rio 
Nunez  and  the  country  of  the  Foulahs.  Peddie 
died  at  Kacundy,  at  the  head  of  the  Rio  Nunez, 
and  Captain  Campbell,  on  whom  the  command  then 
devolved,  also  sunk  under  the  pressure  of  disease 
and  distress.  In  1819  two  other  travellers,  Mr 
Ritchie  and  Lieutenant  Lyon,  proceeded  from 
Tripoli  to  Pezzan,  with  the  view  of  penetrating 
southward  as  far  as  Soudan.  The  climate  soon 
extinguished  all  hopes  from  this  expedition ; Mr 
Ritchie  sank  beneath  it,  and  Lieutenant  Lyon  was 
so  reduced  as  to  be  able  to  extend  his  journey  only 
to  the  southern  frontiers  of  Fezzan. 

DENHAM  AND  CLAPPERTON. 

In  1822  another  important  African  expedition 
was  planned  by  a different  route,  under  the  care  of 
Major  Denham,  Captain  Clapperton,  and  Dr 
Oudney.  They  proceeded  from  Tripoli  across  the 
Great  Desert  to  Bornou,  and  in  February  1823 
arrived  at  Kouka,  the  capital  of  Bornou.  An 
immense  lake,  the  Tshad,  was  seen  to  form  the 
receptacle  of  the  rivers  of  Bornou,  and  the  country 
was  highly  populous.  The  travellers  were  hospitably 
entertained  at  Kouka.  Oudney  fell  a victim  to  the 
climate,  but  Clapperton  penetrated  as  far  as  Socka- 
too,  the  residence  of  the  Sultan  Bello,  and  the 
capital  of  the  Fellatah  empire.  The  sultan  received 

555  ■ 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


him  with  much  state,  and  admired  all  the  presents 
that  were  brought  to  him.  ‘ Everything,’  he  said, 
‘ is  wonderful,  but  you  are  the  greatest  curiosity  of 
all.’  The  traveller’s  presence  of  mind  is  illustrated 
by  the  following  anecdote : 

‘March  19,  I was  sent  for,’  says  Clapperton,  ‘by  the 
sultan,  and  desired  to  bring  with  me  the  “ looking-glass 
of  the  sun,”  the  name  they  gave  to  my  sextant.  I first 
exhibited  a planisphere  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  The 
sultan  knew  all  the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  some  of  the 
constellations,  and  many  of  the  stars,  by  their  Arabic 
names.  The  looking-glass  of  the  sun  was  then  brought 
forward,  and  occasioned  much  surprise.  I had  to  explain 
all  its  appendages.  The  inverting  telescope  was  an 
object  of  immense  astonishment ; and  I had  to  stand 
at  some  little  distance  to  let  the  sultan  look  at  me 
through  it,  for  his  people  were  all  afraid  of  placing 
themselves  within  its  magical  influence.  I had  next 
to  shew  him  how  to  take  an  observation  of  the  sum 
The  case  of  the  artificial  horizon,  of  which  I had  lost  the 
key,  was  sometimes  very  difficult  to  open,  as  happened 
on  this  occasion : I asked  one  of  the  people  near  me  for 
a knife  to  press  up  the  lid.  He  handed  me  one  quite 
too  small,  and  I quite  inadvertently  asked  for  a dagger 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  sultan  was  immediately 
thrown  into  a fright ; he  seized  his  sword,  and  half 
drawing  it  from  the  scabbard,  placed  it  before  him, 
trembling  all  the  time  like  an  aspen -leaf.  I did  not 
deem  it  prudent  to  take  the  least  notice  of  his  alarm, 
although  it  was  I who  had  in  reality  most  cause  of  fear ; 
and  on  receiving  the  dagger,  I calmly  opened  the  case, 
and  returned  the  weapon  to  its  owner  with  apparent 
unconcern.  When  the  artificial  horizon  was  arranged, 
the  sultan  and  all  his  attendants  had  a peep  at  the  sun, 
and  my  breach  of  etiquette  seemed  entirely  forgotten.’ 

Sockatoo  formed  the  utmost  limit  of  the  expedi- 
tion. The  result  was  published  in  1826,  under  the 
title  of  Narrative  of  Travels  and  Discoveries  in 
Northern  and  Central  Africa,  in  the  years  1822, 
1823,  and  1824,  by  Major  Denham , Captain  Clapper- 
ton,  and  the  late  Dr  Oudney.  Clapperton  resumed 
liis  travels  in  1825,  and  completed  a journey  across 
the  continent  of  Africa  from  Tripoli  to  Benin, 
accompanied  by  Captain  Pearce,  a naval  surgeon, 
a draughtsman,  and  Richard  Lander,  a young  man 
who  volunteered  to  accompany  him  as  a confidential 
servant.  They  landed  at  Badagry,  in  the  Bight  of 
Benin ; but  death  soon  cut  off  all  but  Clapperton 
and  Lander.  They  pursued  their  course,  and  visited 
Boussa,  the  scene  of  Mungo  Park’s  death.  They 
proceeded  to  Sockatoo  after  an  interesting  journey, 
with  the  view  of  soliciting  permission  from  the 
sultan  to  visit  Timbuctoo  and  Bornou.  In  this 
Clapperton  was  unsuccessful ; and  being  seized  with 
dysentery,  he  died  in  the  arms  of  his  faithful  servant 
on  the  13th  of  April  1827.  Lander  was  allowed  to 
return,  and  in  1830  he  published  an  account  of 
Captain  Clapperton’s  last  expedition.  The  unfor- 
tunate traveller  was  at  the  time  of  his  death  in  his 
thirty-ninth  year. 

Clapperton  made  valuable  additions  to  our 
knowledge  of  the  interior  of  Africa.  ‘The  limit 
of  Lieutenant  Lyon’s  journey  southward  across  the 
desert  was  in  latitude  24  degrees,  while  Major 
Denham,  in  his  expedition  to  Mandara,  reached 
latitude  9 degrees  15  minutes;  thus  adding  14a 
degrees,  or  900  miles,  to  the  extent  explored  by 
Europeans.  Hornemann,  it  is  true,  had  previously 
crossed  the  desert,  and  had  proceeded  as  far  south- 
wards as  Nyffe,  in  latitude  1(H  degrees ; but  no 
account  was  ever  received  of  his  journey.  Park  in 
his  first  expedition  reached  Silla,  in  longitude  1 
degree  34  minutes  west,  a distance  of  1100  miles 
556 


from  the  mouth  of  the  Gambia.  Denham  and 
Clapperton,  on  the  other  hand,  from  the  east  side  of 
Lake  Tshad  in  longitude  17  degrees,  to  Sockatoo 
in  longitude  5|  degrees,  explored  a distance  of 
700  miles  from  east  to  west  in  the  heart  of  Africa  ; 
a line  of  only  400  miles  remaining  unknown  between 
Silla  and  Sockatoo.  But  the  second  journey  of 
Captain  Clapperton  added  tenfold  value  to  these 
discoveries.  He  had  the  good-fortune  to  detect  the 
shortest  and  most  easy  road  to  the  populous 
countries  of  the  interior;  and  he  could  boast  of 
being  the  first  who  had  completed  an  itinerary 
across  the  continent  of  Africa  from  Tripoli  to 
Benin.’  * 

RICHARD  LANDER. 

The  honour  of  discovering  and  finally  determining 
the  course  of  the  Niger  was  left  to  Richard  Lander. 
Under  the  auspices  of  government,  Lander  and  his 
brother  left  England  in  January  1830,  and  arrived 
at  Badagry  on  the  19th  of  March.  From  Boussa 
they  sailed  down  the  Niger,  and  ultimately  entered 
the  Atlantic  by  the  river  Nun,  one  of  the  branches 
from  the  Niger.  They  returned  from  their  trium- 
phant expedition  in  June  1831,  and  published  an 
account  of  their  travels  in  three  small  volumes,  for 
which  Mr  Murray,  the  eminent  bookseller,  is  said  j 
to  have  given  a thousand  guineas.  Richard  Lander 
was  induced  to  embark  in  another  expedition  to 
Africa — a commercial  speculation  fitted  out  by  some 
Liverpool  merchants,  which  proved  an  utter  failure. 

A party  of  natives  attacked  the  adventurers  on  the 
river  Niger,  and  Lander  was  wounded  by  a musket- 
ball.  He  arrived  at  Fernando  Po,  but  died  from  the 
effects  of  his  wound  on  the  16th  of  February  1834, 
aged  thirty-one.  A narrative  of  this  unfortunate 
expedition  was  published  in  1837,  in  two  volumes, 
by  Mr  Macgregor  Laird  and  Air  Oldfield,  surviving 
officers  of  the  expedition. 

BO  WDICH— CAMPBELL — BURCHELL. 

Of  Western  Africa,  interesting  accounts  are  given 
in  the  Mission  to  Ashantee,  1819,  by  Mr  Bowdich  ; 
and  of  Southern  Africa,  in  the  Travels  of  Mr  j 
Campbell,  a missionary,  1822 ; and  in  Travels 
in  Southern  Africa,  1822,  by  Mr  Burchell. 
Campbell  was  the  first  to  penetrate  beyond  Lattakoo, 
the  capital  of  the  Boshuana  tribe  of  the  Matchapins. 
He  made  two  missions  to  Africa,  one  in  1813,  and 
a second  in  1820,  both  being  undertaken  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Missionary  Society.  He  founded 
a Christian  establishment  at  Lattakoo,  but  the 
natives  evinced  little  disposition  to  embrace  the 
pure  faith,  so  different  from  their  sensual  and  super-  j 
stitious  rites.  Until  Mr  Bowdich’s  mission  to  | 
Ashantee,  that  powerful  kingdom  and  its  capital,  i 
Coomassie  (a  city  of  100,000  souls),  although  not  j 
nine  days’  journey  from  the  English  settlements  on 
the  coast,  were  known  only  by  name,  and  very  few 
persons  in  England  had  ever  formed  the  faintest 
idea  of  the  barbaric  pomp  and  magnificence,  or  of 
the  state,  strength,  and  political  condition  of  the 
Ashantee  nation. 

J.  L.  BURCKHARDT — J.  B.  BELZONI. 

Among  the  numerous  victims  of  African  dis- 
covery are  two  eminent  travellers— Burckhardt  and 
Belzoni.  John  Ludwig  Burckhardt  (1785-1817) 
was  a native  of  Switzerland,  who  visited  England, 
and  was  engaged  by  the  African  Association.  He 

* History  of  Maritime  and  Inland  Discovery. 


travellers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  joiin  b.  belzoni. 


proceeded  to  Aleppo  in  1809,  and  resided  two  years 
in  that  city,  personating  the  character  of  a Mussul- 
man doctor  of  laws,  and  acquiring  a perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  language  and  customs  of  the  East.  He 
visited  Palmyra,  Damascus,  and  Lebanon ; stopped 
some  time  at  Cairo,  and  made  a pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
crossing  the  Nubian  desert  by  the  route  taken  by 
Bruce.  He  returned  to  Cairo,  and  was  preparing 
to  depart  thence  in  a caravan  for  Fezzan,  in  the 
north  of  Africa,  when  he  was  cut  off  by  a fever. 
His  journals,  letters,  and  memoranda,  were  all  pre- 
served, and  are  very  valuable.  He  was  an  accurate 
observer  of  men  and  manners,  and  his  works  throw 
much  light  on  the  geography  and  moral  condition 
of  the  countries  he  visited.  They  were  published 
at  intervals  from  1819  to  1830.  John  Baptist 
Belzoni  was  a native  of  Padua,  in  Italy,  who  came 
to  England  in  1803.  He  was  a man  of  immense 
stature  and  muscular  strength,  capable  of  enduring 
the  greatest  fatigue.  From  1815  to  1819  he  was 
engaged  in  exploring  the  antiquities  of  Egypt. 
Works  on  this  subject  had  previously  appeared — 
The  Egyptiacci  of  Hamilton,  1809 ; Mr  Legh’s 
Narrative  of  a Journey  in  Egypt , 1816 ; Captain 
Light’s  Travels,  181S ; and  Memoirs  relating  to 
European  and  Asiatic  Turkey,  &c.,  by  Mr  R.  Walpole, 
1817.  Mr  Legh’s  account  of  the  antiquities  of 
Nubia — the  region  situated  on  the  upper  part  of  the 
Nile — had  attracted  much  attention.  While  the 
temples  of  Egypt  are  edifices  raised  above  ground, 
those  of  Nubia  are  excavated  rocks,  and  some 
almost  of  mountain  magnitude  have  been  hewn  into 
temples  and  chiseled  into  sculpture.  Mr  Legli  was 
the  first  adventurer  in  this  career.  Belzoni  acted 
as  assistant  to  Mr  Salt,  the  British  consul  at  Egypt, 
in  exploring  the  Egyptian  pyramids  and  ancient 
tombs.  Some  of  these  remains  of  art  were  eminently 
rich  and  splendid,  and  one  which  he  discovered  near 
Thebes,  containing  a sarcophagus  of  the  finest 
oriental  alabaster,  minutely  sculptured  with  hun- 
dreds of  figures,  he  brought  with  him  to  Britain, 
and  it  is  now  in  the  British  Museum.  In  1820  he 
published  A Narrative  of  Operations  and  Recent  Dis- 
coveries within  the  Pyramids , Temples,  fyc.,  in  Egypt 
and  Nubia,  which  shews  how  much  may  be  done  by 
the  labour  and  unremitting  exertions  of  one  indi- 
vidual. Belzoni’s  success  in  Egypt,  his  great  bodily 
strength,  and  his  adventurous  spirit,  inspired  him 
with  the  hope  of  achieving  discoveries  in  Africa. 
He  sailed  to  the  coast  of  Guinea,  with  the  intention 
of  travelling  to  Timbuctoo,  but  died  at  Benin  of 
an  attack  of  dysentery  on  the  3d  of  December 
1823.  We  subjoin  a few  passages  from  Bclzoni’s 
narrative : 

[The  Ruins  at  Thebes .] 

On  the  22d,  we  saw  for  the  first  time  the  ruins  of 
great  Thebes,  and  landed  at  Luxor.  Here  I beg  the 
reader  to  observe,  that  but  very  imperfect  ideas  can  be 
formed  of  the  extensive  ruins  of  Thebes,  even  from  the 
accounts  of  the  most  skilful  and  accurate  travellers.  It 
is  absolutely  impossible  to  imagine  the  scene  displayed, 
without  seeing  it.  The  most  sublime  ideas  that  can  be 
formed  from  the  most  magnificent  specimens  of  our 
present  architecture,  would  give  a very  incorrect  picture 
of  these  ruins ; for  such  is  the  difference  not  only  in 
magnitude,  but  in  form,  proportion,  and  construction, 
that  even  the  pencil  can  convey  but  a faint  idea  of  the 
whole.  It  appeared  to  me  like  entering  a city  of  giants, 
who,  after  a long  conflict,  were  all  destroyed,  leaving  the 
ruins  of  their  various  temples  as  the  only  proofs  of  their 
former  existence.  The  temple  of  Luxor  presents  to  the 
traveller  at  once  one  of  the  most  splendid  groups  of 
Egyptian  grandeur.  The  extensive  propykeon,  with 


the  two  obelisks,  and  colossal  statues  in  the  front; 
the  thick  groups  of  enormous  columns;  the  variety 
of  apartments,  and  the  sanctuary  it  contains;  the 
beautiful  ornaments  which  adorn  every  part  of  the 
walls  and  columns,  described  by  Mr  Hamilton ; cause 
in  the  astonished  traveller  an  oblivion  of  all  that  he 
has  seen  before.  If  his  attention  be  attracted  to  the 
north  side  of  Thebes  by  the  towering  remains  that 
project  a great  height  above  the  wood  of  palm-trees,  he 
will  gradually  enter  that  forest-like  assemblage  of  ruins 
of  temples,  columns,  obelisks,  colossi,  sphinxes,  portals, 
and  an  endless  number  of  other  astonishing  objects, 
that  will  convince  him  at  once  of  the  impossibility  of  a 
description.  On  the  west  side  of  the  Nile,  still  the 
traveller  finds  himself  among  wonders.  The  temples 
of  Gournou,  Memnonium,  and  Medinet  Aboo,  attest  the 
extent  of  the  great  city  on  this  side.  The  unrivalled 
colossal  figures  in  the  plains  of  Thebes,  the  number  of 
tombs  excavated  in  the  rocks,  those  in  the  great  valley 
of  the  kings,  with  their  paintings,  sculptures,  mummies, 
sarcophagi,  figures,  &c.,  are  all  objects  worthy  of  the 
admiration  of  the  traveller,  who  will  not  fail  to  wonder 
how  a nation  which  was  once  so  great  as  to  erect  these 
stupendous  edifices,  could  so  far  fall  into  oblivion  that 
even  their  language  and  writing  are  totally  unknown 
to  us. 

[Opening  a Tomb  at  Thebes.'] 

On  the  16th  of  October  1817,  I set  a number  of 
fellahs,  or  labouring  Arabs,  to  work,  and  caused  the 
earth  to  be  opened  at  the  foot  of  a steep  hill,  and  under 
the  bed  of  a torrent,  which,  when  it  rains,  pours  a 
great  quantity  of  water  over  the  spot  in  which  they 
were  digging.  No  one  could  imagine  that  the  ancient 
Egyptians  would  make  the  entrance  into  such  an  immense 
and  superb  excavation  just  under  a torrent  of  water ; 
but  I had  strong  reasons  to  suppose  that  there  was  a 
tomb  in  that  place,  from  indications  I had  previously 
observed  in  my  search  of  other  sepulchres.  The  Arabs, 
who  were  accustomed  to  dig,  were  all  of  opinion  that 
nothing  was  to  be  found  there ; but  I persisted  in 
carrying  on  the  work ; and  on  the  evening  of  the 
following  day  we  perceived  the  part  of  the  rock  that 
had  been  hewn  and  cut  away.  On  the  18th,  early  in 
the  morning,  the  task  was  resumed ; and  about  noon,  the 
workmen  reached  the  opening,  which  was  eighteen  feet 
below  the  surface  of  the  ground.  When  there  was  room 
enough  for  me  to  creep  through  a passage  that  the  earth 
had  left  under  the  ceiling  of  the  first  corridor,  I perceived 
immediately,  by  the  painting  on  the  roof,  and  by  the 
hieroglyphics  in  basso-relievo,  that  I had  at  length 
reached  the  entrance  of  a large  and  magnificent  tomb. 
I hastily  passed  along  this  corridor,  and  came  to  a 
staircase  23  feet  long,  at  the  foot  of  which  I entered 
another  gallery  37  feet  3 inches  long,  where  my  progress 
was  suddenly  arrested  by  a large  pit  30  feet  deep  and 
14  feet  by  12  feet  3 inches  wide.  On  the  other  side, 
and  in  front  of  me,  I observed  a small  aperture  2 feet 
wide  and  2 feet  6 inches  high,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pit  a quantity  of  rubbish.  A rope  fastened  to  a piece 
of  wood,  that  was  laid  across  the  passage  against  the 
projections  which  formed  a kind  of  doorway,  appeared 
to  have  been  used  formerly  for  descending  into  the  pit ; 
and  from  the  small  aperture  on  the  opposite  side  hung 
another  which  reached  the  bottom,  no  doubt  for  the 
purpose  of  ascending.  The  wood,  and  the  rope  fastened 
to  it,  crumbled  to  dust  on  being  touched.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  pit  were  several  pieces  of  wood  placed  against  the 
side  of  it,  so  as  to  assist  the  person  who  was  to  ascend 
by  means  of  the  rope  into  the  aperture.  It  was  not  till 
the  following  day  that  we  contrived  to  make  a bridge 
of  two  beams,  and  crossed  the  pit,  when  we  discovered 
the  little  aperture  to  be  an  opening  forced  through  a 
wall,  that  had  entirely  closed  what  we  afterwards  found 
to  be  the  entrance  into  magnificent  halls  and  corridors 
beyond.  The  ancient  Egyptians  had  closely  shut  it  up, 


prom  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


plastered  the  wall  over,  and  painted  it  like  the  rest  of 
the  sides  of  the  pit,  so  that,  but  for  the  aperture,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  suppose  that  there  was 
any  farther  proceeding.  Any  one  would  have  concluded 
that  the  tomb  ended  with  the  pit.  Besides,  the  pit 
served  the  purpose  of  receiving  the  rain-water  which 
might  occasionally  fall  in  the  mountain,  and  thus  kept 
out  the  damp  from  the  inner  part  of  the  tomb.  We 
passed  through  the  small  aperture,  and  then  made  the 
full  discovery  of  the  whole  sepulchre. 

An  inspection  of  the  model  will  exhibit  the  numerous 
galleries  and  halls  through  which  we  wandered;  and 
the  vivid  colours  and  extraordinary  figures  on  the  walls 
and  ceilings,  which  everywhere  met  our  view,  will  con- 
vey an  idea  of  the  astonishment  we  must  have  felt  at 
every  step.  In  one  apartment  we  found  the  carcass  of 
a bull  embalmed ; and  also  scattered  in  various  places 
wooden  figures  of  mummies  covered  with  asphaltum  to 
preserve  them.  In  some  of  the  rooms  were  lying  about 
statues  of  fine  earth,  baked,  coloured  blue,  and  strongly 
varnished;  in  another  part  were  four  wooden  figures 
standing  erect,  four  feet  high,  with  a circular  hollow 
inside,  as  if  intended  to  contain  a roll  of  papyrus. 
The  sarcophagus  of  oriental  alabaster  was  found  in  the 
centre  of  - the  hall,  to  which  I gave  the  name  of  the 
saloon,  without  a cover,  which  had  been  removed  and 
broken;  and  the  body  that  had  once  occupied  this 
superb  coffin  had  been  carried  away.  We  were  not, 
therefore,  the  first  who  had  profanely  entered  this 
mysterious  mansion  of  the  dead,  though  there  is  no 
doubt  it  had  remained  undisturbed  since  the  time  of 
the  invasion  of  the  Persians. 

The  architectural  ruins  and  monuments  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile  are  stupendous  relics  of  former 
ages.  They  reach  back  to  the  period  when  Thebes 
poured  her  heroes  through  a hundred  gates,  and 
Greece  and  Rome  were  the  desert  abodes  of  bar- 
barians. ‘From  the  tops  of  the  pyramids,’  said 
Napoleon  to  his  soldiers  on  the  eve  of  battle,  ‘ the 
shades  of  forty  centuries  look  down  upon  you.’ 
Learning  and  research  have  unveiled  part  of  the 
mystery  of  these  august  memorials.  Men  like 
Belzoni  have  penetrated  into  the  vast  sepulchres, 
and  unearthed  the  huge  sculpture ; and  scholars  like 
Young  and  Champollion,  by  studying  the  hiero- 
glyphic writing  of  the  ancient  Egyptians,  have 
furnished,  a key  by  which  we  may  ascertain  the 
object  and  history  of  these  Eastern  remains. 


»R  E.  D.  CLARKE. 

One  of  the  most  original  and  interesting  of  modern 
travellers  was  the  late  Rev.  Dr  Edward  Daniel 
Clarke  (1769-1822),  a fellow  of  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  and  the  first  professor  of  mineralogy  in 
that  university.  In  1799  Dr  Clarke  set  off  with 
Mr  Malthus,  and  some  other  college-friends,  on  a 
journey  among  the  northern  nations.  He  travelled 
for  three  years  and  a half,  visiting  the  south  of 
Russia,  part  of  Asia,  Turkey,  Egypt,  and  Palestine. 
The  first  volume  of  his  travels  appeared  in  1810, 
and  included  Russia,  Tatary,  and  Turkey.  The 
second,  which  became  more  popular,  was  issued  in 
1812,  and  included  Greece,  Egypt,  and  the  Holy 
Land;  and  three  other  volumes  appeared  at  intervals 
before  1819.  The  sixth  volume  was  published  after 
his  death,  part  being  contributed  by  Mr  Walpole, 
author  of  travels  in  the  Levant.  Dr  Clarke  received 
from  his  publishers  the  large  sum  of  £7000  for  his 
collection  of  travels.  Their  success  was  immediate 
and  extensive.  As  an  honest  and  accomplished 
writer,  careful  in  his  facts,  clear  and  polished  in 
his  style,  and  comprehensive  in  his  knowledge  and 


observation,  Dr  Clarke  has  not  been  excelled  by 
any  general  European  traveller. 

[Description  of  the  Pyramids .] 

We  were  roused  as  soon  as  the  sun  dawned  by  Antony, 
our  faithful  Greek  servant  and  interpreter,  with  the 
intelligence  that  the  pyramids  were  in  view.  We  has- 
tened from  the  cabin ; and  never  will  the  impression 
made  by  their  appearance  be  obliterated.  By  reflecting 
the  sun’s  rays,  they  appear  as  white  as  snow,  and  of 
such  surprising  magnitude,  that  nothing  we  had  previ- 
ously conceived  in  our  imagination  had  prepared  us  for 
the  spectacle  we  beheld.  The  sight  instantly  convinced 
us  that  no  power  of  description,  no  delineation,  can 
convey  ideas  adequate  to  the  effect  produced  in  viewing 
these  stupendous  monuments.  The  formality  of  their 
construction  is  lost  in  their  prodigious  magnitude  ; the 
mind,  elevated  by  wonder,  feels  at  once  the  force  of  an 
axiom,  which,  however  disputed,  experience  confirms — 
that  in  vastness,  whatsoever  be  its  nature,  there  dwells 
sublimity.  Another  proof  of  their  indescribable  power 
is,  that  no  one  ever  approached  them  under  other  emo- 
tions than  those  of  terror,  which  is  another  principal 
source  of  the  sublime.  In  certain  instances  of  irritable 
feeling,  this  impression  of  awe  and  fear  has  been  so 
great  as  to  cause  pain  rather  than  pleasure ; hence, 
perhaps,  have  originated  descriptions  of  the  pyramids 
which  represent  them  as  deformed  and  gloomy  masses, 
without  taste  or  beauty.  Persons  who  have  derived  no 
satisfaction  from  the  contemplation  of  them,  may  not 
have  been  conscious  that  the  uneasiness  they  experienced 
was  a result  of  their  own  sensibility.  Others  have 
acknowledged  ideas  widely  different,  excited  by  every 
wonderful  circumstance  of  character  and  of  situation — 
ideas  of  duration,  almost  endless ; of  power,  inconceiv- 
able ; of  majesty,  supreme ; of  solitude,  most  awful ; of 
grandeur,  of  desolation,  and  of  repose. 

Upon  the  23d  of  August  1802  we  set  out  for  the 
pyramids,  the  inundation  enabling  us  to  approach  with  in 
less  than  a mile  of  the  larger  pyramid  in  our  djerm 
[or  boat].  Messrs  Hammer  and  Hamilton  accompanied 
us.  We  arrived  at  Djiza  at  daybreak,  and  called  upon 
some  English  officers,  who  wished  to  join  our  party  upon 
this  occasion.  From  Djiza  our  approach  to  the  pyramids 
was  through  a swampy  country,  by  means  of  a narrow 
canal,  which,  however,  was  deep  enough ; and  we  arrived 
without  any  obstacle  at  nine  o’clock  at  the  bottom  of  a 
sandy  slope  leading  up  to  the  principal  pyramid.  Some 
Bedouin  Arabs,  who  had  assembled  to  receive  us  upon 
our  landing,  were  much  amused  by  the  eagerness  excited 
in  our  whole  party  to  prove  who  should  first  set  his 
foot  upon  the  summit  of  this  artificial  mountain.  With 
what  amazement  did  we  survey  the  vast  surface  that 
was  presented  to  us  when  we  arrived  at  this  stupendous 
monument,  which  seemed  to  reach  the'  clouds.  Here 
and  there  appeared  some  Arab  guides  upon  the  immense 
masses  above  us,  like  so  many  pigmies,  waiting  to  shew 
the  way  to  the  summit.  Now  and  then  we  thought  we 
heard  voices,  and  listened ; but'  it  was  the  wind  in 
powerful  gusts  sweeping  the  immense  ranges  of  stone. 
Already  some  of  our  party  had  begun  the  ascent,  and 
were  pausing  at  the  tremendous  depth  which  they  saw 
below.  One  of  our  military  companions,  after  having 
surmounted  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  undertaking, 
became  giddy  in  consequence  of  looking  down  from  the 
elevation  he  had*  attained;  and  being  compelled  to 
abandon  the  project,  he  hired  an  Arab  to  assist  him  in 
effecting  his  descent.  The  rest  of  us,  more  accustomed 
to  the  business  of  climbing  heights,  with  many  a halt 
for  respiration,  and  many  an  exclamation  of  wonder, 
pursued  our  way  towards  the  summit.  The  mode  of 
ascent  has  been  frequently  described;  and  yet,  from 
the  questions  which  are  often  proposed  to  travellers,  it 
does  not  appear  to  be  generally  understood.  The  reader 
may  imagine  himself  to  be  upon  a staircase,  every  step 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CLASSIC  TRAVELLERS. 


. 


of  which,  to  a man  of  middle  stature,  is  nearly  breast- 
high,  and  the  breadth  of  each  step  is  equal  to  its  height, 
consequently  the  footing  is  secure ; and  although  a 
retrospect  in  going  up  be  sometimes  fearful  to  persons 
unaccustomed  to  look  down  from  any  considerable 
elevation,  yet  there  is  little  danger  of  falling.  In  some 
places,  indeed,  where  the  stones  are  decayed,  caution 
may  be  required,  and  an  Arab  guide  is  always  necessary 
to  avoid  a total  interruption : but,  upon  the  whole,  the 
means  of  ascent  are  such  that  almost  every  one  may 
accomplish  it.  Our  progress  was  impeded  by  other 
causes.  We  carried  with  us  a few  instruments,  such 
as  our  boat-compass,  a thermometer,  a telescope,  &c. ; 
these  could  not  be  trusted  in  the  hands  of  the  Arabs, 
and  they  were  liable  to  be  broken  every  instant.  At 
length  we  reached  the  topmost  tier,  to  the  great  delight 
and  satisfaction  of  all  the  party.  Here  we  found  a 
platform  thirty-two  feet  square,  consisting  of  nine  large 
stones,  each  of  which  might  weigh  about  a ton,  although 
they  are  much  inferior  in  size  to  some  of  the  stones 
used  in  the  construction  of  this  pyramid.  Travellers  of 
all  ages,  and  of  various  nations,  have  here  inscribed 
their  names.  Some  are  written  in  Greek,  many  in 
French,  a few  in  Arabic,  one  or  two  in  English,  and 
others  in  Latin.  We  were  as  desirous  as  our  predeces- 
sors to  leave  a memorial  of  our  arrival;  it  seemed  to 
be  a tribute  of  thankfulness  due  for  the  success  of  our 
undertaking ; and  presently  every  one  of  our  party  was 
seen  busied  in  adding  the  inscription  of  his  name. 

Upon  this  area,  which  looks  like  a point  when  seen 
from  Cairo  or  from  the  Nile,  it  is  extraordinary  that 
none  of  those  numerous  hermits  fixed  their  abode  who 
retired  to  the  tops  of  columns  and  to  almost  inaccessible 
solitudes  upon  the  pinnacles  of  the  highest  rocks.  It 
offers  a much  more  convenient  and  secure  retreat  than 
was  selected  by  an  ascetic,  who  pitched  his  residence 
upon  the  architrave  of  a temple  in  the  vicinity  of 
Athens.  The  heat,  according  to  Fahrenheit’s  thermo- 
meter at  the  time  of  our  coming,  did  not  exceed  84 
degrees;  and  the  same  temperature  continued  during 
the  time  we  remained,  a strong  wind  blowing  from  the 
north-west.  The  view  from  this  eminence  amply  ful- 
filled our  expectations ; nor  do  the  accounts  which  have 
been  given  of  it,  as  it  appears  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
exaggerate  the  novelty  and  grandeur  of  the  sight.  All 
the  region  towards  Cairo  and  the  Delta  resembled  a sea 
covered  with  innumerable  islands.  Forests  of  palm- 
trees  were  seen  standing  in  the  water,  the  inundation 
spreading  over  the  land  where  they  stood,  so  as  to  give 
them  an  appearance  of  growing  in  the  flood.  To  the 
north,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  nothing  could 
be  discerned  but  a watery  surface  thus  diversified  by 
plantations  and  by  villages.  To  the  south  we  saw  the 
pyramids  of  Saccara ; and  upon  the  east  of  these,  smaller 
monuments  of  the  same  kind  nearer  to  the  Nile.  An 
appearance  of  ruins  might  indeed  be  traced  the  whole 
way  from  the  pyramids  of  Djiza  to  those  of  Saccara,  as 
if  they  had  been  once  connected,  so  as  to  constitute  one 
vast  cemetery.  Beyond  the  pyramids  of  Saccara  we 
could  perceive  the  distant  mountains  of  the  Said ; and 
upon  an  eminence  near  the  Libyan  side  of  the  Nile, 
appeared  a monastery  of  considerable  size.  Towards 
the  west  and  south-west,  the  eye  ranged  over  the  great 
Libyan  Desert,  extending  to  the  utmost  verge  of  the 
horizon,  without  a single  object  to  interrupt  the  dreary 
horror  of  the  landscape,  except  dark  floating  spots 
caused  by  the  shadows  of  passing  clouds  upon  the  sand. 

Upon  the  south-east  side  is  the  gigantic  statue  of 
the  Sphinx,  the  most  colossal  piece  of  sculpture  which 
remains  of  all  the  works  executed  by  the  ancients.  The 
French  have  uncovered  all  the  pedestal  of  this  statue ; 
and  all  the  cumbent  or  leonine  parts  of  the  figure; 
these  were  before  entirely  concealed  by  sand.  Instead, 
however,  of  answering  the  expectations  raised  concern- 
ing the  work  upon  which  it  was  supposed  to  rest,  the 
pedestal  proves  to  be  a wretched  substructure  of  brick- 


work and  small  pieces  of  stone  put  together,  like  the 
most  insignificant  piece  of  modern  masonry,  and  wholly 
out  of  character  both  with  respect  to  the  prodigious 
labour  bestowed  upon  the  statue  itself,  and  the  gigantic 
appearance  of  the  surrounding  objects.  Beyond  the 
Sphinx  we  distinctly  discerned  amidst  the  sandy  waste 
the  remains  and  vestiges  of  a magnificent  building, 
perhaps  the  Serapeum. 

Immediately  beneath  our  view,  upon  the  eastern  and 
western  side,  we  saw  so  many  tombs  that  we  were 
unable  to  count  them,  some  being  half  buried  in  the 
sand,  others  rising  considerably  above  it.  All  these 
are  of  an  oblong  form,  with  sides  sloping  like  the  roofs 
of  European  houses.  A plan  of  their  situation  and 
appearance  is  given  in  Pocock’s  Travels.  The  second 
pyramid,  standing  to  the  south-west,  has  the  remains 
of  a covering  near  its  vertex,  as  of  a plaiting  of  stone 
which  had  once  invested  all  its  four  sides.  Some  per- 
sons, deceived  by  the  external  hue  of  this  covering,  have 
believed  it  to  be  of  marble ; but  its  white  appearance  is 
owing  to  a partial  decomposition  affecting  the  surface 
only.  Not  a single  fragment  of  marble  can  be  found 
anywhere  near  this  pyramid.  It  is  surrounded  by  a 
paved  court,  having  walls  on  the  outside,  and  places 
as  for  doors  or  portals  in  the  walls ; also  an  advanced 
work  or  portico.  A third  pyramid,  of  much  smaller 
dimensions  than  the  second,  appears  beyond  the  Sphinx 
to  the  south-west;  and  there  are  three  others,  one  of 
which  is  nearly  buried  in  the  sand,  between  the  large 
pyramid  and  this  statue  to  the  south-east. 

CLASSIC  TRAVELLERS— FORSYTH,  EUSTACE,  ETC. 

The  classic  countries  of  Greece  and  Italy  have 
been  described  by  various  travellers — scholars, 
poets,  painters,  architects,  and  antiquaries.  The 
celebrated  Travels  of  Anacharsis , by  Barthelemy, 
were  published  in  1788,  and  shortly  afterwards 
translated  into  English.  This  excellent  work — of 
which  the  hero  is  as  interesting  as  any  character  in 
romance — excited  a general  enthusiasm  with  respect 
to  the  memorable  soil  and  history  of  Greece.  Dr 
Clarke’s  travels  further  stimulated  inquiry,  and 
Byron’s  Childe  Harold  drew  attention  to  the  natural 
beauty  and  magnificence  of  Grecian  scenery  and 
ancient  art.  Mr  John  Cam  Hobhouse  (now  Lord 
Broughton),  the  fellow-traveller  of  Lord  Byron, 
published  an  account  of  his  Journey  through  Albania  ; 
and  Dr  Holland,  in  1815,  gave  to  the  world  his 
interesting  Travels  in  the  Ionian  Isles , Albania , Thes- 
saly, and  Macedonia.  A voluminous  and  able  work, 
in  two  quarto  volumes,  was  published  in  1819,  by 
Mr  Edward  Dodwell,  entitled  A Classical  and 
Topographical  Tour  through  Greece.  Sir  William 
Gell,  in  1823,  gave  an  account  of  a Journey  to  the 
Morea.  An  artist,  Mr  H.  W.  Williams,  also 
published  Travels  in  Greece  and  Italy , enriched  with 
valuable  remarks  on  the  ancient  works  of  art. 

Lord  Byron  also  extended  his  kindling  power  and 
energy  to  Italy ; but  previous  to  this  time  a master- 
hand  had  described  its  ruins  and  antiquities.  A 
valuable  work,  which  has  now  become  a standard 
authority,  was  in  1812  published  under  the  modest 
title  of  Remarks  on  Antiquities , Arts , and  Letters, 
during  an  Excursion  in  Italy  in  the  years  1802  and 
1803,  by  Joseph  Forsyth,  Esq.  Mr  Forsyth  (1763- 
1815)  was  a native  of  Elgin,  in  the  county  of  Moray, 
and  conducted  a classical  seminary  at  Newington- 
Butts,  near  London,  for  many  years.  On  his  return 
from  a tour  in  Italy,  ho  was  arrested  at  Turin  in 
1803,  in  consequence  of  Napoleon’s  harsh  and  unjust 
order  to  detain  all  British  subjects  travelling  in  his 
dominions.  After  several  years  of  detention,  he 
prepared  the  notes  he  had  made  in  Italy,  and  pub- 
lished them  in  England  as  a means  of  enlisting  the 

669 


FROM  1800 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1830. 


sympathies  of  Napoleon  and  the  leading  members 
of  the  National  Institute  in  his  behalf.  This  last 
effort  for  freedom  failed,  and  the  author  always 
regretted  that  he  had  made  it.  Mr  Forsyth  was  at 
length  released  on  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  in 
1814.  The  Remarks,  thus  hastily  prepared  for  a 
special  purpose,  could  hardly  have  been  improved 
if  expanded  into  regular  dissertations  and  essays. 
They  are  vigorous  and  acute,  evincing  keen  obser- 
vation and  original  thinking,  as  well  as  the  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  scholar  and  the  critic.  Some 
detached  sentences  from  Forsyth  will  shew  his 
peculiar  and  picturesque  style.  First,  of  the  author’s 
journey  to  Rome : 

The  vintage  was  in  full  glow.  Men,  women,  children, 
asses,  all  were  variously  engaged  in  the  work.  I remarked 
in  the  scene  a prodigality  and  negligence  which  I never 
saw  in  France.  The  grapes  dropped  unheeded  from 
the  panniers,  and  hundreds  were  left  unclipped  on  the 
vines.  The  vintagers  poured  on  us  as  we  passed  the 
richest  ribaldry  of  the  Italian  language,  and  seemed  to 
claim  from  Horace’s  old  vindemiator  a prescriptive  right 
to  abuse  the  traveller.* 

[ The  Coliseum .] 

A colossal  taste  gave  rise  to  the  Coliseum.  Here, 
indeed,  gigantic  dimensions  were  necessary;  for  though 


hundreds  could  enter  at  once,  and  fifty  thousand  find 
seats,  the  space  was  still  insufficient  for  Rome,  and 
the  crowd  for  the  morning  games  began  at  midnight. 
Vespasian  and  Titus,  as  if  presaging  their  own  deaths, 
hurried  the  building,  and  left  several  marks  of  their 
precipitancy  behind.  In  the  upper  walls  they  have 
inserted  stones  which  had  evidently  been  dressed  for 
a different  purpose.  Some  of  the  arcades  are  grossly 
unequal ; no  moulding  preserves  the  same  level  and 
form  round  the  whole  ellipse,  and  every  order  is  full  of 
licence.  The  Doric  has  no  triglyphs  nor  metopes,  and 
its  arch  is  too  low  for  its  columns ; the  Ionic  repeats 
the  entablature  of  the  Doric ; the  third  order  is  but  a 
rough  cast  of  the  Corinthian,  and  its  foliage  the  thickest 
water-plants ; the  fourth  seems  a mere  repetition  of  the 
third  in  pilasters ; and  the  whole  is  crowned  by  a heavy 
Attic.  Happily  for  the  Coliseum,  the  shape  necessary 
to  an  amphitheatre  has  given  it  a stability  of  con- 
struction sufficient  to  resist  fires,  and  earthquakes,  and 
lightnings,  and  sieges.  Its  elliptical  form  was  the  hoop 
which  bound  and  held  it  entire  till  barbarians  rent  that 
consolidating  ring  ;*  popes  widened  the  breach  ; and 
time,  not  unassisted,  continues  the  work  of  dilapidation. 
At  this  moment  the  hermitage  is  threatened  with  a 
dreadful  crash,  and  a generation  not  very  remote  must 
be  content,  I apprehend,  with  the  picture  of  this 
stupendous  monument.  Of  the  interior  elevation,  two 
slopes,  by  some  called  meniana,  are  already  demolished ; 
the  arena , the  podium , are  interred.  No  member  runs 


The  Coliseum. 


entire  round  the  whole  ellipse ; but  every  member  made 
such  a circuit,  and  reappears  so  often,  that  plans, 


* The  poet  Rogers  has  sketched  the  same  joyous  scene 
Italian  life : 


‘ Many  a canzonet 

Comes  through  the  leaves,  the  vines  in  light  festoons 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues, 

And  every  avenue  a covered  walk 
Hung  with  black  clusters.  ’Tis  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Melt  into  tears,  so  general  is  the  joy.’ 

560 


of 


sections,  and  elevations  of  the  original  work  are  drawn 
with  the  precision  of  a modern  fabric.  When  the  whole 
amphitheatre  was  entire,  a child  might  comprehend  its 
design  in  a moment,  and  go  direct  to  his  place  without 
straying  in  the  porticos,  for  each  arcade  bears  its  num- 
ber engraved,  and  opposite  to  every  fourth  arcade  was 
a staircase.  This  multiplicity  of  wide,  straight,  and 
separate  passages,  proves  the  attention  which  the 
ancients  paid  to  the  safe  discharge  of  a crowd ; it  finely 
illustrates  the  precept  of  Vitruvius,  and  exposes  the 
perplexity  of  some  modern  theatres.  Every  nation  has 


CLASSIC  TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EUSTACE — BECKFORD. 


undergone  its  revolution  of  vices ; and  as  cruelty  is  not 
the  present  vice  of  ours,  we  can  all  humanely  execrate 
the  purpose  of  amphitheatres,  now  that  they  lie  in 
ruins.  Moralists  may  tell  us  that  the  truly  brave  are 
never  cruel ; but  this  monument  says  ‘ No.’  Here  sat 
the  conquerors  of  the  world,  coolly  to  enjoy  the  tortures 
and  death  of  men  who  had  never  offended  them.  Two 
aqueducts  were  scarcely  sufficient  to  wash  off  the  human 
blood  which  a few  hours’  sport  shed  in  this  imperial 
shambles.  Twice  in  one  day  came  the  senators  and 
matrons  of  Rome  to  the  butchery ; a virgin  always  gave 
the  signal  for  slaughter ; and  when  glutted  with  blood- 
shed, those  ladies  sat  down  in  the  wet  and  streaming 
arena  to  a luxurious  supper  ! Such  reflections  check 
our  regret  for  its  ruin.  As  it  now  stands,  the  Coliseum 
is  a striking  image  of  Rome  itself — decayed,  vacant, 
serious,  yet  grand — half-gray  and  half-green — erect  on 
one  side  and  fallen  on  the  other,  with  consecrated 
ground  in  its  bosom — inhabited  by  a beadsman ; visited 
by  every  caste ; for  moralists,  antiquaries,  painters,  archi- 
tects, devotees,  all  meet  here  to  meditate,  to  examine, 
to  draw,  to  measure,  and  to  pray.  ‘ In  contemplating 
antiquities,’  says  Livy,  ‘ the  mind  itself  becomes  antique.’ 
It  contracts  from  such  objects  a venerable  rust,  which 
I prefer  to  the  polish  and  the  point  of  those  wits  who 
have  lately  profaned  this  august  ruin  with  ridicule. 

In  the  year  following  the  publication  of  Forsyth’s 
original  and  valuable  work,  appeared  A Classical 
Tour  in  Italy , in  two  large  volumes,  by  John 
Ciietwode  Eustace,  an  English  Catholic  priest, 
who  had  travelled  in  Italy  in  the  capacity  of  tutor. 
Though  pleasantly  written,  Eustace’s  Avork  is  one 
of  no  great  authority  or  research.  Hobhouse — Avho 
furnished  the  notes  to  the  fourth  canto  of  Lord 
Byron’s  Childe  Harold , and  afterwards  published  a 
volume  of  Historical  Illustrations  to  the  same  poem 
—characterises  Eustace  as  ‘ one  of  the  most  inaccu- 
rate and  unsatisfactory  writers  that  have  in  our 
times  attained  a temporary  reputation.’  Mr  Eustace 
died  at  Naples  in  1815.  Letters  from  the  North  of 
Italy,  addressed  to  Mr  Hallam  the  historian,  by  W. 
Steavart  Rose,  Esq.,  in  two  volumes,  1819,  are 
partly  descriptive  and  partly  critical ; and  though 
somewhat  affected  in  style,  form  an  amusing  miscel- 
lany. A Tour  through  the  Southern  Provinces  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Naples,  by  the  Hon.  R.  Keppel  Craven 
(1821),  is  more  of  an  itinerary  than  a Avork  of 
reflection,  but  is  plainly  and  pleasingly  Avritten. 
The  Diary  of  an  Invalid,  by  Henry  Matiieavs  (1820), 
and  Rome  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  (1820),  by  Miss 
Waldie,  are  both  interesting  Avorks : the  first  is 
lively  and  picturesque  in  style,  and  was  well  received 
by  the  public.  In  1821  Lady  Morgan  published  a 
Avork  entitled  Italy , containing  pictures  of  Italian 
society  and  manners,  draAvn  with  more  vivacity  and 
point  than  delicacy,  but  characterised  by  Lord 
Byron  as  very  faithful.  Observations  on  Italy , by 
Mr  John  Bell  (1825),  and  a Description  of  the 
Antiquities  of  Rome , by  Dr  Burton  (1828),  arc 
Avorks  of  accuracy  and  research.  Illustrations  of  the 
Passes  of  the  Alps,  by  W.  Brockedon  (1828-9), 
unite  the  effects  of  the  artist’s  pencil  with  the 
information  of  the  observant  topographer.  Mr 
Beckford,  author  of  the  romance  of  Vathelc , had 
in  early  life  written  Sketches  of  Italy , Spain , and 
Portugal.  After  remaining  unpublished  for  more 
than  forty  years,  two  volumes  of  these  graphic  and 
picturesque  delineations  were  given  to  the  Avorld 
in  1834.  Time  has  altered  some  of  the  objects 
described  by  the  accomplished  traArcller,  but  his 
work  abounds  in  passages  of  permanent  interest, 
and  of  finished  and  beautiful  composition.  Every 
season  adds  to  the  number  of  works  on  Italy  and 
the  other  parts  of  the  continent, 

88 


[Funeral  Ceremony  at  Rome.'] 

[ From  Mathews’s  Diary  of  an  Invalid.  ] 

One  day,  in  my  way  home,  I met  a funeral-ceremony. 
A . crucifix  hung  with  black,  followed  by  a train  of 
priests,  with  lighted  tapers  in  their  hands,  headed  the 
procession.  Then  came  a troop  of  figures  dressed  in 
white  robes,  with  their  faces  covered  with  masks  of  the 
same  materials.  The  bier  followed,  on  which  lay  the 
corpse  of  a young  woman,  arrayed  in  all  the  ornaments 
of  dress,  with  her  face  exposed,  where  the  bloom  of  life 
yet  lingered.  The  members  of  different  fraternities 
followed  the  bier,  dressed  in  the  robes  of  their  orders, 
and  all  masked.  They  carried  lighted  tapers  in  their 
hands,  and  chanted  out  prayers  in  a sort  of  mumbling 
recitative.  I followed  the  train  to  the  church,  for  I had 
doubts  whether  the  beautiful  figure  I had  seen  on  the 
bier  was  not  a figure  of  wax ; but  I was  soon  convinced 
it  was  indeed  the  corpse  of  a fellow- creature,  cut  off  in 
the  pride  and  bloom  of  youthful  maiden  beauty.  Such 
is  the  Italian  mode  of  conducting  the  last  scene  of  the 
tragi-comedy  of  life.  As  soon  as  a person  dies,  the 
relations  leave  the  house,  and  fly  to  bury  themselves 
and  their  griefs  in  some  other  retirement.  The  care  of 
the  funeral  devolves  on  one  of  the  fraternities  who  are 
associated  for  this  purpose  in  every  parish.  These  are 
dressed  in  a sort  of  domino  and  hood,  which,  having 
holes  for  the  eyes,  answers  the  purpose  of  a mask,  and 
completely  conceals  the  face.  The  funeral  of  the  very 
poorest  is  thus  conducted  with  quite  as  much  ceremony 
as  need  be.  This  is  perhaps  a better  system  than  our 
OAvn,  where  the  relatives  are  exhibited  as  a spectacle  to 
impertinent  curiosity,  whilst  from  feelings  of  duty  they 
follow  to  the  grave  the  remains  of  those  they  loved. 
But  ours  is  surely  an  unphilosophical  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. It  looks  as  if  we  were  materialists,  and  considered 
the  cold  clod  as  the  sole  remains  of  the  object  of  our 
affection.  The  Italians  reason  better,  and  perhaps  feel 
as  much  as  ourselves,  when  they  regard  the  body, 
deprived  of  the  soul  that  animated,  and  the  mind  that 
informed  it,  as  no  more  a part  of  the  departed  spirit 
than  the  clothes  which  it  lias  also  left  behind.  The 
ultimate  disposal  of  the  body  is  perhaps  conducted  here 
with  too  much  of  that  spirit  which  would  disregard  all 
claims  that  ‘ this  mortal  coil  ’ can  have  to  our  attention. 
As  soon  as  the  funeral-service  is  concluded,  the  corpse 
is  stripped  and  consigned  to  those  who  have  the  care  of 
the  interment.  There  are  large  vaults  underneath  the 
churches  for  the  reception  of  the  dead.  Those  Avho  can 
afford  it,  are  put  into  a wooden  shell  before  they  are 
cast  into  one  of  these  Golgothas ; but  the  great  mass 
are  tossed  in  without  a rag  to  cover  them.  When  one 
of  these  caverns  is  full,  it  is  bricked  up ; and  after  fifty 
years  it  is  opened  again,  and  the  bones  are  removed  to 
other  places  prepared  for  their  reception.  So  much  for 
the  last  scene  of  the  drama  of  life.  With  respect  to 
the  first  act,  our  conduct  of  it  is  certainly  more  natural. 
Here  they  swathe  and  swaddle  their  children  till  the 
poor  urchins  look  like  Egyptian  mummies.  To  this 
frightful  custom  one  may  attribute  the  want  of 
strength  and  symmetry  of  the  men,  which  is  sufficiently 
remarkable. 

[Statue  of  the  Medicean  Venus  at  Florence.*] 
[From  Mathews’s  Diary.) 

The  statue  that  enchants  the  world — the  unimitated, 
the  inimitable  Venus.  One  is  generally  disappointed 

* This  celebrated  work  of  art  was  discovered  in  the  villa  of 
Adrian,  in  Tivoli,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  broken  into 
thirteen  pieces.  The  restorations  are  by  a Florentine  sculptor. 
It  was  brought  to  Florence  in  the  year  1089.  It  measures  in 
stature  only  4 feet  11  inches.  There  is  no  expression  of  passion 
or  sentiment  in  the  statue  : it  is  an  image  of  abstract  or  ideal 
beauty. 


from  1800  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


after  great  expectations  have  been  raised ; but  in 
this  instance  I was  delighted  at  first  sight,  and  each 
succeeding  visit  has  charmed  me  more.  It  is  indeed  a 
wonderful  work  in  conception  and  execution — hut  I 
doubt  whether  Venus  he  not  a misnomer.  Who  can 
recognise  in  this  divine  statue  any  traits  of  the  Queen 
of  Love  and  Pleasure  ? It  seems  rather  intended  as  a 
personification  of  all  that  is  elegant,  graceful,  and 
beautiful ; not  only  abstracted  from  all  human  infirmi- 
ties, but  elevated  above  all  human  feelings  and  affections ; 
for,  though  the  form  is  female,  the  beauty  is  like  the 
beauty  of  angels,  who  are  of  no  sex.  I was  at  first 
reminded  of  Milton’s  Eve ; but  in  Eve,  even  in  her  days 
of  innocence,  there  was  some  tincture  of  humanity,  of 
which  there  is  none  in  the  Venus ; in  whose  eye  there 
is  no  heaven,  and  in  whose  gesture  there  is  no  love. 

[A  Morning  in  Venice.] 

[From  Beckford’s  Sketches  of  Italy,  &c.] 

It  was  not  five  o’clock  before  I was  aroused  by  a loud 
din  of  voices  and  splashing  of  water  under  my  balcony. 
Looking  out,  I beheld  the  grand  canal  so  entirely  covered 
with  fruits  and  vegetables  on  rafts  and  in  barges,  that 
I could  scarcely  distinguish  a wave.  Loads  of  grapes, 
peaches,  and  melons  arrived,  and  disappeai'ed  in  an 
instant,  for  every  vessel  was  in  motion ; and  the  crowds 
of  purchasers,  hurrying  from  boat  to  boat,  formed  a very 
lively  picture.  Amongst  the  multitudes  I remarked  a 
good  many  whose  dress  and  carriage  announced  some- 
thing above  the  common  rank;  and,  upon  inquiry,  I 
found  they  were  noble  Venetians  just  come  from  their 
casinos,  and  met  to  refresh  themselves  with  fruit  before 
they  retired  to  sleep  for  the  day. 

Whilst  I was  observing  them,  the  sun  began  to  colour 
the  balustrades  of  the  palaces,  and  the  pure  exhilarating 
air  of  the  morning  drawing  me  abroad,  I procured  a 
gondola,  laid  in  my  provision  of  bread  and  grapes,  and 
was  rowed  under  the  Eialto,  down  the  grand  canal,  to 
the  marble  steps  of  S.  Maria  della  Salute,  erected  by 
the  senate  in  performance  of  a vow  to  the  Holy  Virgin, 
who  begged  off  a terrible  pestilence  in  1630.  The  great 
bronze  portal  opened  whilst  I was  standing  on  the  steps 
which  lead  to  it,  and  discovered  the  interior  of  the  dome, 
where  I expatiated  in  solitude ; no  mortal  appearing, 
except  one  old  priest,  who  trimmed  the  lamps,  and 
muttered  a prayer  before  the  high-altar,  still  wrapped 
in  shadows.  The  sunbeams  began  to  strike  against  the 
windows  of  the  cupola,  "just  as  I left  the  church,  and 
was  wafted  across  the  waves  to  the  spacious  platform  in 
front  of  St  Giorgio  Maggiore,  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
works  of  Palladio.  When  my  first  transport  was  a little 
subsided,  and  I had  examined  the  graceful  design  of 
each  particular  ornament,  and  united  the  just  propor- 
tion and  grand  effect  of  the  whole  in  my  mind,  I planted 
my  umbrella  on  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  viewed  at 
my  leisure  the  vast  range  of  palaces,  of  porticos,  of 
towers,  opening  on  every  side,  and  extending  out  of 
sight.  The  doge’s  palace,  and  the  tall  columns  at  the 
entrance  of  the  piazza  of  St  Mark,  form,  together  with 
the  arcades  of  the  public  library,  the  lofty  Campanile, 
and  the  cupolas  of  the  ducal  church,  one  of  the  most 
striking  groups  of  buildings  that  art  can  boast  of.  To 
behold  at  one  glance  these  stately  fabrics,  so  illus- 
trious in  the  records  of  former  ages,  before  which,  in 
the  flourishing  times  of  the  republic,  so  many  valiant 
chiefs  and  princes  have  landed,  loaded  with  oriental 
spoils,  was  a spectacle  I had  long  and  ardently  desired. 
I thought  of  the  days  of  Frederick  Barbarossa,  when 
looking  up  the  piazza  of  St  Mark,  along  which  he 
marched  in  solemn  procession  to  cast  himself  at  the 
feet  of  Alexander  III.,  and  pay  a tardy  homage  to 
St  Peter’s  successor.  Here  were  no  longer  those  splen- 
did fleets  that  attended  his  progress ; one  solitary  galeas 
was  all  I beheld,  anchored  opposite  the  palace  of  the 
662 


doge,  and  surrounded  by  crowds  of  gondolas,  whose 
sable  hues  contrasted  strongly  with  its  vermilion  oars 
and  shining  ornaments.  A party-coloured  multitude 
was  continually  shifting  from  one  side  of  the  piazza  to 
the  other;  whilst  senators  and  magistrates,  in  long 
black  robes,  were  already  arriving  to  fill  their  respective 
offices. 

I contemplated  the  busy  scene  from  my  peaceful 
platform,  where  nothing  stirred  but  aged  devotees 
creeping  to  their  devotions ; and  whilst  I remained  thus 
calm  and  tranquil,  heard  the  distant  buzz  of  the  town. 
Fortunately,  some  length  of  waves  rolled  between  me 
and  its  tumults,  so  that  I ate  my  grapes  and  read 
Metastasio  undisturbed  by  officiousness  or  curiosity. 
When  the  sun  became  too  powerful,  I entered  the  nave. 

After  I had  admired  the  masterly  structure  of  the 
roof  and  the  lightness  of  its  arches,  my  eyes  naturally 
directed  themselves  to  the  pavement  of  white  and  ruddy 
marble,  polished,  and  reflecting  like  a mii’ror  the 
columns  which  rise  from  it.  . Over  this  I walked  to  a 
door  that  admitted  me  into  the  principal  quadrangle  of 
the  convent,  surrounded  by  a cloister  supported  on 
Ionic  pillars  beautifully  proportioned.  A flight  of  stairs 
opens  into  the  court,  adorned  with  balustrades  and 
pedestals  sculptured  with  elegance  truly  Grecian.  This 
brought  me  to  the  refectory,  where  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of 
Paul  Veronese,  representing  the  marriage  of  Cana  in 
Galilee,  was  the  first  object  that  presented  itself.  I 
never  beheld  so  gorgeous  a group  of  wedding-garments 
before ; there  is  every  variety  of  fold  and  plait  that  can 
possibly  be  imagined.  The  attitudes  and  countenances 
are  more  uniform,  and  the  guests  appear  a very  genteel, 
decent  sort  of  people,  well  used  to  the  mode  of  their 
times,  and  accustomed  to  miracles. 

Having  examined  this  fictitious  repast,  I cast  a look 
on  a long  range  of  tables  covered  with  very  excellent 
realities,  which  the  monks  were  coming  to  devour  with 
energy,  if  one  might  judge  from  their  appearance. 
These  sons  of  penitence  and  mortification  possess  one 
of  the  most  spacious  islands  of  the  whole  cluster;  a 
princely  habitation,  with  gardens  and  open  porticos 
that  engross  every  breath  of  air;  and  what  adds  not 
a little  to  the  charms  of  their  abode,  is  the  facility  of 
making  excursions  from  it  whenever  they  have  a mind. 

[ Description  of  Pompeii] 

[From  Williams’s  Travels  in  Italy , Greece,  &e.] 

Pompeii  is  getting  daily  disencumbered,  and  a very 
considerable  part  of  this  Grecian  city  is  unveiled.  We 
entered  by  the  Appian  Way,  through  a narrow  street 
of  marble  tombs,  beautifully  executed,  with  the  names 
of  the  deceased  plain  and  legible.  We  looked  into  the 
columbary  below  that  of  Marius  Arius  Diomedes,  and 
perceived  jars  containing  the  ashes  of  the  dead,  with  a 
small  lamp  at  the  side  of  each.  Arriving  at  the  gate, 
we  perceived  a sentry-box,  in  which  the  skeleton  of  a 
soldier  was  found  with  a lamp  in  his  hand  : proceeding 
up  the  street  beyond  the  gate,  we  went  into  several 
streets,  and  entered  what  is  called  a coffee-house,  the 
marks  of  cups  being  visible  on  the  stone : we  came 
likewise  to  a tavern,  and  found  the  sign — not  a very 
decent  one — near  the  entrance.  The  streets  are  lined 
with  public  buildings  and  private  houses,  most  of  which 
have  their  original  painted  decorations  fresh  and  entire. 
The  pavement  of  the  streets]  is  much  worn  by  carriage- 
wheels,  and  holes  are  cut  through  the  side  stones  for 
the  purpose  of  fastening  animals  in  the  market-place ; 
and  in  certain  situations  are  placed  stepping-stones, 
which  give  us  a rather  unfavourable  idea  of  the  state  of 
the  streets.  We  passed  two  beautiful  little  temples; 
went  into  a surgeon’s  house,  in  the  operation-room  of 
which  chirurgical  instruments  were  found ; entered  an 
ironmonger’s  shop,  where  an  anvil  and  hammer  were 
discovered;  a sculptor’s  and  a baker’s  shop,  in  the 


ARCTIC  DISCOVERT. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


latter  of  which  may  be  seen  an  oven  and  grinding-mills, 
like  old  Scotch  querns.  We  examined  likewise  an  oil- 
man’s shop,  and  a wine-shop  lately  opened,  where  money 
was  found  in  the  till ; a school,  in  which  was  a small 
pulpit,  with  steps  up  to  it,  in  the  middle  of  the  apart- 
ment ; a great  theatre ; a temple  of  justice ; an  amphi- 
theatre about  220  feet  in  length;  various  temples;  a 
barrack  for  soldiers,  the  columns  of  which  are  scribbled 
with  their  names  and  jests ; wells,  cisterns,  seats,  triclin- 
iums,  beautiful  mosaic;  altars,  inscriptions,  fragments 
of  statues,  and  many  other  curious  remains  of  antiquity. 
Among  the  most  remarkable  objects  was  an  ancient 
wall,  with  part  of  a still  more  ancient  marble  frieze, 
built  in  it  as  a common  stone ; and  a stream  which  has 
flowed  under  this  once  subterraneous  city  long  before  its 
burial ; pipes  of  terra  cotta  to  convey  the  water  to  the 
different  streets ; stocks  for  prisoners,  in  one  of  which 
a skeleton  was  found.  All  these  things  incline  one 
almost  to  look  for  the  inhabitants,  and  wonder  at  the 
desolate  silence  of  the  place. 

The  houses  in  general  are  very  low,  and  the  rooms 
are  small;  I should  think  not  above  ten  feet  high. 
Every  house  is  provided  with  a well  and  a cistern. 
Everything  seems  to  be  in  proportion.  The  principal 
streets  do  not  appear  to  exceed  16  feet  in  width,  with 
side-pavements  of  about  3 feet;  some  of  the  subordi- 
nate streets  are  from  6 to  10  feet  wide,  with  side-pave- 
ments in  proportion : these  are  occasionally  high,  and 
are  reached  by  steps.  The  columns  of  the  barracks  are 
about  15  feet  in  height ; they  are  made  of  tuffa  with 
stucco ; one  third  of  the  shaft  is  smoothly  plastered,  the 
rest  fluted  to  the  capital.  The  walls  of  the  houses  are  often 
painted  red,  and  some  of  them  have  borders  and  antique 
ornaments,  masks,  and  imitations  of  marble ; but  in 
general  poorly  executed.  I have  observed  on  the  walls 
of  an  eating-room  various  kinds  of  food  and  game  toler- 
ably represented : one  woman’s  apartment  was  adorned 
with  subjects  relating  to  love,  and  a man’s  with  pictures 
of  a martial  character.  Considering  that  the  whole  has 
been  under  ground  upwards  of  seventeen  centuries,  it  is 
certainly  surprising  that  they  should  be  as  fresh  as  at 
the  period  of  their  burial.  The  whole  extent  of  the 
city,  not  one  half  of  which  is  excavated,  may  be  about 
four  miles. 


ARCTIC  DISCOVERT— ROSS,  PARRT,  FRANKLIN,  ETC. 

Contemporaneous  with  the  African  expeditions 
already  described,  a strong  desire  was  felt  in  this 
country  to  prosecute  our  discoveries  in  the  northern 
seas,  which  for  fifty  years  had  been  neglected.  The 
idea  of  a north-west  passage  to  Asia  still  presented 
attractions,  and  on  the  close  of  the  revolutionary 
war,  an  effort  to  discover  it  was  resolved  upon.  In 
1818  an  expedition  was  fitted  out,  consisting  of  two 
ships,  one  under  the  command  of  Captain  John 
Ross,  and  another  under  Lieutenant,  afterwards 
Sir  Edward  Parry.  The  most  interesting  feature 
in  this  voyage  is  the  account  of  a tribe  of  Esqui- 
maux hitherto  unknown,  who  inhabited  a tract 
of  country  extending  on  the  shore  for  120  miles, 
and  situated  near  Baffin’s  Bay.  A singular  pheno- 
menon was  also  witnessed — a range  of  cliffs  covered 
with  snow  of  a deep  crimson  colour,  arising  from 
some  vegetable  substance.  When  the  expedition 
came  to  Lancaster  Sound,  a passage  was  confi- 
dently anticipated;  but  after  sailing  up  the  bay, 
Captain  Ross  conceived  that  he  saw  land— a high 
ridge  of  mountains,  extending  directly  across  the 
bottom  of  the  inlet — and  he  abandoned  the  enter- 
prise. Lieutenant  Parry  and  others  entertained  a 
different  opinion  from  that  of  their  commander  as  to 
the  existence  of  land,  and  the  Admiralty  fitted  out  a 
new  expedition,  which  sailed  in  1819,  for  the  purpose 
of  again  exploring  Lancaster  Sound.  The  expe- 


CAPTAIN ROSS— SIR  E.  PARRY. 


dition,  including  two  ships,  the  Hecla  and  Griper , 
was  intrusted  to  Captain  Parry,  who  had  the  satis- 
faction of  verifying  the  correctness  of  his  former 
impressions,  by  sailing  through  what  Captain  Ross 
supposed  to  be  a mountain-barrier  in  Lancaster 
Sound.  ‘ To  have  sailed  upwards  of  thirty  degrees 
of  longitude  beyond  the  point  reached  by  any  former 
navigator — to  have  discovered  many  new  lands, 
islands,  and  bays — to  have  established  the  much- 
contested  existence  of  a Polar  Sea  north  of  America 
— finally,  after  a wintering  of  eleven  months,  to 
have  brought  back  his  crew  in  a sound  and  vigorous 
state — were  enough  to  raise  his  name  above  that 
of  any  former  Arctic  voyager.’  The  long  winter 
sojourn  in  this  Polar  region  was  relieved  by  various 
devices  and  amusements : a temporary  theatre  was 
fitted  up,  and  the  officers  came  forward  as  amateur- 
performers.  A sort  of  newspaper  was  also  estab- 
lished, called  the  North  Georgian  Gazette , to  which 
all  were  invited  to  contribute ; and  excursions  abroad 
were  kept  up  as  much  as  possible.  The  brilliant 
results  of  Captain  Parry’s  voyage  soon  induced 
another  expedition  to  the  northern  seas  of  America. 
That  commander  hoisted  his  flag  on  board  the 
Fury , and  Captain  Lyon,  distinguished  by  his 
services  in  Africa,  received  the  command  of  the 
Hecla.  The  ships  sailed  in  May  1821.  It  was 
more  than  two  years  ere  they  returned ; and  though 
the  expedition,  as  to  its  main  object  of  finding  a 
passage  into  the  Polar  sea,  was  a failure,  various 
geographical  discoveries  were  made.  The  tedious- 
ness of  winter,  when  the  vessels  were  frozen  up,  was 
again  relieved  by  entertainments  similar  to  those 
formerly  adopted;  and  further  gratification  was 
afforded  by  intercourse  with  the  Esquimaux,  who, 
in  their  houses  of  snow  and  ice,  burrowed  along  the 
shores.  We  shall  extract  part  of  Captain  Parry’s 
account  of  this  shrewd  though  savage  race. 

[. Description  of  the  Esquimaux .] 

The  Esquimaux  exhibit  a strange  mixture  of  intellect 
and  dulness,  of  cunning  and  simplicity,  of  ingenuity  and 
stupidity;  few  of  them  could  count  beyond  five,  and 
not  one  of  them  beyond  ten,  nor  could  any  of  them 
speak  a dozen  words  of  English  after  a constant  inter- 
course of  seventeen  or  eighteen  months;  yet  many  of 
them  could  imitate  the  manners  and  actions  of  the 
strangers,  and  were  on  the  whole  excellent  mimics. 
One  woman  in  particular,  of  the  name  of  Iligluik,  very 
soon  attracted  the  attention  of  our  voyagers  by  the 
various  traits  of  that  superiority  of  understanding  for 
which,  it  was  found,  she  was  remarkably  distinguished, 
and  held  in  esteem  even  by  her  own  countrymen.  She 
had  a great  fondness  for  singing,  possessed  a soft  voice 
and  an  excellent  ear;  but,  like  another  great  singer 
who  figured  in  a different  society,  ‘ there  was  scarcely 
any  stopping  her  when  she  had  once  begun ; ’ she 
would  listen,  however,  for  hours  together  to  the  tunes 
played  on  the  organ.  Her  superior  intelligence  was 
perhaps  most  conspicuous  in  the  readiness  with  which 
she  was  made  to  comprehend  the  manner  of  laying 
down  on  paper  the  geographical  outline  of  that  part 
of  the  coast  of  America  she  was  acquainted  with,  and 
the  neighbouring  islands,  so  as  to  construct  a chart.  At 
first  it  was  found  difficult  to  make  her  comprehend 
what  was  meant;  but  when  Captain  Parry  had  dis- 
covered that  the  Esquimaux  were  already  acquainted 
with  the  four  cardinal  points  of  the  compass,  for  which 
they  have  appropriate  names,  he  drew  them  on  a sheet 
of  paper,  together  with  that  portion  of  the  coast  just 
discovered,  which  was  opposite  to  Winter  Island,  where 
then  they  were,  and  of  course  well  known  to  her. 

We  desired  her  (says  Captain  Parry)  to  complete 
the  rest,  and  to  do  it  mikkee  (small),  when,  with  a 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


countenance  of  the  most  grave  attention  and  peculiar 
intelligence,  she  drew  the  coast  of  the  continent  beyond 
her  own  country,  as  lying  nearly  north  from  Winter 
Island.  The  most  important  part  still  remained,  and 
it  would  have  amused  an  unconcerned  looker-on  to  have 
observed  the  anxiety  and  suspense  depicted  on  the 
countenances  of  our  part  of  the  group  till  this  was 
accomplished,  for  never  were  the  tracings  of  a pencil 
watched  with  more  eager  solicitude.  Our  surprise  and 
satisfaction  may  therefore  in  some  degree  be  imagined 
when,  without  taking  it  from  the  paper,  Iligluik  brought 
the  continental  coast  short  round  to  the  westward,  and 
afterwards  to  the  S.S.W.,  so  as  to  come  within  three  or 
four  days’  journey  of  Repulse  Bay. 

I am,  however,  compelled  to  acknowledge,  that  in 
proportion  as  the  superior  understanding  of  this  extra- 
ordinary woman  became  more  and  more  developed, 
her  head — for  what  female  head  is  indifferent  to 
praise? — began  to  be  turned  by  the  general  attention 
and  numberless  presents  she  received.  The  superior 
decency  and  even  modesty  of  her  behaviour  had  com- 
bined, with  her  intellectual  qualities,  to  raise  her  in 
our  estimation  far  above  her  companions ; and  I often 
heard  others  express  what  I could  not  but  agree  in, 
that  for  Iligluik  alone,  of  all  the  Esquimaux  women, 
that  kind  of  respect  could  be  entertained  which  modesty 
in  a female  never  fails  to  command  in  our  sex.  Thus 
regarded,  she  had  always  been  freely  admitted  into 
the  ships,  the  quarter-masters  at  the  gangway  never 
thinking  of  refusing  entrance  to  ‘ the  wise  woman,’  as 
they  called  her.  Whenever  any  explanation  was  neces- 
sary between  the  Esquimaux  and  us,  Iligluik  was  sent 
for  as  an  interpreter ; information  was  chiefly  obtained 
through  her,  and  she  thus  found  herself  rising  into  a 
degree  of  consequence  to  which,  but  for  us,  she  could 
never  have  attained.  Notwithstanding  a more  than 
ordinary  share  of  good  sense  on  her  part,  it  will  not 
therefore  be  wondered  at  if  she  became  giddy  with  her 
exaltation— considered  her  admission  into  the  ships  and 
most  of  the  cabins  no  longer  an  indulgence,  but  a right 
— ceased  to  return  the  slightest  acknowledgment  for 
any  kindness  or  presents — became  listless  and  inatten- 
tive in  unravelling  the  meaning  of  our  questions,  and 
careless  whether  her  answers  conveyed  the  information 
we  desired.  In  short,  Iligluik  in  February  and  Iligluik 
in  April  were  confessedly  very  different  persons ; and  it 
was  at  last  amusing  to  recollect,  though  not  very  easy 
to  persuade  one’s  self,  that  the  woman  who  now  sat 
demurely  in  a chair,  so  confidently  expecting  the  notice 
of  those  around  her,  and  she  who  had  at  first,  with 
eager  and  wild  delight,  assisted  in  cutting  snow  for 
the  building  of  a hut,  and  with  the  hope  of  obtaining 
a single  needle,  were  actually  one  and  the  same  indi- 
vidual. 

No  kind  of  distress  can  deprive  the  Esquimaux  of 
their  cheerful  temper  and  good-humour,  which  they 
preserve  even  when  severely  pinched  with  hunger  and 
cold,  and  wholly  deprived  for  days  together  both  of 
food  and  fuel — a situation  to  which  they  are  very 
frequently  reduced.  Yet  no  calamity  of  this  kind  can 
teach  them  to  be  provident,  or  to  take  the  least  thought 
for  the  morrow ; with  them,  indeed,  it  is  always  either 
a feast  or  a famine.  The  enormous  quantity  of  animal 
food — they  have  no  other — which  they  devour  at  a 
time  is  almost  incredible.  The  quantity  of  meat  which 
they  procured  between  the  first  of  October  and  the  first 
of  April  was  sufficient  to  have  furnished  about  double 
the  number  of  working-people,  who  were  moderate 
eaters,  and  had  any  idea  of  providing  for  a future  day ; 
but  to  individuals  who  can  demolish  four  or  five  pounds 
at  a sitting,  and  at  least  ten  in  the  course  of  a day,  and 
who  never  bestow  a thought  on  to-morrow,  at  least  with 
the  view  to  provide  for  it  by  economy,  there  is  scarcely 
any  supply  which  could  secure  them  from  occasional 
scarcity.  It  is  highly  probable  that  the  alternate  feast- 
ing and  fasting  to  which  the  gluttony  and  improvidence 
561 


of  these  people  so  constantly  subject  them,  may  have 
occasioned  many  of  the  complaints  that  proved  fatal 
during  the  winter ; and  on  this  account  we  hardly 
knew  whether  to  rejoice  or  not  at  the  general  success 
of  their  fishery. 

A third  expedition  was  undertaken  by  Captain 
Parry,  assisted  by  Captain  Hoppner,  in  1824,  but  it 
proved  still  more  unfortunate.  The  broken  ice  in 
Baffin’s  Bay  retarded  his  progress  until  the  season 
was  too  far  advanced  for  navigation  in  that  climate. 
After  the  winter  broke  up,  huge  masses  of  ice  drove 
the  ships  on  shore,  and  the  Fury  was  so  much 
injured,  that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  abandon 
her  with  all  her  stores.  In  April  1827,  Captain 
Parry  once  more  sailed  in  the  Hecla , to  realise, 
if  possible,  his  sanguine  expectations ; but  on  this 
occasion  he  projected  reaching  the  North  Pole  by 
employing  light  boats  and  sledges,  which  might  be 
alternately  used,  as  compact  fields  of  ice,  or  open 
sea,  interposed  in  his  route.  On  reaching  Hecla 
Cove,  they  left  the  ship  to  commence  their  journey 
on  the  ice.  Vigorous  efforts  were  made  to  reach 
the  Pole,  still  500  miles  distant;  but  the  various 
impediments  they  had  to  encounter,  and  particu- 
larly the  drifting  of  the  snow-fields,  frustrated  all 
their  endeavours;  and  after  two  months  spent  on 
the  ice,  and  penetrating  about  a degree  further  than 
any  previous  expedition,  the  design  was  abandoned 
— having  attained  the  latitude  of  82  degrees  45 
minutes.  These  four  expeditions  were  described  by 
Captain  Parry  in  separate  volumes,  which  were  read 
with  great  avidity.  The  whole  have  since  been  pub- 
lished in  six  small  volumes,  constituting  one  of  the 
most  interesting  series  of  adventures  and  discoveries 
recorded  in  our  language.  On  his  return,  Captain 
Parry  was  appointed  hydrograplier  to  the  Admir- 
alty, and  received  the  honour  of  knighthood.  From 
1829  to  1834  he  resided  in  New  South  Wales  as 
commissioner  to  the  Australian  Agricultural  Com- 
pany. He  again  returned  to  England,  and  held 
several  Admiralty  appointments,  the  last  of  which 
was  governor  to  Greenwich  Hospital.  In  1852, 
he  attained  to  the  rank  of  rear-admiral,  and  died, 
universally  regretted,  on  the  8th  of  July  1855, 
aged  sixty-five. 

Following  out  the  plan  of  northern  discovery,  an 
expedition  was,  in  1819,  despatched  overland  to 
proceed  from  the  Hudson’s  Bay  factory,  tracing 
the  coast  of  the  Northern  Ocean.  This  expedi- 
tion was  commanded  by  Captain  John  Franklin, 
accompanied  by  Dr  Richardson,  a scientific  gentle- 
man; two  midshipmen — Mr  Hood  and  Mr  (now 
Sir  George)  Back — and  two  seamen.  The  journey 
to  the  Coppermine  River  displayed  the  character- 
istic ardour  and  hardihood  of  British  seamen. 
Great  suffering  was  experienced.  Mr  Hood  lost 
his  life,  and  Captain  Franklin  and  Dr  Rich- 
ardson were  on  the  point  of  death,  when  timely 
succour  was  afforded  by  some  Indians.  ‘The 
results  of  this  journey,  which,  including  the  navi- 
gation along  the  coast,  extended  to  5500  miles,  are 
obviously  of  the  greatest  importance  to  geography. 
As  the  coast  running  northward  was  followed  to 
Cape  Turnagain,  in  latitude  68 £ degrees,  it  is  evident 
that  if  a north-west  passage  exist,  it  must  be  found 
beyond  that  limit.’  The  narratives  of  Captain 
Franklin,  Dr  Richardson,  and  Mr  Back,  form  a 
fitting  and  not  less  interesting  sequel  to  those  of 
Captain  Parry.  The  same  intrepid  parties  under- 
took, in  1823,  a second  expedition  to  explore  the 
shores  of  the  Polar  seas.  The  coast  between  the 
Mackenzie  and  Coppermine  Rivers,  902  miles,  was 
examined.  Subsequent  expeditions  were  undertaken 


EASTERN  TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EURCKIIARDT— CARNE, 


by  Captain  Lyon  and  Captain  Beechey.  The 
former  failed  through  continued  bad  weather ; but 
Captain  Beechey  having  sent  his  master,  Mr  Elson, 
in  a barge  to  prosecute  the  voyage  to  the  east,  that 
individual  penetrated  to  a sandy  point,  on  which 
the  ice  had  grounded,  the  most  northern  part  of 
the  continent  then  known.  Captain  Franklin  had, 


only  four  days  previous,  been  within  160  miles  of 
this  point,  when  he  commenced  his  return  to  the 
Mackenzie  River,  and  it  is  conjectured,  with  much 
probability,  that  had  he  been  aware  that  by  perse- 
vering in  his  exertions  for  a few  days  he  might 
have  reached  his  friends,  it  is  possible  that  a know- 
ledge of  the  circumstance  might  have  induced  him, 


Sir  John  Franklin. 


through  all  hazards,  to  continue  his  journey.  The 
intermediate  160  miles  still  remained  unexplored. 
In  1829,  Captain,  now  Sir  John  Ross,  disappointed  at 
being  outstripped  by  Captain  Pai'ry  in  the  discovery 
of  the  strait  leading  into  the  Polar  sea,  equipped 
a steam-vessel,  solely  from  private  resources,  and 
proceeded  to  Baffin’s  Bay.  ‘It  was  a bold  but 
inconsiderate  undertaking,  and  every  soul  -who 
embarked  on  it  must  have  perished,  but  for  the 
ample  supplies  they  received  from  the  Fury , or 
rather  from  the  provisions  and  stores  which,  by 
the  providence  of  Captain  Parry,  had  been  carefully 
stored  up  on  the  beacli ; for  the  ship  herself  had 
entirely  disappeared.  He  proceeded  down  Regent’s 
Inlet  as  far  as  he  could  in  his  little  ship,  the 
Victory;  placed  her  amongst  icc  clinging  to  the 
shore,  and  after  two  winters,  left  her  there ; and 
in  returning  to  the  northward,  by  great  good-luck 
fell  in  with  a whaling-ship,  which  took  them  all  on 
board  and  brought  them  home.’  Captain  James 
Ross,  nephew  of  the  commander,  collected  some 
geographical  information  in  the  course  of  this 
unfortunate  enterprise. 

Valuable  information  connected  with  the  Arctic 
regions  was  afforded  by  Mr  William  Scoresby,  a 
gentleman  who,  while  practising  the  whale-fishing, 
had  become  the  most  learned  observer  and  describer 
of  the  regions  of  ice.  His  account  of  the  Northern 
Whale  Fishery,  1822,  is  a standard  work  of  great 
value,  and  he  is  author  also  of  an  Account  of  the 
Arctic  Regions. 


EASTERN  TRAVELLERS. 

The  scenes  and  countries  mentioned  in  Scripture 
have  been  frequently  described  since  the  publica- 
tions of  Dr  Clarke.  Burckiiardt  traversed  Petrasa 
(the  Edom  of  the  prophecies) ; Mr  William  Rae 
Wilson,  in  1823,  published  Travels  in  Egypt  and 
the  Holy  Land;  Mr  Claudius  James  Rich— the 
accomplished  British  resident  at  Bagdad,  who  died 
in  1821,  at  the  early  ago  of  thirty-five — wrote  an 
excellent  memoir  of  the  remains  of  Babylon ; the 
Hon.  George  Keitel  performed  the  overland 
journey  to  India  in  1824,  and  gave  a narrative  of 
his  observations  in  Bassorah,  Bagdad,  the  ruins  of 
Babylon,  &c.  Mr  J.  S.  Buckingham  also  travelled 
by  the  overland  route— taking,  however,  the  way 
of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Turkish  provinces 
in  Asia  Minor— and  the  result  of  his  journey  was 
given  to  the  world  in  three  separate  works — the 
latest  published  in  1827 — entitled  Travels  in 
Palestine;  Travels  among  the  Arab  Tribes;  and 
Travels  in  Mesopotamia.  Dr  R.  R.  Madden,  a 
medical  gentleman,  who  resided  several  years  in 
India,  in  1829  published  Travels  in  Egypt,  Turkey, 
Nubia,  and  Palestine.  Letters  from  the  East , and 
Recollections  of  Travel  in  the  East  (1830),  by  John 
Carne,  Esq.,  of  Queen’s  College,  Cambridge,  extend, 
the  first  over  Syria  and  Egypt,  and  the  second 
over  Palestine  and  Cairo.  Mr  Carne  is  a judicious 
observer  and  picturesque  describer,  yet  he  some- 
times ventures  on  doubtful  biblical  criticism.  The 

6G5 


PROM  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1830. 


miracle  of  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  for  example, 
he  thinks  should  be  limited  to  a specific  change  in 
the  direction  of  the  winds.  The  idea  of  representing 
the  waves  standing  like  a wall  on  each  side  must 
consequently  be  abandoned.  ‘ This,’  he  says,  1 is 
giving  a literal  interpretation  to  the  evidently 
figurative  language  of  Scripture,  where  it  is  said 
that  “ God  caused  the  sea  to  go  back  all  night  by 
a strong  east  wind ; ” and  when  the  morning  dawned, 
there  was  probably  a wide  and  waste  expanse,  from 
which  the  waters  had  retired  to  some  distance; 
and  that  the  “ sea  returning  in  his  strength  in  the 
morning,”  was  the  rushing  back  of  an  impetuous 
and  resistless  tide,  inevitable,  but  not  instantaneous, 
for  it  is  evident  the  Egyptians  turned  and  fled  at 
its  approach.’  In  either  case  a miracle  must  have 
been  performed,  and  it  seems  unnecessary  and  hyper- 
critical to  attempt  reducing  it  to  the  lowest  point. 
Mr  Milman,  in  his  History  of  the  Jews,  has  fallen 
into  this  error,  and  explained  away  the  miracles 
of  the  Old  Testament  till  all  that  is  supernatural, 
grand,  and  impressive  disappears. 

Travels  along  the  Mediterranean  and  Parts  Adjacent 
(1822),  by  Dr  Robert  Richardson,  is  an  interest- 
ing work,  particularly  as  relates  to  antiquities.  The 
doctor  travelled  by  way  of  Alexandria,  Cairo,  &c., 
to  the  second  cataract  of  the  Nile,  returning  by 
Jerusalem,  Damascus,  Balbec,  and  Tripoli.  He 
surveyed  the  temple  of  Solomon,  and  was  the  first 
acknowledged  Christian  received  within  its  holy 
walls  since  it  has  been  appropriated  to  the  religion  of 
Mohammed.  The  Journal  to  Some  Parts  of  Ethiopia 
(1822),  by  Messrs  Waddington  and  Hanbury, 
gives  an  account  of  the  antiquities  of  Ethiopia  and 
the  extirpation  of  the  Mamelukes. 

Sir  John  Malcolm  was  author  of  a History  of 
Persia , and  Sketches  of  Persia.  Mr  Morier’s 
Journeys  through  Persia,  Armenia,  and  Asia  Minor, 
abound  in  interesting  descriptions  of  the  country, 
people,  and  government.  Sir  William  Ousely 
— who  had  been  private  secretary  to  the  British 
embassy  in  Persia — has  published  three  large 
volumes  of  travels  in  various  countries  of  the 
East,  particularly  Persia,  in  1810,  1811,  and  1812. 
This  work  illustrates  subjects  of  antiquarian 
research,  history,  geography,  philology,  &c.,  and  is 
valuable  to  the  scholar  for  its  citations  from 
rare  oriental  manuscripts.  Another  valuable  work 
on  this  country  is  Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter’s 
Travels  in  Georgia,  Persia,  Babylonia,  &c.,  published 
in  1822. 


[ View  of  Society  in  Bagdad .] 

[From  Sir  R.  K.  Porter’s  Travels .] 

The  wives  of  the  higher  classes  in  Bagdad  are  usually 
selected  from  the  most  beautiful  girls  that  can  be 
obtained  from  Georgia  and  Circassia;  and,  to  their 
natural  charms,  in  like  manner  with  their  captive 
sisters  all  over  the  East,  they  add  the  fancied  embel- 
lishments of  painted  complexions,  hands  and  feet  dyed 
with  henna,  and  their  hair  and  eyebrows  stained  with 
the  rang,  or  prepared  indigo  leaf.  Chains  of  gold,  and 
collars  of  pearls,  with  various  ornaments  of  precious 
stones,  decorate  the  upper  part  of  their  persons,  while 
solid  bracelets  of  gold,  in  shapes  resembling  serpents, 
clasp  their  wrists  and  ankles.  Silver  and  golden  tissued 
muslins  not  only  form  their  turbans,  but  frequently 
their  under-garments.  In  summer  the  ample  pelisse  is 
made  of  the  most  costly  shawl,  and  in  cold  weather, 
lined  and  bordered  with  the  choicest  furs.  The  dress  is 
altogether  very  becoming  ; by  its  easy  folds  and  glitter- 
ing transparency,  shewing  a fine  shape  to  advantage, 
without  the  immodest  exposure  of  the  open  vest  of  the 
666 


Persian  ladies.  The  humbler  females  generally  move 
abroad  with  faces  totally  unveiled,  having  a handker- 
chief rolled  round  their  heads,  from  beneath  which  their 
hair  hangs  down  over  their  shoulders,  while  another 
piece  of  linen  passes  under  their  chin,  in  the  fashion  of 
the  Georgians.  Their  garment  is  a gown  of  a shift  form, 
reaching  to  their  ankles,  open  before,  and  of  a gray 
colour.  Their  feet  are  completely  naked.  Many  of  the 
very  inferior  classes  stain  their  bosoms  with  the  figures 
of  circles,  half -moons,  stars,  &c.,  in  a bluish  stamp.  In 
this  barbaric  embellishment  the  poor  damsel  of  Irak 
Arabi  has  one  point  of  vanity  resembling  that  of  the 
ladies  of  Irak  Ajem.  The  former  frequently  adds  this 
frightful  cadaverous  hue  to  her  lips;  and,  to  complete 
her  savage  appearance,  thrusts  a ring  through  the  right 
nostril,  pendent  with  a flat  button-like  ornament  set 
round  with  blue  or  red  stones. 

But  to  return  to  the  ladies  of  the  higher  circles,  whom 
we  left  in  some  gay  saloon  of  Bagdad.  When  all  are 
assembled,  the  evening  meal  or  dinner  is  soon  served. 
The  party,  seated  in  rows,  then  prepare  themselves  for 
the  entrance  of  the  show,  which,  consisting  of  music  and 
dancing,  continues  in  noisy  exhibition  through  the  whole 
night.  At  twelve  o’clock  supper  is  produced,  when 
pilaus,  kabobs,  preserves,  fruits,  dried  sweetmeats,  and 
sherbets  of  every  fabric  and  flavour,  engage  the  fair 
convives  for  some  time.  Between  this  second  banquet 
and  the  preceding,  the  perfumed  narquilly  is  never 
absent  from  their  rosy  lips,  excepting  when  they  sip 
coffee,  or  indulge  in  a general  shout  of  approbation,  or  a 
hearty  peal  of  laughter  at  the  freaks  of  the  dancers  or 
the  subject  of  the  singers’  madrigals.  But  no  respite  is 
given  to  the  entertainers  ; and,  during  so  long  a stretch 
of  merriment,  should  any  of  the  happy  guests  feel  a 
sudden  desire  for  temporary  repose,  without  the  least 
apology  she  lies  down  to  sleep  on  the  luxurious  carpet 
that  is  her  seat ; and  thus  she  remains,  sunk  in  as  deep 
an  oblivion  as  if  the  nummud  were  spread  in  her  own 
chamber.  Others  speedily  follow  her  example,  sleep- 
ing as  sound;  notwithstanding  the  bawling  of  the 
singers,  the  horrid  jangling  of  the  guitars,  the  thumping 
on  the  jar-like  double-drum,  the  ringing  and  loud 
clangour  of  the  metal  bells  and  castanets  of  the  dancers, 
with  an  eternal  talking  in  all  keys,  abrupt  laughter,  and 
vociferous  expressions  of  gratification,  making  in  all  a 
full  concert  of  distracting  sounds,  sufficient,  one  might 
suppose,  to  awaken  the  dead.  But  the  merry  tumult 
and  joyful  strains  of  this  conviviality  gradually  become 
fainter  and  fainter ; first  one  and  then  another  of  the 
visitors — while  even  the  performers  are  not  spared  by 
the  soporific  god — sink  down  under  the  drowsy  influence, 
till  at  length  the  whole  carpet  is  covered  with  the  sleep- 
ing beauties,  mixed  indiscriminately  with  handmaids, 
dancers,  and  musicians,  as  fast  asleep  as  themselves. 
The  business,  however,  is  not  thus  quietly  ended.  ‘ As 
soon  as  the  sun  begins  to  call  forth  the  blushes  of  the 
mom,  by  lifting  the  veil  that  shades  her  slumbering 
eyelids,’  the  faithful  slaves  rub  their  own  clear  of  any 
lurking  drowsiness,  and  then  tug  their  respective 
mistresses  by  the  toe  or  the  shoulder,  to  rouse  them  up 
to  perform  the  devotional  ablutions  usual  at  the  dawn 
of  day.  All  start  mechanically,  as  if  touched  by  a spell ; 
and  then  commences  the  splashing  of  water  and  the 
muttering  of  prayers,  presenting  a singular  contrast  to 
the  vivacious  scene  of  a few  hours  before.  This  duty 
over,  the  fair  devotees  shake,  their  feathers  like  birds 
from  a refreshing  shower,  and  tripping  lightly  forward 
with  garments,  and  perhaps  looks,  a little  the  worse  for 
the  wear  of  the  preceding  evening,  plunge  at  once  again 
into  all  the  depths  of  its  amusements.  Coffee,  sweet- 
meats, kaliouns,  as  before,  accompany  every  obstreperous 
repetition  of  the  midnight  song  and  dance;  and  all 
being  followed  up  by  a plentiful  breakfast  of  rice,  meats, 
fruits,  &c.,  towards  noon  the  party  separate,  after  having 
spent  between  fifteen  and  sixteen  hours  in  this  riotous 
festivity. 


EASTERN  TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


STEPHENS— DR  ABEL. 


The  French  authors  Chateaubriand,  Laborde,  and 
Lamartine,  have  minutely  described  the  Holy  Land ; 
and  in  the  Incidents  of  Travel  in  Egypt , Arabia , and 
the  Holy  Land , by  J.  L.  Stephens,  information 
respecting  these  interesting  countries  will  he  found. 

Various  works  on  India  appeared,  including  a 
general  political  history  of  the  empire,  by  Sir  John 
Malcolm  (1826),  and  a Memoir  of  Central  India 
(1823),  by  the  same  author.  Travels  in  the  Himma- 
layan  Provinces  of  Hindostan  and  the  Punjaub , in 
Ladakh  and  Cashmere , in  Peshawar , Cabul , $*c.,  from 
1819  to  1825,  by  W.  Moorcroft  and  George 
Trebeck,  relate  many  new  and  important  particu- 
lars. Mr  Moorcroft  crossed  the  great  chain  of  the 
Himalaya  mountains  near  its  highest  part,  and  first 
drew  attention  to  those  stupendous  heights,  rising 
in  some  parts  to  above  27,000  feet.  A Tour  through 
the  Snowy  Range  of  the  Himmala  Mountains  was 
made  by  Mr  James  Baillie  Fraser  (1820),  who 
gives  an  interesting  account  of  his  perilous  journey. 
He  visited  Gangootrie,  an  almost  inaccessible  haunt 
of  superstition,  the  Mecca  of  Hindoo  pilgrims,  and 
also  the  spot  at  which  the  Ganges  issues  from  its 
covering  of  perpetual  snow.  In  1825  Mr  Fraser 
published  a Narrative  of  a Journey  into  Khorasan , in 
the  years  1821  and  1822,  including  an  Account  of  the 
Countries  to  the  north-east  of  Persia.  The  following 
is  a brief  sketch  of  a Persian  town : 

Viewed  from  a commanding  situation,  the  appearance 
of  a Persian  town  is  most  uninteresting ; the  houses,  all 
of  mud,  differ  in  no  respect  from  the  earth  in  colour, 
and  from  the  irregularity  of  their  construction,  resemble 
inequalities  on  its  surface  rather  than  human  dwellings. 
The  houses,  even  of  the  great,  seldom  exceed  one  story ; 
and  the  lofty  walls  which  shroud  them  from  view,  with- 
out a window  to  enliven  them,  have  a most  monotonous 
effect.  There  are  few  domes  or  minarets,  and  still  fewer 
of  those  that  exist  are  either  splendid  or  elegant.  There 
are  no  public  buildings  but  the  mosques  and  medressas ; 
and  these  are  often  as  mean  as  the  rest,  or  perfectly 
excluded  from  view  by  ruins.  The  general  coup-d'oeil 
presents  a succession  of  flat  roofs,  and  long  walls  of  mud, 
thickly  interspersed  with  ruins  ; and  the  only  relief  to 
its  monotony  is  found  in  the  gardens,  adorned  with 
chinar,  poplars,  and  cypress,  with  which  the  towns  and 
villages  are  often  surrounded  and  intermingled. 

The  same  author  published  Travels  and  Adven- 
tures in  the  Persian  Provinces , 1826 ; A Winter 
Journey  from  Constantinople  to  Tehran , with  Travels 
through  Various  Parts  of  Persia , 1838;  &c.  Among 
other  Indian  works  may  be  mentioned,  The  Annals 
and  Antiquities  of  Rajasthan , by  Lieutenant-colo- 
nel James  Tod,  1830 ; and  Travels  into  Bokhara , by 
Lieutenant,  afterwards  Sir  Alexander  Burnes. 
The  latter  is  a narrative  of  a journey  from  India  to 
Cabul,  Tatary,  and  Persia,  and  is  a valuable  work. 
The  accomplished  author  was  cut  off  in  his  career  of 
usefulness  and  honour  in  1841,  being  treacherously 
murdered  at  Cabul. 

Of  China  we  have  the  history  of  the  two  embas- 
sies— the  first  in  1792-94,  under  Lord  Macartney,  of 
which  a copious  account  was  given  by  Sir  George 
Staunton,  one  of  the  commissioners.  Further 
information  was  afforded  by  Sir  John  Barrow’s 
Travels  in  China , published  in  1806,  and  long  our 
most  valuable  work  on  that  country.  The  second 
embassy,  headed  by  Lord  Amherst,  in  1816,  was 
recorded  by  Henry  Ellis,  Esq.,  third  commissioner, 
in  a work  in  two  volumes  (1818),  and  by  Dr  Abel, 
a gentleman  attached  to  the  embassy.  One  circum- 
stance connected  with  this  embassy  occasioned  some 
speculation  and  amusement.  The  ambassador  was 
required  to  perform  the  ko-tou , or  act  of  prostration, 


nine  times  repeated,  with  the  head  knocked  against 
the  ground.  Lord  Amherst  and  Mr  Ellis  were 
inclined  to  have  yielded  this  point  of  ceremony ; but 
Sir  George  Staunton  and  the  other  members  of  the 
Canton  mission  took  the  most  decided  part  on  the 
other  side.  The  result  of  their  deliberations  was  a 
determination  against  the  performance  of  the  ko-tou, 
and  the  emperor  at  last  consented  to  admit  them 
upon  their  own  terms,  which  consisted  in  kneeling 
upon  a single  knee.  The  embassy  went  to  Pekin, 
and  were  ushered  into  an  ante-chamber  of  the 
imperial  palace. 

[Scene  at  Pekin,  described  by  Mr  Ellis.] 

Mandarins  of  all  buttons*  were  in  waiting;  several 
princes  of  the  blood,  distinguished  by  clear  ruby  buttons 
and  round  flowered  badges,  were  among  them : the 
silence,  and  a certain  air  of  regularity,  marked  the 
immediate  presence  of  the  sovereign.  The  small 
apartment,  much  out  of  repair,  into  which  we  were 
huddled,  now  witnessed  a scene  I believe  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  even  oriental  diplomacy.  Lord 
Amherst  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat,  when  Chang 
delivered  a message  from  Ho  (Koong-yay),  stating  that 
the  emperor  wished  to  see  the  ambassador,  his  son, 
and  the  commissioners  immediately.  Much  surprise 
was  naturally  expressed ; the  previous  arrangement  for 
the  eighth  of  the  Chinese  month,  a period  certainly 
much  too  early  for  comfort,  was  adverted  to,  and  the 
utter  impossibility  of  his  excellency  appearing  in  his 
present  state  of  fatigue,  inanition,  and  deficiency  of 
every  necessary  equipment,  was  strongly  urged.  Chang 
was  very  unwilling  to  be  the  bearer  of  this  answer, 
but  was  finally  obliged  to  consent.  During  this  time 
the  room  had  filled  with  spectators  of  all  ages  and 
ranks,  who  rudely  pressed  upon  us  to  gratify  their 
brutal  curiosity,  for  such  it  may  be  called,  as  they 
seemed  to  regard  us  rather  as  wild  beasts  than  mere 
strangers  of  the  same  species  with  themselves.  Some 
other  messages  were  interchanged  between  the  Koong-yay 
and  Lord  Amherst,  who,  in  addition  to  the  reasons 
already  given,  stated  the  indecorum  and  irregularity  of 
his  appearing  without  his  credentials.  In  his  reply  to 
this  it  was  said,  that  in  the  proposed  audience  the 
emperor  merely  wished  to  see  the  ambassador,  and  had 
no  intention  of  entering  upon  business.  Lord  Amherst 
having  persisted  in  expressing  the  inadmissibility  of 
the  proposition,  and  in  transmitting  through  the  Koong- 
yay  a humble  request  to  his  imperial  majesty  that  he 
would  be  graciously  pleased  to  wait  till  to-morrow, 
Chang  and  another  mandarin  finally  proposed  that  his 
exceliency  should  go  over  to  the  Koong-yay’s  apartments, 
from  whence  a reference  might  be  made  to  the  emperor. 
Lord  Amherst,  having  alleged  bodily  illness  as  one  of  the 
reasons  for  declining  the  audience,  readily  saw  that 
if  he  went  to  the  Koong-yay,  this  plea,  which  to  the 
Chinese — though  now  scarcely  admitted — was  in  general 
the  most  forcible,  would  cease  to  avail  him,  positively 
declined  compliance.  This  produced  a visit  from  the 
Koong-yay,  who,  too  much  interested  and  agitated  to 
heed  ceremony,  stood  by  Lord  Amherst,  and  used  every 
argument  to  induce  him  to  obey  the  emperor’s  com- 
mands. Among  other  topics  he  used  that  of  being 
received  with  our  own  ceremony,  using  the  Chinese 
words,  ‘ne  mun  tih  lee’ — your  own  ceremony.  All 
proving  ineffectual,  with  some  roughness,  but  under 
pretext  of  friendly  violence,  he  laid  hands  upon  Lord 
Amherst,  to  take  him  from  the  room ; another  mandarin 
followed  his  example.  His  lordship,  with  great  firmness 
and  dignity  of  manner,  shook  them  off,  declaring  that 
nothing  but  the  extremest  violence  should  induce  him 

* The  buttons,  in  the  order  of  their  rank,  are  as  follows : 
ruby  red,  worked  coral,  smooth  coral,  pale  blue,  dark  blue, 
crystal,  ivory,  and  gold. 

567 


from  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 


to  quit  that  room  for  any  other  place  hut  the  residence 
assigned  to  him ; adding  that  he  was  so  overcome  by 
fatigue  and  bodily  illness  as  absolutely  to  require  repose. 
Lord  Amherst  further  pointed  out  the  gross  insult  he 
had  already  received,  in  having  been  exposed  to  the 
intrusion  and  indecent  curiosity  of  crowds,  who  appeared 
to  view  him  rather  as  a wild  beast  than  the  repre- 
sentative of  a powerful  sovereign.  At  all  events,  he 
entreated  the  Koong-yay  to  submit  his  request  to  his 
imperial  majesty,  who,  he  felt  confident,  would,  in 
consideration  of  his  illness  and  fatigue,  dispense  with 
his  immediate  appearance.  The  Koong-yay  then  pressed 
Lord  Amherst  to  come  to  his  apartments,  alleging  that 
they  were  cooler,  more  convenient,  and  more  private. 
This  Lord  Amherst  declined,  saying  that  he  was  totally 
unfit  for  any  place  but  his  own  residence.  The  Koong- 
yay,  having  failed  in  his  attempt  to  persuade  him,  left 
the  room  for  the  purpose  of  taking  the  emperor’s 
pleasure  upon  the  subject. 

During  his  absence  an  elderly  man,  whose  dress  and 
ornaments  bespoke  him  a prince,*  was  particularly 
inquisitive  in  his  inspection  of  our  persons  and  inquiries. 
His  chief  object  seemed  to  be  to  communicate  with  Sir 
George  Staunton,  as  the  person  who  had  been  with  the 
former  embassy ; but  Sir  George  very  prudently  avoided 
any  intercourse  with  him.  It  is  not  easy  to  describe 
the  feelings  of  annoyance  produced  by  the  conduct  of 
the  Chinese,  both  public  and  individual : of  the  former 
I shall  speak  hereafter ; of  the  latter  I can  only  say  that 
nothing  could  be  more  disagreeable  and  indecorous. 

A message  arrived  soon  after  the  Koong-yay’s  quit- 
ting the  room,  to  say  that  the  emperor  dispensed  with 
the  ambassador’s  attendance ; that  he  had  further 
been  pleased  to  direct  his  physician  to  afford  to  his 
excellency  every  medical  assistance  that  his  illness 
might  require.  The  Koong-yay  himself  soon  followed, 
and  his  excellency  proceeded  to  the  carriage.  The 
Koong-yay  not  disdaining  to  clear  away  the  crowd,  the 
whip  was  used  by  him  to  all  persons  indiscriminately ; 
buttons  were  no  protection ; and  however  indecorous, 
according  to  our  notions,  the  employment  might  be  for 
a man  of  his  rank,  it  could  not  have  been  in  better 
hands. 

Lord  Amherst  was  generally  condemned  for  refus- 
ing the  proffered  audience.  The  emperor,  in  disgust, 
ordered  them  instantly  to  set  out  for  Canton,  which 
was  accordingly  done.  This  embassy  made  scarcely 
any  addition  to  our  knowledge  of  China. 


CAPTAIN  BASIL  HALL. 

The  embassy  of  Lord  Amherst  to  China  was,  as 
we  have  related,  comparatively  a failure ; but  the 
return-voyage  was  rich  both  in  discovery  and  in 
romantic  interest.  The  voyage  was  made,  not  along 
the  coast  of  China,  but  by  Corea  and  the  Loo-choo 
islands,  and  accounts  of  it  were  published  in  1818 
by  Mr  Macleod,  surgeon  of  the  Alceste,  and  by 
Captain  Basil  Hall  of  the  Lyra.  The  work  of 
the  latter  was  entitled  An  Account  of  a Voyage  of 
Discovery  to  the  West  Coast  of  Corea , and  the  Great 
Loo-choo  Island.  In  the  course  of  this  voyage  it  was 
found  that  a great  part  of  what  had  been  laid  down 
in  the  maps  as  part  of  Corea,  consisted  of  an  im- 
mense archipelago  of  small  islands.  The  number  of 
these  was  beyond  calculation ; and  during  a sail  of 
upwards  of  one  hundred  miles,  the  sea  continued 
closely  studded  with  them.  From  one  lofty  point  a 
hundred  and  twenty  appeared  in  sight,  some  with 
waving  woods  and  green  verdant  valleys.  Loo-choo, 
however,  was  the  most  important,  and  by  far  the 

* They  are  distinguished  by  round  badges. 


most  interesting  of  the  parts  touched  upon  by  the 
expedition.  There  the  strange  spectacle  was  pre- 
sented of  a people  ignorant  equally  of  the  use  of 
fire-arms  and  the  use  of  money,  living  in  a state  of 
primitive  seclusion  and  happiness  such  as  resembles 
the  dreams  of  poetry  rather  than  the  realities  of 
modern  life. 

Captain  Basil  Hall  distinguished  himself  by  the 
composition  of  other  books  of  travels,  written  with 
delightful  ease,  spirit,  and  picturesqueness.  The 
first  of  these  consists  of  Extracts  from  a Journal 
written  on  the  Coasts  of  Chili,  Peru , and  Mexico , 
being  the  result  of  his  observations  in  those  coun- 
tries in  1821  and  1822.  South  America  had,  pre- 
vious to  this,  been  seldom  visited,  and  its  countries 
were  also  greater  objects  of  curiosity  and  interest 
from  their  political  condition,  on  the  point  of  eman- 
cipation from  Spain.  The  next  work  of  Captain 
Hall  was  Travels  in  North  America , in  1827  and  1828, 
written  in  a more  ambitious  strain  than  his  former 
publications,  and  containing  some  excellent  descrip- 
tions and  remarks,  mixed  up  with  political  disqui- 
sitions. This  was  followed  by  Fragments  of  Voyages 
and  Travels , addressed  chiefly  to  young  persons,  in 
three  small  volumes ; which  were  so  favourably 
received,  that  a second,  and  afterwards  a third  series, 
each  in  three  volumes,  were  given  to  the  public.  A 
further  collection  of  these  observations  on  foreign 
society,  scenery,  and  manners,  was  published  by 
Captain  Hall  in  1842,  also  in  three  volumes,  under 
the  title  of  Patchwork.  This  popular  author  died  at 
Haslar  Hospital  in  1844.  He  was  the  second  son  of 
Sir  James  Hall  of  Dunglass,  Bart.,  President  of 
the  Royal  Society,  and  author  of  some  works  on 
architecture,  &c. 

MR  H.  D.  INGLIS. 

One  of  the  most  cheerful  and  unaffected  of 
tourists  and  travellers,  with  a strong  love  of  nature 
and  a poetical  imagination,  was  Mr  Henry  David 
Inglis,  who  died  in  March  1835,  at  the  early  age  of 
forty.  Mr  Inglis  was  the  son  of  a Scottish  advocate. 
He  was  brought  up  to  commercial  pursuits,  but  his 
passion  for  literature,  and  for  surveying  the  grand 
and  beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  overpowered  his 
business  habits,  and  led  him  at  once  to  travel  and 
to  write.  Diffident  of  success,  he  assumed  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  Derwent  Conway,  and  under  this  disguise 
he  published  The  Tales  of  Ardennes ; Solitary  Walks 
through  Many  Lands ; Travels  in  Norway , Sweden, 
and  Denmark,  1829 ; and  Switzerland,  the  South  of 
France,  and  the  Pyrenees  in  1830,  1831.  The  two 
latter  works  were  included  in  Constable's  Miscellany, 
and  were  deservedly  popular.  Mr  Inglis  was  then 
engaged  as  editor  of  a newspaper  at  Chesterfield ; 
but,  tiring  of  this,  he  again  repaired  to  the  continent, 
and  visited  the  Tyrol  and  Spain.  His  travels  in 
both  countries  were  published ; and  one  of  the 
volumes — Spain  in  1830 — is  the  best  of  all  his  works. 
He  next  produced  a novel  descriptive  of  Spanish 
life,  entitled  The  New  Gil  Bias,  but  it  was  unsuc- 
cessful— probably  owing  to  the  very  title  of  the 
work,  which  raised  expectations,  or  suggested  com- 
parisons unfavourable  to  the  new  aspirant.  After 
conducting  a newspaper  for  some  time  in  Jersey,  Mr 
Inglis  published  an  account  of  the  Channel  Islands, 
marked  by  the  easy  grace  and  picturesque  charm 
that  pervade  all  his  writings.  He  next  made  a tour 
through  Ireland,  and  wrote  his  valuable  work — 
remarkable  for  impartiality  no  less  than  talent — 
entitled  Ireland  in  1834.  His  last  work  was  Travels 
in  the  Footsteps  of  Don  Quixote,  published  in  parts 
in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


E It CYCLOPAEDIAS,  ETC. 


DR  REES — DR  MILLER, 


M.  SIMOND. 

M.  Simond,  a French  author,  who,  by  familiarity 
with  our  language  and  country,  wrote  in  English  as 
well  as  in  his  native  tongue,  published  in  1822  a 
work  in  two  volumes — Switzerland ; or  a Journal  of 
a Tour  and  Residence  in  that  Country  in  the  Years 
1817,  1818,  and  1819.  M.  Simond  had  previously 
written  a similar  work  on  Great  Britain,  and  both 
are  far  superior  to  the  style  of  ordinary  tourists. 
We  subjoin  his  account  of  a 

[Swiss  Mountain  and  Avalanche. ] 

After  nearly  five  hours’  toil,  we  reached  a chalet  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain  (the  Wingernalp).  This  summer 
habitation  of  the  shepherds  was  still  unoccupied;  for 
the  snow  having  been  unusually  deep  last  winter,  and  the 
grass,  till  lately  covered,  being  still  very  short,  the  cows 
have  not  ventured  so  high.  Here  we  resolved  upon  a 
halt,  and  having  implements  for  striking  fire,  a few  dry 
sticks  gave  us  a cheerful  blaze  in  the  open  air.  A pail 
of  cream,  or  at  least  of  very  rich  milk,  was  brought  up 
by  the  shepherds,  with  a kettle  to  make  coffee  and 
afterwards  boil  the  milk ; very  large  wooden  spoons  or 
ladles  answered  the  purpose  of  cups.  The  stock  of 
provisions  we  had  brought  was  spread  upon  the  very 
low  roof  of  the  chalet,  being  the  best  station  for  our 
repas  champetre,  as  it  afforded  dry  seats  sloping  con- 
veniently towards  the  prospect.  We  had  then  before 
us  the  Jungfrau,  the  two  Eigers,  and  some  of  the  highest 
summits  in  the  Alps,  shooting  up  from  an  uninterrupted 
level  of  glaciers  of  more  than  two  hundred  square  miles ; 
and  although  placed  ourselves  four  thousand  five 
hundred  feet  above  the  lake  of  Thun,  and  that  lake 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty  feet  above  the 
sea,  the  mighty  rampart  rose  still  six  thousand  feet 
above  our  head.  Between  us  and  the  Jungfrau  the 
desert  valley  of  Trumlatenthal  formed  a deep  trench, 
into  which  avalanches  fell,  with  scarcely  a quarter  of  an 
hour’s  interval  between  them,  followed  by  a thundering 
noise  continued  along  the  whole  range;  not,  however, 
a reverbation  of  sound,  for  echo  is  mute  under  the 
universal  winding-sheet  of  snow,  but  a prolongation  of 
sound,  in  consequence  of  the  successive  rents  or  fissures 
forming  themselves  when  some  large  section  of  the 
glacier  slides  down  one  step. 

We  sometimes  saw  a blue  line  suddenly  drawn  across 
a field  of  pure  white;  then  another  above  it,  and 
another,  all  parallel,  and  attended  each  time  with  a 
loud  crash  like  cannon,  producing  together  the  effect  of 
long-protracted  peals  of  thunder.  At  other  times  some 
portion  of  the  vast  field  of  snow,  or  rather  snowy  ice, 
gliding  gently  away,  exposed  to  view  a new  surface  of 
purer  white  than  the  first,  and  the  cast-off  drapery 
gathering  in  long  folds,  either  fell  at  once  down  the 
precipice,  or  disappeared  behind  some  intervening  ridge, 
which  the  sameness  of  colour  rendered  invisible,  and 
was  again  seen  soon  after  in  another  direction,  shooting 
out  of  some  narrow  channel  a cataract  of  white  dust, 
which,  observed  through  a telescope,  was,  however, 
found  to  be  composed  of  broken  fragments  of  ice  or 
compact  snow,  many  of  them  sufficient  to  overwhelm  a 
village,  if  there  had  been  any  in  the  valley  where  they 
fell.  Seated  on  the  chalet’s  roof,  the  ladies  forgot  they 
were  cold,  wet,  bruised,  and  hungry,  and  the  cup  of 
smoking  cafe  an  lait  stood  still  in  their  hand  while 
waiting  in  breathless  suspense  for  the  next  avalanche, 
wondering  equally  at  the  deathlike  silence  intervening 
between  each,  and  the  thundering  crash  which  followed. 

I must  own,  that  while  we  shut  our  ears,  the  mere  sight 
might  dwindle  down  to  the  effect  of  a fall  of  snow  from 
the  roof  of  a house ; but  when  the  potent  sound  was 
heard  along  the  whole  range  of  many  miles,  when  the 
time  of  awful  suspense  between  the  fall  and  the  crash 


was  measured,  the  imagination,  taking  flight,  outstripped 
all  bounds  at  once,  and  went  beyond  the  mighty  reality 
itself.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  where  the  creative 
powers  of  imagination  stop,  even  the  coldest ; for  our 
common  feelings — our  grossest  sensations — are  infinitely 
indebted  to  them  ; and  man,  without  his  fancy,  would 
not  have  the  energy  of  the  dullest  animal.  Yet  we  feel 
more  pleasure  and  more  pride  in  the  consciousness  of 
another  treasure  of  the  breast,  which  tames  the  flight  of 
this  same  imagination,  and  brings  it  back  to  sober 
reality  and  plain  truth. 

When  we  first  approach  the  Alps,  their  bulk,  their 
stability,  and  duration,  compared  to  our  own  incon- 
siderable size,  fragility,  and  shortness  of  days,  strikes 
our  imagination  with  terror ; while  reason,  unappalled, 
measuring  these  masses,  calculating  their  elevation, 
analysing  their  substance,  finds  in  them  only  a little 
inert  matter,  scarcely  forming  a wrinkle  on  the  face  of 
our  earth,  that  earth  an  inferior  planet  in  the  solar 
system,  and  that  system  one  only  among  myriads,  placed 
at  distances  whose  very  incommensurability  is  in  a 
manner  measured.  What,  again,  are  those  giants  of  the 
Alps,  and  their  duration — those  revolving  worlds — that 
space — the  universe — compared  to  the  intellectual 
faculty  capable  of  bringing  the  whole  fabric  into  the 
compass  of  a single  thought,  where  it  is  all  curiously 
and  accurately  delineated ! How  superior,  again,  the 
exercise  of  that  faculty,  when,  rising  from  effects  to 
causes,  and  judging  by  analogy  of  things  as  yet  unknown 
by  those  we  know,  we  are  taught  to  look  into  futurity 
for  a better  state  of  existence,  and  in  the  hope  itself 
find  new  reason  to  hope  ! 

We  were  shewn  an  inaccessible  shelf  of  rock  on  the 
west  side  of  the  Jungfrau,  upon  which  a lammergeyer — 
the  vulture  of  lambs — once  alighted  with  an  infant  it 
had  carried  away  from  the  village  of  Murren,  situated 
above  the  Staubbach : some  red  scraps,  remnants  of 
the  child’s  clothes,  were  for  years  observed,  says  the 
tradition,  on  the  fatal  spot. 

ENCYCLOPAEDIAS  AND  SERIAL 
WORKS. 

Wo  have  referred  to  the  continuation  of  the  Cyclo- 
paedia of  Ephraim  Chambers  by  Dr  Abraiiam  Rees, 
a dissenting  clergyman  (1743-1825).  This  revival 
was  so  successful  that  the  publishers  of  the  work 
agreed  with  Dr  Rees  to  undertake  a new  and  mag- 
nificent work  of  a similar  nature ; and  in  1802  the 
first  volume  of  Rees's  Cyclopaedia  was  issued,  with 
illustrations  in  a style  of  engraving  never  surpassed 
in  this  country.  This  splendid  woTk  extended  to 
forty-five  volumes. 

In  1771  the  Encyclopaedia  Eritannica,  edited  by 
Mr  William  Smellie,  was  published  in  four  volumes 
quarto,  presenting  a novel  and  important  improve- 
ment upon  its  predecessors : ‘ it  treated  each  science 
completely  in  a systematic  form,  under  its  proper 
denomination  ;*  the  technical  terms  and  subordinate 
heads  being  also  explained  alphabetically,  when 
anything  more  than  a reference  to  the  general 
treatise  was  required.’  The  second  edition  of  this 
work,  commenced  in  1776,  was  enlarged  to  ten 
volumes,  and  embraced  biography  and  history.  The 
third  edition,  completed  in  1797,  amounted  to 
eighteen  volumes,  and  was  enriched  with  valuable 
treatises  on  grammar  and  metaphysics,  by  the  Rev. 
Dr  Gleig;  with  profound  articles  on  mythology, 
mysteries,  and  philology,  by  Dr  Doig ; and  with  an 
elaborate  view  of  the  philosophy  of  induction,  and 
contributions  in  physical  science,  by  Professor 
Robison.  Two  supplementary  volumes  were  after- 
wards added  to  this  work.  A fourth  edition  was  issued 
under  the  superintendence  of  Dr  James  Miller,  and 

fiG9 


prom  1800  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1830. 

completed  in  1810;  itrwas  enriched  with  some  ad- 
mirable scientific  treatises  from  the  pen  of  Professor 
Wallace.  Two  other  editions,  merely  nominal,  of 
this  Encyclopaedia  were  published-;  and  a supplement 
to  the  work  was  projected  by  the  late  Mr  Constable, 
and  placed  under  the  charge  of  Professor  Macvey 
Napier.  To  this  supplement  Constable  attracted 
the  greatest  names  both  in  Britain  and  France: 
it  contained  contributions  from  Dugald  Stewart, 
Playfair,  Jameson,  Leslie,  Mackintosh,  Dr  Thomas 
Thomson,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Jeffrey,  Ricardo, 
Malthus,  Mill,  Professor  Wallace,  Dr  Thomas  Young, 
M.  Biot,  INI.  Arago,  &c.  The  supplement  was 
completed  in  1824,  in  six  volumes.  Six  years  after- 
wards, when  the  property  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  Messrs  Adam  and  Charles  Black,  a new  edition 
of  the  whole  was  commenced,  incorporating  all  the 
articles  in  the  supplement,  with  such  modifications 
and  additions  as  were  necessary  to  adjust  them  to 
the  later  views  and  information  applicable  to  their 
subjects.  Mr  Napier  was  chosen  editor,  and  an 
assistant  in  the  work  of  revision  and  addition  was 
found  in  the  late  Dr  J ames  Browne,  a man  of  varied 
and  extensive  learning.  New  and  valuable  articles  j 
were  contributed  by  Sir  David  Brewster,  by  Mr  j 
Galloway,  Dr  Traill,  Dr  Roget,  Dr  John  Thomson,  | 
Mr  Tytler,  Professor  Spalding,  Mr  Moir,  &c.  This  , 
great  national  work — for  such  it  may  justly  be  j 
entitled — was  completed  in  1842,  in  twenty-one 
volumes.  Another  edition  of  this  Encyclopaedia,  ! 
greatly  improved,  is  now  (1859)  in  the  course  of  j 
publication,  edited  by  Professor  Traill,  and  enriched  ; 
with  contributions  from  Lord  Macaulay  and  other  j 
eminent  authors. 

In  the  interval  between  the  different  editions  of 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica , two  other  important 
works  of  the  same  kind  were  in  progress.  The 
Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia , under  the  superintendence 
of  Sir  David  Brewster,  was  commenced  in  1808, 
and  completed  in  1830,  in  eighteen  quarto  volumes, 
j The  scientific  department  of  the  work,  under  such 
1 an  editor,  could  not  fail  to  be  rich  and  valuable,  and 
it  is  still  highly  prized.  The  Encyclopaedia  Metro- 
politana  was  begun  in  1815,  and  presented  this  ! 
difference  from  its  rivals,  that  it  departed  from  j 
the  alphabetical  arrangement — certainly  the  most  ! 
convenient — and  arranged  its  articles  in  what  the  j 
conductors  considered  their  natural  order.  Coleridge  1 
was  one  of  the  writers  in  this  work;  some  of  its 
philological  articles  are  ingenious.  The  London 
Encyclopaedia , in  twenty  volumes  royal  8vo,  is  a 
useful  compendium,  and  includes  the  whole  of 
Johnson's  Dictionary,  with  its  citations.  Lardner's 
Cyclopaedia  is  a collection  of  different  works  on 
natural  philosophy,  arts,  and  manufactures,  history, 
biography,  &c.,  published  in  131  small  8vo  volumes, 
issued  monthly.  The  series  embraces  some  valuable 
works : Sir  J ames  Mackintosh  contributed  part  of  a 
popular  history  of  England,  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Mr  Moore  histories  of  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  M. 
Sismondi  one  of  the  Italian  republics.  Sir  John 
Herschel  wrote  for  it  a valuable  Discourse  on 
Natural  Philosophy,  and  a treatise  on  Astronomy ; 
and  Sir  David  Brewster  contributed  the  history 
of  Optics.  In  natural  history  and  other  depart- 
ments this  Cyclopaedia  is  also  valuable,  but  as  a 
whole  it  is  very  defective.  Popular  Cyclopaedias, 
in  one  large  volume  each,  have  been  published, 
condensing  a large  amount  of  information.  Of 
these  Mr  M‘Culloch,  the  political  economist,  is 
author  of  one  on  commerce,  and  another  on 
geography;  Dr  Ure  on  arts  and  manufactures; 
Mr  Brande  on  science,  literature,  and  art ; Mr 
Blaine  on  rural  sports.  There  is  also  a series  of 
570 

Cyclopaedias  on  a larger  scale,  devoted  to  the  various 
departments  of  medical  science  ; namely,  the  Cyclo- 
paedia of  Practical  Medicine , edited  by  Drs  Forbes, 
Tweedie,  and  Conolly ; the  Cyclopaedia  of  Anatomy 
and  Physiology , edited  by  Dr  A.  T.  Thomson;  and 
the  Cyclopaedia  of  Surgery , edited  by  Dr  Costello ; 
each  being  in  four  massive  volumes,  and  composed 
of  papers  by  the  first  men  of  the  profession  in  the 
country. 

The  plan  of  monthly  publication  for  works  of 
merit,  and  combining  cheapness  with  elegance,  wa3 
commenced  by  Mr  Constable  in  1827.  It  had  been 
planned  by  him  two  years  before,  when  his  active 
mind  was  full  of  splendid  schemes ; and  he  was  con- 
fident that  if  he  lived  for  half-a-dozen  years,  he 
would  * make  it  as  impossible  that  there  should  not 
be  a good  library  in  every  decent  house  in  Britain, 
as  that  the  shepherd’s  ingle-nook  should  want  the 
salt  poke.'  Constable's  Miscellany  was  not  begun  till 
after  the  failure  of  the  great  publisher’s  house,  but 
it  presented  some  attraction,  and  enjoyed  for  several 
years  considerable  though  unequal  success.  The 
works  were  issued  in  monthly  numbers  at  a shilling 
each,  and  volumes  of  three  shillings  and  sixpence. 
Basil  Hall’s  Travels , and  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Burns , 
were  included  in  the  Miscellany , and  had  a great 
sale.  The  example  of  this  Edinburgh  scheme  stirred 
up  a London  publisher,  Mr  Murray,  to  attempt  a 
similar  series  in  the  English  metropolis.  Hence 
began  the  Family  Library , which  was  continued 
for  about  twelve  years,  and  ended  in  1841  with  the 
eightieth  volume.  Mr  Murray  made  his  volumes 
five  shillings  each,  adding  occasionally  engravings 
and  wood-cuts,  and  publishing  several  works  of 
standard  merit — including  Washington  Irving’s 
Sketch-Book , Southey’s  Life  of  Nelson,  &c.  Mr 
Irving  also  abridged  for  this  library  his  Life  of 
Columbus;  Mr  Lockhart  abridged  Scott’s  Life  of 
Napoleon;  Scott  himself  contributed  a Histoty  of 
Demonology  ; Sir  David  Brewster  a Life  of  Newton, 
and  other  popular  authors  joined  as  fellow-labourers. 
Another  series  of  monthly  volumes  was  begun  in 
1833,  under  the  title  of  Sacred  Classics,  being 
reprints  of  celebrated  authors  whose  labours  have 
been  devoted  to  the  elucidation  of  the  principles  of 
revealed  religion.  Two  clergymen — Mr  Cattermole 
and  Mr  Stebbing — edited  this  library,  and  it  was 
no  bad  index  to  their  fitness  for  the  office,  that 
they  opened  it  with  Jeremy  Taylor’s  Liberty  of 
Prophesying,  one  of  the  most  able,  high-spirited,  and 
eloquent  of  theological  or  ethical  treatises.  The 
Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library,  commenced  in  1830, 
and  included  a number  of  valuable  works,  embody- 
ing the  latest  information  and  discoveries,  chiefly 
on  geographical  and  historical  subjects.  Among 
its  contributors  were  Sir  John  Leslie,  Professors 
Jameson  and  Wallace,  Mr  Tytler,  Mr  James  Baillie 
Fraser,  Professor  Spalding,  ]Mr  Hugh  Murray,  Dr 
Crichton,  Dr  Russell,  &c.  The  convenience  of  the 
monthly  mode  of  publication  has  recommended  it 
to  both  publishers  and  readers:  editions  of  the 
works  of  Scott,  bliss  Edgeworth,  Byron,  Crabbe, 
Moore,  Southey,  the  fashionable  novels,  &c.,  have 
been  thus  issued  and  circulated  in  thousands.  Old 
standard  authors  and  grave  historians,  decked  out 
in  this  gay  monthly  attire,  have  also  enjoyed  a new 
lease  of  popularity:  Boswell’s  Johnson,  Shakspeare 
and  the  elder  dramatists,  Hume,  Smollett,  and 
Lingard,  Tytler’s  Scotland,  Cowper,  Robert  Hall, 
and  almost  innumerable  other  British  worthies, 
have  been  so  published.  Those  libraries,  however 
— notwithstanding  the  intentions  and  sanguine  pre- 
dictions of  Constable — were  chiefly  supported  by 
the  more  opulent  and  respectable  classes.  To  bring 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SERIAL  WORKS. 


ENCYCLOPEDIAS  AND 


science  and  literature  within  the  grasp  of  all,  a 
society  was  formed  in  1825  for  the  Diffusion  of 
Useful  Knowledge,  at  the  head  of  which  were 
several  statesmen  and  leading  members  of  the  Whig 
aristocracy — Lords  Auckland,  Althorp  (afterwards 
Earl  Spencer),  John  Russell,  Nugent,  Suffield,  Mr 
Henry  Brougham  (afterwards  Lord  Brougham),  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  Dr  Maltby  (then  bishop  of 
Durham),  Mr  Hallam,  Captain  Basil  Hall,  &c. 
Their  object  was  to  circulate  a series  of  treatises 
on  the  exact  sciences,  and  on  various  branches 
of  useful  knowledge,  in  numbers  at  sixpence  each. 
The  first  was  published  in  March  1827,  being  A 
Discourse  of  the  Objects , Advantages , and  Pleasures 
of  Science , by  Mr  Brougham.  Many  of  the  works 
issued  by  this  society  were  excellent  compendiums 
of  knowledge ; but  the  general  fault  of  their  scien- 
tific treatises  was,  that  they  were  too  technical  and 
abstruse  for  the  working-classes,  and  were,  in  point 
of  fact,  purchased  and  read  chiefly  by  those  in 
better  stations  of  life.  Another  series  of  works  of  a 
higher  cast,  entitled  The  Library  of  Entertaining 
Knowledge , in  four-shilling  volumes,  also  emanated 
from  this  society,  as  well  as  a very  valuable  and 
extensive  series  of  maps  and  charts,  forming  a 
complete  atlas.  A collection  of  portraits,  with 
biographical  memoirs,  and  an  improved  description 
of  almanac,  published  yearly,  formed  part  of  the 
society’s  operations.  Their  labours  have  on  the 
whole  been  beneficial ; and  though  the  demand  for 
cheap  literature  was  rapidly  extending,  the  steady 
impulse  and  encouragement  given  to  it  by  a society 
possessing  ample  funds  and  .large  influence,  must 
have  tended  materially  to  accelerate  its  progress.  It 
was  obvious,  however,  that  the  field  was  only  partly 
occupied,  and  that  large  masses,  both  in  the  rural 
and  manufacturing  districts,  were  unable  either  to 
purchase  or  understand  many  of  the  treatises  of 
the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge. 
Under  this  impression,  the  publishers  of  the  present 
work  commenced,  in  February  1832,  their  weekly 
periodical,  Chambers’s  Journal , consisting  of  original 
papers  on  subjects  of  ordinary  life,  science,  and 
literature,  and  containing  in  each  number  a quantity 
of  matter  equal  to  that  in  a number  of  the  society’s 
works,  and  sold  at  one-fourth  of  the  price.  The 
result  of  this  extraordinary  cheapness  was  a circu- 
lation soon  exceeding  fifty  thousand  weekly.  The 
Penny  Magazine , a respectable  periodical,  and  the 
Penny  Cyclopaedia,  were  afterwards  commenced  by 
the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge, 
and  attained  each  a very  great  circulation.  There 
are  now  numerous  other  labourers  in  the  same  field 


of  humble  usefulness ; and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to 
enter  a cottage  or  workshop  without  meeting  with 
some  of  these  publications — cheering  the  leisure 
moments  of  the  peasant  or  mechanic,  and,  by 
withdrawing  him  from  the  operation  of  the 
grosser  senses,  elevating  him  in  the  scale  of  rational 
beings. 

We  cannot  close  this  section  without  adverting 
to  the  Reviews  and  Magazines.  The  Edinburgh 
Review,  started  in  October  1802  under  circumstances 
elsewhere  detailed,  was  a work  entirely  new  in  our 
literature,  not  only  as  it  brought  talent  of  the  first 
order  to  bear  upon  periodical  criticism,  but  as  it 
presented  many  original  and  brilliant  disquisitions 
on  subjects  of  public  importance  apart  from  all 
consideration  of  the  literary  productions  of  the  day. 
It  met  with  instant  success.  Of  the  first  number, 
750  copies  were  printed.  The  demand  exceeded 
this  limited  supply : 750  more  were  thrown  off,  and 
successive  editions  followed.  In  1808,  the  circula- 
tion had  risen  to  about  9000 ; and  it  is  believed  to 
have  reached  its  maximum — from  which  it  has 
declined — in  1813,  when  12,000  or  13,000  copies 
were  printed.  The  Review,  we  need  not  say,  still 
occupies  an  important  position  in  the  English  world 
of  letters.  As  it  was  devoted  to  the  support  of 
Whig  politics,  the  Tory  or  ministerial  party  of  the 
day  soon  felt  a need  for  a similar  organ  of  opinion 
on  their  side,  and  this  led  to  the  establishment  of 
the  Quarterly  Review  in  1809.  The  Quarterly  has 
ever  since  kept  abreast  with  its  northern  rival  in 
point  of  ability,  and  is  said  to  have  at  length  out- 
stripped it  in  circulation.  The  Westminster  Review 
was  established  in  1824,  by  Mr  Bentham  and  his 
friends,  as  a medium  for  the  representation  of 
Radical  opinions.  In  talent,  as  in  popularity,  this 
work  has  been  unequal. 

The  same  improvement  which  the  Edinburgh 
Review  originated  in  the  critical  class  of  periodicals 
was  effected  in  the  department  of  the  magazines,  or 
literary  miscellanies,  by  the  establishment,  in  1817, 
of  Blackwood’s  Edinburgh  Magazine,  which  has  been 
the  exemplar  of  many  other  similar'  publications — 
Fraser’s , Tait’s,  the  New  Monthly,  Bentley’s  Miscel- 
lany, the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  &c.  The  New 
Monthly  was  conducted  for  several  years  by  Camp- 
bell, the  poet,  who  received  for  his  editorship  £600 
per  annum.  These  magazines  present  each  month 
a melange  of  original  articles  in  light  literature, 
mingled  with  papers  of  political  disquisition.  In 
all  of  them  there  is  noAV  literary  matter  of  merit 
equal  to  what  obtained  great  reputations  some  sixty 
or  eighty  years  since. 


$itt| 

REIGNS  OF  GEORGE  IV.,  WILLIAM  IV.,  AND  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 
FROM  18  3 0 TO  185  9. 


5 OME  of  the  great  names  which 

i^ustrate(l  the  former  period,  and 
have  made  it  famous,  still  remained 
j “A  M§  after  1830  to  grace  our  literature. 

^eir  strength,  however,  was  well- 
n>gh  spent — their  chief  honours  won; 
'wl-r aud  it  may  be  long  ere  the  world  see 
0j0-‘  again  such  a cluster  of  bright  and  eminent 
'?  contemporaries ! We  have  no  rivals  in  originality, 
power,  or  influence  equal  to  Scott,  Byron,  or  Words- 
worth— no  philosophical  critic  equal  to  Coleridge — 
no  lyrical  martial  poet  equal  to  Campbell — no  such 
combination  of  wit,  fancy,  and  poetic  art  as  was 
seen  in  Moore.  These  were  the  creative  masters 
of  the  last  generation.  At  present  we  have  vast 
activity  in  every  department  of  our  national 
literature,  and  in  some  there  is  unquestioned  pre- 
eminence. This  is  seen  in  the  revival  of  speculative 
philosophy — corresponding  with  the  diffusion  of 
physical  science — in  the  study  of  nature,  its  laws 
and  resources ; and  in  the  rich  abundance  of  our 
prose  fiction.  The  novel  has  indeed  become  a 
necessity  in  our  social  life — an  institution.  It  no 
longer  deals  with  great  heroic  events  and  perilous 
adventures — the  romance  of  history  or  chivalry. 
But  it  finds  nourishment  and  vigour  in  the  daily 
walks  and  common  scenes  of  life — in  the  develop- 
ment of  character,  intellect,  and  passion,  the 
struggles,  follies,  and  varieties  of  ordinary  exist- 
ence. Even  poetry  reflects  the  contemplative  and 
inquiring  spirit  of  the  age.  In  history,  biography, 
and  art-literature  the  same  tendencies  prevail— a 
desire  to  know  all  and  investigate  all.  Every  source 
of  information  is  sought  after — every  principle  or 
doctrine  in  taste,  criticism,  and  ethics  is  subjected 
to  scrutiny  and  analysis ; while  literary  journals 
and  cheap  editions,  multiplied  by  the  aid  of  steam, 
pour  forth  boundless  supplies.  To  note  all  these  in 
our  remaining  space  would  be  impossible ; many 
works  well  deserving  of  study  we  can  barely  glance 
at,  and  others  cannot  even  receive  notice.  In  the 
delicate  and  somewhat  invidious  task  of  dealing 
with  living  authors,  we  shall  seek  rather  to  afford 
information  and  awaken  interest  than  to  pronounce 
judgments ; and  we  must  trust  largely  to  the 
candour  and  indulgence  of  our  readers. 


POETS. 

The  chief  representative  poet  of  the  period  is 
Alfred  Tennyson,  who,  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth, 
by  universal  acclaim  succeeded  to  the  laurel, 

Greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  who  uttered  nothing  base, 

and  who  has,  like  his  predecessor,  slowly  won  his  j 
572 


way  to  fame.  But  before  noticing  the  laureate 
some  other  names  claim  attention. 

HARTLEY,  DERWENT,  AND  SARA  COLERIDGE. 

The  children  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  all 
inherited  his  love  of  literature,  and  the  eldest 
possessed  no  small  portion  of  kindred  poetical  gen  ins. 
Hartley  Coleridge  (1796-1849)  was  born  at 
Clevedon,  near  Bristol.  His  precocious  fancy  and 
sensibility  attracted  Wordsworth,  who  addressed 
some  lines  to  the  child,  then  only  six  years  of  age, 
expressive  of  his  anxiety  and  fears  for  his  future 
lot.  The  lines  were  prophetic.  After  a desultory, 
irregular  education,  Hartley  competed  for  a fellow- 
ship at  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  and  gained  it  with 
high  distinction ; but  at  the  close  of  the  probationary 
year,  he  was  judged  to  have  forfeited  it  on  the 
ground  mainly  of  intemperance.  He  then  attempted 
a literary  life  in  London,  but  was  unsuccessful. 
‘ The  cause  of  his  failure,’  says  his  brother,  ‘ lay  in 
himself,  not  in  any  want  of  literary  power,  of  which 
he  had  always  a ready  command,  and  which  he 
could  have  made  to  assume  the  most  popular  forms, 
but  he  had  lost  the  power  of  will.  His  steadiness 
of  purpose  was  gone,  and  the  motives  which  he  had 
for  exertion,  imperative  as  they  appeared,  were 
without  force.’  Hartley  next  tried  a school  at 
Ambleside,  but  his  scholars  soon  fell  off,  and  at 
length  he  trusted  solely  to  his  pen.  He  contributed 
to  Blackwood’s  Magazine , and  in  1832  wrote  for  a 
Leeds  publisher  Biographia  Borealis , or  Lives  of 
Distinguished  Northmen.  In  1833  appeared  Poems , 
vol.  i.  (no  second  volume  was  published),  and  in 
1834,  Lives  of  Northern  Worthies.  The  latter  years 
of  Hartley  Coleridge  were  spent  in  the  Lake  country 
at  Grasmere,  and  afterwards  on  the  banks  of  Eydal 
Water.  He  was  regarded  with  love,  admiration, 
and  pity  ; for,  with  all  his  irregularities  he  preserved 
a childlike  purity  and  simplicity  of  character,  and 
‘ with  hair  white  as  snow,’  he  had,  as  one  of  his 
friends  remarked,  ‘ a heai't  as  green  as  May.’  The 
works  of  Hartley  Coleridge  have  been  republished 
and  edited  by  his  brother — the  Poems,  with  a 
memoir,  two  volumes,  1851 ; Essays  and  Marginalia 
(miscellaneous  essays  and  criticism),  two  volumes, 
1851 ; and  Lives  of  Northern  Worthies , three  volumes, 
1852.  The  poetry  of  Hartley  Coleridge  is  of  the 
school  of  Wordsworth — unequal  in  execution,  for 
hasty  and  spontaneous  production  was  the  habit 
of  the  poet,  but  at  least  a tithe  of  his  verse  merits 
preservation,  and  some  of  his  sonnets  are  exquisite. 
His  prose  works  are  characterised  by  a vein  of 
original  thought  and  reflection,  and  by  great  clear- 
ness and  beauty  of  style.  His  Lives  of  the  Northern 
Worthies  form  one  of  the  most  agreeable  of  modern 
books,  introducing  the  reader  to  soldiers,  scholars, 

I poets,  and  statesmen. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


The  Rev.  Derwent  Coleridge  (born  at  Keswick 
in  1800)  is  principal  of  St  Mark’s  College,  Chelsea, 
and  a prebendary  of  St  Paul’s.  He  has  published 
a series  of  Sermons,  1839,  but  is  chiefly  known  as 
author  of  the  memoir  of  his  brother  Hartley,  and 
editor  and  annotator  of  some  of  his  father’s  waitings. 

Sara  Henry  Coleridge  (1803-1852)  was  also 
born  at  Keswick,  and  is  commemorated  in  Words- 
worth’s poem  of  The  Triad..  In  respect  of  learning 
and  philosophical  studies,  she  might  have  challenged 
comparison  with  any  of  the  erudite  ladies  of  the 
Elizabethan  period ; while  in  taste  and  fancy,  she 
well  supported  the  poetical  honours  of  her  family. 
The  works  of  Sara  Coleridge  are,  Phantasmion,  a 
fairy  tale,  1837,  and  Pretty  Lessons  for  Good  Chil- 
dren. She  translated  from  the  Latin  Martin  Dobriz- 
hofler’s  Account  of  the  Ahipones , three  volumes, 
1822,  and  enriched  her  father’s  works  with  valuable 
notes  and  illustrations.  This  accomplished  lady 
was  married  to  her  cousin,  Henry  Nelson 
Coleridge  (1800-1843),  who  was  author  of  a lively 
narrative,  Six  Months  in  the  West  Indies  in  1825  ; of 
an  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Greek  Classic 
Poets,  1830  ; and  editor  of  the  Literary  Remains  and 
of  many  of  the  writings  of  his  uncle,  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge. 

[Sonnets  by  Hartley  Coleridge.] 

What  was ’t  awakened  first  the  untried  ear 
Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  humankind  ? 

Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 

Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere  ? 

The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flowed  so  near, 
Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combined  ? 

The  note  of  bird  unnamed  ? The  startled  hind 
Bursting  the  brake — in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 

Of  her  new  lord  ? Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  presence  of  immaculate  feet  ? 

Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 

Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet  ? 

Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 

To  Shalcspcare. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 

Deeper  than  ocean — or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre.  Like  that  ark, 

Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high, 

O’er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  family, 

And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind ; 

So,  in  the  compass  of  a single  mind, 

The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 

To  make  all  worlds.  Great  Poet,  ’twas  thy  art 
To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate’er  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny. 

Or  the  firm  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart 

Can  make  of  man.  Yet  thou  wert  still  the  same, 

Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 

Address  to  Certain  Gold-fishes. 

[By  the  same.] 

Restless  forms  of  living  light 
Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings, 

Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a thousand  shadowings ; 

Various  as  the  tints  of  even, 

Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 

Reflected  on  your  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams  ! 

Harmless  warriors,  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scale  ; — 

Mail  of  Nature’s  own  bestowing, 

With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing — 


Fleet  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee ; 

Keener  than  the  Tartar’s  arrow, 

Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire  ? 

Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire? 

Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers, 

Such  as  we  fetch  from  Eastern  bowers, 

To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours  ? 

Upwards,  downwards,  now  ye  glance, 

Weaving  many  a mazy  dance ; 

Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 
When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes — 

Pretty  creatures  ! we  might  deem 
Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem — 

As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 

As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  lithe, 

As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play, 

As  when  ye  gleamed  in  far  Cathay ; 

And  yet,  since  on  this  hapless  earth 
There ’s  small  sincerity  in  mirth, 

And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 
To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart ; 

It  may  be,  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 

Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  rambles, 
Your  restless  roving  round  and  round 
The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound — 

Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain, 

An  endless  labour,  dull  and  vain ; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shining, 

Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining ! 

Nay — but  still  I fain  would  dream 
That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 

We  are  tempted  to  add  a few  sentences  of  Hartley 
Coleridge’s  graceful  and  striking  prose : 

[. History  and  Biography.] 

In  history  all  that  belongs  to  the  individual  is 
exhibited  in  subordinate  relation  to  the  commonwealth  ; 
in  biography,  the  acts  and  accidents  of  the  common- 
wealth are  considered  in  their  relation  to  the  individual, 
as  influences  by  which  his  character  is  formed  or  modi- 
fied— as  circumstances  amid  which  he  is  placed — as  the 
sphere  in  which  he  moves — or  the  materials  he  works 
with.  The  man  with  his  works,  his  words,  his  affec- 
tions, his  fortunes,  is  the  end  and  aim  of  all.  He  does 
not,  indeed,  as  in  a panegyric,  stand  alone  like  a statue ; 
but  like  the  central  figure  of  a picture,  around  which 
others  are  grouped  in  due  subordination  and  perspec- 
tive, the  general  circumstances  of  his  times  forming  the 
back  and  fore  ground.  In  history,  the  man,  like  the 
earth  on  the  Copernican  hypothesis,  is  part  of  a system ; 
in  biography,  he  is,  like  the  earth  in  the  ancient 
cosmogony,  the  centre  and  final  cause  of  the  system. 

[The  Opposing  Armies  on  Marston  Moor.] 

Fifty  thousand  subjects  of  one  king  stood  face  to  face 
on  Marston  Moor.  The  numbers  on  each  side  were  not 
far  unequal,  but  never  were  two  hosts  speaking  one 
language  of  more  dissimilar  aspects.  The  Cavaliers, 
flushed  with  recent  victory,  identifying  their  quarrel 
with  their  honour  and  their  love,  their  loose  locks 
escaping  beneath  their  plumed  helmets,  glittering  in  all 
the  martial  pride  which  makes  the  battle-day  like  a 
pageant  or  a festival,  and  prancing  forth  with  all  the 
grace  of  gentle  love,  as  they  would  make  a jest  of  death, 
while  the  spirit-rousing  strains  of  the  trumpets  made 
their  blood  dance,  and  their  steeds  prick  up  their  ears : 
the  Roundheads,  arranged  in  thick,  dark  masses,  their 
steel-caps  and  high-crowned  hats  drawn  close  over  their 
brows,  looking  determination,  expressing  with  furrowed 
foreheads  and  hard  closed  lips  the  inly-working  rage 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


which  was  blown  up  to  furnace  heat  by  the  extempore 
effusions  of  their  preachers,  and  found  vent  in  the 
terrible  denunciations  of  the  Hebrew  psalms  and  pro- 
phecies. The  arms  of  each  party  were  adapted  to  the 
nature  of  their  courage ; the  swords,  pikes,  and  pistols 
of  the  royalists,  light  and  bright,  were  suited  for  swift 
onset  and  ready  use ; while  the  ponderous  basket-hiited 
blades,  long  halberts,  and  heavy  fire-arms  of  the  parlia- 
mentarians were  equally  suited  to  resist  a sharp  attack, 
and  to  do  execution  upon  a broken  enemy.  The  royalists 
regarded  their  adversaries  with  that  scorn  which  the 
gay  and  high-born  always  feel  or  affect  for  the  precise 
or  sour-mannered  : the  soldiers  of  the  Covenant  looked 
on  their  enemies  as  the  enemies  of  Israel,  and  con- 
sidered themselves  as  the  elect  and  chosen  people — a 
creed  which  extinguished  fear  and  remorse  together. 
It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  there  was  more  praying 
on  one  side  or  more  swearing  cn  the  other,  or  which  to 
a truly  Christian  ear  had  been  the  most  offensive.  Yet 
both  esteemed  themselves  the  champions  of  the  church ; 
there  was  bravery  and  virtue  in  both;  but  with  this 
high  advantage  on  the  parliamentary  side — that  while 
the  aristocratic  honour  of  the  royalists  could  only  inspire 
a certain  number  of  gentlemen , and  separated  the  patri- 
cian from  the  plebeian  soldier,  the  religious  zeal  of  the 
puritans  bound  officer  and  man,  general  and  pioneer 
together,  in  a fierce  and  resolute  sympathy,  and  made 
equality  itself  an  argument  for  subordination.  The 
captain  prayed  at  the  head  of  his  company,  and  the 
general’s  oration  was  a sermon. 

[. Discernment  of  Character.'] 

I know  it  well. 

Yet  must  I still  distrust  the  elder  brother; 

For  while  he  talks— and  much  the  flatterer  talks— 

His  brother’s  silent  carriage  gives  disproof 
Of  all  his  boast : indeed  I marked  it  well,  &c. 

Mason's  Caractacus. 

This  is  beautifully  true  to  nature.  Men  are  deceived 
in  their  judgments  of  others  by  a thousand  causes — by 
their  hopes,  their  ambition,  their  vanity,  their  anti- 
pathies, their  likes  and  dislikes,  their  party  feelings, 
their  nationality,  but,  above  all,  by  their  presumptuous 
reliance  on  the  ratiocinative  understanding,  their  dis- 
regard to  presentiments  and  unaccountable  impressions, 
and  their  vain  attempts  to  reduce  everything  to  rule 
and  measure.  Women,  on  the  other  hand,  if  they  be 
very  women,  are  seldom  deceived,  except  by  love,  com- 
passion, or  religious  sympathy — by  the  latter  too  often 
deplorably;  but  then  it  is  not  because  their  better 
angel  neglects  to  give  warning,  but  because  they  are 
persuaded  to  make  a merit  of  disregarding  his  admoni- 
tions. The  craftiest  Iago  cannot  win  the  good  opinion 
of  a true  woman,  unless  he  approach  her  as  a lover,  an 
unfortunate,  or  a religious  confidant.  Be  it,  however, 
remembered  that  this  superior  discernment  in  character 
is  merely  a female  instinct,  arising  from  a more  delicate 
sensibility,  a finer  tact,  a clearer  intuition,  and  a natural 
abhorrence  of  every  appearance  of  evil.  It  is  a sense 
which  only  belongs  to  the  innocent,  and  is  quite  distinct 
from  the  tact  of  experience.  If,  therefore,  ladies  with- 
out experience  attempt  to  judge , to  draw  conclusions 
from  premises,  and  give  a reason  for  their  sentiments, 
there  is  nothing  in  their  sex  to  preserve  them  from 
error. 

J.  A.  HERAUD. 

John  Abraham  Heraud — an  author  of  curious 
and  varied  erudition,  and  long  connected  with 
periodical  literature — made  two  attempts  at  epic 
grandeur  in  his  poems,  The  Descent  into  Hell , 1830, 
and  Judgment  of  the  Flood , 1834.  He  has  also  been 
a contributor  to  the  unacted  drama,  having  written 
several  tragedies — Salavera , The  Two  Brothers , 
Videna,  &c.  Mr  Heraud  is,  or  rather  wast  in  poetry 
574 


what  Martin  was  in  art,  a worshipper  of  the  vast, 
the  remote,  and  the  terrible.  His  Descent  and 
Judgment  are  remarkable  poems — ‘ psychological 
curiosities,’  evincing  a great  amount  of  misplaced 
intellectual  and  poetic  power. 

MRS  SOUTHEY. 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles  (1787-1854)  was  the 
daughter  of  a retired  officer,  Captain  Charles  Bowles, 
of  Buckland,  near  Lymington,  Hants.  She  was, 
when  young,  deprived  of  both  her  parents,  and  was 
left  almost  wholly  to  the  care  of  the  nurse,  to  whom 
she  makes  grateful  reference  in  her  writings.  In 
her  country  retirement,  she  early  cultivated  liter- 
ature, and  produced  successively  Ellen  Fitz-Arthur , 
a poem,  1820 ; The  Widow's  Tale , and  other  Poems , 
1822 ; Solitary  Hours , Prose  and  Verse , 1826 ; 
Chapters  on  Churchyards — a series  of  tales  and 
sketches  in  prose,  originally  published  in  Black- 
wood's Magazine , and  reprinted  in  two  volumes, 
1829.  A long  and  affectionate  intimacy  subsisted 
between  Southey  and  Miss  Bowles,  and  on  the  5th 
of  June  1839  they  were  married.  ‘No  sacrifice,’ 
writes  one  of  the  lady’s  friends,  ‘could  have  been 
greater  than  the  one  she  was  induced  to  make  on 
the  occasion.  It  can  be  placed  beyond  all  doubt 
that  she  was  fully  prepared  for  the  distressing 
calamity  which  impended  over  both.  She  could 
have  had  no  mercenary  motive  in  the  matter,  for 
she  resigned  a larger  income  on  her  marriage,  than 
she  knew  she  could  receive  at  her  husband’s  death ; 
indeed,  the  sum  bequeathed  to  her  in  his  will  did 
not  amount  to  anything  like  the  income  she  had 
sacrificed.  She  consented  to  unite  herself  to  him, 
with  a sure  prevision  of  the  awful  condition  of  mind 
to  which  he  would  shortly  be  reduced — with  a cer- 
tain knowledge  of  the  injurious  treatment  to  which 
she  might  be  exposed — from  the  purest  motive  that 
could  actuate  a woman  in  forming  such  a connec- 
tion ; namely,  the  faint  hope  that  her  devotedness 
might  enable  her,  if  not  to  avert  the  catastrophe, 
to  acquire  at  least  a legal  title  to  minister  to  the 
sufferer’s  comforts,  and  watch  over  the  few  sad 
years  of  existence  that  might  remain  to  him ! ’ * The 
laureate  himself,  in  writing  to  his  friend  Walter 
Savage  Landor  on  the  subject  of  this  second  mar- 
riage, said,  he  had,  according  to  human  foresight, 
‘judged  well,  and  acted  wisely;’  but  to  his  family 
it  was  peculiarly  distasteful,  except  to  one  of  its 
members,  Edith  May  Southey,  married  to  Mr 
War  ter,  the  editor  of  the  posthumous  edition  of 
Southey’s  Doctor  and  Commonplace  Books.  To  this 
lady,  Mrs  Southey,  in  1847 — four  years  after  the 
death  of  the  laureate — dedicated  a volume  bearing 
the  title  of  Robin  Hood:  a Fragment , by  the  late 
Robert  Southey  and  Caroline  Southey ; with  other 
Fragments  and  Poems  by  R.  S.  and  C.  S.  So  early 
as  1823,  Southey  had  projected  a poem  on  Robin 
Hood,  and  asked  Caroline  Bowles  to  form  an  intel- 
lectual union  with  him  that  it  might  be  executed. 
Various  efforts  were  made  and  abandoned.  The 
metre  selected  by  Southey  was  that  of  his  poem  of 
Thalaba — a measure  not  only  difficult,  but  foreign 
to  all  the  ballad  associations  called  up  by  the  name 
of  Robin  Hood.  Caroline  Bowles,  however,  perse- 
vered, and  we  subjoin  two  stanzas  of  the  portion 
contributed  by  her. 

Majestically  slow 

The  sun  goes  down  in  glory — 

The  full-orbed  autumn  sun ; 

From  battlement  to  basement, 

* Athenceum , August  5,  1854. 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  mrs  southed. 

From  flanking  tower  to  flanking  tower, 

The  long-ranged  windows  of  a noble  hall 
Fling  back  the  flamy  splendour. 

Wave  above,  wave  below, 

Orange,  and  green,  and  gold, 

Russet  and  crimson, 

Like  an  embroidered  zone,  ancestral  woods, 

Close  round  on  all  sides  : 

Those  again  begirt 
In  wavy  undulations  of  all  hues 
To  the  horizon’s  verge  by  the  deep  forest. 

The  holy  stillness  of  the  hour, 

The  hush  of  human  life, 

Lets  the  low  voice  be  heard — 

The  low,  sweet,  solemn  voice 
Of  the  deep  woods — 

Its  mystical  murmuring 
Now  swelling  into  choral  harmony — 

Rich,  full,  exultant; 

In  tremulous  whispers  next, 

Sinking  away, 

A spiritual  undertone, 

Till  the  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeon 
Is  heard  alone ; 

And  the  going  in  the  tree-tops, 

Like  the  sound  of  the  sea 
And  the  tinkling  of  many  streamlets. 

The  poem  was  never  completed:  ‘clouds  were 
gathering  the  while,’  says  Mrs  Southey,  ‘ and  before 
the  time  came  that  our  matured  purpose  should 
bear  fruit,  the  fiat  had  gone  forth,  and  “ all  was  in 
the  dust.”’  The  remaining  years  of  the  poetess 
were  spent  in  close  retirement.  She  left  behind 
her,  it  is  said,  upwards  of  twelve  hundred  unpub- 
lished letters  from  the  pen  of  Southey,  a selection 
from  which,  on  literary  topics,  should  certainly  be 
given  to  the  world.  The  writings  of  Mrs  Southey, 
both  prose  and  verse,  illustrate  her  love  of  retire- 
ment, her  amiable  character,  and  poetical  suscep- 
tibilities. A vein  of  pathos  runs  through  most  of 
the  little  tales  or  novelettes,  and  colours  her  poetry. 

Mariner's  Hymn. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 

Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

Good  angels  lead  thee ! 

Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 

Steer  thy  course  steadily ; 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 

Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 

Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 

So — let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

‘ What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 

What  of  the  night?’ 

‘Cloudy — all  quiet — 

No  land  yet — all’s  right.’ 

Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 
Securest  to  thee. 

How  ! gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 

Clean  out  the  hold — 

Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 

There — let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 

Hurra  ! the  harbour’s  near — 

Lo  ! the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 
At  inlet  or  island ; 

Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 

Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam — 

Christian  ! cast  anchor  now — 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 

Once  upon  a Time. 

I mind  me  of  a pleasant  time, 

A season  long  ago ; 

The  pleasantest  I ’ve  ever  known, 

Or  ever  now  shall  know. 

Bees,  birds,  and  little  tinkling  rills, 

So  merrily  did  chime ; 

The  year  was  in  its  sweet  spring-tide, 

And  I was  in  my  prime. 

I ’ve  never  heard  such  music  since, 

From  every  bending  spray ; 

I ’ve  never  plucked  such  primroses, 

Set  thick  on  bank  and  brae. 

I ’ve  never  smelt  such  violets 
As  all  that  pleasant  time 

I found  by  every  hawthorn-root — 

When  I was  in  my  prime. 

Yon  moory  down,  so  black  and  bare, 

Was  gorgeous  then  and  gay 

With  golden  gorse — bright  blossoming — 

As  none  blooms  now-a-day. 

The  black-bird  sings  but  seldom  now 
Up  there  in  the  old  lime, 

Where  hours  and  hours  he  used  to  sing — 
When  I was  in  my  prime. 

Such  cutting  winds  came  never  then 
To  pierce  one  through  and  through  ; 

More  softly  fell  the  silent  shower, 

More  balmily  the  dew. 

The  morning  mist  and  evening  haze — 
Unlike  this  cold  gray  rime — 

Seemed  woven  warm  of  golden  air — 

When  I was  in  my  prime. 

And  blackberries — so  mawkish  now — 

Were  finely  flavoured  then  ; 

And  nuts — such  reddening  clusters  ripe 
I ne’er  shall  pull  again. 

Nor  strawberries  blushing  bright — as  rich 
As  fruits  of  sunniest  clime ; 

How  all  is  altered  for  the  worse 
Since  I was  in  my  prime ! 

The  Pauper's  Death-led. 

Tread  softly — bow  the  head — 

In  reverent  silence  bow— 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll — 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger ! however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow  ; 

There ’s  one  in  that  poor  shed— 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

575 

PROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Beneath  that  beggar’s  roof, 

Lo  ! Death  doth  keep  his  state : 
Enter — no  crowds  attend — 

Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace-gate. 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread ; 

One  silent  woman  stands 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 

A sob  suppressed — again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

Oh  ! change — oh  ! wondrous  change  — 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 

This  moment  there,  so  low, 

So  agonised,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

Oh  ! change — stupendous  change  ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  : 

The  sun  eternal  breaks — 

The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 


JOHN  EDMUND  READE. 

The  first  production  of  Mr  Reade  was  a drama 
entitled  Cain,  the  Wanderer,  1830.  It  was  followed 
by  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels,  Italy,  Revelations  of 
Life , &c.  The  poem  of  Italy,  in  the  Spenserian 
stanza,  recalls  Byron’s  Childe  Harold,  while  the 
Revelations  resemble  Wordsworth’s  Excursion.  We 
subjoin  a few  lines  of  description : 

We  looked  toward 

The  sun,  rayless  and  red  : emerging  slow 
From  a black  canopy  that  lowered  above. 

O’er  a blue  sky  it  hung  where  fleecy  clouds 
Swelled  like  low  hills  along  the  horizon’s  verge, 

Down  slanting  to  a sea  of  glory,  or 
O’er  infinite  plains  in  luminous  repose. 

Eastward  the  sulphurous  thunder-clouds  were  rolled : 
While  on  the  lurid  sky  beneath  was  marked 
The  visibly  falling  storm.  The  western  rays 
Braided  its  molten  edges,  rising  up 
Like  battlemented  towers  their  brazen  fronts 
Changing  perturbedly : from  which,  half  seen, 

The  imaginative  eye  could  body  forth 
Spiritual  forms  of  thrones  and  fallen  powers, 
Reflecting  on  their  scarred  and  fiery  fronts, 

The  splendours  left  behind  them. 

Cataline,  a drama  by  Mr  Reade,  is  well  conceived 
and  executed;  but  here  also  he  follows  another 
poetical  master,  Ben  Jonson.  In  1852  Mr  Reade 
collected  his  various  productions,  the  careful  product 
of  many  years. 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

This  gentleman  (1802-1839)  was  early  dis- 
tinguished for  scholarship  and  poetic  talent.  In 
conjunction  with  a school-fellow — the  Rev.  John 
Moultrie,  who  also  wrote  some  pleasing  poetry — 
Mr  Praed  set  up  a paper  called  The  Etonian ; and 
he  "was  associated  with  Macaulay  as  a writer  in 
Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine.  The  son  of  a wealthy 
London  banker,  Praed  entered  public  life  as  a Con- 
servative politician,  sat  in  the  House  of  Commons 
for  English  boroughs,  and  for  a short  period  in  1835 


held  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Control. 
His  poetical  pieces  were  contributed  to  periodicals, 
and  were  first  collected  by  an  American  publisher. 
They  are  light,  fashionable  sketches,  yet  executed 
with  great  truth  and  sprightliness.  The  following 
is  an  excellent  portrait  of  a wealthy  English  bachelor 
and  humorist : 

Quince. 

Near  a small  village  in  the  West, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 
To  guard  from  evil  church  and  steeple, 

There  stood — alas,  it  stands  no  more  ! — 

A tenement  of  brick  and  plaster, 

Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four, 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and  master. 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall, 

To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peasants ; 

He  won  the  sympathies  of  all 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents. 

Though  all  the  parish  was  at  strife, 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  carriage, 

And  laughed,  and  loved  a quiet  life, 

And  shrunk  from  Chancery-suits  and  marriage. 

Sound  was  his  claret  and  his  head, 

Warm  was  his  double  ale  and  feelings; 

His  partners  at  the  whist-club  said 
That  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings. 

He  went  to  church  but  once  a week, 

Yet  Dr  Poundtext  always  found  him 
An  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around  him. 

Asylums,  hospitals,  and  schools 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen  ; 

All  who  subscribed  to  them  were  fools— 

And  he  subscribed  to  half  a dozen. 

It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 
Were  always  able,  never  willing ; 

And  so  the  beggar  at  the  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a shilling. 

Some  public  principles  he  had, 

But  was  no  flatterer  nor  fretter ; 

He  rapped  his  box  when  things  were  bad, 

And  said  : ‘ I cannot  make  them  better.’ 

And  much  he  loathed  the  patriot’s  snort, 

And  much  he  scorned  the  placeman’s  snuffle, 

And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short 

With,  ‘ Patience,  gentlemen,  and  shuffle  ! ’ 

For  full  ten  years  his  pointer,  Speed, 

Had  couched  beneath  his  master’s  table, 

For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 
Had  fattened  in  his  master’s  stable. 

Old  Quince  averred  upon  his  troth 

They  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon ; 

And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both 
With  his  own  hands,  six  days  in  seven. 

Whene’er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock, 

Quicker  than  thought  the  village  slatterns 
Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock, 

And  took  up  Mrs  Glasse  or  patterns. 

Alice  was  studying  baker’s  bills ; 

Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knitters ; 

Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills ; 

And  Nell  by  chance  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain.  And  while  decay 

Came  like  a tranquil  moonlight  o’er  him, 

And  found  him  gouty  still  and  gay, 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore  him ; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


POETS. 


Ilis  rugged  smile  and  easy  chair, 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures, 

His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powdered  hair 

Were  themes  for  very  strange  conjectures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 

Had  crazed  him  -with  excess  of  knowledge ; 

Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in  love 
Before  he  came  away  from  college ; 

Some  darkly  hinted  that  His  Grace 

Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  without  him  ; 

Some  whispered,  with  a solemn  face, 

That  there  was  something  odd  about  him. 

I found  him  at  threescore  and  ten 
A single  man,  but  bent  quite  double ; 

Sickness  was  coming  on  him  then 
To  take  him  from  a world  of  trouble. 

Ho  prosed  of  sliding  down  the  hill, 
Discovered  he  grew  older  daily ; 

One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will, 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr  Baillie. 

And  so  he  lived,  and  so  he  died  ; 

When  last  I sat  beside  his  pillow, 

He  shook  my  hapd  : ‘ Ah  me  !’  he  cried, 

‘ Penelope  must  wear  the  willow  ! 

Tell  her  I hugged  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket, 

And  say  that  when  I call  again 
I ’ll  bring  a licence  in  my  pocket. 

‘I’ve  left  my  house  and  grounds  to  Fag — 

I hope  his  master’s  shoes  will  suit  him ! — 

And  I ’ve  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag, 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake,  or  shoot  him. 

The  vicar’s  wife  will  take  old  Fox, 

She  ’ll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser ; 

And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 

My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

‘ Whether  I ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine ; 

It ’s  only  clear  that  I shall  rot, 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  vermin. 

My  debts  are  paid.  But  Nature’s  debt 
Almost  escaped  my  recollection  ! 

Tom,  we  shall  meet  again ; and  yet 
I cannot  leave  you  my  direction  !’ 


THOMAS  HOOD. 

Thomas  IIood  (1798-1845)  appeared  before  the 
public  chiefly  as  a comic  poet  and  humorist,  but 
several  of  his  compositions,  of  a different  nature, 
shew  that  he  was  also  capable  of  excelling  in  the 
grave,  pathetic,  and  sentimental.  lie  had  thoughts 
‘too  deep  for  tears,’  and  rich  imaginative  dreams 
and  fancies,  which  were  at  times  embodied  in  con- 
tinuous strains  of  pure  and  exquisite  poetry,  but 
more  frequently  thrown  in,  like  momentary  shadows, 
among  his  light  and  fantastic  effusions.  His  wit 
and  sarcasm  were  always  well  applied.  This 
ingenious  and  gifted  man  was  a native  of  London, 
son  of  one  of  the  partners  in  the  bookselling  firm 
of  Vernor,  Hood,  and  Sharpe.  lie  was  educated  for 
the  counting-house,  and  at  an  early  age  was  placed 
under  the  charge  of  a city  merchant.  His  health, 
however,  was  found  unequal  to  the  close  confine- 
ment and  application  required  at  the  merchant’s 
desk,  and  he  was  sent  to  reside  with  some  relatives 
in  Dundee,  of  which  town  his  father  was  a native. 
While  resident  there,  Mr  Hood  evinced  his  taste  for 
literature.  He  contributed  to  the  local  newspapers, 
and  also  to  the  Dundee  Magazine,  a periodical  of 

89 


considerable  merit.  On  the  re-establishment  of  his 
health,  he  returned  to  London,  and  was  put  appren- 
tice to  a relation,  an  engraver.  At  this  employ- 
ment he  remained  just  long  enough  to  acquire  a 
taste  for  drawing,  which  was  afterwards  of  essential 
service  to  him  in  illustrating  his  poetical  produc- 
tions. About  the  year  1821  he  had  adopted  litera- 
ture as  a profession,  and  was  installed  as  regular 


Thomas  Hood. 


assistant  to  the  London  Magazine,  which  at  that 
time  was  left  without  its  founder  and  ornament, 
Mr  John  Scott,  who  was  unhappily  killed  in  a duel. 
On  the  cessation  of  this  work,  Mr  IIood  wrote  for 
various  periodicals.  He  was  some  time  editor  of 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  also  of  a magazine 
which  bore  his  own  name.  His  life  was  one  of 
incessant  exertion,  embittered  by  ill  health  and  all 
the  disquiets  and  uncertainties  incidental  to  author- 
ship. When  almost  prostrated  by  disease,  the 
government  stepped  in  to  relieve  him  with  a small 
pension ; and  after  his  premature  death  in  May 
1845,  his  literary  friends  contributed  liberally 
towards  the  support  of  his  widow  and  family.  The 
following  lines,  written  a few  weeks  before  his 
death,  possess  a peculiar  and  melancholy  interest : 

Farewell  Life  ! my  senses  swim, 

And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 

Thronging  the  shadows  cloud  the  light, 

Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 

Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 

Upwards  steals  a vapour  chill ; 

Strong  the  earthy  odour  grows— 

I smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

W elcome  Life  ! the  spirit  strives  : 

Strength  returns,  and  hope  revives ; 

Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn — 

O’er  the  earth  there  comes  a bloom ; 

Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 

Warm  perfume  for  vapour  cold — 

I smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 

April,  1815. 

Mr  Hood’s  productions  arc  in  various  styles  and 
forms.  Ilis  first  work,  Whims  and  Oddities,  attained 

577 


FSOM  1830  CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

to  great  popularity.  Their  most  original  feature 
was  the  use  which  the  author  made  of  puns — a 
figure  generally  too  contemptible  for  literature,  but 
which,  in  Hood’s  hands,  became  the  basis  of  genuine 
humour,  and  often  of  the  purest  pathos.  He  after- 
wards (1827)  tried  a series  of  National  Tales , but 
his  prose  was  less  attractive  than  his  verse.  A 
regular  novel,  Tylney  Hall,  was  a more  decided 
failure.  In  poetry  he  made  a great  advance.  The 
Plea  of  the  Midsummer'  Fairies  is  a rich  imaginative 
work,  superior  to  his  other  productions.  As  editor 
of  the  Comic  Annual,  and  also  of  some  of  the  literary 
annuals,  Mr  Hood  increased  his  reputation  for 
sportive  humour  and  poetical  fancy ; and  he  con- 
tinued the  same  vein  in  his  Up  the  Rhine — a satire 
on  the  absurdities  of  English  travellers.  In  1813, 
he  issued  two  volumes  of  Whimsicalities,  a Periodical 
Gathering,  collected  chiefly  from  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine.  His  last  production  of  any  importance 
was  the  Song  of  the  Shirt , which  first  appeared  in 
Punch , and  was  as  admirable  in  spirit  as  in  com- 
position. This  striking  picture  of  the  miseries  of 
the  poor  London  sempstresses  struck  home  to  the 
heart,  and  aroused  the  benevolent  feelings  of  the 
public.  In  most  of  Hood’s  works,  even  in  his  puns 
and  levities,  there  is  a ‘ spirit  of  good  * directed  to 
some  kindly  or  philanthropic  object.  He  had  serious 
and  mournful  jests,  which  were  the  more  effective 
from  their  strange  and  unexpected  combinations. 
Those  who  came  to  laugh  at  folly,  remained  to 
sympathise  with  want  and  suffering.  The  ‘ various 
pen  ’ of  Hood,  said  Douglas  Jerrold,  ‘ touched  alike 
the  springs  of  laughter  and  the  sources  of  tears.’ 
Charles  Lamb  said  Hood  carried  two  faces  under 
his  namesake,  a tragic  one  and  a comic. 

Of  Hood’s  graceful  and  poetical  pirns,  it  would  be 
easy  to  give  abundant  specimens.  The  following 
stanzas  form  part  of  an  inimitable  burlesque, 
Lament  for  the  Decline  of  Chivalry : 

Well  hast  thou  said,  departed  Burke, 

All  chivalrous  romantic  work 
Is  ended  now  and  past ! 

That  iron  age,  which  some  have  thought 
Of  mettle  rather  overwrought, 

Is  now  all  over- cast. 

Ay  ! where  are  those  heroic  knights 
Of  old — those  armadillo  wights 
Who  wore  the  plated  vest  ? 

Great  Charlemagne  and  all  his  peers 
Are  cold — enjoying  with  their  spears 
An  everlasting  rest. 

The  bold  King  Arthur  sleepeth  sound ; 

So  sleep  his  knights  who  gave  that  Bound 
Old  Table  such  eclat ! 

Oh,  Time  has  plucked  the  plumy  brow  ! 

And  none  engage  at  tumeys  now 
But  those  that  go  to  law ! 

* * * 

Where  are  those  old  and  feudal  clans, 

Their  pikes,  and  bills,  and  partisans ; 

Then*  hauberks,  jerkins,  buffs  ? 

A battle  was  a battle  then, 

A breathing  piece  of  work ; but  men 
Fight  now  with  powder  puffs ! 

The  curtal  axe  is  out  of  date ! 

The  good  old  cross-bow  bends  to  Fate ; 

’Tis  gone  the  archer’s  craft ! 

No  tough  arm  bends  the  springing  yew, 

And  jolly  draymen  ride,  in  lieu 
Of  Death,  upon  the  shaft. 

* * * 
m 

In  cavils  when  will  cavaliers 
Set  ringing  helmets  by  the  ears, 

And  scatter  plumes  about  ? 

Or  blood — if  they  are  in  the  vein? 

That  tap  will  never  run  again — 

Alas,  the  casque  is  out ! 

No  iron-crackling  now  is  scored 
By  dint  of  battle-axe  or  sword, 

To  find  a vital  place ; 

Though  certain  doctors  still  pretend, 

Awhile,  before  they  kill  a friend, 

To  labour  through  his  case ! 

Farewell  then,  ancient  men  of  might ! 

Crusader,  errant-squire,  and  knight ! 

Our  coats  and  customs  soften ; 

To  rise  would  only  make  you  weep ; 

Sleep  on  in  rusty  iron  sleep, 

As  in  a safety-coffin  ! 

The  grave,  lofty,  and  sustained  style  of  Hood  is 
much  more  rare  than  this  punning  vein ; but  a few 
verses  will  shew  how  truly  poetical  at  times  was 
his  imagination — how  rapt  his  fancy.  The  diction 
of  the  subjoined  stanzas  is  rich  and  musical,  and 
may  recall  some  of  the  finest  flights  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan poets.  We  quote  from  an  Ode  to  the  Moon. 

Mother  of  light ! how  fairly  dost  thou  go 
Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led  ! 

Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  silver  bow 
Fabled  of  old  ? Or  rather  dost  thou  tread 
Those  cloudy  summits  thence  to  gaze  below, 

Like  the  wild  chamois  on  her  Alpine  snow, 

Where  hunter  never  climbed — secure  from  dread  ? 

A thousand  ancient  fancies  I have  read 
Of  that  fair  presence,  and  a thousand  wrought, 
Wondrous  and  bright, 

Upon  the  silver  light, 

Tracing  fresh  figures  with  the  artist  thought. 

What  art  thou  like  ? Sometimes  I see  thee  ride 
A far-bound  galley  on  its  perilous  way ; 

Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  their  silvery  spray  : 
Sometimes  behold  thee  glide, 

Clustered  by  all  thy  family  of  stars, 

Like  a lone  widow  through  the  welkin  wide, 

Whose  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mare : 
Sometimes  I watch  thee  on  from  steep  to  steep, 
Timidly  lighted  by  thy  vestal  torch, 

Till  in  some  Latinian  cave  I see  thee  creep, 

To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep, 

Leaving  thy  splendour  at  the  jagged  porch. 

0 thou  art  beautiful,  howe’er  it  be ! 

Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  named — 

And  he  the  veriest  Pagan  who  first  framed 
A silver  idol,  and  ne’er  worshipped  thee ; 

It  is  too  late,  or  thou  shouldst  have  my  knee — 

Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesian  vows, 

And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  brows ; 

Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  mild  moon, 

Behind  those  chestnut  boughs, 

Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet ; 

1 will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon, 

In  many  a thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet, 

And  bless  thy  dainty  face  whene’er  we  meet. 

In  the  Gem,  a literary  annual  for  1829,  Mr  Hood 
published  a ballad,  entitled  The  Dream  of  Eugene  i 
Aram,  which  is  also  remarkable  for  its  exhibition  of  i 
the  secrets  of  the  human  heart,  and  its  deep  and 
powerful  moral  feeling.  It  is  perhaps  to  be  regretted 
that  an  author,  who  had  undoubted  command  of  the 
higher  passious  and  emotions,  should  so  seldom  have 

POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


frequented  this  sacred  ground,  but  have  preferred 
the  gaieties  of  mirth  and  fancy.  lie  probably  saw 
that  his  originality  was  more  apparent  in  the  latter, 
and  that  popularity  was  in  this  wray  more  easily 
attained.  Immediate  success  was  of  importance  to 
him ; and  until  the  position  of  literary  men  be  ren- 
dered more  secure  and  unassailable,  we  must  often 
be  content  to  lose  works  which  can  only  be  the 
‘ ripened  fruits  of  wise  delay.’ 

The  following  is  one  of  Hood’s  most  popular 
effusions  in  that  style  which  the  public  identified  as 
peculiarly  his  own : 

A Parental  Ode  to  my  Son , aged  Three  Years  and  Five 
Months. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf  ! 

(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself  ! 

(My  love,  he ’s  poking  peas  into  his  ear  !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather  light, 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 

(Good  heavens ! the  child  is  swallowing  a pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 

(The  door  ! the  door ! he  ’ll  tumble  down  the  stair  !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 

(Why,  Jane,  he  ’ll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 

In  love’s  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  (Drat  the  boy  ! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth ; 

Fit  playfellow  for  Fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 

(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth’s  Elysium  ever  sunny, 

(Another  tumble — that ’s  his  precious  nose  !) 

Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope  ! 

(lie  ’ll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature’s  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 

(He  ’ll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He  ’ll  climb  upon  the  table,  that ’s  his  plan  !) 

Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He ’s  got  a knife !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick, 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 

Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk 
With  many  a lamb-like  frisk, 

(He ’s  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 

(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 

(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 


Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I  ’ll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 

I cannot  write,  unless  he ’s  sent  above  !) 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 

Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  ‘ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ’ 

‘ Work — work — work ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

And  work — work — work ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 

It ’s  oh  ! to  be  a slave, 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work ! 

‘ Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 

Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Till  over  the  buttons  I fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a dream  ! 

‘ 0 men,  with  sisters  dear ! 

0 men,  with  mothers  and  wives, 

It  is  not  linen  you  ’re  wearing  out ! 

But  human  creatures’  lives ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a double  thread, 

A shroud  as  well  as  a shirt. 

‘ But  why  do  I talk  of  Death  ? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone ; 

I hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I keep, 

Oh,  God  ! that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

‘ Work — work — work  ! 

My  labour  never  flags  ; 

And  what  arc  its  wages  ? A bed  of  straw, 

A crust  of  bread,  an'd  rags. 

That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — ■ 
A table — a broken  chair ; 

And  a wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

c Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work — work-  -work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Scam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

* Work — work — work ! 

In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright — 
While  underneath  the  caves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  shew  me  their  sunny  backs 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

m 


prom  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  T0  1859. 


‘ Oh  ! but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I used  to  feel, 

Before  I knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a meal ! 

‘ Oh,  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A respite  however  brief ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 

A little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread.’ 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 

Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich ! 

She  sang  this  ‘Song  of  the  Shirt !’ 

The  following  stanzas  possess  a sad  yet  sweet 
reality  of  tone  and  imagery : 

The  Death-bed. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  mom  came  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

Hood’s  works  have  been  collected  into  four  volumes  : 
Poems  (now  in  their  tenth  edition) ; Poems  of  Wit 
and  Humour  (in  their  seventh  edition);  Hood’s 
Own,  or  Laughter  from  Year  to  Year;  and  Whims 
and  Oddities  in  Prose  and  Verse. 


DAVID  MACBETH  MOIR. 

Under  the  signature  of  the  Greek  letter  Delta, 
David  Macbeth  Moir  (1798-1851)  was  a large 
poetical  contributor  to  Blackwood’s  Magazine.  His 
best  pieces  are  grave  and  tender,  but  he  also  wrote 
some  lively  jeux  d’ esprit,  and  a humorous  Scottish 
tale,  The  Autobiography  of  Mansie  Wauch,  which 
was  published  in  one  volume,  in  1828.  His  other 
works  are,  The  Legend  of  Genevieve,  with  other  Tales 
and  Poems,  1824  ; Outlines  of  the  Ancient  History  of 
Medicine,  1831 ; Domestic  Verses,  1843  ; and  Sketches 
of  the  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past  Half-century , 
1851.  llis  poetical  works,  edited  by  Thomas  Aird — 
who  prefixed  to  the  collection  an  excellent  memoir 
of  the  poet— were  published  in  two  volumes  in  1852. 

580 


Mr  Moir  practised  as  a surgeon  in  his  native  town 
of  Musselburgh,  never  neglecting  his  professional 
duties,  and  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him.  Of  his 
poetry,  Mr  Aird  says : ‘ In  Delta’s  earlier  strains 
there  are  generally  fancy,  and  feeling,  and  musical 
rhythm,  but  not  much  thought.  His  love  of  poetry, 
however,  never  suffered  abatement,  and  as  “ a 
maker,”  he  was  improving  to  the  very  last.  To 


unfaded  freshness  of  heart  he  was  adding  riper 
thought:  such  was  one  of  the  prime  blessings  of 
his  pure  nature  and  life.  Reserve  and  patience  were 
what  he  wanted,  in  order  to  be  a greater  name 
in  song  than  he  is.’  We  subjoin  a beautiful  and 
pathetic  domestic  poem,  which  Jeffrey  highly 
admired. 

Casa  Wappy. 

[Casa  Wappy  was  the  self-conferred  pet  name  of  an  infant 
son  of  the  poet,  snatched  away  after  a very  brief  illness.] 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy — 

The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy  ? 

Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth, 

Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth ; 

Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  death, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 

Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 
When  thou  didst  die ; 

Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 

Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Thou  wert  a vision  of  delight 
To  bless  us  given ; 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A type  of  heaven  : 

So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother’s  heart, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 


i*OETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Thy  bright  brief  day  knew  no  decline, 

’Twas  cloudless  joy ; 

Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine, 

Beloved  boy ! 

This  morn  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 

That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay, 

And  ere  a third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 
Earth’s  undefiled ; 

Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 
Our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 

Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate’s  decree  ; 

Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Do  what  I may,  go  where  I will, 

Thou  meet’st  my  sight ; 

There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A form  of.  light ! 

I feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 

I see  thee  smile,  I hear  thee  speak — 

Till  oh  ! my  heart  is  like  to  break, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Methinks  thou  smil’st  before  me  now, 

With  glance  of  stealth  ; 

The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 
In  buoyant  health : 

I see  thine  eyes’  deep  violet  light, 

Thy  dimpled  cheek  camationed  bright, 

Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shews  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 

Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball ; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

A corner  holds  thine  empty  chair, 

Thy  playthings  idly  scattered  there, 

But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last  thy  every  word — 

To  glad,  to  grieve — 

Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 
On  summer’s  eve ; 

In  outward  beauty  undecayed, 

Death  o’er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 

And  like  the  rainbow  thou  didst  fade, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  blind  blank  night 
The  chamber  fills ; 

We  pine  for  thee  when  morn’s  first  light 
Reddens  the  hills : 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 

All,  to  the  wallflower  and  wild  pea, 

Are  changed— we  saw  the  world  through  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

And  though,  perchance,  a smile  may  gleam 
Of  casual  mirth, 

It  doth  not  own,  whate’cr  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth : 

We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair ; 

We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening-prayer  ! 

All  day  we  miss  thee,  everywhere, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life’s  spring  bloom, 

Down  to  the  appointed  house  below, 

The  silent  tomb. 


nON.  MRS  NORTON. 


But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 

The  cuckoo  and  * the  busy  bee,’ 

Return — but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

’Tis  so ; but  can  it  be  (while  flowers 
Revive  again) 

Man’s  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 
For  aye  remain  ? 

Oh  ! can  it  be,  that  o’er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed,  should  yearly  wave, 
Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save? — 

Casa  Wappy ! 

It  cannot  be  : for  were  it  so 
Thus  man  could  die, 

Life  were  a mockery,  Thought  were  woe, 
And  Truth  a lie ; 

Heaven  were  a coinage  of  the  brain, 
Religion  frenzy,  Virtue  vain, 

And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  0 dear,  lost  child ! 

- With  beam  of  love, 

A star,  death’s  uncongenial  wild 
Smiling  above ; 

Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph’s  road, 

That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Yet  ’tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 

That  heaven  is  God’s,  and  thou  art  there, 
With  him  in  joy  : 

There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes, 
There  beauty’s  stream  for  ever  flows, 

And  pleasure’s  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Farewell,  then — for  a while,  farewell — 
Pride  of  my  heart ! 

It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell 
Thus  torn  apart : 

Time’s  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee  : 

And,  dark  howe’er  life’s  night  may  be, 
Beyond  the  grave  I ’ll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

TIIE  nON.  MRS  NORTON. 


* Lady  Elizabeth,  the  mother  of  Mrs  Norton,  was  a daughter 
of  tho  Earl  of  Antrim.  She  wrote  a novel,  entitled  Carwcll. 
Those  who  trace  the  preponderance  of  talent  to  tho  mother’s 
side,  may  concludo  that  a fresh  infusion  of  Irish  genius, 
eloquent  imagination,  and  pathos,  was  added  to  the  Sheridan 
family  by  this  connection. 


The  family  of  Sheridan  has  been  prolific  of  genius, 
and  Mrs  Norton  has  well  sustained  the  honours 
of  her  race.  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  by  his 
marriage  with  Miss  Linley,  had  one  son  Thomas, 
whose  convivial  wit  and  fancy  were  scarcely  less 
bright  or  less  esteemed  than  those  of  his  father,  and 
whose  many  amiable  qualities  greatly  endeared 
him  to  his  friends.  He  died  at  a comparatively 
early  age  (in  1817),  while  filling  the  office  of  \ 
colonial  paymaster  at  tho  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  In  t 
1806,  Thomas  Sheridan  was  in  Scotland,  in  the 
capacity  of  aide-de-camp  to  Lord  Moira,  and  he 
there  married  a daughter  of  Colonel  and  Lady 
Elizabeth  Callender  of  Craigforth,  by  whom  lie  had 
a numerous  family.*  Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah 
was  one  of  three  sisters,  and  in  her  nineteenth 
year  (July  30,  1827)  she  was  married  to  the 


fhom  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  son  of  the  first  Lord 
Grantley,  and  now  one  of  the  police  magistrates  of 
London.  This  union  was  dissolved  in  1840,  after 
Mrs  Norton  had  been  the  object  of  suspicion  and 
persecution  of  the  most  painful  description.  Prom 
her  childhood,  Caroline  Sheridan  wrote  verses.  Her 
first  publication  was  an  attempt  at  satire,  The 
Dandies'  Rout , to  which  she  added  illustrative  draw- 
ings. In  her  seventeenth  year  she  wrote  The 
Sorrows  of  Rosalie , a poem  embodying  a pathetic 
story  of  village-life,  but  which  was  not  published 
until  1829.  Her  next  work  was  a poem  founded 
on  the  ancient  legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew, 
and  which  she  termed  The  Undying  One , 1831. 
A novel,  The  Wife  and  Woman's  Reward , 1835, 
was  Mrs  Norton’s  next  production.  In  1840 
appeared  The  Dream , and  other  Poems.  In  1845, 
she  published  The  Child  of  the  Islands,  a poem 
written  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
when  he  should  be  able  to  attend  to  social  questions, 
to  the  condition  of  the  people  ‘ in  a land  and  time 
wherein  there  is  too  little  communication  between 
classes,’  and  too  little  expression  of  sympathy  on 
the  part  of  the  rich  towards  the  poor.  This  was  no 
new  theme  of  the  poetess : she  had  years  before 
written  letters  on  the  subject,  which  were  published 
in  the  Times  newspaper.  At  Christmas  1846,  Mrs 
Norton  issued  two  poetical  fairy  tales,  Aunt  Carry's 
Ballads  for  Children,  which  charm  alike  by  their 
graceful  fancy  and  their  brief  sketches  of  birds, 
woods,  and  flowers.  In  1850  appeared  a volume  of 
Tales  and  Sketches  in  Prose  and  Verse , being  a col- 
lection of  miscellaneous  pieces  originally  contributed 
to  periodicals.  Next  year  a bolder  venture  was 
tried,  a three-volume  novel,  entitled  Stuart  of 
Dunleath,  a Story  of  Modern  Times.  The  incidents 
of  this  story  are  too  uniformly  sad  and  gloomy— 
partly  tinged  by  the  bitter  experiences  of  the 
authoress ; but  it  presents  occasional  passages  of 
humour  and  sarcasm,  and  a more  matured  though 
unfavourable  knowledge  of  the  world.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  mind  of  the  accomplished  writer  had  been 
directed  more  closely  to  ‘the  evils  done  under  the 
sun,’  and  that  she  longed  passionately  for  power  to 
redress  them.  Her  subsequent  public  appearances 
have  been  of  the  same  character,  chiefly  on  topics 
of  social  importance ; and  the  recent  improvement 
in  the  English  marriage  laws  may  be  traced 
primarily  to  the  eloquent  pleadings  and  untiring 
exertions  of  Mrs  Norton.  ‘ This  lady,’  says  a writer 
in  the  Quarterly  Review , ‘is  the  Byron  of  our 
modern  poetesses.  She  has  very  much  of  that 
intense  personal  passion  by  which  Byron’s  poetry 
is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper 
communion  with  man  and  nature  of  Wordsworth. 
She  has  also  Byron’s  beautiful  intervals  of  tender- 
ness, his  strong  practical  thought,  and  his  forceful 
expression.  It  is  not  an  artificial  imitation,  but 
a natural  parallel.’  The  truth  of  this  remark,  both 
as  to  poetical  and  personal  similarity  of  feeling,  will 
be  seen  from  the  following  impassioned  verses, 
addressed  by  Mrs  Norton  to  the  Duchess  of  Suther- 
land, to  whom  she  has  dedicated  her  poems.  The 
simile  of  the  swan  flinging  aside  the  ‘ turbid  drops  ’ 
from  her  snowy  wing  is  certainly  worthy  of  Byron. 
But  happily  Mrs  Norton  has  none  of  Byron’s 
misanthropy  or  cold  hopelessness. 

To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland. 

Once  more,  my  harp  ! once  more,  although  I thought 
Never  to  wake  thy  silent  strings  again, 

A wandering  dream  thy  gentle  chords  have  wrought, 
And  my  sad  heart,  which  long  hath  dwelt  in  pain, 
582 


Soars,  like  a wild  bird  from  a cypress  bough, 

Into  the  poet’s  heaven,  and  leaves  dull  grief  below  1 

And  unto  thee — the  beautiful  and  pure — 

Whose  lot  is  cast  amid  that  busy  world 
Where  only  sluggish  Dulness  dwells  secure, 

And  Fancy’s  generous  wing  is  faintly  furled  ; 

To  thee — whose  friendship  kept  its  equal  truth 
Through  the  most  dreary  hour  of  my  embittered  youth — 

I dedicate  the  lay.  Ah  ! never  bard, 

In  days  when  poverty  was  twin  with  song ; 

Nor  wandering  harper,  lonely  and  ill-starred, 

Cheered  by  some  castle’s  chief,  and  harboured  long ; 
Not  Scott’s  Last  Minstrel,  in  his  trembling  lays, 

W oke  with  a warmer  heart  the  earnest  meed  of  praise  ! 

For  easy  are  the  alms  the  rich  man  spares 
To  sons  of  Genius,  by  misfortune  bent ; 

But  thou  ga^st  me,  what  woman  seldom  dares, 

Belief — in  spite  of  many  a cold  dissent — 

When,  slandered  and  maligned,  I stood  apart 
From  those  whose  bounded  power  hath  wrung,  not 
crushed,  my  heart. 

Thou,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name, 

And  scoffed  to  see  me  feebly  stem  the  tide ; 

When  some  were  kind  on  whom  I had  no  claim, 

And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied, 

And  some,  who  might  have  battled  for  my  sake, 
Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  the  world  would 
take — 

Thou  gav’st  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor, 

Kind  words  and  holy  wishes,  and  true  teal’s ; 

The  loved,  the  near  of  kin  could  do  no  more, 

Who  changed  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying  years, 
But  clung  the  closer  when  I stood  forlorn. 

And  blunted  Slander’s  dart  with  their  indignant  scorn. 

For  they  who  credit  crime,  are  they  who  feel 
Their  own  hearts  weak  to  unresisted  sin ; 

Memory,  not  judgment,  prompts  the  thoughts  which 
steal 

O’er  minds  like  these,  an  easy  faith  to  win ; 

And  tales  of  broken  truth  are  still  believed 
Most  readily  by  those  who  have  themselves  deceived. 

But  like  a white  swan  down  a troubled  stream, 

Whose  ruffling  pinion  hath  the  power  to  fling 
Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  darkly  gleam 
And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  wing — 

So  thou,  with  queenly  grace  and  gentle  pride, 

Along  the  world’s  dark  waves  in  purity  dost  glide  : 

Thy  pale  and  pearly  cheek  was  never  made 
To  crimson  with  a faint  false-hearted  shame  ; 

Thou  didst  not  shrink — of  bitter  tongues  afraid, 

Who  hunt  in  packs  the  object  of  their  blame ; 

To  thee  the  sad  denial  still  held  true, 

For  from  thine  own  good  thoughts  thy  heart  its  mercy 
drew. 

And  though  my  faint  and  tributary  rhymes 
Add  nothing  to  the  glory  of  thy  day, 

Yet  every  poet  hopes  that  after-times 
Shall  set  some  value  on  his  votive  lay ; 

And  I would  fain  one  gentle  deed  record, 

Among  the  many  such  with  which  thy  life  is  stored. 

So  when  these  lines,  made  in  a mournful  hour, 

Are  idly  opened  to  the  stranger’s  eye, 

A dream  of  thee,  aroused  by  Fancy’s  power, 

Shall  be  the  first  to  wander  floating  by  ; 

And  they  who  never  saw  thy  lovely  face 
Shall  pause,  to  conjure  up  a vision  of  its  grace  ! 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  t.  k.  iiervey — a.  a.  watts. 


In  a poem  entitled  Autumn  there  is  a noble  simile : 

I know  the  gray  stones  in  the  rocky  glen, 

Where  the  wild  red  deer  gather  one  by  one, 

And  listen,  startled,  to  the  tread  of  men 

Which  the  betraying  breeze  hath  backward  blown  ! 
So — with  such  dark  majestic  eyes,  where  shone 
Less  terror  than  amazement — nobly  came 

Peruvia’s  Incas,  when,  through  lands  unknown, 

The  cruel  conqueror  with  the  blood-stained  name 
Swept  with  pursuing  sword  and  desolating  flame. 

In  The  Winter’s  Walk , a poem  written  after  walking 
with  Mr  Rogers  the  poet,  Mrs  Norton  has  the  follow- 
ing graceful  and  picturesque  lines : 

Gleamed  the  red  sun  athwart  the  misty  haze 
Which  veiled  the  cold  earth  from  its  loving  gaze, 
Feeble  and  sad  as  hope  in  sorrow’s  hour — 

But  for  thy  soul  it  still  had  warmth  and  power ; 

Not  to  its  cheerless  beauty  wert  thou  blind  ; 

To  the  keen  eye  of  thy  poetic  mind 

Beauty  still  lives,  though  nature’s  flowrets  die, 

And  wintry  sunsets  fade  along  the  sky  ! 

And  nought  escaped  thee  as  we  strolled  along, 

Nor  changeful  ray,  nor  bird’s  faint  chirping  song. 
Blessed  with  a fancy  easily  inspired, 

All  was  beheld,  and  nothing  unadmired  ; 

From  the  dim  city  to  the  clouded  plain, 

Not  one  of  all  God’s  blessings  given  in  vain. 

The  affectionate  attachment  of  Rogers  to  Sheridan, 
in  his  last  and  evil  days,  is  delicately  touched  upon 
by  the  poetess : 

And  when  at  length  he  laid  his  dying  head 
On  the  hard  rest  of  his  neglected  bed, 

He  found  (though  few  or  none  around  him  came 
Whom  he  had  toiled  for  in  his  hour  of  fame — 

Though  by  his  prince  unroyally  forgot, 

And  left  to  struggle  with  his  altered  lot), 

By  sorrow  weakened,  by  disease  unnerved — 

Faithful  at  least  the  friend  he  had  not  served  : 

For  the  same  voice  essayed  that  hour  to  cheer, 

Which  now  sounds  welcome  to  his  grandchild’s  ear ; 
And  the  same  hand,  to  aid  that  life’s  decline, 

Whose  gentle  clasp  so  late  was  linked  in  mine. 

[Picture  of  Twilight .] 

Oh,  twilight ! Spirit  that  dost  render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments ; melting  heaven  with  earth, 
Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams ; 

Thy  hour  to  all  is  welcome  ! Faint  and  sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant’s  homeward  feet, 
Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil, 

Sees  the  low  sunset  gild  the  cultured  soil, 

And,  though  such  radiance  round  him  brightly  glows, 
Marks  the  small  spark  his  cottage-window  throws. 
Still  as  his  heart  forestalls  his  weary  pace, 

Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face, 

Recalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life — 

His  rosy  children  and  his  sunburnt  wife, 

To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labour  spent. 

The  rich  man’s  chariot  hath  gone  whirling  past, 

And  these  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  all  that  show  of  pride, 

Then  to  their  tasks  turned  quietly  aside  ; 

But  him  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home, 

Fixed  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come  ; 

The  fagot  sent  for  when  the  fire  grew  dim, 

The  frugal  meal  prepared,  arc  all  for  him  ; 

For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy, 

For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  joy, 

For  him — who  plods  his  sauntering  way  along, 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song  ! 


Dear  art  thou  to  the  lover,  thou  sweet  light, 

Fair  fleeting  sister  of  the  mournful  night ! 

As  in  Impatient  hope  he  stands  apart, 

Companioned  only  by  his  beating  heart, 

And  with  an  eager  fancy  oft  beholds 
The  vision  of  a white  robe’s  fluttering  folds. 

TnOMAS  KIBBLE  HERVEY — ALARIO  A.  WATTS. 

Mr  Hervey,  a native  of  Manchester  (1804-1859), 
for  some  years  conducted  the  Athenaeum  literary 
journal,  and  contributed  to  various  other  periodicals. 
He  published  Australia , and  other  Poems , 1824  ; The 
Poetical  Sketch-hook , 1829  ; Illustrations  of  Modern 
Sculpture , 1832 ; The  English  Helicon , 1841 ; &c. 
Ilis  verses  are  characterised  by  delicate  fancy  and 
feeling. 

The  Convict  Ship. 

Morn  on  the  waters  ! and,  purple  and  bright, 

Bursts  on  the  billows  the  flushing  of  light ; 

O’er  the  glad  waves,  like  a child  of  the  sun, 

See  the  tall  vessel  goes  gallantly  on ; 

Full  to  the  breeze  she  unbosoms  her  sail, 

And  her  pennon  streams  onward,  like  hope,  in  the  gale ; 
The  winds  come  around  her,  in  murmur  and  song, 
And  the  surges  rejoice  as  they  bear  her  along : 

See  ! she  looks  up  to  the  golden-cdged  clouds, 

And  the  sailor  sings  gaily  aloft  in  the  shrouds  : 
Onward  she  glides,  amid  ripple  and  spray, 

Over  the  waters — away,  and  away  ! 

Bright  as  the  visions  of  youth,  ere  they  part, 

Passing  away,  like  a dream  of  the  heart ! 

Who — as  the  beautiful  pageant  sweeps  by, 

Music  around  her,  and  sunshine  on  high — 

Pauses  to  think,  amid  glitter  and  glow, 

Oh  ! there  be  hearts  that  are  breaking  below  ! 

Night  on  the  waves  ! — and  the  moon  is  on  high, 
Hung,  like  a gem,  on  the  brow  of  the  sky, 

Treading  its  depths  in  the  power  of  her  might, 

And  turning  the  clouds,  as  they  pass  her,  to  light ! 
Look  to  the  waters ! — asleep  on  their  breast, 

Seems. not  the  ship  like  an  island  of  rest? 

Bright  and  alone  on  the  shadowy  main, 

Like  a heart-cherished  home  on  some  desolate  plain  ! 
Who — as  she  smiles  in  the  silvery  light, 

Spreading  her  wings  on  the  bosom  of  night, 

Alone  on  the  deep,  as  the  moon  in  the  sky, 

A phantom  of  beauty — could  deem  with  a sigh, 

That  so  lovely  a thing  is  the  mansion  of  sin, 

And  that  souls  that  are  smitten  lie  bursting  within  ? 
Who,  as  he  watches  her  silently  gliding, 

Remembers  that  wave  after  wave  is  dividing 
Bosoms  that  sorrow  and  guilt  could  not  sever, 

Hearts  which  are  parted  and  broken  for  ever  ? 

Or  deems  that  he  watches,  afloat  on  the  wave, 

The  death-bed  of  hope,  or  the  young  spirit’s  grave  ? 

’Tis  thus  with  our  life,  while  it  passes  along, 

Like  a vessel  at  sea,  amidst  sunshine  and  song  ! 

Gaily  we  glide,  in  the  gaze  of  the  world, 

With  streamers  afloat,  and  with  canvas  unfurled  ; 

All  gladness  and  glory,  to  wandering  eyes, 

Yet  chartered  by  sorrow,  and  freighted  with  sighs  : 
Fading  and  false  is  the  aspect  it  wears, 

As  the  smiles  we  put  on,  just  to  cover  our  tears ; 

And  the  withering  thoughts  which  the  world  cannot 
know, 

Like  heart-broken  exiles,  lie  burning  below ; 

Whilst  the  vessel  drives  on  to  that  desolate  shoro 
Where  the  dreams  of  our  childhood  arc  vanished  and 
o’er. 

The  J’oclical  Sketches  (1822)  and  Lyrics  of  the 

Heart  (1850)  of  Mr  Alaric  Alexander  Watts 

083 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


are  similar  to  the  productions  of  Mr  Hervey — tender, 
melodious,  and  picturesque,  but  without  any  marked 
originality  or  force.  Their  author — a native  of 
London,  born  in  1799 — was  also  connected  with 
the  periodical  press,  having  conducted  for  various 
periods  the  Leeds  Intelligencer,  the  United  Service 
Gazette , the  Standard,  &c.  Mr  "Watts  was  among 
the  first  editors  of  those  illustrated  annual  volumes 
once  so  numerous,  in  which  poems  and  short  prose 
sketches  from  popular  or  fashionable  writers  of  the 
day  were  associated  with  highly  finished  engravings. 
The  Literary  Souvenir  ran  to  ten  volumes  (1824-34), 
and  the  Cabinet  of  Modem  Art  to  three  volumes 
(1835-38).  Though  generally  very  poor  in  point  of 
literary  merit,  these  illustrated  annuals  unquestion- 
ably fostered  a taste  for  art  among  the  people.  In 
1853,  a pension  of  £300  was  settled  upon  Mr  Watts. 

Ten  Years  Ago. 

Ten  years  ago,  ten  years  ago, 

Life  was  to  us  a fairy  scene ; 

And  the  keen  blasts  of  worldly  woe 
Had  seared  not  then  its  pathway  green. 

Youth  and  its  thousand  dreams  were  ours, 

Feelings  we  ne’er  can  know  again ; 

Unwithered  hopes,  unwasted  powers, 

And  frames  unworn  by  mortal  pain  : 

Such  was  the  bright  and  genial  flow 
Of  life  with  us — ten  years  ago  ! 

Time  has  not  blanched  a single  hair 
That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  now ; 

Nor  hath  the  cankering  touch  of  care 
Left  even  one  furrow  on  thy  brow. 

Thine  eyes  are  blue  as  when  we  met, 

In  love’s  deep  truth,  in  earlier  years ; 

Thy  cheek  of  rose  is  blooming  yet, 

Though  sometimes  stained  by  secret  tears ; 

But  where,  oh  ! where’s  the  spirit’s  glow, 

That  shone  through  all — ten  years  ago  ! 

I,  too,  am  changed — I scarce  know  why — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay ; 

And  youth  and  health,  and  visions  high, 

Melt  like  a wreath  of  snow  away  ; 

Time  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill ; 

Though  worn  in  this  world’s  sickening  strife, 

In  soul  and  form,  I linger  still 
In  the  first  summer  month  of  life ; 

Yet  journey  on  my  path  below, 

Oh ! how  unlike — ten  years  ago ! 

But  look  not  thus  : I would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hopes  that  thou  must  share, 

To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive 
When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair. 

We’ve  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather, 

When  winds  were  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom, 

And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together, 

And  still  will  keep,  ’mid  storm  and  gloom  ; 
Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 
When  life  was  young — ten  years  ago ! 

Has  fortune  frowned  ? Her  frowns  were  vain, 

For  hearts  like  ours  she  could  not  chill ; 

Have  friends  proved  false  ? Their  love  might  wane, 
But  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer  still. 

Twin  barks  on  this  world’s  changing  wave, 
Steadfast  in  calms,  in  tempests  tried  ; 

In  concert  still  our  fate  we  ’ll  brave, 

Together  cleave  life’s  fitful  tide ; 

Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow, 

Youth’s  first  wild  dreams — ten  years  ago  ! 

534 


Have  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed, 

And  watched  our  first-born  blossom  die  ? 

Hoped,  till  the  shade  of  hope  had  fled, 

Then  wept  till  feeling’s  fount  was  dry  ? 

Was  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour, 

To  think,  ’mid  mutual  tears  and  sighs, 

Our  bud  had  left  its  earthly  bower, 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise  ? 

What  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  woe 
Were  heartless  joys — ten  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  it  is  sweet,  when  heaven  is  bright, 

To  share  its  sunny  beams  with  thee ; 

But  sweeter  far,  ’mid  clouds  and  blight, 

To  have  thee  near  to  weep  with  me. 

Then  dry  those  tears — though  something  changed 
From  what  we  were  in  earlier  youth, 

Time,  that  hath  hopes  and  friends  estranged, 

Hath  left  us  love  in  all  its  truth  ; 

Sweet  feelings  we  would  not  forego 
For  life’s  best  joys — ten  years  ago. 

GEORGE  DARLEY — SIR  AUBREY  AND  AUBREY  STEPHEN 
DE  VERE — RICHARD  CHEVENIX  TRENCH. 

A critic  has  said  that  many  * pensive  fancies, 
thoughtful  graces,  and  intellectual  interests  blossom 
beneath  our  busier  life  and  our  more  rank  and 
forward  literature.’  Some  of  these  we  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  pointing  out,  and  among  the  graceful 
contributors  of  such  poetry,  we  may  include  Mr 
Darley,  author  of  Sylvia,  or  the  May  Queen,  1827 ; 
of  Thomas  a Becket  and  Ethelstan , dramas  ; Errors  of 
Extasie,  and  other  poems.  Mr  Darley — who  was  a 
native  of  Dublin — ched  at  a comparatively  early  age 
in  1846.  He  was  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  one 
of  the  writers  in  the  Athenceum,  and  an  accomplished 
critic.  Sir  Aubrey  de  Yere  (1807-1846)  was 
author  of  two  dramatic  poems,  Julian  the  Apostate , 
1822,  and  The  Duke  of  Mercia,  1823 ; also  of  A 
Song  of  Faith,  and  other  Poems,  1842.  The  last 
volume  is  dedicated  to  Wordsworth,  who  had 
perused  and  ‘ rewarded  with  praise  ’ some  of  the 
pieces.  Sir  Aubrey’s  third  son,  Aubrey  Stephen 
de  Yere  (born  in  1812),  has  published  several 
pieces  both  in  verse  and  prose — The  Waldenses , with 
other  Poems,  1842 ; The  Search  after  Proserpine,  1843 ; 
Mary  Tudor,  a Drama,  1847 ; Sketches  of  Greece  ancl 
Turkey,  1850;  &c.  Several  poetical  works  proceeded 
from  the  pen  of  the  Key.  R.  C.  Trench,  dean  of 
Westminster,  before  he  had  become  absorbed  in 
severer  studies  and  pursuits.  These  are — The  Story 
of  Justin  Martyr,  1835 ; Sabbation,  1838  ; Elegiac 
Poems,  1850;  Poems  from  Eastern  Sources;  &c. 

THOMAS  AIRD. 

A few  poems  of  wild  imaginative  grandeur,  with 
descriptive  sketches  of  Scottish  rural  scenery  and 
character,  have  been  written  by  Thomas  Aird, 
born  at  Bowden,  county  of  Roxburgh,  August  28, 
1802.  Educated  at  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  Mr 
Aird  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Professor  Wilson, 
Mr  Moir,  and  other  contributors  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine;  and  in  this  favourite  periodical  he  pub- 
lished most  of  the  poetical  pieces  collected  into  one 
volume,  1848,  and  reprinted  in  1856.  Two  volumes 
of  prose  sketches  liaye  also  proceeded  from  his 
pen — Religious  Characteristics,  1827,  and  The  Old 
Bachelor  in  the  Old  Scottish  Village,  1848.  For 
nearly  a quarter  of  a century,  Mr  Aird  has  con- 
ducted a Conservative  weekly  newspaper,  The 
Dumfries  Herald.  Resident  in  a beautiful  country, 
with  just  employment  enough  to  keep  the  mind 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITER, ATURE. 


THOMAS  AIRD. 


from  rusting,  and  with  the  regard  of  many  friends, 
his  life  has  glided  on  in  a simple  and  happy  tran- 
quillity as  rare  among  poets  as  it  is  enviable. 

[From  1 The  DeviFs  Dream  on  Mount  ATcsbeck .’] 
Beyond  the  north  where  Ural  hills  from  polar  tempests 
run, 

A glow  went  forth  at  midnight  hour  as  of  unwonted  sun ; 
Upon  the  north  at  midnight  hour*  a mighty  noise  was 
heard, 

As  if  with  all  his  trampling  waves  the  Ocean  were 
unbarred ; 

And  high  a grizzly  Terror  hung,  upstarting  from  below, 
Like  fiery  arrow  shot  aloft  from  some  unmeasured  bow. 

’Twas  not  the  obedient  seraph’s  form  that  burns  before 
the  Throne, 

Whose  feathers  are  the  pointed  flames  that  tremble  to 
be  gone : 

With  twists  of  faded  glory  mixed,  grim  shadows  wove 
his  wing ; 

An  aspect  like  the  hurrying  storm  proclaimed  the 
Infernal  King. 

And  up  he  went,  from  native  might,  or  holy  sufferance 
given, 

As  if  to  strike  the  starry  boss  of  the  high  and  vaulted 
heaven. 

Aloft  he  turned  in  middle  air,  like  falcon  for  his  prey, 
And  bowed  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  as  if  to  flee  away ; 
Till  broke  a cloud— a phantom  host,  like  glimpses  of  a 
dream, 

Sowing  the  Syrian  wilderness  with  many  a restless 
gleam : 

He  knew  the  flowing  chivalry,  the  swart  and  tuvbaned 
train, 

That  far  had  pushed  the  Moslem  faith,  and  peopled  well 
his  reign : 

With  stooping  pinion  that  outfiew  the  Prophet’s  winged 
steed, 

In  pride  throughout  the  desert  bounds  he  led  the 
phantom  speed ; 

But  prouder  yet  he  turned  alone,  and  stood  on  Tabor 
hill, 

With  scorn  as  if  the  Arab  swords  had  little  helped  his 
wiH : 

With  scorn  he  looked  to  west  away,  and  left  their  train 
to  die, 

Like  a thing  that  had  awaked  to  life  from  the  gleaming 
of  his  eye. 

What  hill  is  like  to  Tabor  hill  in  beauty  .and  in  fame? 
There  in  the  sad  days  of  his  flesh  o’er  Christ  a glory 
came ; 

And  light  o’erflowed  him  like  a sea,  and  raised  his 
shining  brow; 

And  the  voice  went  forth  that  bade  all  worlds  to  God’s 
Beloved  bow. 

One  thought  of  this  came  o’er  the  fiend,  and  raised  his 
startled  form, 

And  up  he  drew  his  swelling  skirts  as  if  to  meet  the 
storm. 

With  wing  that  stripped  the  dews  and  birds  from  off 
the  boughs  of  night, 

Down  over  Tabor’s  trees  he  whirled  his  fierce  dis- 
tempered flight ; 

And  westward  o’er  the  shadowy  earth  he  tracked  his 
earnest  way, 

Till  o’er  him  shone  the  utmost  stars  that  hem  the  skirts 
of  day ; 

Then  higher  ’neath  the  sun  he  flew  above  all  mortal  ken, 
Yet  looked  what  he  might  see  on  earth  to  raise  his 
pride  again. 


He  saw  a form  of  Africa  low  sitting  in  the  dust ; 

The  feet  were  chained,  and  sorrow  thrilled  throughout 
the  sable  bust. 

The  idol,  and  the  idol’s  priest  he  hailed  upon  the  earth, 
And  every  slavery  that  brings  wild  passions  to  the  birth. 
All  forms  of  human  wickedness  were  pillars  of  his  fame, 
All  sounds  of  human  misery  his  kingdom’s  loud  acclaim. 

Exulting  o’er  the  rounded  earth  again  he  rode  with 
night, 

Till,  sailing  o’er  the  untrodden  top  of  Aksbeck  high  and 
white, 

He  closed  at  once  his  weary  wings,  and  touched  the 
shining  hill ; 

For  less  his  flight  was  easy  strength  than  proud  uncon- 
quered will : 

For  sin  had  dulled  his  native  strength,  and  spoilt  the 
holy  law 

Of  impulse  whence  the  archangel  forms  their  earnest 
being  draw. 

[Hero  he  was  visited  by  a dream  or  series  of  visions.  While 
plunged  in  the  lake  of  God’s  wrath,  and  fixed  there,  as  it 
seemed,  for  thousands  of  years,  in  dull,  passive  lethargy,  a 
new  heavenly  vision  burst  upon  the  fiend.] 

At  last,  from  out  the  barren  womb  of  many  thousand 
years, 

A sound  as  of  the  green-leaved  earth  his  thirsty  spirit 
cheers ; 

And  oh ! a presence  soft  and  cool  came  o’er  his  burning 
dream, 

A form  of  beauty  clad  about  with  fair  creation’s  beam ; 
A low  sweet  voice  was  in  his  ear,  thrilled  through  his 
inmost  soul, 

And  these  the  words  that  bowed  his  heart  with  softly 
sad  control : 

‘ No  sister  e’er  hath  been  to  thee  with  pearly  eyes  of  love ; 
No  mother  e’er  hath  wept  for  thee,  an  outcast  from  above ; 
No  hand  hath  come  from  out  the  cloud  to  wash  thy 
scarred  face ; 

No  voice  to  bid  thee  lie  in  peace,  the  noblest  of  thy  race  : 
But  bow  thee  to  the  God  of  love,  and  all  shall  yet  be 
well, 

And  yet  in  days  of  holy  rest  and  gladness  thou  shalt 
dwell. 

‘ And  thou  shalt  dwell  ’midst  leaves  and  rills  far  from 
this  torrid  heat, 

And  I with  streams  of  cooling  milk  will  bathe  thy 
blistered  feet ; 

And  when  the  troubled  tears  shall  start  to  think  of  all 
the  past, 

My  mouth  shall  haste  to  kiss  them  off,  and  chase  thy 
sorrows  fast ; 

And  thou  shalt  walk  in  soft  white  light  with  kings  and 
priests  abroad, 

And  thou  shalt  summer  high  in  bliss  upon  the  hills  of 
God.’ 

[The  fiend  sprung  upward  in  haughty  defiance.] 

Ilis  pride  -would  have  the  works  of  God  to  shew  the 
signs  of  fear, 

With  flying  angels  to  and  fro  to  watch  his  dread  career ; 
But  all  was  calm : lie  felt  night’s  dews  upon  his  sultry 
wing, 

And  gnashed  at  the  impartial  laws  of  nature’s  mighty 
King ; 

Above  control,  or  show  of  hate,  they  no  exception  made, 
But  gave  him  dews,  like  aged  thorn,  or  little  grassy  blade. 

Terrible,  like  the  mustering  manes  of  the  cold  and  curly 
sea, 

So  grew  his  eye’s  enridged  gleams;  and  doubt  and 
danger  flee : 

685 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1850. 


Like  veteran  band’s  grim  valour  slow,  that  moves  to 
avenge  its  chief, 

Up  slowly  drew  the  fiend  his  form,  that  shook  with 
proud  relief : 

And  he  will  upward  go,  and  pluck  the  windows  of  high 
heaven, 

And  stir  their  calm  insulting  peace,  though  tenfold  hell 
be  given. 

Quick  as  the  levin,  whose  blue  forks  lick  up  the  life 
of  man, 

Aloft  he  sprung,  and  through  his  wings  the  piercing 
north  wind  ran ; 

Till,  like  a glimmering  lamp  that ’s  lit  in  lazar-house  by 
night, 

To  see  what  mean  the  sick  man’s  cries,  and  set  his  bed 
aright, 

Which  in  the  damp  and  sickly  air  the  sputtering 
shadows  mar, 

So  gathered  darkness  high  the  fiend,  till  swallowed  like 
a star. 

What  judgment  from  the  tempted  heavens  shall  on  his 
head  go  forth  ? 

Down  headlong  through  the  firmament  he  fell  upon  the 
north. 

The  stars  are  up  untroubled  all  in  the  lofty  fields  of  air : 

The  will  of  God ’s  enough,  without  Ilis  red  right  arm 
made  bare. 

’Twas  He  that  gave  the  fiend  a space,  to  prove  him  still 
the  same ; 

Then  bade  wild  Hell,  with  hideous  laugh,  be  stirred  her 
prey  to  claim. 

The  Siccdloio. 

The  swallow,  bonny  birdie,  comes  sharp  twittering  o’er 
the  sea, 

And  gladly  is  her  carol  heard  for  the  sunny  days  to  be ; 

She  shares  not  with  us  wintry  glooms,  but  yet,  no 
faithless  thing, 

She  hunts  the  summer  o’er  the  earth  with  wearied 
little  wing. 

The  lambs  like  snow  all  nibbling  go  upon  the  ferny  hills ; 

Light  winds  are  in  the  leafy  woods,  and  birds,  and 
bubbling  rills ; 

Then  welcome,  little  swallow,  by  our  morning  lattice 
heard, 

Because  thou  com’st  when  Nature  bids  bright  days  be 
thy  reward ! 

Thine  be  sweet  mornings  with  the  bee  that ’s  out  for 
honey-dew ; 

And  glowing  be  the  noontide  for  the  grasshopper  and  you  ; 

And  mellow  shine,  o’er  day’s  decline,  the  sun  to  light 
thee  home : 

What  can  molest  thy  airy  nest  ? sleep  till  the  day-spring 
come ! 

The  river  blue  that  rushes  through  the  valley  hears  thee 
sing, 

And  murmurs  much  beneath  the  touch  of  thy  light- 
dipping wing. 

The  thunder-cloud,  over  us  bowed,  in  deeper  gloom  is 
seen, 

When  quick  relieved  it  glances  to  thy  bosom’s  silvery 
sheen. 

The  silent  Power  that  brought  thee  back  with  leading- 
strings  of  love 

To  haunts  where  first  the  summer  sun  fell  on  thee  from 
above, 

. Shall  bind  thee  more  to  come  aye  to  the  music  of  our 
leaves, 

For  here  thy  young,  where  thou  hast  sprung,  shall  glad 
thee  in  our  eaves. 

68G 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Mr  Tennyson,  the  most  popular  poet  of  his  times, 
is  the  youngest  of  a poetical  brotherhood  of  three— 
Erederick,  Charles,  and  Alfred — sons  of  the  late 
Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  a Lincolnshire 
clergyman.*  Alfred  was  born  in  the  parsonage  of 


Somersby,  near  Spilsbv,  about  the  year  1810.  He  | 
was  entered  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and 
whilst  an  undergraduate,  wrote  a prize  poem ; also 
Poems  by  Two  Brothers — written  in  conjunction  with 
his  brother  Charles — and  Poems , chiefly  Lyrical 
bearing  his  own  name  and  the  date  1830.  The  last 
of  these  works  contained  poems  since  altered  and 
incorporated  in  later  collections.  These  early  pro- 
ductions had  the  faults  of  youthful  genius — irregu- 
larity, indistinctness  of  conception,  florid  puerilities, 
and  occasional  affectation.  In  such  poems,  however, 
as  Mariana,  Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights , and 
Claribel,  it  was  obvious  that  a true  original  poet 
had  arisen.  In  1S33,  Mr  Tennyson  issued  another 
volume,  shewing  an  advance  in  poetical  power  and 
in  variety  of  style,  though  the  collection  met  with 
severe  treatment  from  the  critics.  For  nine  years 
the  poet  continued  silent.  In  1842,  he  reappeared 
with  Poems , in  two  volumes — this  third  series  being 
a reprint  of  some  of  the  pieces  in  the  former 
volumes  considerably  altered,  with  many  new 
poems,  including  the  most  striking  and  popular  of 
all  his  productions.  These  were  of  various- classes 
— fragments  of  legendary  and  chivalrous  story, 
as  Morte  d' Arthur,  Godiva,  &c. ; or  pathetic  and 

* The  mother  of  the  laureate  was  also  of  a clerical  family, 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Stephen  Fytclie.  Ilis  grandfather  was 
a Lincolnshire  squire,  owner  of  Bayons  Manor  and  Usseiby 
Hall— properties  now  held  by  the  poet’s  uncle,  the  Right  lion. 
Charles  Tennyson  D’Eyncourt,  M.P.,  who  assumed  the  name 
of  D’Eyncourt  to  commemorate  his  descent  from  that  ancient 
Norman  family,  and  in  compliance  with  a condition  attached 
j to  the  possession  of  certain  manors  and  estates.  The  eldest 
of  the  laureate’s  brothers,  Frederick,  is  author  of  a volume 
of  poems — graceful,  but  without  any  original  distinctive 
character — entitled  Days  and  Hours,  1854.  Charles,  the  second 
brother,  who  joined  with  Alfred,  as  stated  above,  in  the  com- 
position of  a volume  of  verse,  appears  to  have  abandoned  the 
Muses.  lie  has  since  taken  the  name  of  Turner,  on  succeeding 
to  a property  in  Lincolnshire. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


beautiful,  as  The  May  Queen  and  Dora ; or  impas- 
sioned love-poems,  as  The  Gardener’s  Dauglite r,  The 
Miller’s  Daughter , The  Talking  Oak , and  Locksley 
Mall.  The  last  is  the  most  finished  of  Tennyson’s 
works,  full  of  passionate  grandeur  and  intensity  of 
feeling  and  imagination.  It  combines  the  energy 
and  impetuosity  of  Byron  with  the  pictorial  beauty 
and  melody  of  Coleridge.  The  lover  of  Locksley  Hall 
is  ardent,  generous,  and  noble-minded,  ‘nourishing 
a youth  sublime  ’ with  lofty  aspirations  and  dreams 
of  felicity.  His  passion  is  at  first  returned : 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  turned  it  in  his 
glowing  hands ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all  the 
chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that  trembling,  passed  in  music 
out  of  sight. 

Many  a morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 
copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with  the  fulness 
of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters,  did  we  watch  the. 
stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the 
lips. 

[The  fair  one  proves  faithless,  and  after  a tumult  of 
conflicting  passions— indignation,  grief,  self-reproach,  and 
despair— the  sufferer  finds  relief  in  glowing  visions  of  future 
enterprise  and  the  world’s  progress.] 

For  I dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that 
would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic 
sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rained 
a ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations’  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central 
blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south  wind 
rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  through  the 
thunder-storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and  the  battle 
flags  were  furled 

In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a fretful 
realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal 
law. 

There  is  a marvellous  brilliancy  of  colouring  and 
force  of  sentiment  and  expression  in  this  poem, 
while  the  versification  is  perfect.  The  ballad 
strains  of  Tennyson,  and  particularly  his  musical 
Oriana , also  evince  consummate  art ; and  when  lie 
is  purely  descriptive,  nothing  can  exceed  the  minute 
fidelity  with  which  he  paints  the  English  landscape. 
Latterly,  since  his  marriage,  the  poet  has  shifted  his 
residence  from  Lincolnshire  to  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
and  his  scene-painting  has  partaken  of  the  change.* 

* The  route  from  Alum  Bay  to  Carisbroolc  takes  you  past 
Farringford,  whero  resides  Alfred  Tennyson.  The  house 


The  following  is  from  his  Gardener’s  Daughter  : 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I love. 

News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage-bells ; 

And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock ; 

Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A league  of  grass,  washed  by  a slow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirred  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 

Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 

Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a bridge 
Crowned  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 

Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-uddered  kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 

The  lime  a summer  home  of  murmurous  wings. 

The  poet,  while  a dweller  amidst  the  fens  of 
Lincolnshire,  painted  morasses,  quiet  meres,  and 
sighing  reeds.  The  exquisitely  modulated  poem  of 
the  Dying  Swan  affords  a picture  drawn,  we  think, 
with  wonderful  delicacy : 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh  ; 

Above,  in  the  wind,  was  the  swallow, 

Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will ; 

And  far  through  the  marish  green  and  still, 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

The  ballad  of  The  May  Queen  introduces  similar 
scenery : 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the 
waning  light, 

You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at 
night, 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass  and  the  bulrush  in 
the  pool. 

The  Talking  Oak  is  the  title  of  a fanciful  and 
beautiful  poem  of  seventy-five  stanzas,  in  which  a 
lover  and  an  oak-tree  converse  upon  the  charms  of 
a certain  fair  Olivia.  The  oak-tree  thus  describes  to 
the  lover  her  visit  to  the  park  in  which  it  grew. 

stands  so  far  back  as  to  bo  invisible  from  tlio  road— •which 
must  be  a great  comfort  for  the  laureate,  who  would  else  have 
innumerable  visitors  poking  their  heads,  as  I did  mine,  over 
his  privet  hedge ; but  the  grounds— 

A careless  ordered  garden, 

Close  to  the  ridge  of  a noble  down- 
looked  very  pretty  and  thoroughly  English.  In  another  verse 
of  the  poem  from  which  I have  quoted— the  invitation  to  the 
Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice— he  exactly  describes  the  situation  of 
Farringford : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  cither  hand, 

To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  channel 
Tumbles  a breaker  on  chalk  and  sand. 

Every  one  well  acquainted  with  Tennyson’s  writings  will  liavo 
noticed  how  tho  spirit  of  the  scenery  which  he  has  depicted 
has  changed,  from  tho  ‘ glooming  flats,’  tho  ‘ level  waste,’ 
whero  ‘ stretched  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh,’ 
which  were  the  reflex  of  his  Lincolnshire  observation,  to  the 
beautiful  meadow  and  orchard,  thoroughly  English  ruralities 
of  the  Gardener's  Daughter  and  The  Brook.  Many  glimpses 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Farringford  will  call  to  mind  descrip- 
tive passages  in  theso  last-named  poems.— Letter  in  the  Daily 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1SS9. 


‘ Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  the  lark, 

She  sent  her  voice  through  all  the  holt 
Before  her,  and  the  park. 

* * * * 

‘ And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  played, 
And  sang  to  me  the  'whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  “ giant  bole.” 

‘ And  in  a fit  of  frolic  mirth, 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist ; 

Alas ! I was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I could  not  be  embraced. 

‘ I wished  myself  the  fair  young  beech, 

That  here  beside  me  stands, 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  locked  her  hands.’ 

* * * * 

‘ Oh  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  Sumner  chase — 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner  place  ! 

‘ But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 
I carved  with  many  vows, 

When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs?’ 

‘ Oh  yes ; she  wandered  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kissed  the  name  she  found, 
And  sweetly  murmured  thine. 

‘ A tear-drop  trembled  from  its  source, 

And  down  my  surface  crept ; 

My  sense  of  touch  is”  something  coarse, 

But  I believe  she  wept. 

‘ Then  flushed  her  cheek  with  rosy  light ; 

She  glanced  across  the  plain ; 

But  not  a creature  was  in  sight — 

She  kissed  me  once  again. 

‘ Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 

That,  trust  me,  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirred. 

* And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A pleasure  I discerned, 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  spring 
That  shew  the  year  is  turned. 

* * * * 

‘ I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 
With  anthers  and  with  dust ; 

‘ For  ah ! the  Dryad  days  were  brief 
Whereof  the  poets  talk, 

When  that  which  breathes  within  the  leaf 
Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

‘ But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 

From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  sucked  and  gathered  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

‘She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss; 

But  lightly  issuing  through, 

I would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 

With  usury  thereto.’ 

588 


‘ Oh  flourish  high  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea ; 

Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

‘ Oh  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern : 

Old  oak,  I love  thee  well ; 

A thousand  thanks  for  what  I learn, 

And  what  remains  to  tell.’ 

And  the  poet,  in  conclusion,  promises  to  praise  the 
mystic  tree  even  more  than  England  honours  his 
brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

A nd  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode 
And  hummed  a surly  hymn. 

The  last  two  lines  furnish  a finished  little  picture. 
Still  more  dramatic  in  effect  is  the  portrait  of 
Godiva : 

She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him  where  he  stood 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone.  * * 

She  told  him  of  their  tears, 

And  prayed  him,  ‘ If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve.’ 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half  amazed, 

‘ You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such  as  these V ‘But  I would  die,’  said  she. 

He  laughed,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul, 

Then  fillipped  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear : 

* Oh  ay,  oh  ay,  you  talk  ! ’ * Alas  ! ’ she  said, 

‘ But  prove  me  what  it  is  I would  not  do.’ 

And  from  a heart  as  rough  as  Esau’s  hand, 

He  answered : ‘ Ride  you  naked  through  the  town, 
And  I repeal  it;’  and  nodding  as  in  scorn, 

He  parted.  * * 

So,  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind — 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow — 

Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 

Till  pity  won.  She  sent  a herald  forth, 

And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition ; but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people.  Therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well. 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street. 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing ; but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barred. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasped  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 

The  grim  earl’s  gift ; but  ever  at  a breath 
She  lingered,  looking  like  a summer  moon 
Half  dipt  in  cloud  : anon  she  shook  her  head, 

And  showered  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ; adown  the  stair 
Stole  on ; and,  like  a creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reached 
The  gateway ; there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapped 
In  purple,  blazoned  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity ; 

The  deep  air  listened  round  her  as  she  rode. 

And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 

The  little  wide-mouthed  heads  upon  the  spouts 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see : the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame  : her  palfrey’s  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  through  her  pulses : the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  : but  she 
Not  less  through  all  bore  up,  till  last  she  saw 
The  white-flowered  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  through  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity ; 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 

Boring  a little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peeped ; but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will, 

Were  shrivelled  into  darkness  in  his  head, 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


And  dropped  before  him.  So  the  powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancelled  a sense  misused  : 

And  she,  that  knew  not,  passed ; and  all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless  noon 
Was  clashed  and  hammered  from  a hundred  towers 
One  after  one  ; but  even  then  she  gained 
Her  bower : whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crowned, 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

An  extract  from  The  Lotos  Eaters  will  give  a speci- 
men of  our  poet’s  modulations  of  rhythm.  This 
poem  represents  the  luxurious  lazy  sleepiness  said 
to  be  produced  in  those  who  feed  upon  the  lotos, 
and  contains  passages  not  surpassed  by  the  finest 
descriptions  in  the  Castle  of  Indolence.  It  is  rich  in 
striking  and  appropriate  imagery,  and  is  sung  to  a 
ryhthm  which  is  music  itself. 

Why  are  we  weighed  upon  with  heaviness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest.  Why  should  we  toil  alone  ? 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown.  * * 

Lo  ! in  the  middle  of  the  wood 
The  folded  leaf  is  wooed  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 
Sun-steeped  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew- fed ; and  turning  yellow 
Falls  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  ! sweetened  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full -juiced  apple,  waxing  over  mellow, 

Drops  in  a silent  autumn  night. 

All  is  allotted  length  of  days ; 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens,  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil.  * * 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward  fast, 

And  in  a little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  past. 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ? Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  towards  the  grave ; 

In  silence  ripen,  fall,  and  cease ; 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death  or  dreamful 
case. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half -shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a half-dream  ! 

To  hear  each  other’s  whispered  speech ; 

Eating  the  lotos,  day  by  day ; 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray  ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy ; 

To  muse  and  brood,  and  live  again  in  memory 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy, 

Heaped  over  with  a mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass. 

The  most  prominent  defects  in  these  volumes  of  Mr 
Tennyson  were  occasional  quaintness  and  obscurity 
of  expression,  with  some  incongruous  combinations 
of  low  and  familiar  with  poetical  images.  Ilis 
next  work,  The  Princess , a Medley , appeared  in 
December  1817.  This  is  a story  of  a jmince  and 
princess,  contracted  by  their  parents,  without  having 
seen  each  other.  The  lady  repudiates  the  alliance, 
but  after  a series  of  adventures  and  incidents  as 
improbable  and  incoherent  as  the  plots  of  some  of 


the  old  wild  Elizabethan  tales  and  dramas,  the 
princess  relents  and  surrenders.  The  mixture  of 
modern  ideas  and  manners  with  those  of  the  age  of 
chivalry  and  romance — the  attempted  amalgamation 
of  the  conventional  with  the  real,  the  farcical  with 
the  sentimental — renders  The  Princess  truly  a medley , 
and  produces  an  unpleasing  grotesque  effect.  Parts 
of  the  poem,  however,  are  sweetly  written;  there 
are  subtle  touches  of  thought  and  satire,  and  some 
exquisite  lyrical  passages.  Tennyson  has  nothing 
finer  than  these  stanzas : 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story, 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 

Blow,  bugle ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0 hark,  0 hear ! how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going  ! 

0 sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 

BIoav,  bugle ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0 love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying ; 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

The  poet’s  philosophy  as  to  the  sexes  is  thus 
summed  up : 

For  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man, 

But  diverse : could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 

Sweet  love  wei'e  slain  : his  dearest  bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow; 

The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world  : 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind  ; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words. 

In  1850  appeared,  at  first  anonymously,  In 
Memoriam,  a volume  of  short  poems,  divided  into 
sections,  but  all  devoted,  like  the  sonnets  of  Shak- 
speare,  to  one  beloved  object — a male  friend.  Mr 
Arthur  Hallam,  son  of  the  historian,  and  affianced 
to  Mr  Tennyson’s  sister,  died  at  Vienna  in  1833, 
and  his  memory  is  here  embalmed  in  a series  of 
remarkable  and  affecting  poems,  no  less  than  one 
hundred  and  twenty-nine  in  number,  and  all  in  the 
same  stanza.  This  sameness  of  subject  and  versi- 
fication would  seem  to  render  the  work  monotonous 
and  tedious ; so  minute  a delineation  of  personal 
sorrow  is  also  apt  to  appear  unmanly  and  unnatural. 
But  the  poet,  though  adhering  to  one  melancholy 
theme,  clothes  it  in  all  the  hues  of  imagination  and 
intellect.  lie  lifts  the  veil,  as  it  were,  from  the 
inner  life  of  the  soul ; he  stirs  the  deepest  and 
holiest  feelings  of  our  nature  ; he  describes,  reasons, 
and  allegorises ; flowers  are  intermingled  with  the 
cypress,  and  faith  and  hope  brighten  the  vista  of 
the  future.  Ilis  vast  love  and  sympathy  seem  to 
embrace  all  nature  as  assimilated  with  his  lost 
friend. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

SS9 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1850. 


prom  1830 


The  ship  containing  his  friend’s  remains  is  thus 
beautifully  apostrophised : 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore, 

Sailest  the  placid  ocean  plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur’s  loved  remains, 
Spread  thy  full  ■wings  and  waft  him  o’er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain : a favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 
Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 
Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above 

Sleep  gentle  heavens  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep  gentle  winds  as  he  sleeps  now, 

My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ! 

Arthur  Hallam  was  interred  in  Clevedon  Church, 
Somersetshire,  situated  on  a still  and  sequestered 
spot,  on  a lone  hill  that  overhangs  the  Bristol 
Channel : * 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darkened  heart  that  beats  no  more ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a day  the  Severn  fills ; 

The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 

And  hushes  half  the  bubbling  Wye 
And  makes  a silence  in  the  hills. 

We  add  one  of  the  sections,  in  which  description 
of  external  nature  is  finely  blended  with  the 
mourner’s  reminiscences : 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Through  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 
From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow  : 

And  we  with  singing  cheered  the  way, 

And  crowned  with  all  the  season  lent, 

From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May  : 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 

As  we  descended  following  hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  feared  of  man ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 

And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold ; 

And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dulled  the  murmur  on  thy  lip ; 

* Memoir  prefixed  to  Arthur  Hallam's  Remains,  by  his  father 
—a  work  printed  for  private  circulation.  An  interesting  account 
of  this  volume  is  given  by  Dr  John  Brown,  Edinburgh,  in 
Ilorce  Subsccivcc,  a coUection  of  able  essays  and  papers  pub- 
lished in  1858.  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  was  born  in  London 
February  1,  1811.  He  distinguished  himself  at  Eton  and  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  was  author  of  several  essays 
and  poetical  productions,  which  gave  promise  of  future  excel- 
lence. He  died  in  his  twenty-third  year,  September  15,  1833. 
A younger  son  of  the  historian,  namely,  Henry  Fitzmauricc 
Hallam,  in  whom  the  talents  and  virtues  of  the  elder  brother 
were  continued,  was  also  cut  off  at  an  early  age,  dying  in  1850, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-six. 

590 


And  bore  thee  where  I could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  though  I walk  in  haste ; 

And  think  that,  somewhere  in  the  waste, 

The  Shhdow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

Winter  scenes  are  described;  Christmas,  with  its 
train  of  sacred  and  tender  associations,  comes ; but 
the  poet  is  in  a new  home : 

Our  father’s  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows. 

With  the  genial  season,  however,  his  sympathies 
expand,  and  in  one  section  of  noble  verse  he  sings 
the  dirge  of  the  old  year  and  the  advent  of  the  new : 

Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky. 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

The  patriotic  aspirations  here  expressed  are  brought 
out  more  fully  in  some  of  Mr  Tennyson’s  political 
lyrics,  which  are  animated  by  true  wisdom  and 
generous  sentiment. 

The  next  publication  of  our  author  was  an  Ode 
on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  (1852) — a 
laureate  offering,  which  he  afterwards  revised  and 
improved,  rendering  it  not  unworthy  of  the  hero  or 
the  poet.  In  1855  appeared  Maud,  and  other  Poems 
— the  first  an  allegorical  vision  of  love  and  war, 
treated  in  a semi-colloquial  bizarre  style,  yet 
suggestive  and  passionate.  Maud  is  the  daughter 
of  the  squire,  and  ‘ in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace’  she  captivates  a mysterious  misanthropic 
personage  who  tells  the  story.  But  Maud  has 
another  suitor,  a ‘ new-made  lord,’  whose  addresses 
are  favoured  by  Maud’s  father  and  brother— the 
latter  described  as 

That  jewelled  mass  of  millinery, 

That  oiled  and  curled  Assyrian  bull. 

The  squire  gives  a grand  political  dinner,  ‘ a gather- 
ing of  the  Tory,’  to  which  the  Timon-lover  is  not 
invited.  He  finds,  however,  in  the  rivulet  crossing 
his  ground,  a garden-rose,  brought  down  from  the 
Hall,  and  he  interprets  it  as  a message  from  Maud 
to  meet  her  in  the  garden  among  the  roses  at  night. 
He  proceeds  thither,  and  invokes  the  fair  one  in  a 
lyric  which  is  unquestionably  the  charm  of  the 
volume.  It  begins : 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

Maud  obeys  the  call;  but  her  brother  discovers 
them,  insults  the  intruder,  and  a duel  ensues,  in 
which  the  brother  is  slain.  The  lover  flies  to  France, 
but  returns  to  England,  for  ever  haunted  by  visions 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  E.  B.  BROWNING. 


of  Maud,  and  then,  in  another  section,  we  are 
startled  to  find  him  declare  himself  ‘dead,  long 
dead,’  and  buried,  but  without  finding  peace  in  the 
grave ! It  is  a vision,  and  the  dreamer  obtains  a 
new  excitement : he  rejoices  to  think  that  a war  is 
to  arise  in  defence  of  the  right : 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 
Nor  Britain’s  one  sole  god  be  the  millionaire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a slothful  shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon’s  mouth 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

And  as  months  ran  on,  and  rumour  of  battle  grew, 

‘ It  is  time,  it  is  time,  0 passionate  heart,’  said  I — 
For  I cleaved  to  a cause  that  I felt  to  be  pure  and 
true — 

‘ It  is  time,  0 passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die.’ 

And  I stood  on  a giant  deck  and  mixed  my  breath 
With  a loyal  people  shouting  a battle-cry, 

Till  I saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  north,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 

And  the  Tyrtaean  war-strain  closes  with  a some- 
what fantastic  image : 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic  deep, 
And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a heart  of  fire. 

These  scraps  will  serve  to  illustrate  the  variety  to 
be  found  in  Tennyson.  No  poet  has,  within  so 
small  a compass,  exhibited  such  a wide  range  of 
styles  and  subjects.  In  his  pages,  as  one  of  his 
critics  remarks,  ‘legendary  history,  fairy  fiction, 
Greek  poetry,  and  trees  endowed  with  human  speech, 
blend  in  the  procession  with  Egyptian  fanatics, 
rapt  nuns,  English  ladies,  peasant-girls,  artists, 
lawyers,  farmers— in  fact,  a tolerably  complete 
representation  of  the  miscellaneous  public  of  the 
present  day ; while  the  forms  vary  from  epic  frag- 
ments to  the  homeliest  dialogue — from  the  simplest 
utterance  of  emotion  in  a song  to  the  highest  alle- 
gory of  a terrible  and  profound  law  of  life.’*  From 
the  care  and  fastidiousness  with  which  Mr  Tenny- 
son elaborates  his  thoughts  and  expression — his 
choice  diction,  word-painting,  and  verbal  melody — 
he  will  probably  never  be  a voluminous  writer.  One 
great  work,  however,  combining  his  various  excel- 
lences in  a commanding  and  complete  form,  we 
hope  he  will  live  to  accomplish,  thus  setting  the 
seal  to  his  own  fame  and  to  the  poetical  literature 
of  his  times. 

MRS  ELIZABETH  DARRETT  BROWNING. 

The  highest  place  among  our  modern  poetesses 
must  be  claimed  for  Mas  Browning,  formerly  Miss 
Barrett.  In  purity  and  loftiness  of  sentiment  and 
feeling,  and  in  intellectual  power,  she  is  excelled 
only  by  Tennyson,  whose  best  works,  it  is  evident, 
she  has  carefully  studied.  Her  earlier  style  reminds 
us  more  of  Shelley,  but  this  arises  from  similarity 
of  genius  and  classical  tastes,  not  imitation.  The 
first  publication  of  this  accomplished  lady  was 
an  Essay  on  Mind , and  other  Poems , said  to  have 
been  written  in  her  seventeenth  year.  In  1833 
appeared  her  translation  of  the  Prometheus  Bound  of 
ASschylus,  of  which  she  has  since  given  an  improved 

* Brimlcy’s  Essays , 1858.  Mr  Brimlcy,  an  amiable  and 
accomplished  man,  was  librarian  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. He  died  in  1857,  aged  thirty-eight. 


version.  In  1838  she  ventured  on  a second  volume 
of  original  poetry.  The  Seraphim , and  other  Poems , 
which  was  followed  by  The  Romaunt  of  the  Page , 
1839.  About  this  time,  a personal  calamity  occurred 
to  the  poetess,  which  has  been  detailed  by  Miss 
Mitford  in  her  Literary  Recollections.  She  burst  a 
blood-vessel  in  the  lungs,  and  after  a twelvemonth’s 
confinement  at  home,  was  ordered  to  a milder 
climate.  She  went  with  some  relatives  to  reside  at 
Torquay,  and  there  a fatal  event  took  place  ‘ which 
saddened  her  bloom  of  youth,  and  gave  a deeper 
hue  of  thought  and  feeling,  especially  devotional 
feeling,  to  her  poetry.’  Her  favourite  brother,  with 
two  other  young  men,  his  friends,  having  embarked 
on  board  a small  vessel  for  a sail  of  a few  hours,  the 
boat  went  down,  and  all  on  board  perished.  This 
tragedy  completely  prostrated  Miss  Barrett.  She 
was  not  able  to  be  removed  to  her  father’s  house  in 
London  till  the  following  year,  and  on  her  return 
home  she  ‘began  that  life,’  says  Miss  Mitford,  ‘which 
she  continued  for  many  years — confined  to  a dark- 
ened chamber  to  which  only  her  own  family  and  a 
few  devoted  friends  were  admitted ; reading  mean- 
while almost  every  book  worth  reading  in  almost 
every  language,  studying  with  ever-fresh  delight 
the  great  classic  authors  in  the  original,  and  giving 
herself,  heart  and  soul,  to  that  poetry  of  which  she 
seemed  born  to  be  the  priestess.’  Miss  Mitford  had 
presented  her  friend  with  a young  spaniel,  ‘ Flush, 
my  dog,’  and  the  companionship  of  this  humble  but 
faithful  object  of  sympathy  has  been  commemorated 
in  some  beautiful  verses,  graphic  as  the  pencil  of 
Landseer : 

Yet,  my  little  sportive  friend, 

Little  is ’t  to  such  an  end 

That  I should  praise  thy  rareness  ! 

Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Haply  in  these  drooping  ears, 

And  in  this  glossy  fairness. 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said, 

This  dog  watched  beside  a bed 
Day  and  night  unweary — 

Watched  within  a curtained  room, 

Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom 
Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 

Roses,  gathered  for  a vase 
In  that  chamber,  died  apace, 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning— 

This  dog  only  waited  on, 

Knowing  that  when  light  is  gone, 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

Other  dogs  in  thymy  dew 
Tracked  the  hares  and  followed  through 
Sunny  moor  or  meadow — 

This  dog  only  crept  and  crept 
Next  a languid  cheek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 

Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear, 

Up  the  woodside  hieing — 

This  dog  only  watched  in  reach 
Of  a faintly  uttered  speech, 

Or  a louder  sighing. 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropt  upon  his  glossy  cars, 

Or  a sigh  came  double — 

Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste, 

Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a tender  trouble. 

591 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


And  this  dog  was  satisfied, 

If  a pale  thin  hand  would  glide, 

Down  his  dewlaps  sloping — 

Which  he  pushed  his  nose  within, 

After — platforming  his  chin 
On  the  palm  left  open. 

The  result  of  those  years  of  seclusion  and  study 
was  partly  seen  by  the  publication  in  1844  of  two 
volumes  of  Poems  by  Elizabeth  Barrett , many  of 
which  bore  the  impress  of  deep  and  melancholy 
thought  and  of  high  and  fervid  imagination. 
‘Poetry,’  said  the  authoress  in  her  preface,  ‘has 
been  as  serious  a thing  to  me  as  life  itself;  and  life 
has  been  a very  serious  thing.  I never  mistook 
pleasure  for  the  final  cause  of  poetry;  nor  leisure 
for  the  hour  of  the  poet.  I have  done  my  work, 
so  far,  as  work:  not  as  mere  hand  and  head  work, 
apart  from  the  personal  being ; but  as  the  completest 
expression  of  that  being,  to  which  I could  attain: 
and  as  work  I offer  it  to  the  public;  feeling  its 
shortcomings  more  deeply  than  any  of  my  readers, 
because  measured  from  the  height  of  my  aspiration; 
but  feeling  also  that  the  reverence  and  sincerity 
with  which  the  work  was  done,  should  give  it  some 
protection  with  the  reverent  and  sincere.’  To  each 
of  the  principal  poems  in  the  collection  explanatory 
notices  were  given.  Thus  of  The  Drama  of  Exile 
she  says,  the  subject  was  ‘the  new  and  strange 
experience  of  the  fallen  humanity,  as  it  went  forth 
from  Paradise  into  the  wilderness,  with  a peculiar 
reference  to  Eve’s  allotted  grief,  which,  considering 
that  self-sacrifice  belonged  to  her  womanhood  and 
the  consciousness  of  originating  the  fall  to  her 
offence,  appeared  to  me  imperfectly  apprehended 
hitherto,  and  more  expressible  by  a woman  than  a 
man.’  The  pervading  principle  of  the  drama  is  love 
— love  which  conquers  even  Lucifer : 

Adam.  The  essence  of  all  beauty,  I call  love. 

The  attribute,  the  evidence,  and  end, 

The  consummation  to  the  inward  sense, 

Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without, 

I still  call  love.  As  form,  when  colourless, 

Is  nothing  to  the  eye — that  pine-tree  there, 

Without  its  black  and  green,  being  all  a blank — 

So  without  love,  is  beauty  undiscerned 
In  man  or  angeL  Angel ! rather  ask 
What  love  is  in  thee,  what  love  moves  to  thee ; 

Then  shalt  thou  know  if  thou  art  beautiful. 

Lucifer.  Love!  what  is  love?  I lose  it.  Beauty 
and  love ! 

I darken  to  the  image.  Beauty — love! 

[He  fades  away,  while  a low  music  sounds. 

Adam.  Tliou  art  pale,  Eve. 

Eve.  The  precipice  of  ill 
Down  this  colossal  nature,  dizzies  me — 

And,  hark  ! the  starry  harmony  remote 
Seems  measuring  the  heights  from  whence  he  fell. 

Adam.  Think  that  we  have  not  fallen  so.  By  the 
hope 

And  aspiration,  by  the  love  and  faith, 

We  do  exceed  the  stature  of  this  angel. 

Eve.  Happier  we  are  than  he  is,  by  the  death. 

Adam.  Or  rather  by  the  life  of  the  Lord  God ! 

How  dim  the  angel  grows,  as  if  that  blast 
Of  music  swept  him  back  into  the  dark. 

Notwithstanding  a few  fine  passages,  the  Drama 
of  Exile  cannot  be  considered  a successful  effort. 
The  scheme  of  the  poetess  was  imperfectly 
developed,  and  many  of  the  colloquies  of  Adam 
and  Eve,  and  of  Lucifer  and  Gabriel,  are  forced  and 
unnatural.  The  lyrics  interspersed  throughout  the 
poem  are  often  harsh  and  unmusical,  and  the  whole 

592 


drama  is  deficient  in  action  and  interest.  In  the 
Vision  of  Poets,  Miss  Barrett  endeavoured  to  vindi- 
cate the  necessary  relations  of  genius  to  suffering 
and  self-sacrifice.  ‘ I have  attempted,’  she  says, 
‘ to  express  in  this  poem  my  view  of  the  mission 
of  the  poet,  of  the  duty  and  glory  of  what  Balzac 
has  beautifully  and  truly  called  “ la  patience 
angelique  du  genie,”  and  of  the  obvious  truth, 
above  all,  that  if  knowledge  is  power,  suffering 
should  be  acceptable  as  a part  of  knowledge.’  The 
discipline  of  suffering  and  sorrow  which  the  poetess 
had  herself  undergone,  suggested  or  coloured  these 
and  similar  speculations.  The  affliction  which 
saddened  had  also  purified  the  heart,  and  brought 
with  it  the  precious  fruits  of  resignation  and  faith. 
This  is  an  old  and  familiar  philosophy,  and  Miss 
Barrett’s  prose  exposition  of  it  must  afterwards 
have  appeared  to  her  superfluous,  for  she  has 
omitted  the  preface  in  the  later  editions  of  her 
works.  The  truth  is,  all  such  personal  revelations, 
though  sanctioned  by  the  examples  of  Dryden  and 
Wordsworth,  have  inevitably  an  air  of  egotism  and 
pedantry.  Poetry  is  better  able  than  painting  or 
sculpture  to  disclose  the  object  and  feeling  of  the 
artist,  and  no  one  ever  dreamt  of  confining  those 
arts — the  exponents  of  every  range  of  feeling,  con- 
ception, and  emotion — to  the  mere  office  of  adminis- 
tering pleasure.  The  Vision  of  Poets  opens  thus 
beautifully : 

A poet  could  not  sleep  arigbt, 

For  his  soul  kept  up  too  much  light 
Under  his  eyelids  for  the  night. 

And  thus  he  rose  disquieted 

With  sweet  rhymes  ringing  through  his  head, 

And  in  the  forest  wandered, 

Where,  sloping  up  the  darkest  glades, 

The  moon  had  drawn  long  colonnades, 

Upon  whose  floor  the  verdure  fades 

To  a faint  silver — pavement  fair 

The  antique  wood-nymphs  scarce  would  dare 

To  foot-print  o’er,  had  such  been  there. 

lie  meets  a lady  whose  mystical  duty  it  is  to 
‘ crown  all  poets  to  their  worth,’  and  he  obtains  a 
sight  of  some  of  the  great  masters  of  song — ‘ the 
dead  kings  of  melody’ — who  are  characterised  in 
brief  but  felicitous  descriptions.  A few  of  these  we 
subjoin : 

Here  Homer,  with  the  broad  suspense 
Of  thunderous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence. 

There  Shakspeare,  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  o’  the  world.  Oh,  eyes  sublime, 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time  ! 

Euripides,  with  close  and  mild 
Scholastic  lips — that  could  be  wild 
And  laugh  or  sob  out  like  a child. 

Theocritus,  with  glittering  locks 
Dropt  sideway,  as  betwixt  the  rocks 
He  watched  the  visionary  flocks. 

The  moderns,  from  Milton  down  to  ‘poor  proud 
Byron,’  are  less  happily  portrayed,  but  in  spite  of 
many  blemishes,  and  especially  the  want  of  careful 
artistic  finishing,  this  poem  is  one  of  great  excel- 
lence. There  are  other  imaginative  pieces  of  Miss 
Barrett  of  a more  popular  character — as  the  Rhyme 
of  the  Duchess  May , a romantic  ballad  full  of  passion, 


poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  mrs  e.  b.  browning. 

incident,  and  melody ; and  Bertha  in  the  Lane , a 
story  of  the  transfer  of  affection  from  one  sister  to 
another,  related  by  the  elder  and  dying  sister  in  a 
strain  of  great  beauty  and  pathos.  One  stanza  will 
shew  the  style  and  versification  of  this  poem : 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which  at  night,  when  others  sleep, 

I can  still  see  glittering. 

Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 

In  the  grave — where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

There  are  parts  of  this  fine  poem  resembling 
Tennyson’s  May  Queen , but  the  laureate  would 
never  have  admitted  such  an  incongruous  and 
spasmodic  stanza  as  that  with  which  Miss  Barrett 
unhappily  closes  her  piece : 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 

Love’s  divine  self-abnegation, 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 

And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 

Up,  through  angels’  hands  of  fire  ! 

I aspire  while  I expire. 

The  most  finished  of  Miss  Barrett’s  smaller  poems 
— apart  from  the  sonnets — are  the  verses  on  Coivper’s 
Grave , which  contain  not  one  jarring  line  or  expres- 
sion, and  The  Cry  of  the  Children , a pathetic  and 
impassioned  pleading  for  the  poor  children  who 
toil  in  mines  and  factories.  In  individuality  and 
intensity  of  feeling  this  piece  resembles  Hood’s 
Song  of  the  Shirt,  but  it  infinitely  surpasses  it  in 
poetry  and  imagination : 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0 my  brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 

They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their 
mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 

The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows ; 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest ; 

The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows ; 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward  the  west ; 

But  the  young,  young  children,  0 my  brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 

They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

For  oh,  say  the  children,  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 

If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 
To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 

Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping — 

We  fall  upon  our  faces  trying  to  go ; 

And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as  snow. 

For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground — 

Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

For,  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning — 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces — 

Till  our  hearts  turn — our  heads,  with  pulses  burning, 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places — 

Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling — 
Turns  the  long  light  that  droppeth  down  the  wall — ■ 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling — 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all ! 

And,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning ; 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 

‘0  ye  wheels’ — breaking  out  in  a mad  moaning — 
‘ Stop  ! be  silent  for  to-day ! ’ 

80 

Ay  ! be  silent ! let  them  hear  each  other  breathing 
For  a moment,  mouth  to  mouth — 

Let  them  touch  each  others  hands,  in  a fresh 
wreathing 

Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 

Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  reveals — 

Let  them  prove  their  inward  souls  against  the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  0 wheels ! 

Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

As  if  Fate  in  each  were  stark ; 

And  the  children’s  souls,  which  God  is  calling 
sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship : a Romance  of  the  Age, 
is  the  story  of  a peasant-poet  who  falls  in  love  with 
an  earl’s  daughter — of  course  of  surpassing  beauty — 

The  shadow  of  a monarch’s  crown  is  softened  in  her 
hair. 

To  the  honour  of  poesy,  he  obtains  the  hand  of  the 
fair  one : 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on  his  knee  he  fell 
before  her — 

And  she  whispered  low  in  triumph  : ‘ It  shall  be  as  I 
have  sworn  ! 

Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues — very  noble — noble,  certes ; 
And  I shall  not  blush  in  knowing  that  men  call  him 
lowly  born.’ 

It  may  be  questioned,  however,  whether  such  a 
mesalliance  would  prove  happier  than  the  marriages 
of  Dryden  and  Addison.  But  Miss  Barrett  has 
graced  her  tale  of  love  with  some  of  her  richest  and 
most  glowing  description. 

The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  are  as  passionate 
as  Shakspeare’s  Sonnets,  and  we  suspect  the  title, 
‘ from  the  Portuguese,’  has  no  better  authority  than 
Sir  Walter  Scott’s  ‘ Old  Play  ’ at  the  head  of  the 
chapters  of  his  novels.  The  first  of  these  so-called 
translations  is  eminently  beautiful — quite  equal  to 
Wordsworth,  or  to  Wordsworth’s  model,  Milton : 

I thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one,  in  a gracious  hand,  appears 
To  bear  a gift  for  mortals,  old  and  young ; 

And  as  I mused  it,  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A shadow  across  me.  Straightway  I was  ’ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair, 

And  a voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I strove  : 

‘Guess  now  who  holds  thee?’  ‘Death  !’  I said.  But 
there 

The  silver  answer  rang : ‘Not  Death,  but  Love.’ 

An  interval  of  some  years  elapsed  ere  Miss  Barrett 
came  forward  with  another  volume,  though  she  was 
occasionally  seen  as  a contributor  to  literary  jour- 
nals. She  became  in  184G  the  wife  of  a kindred 
spirit,  Robert  Browning  the  poet,  and  removed  with 
him  to  Italy.  In  Florence,  she  witnessed  the  revo- 
lutionary outbreak  of  1848,  and  this  furnished  the 
theme  of  her  next  important  work,  Casa  Guidi 
Windows , a poem  containing  ‘the  impressions  of 
the  writer  upon  events  in  Tuscany,  of  which  she 
was  a witness  ’ from  the  windows  of  her  house,  the 
Casa  Guidi  in  Florence.  The  poem  is  a spirited 
semi-political  narrative  of  actual  events  and  genuine 
feelings.  Part  might  pass  for  the  work  of  Byron — 
so  free  is  its  versification,  and  so  warm  the  affection 

883 

from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


of  Mrs  Browning  for  Italy  and  the  Italians,  but 
there  are  also  passages  that  would  have  served 
better  for  a prose  pamphlet.  The  genius  of  the 
poetess  had  become  practical  and  energetic — in- 
spirited by  what  she  saw  around  her,  and  by  the 
new  tie  which,  as  we  learn  from  this  pleasing  poem, 
now  brightened  her  visions  of  the  future : 

The  sun  strikes  through  the  windows,  up  the  floor ; 

Stand  out  in  it,  my  young  Florentine, 

Not  two  years  old,  and  let  me  see  thee  more  ! 

And  fix  thy  brave,  blue  English  eyes  on  mine ; 

And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  future  so, 

With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze, 

Teach  me  to  hope  for  what  the  angels  know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost. 

‘ The  future  of  Italy,’  says  our  authoress,  ‘ shall  not 
be  disinherited ! ’ In  this  instance,  we  trust,  poet 
and  prophet  will,  as  of  old,  be  the  same,  and  we 
can  only  hope  that  Mrs  Browning  may  live  to  hail 
and  sing  the  day  of  regeneration. 

In  1856  appeared  Aurora  Leigh , an  elaborate 
poem  or  novel  in  blank  verse,  which  Mrs  Browning 
characterises  as  the  ‘most  mature’  of  her  works,  and 
one  into  which  her  ‘highest  convictions  upon  life 
and  art  are  entered.’  It  presents  us,  like  Words- 
worth’s Prelude , with  the  history  of  a poetical  mind 
— an  autobiography  of  the  heart  and  intellect ; but 
Wordsworth,  with  all  his  contempt  for  literary 
‘conventionalities,’  would  never  have  ventured  on 
such  a sweeping  departure  from  established  critical 
rules  and  poetical  diction  as  Mrs  Browning  has 
here  carried  out.  There  is  a prodigality  of  genius 
in  the  work,  many  just  and  fine  renfarks,  ethical 
and  critical,  and  passages  evincing  a keen  insight 
into  the  human  heart  as  well  as  into  the  working 
of  our  social  institutions  and  artificial  restraints.  A 
noble  hatred  of  falsehood,  hypocrisy,  and  oppression 
breathes  through  the  whole.  But  the  materials  of 
the  poem  are  so  strangely  mingled  and  so  discord- 
ant-prose and  poetry  so  mixed  up  together — 
scenes  of  splendid  passion  and  tears  followed  by  dry 
metaphysical  and  polemical  disquisitions,  or  ram- 
bling common-place  conversation,  that  the  effect  of 
the  whole  is  irritating  and  unsatisfactory.  These 
contrasts  have  more  than  once  reminded  us  of  the 
descriptions  of  the  retreat  from  Moscow,  where  the 
French  soldier  might  be  seen  dipping  his  gold  cup 
into  muddy  ponds  for  drink,  or  eating  the  meanest 
viands  off  porcelain  and  silver.  Aurora  Leigh  is  a 
poetess,  the  daughter  of  a grave  and  learned  English- 
man who  had  married  a fair  Florentine.  The  early 
death  of  her  parents  placed  Aurora  under  the  charge 
of  her  aunt  in  England,  who  is  thus  described : 

She  stood  straight  and  calm, 

Her  somewhat  narrow  forehead  braided  tight, 

As  if  for  taming  accidental  thoughts 

From  possible  pulses ; brown  hair,  pricked  with  gray, 

By  frigid  use  of  life  (she  was  not  old, 

Although  my  father’s  elder  by  a year) ; 

A nose  drawn  sharply,  yet  in  delicate  lines ; 

A close,  mild  mouth,  a little  soured  about 
The  ends,  through  speaking  unrequited  loves, 

Or,  peradventure,  niggardly  half-truths ; 

Eyes  of  no  colour,  once  they  might  have  smiled, 

But  never,  never  have  forgot  themselves 
In  smiling ; cheeks  in  which  was  yet  a rose 
Of  perished  summers,  like  a rose  in  a book, 

Kept  more  for  ruth  than  pleasure — if  past  bloom, 
Fast  fading  also. 

Aurora  learns  ‘ the  collects  and  the  catechism : ’ 

And  various  popular  synopses  of 
Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by  John, 

694 


Because  she  liked  instructed  piety. 

I learnt  my  complement  of  classic  French — 

Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism — 

And  Herman  also,  since  she  liked  ^ range 
Of  liberal  education — tongues,  not  books. 

I learnt  a little  algebra,  a little 
Of  the  mathematics ; brushed  with  extreme  flounce 
The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 
She  misliked  women  who  were  frivolous. 

I learnt  the  royal  genealogies 
Of  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 
Of  the  Burmese  empire,  by  how  many  feet 
Mount  Chimborazo  outsoars  Himmeleh, 

What  navigable  river  joins  itself 
To  Lara,  and  what  census  of  the  year  five 
Was  taken  at  Klagenfurt. 

Such  a curriculum — which  .might  have  served  for 
Johnson’s  academy  at  Edial — was  surely  never 
before  put  in  blank  verse,  or  in  lines  printed  after 
the  fashion  of  blank  verse.  But  Aurora  studies  in 
private — nurses  her  imagination  and  intellect  until 
she  attains  the  full  stature  of  a poetess,  publishes, 
and  becomes  the  idol  of  the  London  circles.  She 
has  a rich  cousin,  Romney  Leigh,  an  earnest  philan- 
thropist who  would  have  married  Aurora,  but  she 
rejects  his  suit,  and  he  becomes  enamoured  of  a 
poor  sempstress,  to  whom  he  offers  his  hand.  This 
humble  maiden,  Marian  Erie,  disappears  on  the  day 
fixed  for  her  wedding  with  Romney,  and  is  found 
to  have  been  misled,  carried  off,  and  ruined  by  the 
arts  of  a wicked  Lady  Waldemar,  who  steps  in,  as 
desperate,  fashionable  ladies  do  in  romances,  to 
intensify  and  complicate  the  story.  Romney  Leigh’s 
benevolent  schemes  all  fail ; the  thieves  and  poachers 
burn  his  house,  and  he  loses  his  eyesight  in  conse- 
quence of  an  assault  from  the  reprobate  father  of 
Marian  Erie.  He  at  length  meets  Marian,  who  has 
a child;  he  would  still  have  married  her,  but  she 
cannot  love  him,  and  lives  only  for  her  child  ‘ and, 
finally,  as  he  is  about  to  say  farewell  for  ever, 
Aurora  Leigh  confesses  her  love  for  him,  and  the 
poem  closes.  Within  this  outline  we  have  adven- 
tures manifold,  imagery,  arguments,  eloquent  and 
impassioned  appeals ; a plot  unreal  and  unnatural, 
but  a poem  that  must  ever — though  written,  as  we 
humbly  think,  on  a false  system — be  regarded  as  a 
remarkable  work  of  genius. 

[An  English,  Landscape .] 

[From  Aurora  Leigh.\ 

The  thrushes  sang 

And  shook  my  pulses  and  the  elm’s  new  leaves — 

And  then  I turned,  and  held  my  finger  up, 

And  bade  him  mark,  that  howsoe’er  the  world 
Went  ill,  as  he  related,  certainly 
The  thrushes  still  sang  in  it. — At  which  word 
His  brow  would  soften — and  he  bore  with  me 
In  melancholy  patience,  not  unkind, 

While  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy, 

I flattered  all  the  beauteous  country  round, 

As  poets  use — the  skies,  the  clouds,  the  fields, 

The  happy  violets,  hiding  from  the  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold — 

The  tangled  hedgerows,  where  the  cows  push  out 
Their  tolerant  horns  and  patient  churning  mouths 
’Twixt  dripping  ash-boughs — hedgerows  all  alive, 
With  birds,  and  gnats,  and  large  white  butterflies, 
Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  caught  life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind — 

Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a silver  mist ; 

Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills, 

And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered  vales, 

And  cottage  chimneys  smoking  from  the  woods, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY. 


And  cottage  gardens  smelling  everywhere, 

Confused  with  smell  of  orchards.  ‘ See,’  I said, 

* And  see,  is  God  not  with  us  on  the  earth  ? 

And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we  do  ? 

Who  says  there ’s  nothing  for  the  poor  and  vile, 

Save  poverty  and  wickedness  ? behold ! ’ 

And  ankle- deep  in  English  grass  I leaped, 

And  clapped  my  hands,  and  called  all  very  fair. 

[From  1 Cowper’s  Grave .’] 

It  is  a place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart’s 
decaying — 

It  is  a place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their 
praying; 

Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness,  as  low  as  silence 
languish ; 

Earth  surely  now  may  give 'her  calm  to  whom  she  gave 
her  anguish. 

0 poets,  from  a maniac’s  tongue  was  poured  the  death- 
less singing ! 

0 Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope,  a hopeless  hand  was 
clinging ! 

0 men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths 
beguiling, 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while 
ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming 
tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on  the 
glory, 

And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wandering 
lights  departed, 

He  wore  no  less  a loving  face  because  so  broken-hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet’s  high  vocation, 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adora- 
tion; 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken, 

Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God 
hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I learn  to  think  upon 
him — 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY — ROBERT  BROWNING! 

RICHARD  HENRY  HORNE. 

This  is  a group  of  philosophical  poets— men  of 
undoubted  talent,  learning,  and  poetic  imagination, 
but  too  often  obscure,  mystical,  and  extravagant. 
Mr  Bailey — born  in  Nottingham  in  1816,  and 
educated  for  the  bar — produced  in  1839  his  first 
and  greatest  poem,  Festus,  subsequently  enlarged, 
and  now  in  its  fifth  edition.  The  next  work  of 
the  poet  was  The  Angel  World,  1850,  which  was 
followed  in  1855  by  The  Mystic,  and  in  1858  Mr 
Bailey  published  The  Age,  a Colloquial  Satire.  All 
of  these  works,  excepting  the  last,  are  in  blank 
verse,  and  have  one  tendency  and  object — to 
describe  the  history  of  a divinely  instructed  mind 
or  soul,  soaring  upwards  to  communion  with  ‘ the 
universal  life.’  With  the  boldness  of  Milton,  Mr 
Bailey  passes  ‘the  flaming  bounds  of  space  and 
time,’  and  carries  his  Mystic  even  into  the  presence 
of  the  ‘ fontal  Deity.’  His  spiritualism  and  sym- 
bolical meanings  are  frequently  incomprehensible, 
and  his  language  crude  and  harsh,  with  affected 
archaisms.  Yet  there  are  fragments  of  beautiful 
and  splendid  imagery  in  the  poems,  and  a spirit  of 
devotional  rapture  that  has  recommended  them  to 
many  who  rarely  read  poetry.  The  ‘ colloquial 
satire  ’ is  a failure— mere  garrulity  and  slip-shod 
criticism.  Thus  of  war : 

Of  all  conceits  mis-grafted  on  God’s  Word, 

A Christian  soldier  seems  the  most  absurd. 

That  Word  commands  us  so  to  act  in  all  things, 

As  not  to  hurt  another  e’en  in  small  things. 

To  flee  from  anger,  hatred,  bloodshed,  strife ; 

To  pray  for,  and  to  care  for  others’  life. 

A Christian  soldier’s  duty  is  to  slay, 

Wound,  harass,  slaughter,  hack  in  every  way 
Those  men  whose  souls  he  prays  for  night  and  day ; 
With  what  consistency  let  prelates  say. 

He ’s  told  to  love  his  enemies ; don’t  scoff ; 

He  does  so ; and  with  rifles  picks  them  off. 

He ’s  told  to  do  to  all  as  he ’d  be  done 
By,  and  he  therefore  blows  them  from  a gun ; 

To  bless  his  foes,  he  ‘ hangs  them  up  like  fun.’ 


With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God  whose  heaven 
hath  won  him, 

Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to  His  own  love  to 
blind  him, 

But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where  breath  and  bird 
could  find  him : 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain  such  quick 
poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  harmonious  influ- 
ences. 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass,  kept  his  within  its 
number, 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed  him  like  a 
slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share  his 
home  caresses, 

Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan  tendernesses  : 

The  very  world,  by  God’s  constraint,  from  falsehood’s 
ways  removing, 

Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him,  true  and 
loving. 

And  though,  in  blindness,  he  remained  unconscious  of 
that  guiding, 

And  things  provided  came  without  the  sweet  sense  of 
providing, 

He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  frenzy  desolated, 

Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy  whom  only  God  created. 


We  may  contrast  this  doggerel  with  a specimen  of 
Mr  Bailey’s  ambitious  blank  verse,  descriptive  of 
the  solitary,  mystic  recluse,  dwelling  ‘ lion- like 
within  the  desert : ’ 

Lofty  and  passionless  as  date-palm’s  bride, 

High  on  the  upmost  summits  of  his  soul — 

Wrought  of  the  elemental  light  of  heaven, 

And  pure  and  plastic  flame  that  soul  could  shew, 
Whose  nature,  like  the  perfume  of  a flower 
Enriched  with  aromatic  sun-dust,  charms 
All,  and  with  all  ingratiates  itself, 

Sat  dazzling  purity ; for  loftiest  things, 

Snow-like,  are  purest.  As  in  mountain  morns 
Expectant  air  the  sun-birth,  so  his  soul 
Her  God  into  its  supranatural  depths 
Accepted  brightly  and  sublimely.  Vowed 
To  mystic  visions  of  supernal  things ; 

Daily  endowed  with  spheres  and  astral  tin-one s, 
His,  by  pre-emptive  right,  throughout  all  time ; 
Immerged  in  his  own  essence,  clarified 
From  all  those  rude  propensities  which  rule 
Man’s  heart,  a tyrant  mob,  and,  venal,  sell 
All  virtues — ay,  the  crown  of  life — to  what 
Passion  soe’er  prepotent,  worst  deludes 
Or  deftliest  flatters,  he,  death-calm,  beheld, 

As  though  through  glass  of  some  far-sighting  tube, 
The  restful  future ; and,  consummed  in  bliss, 

In  vital  and  ethereal  thought  abstract, 

The  depths  of  Deity  and  heights  of  heaven. 

G05 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


The  earliest  and  still  the  most  considerable  portion 
i of  Mb  Bbowxtxg’s  poetry  is  cast  in  a dramatic 
j form.  Two  of  his  tragedies,  Strafford  (1837)  and 
• The  Blot  on  the  Scutcheon  (1843),  have  been  brought 
! on  the  stage  with  partial  success.  The  first  work  j 
| of  Mr  Browning — produced  in  his  twenty-third  ! 

1 year — was  a philosophical  poem,  Paracelsus.  A ; 
j succession  of  small  volumes,  quaintly  and  inscru-  ! 
i tably  called  Bells  and  Pomegranates , have  since 
j proceeded  from  his  pen ; one  of  which,  Pipi  Passes, 
has  been  the  most  popular  of  his  poems.  The  other 
i works  of  the  poet  are — Sordello,  Colombe's  Birth-day, 

| The  Soul’s  Tragedy,  Lurid,  The  Return  of  the  Druses, 
King  Victor  and  King  Charles , Dramatic  Sketches, 
Romances , and  Lyrics , Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day, 
&c.  These  have  been  collected  and  republished  in 
two  volumes.  In  1855  Air  Browning  issued  two 
more  volumes,  Men  and  Women , consisting  chiefly 
of  poems  suggested  by  scenes,  studies,  and  pictures 
in  Italy.  A fertile  and  various  author,  with  high 
and  generous  aims,  IMr  Browning  has  proved  Ids 
poetic  power  alike  in  thought,  description,  passion, 
and  character,  but  the  effect  of  even  his  happiest 
performances  is  marred  by  obscurity,  by  eccentrici- 
ties of  style  and  expression,  or  by  the  incongruous 
mixture  of  familiar  phrases  and  Hudibrastic  rhymes 
with  grave  thoughts  and  metaphysical  speculation. 
Of  Air  Browning’s  many  descriptions  of  the  ‘ sunny 
south,’  the  following  is  a favourable  specimen,  and 
Miss  Mitford  states  that  it  was  admired  by  Mr 
Buskin  for  its  exceeding  truthfulness : 

[Picture  of  the  Crape  Harvest.'] 

But  to-day  not  a boat  reached  Salerno, 

So  back  to  a man 

Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards  i 
Grape-harvest  began : 

In  the  vat  half-way  up  in  our  house-side 
Like  blood  the  juice  spins, 

"While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing 
Till  breathless  he  grins 
Dead-beaten,  in  effort  on  effort 
To  keep  the  grapes  under, 

For  still  when  he  seems  all  but  master 
In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 
With  basket  on  shoulder, 

And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain’s  driving, 

Your  girls  that  are  older — 

For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe, 

And  where,  on  its  bed 

Of  the  orchard’s  black  mould,  the  love-apple 
Lies  pulpy  and  red, 

All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling 
Their  laps  with  the  snails 
Tempted  out  by  the  first  rainy  weather — 

Your  best  of  regales 

As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow, 

When  supping  in  state, 

We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners — two  dozen, 

Three  over  one  plate — 

Macaroni,  so  tempting  to  swallow, 

Iir  slippery  strings, 

And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices, 

That  colour  of  kings. 

Meantime,  see  the  grape-bunch  they’ve  brought 
you— 

The  rain-water  slips 
O’er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe 
Which  the  wasp  to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence. 

Nay,  taste  while  awake, 

This  half  of  a curd- white  smooth  cheese-ball, 

That  peels,  flake  bv  flake, 

M6 


Like  an  onion’s,  each  smoother  and  whiter; 

Next  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper, 

A leaf  of  the  vine ; 

And  end  with  the  prickly  pear’s  red  flesh, 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl  teeth. 

Mr  Browning’s  reasoning  or  moralising  vein  is 
seen  in  this  extract : 

[From  Old  Pictures  in  Florence .] 

Is  it  true,  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter, 

And  what — is  depending  on  life’s  one  minute  ? 

Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 
Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 

And  man,  this  step  within  his  endeavour, 

His  face  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallised  for  ever, 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ! 

On  which  I conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  ‘ Greek  art,  and  what  more  wish  you?’ 
Replied : ‘ Become  now  self-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man — whatever  the  issue ! 

Make  the  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they  fray, 

New  fears  aggrandise  the  rags  and  tatters. 

So  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play, 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs — what  matters?’ 

Give  these,  I say,  full  honour  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 

The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race’s  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old,  ’tis  no  idle  quiddit. 

The  worthies  began  a revolution 

Which  if  on  the  earth  we  intend  to  acknowledge, 
Honour  them  now — ends  my  allocution — 

Nor  confer  our  degree  when  the  folks  leave  college. 

There ’s  a fancy  some  lean  to,  and  others  hate — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins — 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world’s  congeries, 
Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small. 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series  ; 

Only  the  scale ’s  to  be  changed,  that ’s  alL 

Yet  I hardly  know.  When  a soul  has  seen 
By  the  means  of  evil  that  good  is  best, 

And  through  earth  and  its  noise,  what  is  heaven’s 
serene — 

When  its  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test — 

Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 
j The  uses  of  labour  are  surely  done. 

There  remaineth  a rest  for  the  people  of  God, 

And  I have  had  troubles  enough  for  one. 

ftlB  Hobxe  (born  in  London  in  1803)  is  the  ; 
author  of  several  dramatic  pieces — Cosmo  de 
Medici,  The  Death  of  Marlowe,  Gregory  the  Seventh, 
&c.;  also  of  an  epic  poem,  Orion,  1843;  and  of  : 
numerous  essays  and  criticisms  on  axt,  the  drama, 

J and  general  literature.  Two  volumes  of  these  were 
! published  in  1844,  under  the  title  of  A New  Spirit 
j of  the  Age,  containing  biographical  and  critical 
sketches  of  living  authors.  The  poem  of  Orion , 
j though  not  strictly  an  epic,  and  deficient  in  action, 
j is  imbued  with  classic  and  poetic  feeling,  and  is 
! more  carefully  finished  than  either  Festus  or 
| Paracelsus.  A volume  of  Ballad  Romances,  by  Mr 
Horne  (1846),  also  possesses  no  ordinary  merit. 
We  may  note  that  Orion  was  published  at  the 
price  of  one  farthing,  ‘a  price  placed  upon  it  as 
a sarcasm  upon  the  low  estimation  into  which  epic 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  MACKAY. 


poetry  was  fallen ! ’ The  ruse  was  successful,  three 
editions  having  been  sold,  after  which  the  price  was 
raised.  In  1852,  Mr  Horne  exchanged  the  toils  of 
a literary  life  for  the  auriferous  fields  of  Australia, 
and  now  holds  the  office  of  ‘ Gold  Commissioner.’ 


CHARLES  MACKAY. 

Among  the  authors  of  the  day,  uniting  political 
sympathies  and  aspirations  with  lyrical  poetry,  is 
Dr  Charles  Mackay.  Some  of  his  songs  are 
familiar  as  household  words  both  in  this  country  and 
in  America,  and  his  influence  as  an  apostle  or 
minstrel  of  social  reform  and  the  domestic  affections 
must  have  been  considerable.  Dr  Mackay  com- 
menced his  literary  career  in  1834,  in  his  twenty- 
second  year,  by  the  publication  of  a small  volume  of 


poems.  Shortly  afterwards  he  became  connected 
with  the  Morning  Chronicle  daily  journal,  and  con- 
tinued in  this  laborious  service  for  nine  years.  In 
1840,  he  published  The  Hope  of  the  World,  a poem 
in  verse,  of  the  style  of  Pope  and  Goldsmith.  In 
1842,  appeared  The  Salamandrme , a poetical  romance 
founded  on  the  Rosicrucian  system,  which  supplied 
Pope  with  the  inimitable  aerial  personages  of  his 
Rape  of  the  Lock.  The  Salamandrine  is  the  most 
finished  of  Dr  Mackay’s  works,  and  has  passed 
through  several  editions.  From  1844  to  1847, 
our  author  conducted  a Scottish  newspaper,  The 
Glasgow  Argus , and  while  resident  in  the  north,  he 
received  the  honorary  distinction  of  LL.D.  from  the 
university  of  Glasgow.  Returning  to  London,  he 
resumed  his  connection  with  the  metropolitan  press, 
and  was  for  several  years  editor  of  the  Illustrated 
London  News,  in  the  columns  of  which  many  of  his 
poetical  pieces  first  appeared.  Ilis  collected  works, 
in  addition  to  those  already  enumerated,  consist  of 
Legends  of  the  Isles,  1845;  Voices  from  the  Crowd, 
184G;  Voices  from  the  Mountains,  \ 847;  Town  Lyrics, 
1848;  Egeria,  or  the  Spirit  of  Nature , 1850;  The 
Lump  of  Gold,  &c.,  185G;  Songs  for  Music,  1857; 
Under  Green  Leaves,  1858.  Two  prose  works  also 
proceeded  from  the  fertile  pen  of  Dr  Mackay — The 


Thames  and  its  Tributaries,  two  volumes,  1840  ; and 
Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Popular  Delusions,  two 
volumes,  1852.  In  1852,  Dr  Mackay  made  a tour 
in  America,  and  delivered  a course  of  lectures  on 
poetry,  which  he  has  repeated  in  this  country.  His 
transatlantic  impressions  he  has  embodied  in  two 
volumes  of  lively  description,  bearing  the  title  of 
Life  and  Liberty  in  America.  The  poet,  we  may  add, 
is  a native  of  Perth,  born  in  1812,  while  his  father, 
an  officer  in  the  army,  was  on  recruiting  service. 
He  was  in  infancy  removed  to  London,  and  five 
years  of  his  youth  were  spent  in  Belgium. 

[ Apologue  from,  * Egeria?] 

In  ancient  time,  two  acorns,  in  their  cups, 

Shaken  by  winds  and  ripeness  from  the  tree, 

Dropped  side  by  side  into  the  ferns  and  grass  : 

‘Where  have  I fallen — to  what  base  region  come?’ 
Exclaimed  the  one.  ‘ The  joyous  breeze  no  more 
Rocks  me  to  slumber  on  the  sheltering  bough ; 

The  sunlight  streams  no  longer  on  my  face ; 

I look  no  more  from  altitudes  serene 
.Upon  the  world  reposing  far  below ; 

Its  plains,  its  hills,  its  rivers  and  its  woods. 

To  me  the  nightingale  sings  hymns  no  more ; 

But  I am  made  companion  of  the  worm, 

And  rot  on  the  chill  earth.  Around  me  grow 
Nothing  but  useless  weeds,  and  grass,  and  fern, 

Unfit  to  hold  companionship  with  me. 

Ah,  me  ! most  wretched  ! rain,  and  frost,  and  dew, 
And  all  the  pangs  and  penalties  of  earth, 

Corrupt  me  where  I lie — degenerate.’ 

And  thus  the  acorn  made  its  daily  moan. 

The  other  raised  no  murmur  of  complaint, 

And  looked  with  no  contempt  upon  the  grass, 

Nor  called  the  branching  fern  a worthless  weed, 

Nor  scorned  the  woodland  flowers  that  round  it  blew. 
All  silently  and  piously  it  lay 
Upon  the  kindly  bosom  of  the  earth. 

It  blessed  the  warmth  with  which  the  noonday  sun 
Made  fruitful  all  the  ground ; it  loved  the  dews, 

The  moonlight  and  the  snow,  the  frost  and  rain, 

And  all  the  change  of  seasons  as  they  passed. 

It  sank  into  the  bosom  of  the  soil : 

The  bursting  life,  enclosed  within  its  husk, 

Broke  through  its  fetters ; it  extended  roots, 

And  twined  them  freely  in  the  grateful  ground  ; 

It  sprouted  up,  and  looked  upon  the  light ; 

The  sunshine  fed  it ; the  embracing  air 
Endowed  it  with  vitality  and  strength ; 

The  rains  of  heaven  supplied  it  nourishment, 

And  so  from  month  to  month,  and  year  to  year 
It  grew  in  beauty  and  in  usefulness, 

Until  its  large  circumference  enclosed 
Shelter  for  flocks  and  herds ; until  its  boughs 
Afforded  homes  for  happy  multitudes, 

The  dormouse,  and  the  chaffinch,  and  the  jay, 

And  countless  myriads  of  minuter  life ; 

Until  its  bole,  too  vast  for  the  embrace 
Of  human  arms,  stood  in  the  forest  depths, 

The  model  and  the  glory  of  the  wood  : 

Its  sister-acorn  perished  in  its.  pride. 

Street  Companions. 

[From  Town  Lyrics .] 

Whene’er  through  Gray’s  Inn  porch  I stray, 

I meet  a spirit  by  the  way ; 

He  wanders  with  me  all  alone, 

And  talks  with  me  in  under-tone. 

The  crowd  is  busy  seeking  gold, 

It  cannot  see  what  I behold ; 

I and  the  spirit  pass  along 
Unknown,  unnoticed,  in  the  throng. 

597 


PROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


to  1859. 


While  on  the  grass  the  children  run, 

And  maids  go  loitering  in  the  sun, 

I roam  beneath  the  ancient  trees, 

And  talk  with  him  of  mysteries. 

The  dull  brick  houses  of  the  square, 

The  bustle  of  the  thoroughfare, 

The  sounds,  the  sights,  the  crush  of  men, 
Are  present,  but  forgotten  then. 

I see  them,  but  I heed  them  not, 

I hear,  but  silence  clothes  the  spot ; 

All  voices  die  upon  my  brain 
Except  that  spirit ’s  in  the  lane. 

He  breathes  to  me  his  burning  thought, 

He  utters  words  with  wisdom  fraught, 

He  tells  me  truly  what  I am — 

I walk  with  mighty  Verulam. 

He  goes  with  me  through  crowded  ways, 

A friend  and  mentor  in  the  maze, 

Through  Chancery  Lane  to  Lincoln’s  Inn, 
To  Fleet  Street,  through  the  moil  and  din. 

I meet  another  spirit  there, 

A blind  old  man  with  forehead  fair, 

Who  ever  walks  the  right-hand  side, 
Toward  the  fountain  of  St  Bride. 

Amid  the  peal  of  jangling  bells, 

Or  peoples’  roar  that  falls  and  swells, 

The  whirl  of  wheels  and  tramp  of  steeds, 
He  talks  to  me  of  noble  deeds. 

I hear  his  voice  above  the  crush, 

As  to  and  fro  the  people  rush : 

Benign  and  calm,  upon  his  face 
Sits  Melancholy  robed  in  grace. 

He  hath  no  need  of  common  eyes, 

He  sees  the  fields  of  Paradise ; 

He  sees  and  pictures  unto  mine 
A gorgeous  vision,  most  divine. 

He  tells  the  story  of  the  Fall, 

He  names  the  fiends  in  battle-call, 

And  shews  my  soul,  in  wonder  dumb, 
Heaven,  Earth,  and  Pandemonium. 

He  tells  of  Lycidas  the  good, 

And  the  sweet  lady  in  the  wood, 

And  teaches  wisdom,  high  and  holy, 

In  mirth  and  heavenly  melancholy. 

And  oftentimes,  with  courage  high, 

He  raises  freedom’s  rallying-cry ; 

And,  ancient  leader  of  the  van, 

Asserts  the  dignity  of  man — 

Asserts  the  rights  with  trumpet  tongue, 
That  justice  from  oppression  wrung, 

And  poet,  patriot,  statesman,  sage, 

Guides  by  his  own  a future  age. 

With  such  companions  at  my  side, 

I float  on  London’s  human  tide ; 

An  atom  on  its  billows  thrown, 

But  lonely  never,  nor  alone. 

Song — Tubal  Cain. 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a man  of  might 
In  the  days  when  earth  was  young ; 

By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright 
The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung ; 


And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 
On  the  iron  glowing  clear, 

Till  the  sparks  rushed  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 

And  he  sang  : ‘ Hurra  for  my  handiwork ! 

Hurra  for  the  spear  and  sword  ! 

Hurra  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them  well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord  !’ 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire, 

And  each  one  prayed  for  a strong  steel  blade 
As  the  crown  of  his  desire : 

And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee, 

And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearls  and  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 

And  they  sang  : ‘ Hurra  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew  ! 

Hurra  for  the  smith,  hurra  for  the  fire, 

And  hurra  for  the  metal  true  !’ 

But  a sudden  change  came  o’er  his  heart 
Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 

And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 
For  the  evil  he  had  done ; 

He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 

That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed, 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 

And  he  said  : ‘ Alas ! that  ever  I made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 

The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose  joy 
Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man !’ 

And  for  many  a day  old  Tubal  Cain 
Sat  brooding  o’er  his  woe ; 

And  his  hand  forebore  to  smite  the  ore, 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 

But  he  rose  at  last  with  a cheerful  face, 

And  a bright  courageous  eye, 

And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high. 

And  he  sang : ‘ Hurra  for  my  handiwork  ! ’ 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air ; 

‘ Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel  made ;’ 
And  he  fashioned  the  first  ploughshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joined  their  hands, 

Hung  the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  spear  on  the  wall, 
And  ploughed  the  willing  lands ; 

And  sang : ‘ Hurra  for  Tubal  Cain  ! 

Our  stanch  good  friend  is  he ; 

And  for  the  ploughshare  and  the  plough 
To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 

But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a tyrant  would  be  lord, 

Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plough, 

We  ’ll  not  forget  the  sword !’ 


LORD  MACAULAY. 

In  1842  the  Right  Honourable  Thomas  Babing- 
ton  Macaulay  surprised  and  gratified  the  lovers  of 
poetry  and  of  classic  story  by  the  publication  of  his 
Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.  Adopting  the  theory  of 
Niebuhr— now  generally  acquiesced  in  as  correct — 
that  the  heroic  and  romantic  incidents  related  by 
Livy  of  the  early  history  of  Rome,  are  founded 
merely  on  ancient  ballads  and  legends,  he  selects 
four  of  these  incidents  as  themes  for  his  verse. 
Identifying  hinlself  with  the  plebeians  and  tribunes, 
he  makes  them  chant  the  martial  stories  of  Horatius 
Codes,  the  battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus,  the  death  of 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORE  MACAULAY. 


Virginia,  and  the  prophecy  of  Capys.  The  style  is 
homely,  abrupt,  and  energetic,  carrying  us  along 
like  the  exciting  narratives  of  Scott,  and  presenting 
brief  but  striking  pictures  of  local  scenery  and 
manners.  The  incidents  and  characters,  so  power- 
fully delineated,  were  hallowed  in  the  imagination 
by  their  antiquity  and  heroism.  ‘The  whole  life 
and  meaning  of  the  early  heroes  of  Rome,’  says  the 
enthusiastic  Professor  Wilson,  ‘are  represented  in 
the  few  isolated  events  and  characters  which  have 
come  down ; and  what  a source  of  picturesque 
exaggeration  to  these  events  and  characters  'there  is 
in  the  total  want  of  all  connected  history ! They 
have  thus  acquired  a pregnancy  of  meaning  which 
renders  them  the  richest  subjects  of  poetic  contem- 
plation ; and  to  evolve  the  sentiment  they  embody 
in  any  form  we  choose,  is  a proper  exercise  of  the 
fancy.  For  the  same  reason,  is  not  the  history 
which  is  freest  of  the  interpreting  reflection  that 
characterises  most  modern  histories,  and  presents 
most  strictly  the  naked  incident,  always  that  which 
affords  the  best,  and,  as  literature  shews,  the  most 
frequent  subjects  of  imagination?  The  Roman 
character  is  highly  poetical — hold,  brave,  and  inde- 
pendent— devoid  of  art  or  subtlety — full  of  faith 
and  hope — devoted  to  the  cause  of  duty,  as  com- 
prised in  the  two  great  points  of  reverence  for  the 
gods  and  love  of  country.  Shakspeare  saw  its 
fitness  for  the  drama;  and  these  Lays  of  Ancient 
Rome  are,  in  their  way  and  degree,  a further  illus- 
tration of  the  truth.  Mr  Macaulay  might  have 
taken,  and,  we  trust,  will  yet  take,  wider  ground ; 
but  what  he  has  done,  he  has  done  nobly,  and  like 
“ an  antique  Roman.”  ’ * Previous  to  this,  during 
his  collegiate  career,  the  poet-historian  had  shewn 
his  fitness  to  deal  with  picturesque  incidents  and 
characters  in  history.  His  noble  ballads,  Ivry,  a 
Song  of  the  Huguenots , and  The  Armada , a Fragment , 
are  unsurpassed  in  spirit  and  grandeur  even  by  the 
battle-pieces  of  Scott.  A few  facts  and  dates  in  the 
life  of  this  eminent  person  may  be  here  introduced. 

The  ancestors  of  Lord  Macaulay  were  long  settled 
in  the  island  of  Lewis,  Ross-shire.  His  grandfather, 
the  Rev.  John  Macaulay,  was  successively  minister 
of  South  Uist,  of  Lismore,  of  Inverary,  and  of 
Cardross  in  Dumbartonshire.  In  Inverary,  he  met 
with  Johnson  and  Boswell  on  their  return  from  the 
Hebrides  in  the  autumn  of  1773.  He  died  at  Cardross 
in  1789.  Two  years  previous  to  his  death,  a daughter 
of  Mr  Macaulay  was  married  to  Thomas  Babington, 
Esq.,  of  Rothley  Temple,  Leicestershire — many  years 
the  representative  of  Leicester  in  parliament — and 
thus  an  English  connection  was  formed  from  which, 
at  a subsequent  period,  Lord  Macaulay  derived  the 
scene  of  his  birth,  his  Christian  name,  and  many  of 
his  early  associations.  Zachary  Macaulay,  son  of 
the  Scottish  minister,  was  sent  when  a boy  to  the 
West  Indies.  He  was  disgusted  with  the  state  of 
slavery  in  Jamaica,  and  afterwards,  on  his  return  to 
Great  Britain,  became  an  active  associate  of  Clark- 
son and  Wilberforce  in  procuring  the  abolition  of 
that  infamous  traffic.  He  married  Selina,  daughter 
of  Mr  Thomas  Mills,  a bookseller  in  Bristol,  and 
had,  with  other  children,  a son,  Thomas  Babington, 
born  at  Rothley  Temple  on  the  25th  of  October 
1800.  In  1818  Mr  T.  B.  Macaulay  was  entered  of 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge;  in  1821  he  was  elected 
to  a Craven  scholarship,  took  his  degree  as  B.A.  in 
1822,  became  fellow  of  his  college  in  1824,  and  M.A. 
in  1825.  He  had  by  this  time  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  classic  attainments,  and  by  contributions 
to  the  Etonian  and  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine , and 

* Wilson's  Works , vol.  vii.  p.  396. 


in  August  1825  appeared  his  celebrated  article  on 
Milton  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  This  essay,  though 
afterwards  condemned  by  its  author  as  ‘ containing 
scarcely  a paragraph  such  as  his  matured  judgment 
approved,’  and  as  ‘overloaded  with  gaudy  and 
ungraceful  ornament,’  arrested  public  attention  in 
no  ordinary  degree,  and  was  hailed,  as  it  proved  to 
be,  the  precursor  of  a series  of  brilliant  contribu- 
tions to  our  critical  literature.  Having  studied  at 
Lincoln’s  Inn,  Mr  Macaulay  was  called  to  the  bar 
in  1826.  In  1830  he  commenced  his  parliamentary 


career,  first  as  member  for  the  borough  of  Caine, 
and  afterwards,  from  December  1832  until  1834,  as 
member  for  Leeds.  He  resigned  his  seat  in  order 
to  proceed  to  India  as  legal  adviser  to  the  Supreme 
Council  of  Calcutta.  In  Calcutta,  he  was  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  commission  for  the  reform  of  East 
India  legislation.  This  appointment  led  to  the 
study  of  Indian  history  and  affairs,  and  enabled  Mr 
Macaulay  to  write  his  striking  and  popular  essays 
on  Lord  Clive  (1840)  and  Warren  Hastings  (1841). 
In  1839  he  had  been  triumphantly  and  almost 
without  expense  returned  to  parliament  by  the 
citizens  of  Edinburgh,  and  he  held  his  seat  until 
1847.  In  the  administration  of  Lord  Melbourne, 
he  filled  the  office  of  secretary  at  war,  and  in  that 
of  Lord  John  Russell,  paymaster  of  the  forces.  Ilis 
personal  independence  of  character  is  said  to  have 
rendered  him  somewhat  unaccommodating  to  certain 
of  his  constituents ; his  support  of  the  Maynooth 
grant  was  resented  by  others;  and  his  general  politi- 
cal principles,  so  decidedly  liberal,  and  so  strongly 
and  eloquently  expressed,  were  opposed  to  the 
sentiments  of  the  Conservative  citizens  of  Edin- 
burgh. Thus  a combination  of  parties  was  formed 
against  him,  and  it  proved  successful.  He  was 
rejected  by  the  constituency ; but  at  a subsequent 
period,  in  1852,  Mr  Macaulay  was  re-elected  for 
Edinburgh  without  solicitation  or  canvass.  The 
citizens  thus  redeemed  the  error  which  had  lowered 
them  in  the  eyes  of  all  Europe.  Mr  Macaulay’s 
health,  however,  had  begun  to  fail ; he  was  unable 

599 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  T0  1850. 


to  address  public  assemblies  without  pain  and  incon- 
venience, and  he  withdrew  from  parliament  in 
January  1856.  In  September  1857  he  was  elevated 
to  the  peerage  as  Baron  Macaulay  of  Rothley 
Temple,  in  the  county  of  Leicester. 

The  prose  works  of  Lord  Macaulay  will  be  after- 
wards noticed.  From  his  ballads  we  subjoin  a few 
specimens.  But  the  ballads  must  be  read  continu- 
ously, to  be  properly  appreciated ; for  their  merit 
does  not  lie  in  particular  passages,  but  in  the  rapid 
and  progressive  interest  of  the  story,  and  the  Roman 
spirit  and  bravery  which  animate  the  whole.  The 
following  are  parts  of  the  first  Lay : 

[The  Desolation  of  the  Cities  whose  Warriors  have 
marched  against  Rome.'] 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 
Drop  in  dark  Auser’s  rill ; 

Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 
Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 

Beyond  all  streams,  Clitumnus 
Is  to  the  herdsman  dear ; 

Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves, 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 
Is  heard  by  Auser’s  rill; 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag’s  green  path 
Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 

Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 
Grazes  the  milk-white  steer  ; 

Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 
In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year  old  men  shall  reap ; 

This  year  young  boys  in  Umbro 
Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep ; 

And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls, 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 

[Horatius  offers  to  defend  the  Bridge.] 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 

‘ To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 

And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds, 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

* And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

‘ Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 

I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 

In  yon  straight  path  a thousand 
May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 

Now,  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?’ 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius ; 

A Ramnian  proud  was  he : 

‘ Lo,  I will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.’ 

600 


And  out  spake  strong  Herminius ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 

* I will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.’ 

‘ Horatius,’  quoth  the  Consul, 

‘ As  thou  sa/st,  so  let  it  be.’ 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 

For  Romans  in  Rome’s  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 

Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold ; 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 
More  hateful  than  a foe, 

And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 

As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold ; 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

[The  fate  of  the  first  Three  who  advance  against  the  Heroes 
' of  Rome.] 

Aunus  from  green  Tifemum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines ; 

And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 
Sicken  in  Ilva’s  mines ; 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium, 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 

Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 
O’er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath : 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 

At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; « 

And  the  proud  Umbrian’s  gilded  arms 
Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three ; 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 

And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 

The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa’s  fen, 

And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 
Along  Albinia’s  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  : 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 
Horatius  sent  a blow. 

* Lie  there,’  he  cried,  ‘ fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 

From  Ostia’s  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 

No  more  Campania’s  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 
Thy  thrice  accursed  sail’ 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


lord  Macaulay. 


[The  Bridge  falls,  and  Horatius  is  alone.] 
Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind  ; 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

‘ Down  with  him  ! ’ cried  false  Sextus, 
With  a smile  on  his  pale  face. 

‘ Now  yield  thee,’  cried  Lars  Porsena, 
‘Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.’ 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 

Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he ; 

But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 

And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

‘ Oh,  Tiber,  Father  Tiber ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 

A Roman’s  life,  a Roman’s  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  ! ’ 

So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 
The  good  sword  by  his  side, 

And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 
Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 

But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 
Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 

And  when  above  the  surges 
They  saw  his  crest  appear, 

All  Rome  sent  forth  a rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 
Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

[How  Horatius  was  rewarded.] 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 

As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night : 
And  they  made  a molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 

And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 
To  witness  if  I lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see ; 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee  : 

And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 
Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 

As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 
To  charge  the  Volscian  home : 

And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 
For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 

And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 
Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 

When  round  the  lonely  cottage 
Roars  loud  the  tempest’s  din, 

And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 
Roar  louder  yet  within ; 


When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit, 

When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 
And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 

When  young  and  old  in  circle 
Around  the  firebrands  close ; 

When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 
And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour, 
And  trims  his  helmet’s  plume ; 

When  the  goodwife’s  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ; 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 
Still  is  the  story  told, 

How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Ivry. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories 
are  ! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 

Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  oh 
pleasant  land  of  France  ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the 
waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 
daughters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 

For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 
walls  annoy. 

Hurrah  ! hurrah  ! a single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war, 

Hurrah  ! hurrah  ! for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Oh  ! how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of 
day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel’s  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont’s  Flemish 
spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our 
land ; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a truncheon  in  his 
hand : 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine’s 
empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni’s  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of 
war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armour 
drest ; 

And  he  has  bound  a snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 
crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a tear  was  in  his  eye ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 
and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to 
wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  a deafening  shout,  ‘God  save  our 
lord  the  King.’ 

‘And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he 
may — 

For  never  saw  I promise  yet  of  such  a bloody  fray — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the 
ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre.’ 

Hurrah  ! the  foes  are  moving ! Hark  to  the  mingled  din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring 
eulverin. 

C01 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre’s 
plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 
France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies— upon  them  with  the  lance  ! 
A thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 
guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of 
Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours ! Mayenne  hath 
turned  his  rein. 

D’Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.  The  Flemish  Count 
is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 
Biscay  gale ; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 
cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van, 

‘ Remember  St  Bartholomew,’  was  passed  from  man  to 
man ; 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry : ‘ No  Frenchman  is  my  foe : 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren 

go*’ 

Oh ! was  there  ever  such  a knight,  in  friendship  or  in 
war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 
Navarre ! 

Bight  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for 
France  to-day ; 

And  many  a lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 

And  the  good  lord  of  Eosny  hath  ta’en  the  cornet  white. 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta’en, 
The  CQrnet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false 
Lorraine. 

Up  with  it  high  ; unfurl  it  wide ; that  all  the  host  may 
know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought 
his  church  such  woe. 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest 
points  of  war, 

Fling  the  red  shreds,  a foot-cloth  meet  for  Henry  of 
Navarre. 

Ho  ! maidens  of  Vienna ! Ho  1 matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 
shall  return. 

Ho  ! Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a mass  for  thy  poor 
spearmen’s  souls ! 

Ho  ! gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms 
be  bright ; 

Ho  ! burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward 
to-night. 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath 
raised  the  slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valour  of 
the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

W.  E.  AYTOUN — THEODORE  MARTIN. 

The  same  style  of  ballad  poetry,  applied  to  inci- 
dents and  characters  in  Scottish  history,  has  been 
adopted  with  distinguished  success  by  Professor 
William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun,  author  of  Lays 
of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers , 1849,  and  Bothwell,  a tale  of 
602 


the  days  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  1856.  The  Lays 
range  from  the  field  of  Elodden  to  the  extinction 
of  the  Jacobite  cause  at  Culloden,  and  are  animated 
by  a fine  martial  spirit,  intermingled  with  scenes  of 
pathos  and  mournful  regret.  The  work  has  gone 
through  eleven  editions.  In  a similar  spirit  of 
nationality,  Mr  Aytoun  has  published  a collected 
and  collated  edition  of  the  old  Scottish  Ballads , two 
volumes,  1858.  In  satirical  and  humorous  compo- 
sition, both  in  poetry  and  prose,  Mr  Aytoun  has 
also  attained  celebrity.  His  tales  and  sketches  in 
Blackwood’s  Magazine  are  marked  by  a free,  bold, 
and  vigorous  hand,  somewhat  prone  to  caricature ; 
and  he  is  author  of  a clever  satire — Firmilian , a 
Spasmodic  Tragedy , by  Percy  T.  Jones , 1854.  In  con- 
junction with  his  friend,  Mr  Theodore  Martin,  the 
professor  has  written  The  Book  of  Ballads , by  Bon 
Gaultier^-a,  series  of  burlesque  poems  and  parodies 
contributed  to  different  periodicals,  and  collected 
into  one  volume ; and  to  the  same  poetical  partner- 
ship we  owe  a happy  translation  of  the  ballads  of 
Goethe.  Mr  Aytoun  is  a native  of  Edinburgh, 
born  in  1813,  Having  studied  at  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  and  afterwards  in  Germany,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Scottish  bar  in  1840.  In  1845  he 
was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles- 
Lettres  in  Edinburgh  University,  and  in  1852  he 
was  made  sheriff  of  Orkney.  His  poetical  talents 
were  first  displayed  in  a prize  poem,  Judith , which 
was  eulogised  by  Professor  Wilson,  afterwards  the 
father-in-law  of  the  young  poet.  Mr  Martin  is 
also  a native  of  Edinburgh,  born  in  1814.  He  is 
now  a parliamentary  solicitor  in  London.  Besides 
his  poetical  labours  with  Mr  Aytoun,  Mr  Martin  has 
translated  the  Correggio  and  Aladdin  of  the  Danish 
poet  Oehlenschlager,  and  King  Rene's  Daughter , a 
Danish  lyrical  drama  by  Henrik  Hertz. 

The  Burial-march  of  Dundee. 

[From  the  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers .] 

I. 

Sound  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan — 

Let  the  pibroch  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphant  music,  , 
Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 

Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 
Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 
As  the  clansmen  march  along ! 

Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray, 

Was  a nobler  trophy  carried 
Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day ; 

Never  since  the  valiant  Douglas 
On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert’s  heart — the  priceless — 

To  our  dear  Redeemer’s  shore  ! 

Lo  ! we  bring  with  us  the  hero — 

Lo  ! we  bring  the  conquering  Graeme, 
Crowned  as  best  beseems  a victor 
From  the  altar  of  his  fame  ; 

. Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 
Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 

’Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 

Strike,  I say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 

As  we  march  o’er  moor  and  lea ! 

Is  there  any  here  will  venture 
To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 

Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 
Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim  ! 

Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland — 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him  ! 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN. 


See ! above  his  glorious  body 
Lies  the  royal  banner’s  fold — 

See  ! his  valiant  blood  is  mingled 
With  its  crimson  and  its  gold. 

See  how  calm  he  looks  and  stately, 
Like  a warrior  on  his  shield, 
Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 
Breaks  along  the  battle-field  ! 

See — Oh  never  more,  my  comrades, 
Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 
As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh  ! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that, 
Clearer  than  the  trumpet’s  call, 
Bade  us  strike  for  king  and  country, 
Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 


II. 

On  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 
Yester-morn  our  army  lay : 

Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 
From  the  river’s  broken  way ; 
Hoarsely  roared  the  swollen  torrent, 
And  the  Pass  was  wrapped  in  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 
From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 
Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew, 

As  we  felt  our  broadswords’  edges, 

And  we  proved  them  to  be  true ; 

And  we  prayed  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 
And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 

And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  kinsmen, 
And  we  swore  to  do  or  die  ! 

Then  our  leader  rode  before  us, 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Knew  that  charger  in  the  fight ! — 
And  a cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose ; 

For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver’se, 
And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence — 

‘ Soldiers  ! I have  sworn  a vow ; 

Ere  the  evening-star  shall  glisten 
On  Schehallion’s  lofty  brow, 

Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Or  another  of  the  Grannes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 
For  his  country  and  King  James ! 
Think  upon  the  royal  martyr — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure — 
Think  on  him  whom  butchers  murdered 
On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir : 

By  his  sacred  blood  I charge  ye, 

By  the  ruined  hearth  and  shrine — 
By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine — 

Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 

Be  they  Covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle ! 

Strike  ! and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 
Backwards  o’er  the  stormy  Forth  ; 

Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 
How  they  fared  within  the  North. 

Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honour 
Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 

That  we  scorn  their  prince’s  anger 
,2  As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 

Strike  ! and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  you  look  in  vain  for  me, 

Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest 
^Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee !’ 


hi. 

Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 
With  our  answer  to  his  call, 

But  a deeper  echo  sounded 
In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 

For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen’s  fierce  emotion, 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath ; 

For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them, 
Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 

Soon  we  heard  a challenge-trumpet 
Sounding  in  the  Pass  below, 

And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe  : 

Down  we  crouched  amid  the  bracken, 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer, 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 

From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie’s  foot  and  Leven’s  troopers 
Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum ; 

Through  the  scattered  wood  of  birches, 
O’er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gained  the  field  beneath ; 

Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert. 

Judge  how  looked  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountain 
Start  to  life  with  armed  men  ! 

Like  a tempest  down  the  ridges 
Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 

Rose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald — 

Flashed  the  broadsword  of  Locheil ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

Amongst  the  foremost  of  our  band — 

On  we  poured  until  we  met  them 
Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 

Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 
When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 

And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 
In  the  Garry’s  deepest  pool. 

Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us— 
Living  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done  ! 

IY. 

And  the  evening-star  was  shining 
On  Schehallion’s  distant  head, 

When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords, 
And  returned  to  count  the  dead. 

There  we  found  him  gashed  and  gory, 
Stretched  upon  the  cumbered  plain, 

As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 

And  a smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Pealed  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen’s  clamorous  cheer : 

So,  amidst  the  battle’s  thunder, 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 

In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 
Passed  the  spirit  of  the  Grseme  ! 

v. 

Open  wide  the  vaults  of  Athol, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest — 

Open  wide  the  hallowed  portals 
To  receive  another  guest ! 

603 


prom  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


to  1859. 


Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen— 
Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied, 

Than  outlive  the  land’s  disgrace  ! 

0 thou  lion-hearted  warrior ! 

Reck  not  of  the  after-time : 

Honour  may  be  deemed  dishonour, 
Loyalty  be  called  a crime. 

Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 
Of  the  noble  and  the  true, 

Hands  that  never  failed  their  country, 
Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep  ! — and  till  the  latest  trumpet 
Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a braver 
Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee  ! 


[Sonnet  to  Britain , by  the  D of  W .] 

[From  Bon  Gaultier. ] 

Halt ! Shoulder  arms  ! Recover  ! As  you  were  ! 
Right  wheel ! Eyes  left ! Attention  ! Stand  at 
ease ! 

0 Britain ! 0 my  country  ! words  like  these 
Have  made  thy  name  a terror  and  a fear 
To  all  the  nations.  Witness  Ebro’s  banks, 

Assaye,  Toulouse,  Nivelle,  and  Waterloo, 

Where  the  grim  despot  muttered  Sauve  qui  pent ! 
And  Ney  fled  darkling — silence  in  the  ranks ; 
Inspired  by  these,  amidst  the  iron  crash 
Of  armies,  in  the  centre  of  his  troop 
The  soldier  stands — unmovable,  not  rash — 

Until  the  forces  of  the  foeman  droop ; 

Then  knocks  the  Frenchman  to  eternal  smash, 
Pounding  them  into  mummy.  Shoulder,  hoop  ! 


FRANCES  BROWN. 

This  lady,  blind  from  infancy,  is  a more  remark- 
able instance  of  the  poetical  faculty  existing  apart, 
as  it  were,  from  the  outer  world  thau  that  of  Black- 
lock.  Frances  Brown,  daughter  of  the  postmaster 
of  Stranorlar,  a village  in  the  county  Donegal, 
Ireland,  was  born  in  1816.  When  only  eighteen 
months  old,  she  lost  her  eyesight  from  small-pox, 
yet  she  soon  became  distinguished  for  her  thirst  for 
knowledge.  She  learned  something  from  hearing 
her  brothers  and  sisters  reading  over  their  tasks : 
her  friends  and  relatives  read  to  her  such  books 
as  the  remote  village  afforded,  and  at  length  she 
became  acquainted  with  Scott’s  novels,  Pope’s 
Homer , and  Byron’s  Childe  Harold.  She  wrote 
some  verses  which  appeared  in  the  Irish  Penny 
Journal,  and  in  1841  sent  a number  of  small  poems 
to  the  Athenaeum.  The  editor,  Mr  T.  K.  Hervey, 
introduced  her  to  public  notice:  her  pieces  were 
greatly  admired,  and  in  1844  she  ventured  on  the 
publication  of  a volume,  The  Star  of  Atieghei,  the 
Vision  of  Schwartz , and  other  Poems.  Shortly  after- 
wards, a small  pension  of  £20  a year  was  settled 
on  the  poetess,  and  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne  is 
said  to  have  presented  her  with  a sum  of  £100.  In 
1847  she  issued  a second  volume,  Lyrics  and  Miscel- 
laneous Poems , and  she  has  contributed  largely  to 
periodical  works.  The  poetry  of  Miss  Brown,  espe- 
cially her  lyrical  pieces,  is  remarkable  for  clear 
poetic  feeling  and  diction,  and  a peculiar  melody, 
not  perhaps  sufficiently  varied,  but  always  sweet 
and  flowing ; while  * the  energy  displayed,  from  her 
childhood,  by  this  almost  friendless  girl,  raises,’  as 
the  editor  of  her  first  volume  remarked,  ‘at  once 
the  interest  and  the  character  of  her  muse.* 

601 


The  Last  Friends. 

[One  of  the  United  Irishmen,  who  lately  returned  to  his 
country,  after  many  years  of  exile,  being  asked  what  had 
induced  him  to  revisit  Ireland  when  all  his  friends  were  gone, 
answered  : * I came  back  to  see  the  mountains.’] 

I come  to  my  country,  but  not  with  the  hope 

That  brightened  my  youth  like  the  cloud-lighting 
bow, 

For  the  vigour  of  soul  that  seemed  mighty  to  cope 
With  time  and  with  fortune,  hath  fled  from  me 
now; 

And  love,  that  illumined  my  wanderings  of  yore, 

Hath  perished,  and  left  but  a weary  regret 
For  the  star  that  can  rise  on  my  midnight  no  more — 
But  the  hills  of  my  country  they  welcome  me  yet ! 

The  hue  of  their  verdure  was  fresh  with  me  still, 
When  my  path  was  afar  by  the  Tanais’  lone  track ; 
From  the  wide-spreading  deserts  and  ruins,  that  fill 
The  lands  of  old  story,  they  summoned  me  back ; 
They  rose  on  my  dreams  through  the  shades  of  the 
West, 

They  breathed  upon  sands  which  the  dew  never  wet, 
For  the  echoes  were  hushed  in  the  home  I loved  best — 
But  I knew  that  the  mountains  would  welcome  me 
yet! 

The  dust  of  my  kindred  is  scattered  afar — 

They  lie  in  the  desert,  the  wild,  and  the  wave ; 

For  serving  the  strangers  through  wandering  and  war, 
The  isle  of  their  memory  could  grant  them  no  grave. 
And  I,  I return  with  the  memory  of  years, 

Whose  hops  rose  so  high  though  in  sorrow  it  set ; 
They  have  left  on  my  soul  but  the  trace  of  their  tears — • 
But  our  mountains  remember  their  promises  vet ! 

Oh,  where  are  the  brave  hearts  that  bounded  of  old, 
And  where  are  the  faces  my  childhood  hath  seen  ? 
For  fair  brows  are  furrowed,  and  hearts  have  grown 
cold, 

But  our  streams  are  still  bright,  and  our  hills  are 
still  green ; 

Ay,  green  as  they  rose  to  the  eyes  of  my  youth, 

When  brothers  in  heart  in  their  shadows  we' met ; 
And  the  hills  have  no  memory  of  sorrow  or  death, 
For  their  summits  are  sacred  to  liberty  yet ! 

Like  ocean  retiring,  the  morning  mists  now 

Roll  back  from  the  mountains  that  girdle  our  land ; 
And  sunlight  encircles  each  heath-covered  brow 
For  which  time  hath  no  furrow  and  tyrants  no 
brand : 

Oh,  thus  let  it  be  with  the  hearts  of  the  isle — 

Efface  the  dark  seal  that  oppression  hath  set ; 

Give  back  the  lost  glory  again  to  the  soil, 

For  the  hills  of  my  country  remember  it  yet ! 

June  16,  1813. 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES. 

Four  volumes  of  graceful  meditative  poetry  and 
records  of  foreign  travel  have  been  published 
(1840-44)  by  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  M.P. 
for  Pontefract.  These  ar q— Poems,  Legendary  and 
Historical;  Palm  Leaves;  Poems  of  Many  hears; 
and  Memorials  of  Many  Scenes.  Mr  Milnes  was 
born  in  that  enviable  rank  of  society,  the  English 
country-gentleman.  He  is  eldest  son  of  the  late 
R.  P.  Milnes,  Esq.  of  Frystone  Hall,  Yorkshire.  In 
1831,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  he  took  his  degree 
of  M.A.  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  In  1837, 
he  was  returned  to  the  House  of  Commons  as 
represeutative  of  the  borough  of  Pontefract ; and 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


though  not  taking  an  active  part  in  public  business, 
he  has  lent  his  support  to  questions  of  social 
amelioration  and  reform. 


The  Men  of  Old. 

I know  not  that  the  men  of  old 
Were  better  than  men  now, 

Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow : 

I heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 
A ghost  of  time  to  raise, 

As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 
Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true,  and  over  true, 

That  I delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self- wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 
The  world  has  since  foregone — 

The  daylight  of  contentedness 
That  on  those  faces  shone ! 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scanned, 
Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known — 

With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmanned — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone — 

They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 
Expected  nothing  more, 

Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 
Had  proffered  them  before. 

To  them  was  life  a simple  art 
Of  duties  to  be  done, 

A game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A race  where  all  must  run ; 

A battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 
They  little  cared  to  know, 

Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 
Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue’s  diadem 
Puts  on,  and  proudly  wears — 

Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them, 
Like  instincts,  unawares : 

Blending  their  souls’  sublimest  needs 
With  tasks  of  every  day, 

They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 

As  noble  boys  at  play. 

And  what  if  nature’s  fearful  wound 
They  did  not  probe  and  bare, 

For  that  their  spirits  never  swooned 
To  watch  the  misery  there — 

For  that  their  love  but  flowed  more  fast, 
Their  charities  more  free, 

Not  conscious  what  mere  drops  they  cast 
Into  the  evil  sea. 

A man’s  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet, 

It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 
That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 

For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 
We  struggle  and  aspire — 

Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 
The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason’s  hill 
Advance  with  hopeful  cheer — 

Oh  ! loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear ; 


EDGAR  POE. 


And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze, 
The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Remembering  distance  leaves  a haze 
On  all  that  lies  below. 


The  Long-ago. 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 
Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie, 
Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 
Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high  : 
Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 
Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe ; 
Nothing’s  altogether  ill 
In  the  griefs  of  Long-ago. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 
Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 

Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 
Through  the  golden  mist  of  years  : 
Death,  to  those  who  trust  in  good, 
Vindicates  his  hardest  blow; 

Oh  ! we  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago  ! 

Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 
Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong, 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 
Lingers  sad  and  overlong — 

Still  the  weight  will  find  a leaven, 
Still  the  spoiler’s  hand  is  slow, 
While  the  future  has  its  heaven, 

And  the  past  its  Long-ago. 


EDGAR  POE. 

This  singular  and  unfortunately  degraded  man  of 
genius — the  Richard  Savage  of  American  literature 
— was  a native  of  Baltimore,  born  about  the  year 
1811,  or  earlier.  He  was  left  destitute  when  a child 
by  the  death  of  his  parents  (strolling  players),  but 
was  adopted  and  liberally  educated  by  a benevolent 
Virginian  planter,  Mr  Allan.  All  attempts  to  settle 
him  respectably  in  life  failed.  He  was  reckless, 
debauched,  and  unmanageable.  He  was  expelled 
from  college  and  from  a military  academy  in  which 
he  was  placed  by  Mr  Allan ; he  enlisted  in  the  army, 
but  soon  deserted;  and  after  various  scenes  of 
wretchedness,  he  became  a contributor  to,  and  occa- 
sional editor  of,  several  American  periodicals.  His 
prose  tales  attracted  notice  from  their  ingenuity 
and  powerful,  though  morbid  and  gloomy  painting ; 
and  his  poem  of  The  Raven , coloured  by  the  same 
diseased  imagination,  but  with  bright  gleams  of 
fancy,  was  hailed  as  the  most  original  and 
striking  poem  that  America  had  ever  produced. 
Poe  died  in  a hospital  at  Baltimore,  the  victim  of 
intemperance,  October  7,  1849. 


The  Raven. 

Once  upon  a midnight  dreary,  while  I pondered, 
weak  and  weary, 

Over  many  a quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 
lore — 

While  I nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 
a tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber- 
door  ; 

* ’Tis  some  visitor,’  I muttered,  ‘ tapping  at  my 
chamber-door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more.’ 

605 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  «ro  1859. 

All ! distinctly  I remember  it  was  in  the  bleak 

‘ Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,’  I said, 

December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 

‘ art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from 
the  nightly  shore — 

upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I wished  the  morrow ; vainly  I had  sought  to 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night’s 

borrow 

Plutonian  shore  !’ 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 

Quoth  the  Raven  : ‘Nevermore.’ 

lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 

Much  I marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

name  Lenore — 

so  plainly, 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

bore ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

curtain 

being 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his 

felt  before ; 

chamber-door — 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I stood 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 

repeating : 

chamber-door, 

‘ ’Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber- 

With  such  name  as  ‘Nevermore.’ 

door — 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber- 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust, 
spoke  only 

door: 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more.’ 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; hesitating  then  no 

outpour. 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered;  not  a feather  then 

longer, 

he  fluttered — 

‘Sir,’  said  I,  ‘ or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 
implore ; 

Till  I scarcely  more  than  muttered : ‘ Other  friends 

have  flown  before — 

But  the  fact  is  I was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have 

came  rapping, 

flown  before.’ 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 

Then  the  bird  said  : ‘ Never  more.’ 

chamber-door, 

That  I scarce  was  sure  I heard  you  ’ — here  I opened 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
‘Doubtless,’  said  I,  ‘what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

wide  the  door 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

and  store, 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I stood  there 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 
disaster 

wondering,  fearing, 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

burden  bore — 

dream  before ; 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

Of  “Never — never  more.’” 

no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into 

word,  ‘ Lenore  ! ’ 

smiling, 

This  I whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 
word,  ‘Lenore !’ — 

Straight  I wheeled  a cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door  ; 

Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I betook  myself  td  linking 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 
yore — 

me  burning, 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

Soon  again  I heard  a tapping  something  louder  than 

bird  of  yore 

before. 

Meant  in  croaking  ‘Never  more.’ 

‘Surely,’  said  I — ‘sifrely  that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice ; 

This  I sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 
explore — 

expressing 

To  the  fowl  w'hose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a moment,  and  this  mystery 

bosom’s  core ; 

explore. 

This  and  more  I sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 

’Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more.’ 

reclining 

Open  here  I flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

On  the  cushion’s  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light 
gloated  o’er, 

flirt  and  flutter, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light 

In  there  stepped  a stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

gloating  o’er 

of  yore. 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more  ! 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he ; 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

an  unseen  censer 

chamber-door — 

Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 

Perched  upon  a bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my 

tufted  floor. 

chamber- door — 

‘ Wretch  !’  I cried,  ‘ thy  god  hath  lent  thee— by  these 

Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

angels  he  hath  sent  thee 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 
Lenore ! 

smiling, 

Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 

lost  Lenore ! ’ 

it  wore, 
606 

Quoth  the  Raven : * Never  more  1’ 

poets.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dana — longfellow. 


‘ Prophet ! ’ said  I,  ‘ thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land 
enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore — 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me, 
I implore ! ’ 

Quoth  the  Raven : ‘Never  more.’ 

‘Prophet!’  said  I,  ‘thing  of  evil — prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we 
both  adore, 

Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant 
Aiden, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 
Lenore — 

Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore  ? ’ 

Quoth  the  Raven : ‘ Never  more.’ 

‘Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !’  I 
shrieked  upstarting — 

‘ Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night’s 
Plutonian  shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above 
my  door ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door  ! ’ 

Quoth  the  Raven  : ‘Never  more.’ 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 
sitting, 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber- 
door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a demon’s  that 
is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamp-light  o’er  him  streaming,  throws  his 
shadow  on  the  floor ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted — never  more ! 


R.  H.  DANA — N.  P.  WILLIS— 0.  W.  HOLMES. 

Richard  Henry  Dana  (born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  in  1787)  is  author  of  The  Bucaneer, 
and  other  Poems,  1827.  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 
(born  at  Portland  in  1817)  is  author  of  various 
works,  and  has  been  long  connected  with  the 
literary  periodicals  of  the  United  State*.  His 
prose  sketches,  entitled  Pencillings  by  the  Way , were 
popular  in  this  country  as  well  as  in  America. 
They  originally  appeared  in  the  New  Yorlc  Mirror , 
of  which  journal  Mr  Willis  is  now  editor.  In 
1840  he  published  a volume  of  Poems,  short  occa- 
sional pieces,  sentimental,  descriptive,  and  humorous. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  in  1809)  contributed  various  pieces 
to  American  periodicals,  and  in  183G  published 
a collected  edition  of  his  Poems.  In  1843  he 
published  Terpsichore,  a poem;  in  1846,  Urania ; 
in  1850,  Astrcea,  the  Balance  of  Allusions,  a poem ; 
and  in  1858,  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  a 
series  of  light  and  genial  essays,  full  of  fancy  and 
humour,  which  has  been  successful  both  in  the  Old 
and  the  New  World. 


H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  a distin- 
guished American  author  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1807.  Having 
studied  at  Bowdoin  College,  Brunswick,  the  poet, 
after  three  years’  travelling  and  residence  in  Europe, 
became  professor  of  modern  languages  in  his  native 
college.  This  appointment  he  held  from  1829  to 
1835,  when  he  removed  to  his  present  professorship 
in  Harvard  College,  Cambridge.  While  a youth 
at  college,  Mr  Longfellow  contributed  poems  and 
criticisms  to  American  periodicals.  In  1833  he  pub- 
lished a translation  of  the  Spanish  ode  upon  Coplas 
de  Manrique,  accompanying  the  poem  with  an  essay 
on  Spanish  poetry.  In  1835  appeared  his  Outre 
Mer,  or  Sketches  from  Beyond  Sea,  a series  of  prose 
descriptions  and  reflections  somewhat  in  the  style 
of  Washington  Irving.  His  next  work  was  also  in 
prose,  Hyperion,  a Romance,  which  instantly  became 
popular  in  America.  In  the  same  year  (1839)  he 
issued  his  first  collection  of  poems,  entitled  Voices  of 
the  Night.  In  1841  appeared  Ballads,  and  otherPoems ; 
in  1842,  Poems  on  Slavery ; in  1843,  The  Spanish 
Student,  a tragedy ; in  1845,  The  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Europe,  and  The  Belfry  of  Bruges',  in  1847, 
Evangeline,  a poetical  tale  in  hexameter  verse;  in 
1848,  Kavanagh,  a prose  tale;  in  1849,  The  Seaside 
and  the  Fireside,  a series  of  short  poems ; in  1851, 
The  Golden  Legend , a medieval  story  in  irregular 
rhyme ; and  in  1855,  The  Song  of  Hiawatha , an 
American  Indian  tale,  in  a still  more  singular  style 
of  versification,  yet  attractive  from  its  novelty  and 
wild  melody.  Thus : 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 

Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 

Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 

And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 

And  the  rushing  of  the  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 

And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 

Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries ; 

Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 

To  this  song  of  Hiawatha! 

Some  of  the  shorter  poems  of  Mr  Longfellow  have 
attained  great  popularity.  His  diction  is  clear, 
simple,  and  elegant,  and  his  vein  of  thought  full  of 
a pensive  tenderness  and  beauty. 

A Psalm  of  Life. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 

‘ Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! ’ 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest, 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

‘ Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,’ 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  further  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral-marches  to  the  grave. 

607 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  T0  1859. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

Be  not  like  dumb  driven  cattle  ! 

We  may  discern,  unseen  before, 
A path  to  higher  destinies. 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife. 

Trust  no  future,  howe’er  pleasant ; 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  past 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead, 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

Act,  act  in  the  living  Present, 

If  rising  on  its  wrecks  at  last, 

Heart  within  and  God  o’erhead  ! 

To  something  nobler  we  attain. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Foot-prints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

A native  of  Manchester  (born  in  1803),  and 

Foot-prints  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

carrying  on  business  there  as  an  engraver,  Mr 
Charles  Swain  became  known  as  a poet  in  the 

pages  of  the  Literary  Gazette.  His  collected  works 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

are — Metrical  Essays , 1827 ; The  Mind,  and  other 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Poems , 1831 ; Dramatic  Chapters , and  other  Poems , 
1847;  English  Melodies , 1849;  the  Letters  of  Laura 
d’Auverne,  &c.,  1853.  Some  of  Mr  Swain’s  songs 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

and  domestic  poems — which  are  free  from  all 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

mysticism  and  exaggerated  sentiment — have  been 

Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 

very  popular. 

The  Ladder  of  St  Augustine. 

The  Death  of  the  Warrior  King. 

Saint  Augustine  ! well  hast  thou  said, 

There  are  noble  heads  bowed  down  and  pale, 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

Deep  sounds  of  woe  arise, 

A ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

And  tears  flow  fast  around  the  couch 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

Where  a wounded  warrior  lies ; 

All  common  things — each  day’s  events, 

The  hue  of  death  is  gathering  dark 
Upon  his  lofty  brow, 

And  the  arm  of  might  and  valour  falls, 

That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end ; 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 

Weak  as  an  infant’s  now. 

Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 
The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 

I saw  him  ’mid  the  battling  hosts, 

Like  a bright  and  leading  star, 

Where  banner,  helm,  and  falchion  gleamed, 
And  flew  the  bolts  of  war. 

That  makes  another’s  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  giddy  wine, 

And  all  occasions  of  excess. 

When,  in  his  plenitude  of  power, 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things, 

He  trod  the  Holy  Land, 
I saw  the  routed  Saracens 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth, 

Flee  from  his  blood-dark  brand. 

The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ! 

I saw  him  in  the  banquet  hour 

All  thoughts  of  ill — all  evil  deeds, 

Forsake  the  festive  throng, 

To  seek  his  favourite  minstrel’s  haunt, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill. 

And  give  his  soul  to  song ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 

For  dearly  as  he  loved  renown, 

He  loved  that  spell-wrought  strain 

The  action  of  the  nobler  will ! 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 

Which  bade  the  brave  of  perished  days 
Light  conquest’s  torch  again. 

Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  field  of  fair  renown 

Then  seemed  the  bard  to  cope  with  Time, 

The  right  of  eminent  domain  ! 

And  triumph  o’er  his  doom — 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar, 
But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 

Another  world  in  freshness  burst 
Oblivion’s  mighty  tomb ! 

Again  the  hardy  Britons  rushed 

By  slow  degrees — by  more  and  more — 

Like  lions  to  the  fight, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

While  horse  and  foot — helm,  shield,  and  lance, 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge -like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

Swept  by  his  visioned  sight ! 

But  battle  shout  and  waving  plume, 

When  nearer  seen  and  better  known, 

The  drum’s  heart-stirring  beat, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  glittering  pomp  of  prosperous  war, 

The  distant  mountains  that  uprear 

The  rush  of  million  feet, 

The  magic  of  the  minstrel’s  song, 
Which  told  of  victories  o’er, 

Are  sights  and  sounds  the  dying  king 

Their  frowning  foreheads  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways  that  appear 

As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

Shall  see — shall  hear  no  more  ! 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 

It  was  the  hour  of  deep  midnight, 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight ; 

In  the  dim  and  quiet  sky, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 

When,  with  sable  cloak  and  ’broidered  pall, 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

608 

A funeral-train  swept  by ; 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Dull  and  sad  fell  the  torches’  glare 
On  many  a stately  crest — 

They  bore  the  noble  warrior  king 
To  his  last  dark  home  of  rest. 

SYDNEY  DOBELL — ALEXANDER  SMITH — GEORGE 
MACDONALD — GERALD  MASSEY. 

Under  the  pseudonym  of  ‘ Sydney  Yendys  ’ Mr 
Sydney  Dobell  has  published  several  elaborate 
poetical  works.  He  was  born  at  Peclcham  Rye  in 
1824,  but  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  youth  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Cheltenham,  where  his  father 
was  engaged  in  business  as  a wine-merchant.  In 
his  intervals  of  leisure  the  young  poet — whose 
regular  employment  was  in  his  father’s  counting- 
house — contrived  to  write  a dramatic  poem,  The 
Roman , published  in  1850,  and  still  the  best  of  his 
works.  In  1854  appeared  Balder , Part  the  First; 
in  1855,  Sonnets  on  the  War,  written  in  conjunction 
with  Mr  A.  Smith;  and  in  1856,  England  in  Time 
of  War.  A man  of  cultivated  intellectual  tastes 
and  benevolence  of  character,  Mr  Dobell  seems  to 
have  taken  up  some  false  or  exaggerated  theories 
of  poetry  and  philosophy,  and  to  have  wasted  fine 
thoughts  and  conceptions  on  uncongenial  themes. 
The  great  error  of  our  young  poets  consists  in  the 
want  of  simplicity  and  nature.  They  heap  up 
images  and  sentiments,  the  ornaments  of  poetry, 
without  aiming  at  order,  consistency,  and  the 
natural  development  of  passion  or  feeling.  We 
have  thus  many  beautiful  and  fanciful  ideas,  but 
few  complete  or  correct  poems.  Part  of  this  defect 
is  no  doubt  to  be  attributed  to  the  youth  of  the 
poets,  for  taste  and  judgment  come  slowly  even 
where  genius  is  abundant,  but  part  also  is  due  to 
neglect  of  the  old  masters  of  song.  In  Mr  Dobell’s 
first  poem,  however,  are  some  passages  of  finished 
blank  verse : 

[The  Italian  Brothers .] 

I had  a brother, 

We  were  twin  shoots  from  one  dead  stem.  He  grew 
Nearer  the  sun,  and  ripened  into  beauty ; 

And  I within  the  shadow  of  my  thoughts, 

Pined  at  his  side  and  loved  him.  He  was  brave, 
Gallant,  and  free.  I was  the  silent  slave 
Of  fancies ; neither  laughed,  nor  fought,  nor  played, 
And  loved  not  morn  nor  eve  for  very  trembling 
At  their  long  wandering  shades.  In  childhood’s  sports 
He  won  for  me,  and  I looked  on  aloof ; 

And  when  perchance  I heard  him  called  my  brother, 
Was  proud  and  happy.  So  we  grew  together, 

Within  our  dwelling  by  the  desert  plain, 

Where  the  roe  leaped, 

And  from  his  icy  hills  the  frequent  wolf 
Gave  chivalry  to  slaughter.  Here  and  there 
Rude  heaps,  that  had  been  cities,  clad  the  ground 
With  history.  And  far  and  near,  where  grass 
Was  greenest,  and  the  unconscious  goat  browsed  free, 
The  teeming  soil  was  sown  with  desolations, 

As  though  Time — striding  o’er  the  field  he  reaped — 
Warmed  with  the  spoil,  rich  droppings  for  the  gleaners 
Threw  round  his  harvest  way.  Frieze,  pedestal, 
Pillars  that  bore  through  years  the  weight  of  glory, 
And  take  their  rest.  Tombs,  arches,  monuments, 
Vainly  set  up  to  save  a name,  as  though 
The  eternal  served  the  perishable  ; urns, 

Which  winds  had  emptied  of  their  dust,  but  left 
Full  of  their  immortality.  In  shrouds 
Of  reverent  leaves,  rich  works  of  wondrous  beauty 
Lay  sleeping — like  the  children  in  the  wood— 

Fairer  than  they. 

91 


S.  DOBELL — A.  SMITH. 


[The  Ruins  of  Ancient  Rome. ] 

Upstood 

The  hoar  unconscious  walls,  bisson  and  bare, 

Like  an  old  man  deaf,  blind,  and  gray,  in  whom 
The  years  of  old  stand  in  the  sun,  and  murmur 
Of  childhood  and  the  dead.  From  parapets 
Where  the  sky  rests,  from  broken  niches — each 
More  than  Olympus — for  gods  dwelt  in  them — 

Below  from  senatorial  haunts  and  seats 

Imperial,  where  the  ever-passing  fates 

Wore  out  the  stone,  strange  hermit  birds  croaked  forth 

Sorrowful  sounds,  like  watchers  on r the  height 

Crying  the  hours  of  ruin.  When  the  clouds 

Dressed  every  myrtle  on  the  walls  in  mourning, 

With  calm  prerogative  the  eternal  pile 
Impassive  shone  with  the  unearthly  light 
Of  immortality.  When  conquering  suns 
Triumphed  in  jubilant  earth,  it  stood  out  dark 
With  thoughts  of  ages  : like  some  mighty  captive 
Upon  his  death-bed  in  a Christian  land, 

And  lying,  through  the  chant  of  psalm  and  creed 
Unshriven  and  stern,  with  peace  upon  his  brow, 

And  on  his  lips  strange  gods. 

Rank  weeds  and  grasses, 
Careless  and  nodding,  grew,  and  asked  no  leave, 
Where  Romans  trembled.  Where  the  wreck  was 
saddest 

Sweet  pensive  herbs,  that  had  been  gay  elsewhere, 
With  conscious  mien  of  plade  rose  tall  and  still, 

And  bent  with  duty.  Like  some  village  children 
Who  found  a dead  king  on  a battle-field, 

And  with  decorous  care  and  reverent  pity 
Composed  the  lordly  ruin,  and  sat  down 
Grave  without  tears.  At  length  the  giant  lay, 

And  everywhere  he  was  begirt  with  years, 

And  everywhere  the  torn  and  mouldering  Past 
Hung  with  the  ivy.  For  Time,  smit  with  honour 
Of  what  he  slew,  cast  his  own  mantle  on  him, 

That  none  should  mock  the  dead. 

The  day  lias  gone  by  when  the  public  of  this 
country  could  be  justly  charged  with  neglect  of 
native  genius.  Any  manifestation  of  original  intel- 
lectual power  bursting  from  obscurity  is  instantly 
recognised,  fostered,  and  applauded.  The  ever-open 
periodical  press  is  ready  to  welcome  and  proclaim 
the  new-comer,  and  there  is  no  lack  of  critics 
animated  by  a tolerant  and  generous  spirit.  In 
1853  appeared  Poems  by  Alexander  Smith,  the 
principal  piece  in  the  collection  being  a series  of 
thirteen  dramatic  scenes,  entitled  A Life-Drama. 
The  manuscript  of  this  volume  had  been  submitted 
to  the  Rev.  George  Gilfillan,  and  portions  of  it  had 
been  laid  before  the  public  by  that  enthusiastic 
critic,  accompanied  with  a strong  recommendation 
of  the  young  author  as  a genuine  poet  of  a high 
order.  Mr  Smith  (born  in  Kilmarnock  in  1830) 
had  been  employed  as  a designer  of  patterns  in  one 
of  the  Glasgow  factories,  but  the  publication  of  his 
poems  marked  him  out  for  higher  things,  and  he 
was  elected  to  the  office  of  secretary  to  the  Edin- 
burgh University.  Thus  placed  in  a situation 
favourable  for  the  cultivation  of  his  talents,  Mr 
Smith  has  continued  his  literary  pursuits.  He 
joined  with  Mr  Dobell,  as  already  stated,  in  writing 
a series  of  war  sonnets ; he  contributed  prose  essays 
to  some  of  the  periodicals ; and  in  1857  he  came 
forward  with  a second  volume  of  verse,  City  Poems , 
similar  in  style  to  his  first  collection.  All  Mr 
Smith’s  poetry  yet  published  bears  the  impress  of 
youth — excessive  imagery  and  ornament,  a want  of 
art  and  regularity.  He  has  a vein  of  fervid  poetic 
feeling,  attesting  the  genuineness  of  his  inspiration, 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  T0  1859. 


and  a fertile  fancy  that  can  form  brilliant  pictures. 
With  diligent  study,  simplicity,  distinctness,  and 
vigour  may  be  added.  The  following  descriptive 
passages  are  sweet  and  tender : 

[Autumn!] 

The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 

Hedges  are  white  with  May.  The  bridegroom  sea 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 

And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 

He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 

Betires  a space  to  see  how  fair  she  looks, 

Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.  All  is  fair — 

All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun ! Yet  more  I love 
Than  this,  the  shrinking  day,  that  sometimes  comes 
In  Winter’s  front,  so  fair  ’mong  its  dark  peers, 

It  seems  a straggler  from  the  files  of  June, 

Which  in  its  wanderings  had  lost  its  wits, 

And  half  its  beauty ; and,  when  it  returned, 

Finding  its  old  companions  gone  away, 

It  joined  November’s  troop,  then  marching  past ; 

And  so  the  frail  thing  comes,  and  greets  the  world 
With  a thin  crazy  smile,  then  bursts  in  tears, 

And  all  the  while  it  holds  within  its  hand 
A few  half -withered  flowers. 


[Unrest  and  Childhood .] 

Unrest ! unrest ! The  passion-panting  sea 
Watches  the  unveiled  beauty  of  the  stars 
Like  a great  hungry  souL  The  unquiet  clouds 
Break  and  dissolve,  then  gather  in  a mass, 

And  float  like  mighty  icebergs  through  the  blue. 
Summers,  like  blushes,  sweep  the  face  of  earth ; 
Heaven  yearns  in  stars.  Down  comes  the  frantic  rain ; 
We  hear  the  wail  of  the  remorseful  winds 
In  their  strange  penance.  And  this  wretched  orb 
Knows  not  the  taste  of  rest ; a maniac  world, 
Homeless  and  sobbing  through  the  deep  she  goes. 

[A  child  runs  past.] 

0 thou  bright  thing,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God ; 

The  motions  of  thy  dancing  limbs  are  swayed 
By  the  unceasing  music  of  thy  being ! 

Nearer  I seem  to  God  when  looking  on  thee. 

;Tis  ages  since  He  made  his  youngest  star, 

His  hand  was  on  thee  as  ’twere  yesterday. 

Thou  later  revelation ! Silver  stream, 

Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  lake  divine 
Whence  all  things  flow.  0 bright  and  singing  babe, 
What  wilt  thou  be  hereafter  ? 

Mr  George  Macdonald  (born  at  Huntly  in 
1826)  is  author  of  Within  and  Without  (1855),  a 
dramatic  poem,  somewhat  too  intense  and  melan- 
choly in  style  and  spirit,  but  abounding  in  tender 
and  beautiful  passages.  He  has  since  published  a 
collection  of  Poems , and  Phantastes , a Faerie  Romance 
(1858).  The  first  production  of  Mr  Macdonald  is 
still  his  best,  but  he  appears  to  have  scarcely  as 
yet  done  justice  to  his  powers. 

Gerald  Massey,  born  at  Tring,  in  Hertfordshire, 
in  the  year  1828,  has  fought  his  way  to  distinction 
in  the  face  of  severe  difficulties.  Up  to  his  seven- 
teenth or  eighteenth  year  he  was  either  a factory  or 
errand  boy.  He  then  tried  periodical  writing,  and 
after  some  obscure  efforts,  produced  in  1854  the 
Ballad  of  Babe  Christabel , and  other  Poems , a volume 
that  passed  through  several  editions.  In  1856  he 
added  another  volume,  Craigcrook  Castle,  and  other 
Poems.  He  is  author  also  of  a pamphlet.  War  JFaiVs, 
and  of  various  other  pieces  in  prose  and  verse.  By 
these  publications,  and  with  occasional  labours  as  a 
journalist  and  lecturer,  Mr  Massey  has  honourably 
610 


established  himself  in  the  literary  profession.  His 
poetry  possesses  both  fire  and  tenderness,  with 
a delicate  lyrical  fancy,  but  is  often  crude  and 
irregular  in  style.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  dili- 
gence and  perseverance  which  enabled  the  young 
poet  to  surmount  his  early  troubles,  should  not 
have  been  employed  to  correct  and  harmonise  his 
verse.  Of  all  the  self-taught  English  poets,  Bloom- 
field seems  to  have  been  the  most  intent  on  study- 
ing good  models  and  attaining  to  correct  and  lucid 
composition. 

[Conclusion  of  Babe  Christabel.] 

In  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares, 

We  rarely  know,  till  wildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies, 

The  angels  with  us  unawares. 

And  thou  hast  stolen  a jewel,  Death  ! 

Shall  light  thy  dark  up  like  a star, 

A beacon  kindling  from  afar 
Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Through  tears  it  gleams  perpetually, 

And  glitters  through  the  thickest  glooms, 

Till  the  eternal  morning  comes 
To  light  us  o’er  the  jasper  sea. 

With  our  best  branch  in  tenderest  leaf, 

We ’ve  strewn  the  way  our  Lord  doth  come ; 
And,  ready  for  the  harvest  home, 

His  reapers  bind  our  ripest  sheaf. 

Our  beautiful  bird  of  light  hath  fled : 

Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings — 

Sang  round  us  a few  hoverings — 

Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 

And  white-winged  angels  nurture  her ; 

With  heaven’s  white  radiance  robed  and  crowned, 
And  all  love’s  purple  glory  round, 

She  summers  on  the  hills  of  myrrh. 

Through  childhood’s  morning-land,  serene 
She  walked  betwixt  us  twain,  like  love ; 

While,  in  a robe  of  light  above, 

Her  better  angel  walked  unseen, 

Till  life’s  highway  broke  bleak  and  wild ; 

Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 
In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage  fail, 

The  angel’s  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Her  wave  of  life  hath  backward  rolled 
To  the  great  ocean ; on  whose  shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 
Some  treasures  of  the  times  of  old : 

And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 

For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare, 

Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 
At  heart,  for  love  of  her  that ’s  gone. 

0 weep  no  more ! there  yet  is  balm 
In  Gilead  ! Love  doth  ever  shed 
Eich  healing  where  it  nestles— spread 
O’er  desert  pillows  some  green  palm  ! 

Strange  glory  streams  through  life’s  wild  rents, 

And  through  the  open  door  of  death 
We  see  the  heaven  that  beckoneth 
To  the  beloved  going  hence. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  RAGG — REV.  F.  W.  FABER. 


God’s  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed ; 

The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken  bough ; 

And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings  plough, 
Immortal  love  sows  sovereign  seed. 

THOMAS  RAGG — THOMAS  COOPER. 

Two  other  poets,  sprung  from  the  people,  and 
honourably  distinguished  for  self-cultivation,  merit 
notice.  Thomas  Ragg  was  born  in  Nottingham  in 
1808.  In  1833  he  issued  his  first  publication,  The 
Incarnation , and  other  Poems , being  at  that  time 
engaged  in  a lace  factory.  The  Incarnation  was 
part  of  a philosophical  poem  on  The  Deity , and  was 
published  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  whether 
means  could  he  obtained  for  the  publication  of  the 
whole.  In  consequence  of  favourable  critical 
notices,  two  gentlemen  in  the  west  of  England — 
whose  names  deserve  to  he  recorded — Mr  Mann  of 
Andover,  and  Mr  Wyatt  of  Stroud,  offered  to 
become  responsible  for  the  expenses  of  bringing 
out  The  Deity , and  the  then  venerable  James 
Montgomery  undertook  to  revise  the  manuscript. 
It  was  published  in  1844:  with  considerable  success, 
the  Times  leading  the  way  with  a very  favourable 
review.  Mr  Ragg  had  the  offer  of  a collegiate 
education  if  he  would  engage  to  take  orders  in  the 
Church  of  England;  but  he  preferred  continuing 
in  his  native  town  as  a bookseller’s  assistant  to 
either  undertaking  the  risks  of  dependence  upon 
authorship,  or  pledging  himself  as  to  his  future 
views  and  course.  In  Nottingham  he  afterwards 
published  The  Martyr  of  Verulam , and  other  Poems , 
and  Lyrics  from  the  Pentateuch , and  other  Poems  ; and 
in  1839  accepted  an  invitation  to  become  editor  of 
a newspaper  in  Birmingham,  in  which  town  he 
published  two  other  volumes  of  poetry,  Heber , and 
other  Poems , and  Scenes  and  Sketches  from  Life  and 
Nature , &c.  His  connection  with  the  newspaper 
press  continued  about  ten  years,  when  he  resigned 
it  to  establish  himself  as  a printer  and  bookseller 
in  Birmingham.  In  this  occupation  he  still  con- 
tinues, and  has  latterly  issued  an  elaborate  prose 
work,  entitled  Creation's  Testimony  to  its  God;  or 
the  Accordance  of  Science , Philosophy , and  Revelation. 
Mr  Ragg’s  principal  poems  have  been  in  blank 
verse. 

[The  Earth  Full  of  Love .] 

[From  Heber.] 

The  earth  is  full  of  love,  albeit  the  storms 
Of  passion  mar  its  influence  benign, 

And  drown  its  voice  with  discords.  Every  flower 
That  to  the  sun  its  heaving  breast  expands 
Is  born  of  love.  And  every  song  of  bird 
That  floats,  mellifluent,  on  the  balmy  air, 

Is  but  a love-note.  Heaven  is  full  of  love ; 

Its  starry  eyes  run  o’er  with  tenderness, 

And  soften  every  heart  that  meets  their  gaze, 

As  downward  looking  on  this  wayward  world 
They  fight  it  back  to  God.  But  neither  stars, 

Nor  flowers,  nor  song  of  birds,  nor  earth,  nor  heaven, 
So  tell  the  wonders  of  that  glorious  name 
As  they  shall  be  revealed,  when  comes  the  hour 
Of  nature’s  consummation,  hoped-for  long, 

When,  passed  the  checkered  vestibule  of  time, 

The  creature  in  immortal  youth  shall  bloom, 

And  good,  unmixed  with  ill,  for  ever  reign. 

Thomas  Cooper,  ‘the  Chartist,’  while  confined 
in  Stafford  jail,  1842-4,  wrote  a poem  in  the  Spen- 
serian stanza,  entitled  The  Purgatory  of  Suicides, 
which  evinces  poetical  power  and  fancy,  and  has 
gone  through  several  editions.  This  work  was 


published  in  1845,  and  the  same  year  Mr  Cooper 
issued  a series  of  prose  tales  and  sketches,  Wise 
Saws  and  Modern  Instances.  In  the  following  year 
he  published  The  Baron's  Yule  Feast,  a Christmas 
Rhyme.  Though  addressed,  like  the  Corn-law  Rhymes 
of  Elliot,  to  the  working-classes,  and  tinged  with 
some  jaundiced  and  gloomy  views  of  society,  there 
is  true  poetry  in  Mr  Cooper’s  rhymes.  The  follow- 
ing is  a scrap  of  landscape-painting — a Christmas 
scene : 

How  joyously  the  lady  bells 

Shout,  though  the  bluff'  north  breeze 
Loudly  his  boisterous  bugle  swells ! 

And  though  the  brooklets  freeze, 

How  fair  the  leafless  hawthorn-tree 
Waves  with  its  hoar-frost  tracery ! 

While  sun-smiles  throw  o’er  stalks  and  stems 
Sparkles  so  far  transcending  gems, 

The  bard  would  gloze  who  said  their  sheen 
• Did  not  out-diamond 

All  brightest  gauds  that  man  hath  seen 
Worn  by  earth’s  proudest  king  or  queen, 

In  pomp  and  grandeur  throned  ! 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD — REV.  J.  MITFORD — ETC. 

Matthew  Arnold,  a son  of  the  celebrated  Dr 
Arnold  of  Rugby  (born  in  1822),  and  professor 
of  poetry  in  the  university  of  Oxford,  is  author  of 
several  volumes  of  poems  and  dramas : The  Strayed 
Reveller,  and  other  Poems,  1848  ; Empedocles  on  Etna , 
1853 ; Poems,  1854 ; Merope,  a tragedy,  1858 ; &c. 
Mr  Arnold  has  set  himself  resolutely  against  the 
modern  innovations  in  our  poetic  style  and  diction, 
and  counsels  the  models  of  classic  antiquity.  ‘ Clear- 
ness of  arrangement,’  he  says,  ‘rigour  of  develop- 
ment, simplicity  of  style — these  may,  to  a certain 
extent,  be  learned,  and  best  learned  from  the  ancients, 
who,  although  infinitely  less  suggestive  than  Shak- 
speare,  are  thus,  to  the  artist,  more  instructive.’ 
Mr  Arnold’s  own  productions  bear  evidence  of  care- 
ful cultured  taste  and  poetic  feeling. 

A poet  of  similar  tastes  but  less  power  is  the  Rev. 
J.  Mitford,  long  known  as  the  editor  of  Gray.  So 
early  as  1814,  Mr  Mitford  published  an  edition  of 
the  works  of  Gray,  and  in  1851  he  appeared  as 
editor  of  Milton.  He  also  edited  the  works  of 
Parnell  for  the  Aldine  Poets.  In  1858  the  veteran 
scholar  collected  his  original  pieces,  and  published 
them  under  the  title  of  Miscellaneous  Poems.  The 
volume  is,  we  need  hardly  say,  choice  in  sentiment 
and  expression — the  gleanings  of  many  years’  study, 
reflection,  and  observation.  This  was  his  last  effort : 
he  died  in  1859. 

A series  of  poetical  works,  termed  ‘ Young  Eng- 
land’ or  ‘Tractarian  Poetry,’  appeared  in  1840  and 
1841.  England's  Trust , and  other  Poems,  by  Lord 
John  Manners  ; Historic  Fancies,  by  the  IIon.  Mr 
Smytiie  (afterwards  Lord  Strangford) ; The  Cherwell 
Water  Lily,  &c.,  by  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Faber.  The 
chief  object  of  these  works  was  to  revive  the  taste 
for  feudal  feeling  and  ancient  sports,  combined  with 
certain  theological  and  political  opinions  character- 
istic of  a past  age.  The  works  had  poetical  and 
amiable  feeling,  but  were  youthful,  immature  pro- 
ductions ; and  Lord  John  Manners  must  have 
regretted  the  couplet  which  we  here  print  in  Italics, 
and  which  occasioned  no  small  ridicule: 

No,  by  the  names  inscribed  in  history’s  page, 

Names  that  are  England’s  noblest  heritage  ; 

Names  that  shall  five  for  yet  unnumbered  years 

Shrined  in  our  hearts  with  Cressy  and  Poictiers ; 

Let  wealth  and  commerce,  laws  and  learning  die, 

But  leave  us  still  our  old  nobility. 


611 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Lord  John  has  since  applied  himself  to  politics. 
Lord  Strangford  (1817-1857)  also  took  a part  in 
public  affairs,  and  promised  to  become  an  able 
debater,  but  ill  health  withdrew  him  both  from 
politics  and  literature. 

W.  C.  BENNETT — D.  F.  M‘CARTHY — WILLIAM 

ALLINGHAM. 

Two  lyrical  poets,  simple,  fresh,  and  natural  in 
feeling  and  expression,  made  their  first  public 
appearance  about  the  same  time.  Mr  Bennett 
in  1850  published  a volume  of  Poems , which  was 
well  received.  Miss  Mitford  has  characterised  him 
as  ‘a  charming  and  richly  gifted  poet,’  adding — 
what  it  is  a pleasure  to  transcribe — ‘ Greenwich  can 
tell  how  much 'this  young,  ardent  mind,  aided  by 
kindred  spirits,  has  done  in  the  way  of  baths  and 
wash-houses,  and  schools  and  lectures,  and  libraries 
and  mechanics’  institutes,  to  further  the  great  cause 
of  progress,  mental  and  bodily.’  In  1859  Mr  Bennett 
published  Songs  by  a Song-writer. 

The  Seasons. 

A blue-eyed  child  that  sits  amid  the  noon, 

O’erhung  with  a laburnum’s  drooping  sprays, 

Singing  her  little  songs,  while  softly  round 
Along  the  grass  the  chequered  sunshine  plays. 

All  beauty  that  is  throned  in  womanhood 
Pacing  a summer  garden’s  fountained  walks, 

That  stoops  to  smooth  a glossy  spaniel  down 
To  hide  her  flushing  cheek  from  one  "who  talks. 

A happy  mother  with  her  fair-faced  girls, 

In  whose  sweet  Spring  again  her  youth  she  sees, 

With  shout  and  dance  and  Jaugh  and  bound  and  soDg, 
Stripping  in  Autumn  orchard’s  laden  trees. 

An  aged  woman  in  a wintry  room — 

Frost  on  the  pane,  without  the  whirling  snow — 

Beading  old  letters  of  her  far-off  youth, 

Of  sorrows  past  and  joys  of  long  ago. 

Simmer  Pain. 

0 gentle,  gentle  summer  rain, 

Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 

The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 
To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine, 

To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 

0 gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

In  heat,  the  landscape  quivering  lies ; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree ; 

Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 
The  earth  looks  up  in  vain  for  thee  : 

For  thee,  for  thee  it  looks  in  vain, 

0 gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams, 
And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist ; 

0 falling  dew  from  burning  dreams, 

By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be  kissed : 
And  earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 

0 gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

D.  F.  M£Carthy,  amidst  other  literary  labours, 
chiefly  devoted  to  his  native  country  of  Ireland,  has 
produced  a volume  of  Songs,  Ballads , and  Lyrics , 
&c.,  1850.  In  his  serious  and  passionate  poems, 
Mr  M‘Cartliy  is  often  eminently  striking  both  in 
language  and  imagery.  We  subjoin  a few  stanzas 
from  the  piece  entitled  The  Voyage  of  St  Brendan. 
612 


[. A Young  Female  Taking  the  Veil.] 

Oh ! bitterest  sacrifice  the  heart  can  make — 

That  of  a mother  of  her  darling  child — 

That  of  a child,  who,  for  her  Saviour’s  sake, 

Leaves  the  fond  face  that  o’er  her  cradle  smiled. 
They  who  may  think  that  God  doth  never  need 
So  great,  so  sad  a sacrifice  as  this, 

While  they  take  glory  in  their  easier  creed, 

Will  feel  and  own  the  sacrifice  it  is. 

All  is  prepared — the  sisters  in  the  choir — 

The  mitred  abbot  on  his  crimson  throne — 

The  waxen  tapers,  with  their  pallid  fire 

Poured  o’er  the  sacred  cup  and  altar  stone — 

The  upturned  eyes,  glistening  with  pious  tears — 

The  censer’s  fragrant  vapour  floating  o’er. 

Now  all  is  hushed,  for,  lo  ! the  maid  appears, 

Entering  with  solemn  step  the  sacred  door. 

She  moved  as  moves  the  moon,  radiant  and  pale, 
Through  the  calm  night,  wrapped  in  a silvery  cloud ; 
The  jewels  of  her  dress  shone  through  her  veil, 

As  shine  the  stars  through  their  thin  vaporous 
shroud ; 

The  brighter  jewels  of  her  eyes  were  hid 

Beneath  their  smooth  white  caskets  arching  o’er, 
Which,  by  the  trembling  of  each  ivory  lid, 

Seemed  conscious  of  the  treasures  that  they  bore. 

She  reached  the  narrow  porch  and  the  tall  door, 

Her  trembling  foot  upon  the  sill  was  placed — 

Her  snowy  veil  swept  the  smooth-sanded  floor — 

Her  cold  hands  chilled  the  bosom  they  embraced. 
Who  is  this  youth,  whose  forehead,  like  a book, 

Bears  many  a deep-traced  character  of  pain  ? 

Who  looks  for  pardon  as  the  damned  may  look — 
That  ever  pray,  and  know  they  pray  in  vain. 

Mr  McCarthy  lias  devoted  a volume  to  the  Poets 
and  Dramatists  of  Ireland,  and  a collection  of  the 
Ballad  Poetry  cf  Ireland  has  been  made  by  C.  G. 
Duffy.  Various  collections  of  the  early  Celtic 
poetry  of  Ireland  have  been  published  within  the 
last  ten  years,  and  its  history  and  antiquities  have 
been  copiously  illustrated. 

William  Allingham  is  author  of  Poems,  1850 ; 
Day  and  Night  Songs , 1854  ; and  The  Music-master, 
&c.,  comprising  many  of  the  former  poems  revised, 
1855.  Since  then,  verses  from  Mr  AJlingham’s  pen 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  Athenceum 
and  other  periodicals.  Born  and  educated  in  Ireland, 
this  poet  is  resident  at  Ballyshannon,  his  native 
town,  where  his  family  have  long  been  established. 
Some  of  Mr  Allingham’s  songs  are  very  popular  in 
Ireland.  All  his  pieces  are  marked  by  a clear  and 
graceful  diction  and  careful  rhythmical  structure. 

Lady  Alice. 

i. 

Now  what  doth  Lady  Alice  so  late  on  the  turret  stair, 
Without  a lamp  to  light  her,  but  the  diamond  in  her 
hair ; 

When  every  arching  passage  overflows  with  shallow 
gloom, 

And  dreams  float  through  the  castle,  into  every  silent 
room? 

She  trembles  at  her  footsteps,  although  they  fall  so 
light ; 

Through  the  turret  loopholes  she  sees  the  wild 
midnight ; 

Broken  vapours  streaming  across  the  stormy  sky ; 
Down  the  empty  corridors  the  blast  doth  moan  and  cry. 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ELIZA  COOK — COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


She  steals  along  a gallery ; she  pauses  by  a door ; 

And  fast  her  tears  are  dropping  down  upon  the  oaken 
floor; 

And  thrice  she  seems  returning — but  thrice  she  turns 
again : — 

Now  heavy  lie  the  cloud  of  sleep  on  that  old  father’s 
brain ! 

Oh,  well  it  were  that  never  shouldst  thou  waken  from 
thy  sleep ! 

For  wherefore  should  they  waken,  who  waken  but  to 
weep? 

No  more,  no  more  beside  thy  bed  doth  Peace  a vigil  keep, 

But  Woe — a lion  that  awaits  thy  rousing  for  its  leap. 

II. 

An  afternoon  of  April,  no  sun  appears  on  high, 

But  a moist  and  yellow  lustre  fills  the  deepness  of  the 
sky; 

And  through  the  castle-gateway,  left  empty  and 
forlorn, 

Along  the  leafless  avenue  an  honoured  bier  is  borne. 

They  stop.  The  long  line  closes  up  like  some 
gigantic  worm ; 

A shape  is  standing  in  the  path,  a wan  and  ghost-like 
form, 

Which  gazes  fixedly ; nor  moves,  nor  utters  any  sound ; 

Then,  like  a statue  built  of  snow,  sinks  down  upon 
the  ground. 

And  though  her  clothes  are  ragged,  and  though  her 
feet  are  bare, 

And  though  all  wild  and  tangled  falls  her  heavy 
silk-brown  hair ; 

Though  from  her  eyes  the  brightness,  from  her  cheeks 
the  bloom  is  fled, 

They  know  their  Lady  Alice,  the  darling  of  the  dead. 

With  silence,  in  her  own  old  room,  the  fainting  form 
they  lay, 

Where  all  things  stand  unaltered  since  the  night  she 
fled  away : 

But  who — but  who  shall  bring  to  life  her  father  from 
the  clay? 

But  who  shall  give  her  back  again  her  heart  of  a 
former  day  ? 

ELIZA  COOK. 

In  1840  Miss  Eliza  Cook  (born  in  Southwark, 
London,  in  1817)  published  a volume  of  miscel- 
laneous poems,  entitled  Melaia,  and  other  Poems.  A 
great  number  of  small  pieces  has  also  been  con- 
tributed by  Miss  Cook  to  periodical  works,  and  in 
1849  she  established  a periodical,  Eliza  Cook's 
Journal , which  enjoyed  considerable  popularity. 

Old  Songs. 

Old  songs ! old  songs  ! — what  heaps  I knew, 

From  ‘Chevy  Chase’  to  ‘Black-eyed  Sue;’ 

From  ‘ Flow,  thou  regal  purple  stream,’ 

To  Rousseau’s  melancholy  ‘Dream  !’ 

I loved  the  pensive  ‘Cabin-boy,’ 

With  earnest  truth  and  real  joy ; 

My  warmest  feelings  wander  back 
To  greet  ‘Tom  Bowling’  and  ‘Poor  Jack;’* 

* The  names  of  popular  songs  by  Chart.ks  Dirdin  (l74.r*-  1 
1814),  an  actor  and  dramatist,  who  wrote  innumerable  j 
sea-songs,  and  about  fifty  dramatic  pieces.  The  latter  are  j 
forgotten,  but  his  naval  lyrics  will,  to  the  latest  generation,  j 
animate  the  British  sailor.  Two  sons  of  the  naval  poet,  j 
Charles  Dibdi.v,  Junior  (who  died  in  1833),  and  Thomas  I 
Dibdin  (1771-1841),  were  also  dramatists  and  song- writers,  j 
but  greatly  inferior  to  the  elder  Dibdin. 


And  0,  ‘ Will  Watch,  the  smuggler  bold,’ 

My  plighted  troth  thou  ’It  ever  hold. 

I doted  on  the  ‘ Auld  Scots’  Sonnet,’ 

As  though  I ’d  worn  the  plaid  and  bonnet ; 

I went  abroad  with  ‘ Sandy’s  Ghost,’ 

I stood  with  Bannockburn’s  brave  host, 

And  proudly  tossed  my  curly  head 
With  ‘Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled  I’ 

I shouted  ‘ Coming  through  the  rye  ’ 

With  restless  step  and  sparkling  eye, 

And  chased  away  the  passing  frown 
With  ‘ Bonny  ran  the  burnie  down.’  * * 

Old  songs  ! old  songs  ! — my  brain  has  lost 
Much  that  it  gained  with  pain  and  cost : 

I have  forgotten  all  the  rules 
Of  Murray’s  books  and  Trimmer’s  schools ; 
Detested  figures — how  I hate 
The  mere  remembrance  of  a slate  ! 

How  have  I cast  from  woman’s  thought 
Much  goodly  lore  the  girl  was  taught ; 

But  not  a word  has  passed  away 
Of  ‘ Rest  thee,  Babe,’  or  ‘ Robin  Gray.’ 

The  ballad  still  is  breathing  round, 

But  other  voices  yield  the  sound ; 

Strangers  possess  the  household  room ; 

The  mother  lieth  in  the  tomb ; 

And  the  blithe  boy  that  praised  her  song 
Sleeping  as  soundly  and  as  long. 

Old  songs  ! old  songs  ! — I should  not  sigh ; 
Joys  of  the  earth  on  earth  must  die; 

But  spectral  forms  will  sometimes  start 
Within  the  caverns  of  the  heart, 

Haunting  the  lone  and  darkened  cell 
Where,  warm  in  life,  they  used  to  dwell, 
Hope,  youth,  love,  home — each  human  tie 
That  binds  we  know  not  how  or  why — 

All,  all  that  to  the  soul  belongs 
Is  closely  mingled  with  ‘ Old  Songs.’ 


COVENTRY  PATMORE — EDWARD  ROBERT  BULWER 
LYTTON. 

The  delineation  of  love  and  tlie  domestic  affec- 
tions has  been  attempted  by  Mr  Coventry  Patmore. 
His  Tamerton  Church  Tower , and  other  Poems , 1853, 
and  The  Angel  in  the  House,  Books  I.  and  II.,  1855-6, 
amidst  some  mannerism  and  conceits,  contain  pas- 
sages of  great  beauty,  both  in  sentiment  and  descrip- 
tion. The  second  and  larger  work  is  incomplete 
and  defective  in  design,  yet  impresses  the  reader 
with  the  idea  that  its  author  is  capable,  if  he  could 
forget  Tennyson  and  metaphysics,  of  producing 
some  really  great  work.  His  occasional  felicities 
of  expression  are  seen  in  verses  like  these : 

A maid  of  fullest  heart  she  was ; 

Her  spirit’s  lovely  flame 
Nor  dazzled  nor  surprised,  because 
It  always  burned  the  same. 

And  in  the  heaven-lit  path  she  trod 
Fair  was  the  wife  foreshewn — 

A Mary  in  the  house  of  God, 

A Martha  in  her  own. 

And  in  this  passage  of  sound  philosophy : 

Would  Wisdom  for  herself  be  wooed, 

And  wake  the  foolish  from  his  dream, 

She  must  be  glad  as  well  as  good, 

And  must  not  only  be,  but  seem. 

Beauty  and  joy  are  hers  by  right ; 

And,  knowing  this,  I wonder  less 
That  she ’s  so  scorned,  when  falsely  dight 
In  misery  and  ugliness. 

613 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1850. 


What's  that  which  Heaven  to  man  endears. 
And  that  which  eyes  no  sooner  see 
Than  the  heart  says,  with  floods  of  tears, 

‘Ah  ! that ’s  the  thing  which  I would  be  ?’ 
Not  childhood,  full  of  fears  and  fret ; 

Not  youth,  impatient  to  disown 
Those  visions  high,  which  to  forget 

Were  worse  than  never  to  have  known.  * * 
Not  these ; but  souls  found  here  and  there, 
Oases  in  our  waste  of  sin, 

When  everything  is  well  and  fair, 

And  God  remits  his  discipline, 

Whose  sweet  subdual  of  the  world 
The  worldling  scarce  can  recognise ; 

And  ridicule,  against  it  hurled, 

Drops  with  a broken  sting  and  dies. 

They  live  by  law,  not  like  the  fool, 

But  like  the  bard  who  freely  sings 
In  strictest  bonds  of  rhyme  and  rule, 

And  finds  in  them  not  bonds  but  wings. 


The  son  of  Mr  P.  G.  Patmore,  a well-known  littera- 
teur— author  of  Literary  Reminiscences , and  the 
friend  of  Hazlitt  and  Lamb — Mr  Coventry  Patmore 
was  born  at  Woodford,  in  Essex,  in  1823.  In  his 
twentieth  year  he  published  a small  volume  of 
Poems , some  of  which  he  has — like  Tennyson — 
corrected  or  re-written.  He  now  worthily  fills  the 
office  of  assistant-librarian  to  the  British  Museum, 
to  which  he  was  appointed  in  1846. 

Mr  Bulwer  Lyttox,  under  the  name  of  1 Owen 
Meredith,’  has  published  two  volumes  of  poetry — 
C/ylemnestra , 1855,  and  The  Wanderer , 1859.  There 
are  traces  of  sentimentalism  and  morbid  feeling  in 
the  poems,  but  also  fine  fancy  and  graceful  musical 
language.  The  poet  is  the  only  son  of  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton,  and  was  born  November  8,  1831. 
The  paternal  taste  in  the  selection  of  subjects  from 
high  life,  with  a certain  voluptuous  colouring,  and 
a pseudo-melancholy,  cynical  air,  has  been  repro- 
duced in  ‘ Owen  Meredith,’  though  Tennyson  was 
perhaps  the  favourite  model.  The  young  poet, 
however,  has  original  merit  enough  to  redeem  such 
faults,  and  soon,  we  hope,  to  shake  them  off  entirely. 


0H 


The  Chess-hoard. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 

Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtained  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I played  chess  together, 
Checkmated  by  each  other’s  eyes  ? 

Ah!  still  I see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o’er  queen  and  knight ; 
Brave  pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand ; 

The  double  castles  guard  the  wings ; 

The  bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 

Moves  sidling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch,  our  glances  meet, 

And  falter,  falls  your  golden  hair 
Against  my  cheek ; your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving ; down  the  field,  your  queen 
Bides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  ! the  little  battle ’s  done, 
Dispersed  is  all  its  chivalry ; 

Full  many  a move,  since  then,  have  we 
’Mid  life’s  perplexing  chequers  made, 

And  many  a game  with  fortune  played — 
What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this,  at  least — if  this  alone — 
That  never,  never,  never  more, 

As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore — 


Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise — 

Can  you  and  I shut  out  the  skies, 

Shut  out  the  world  and  wintry  weather, 

And  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 

Play  chess  as  then  we  played  together ! 

Changes. 

Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  seldom  wed. 

Time  rules  us  all.  And  life,  indeed,  is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope  was  dead. 

And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose  our  lot. 

Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard  to  bear : 

Much  given  away  which  it  were  sweet  to  keep. 

God  help  us  all ! who  need,  indeed,  His  care, 

And  yet,  I know,  the  Shepherd  loves  his  sheep. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 

Upon  my  knee  his  earliest  infant  prayer. 

He  has  his  father’s  eager  eyes,  I know ; 

And,  they  say  too,  his  mother’s  sunny  hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon  my  knee, 

And  I can  feel  his  light  breath  come  and  go, 

I think  of  one — Heaven  help  and  pity  me ! — 

Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I loved,  long  ago. 

Who  might  have  been — ah,  what  I dare  not  think ! 

We  all  are  changed.  God  judges  for  us  best. 

God  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not  shrink, 

And  trust  in  Heaven  humbly  for  the  rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some  appear 

Too  cold  at  times ; and  some  too  gay  and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.  Some  woes  are  hard  to  bear. 
Who  knows  the  past?  and  who  can  judge  us  right? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might  have  been, 
And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt  to  fall ! 

My  little  child — he  sleeps  and  smiles  between 

These  thoughts  and  me.  In  heaven  we  shall  know  all ! 

Among  the  recent  volumes  of  verse,  we  may 
mention  The  Lays  of  Middle  Age , and  other  Poems , 
1859,  by  James  Hedderwick,  Glasgow.  These 
Lays  are  the  fruit  of  a thoughtful  poetic  mind, 
loving  nature  and  ‘ whatsoever  things  are  pure  and 
lovely  and  of  good  report.’ 

[Middle  Age.] 

Fair  time  of  calm  resolve — of  sober  thought ! 

Quiet  half-way  hostelry  on  life’s  long  road, 

In  which  to  rest  and  re-adjust  our  load  ! 

High  table-land,  to  which  we  have  been  brought 
By  stumbling  steps  of  ill-directed  toil ! 

Season  when  not  to  achieve  is  to  despair  ! 

Last  field  for  us  of  a full  fruitful  soil ! 

Only  spring-tide  our  freighted  aims  to  bear 
Onward  to  all  our  yearning  dreams  have  sought ! 

How  art  thou  changed ! Once  to  our  youthful  eyes 
Thin  silvering  locks  and  thought’s  imprinted  lines 
Of  sloping  age  gave  weird  and  wintry  signs ; 

But  now  these  trophies  ours,  we  recognise 
Only  a voice  faint-rippling  to  its  shore, 

And  a weak  tottering  step  as  marks  of  eld. 

None  are  so  far  but  some  are  on  before  ; 

Thus  still  at  distance  is  the  goal  beheld, 

And  to  improve  the  way  is  truly  wise. 

Farewell,  ye  blossomed  hedges ! and  the  deep 
Thick  green  of  summer  on  the  matted  bough ! 

The  languid  autumn  mellows  round  us  now : 

Yet  fancy  may  its  vernal  beauties  keep, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Like  liolly  leaves  for  a December  wreath. 

To  take  this  gift  of  life  with  trusting  hands, 

And  star  with  heavenly  hopes  the  night  of  death, 
Is  all  that  poor  humanity  demands 
To  lull  its  meaner  fears  in  easy  sleep. 

The  following  beautiful  lines  are  from  a small 
collection  of  poems  by  Mr  John  Ramsay,  Aberdeen : 

My  Grave. 

Far  from  the  city’s  ceaseless  hum, 

Hither  let  my  relics  come ; 

Lowly  and  lonely  be  my  grave 
Fast  by  this  streamlet’s  oozing  wave, 

Still  to  the  gentle  angler  dear, 

And  heaven’s  fair  face  reflecting  clear ! 

No  rank  luxuriance  from  the  dead 
Draw  the  green  turf  above  my  head ; 

But  cowslips  here  and  there  be  found 
Sweet  natives  of  the  hallowed  ground, 
Diffusing  Nature’s  incense  round  ! 

Kindly  sloping  to  the  sun 
When  his  course  is  nearly  run, 

Let  it  catch  his  farewell  beams, 

Brief  and  pale  as  best  beseems ; 

But  let  the  melancholy  yew — 

Still  to  the  cemetery  true — 

Defend  it  from  his  noonday  ray, 

Debarring  visitant  so  gay ! 

And  when  the  robin’s  boding  song 
Is  hushed  the  darkling  boughs  among, 

There  may  the  spirit  of  the  wind 
A heaven-reared  tabernacle  find, 

To  warble  wild  a vesper  hymn, 

To  soothe  my  shade  at  twilight  dim  ! 

Seldom  let  feet,  of  man  be  there 

Save  bending  towards  the  house  of  prayer : 

Few  human  sounds  disturb  the  calm, 

Save  words  of  grace  and  solemn  psalm  ! 

Yet  would  I not  my  humble  tomb 
Should  wear  an  uninviting  gloom, 

As  though  there  ever  hovered  near 
In  fancy’s  ken  a thing  of  fear; 

And,  viewed  with  superstitious  awe, 

Be  duly  shunned,  and  scarcely  draw 
The  sidelong  glance  of  passer-by, 

As  haunt  of  sprites  with  blasting  eye  ! 

Or  noted  be  by  some  bad  token, 

Bearing  a name  in  whispers  spoken. 

No  ! let  some  thoughtful  school-boy  stray 
Far  from  his  giddy  mates  at  play, 

My  secret  place  of  rest  explore, 

There  pore  on  page  of  classic  lore  : 

Thither  let  hoary  men  of  age 
Perform  a pensive  pilgrimage, 

And  think  as  o’er  my  turf  they  bend, 

It  woos  them  to  their  welcome  end  : 

And  let  the  woe-worn  wandering  one, 

Blind  to  the  rays  of  reason’s  sun, 

Thither  his  weary  way  incline, 

There  catch  a gleam  of  light  divine  : 

But  chiefly  let  the  friend  sincere 
There  drop  a tributary  tear ; 

There  pause  in  musing  mood,  and  all 
Our  bygone  hours  of  bliss  recall — 

Delightful  hours,  too  fleetly  flown  ! 

By  the  heart's  pulses  only  known  ! 

MISS  PARSES— MISS  IIUME— MISS  PROCTER— 
MISS  ORAIQ. 

In  poetry,  as  in  prose  fiction,  ladies  crowd  the 
arena,  and  contend  for  the  highest  prizes.  We  can 
barely  enumerate  some  of  the  fair  competitors. 


JOHN  RAMSAY — ISA  CRAIG. 


Bessie  Rayner  Parses— daughter  of  Joseph 
Parkes,  Esq.,  of  the  Court  of  Chancery — is  author 
of  Poems , 1855;  Gabriel , 1856;  1'he  History  oj 
our  Cat  Aspasia,  1856 ; &c.  The  latter  is  a prose 
story,  told  with  considerable  humour,  and  well 
illustrated.  As  a poetess  Miss  Parkes  is  of  the 
romantic  and  imaginative  school  of  Shelley — to 
whose  memory  her  poem  of  Gabriel  is  dedicated. 
She  has  been  an  assiduous  labourer,  though  still 
young,  in  the  cause  of  social  amelioration 
and  female  improvement.  Miss  Mary  C.  Hume 
— daughter  of  the  late  Mr  Joseph  Hume,  M.P. — 
in  1858  published  Normiton,  a Dramatic  Poem , ivith 
other  Miscellaneous  Pieces.  Miss  Adelaide  Anne 
Procter  is  author  of  Legends  and  Lyrics , a Book 
of  Verse,  1858.  This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  ‘ Barry 
Cornwall,’  and  her  poetry  has,  without  imitation, 
much  of  the  paternal  grace  and  manner.  Miss  Isa 
Craig,  author  of  Poems , 1856,  is  a native  of  Edin- 
burgh. While  working  as  a sempstress  this  young 
lady  contributed  poems,  reviews,  and  essays  to  the 
Scotsman  newspaper,  and  was  warmly  befriended  by 
Mr  Ritchie,  the  proprietor  of  that  journal.  She 
afterwards  removed  to  London,  and  now  officiates  as 
assistant-secretary  of  the  Association  for  the  Promo- 
tion of  Social  Science.  Miss  Craig  was  the  fortunate 
poetess  who  carried  off  the  prize  (£50)  for  the  best 
poem  at  the  Crystal  Palace  celebration  of  the  Burns 
Centenary,  January  25,  1859. 


[Bob in  Hood.] 

[By  Miss  Parkes.] 

In  a fair  wood  like  this  where  the  beeches  are  growing, 
Brave  Robin  Hood  hunted  in  days  of  old ; 

Down  his  broad  shoulders  his  brown  locks  fell  flowing, 
His  cap  was  of  green,  with  a tassel  of  gold. 

His  eye  was  as  blue  as  the  sky  in  midsummer, 

Ruddy  his  cheek  as  the  oak-leaves  in  June, 

Hearty  his  voice  as  he  hailed  the  new-comer, 

Tender  to  maidens  in  changeable  tune. 

His  step  had  a strength  and  his  smile  had  a sweetness, 
His  spirit  was  wrought  of  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 

He  moved  as  a man  framed  in  nature’s  completeness, 
And  grew  unabashed  with  the  growth  of  the  trees. 

And  ever  to  poets  who  walk  in  the  gloaming 
His  horn  is  still  heard  in  the  prime  of  the  year ; 

Last  eve  he  went  with  us,  unseen,  in  our  roaming, 

And  thrilled  with  his  presence  the  shy  troops  of  deer. 

Then  Robin  stole  forth  in  his  quaint  forest  fashion, 

For  dear  to  the  heart  of  all  poets  is  he, 

And  in  mystical  whispers  awakened  the  passion 
Which  slumbers  within  for  the  life  that  were  free. 

We  follow  the  lead  unawares  of  his  spirit, 

He  tells  us  the  tales  which  we  heard  in  past  time, 

Ah  ! why  should  we  forfeit  this  earth  we  inherit, 

For  lives  which  we  cannot  expand  into  rhyme ! 

I think  as  I lie  in  the  shade  of  the  beeches 
How  lived  and  how  loved  this  old  hero  of  song; 

I would  we  could  follow  the  lesson  he  teaches, 

And  dwell  as  he  dwelt  these  wild  thickets  among — 

At  least  for  a while,  till  we  caught  up  the  meaning, 
The  beeches  breathe  out  in  the  wealth  of  their 
growth, 

Width  in  their  nobleness,  love  in  their  leaning, 

And  peace  at  the  heart  from  the  fulness  of  both. 

615 


FROM  1S30 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


to  1859. 


[A  Dream  of  Love.'] 

[By  Miss  Hume.] 

I dreamt  that  love 

Should  steal  upon  the  heart,  like  summer  dawn 
On  the  awakening  world,  soft,  gradual ; 

First  hailed  and  welcomed  by  the  mountain-peaks, 
The  loftiest  aspirations  of  the  soul ; 

Then,  slowly  spreading  downward  o’er  the  slopes 
Of  intellectual  intercourse,  to  flood 
At  length  the  very  plains  and  vales  of  sense 
With  beauties  of  its  sunshine ; one  by  one 
Kissing  awake  all  spirit  buds  and  flowers, 

To  pour  their  fragrance  forth  in  gratitude. 

I had  forgot  that  perfect  love  like  this 
Could  be  the  portion  but  of  perfect  souls ! 

I had  forgot  to  estimate  how  far 
My  own  heart  fell  below  the  standard  raised 
By  my  presumption,  when  I deemed  its  pulse 
Should  never  quicken,  save  to  one  whose  touch 
First  waked  the  highest,  holiest  chords  that  thrill 
In  heart  of  mortal ; deemed  I must  be  wooed 
As  angels  woo,  won  as  might  angel  be. 


[A  Doubting  Heart.] 

[By  Miss  Procter.] 

Where  are  the  swallows  fled  ? 

Frozen  and  dead, 

Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and  stormy  shore. 

0 doubting  heart ! 

Far  over  purple  seas, 

They  wait  in  sunny  ease, 

The  balmy  southern  breeze, 

To  bring  them  to  their  northern  home  once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prisoned  they  lie 

In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 

0 doubting  heart ! 

They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 

To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 
These  many  days ; 

Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth ! 

0 doubting  heart ! 

The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky 
That  soon — for  spring  is  nigh — 

Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 
Is  quenched  in  night. 

What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair  ? 

0 doubting  heart ! 

The  sky  is  overcast, 

Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 

Brighter  for  darkness  past, 

And  angels’  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 


[Prize  Poem  in  Honour  of  Burns.] 
[By  Miss  Craig.] 

We  hail,  this  morn, 

A century’s  noblest  birth ; 

A poet  peasant-born, 

Who  more  of  Fame’s  immortal  dower 
Unto  his  country  brings 
Than  all  her  kings ! 

616 


As  lamps  high  set 
Upon  some  earthly  eminence — 

And  to  the  gazer  brighter  thence 
Than  the  sphere-lights  they  flout — 

Dwindle  in  distance  and  die  out, 

While  no  star  waneth  yet ; 

So  through  the  past’s  far-reaching  night, 

Only  the  star-souls  keep  their  light. 

A gentle  boy — 

With  moods  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

Quick  tears  and  sudden  joy — 

Grew  up  beside  the  peasant’s  hearth. 

His  father’s  toil  he  shares ; 

But  half  his  mother’s  cares 
From  his  dark  searching  eyes, 

Too  swift  to  sympathise, 

Hid  in  her  heart  she  bears. 

At  early  morn, 

His  father  calls  him  to  the  field ; 

Through  the  stiff  soil  that  clogs  his  feet, 

Chill  rain,  and  harvest  heat, 

He  Iplods  all  day ; returns  at  eve  outworn, 

To  the  rude  fare  a peasant’s  lot  doth  yield ; 

To  what  else  was  he  born  ? 

The  God-made  king 
Of  every  living  thing 

(For  his  great  heart  in  love  could  hold  them  all) ; 

The  dumb  eyes  meeting  his  by  hearth  and  stall — 
Gifted  to  understand ! — 

Knew  it  and  sought  his  hand ; 

And  the  most  timorous  creature  had  not  fled, 
Could  she  his  heart  have  read, 

Which  fain  all  feeble  things  had  blessed  and  sheltered. 

To  Nature’s  feast — 

Who  knew  her  noblest  guest 
And  entertained  him  best — 

Kingly  he  came.  Her  chambers  of  the  east 
She  draped  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 

And  poured  her  pure  joy- wines 
For  him  the  poet-souled. 

For  him  her  anthem  rolled, 

From  the  storm-wind  among  the  winter  pines, 
Down  to  the  slenderest  note 
Of  a love  warble,  from  the  linnet’s  throat. 

But  when  begins 

The  array  for  battle,  and  the  trumpet  blows, 

A king  must  leave  the  feast,  and  lead  the  fight. 

And  with  its  mortal  foes — 

Grim  gathering  hosts  of  sorrows  and  of  sins— 

Each  human  soul  must  close. 

And  Fame  her  trumpet  blew 
Before  him  ; wrapped  him  in  her  purple  state  ; 
And  made  him  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of  Fate, 
That  henceforth  round  him  flew. 

Though  he  may  yield 
Hard  pressed,  and  wounded  fall 
Forsaken  on  the  field ; 

His  regal  vestments  soiled ; 

His  crown  of  half  its  jewels  spoiled ; 

He  is  a king  for  all. 

Had  he  but  stood  aloof ! 

Had  he  arrayed  himself  in  armour  proof 
Against  temptation’s  darts ! 

So  yearn  the  good ; so  those  the  world  calls  wise, 
With  vain  presumptuous  hearts, 
Triumphant  moralise. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  THOM — DAVID  VEDDER. 


Of  martyr- woe 

A sacred  shadow  on  his  memory  rests ; 

Tears  have  not  ceased  to  flow ; 

Indignant  grief  yet  stirs  impetuous  breasts, 

To  think — above  that  noble  soul  brought  low, 

That  wise  and  soaring  spirit  fooled,  enslaved — 

Thus,  thus  he  had  been  saved  ! 

It  might  not  be  ! 

That  heart  of  harmony 
Had  been  too  rudely  rent ; 

Its  silver  chords,  which  any  hand  could  wound, 

By  no  hand  could  be  tuned 
Save  by  the  Maker  of  the  instrument, 

Its  every  string  who  knew, 

And  from  profaning  touch  His  heavenly  gift  withdrew. 

Regretful  love 

His  country  fain  would  prove, 

By  grateful  honours  lavished  on  his  grave ; 

Would  fain  redeem  her  blame 
That  he  so  little  at  her  hands  can  claim, 

Who  unrewarded  gave 

To  her  his  life-bought  gift  of  song  and  fame. 
The  land  he  trod 

Hath  now  become  a place  of  pilgrimage ; 

Where  dearer  are  the  daisies  of  the  sod 
That  could  his  song  engage. 

The  hoary  hawthorn,  wreathed 
Above  the  bank  on  which  his  limbs  he  flung 
While  some  sweet  plaint  he  breathed ; 

The  streams  he  wandered  near ; 

The  maidens  whom  he  loved ; the  songs  he  sung ; 
All,  all  are  dear ! 

The  arch  blue  eyes — 

Arch  but  for  love’s  disguise — 

Of  Scotland’s  daughters,  soften  at  his  strain ; 

Her  hardy  sons,  sent  forth  across  the  main 
To  drive  the  ploughshare  through  earth’s  virgin  soils, 
Lighten  with  it  their  toils ; 

And  sister-lands  have  learned  to  love  the  tongue 
In  which  such  songs  are  sung. 

For  doth  not  song 

To  the  whole  world  belong  ! 

Is  it  not  given  wherever  tears  can  fall, 

Wherever  hearts  can  melt,  or  blushes  glow, 

Or  mirth  and  sadness  mingle  as  they  flow, 

A heritage  to  all  ? 

The  poet-translators  of  this  period  are  numerous, 
j The  most  remarkable  for  knowledge  of  foreign 
I tongues  and  dialects  is  John  Bowring  (now  Sir 
j John),  who  commenced  in  1821  a large  series  of 
translations — Specimens  of  the  Russian  Poets,  Bata- 
vian Anthology , Ancient  Poetry  and  Romances  of 
Spain,  Specimens  of  the  Polish  Poets,  Servian  Popular 
Poetry,  Poetry  of  the  Magyars,  Chesfcian  Anthology,  or 
the  Poetical  Literature  of  Bohemia,  &c.  The  last  of 
these  works  appeared  in  1832.  In  1825  Dr  Bow- 
ring became  editor  of  the  Westminster  Review;  he  sat 
some  time  in  parliament,  and  in  1854  was  knighted 
and  made  governor  of  Hong  Kong.  He  was  the  literary- 
executor  of  Jeremy  Bentham,  and  author  of  political 
treatises,  original  poetry,  and  various  other  contri- 
butions to  literature.  The  original  bias  of  Sir  John 
Bowring  seems  to  have  been  towards  literature, 
but  his  connection  with  Bentham,  and  his  public 
appointments,  have  chiefly  distinguished  his  career, 
j He  is  a native  of  Exeter,  born  in  1792.  Mr  John 
Stuart  Blackie  (born  in  Aberdeen  in  1809,  and 
professor  of  Greek  in  the  university  of  Edinburgh) 
in  1834  gave  an  English  version  of  Goethe’s  Faust, 


and  in  1850  translated  the  lyrical  dramas  of  JEschy- 
lus,  two  volumes.  Both  of  these  versions  were  well 
received,  and  Mr  Blackie  has  aided  greatly  in  excit- 
ing a more  general  study  of  Greek  in  Scotland.  In 
1853  an  excellent  translation  of  some  of  the  Spanish 
dramas  of  Calderon  was  published  by  Mr  D.  F. 
M'Carthy.  The  translations  of  Bulwer  Lytton, 
Mr  Lockhart,  Professor  Aytoun,  Theodore  Martin, 
and  others  have  been  already  mentioned,  and  addi- 
tions have  been  made  to  this  branch  of  our  liter- 
ature in  the  admirable  cheap  serial  libraries  of  Mr 
H.  G.  Bohn.  Various  works  in  the  prose  literature 
of  Germany  have  been  correctly  and  ably  rendered 
by  Mrs  Austin  ( Fragments  from  German  Prose 
Writers,  with  Biographical  Notes,  and  Ranke’s  History 
of  the  Popes),  by  Lady  Duff  Gordon  (The  Amber 
Witch),  Mr  Henry  Taylor  (The  Fairy  Ring ),  &c. 

SCOTTISH  POETS. 

WILLIAM  THOM. 

William  Thom,  the  ‘Inverury  poet’ (1789-1848), 
was  author  of  some  sweet,  fanciful,  and  pathetic 
strains.  He  had  wrought  for  several  years  as  a 
weaver,  and,  when  out  of  employment,  traversed 
the  country  as  a pedler,  accompanied  by  his  wife 
and  children.  This  precarious,  unsettled  life  induced 
irregular  and  careless  habits,  and  every  effort  to 
place  the  poor  poet  in  a situation  of  permanent 
comfort  and  respectability  failed.  He  first  attracted 
notice  by  a poem  inserted  in  the  Aberdeen  Herald, 
entitled  The  Blind  Boy’s  Pranks;  in  1844  he  pub- 
lished a volume  of  Rhymes  and  Recollections  of  a 
Hand-loom  Weaver.  He  visited  London,  and  was 
warmly  patronised  by  his  countrymen  and  others  ; 
but  returning  to  Scotland,  he  died  at  Dundee  after 
a period  of  distress  and  penury.  A sum  of  about 
£300  was  collected  for  his  widow  and  family. 

The  Mitherless  Bairn. 

When  a’  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  f reeky  *grand-dame, 

Wha  stands  last  and  lanely,  an’  naebody  carin’  ? 

’Tis  the  puir  doited  loonie — the  mitherless  bairn. 

The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  to  his  lane  bed, 

Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare  head ; 
His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  airn, 

An’  litheless  the  lair  o’  the  motherless  bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow  siccan  dreams  hover  there, 

O’  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kame  his  dark  hair ; 

But  morning  brings  clutches,  a’  reckless  and  stern, 
That  lo’e  nae  the  locks  o’  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

Yon  sister,  that  sang  o’er  his  saftly  rocked  bed, 

Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  mammy  is  laid ; 
The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn, 

An’  kens  na  the  wrangs  o’  his  mitherless  bairn. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o’  his  birth, 

Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on  earth ; 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilic  deal  wi’  the  mitherless  bairn ! 

Oh  ! speak  na  him  harshly — he  trembles  the  while, 

He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile ; 

In  their  dark  hour  o’  anguish,  the  heartless  shall  learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 


DAVID  VEDDER. 

A native  of  Burncss,  Orkney,  born  in  1790,  Mr 
Veddek  obtained  some  reputation  by  a volume 

617 


j from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

of  Orcadian  Sketches , published  in  1832.  In  1842  Sorbie,  Wigtonshire,  in  1798)  is  author  of  Songs  of 
he  collected  his  poems,  scattered  through  various  the  Ark , 1831 ; Poems , Songs,  and  Miscellaneous  Pieces, 
periodicals,  and  published  them  in  one  volume.  Mr  1847 ; &c.  Mr  Riddell  passed  many  of  his  years 
Yedder  filled  the  office  of  tide-surveyor,  and  died  in  as  a shepherd  in  Ettrick,  but  afterwards  studied  for 
Edinburgh  in  1854.  His  Scottish  songs  and  Norse  the  church.  Francis  Bennoch  (born  at  Drumcrool, 
ballads  were  popular  in  Scotland.  The  following  parish  of  Durrisdeer,  Dumfriesshire,  in  1812)  settled 
piece,  which  Dr  Chalmers  was  fond  of  quoting  to  early  in  London,  and  carried  on  business  extensively 
his  students  in  his  theological  prelections,  is  in  a as  a merchant.  He  has  written  various  songs  and 
more  elevated  strain  of  poetry : short  poems,  and  otherwise  evinced  his  attachment 

to  literature  and  art  by  his  services  on  behalf  of 
Miss  Mitford,  Haydon  the  painter,  and  others. 

The  Temple  of  Nature. 


Talk  not  of  temples — there  is  one 

Built  without  hands,  to  mankind  given ; 

Its  lamps  are  the  meridian  sun, 

And  all  the  stars  of  heaven  ; 

Its  walls  are  the  cerulean  sky, 

Its  floor  the  earth  so  green  and  fair ; 

The  dome  is  vast  immensity — 

All  nature  worships  there ! 

The  Alps  arrayed  in  stainless  snow, 

The  Andean  ranges  yet  untrod, 

At  sunrise  and  at  sunset  glow 
Like  altar-fires  to  God. 

A thousand  fierce  volcanoes  blaze, 

As  if  with  hallowed  victims  rare; 

And  thunder  lifts  its  voice  in  praise — 

All  nature  worships  there  ! 

The  ocean  heaves  resistlessly, 

And  pours  his  glittering  treasure  forth ; 

His  waves — the  priesthood  of  the  sea — 

Kneel  on  the  shell-gemmed  earth, 

And  there  emit  a hollow  sound, 

As  if  they  murmured  praise  and  prayer ; 

On  every  side  ’tis  holy  ground — 

All  nature  worships  there ! 

* * * 

The  cedar  and  the  mountain  pine, 

The  willow  on  the  fountain’s  brim, 

The  tulip  and  the  eglantine 
In  reverence  bend  to  Him ; 

The  song-birds  pour  their  sweetest  lays, 

From  tower  and  tree  and  middle  air ; 

The  rushing  river  murmurs  praise — 

All  nature  worships  there ! 

Some  of  the  living  contributors  to  Scottish  song 
may  be  here  enumerated.  Alexander  Maclagan 
(born  at  Bridgend,  Perth,  in  1811)  published  in  1841 
a volume  of  poems ; in  1849,  Sketches  from  Nature, 
and  other  Poems  ; and  in  1854,  Ragged  and  Industrial 
School  Rhymes.  In  one  of  the  last  letters  written  by 
Jeffrey,  he  praised  the  homely  and  tender  verses  of 
Maclagan  for  their  ‘pervading  joyousness  and  kind- 
liness of  feeling,  as  well  as  their  vein  of  grateful 
. devotion,  which  must  recommend  them  to  all  good 
minds.’  James  Ballantine  (born  in  Edinburgh 
in  1808)  is  known  equally  for  his  Scottish  songs 
and  his  proficiency  in  the  revived  art  of  glass-paint- 
ing ; of  the  latter,  the  palace  at  Westminster  and 
many  church-windows  bear  testimony,  while  his 
native  muse  is  seen  in  The  Gaberlunzie’s  Wallet, 
1843;  The  Miller  of  Deanhaugh;  and  a collected 
edition  of  his  lyrics,  published  in  1856.  Andrew 
Park  (born  at  Renfrew  in  1811)  is  author  of  several 
volumes  of  songs  and  poems,  and  of  a volume  of 
travels  entitled  Egypt  and  the  East,  1857.  A 
collected  edition  of  his  poetical  works  appeared  in 
1854.  John  Crawford  (born  at  Greenock  in  1816) 
published  in  1850  a volume  of  Doric  Lays,  which 
received  the  commendation  of  Lord  Jeffrey  and 
Miss  Mitford.  Henry  Scott  Riddell  (born  at 


[ From,  ‘ The  Widow .’]  * 

[By  A.  Maclagan.] 

Ob,  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain, 

Oh,  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain ; 
Though  the  heart  o’  this  warld ’s  as  hard  as  a stane, 

Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain. 

Though  tottering  now,  like  her  auld  crazy  biel, 

Her  step  ance  the  lightest  on  hairst-rig  or  reel ; 

Though  sighs  tak’  the  place  o’  the  heart-cheering  strain, 
Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain. 

Though  humble  her  biggin’  and  scanty  her  store. 

The  beggar  ne’er  yet  went  unserved  fine  her  door ; 
Though  she  aft  lifts  the  lid  o’  the  girnel  in  vain, 

Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain. 

Though  thin,  thin  her  locks,  now  like  hill-drifted  snaw, 
Ance  sae  glossy  and  black,  like  the  wing  o’  the  craw ; 
Though  grief  frae  her  mild  cheek  the  red  rose  has  ta’en, 
Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain ! 

The  sang  o’  the  lark  finds  the  widow  asteer, 

The  birr  o’  her  wheel  starts  the  night’s  dreamy  ear ; 

The  tears  o’er  the  tow-tap  will  whiles  fa’  like  rain, 

Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain. 

Ye  may  hear  in  her  speech,  ye  may  see  in  her  claes, 
That  auld  Widow  Miller  has  seen  better  days, 

Ere  her  auld  Robin  died,  sae  fond  and  sae  fain — 

Yet  there ’s  naebody  hears  Widow  Miller  complain. 

* * * * 

Ye  wealthy  and  wise  in  this  fair  world  of  ours, 

When  your  fields  wave  wi’  gowd,  your  gardens  wi’ 
flowers, 

When  ye  bind  up  the  sheaves,  leave  out  a few  grains 
To  the  heart-broken  widow  who  never  complains. 

Ilka  Blade  o’  Grass  Keps  its  Ain  Drap  o’  Dew. 

[By  James  Ballantine.] 

Confide  ye  aye  in  Providence,  for  Providence  is  kind, 
And  bear  ye  a’  life’s  changes  wi’  a calm  and  tranquil 
mind, 

Though  pressed  and  hemmed  on  every  side,  ha’e  faith 
and  ye  ’ll  win  through, 

For  ilka  blade  o’  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o’  dew. 

Gin  reft  frae  friends  or  crost  in  love,  as  whiles  nae  doubt 
ye  ’ve  been, 

Grief  lies  deep  hidden  in  your  heart,  or  tears  flow  frae 
your  een, 

Believe  it  for  the  best,  and  trow  there ’s  good  in  store 
for  you, 

For  ilka  blade  o’  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o’  dew. 

In  lang,  lang  days  o’  simmer,  when  the  clear  and  cloud- 
less sky 

Refuses  ae  wee  drap  o’  rain  to  nature  parched  and  dry, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DRAMATISTS. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 


The  genial  night,  wi’  balmy  breath,  gars  verdure  spring 
anew, 

And  ilka  blade  o’  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o’  dew. 

Sae,  lest  ’mid  fortune’s  sunshine  we  should  feel  owre 
proud  and  hie, 

And  in  our  pride  forget  to  wipe  the  tear  frae  poortith’s 
e’e, 

Some  wee  dark  clouds  o’  sorrow  come,  we  ken  na  whence 
or  how, 

But  ilka  blade  o’  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o’  dew. 

When  the  Glen  all  is  Still. 

[By  H.  S.  Bidden.] 

When  the  glen  all  is  still,  save  the  stream  from  the 
fountain ; 

When  the  shepherd  has  ceased  o’er  the  heather  to 
roam ; 

And  the  wail  of  the  plover  awakes  on  the  mountain, 
Inviting  his  love  to  return  to  her  home ; 

There  meet  me,  my  Mary,  adown  by  the  wild  wood, 
Where  violets  and  daisies  sleep  saft  in  the  dew ; 

Our  bliss  shall  be  sweet  as  the  visions  of  childhood, 

And  pure  as  the  heaven’s  own  orient  blue. 

Thy  locks  shall  be  braided  with  pearls  of  the  gloaming ; 

Thy  cheek  shall  be  fanned  by  the  breeze  of  the  lawn ; 
The  angel  of  love  shall  be  ’ware  of  thy  coming, 

And  hover  around  thee  till  rise  of  the  dawn. 

0 Mary  ! no  transports  of  Heaven’s  decreeing 
Can  equal  the  joys  of  such  meeting  to  me ; 

For  the  light  of  thine  eye  is  the  home  of  my  being, 

And  my  soul’s  fondest  hopes  are  all  gathered  to  thee. 

Florence  Nightingale  * 

[By  F.  Bennoch.] 

With  lofty  song  we  love  to  cheer 
The  hearts  of  daring  men, 

Applauded  thus,  they  gladly  hear 
The  trumpet’s  call  again. 

But  now  we  sing  of  lowly  deeds 
Devoted  to  the  brave, 

When  she,  who  stems  the  wound  that  bleeds, 

A hero’s  life  may  save  : 

And  heroes  saved  exulting  tell 
How  well  her  voice  they  knew  ; 

How  sorrow  near  it  could  not  dwell, 

But  spread  its  wings  and  flew. 

Neglected,  dying  in  despair, 

They  lay  till  woman  came 
To  soothe  them  with  her  gentle  care, 

And  feed  life’s  flickering  flame. 

When  wounded  sore  on  fever’s  rack, 

Or  cast  away  as  slain, 

She  called  their  fluttering  spirits  back, 

And  gave  them  strength  again. 

'Twas  grief  to  miss  the  passing  face 
That  suffering  could  dispel ; 

But  joy  to  turn  and  kiss  the  place 
On  which  her  shadow  fell. 

When  words  of  wrath  profaning  rung, 

She  moved  with  pitying  grace ; 

Her  presence  stilled  the  wildest  tongue, 

And  holy  ma^le  the  place. 

* This  lady,  the  daughter  of  William  Shore  Nightingale, 
Esq.,  of  Embley  Park,  Hampshire,  is  justly  celebrated  for  her 
exertions  in  tending  the  sick  and  wounded  at  Scutari  during 
the  Crimean  war  in  1854-55.  In  directing  and  presiding  over 
the  band  of  female  nurses,  the  services  of  Miss  Nightingale 
were  invaluable,  and  gratefully  acknowledged  by  her  sovereign 
and  the  country. 


They  knew  that  they  were  cared  for  then, 
Their  eyes  forgot  their  tears ; 

In  dreamy  sleep  they  lost  their  pain, 

And  thought  of  early  years — 

Of  early  years  when  all  was  fair, 

Of  faces  sweet  and  pale ; 

They  woke  : the  angel  bending  there 
Was — Florence  Nightingale  ! 


DRAMATISTS. 

Dramatic  literature  no  longer  occupies  the  promi- 
nent place  it  held  in  former  periods  of  our  history. 
Various  causes  have  been  assigned  for  this  decline — 
as,  the  great  size  of  the  theatres,  the  monopoly  of 
the  two  large  London  houses,  the  love  of  spectacle 
or  scenic  display  which  has  usurped  the  place  of  the 
legitimate  drama,  and  the  late  dinner-hours  now 
prevalent  among  the  higher  and  even  the  middle 
classes.  The  increased  competition  in  business  has 
also  made  our  ‘ nation  of  shopkeepers  ’ a busier  and 
harder- working  race  than  their  forefathers ; and  the 
diffusion  of  cheap  literature  may  have  further  tended 
to  thin  the  theatres,  as  furnishing  intellectual  enter- 
tainment for  the  masses  at  home  at  a cheaper  rate 
than  dramatic  performances.  The  London  managers 
appear  to  have  had  considerable  influence  in  this 
matter.  They  lavish  enormous  sums  on  scenic 
decoration  and  particular  actors,  and  aim  rather  at 
filling  their  houses  by  some  ephemeral  and  dazzling 
display,  than  by  the  liberal  encouragement  of  native 
talent  and  genius.  To  improve,  or  rather  re-establish 
the  acted  drama,  a writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review 
for  1843  suggests  that  there  should  be  a classifica- 
tion of  theatres  in  the  metropolis,'  as  in  Paris,  where 
each  theatre  has  its  distinct  species  of  the  drama, 
and  performs  it  well.  ‘ We  believe,  he  says,  ‘ that 
the  evil  is  mainly  occasioned  by  the  vain  endeavour 
of  managers  to  succeed  by  commixing  every  species  of 
entertainment — huddling  together  tragedy,  comedy, 
farce,  melo-drama,  and  spectacle — and  striving,  by 
alternate  exhibitions,  to  draw  all  the  dramatic  public 
to  their  respective  houses.  Imperfect — very  imper- 
fect companies  for  each  species  are  engaged ; and  as, 
in  consequence  of  the  general  imperfection,  they  are 
forced  to  rely  on  individual  excellence,  individual 
performers  become  of  inordinate  importance,  and 
the  most  exorbitant  salaries  are  given  to  procure 
them.  These  individuals  are  thus  placed  in  a false 
position,  and  indulge  themselves  in  all  sorts  of 
mannerisms  and  absurdities.  The  public  is  not 
unreasonably  dissatisfied  with  imperfect  companies 
and  bad  performances ; the  managers  wonder  at 
their  ruin ; and  critics  become  elegiacal  over  the 
mournful  decline  of  the  drama!  Not  in  this  way 
can  a theatre  flourish ; since,  if  one  species  of 
performance  proves  attractive,  the  others  are  at 
a discount,  and  their  companies  become  useless 
burdens  ; if  none  of  them  prove  attractive,  then  the 
loss  ends  in  ruin.’  Too  many  instances  of  this  have 
occurred  within  the  last  thirty  years.  Whenever 
a play  of  real  excellence  has  been  brought  forward, 
the  public  has  shewn  no  insensibility  to  its  merits  ; 
but  so  many  circumstances  are  requisite  to  its 
successful  representation — so  expensive  are  the 
companies,  and  so  capricious  the  favourite  actors — 
that  men  of  talent  are  averse  to  hazard  a compe- 
tition. 

The  tragedies  of  Miss  Mitford  and  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton— elsewhere  noticed  in  this  volume  — 
were  highly  successful  in  representation,  but  the 
fame  of  their  authors  must  ever  rest  on  those  prose 
fictions  by  which  they  are  chiefly  known.  Sir 

019 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1850. 


Edward’s  Lady  of  Lyons  is,  however,  one  of  our 
most  popular  acting  plays  ; it  is  picturesque  and 
romantic,  with  passages  of  fine  poetry  and  genuine 
feeling. 

THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD. 

Two  classic  and  two  romantic  dramas  were  pro- 
duced by  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  an  eloquent 
English  barrister  and  upright  judge,  whose  sudden 
death  was  deeply  lamented  by  a most  attached 
circle  of  literary  and  accomplished  friends,  as  well 
as  by  the  public  at  large.  Mr  Talfourd  was  a 
native  of  Reading,  in  Berkshire,  born  in  1795.  His 
father  was  a brewer  in  Reading.  Having  studied 
the  law,  Talfourd  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1821, 
and  in  1833  got  his  silk  gown.  As  Serjeant 
Talfourd,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  popular 
eloquence  and  liberal  principles,  and  was  returned 
to  parliament  for  his  native  town.  In  1835,  he 
published  his  tragedy  of  Ion,  which  was  next  year 
produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  with  success. 
His  next  tragedy,  The  Athenian  Captive,  was  also 
successful.  His  subsequent  dramatic  works  were 
The  Massacre  of  Glencoe,  and  The  Castilian,  a 
tragedy.  Besides  these  offerings  to  the  dramatic 
muse,  Talfourd  published  Vacation  Rambles,  1851, 
comprising  the  recollections  of  three  continental 
tours,  a Life  of  Charles  Lamb,  and  an  Essay  on  the 
Greek  Drama.  In  1849,  he  was  elevated  to  the 
bench,  and  in  1854  he  died  of  apoplexy  while 
delivering  his  charge  to  the  grand  jury  at  Stafford. 
Ion,  the  highest  literary  effort  of  its  author,  seems 
an  embodiment  of  the  simplicity  and  grandeur  of 
the  Greek  drama,  and  its  plot  is  founded  on  the 
old  Grecian  notion  of  destiny,  apart  from  all  moral 
agencies.  The  oracle  of  Delphi  had  announced  that 
the  vengeance  which  the  misrule  of  the  race  of 
Argos  had  brought  on  the  people,  in  the  form  of  a 
pestilence,  could  only  be  disarmed  by  the  extirpation 
of  the  guilty  race,  and  Ion,  the  hero  of  the  play,  at 
length  offers  himself  a sacrifice.  The  character  of 
Ion — the  discovery  of  his  birth,  as  son  of  the  king — 
his  love  and  patriotism,  are  drawn  with  great  power 
and  effect.  The  style  of  Mr  Talfourd  is  chaste  and 
clear,  yet  full  of  imagery.  Take,  for  example,  the 
delineation  of  the  character  of  Ion : 

Ion,  our  sometime  darling,  whom  we  prized 
As  a stray  gift,  by  bounteous  Heaven  dismissed 
From  some  bright  sphere  which  sorrow  may  not  cloud 
To  make  the  happy  happier ! Is  he  sent 
To  grapple  with  the  miseries  of  this  time, 

Whose  nature  such  ethereal  aspect  wears 
As  it  would  perish  at  the  touch  of  wrong  ! 

By  no  internal  contest  is  he  trained 

For  such  hard  duty ; no  emotions  rude 

Hath  his  clear  spirit  vanquished — Love,  the  germ 

Of  his  mild  nature,  hath  spread  graces  forth, 

Expanding  with  its  progress,  as  the  store 

Of  rainbow  colour  which  the  seed  conceals 

Sheds  out  its  tints  from  its  dim  treasury, 

To  flush  and  circle  in  the  flower.  No  tear 
Hath  filled  his  eye  save  that  of  thoughtful  joy 
When,  in  the  evening  stillness,  lovely  things 
Pressed  on  his  soul  too  busily ; his  voice, 

If,  in  the  earnestness  of  childish  sports, 

Raised  to  the  tone  of  anger,  checked  its  force, 

As  if  it  feared  to  break  its  being’s  law, 

And  faltered  into  music ; when  the  forms 
Of  guilty  passion  have  been  made  to  live 
In  pictured  speech,  and  others  have  waxed  loud 
In  righteous  indignation,  he  hath  heard 
With  sceptic  smile,  or  from  some  slender  vein 
Of  goodness,  which  surrounding  gloom  concealed, 

620 


Struck  sunlight  o’er  it : so  his  life  hath  flowed 
From  its  mysterious  urn  a sacred  stream, 

In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 
Alone  are  mirrored ; which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
May  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light, 

And  takes  no  shadow  from  them. 


[ Extracts  from  1 /on.’] 

[Ion  being  declared  the  rightful  heir  of  the  throne,  is  waited 
upon  by  Clemanthe,  daughter  of  the  high  priest  of  the  temple, 
wherein  Ion  had  been  reared  in  obscurity.] 

Ion.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  lady  ? 

Clemanthe.  Is  it  so  ? 

Nothing,  my  lord,  save  to  implore  thy  pardon, 

That  the  departing  gleams  of  a bright  dream, 

From  which  I scarce  had  wakened,  made  me  bold 

To  crave  a word  with  thee  ; but  all  are  fled 

Ion.  ’Twas  indeed  a goodly  dream ; 

But  thou  art  right  to  think  it  was  no  more ; 

And  study  to  forget  it. 

Clem.  To  forget  it ! 

Indeed,  my  lord,  I will  not  wish  to  lose 
What,  being  past,  is  all  my  future  hath, 

All  I shall  live  for ; do  not  grudge  me  this, 

The  brief  space  I shall  need  it. 

Ion.  Speak  not,  fair  one, 

In  tone  so  mournful,  for  it  makes  me  feel 
Too  sensibly  the  hapless  wretch  I am, 

That  troubled  the  deep  quiet  of  thy  soul 
In  that  pure  fountain  which  reflected  heaven, 

For  a brief  taste  of  rapture. 

Clem.  Dost  thou  yet 

Esteem  it  rapture,  then  ? My  foolish  heart, 

Be  still ! Yet  wherefore  should  a crown  divide  us? 
0,  my  dear  Ion  ! let  me  call  thee  so 
This  once  at  least — it  could  not  in  my  thoughts 
Increase  the  distance  that  there  was  between  us 
When,  rich  in  spirit,  thou  to  strangers’  eyes 
Seemed  a poor  foundling. 

Ion.  It  must  separate  us ! 

Think  it  no  harmless  bauble ; but  a curse 
Will  freeze  the  current  in  the  veins  of  youth, 

And  from  familiar  touch  of  genial  hand, 

From  household  pleasures,  from  sweet  daily  tasks, 
From  airy  thought,  free  wanderer  of  the  heavens, 

For  ever  banish  me  ! 

Clem.  Thou  dost  accuse 
Thy  state  too  harshly ; it  may  give  some  room, 

Some  little  room,  amidst  its  radiant  cares, 

For  love  and  joy  to  breathe  in. 

Ion.  Not  for  me ; 

My  pomp  must  be  most  lonesome,  far  removed 
From  that  sweet  fellowship  of  humankind 
The  slave  rejoices  in : my  solemn  robes 
Shall  wrap  me  as  a panoply  of  ice, 

And  the  attendants  who  may  throng  around  me 
Shall  want  the  flatteries  which  may  basely  warm 
The  sceptral  thing  they  circle.  Dark  and  cold 
Stretches  the  path  which,  when  I wear  the  crown, 

I needs  must  enter : the  great  gods  forbid 
That  thou  shouldst  follow  in  it ! 

Clem.  0 unkind ! 

And  shall  we  never  see  each  other  ? 

Ion.  [After  a pause.]  Yes! 

I have  asked  that  dreadful  question  of  the  hills 
That  look  eternal ; of  the  flowing  streams 
That  lucid  flow  for  ever ; of  the  stars, 

Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 
Hath  trod  in  glory  : all  were  dumb  ; but  now, 

While  I thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 

I feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 
Can  never  wholly  perish  : we  shall  meet 
Again,  Clemanthe ! 

Clem.  Bless  thee  for  that  name ; 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD. 


Pray,  call  me  so  again ; tby  words  sound  strangely, 
Yet  they  breathe  kindness,  and  I’ll  drink  them  in, 
Though  they  destroy  me.  Shall  we  meet  indeed  ? 
Think  not  I would  intrude  upon  thy  cares, 

Thy  councils,  or  thy  pomps ; to  sit  at  distance, 

To  weave,  with  the  nice  labour  which  preserves 
The  rebel  pulses  even,  from  gay  threads 
Faint  records  of  thy  deeds,  and  sometimes  catch 
The  falling  music  of  a gracious  word, 

Or  the  stray  sunshine  of  a smile,  will  be 
Comfort  enough : do  not  deny  me  this ; 

Or  if  stern  fate  compel  thee  to  deny, 

Kill  me  at  once  ! 

Ion.  No ; thou  must  live,  my  fair  one  : 

There  are  a thousand  joyous  things  in  life, 

Which  pass  unheeded  in  a life  of  joy 
As  thine  hath  been,  till  breezy  sorrow  comes 
To  ruffle  it ; and  daily  duties  paid 
Hardly  at  first,  at  length  will  bring  repose 
To  the  sad  mind  that  studies  to  perform  them. 

Thou  dost  not  mark  me. 

Clem.  0,  I do  ! I do  ! 

Ion.  If  for  thy  brother’s  and  thy  father’s  sake 
Thou  art  content  to  live,  the  healer  Time 
Will  reconcile  thee  to  the  lovely  things 
Of  this  delightful  world — and  if  another, 

A happier — no,  I cannot  bid  thee  love 
Another  ! — I did  think  I could  have  said  it, 

But  ’tis  in  vain. 

Clem.  Thou  art  my  own,  then,  still  ? 

Ion.  I am  thine  own ! thus  let  me  clasp  thee  ; 
nearer ; 

0 joy  too  thrilling  and  too  short ! 

Enter  Agenor. 

Agenor.  My  lord, 

The  sacrificial  rites  await  thy  presence. 

Ion.  I come.  One  more  embrace — the  last,  the  last 
In  this  world  ! Now,  farewell ! [Exit. 

Clem.  The  last  embrace  ! 

Then  he  has  cast  me  off ! no — ’tis  not  so ; 

Some  mournful  secret  of  his  fate  divides  us ; 

1 ’ll  struggle  to  bear  that,  and  snatch  a comfort 
From  seeing  him  uplifted.  I will  look 

Upon  him  in  his  throne ; Minerva’s  shrine 

Will  shelter  me  from  vulgar  gaze;  I’ll  hasten 

And  feast  my  sad  eyes  with  his  greatness  there.  [Exit. 

[Ion  is  installed  in  his  royal  dignity,  attended  by  the  high 
priest,  the  senators,  &c.  The  people  receive  him  with  shouts.] 

Ion.  I thank  you  for  your  greetings — shout  no  more, 
But  in  deep  silence  raise  your  hearts  to  heaven, 

That  it  may  strengthen  one  so  young  and  frail 
As  I am  for  the  business  of  this  hour. 

Must  I sit  here  ? 

Medon.  My  son  ! my  son  ! 

What  ails  thee?  When  thou  shouldst  reflect  the  joy 
Of  Argos,  the  strange  paleness  of  the  grave 
Marbles  thy  face. 

Ion.  Am  I indeed  so  pale  ? 

It  is  a solemn  office  I assume, 

Which  well  may  make  me  falter ; yet  sustained 
By  thee,  and  by  the  gods  I serve,  I take  it. 

[/Site  on  the  throne. 

Stand  forth,  Agenor. 

Agenor.  I await  thy  will. 

Ion.  To  thee  I look  as  to  the  wisest  friend 
Of  this  afflicted  people ; thou  must  leave 
Awhile  the  quiet  which  thy  life  has  earned 
To  rule  our  councils;  fill  the  seats  of  justice 
With  good  men,  not  so  absolute  in  goodness 
As  to  forget  what  human  frailty  is ; 

And  order  my  sad  country. 

Agenor.  Pardon  me 

Ion.  Nay,  I will  promise  ’tis  my  last  request ; 

Grant  me  thy  help  till  this  distracted  state 


Rise  tranquil  from  her  griefs — ’twill  not  be  long, 

If  the  great  gods  smile  on  us  now.  Remember, 
Meanwhile,  thou  hast  all  power  my  word  can  give, 
Whether  I live  or  die. 

Agenor.  Die  ! Ere  that  hour, 

May  even  the  old  man’s  epitaph  be  moss-grown  ! 

Ion.  Death  is  not  jealous  of  the  mild  decay 
That  gently  wins  thee  his  ; exulting  youth 
Provokes  the  ghastly  monarch’s  sudden  stride, 

And  makes  his  horrid  fingers  quick  to  clasp 
His  prey  benumbed  at  noontide.  Let  me  see 
The  captain  of  the  guard. 

Crythes.  I kneel  Ijo  crave 
Humbly  the  favour  which  thy  sire  bestowed 
On  one  who  loved  him  well. 

Ion.  I cannot  mark  thee, 

That  wakest  the  memory  of  my  father’s  weakness, 
But  I will  not  forget  that  thou  hast  shared 
The  light  enjoyments  of  a noble  spirit, 

And  learned  the  need  of  luxury.  I grant 
For  thee  and  thy  brave  comrades  ample  share 
Of  such  rich  treasure  as  my  stores  contain, 

To  grace  thy  passage  to  some  distant  land, 

Where,  if  an  honest  cause  engage  thy  sword, 

May  glorious  issues  wait  it.  In  our  realm 
We  shall  not  need  it  longer. 

Crythes.  Dost  intend 

To  banish  the  firm  troops  before  whose  valour 
Barbarian  millions  shrink  appalled,  and  leave 
Our  city  naked  to  the  first  assault 
Of  reckless  foes  ? 

Ion.  No,  Crythes ; in  ourselves, 

In  our  own  honest  hearts  and  chainless  hands 
Will  be  our  safeguard ; while  we  do  not  use 
Our  power  towards  others,  so  that  we  should  blush 
To  teach  our  children ; while  the  simple  love 
Of  justice  and  their  country  shall  be  born 
With  dawning  reason ; while  their  sinews  grow 
Hard  ’midst  the  gladness  of  heroic  sports, 

We  shall  not  need,  to  guard  our  walls  in  peace, 

One  selfish  passion,  or  one  venal  sword. 

I would  not  grieve  thee ; but  thy  valiant  troop — 
For  I esteem  them  valiant — must  no  more 
With  luxury  which  suits  a desperate  camp 
Infect  us.  See  that  they  embark,  Agenor, 

Ere  night. 

Crythes.  My  lord 

Ion.  No  more — my  word  hath  passed. 

Medon,  there  is  no  office  I can  add 

To  those  thou  hast  grown  old  in  ; thou  wilt  guard 

The  shrine  of  Phoebus,  and  within  thy  home — 

Thy  too  delightful  home — befriend  the  stranger 
As  thou  didst  me ; there  sometimes  waste  a thought 
On  thy  spoiled  inmate. 

Medon.  Think  of  thee,  my  lord  ? 

Long  shall  we  triumph  in  thy  glorious  reign. 

Ion.  Prithee  no  more.  Argives ! I have  a boon 
To  crave  of  you.  Whene’er  I shall  rejoin 
In  death  the  father  from  whose  heart  in  life 
Stern  fate  divided  me,  think  gently  of  him  ! 

Think  that  beneath  his  panoply  of  pride 
Were  fair  affections  crushed  by  bitter  wrongs 
Which  fretted  him  to  madness ; what  he  did, 

Alas ! ye  know ; could  you  know  what  he  suffered, 
Ye  would  not  curse  his  name.  Yet  never  more 
Let  the  great  interests  of  the  state  depend 
Upon  the  thousand  chances  that  may  sway 
A piece  of  human  frailty ; swear  to  me 
That  ye  will  seek  hereafter  in  yourselves 
The  means  of  sovereignty : our  country’s  space, 

So  happy  in  its  smallness,  so  compact, 

Needs  not  the  magic  of  a single  name 
Which  wider  regions  may  require  to  draw 
Their  interest  into  one ; but,  circled  thus, 

Like  a blest  family,  by  simple  laws 
May  tenderly  be  governed — all  degrees, 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Not  placed  in  dexterous  balance,  not  combined 
By  bonds  of  parchment,  or  by  iron  clasps, 

But  blended  into  one — a single  form 
Of  nymph-like  loveliness,  which  finest  chords 
Of  sympathy  pervading,  shall  endow 
With  vital  beauty ; tint  with  roseate  bloom 
In  times  of  happy  peace,  and  bid  to  flash 
With  one  brave  impulse,  if  ambitious  bands 
Of  foreign  power  should  threaten.  Swear  to  me 
That  ye  will  do  this ! 

Medon.  Wherefore  ask  this  now  ? 

Thou  shalt  live  long ; the  paleness  of  thy  face, 

Which  late  seemed  death-like,  is  grown  radiant  now, 
And  thine  eyes  kindle  with  the  prophecy 
Of  glorious  years. 

Ion.  The  gods  approve  me  then ! 

Yet  I will  use  the  function  of  a king, 

And  claim  obedience.  Swear,  that  if  I die, 

And  leave  no  issue,  ye  will  seek  the  power 
To  govern  in  the  free-born  people’s  choice, 

And  in  the  prudence  of  the  wise. 

Medon  and  others.  We  swear  it! 

Ion.  Hear  and  record  the  oath,  immortal  powers  ! 
Now  give  me  leave  a moment  to  approach 
That  altar  unattended.  [He  goes  to  the  altar. 

Gracious  gods ! 

In  whose  mild  service  my  glad  youth  was  spent, 

Look  on  me  now ; and  if  there  is  a power, 

As  at  this  solemn  time  I feel  there  is, 

Beyond  ye,  that  hath  breathed  through  all  your  shapes 
The  spirit  of  the  beautiful  that  lives 
In  earth  and  heaven ; to  ye  I offer  up 
This  conscious  being,  full  of  life  and  love, 

For  my  dear  country’s  welfare.  Let  this  blow 
End  all  her  sorrows  ! [StaSs  himself. 

Clemanthe  rushes  forward. 

Clem.  Hold ! 

Let  me  support  him — stand  away — indeed 
I have  best  right,  although  ye  know  it  not, 

To  cleave  to  him  in  death. 

Ion.  This  is  a joy 

I did  not  hope  for — this  is  sweet  indeed. 

Bend  thine  eyes  on  me  ! 

Clem.  And  for  this  it  was 
Thou  wouldst  have  weaned  me  from  thee  ! 

Couldst  thou  think 
I would  be  so  divorced  ? 

Ion.  Thou  art  right,  Clemanthe — 

It  was  a shallow  and  an  idle  thought ; 

’Tis  past ; no  show  of  coldness  frets  us  now ; 

No  vain  disguise,  my  girl.  Yet  thou  wilt  think 
On  that  which,  when  I feigned,  I truly  spoke — 

Wilt  thou  not,  sweet  one  ? 

Clem.  I will  treasure  all. 

Enter  Ieus. 

Irus.  I bring  you  glorious  tidings — 

Ha ! no  joy 
Can  enter  here. 

Ion.  Yes — is  it  as  I hope? 

Irus.  The  pestilence  abates. 

Ion.  [Springs  to  his  feet .]  Do  ye  not  hear  ? 

Why  shout  ye  not  ? ye  are  strong — think  not  of  me ; 
Hearken  ! the  curse  my  ancestry  had  spread 
O’er  Argos  is  dispelled ! My  own  Clemanthe  ! 

Let  this  console  thee — Argos  lives  again — 

The  offering  is  accepted — all  is  well ! [Dies. 


HENRY  TAYLOR — LEIGH  HUNT — WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Two  dramatic  poems  have  been  produced  by 
Henry  Taylor,  Esq.,  which,  though  not  popular, 
evince  high  genius  and  careful  preparation.  The 
first,  Philip  van  Artevelde,  was  published  in  1834, 
622 


and  the  scene  is  laid  in  Flanders,  at  the  close  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  second,  Edwin  the  Fair , 
1843,  relates  to  early  English  history.  Though  : 
somewhat  too  measured  and  reflective  for  the  stage, 
the  plays  of  Mr  Taylor  contain  excellent  scenes 
and  dialogues.  ‘The  blended  dignity  of  thought, 
and  a sedate  moral  habit,  invests  Mr  Taylor’s  poetry 
with  a stateliness  in  which  the  drama  is  generally 
deficient,  and  makes  his  writings  illustrate,  in  some 
degree,  a new  form  of  the  art — such  a form,  indeed, 
as  we  might  expect  the  -written  drama  naturally 
to  assume  if  it  were  to  revive  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  maintain  itself  as  a branch  of  literature 
apart  from  the  stage.’  Besides  these  works  Mr 
Taylor  has  written  The  Eve  of  the  Conquest , and  other 
Poems,  1847  ; Notes  from  Life,  1848 ; Notes  from 
Books,  1849  ; and  The  Virgin  Widow,  a poem,  1850. 
Eloquent,  thoughtful,  and  learned,  all  the  writings 
of  Mr  Taylor  are  of  a high  intellectual  order.  Mr 
Leigh  Hunt,  in  1840,  came  before  the  public  as 
a dramatic  writer.  His  work  -was  a mixture  of 
romance  and  comedy,  entitled  A Legend  of  Florence: 
it  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  with  some 
success,  but  is  too  sketchy  in  its  materials,  and 
too  extravagant  in  plot,  to  be  a popular  acting  play. 
Athelwold,  a tragedy  by  William  Smith,  1842,  is  a 
drama  also  for  the  closet;  it  wants  variety  and 
scenic  effect  for  the  stage,  and  in  style  and  senti- 
ment is  not  unlike  one  of  Miss  Baillie’s  plays.  The 
following  Christian  sentiment  is  finely  expressed : 

Joy  is  a weak  and  giddy  thing  that  laughs 
Itself  to  weariness  or  sleep,  and  wakes 
To  the  same  barren  laughter J,  ’tis  a child 
Perpetually,  and  all  its  past  and  future 
Lie  in  the  compass  of  an  infant’s  day. 

Crushed  from  our  sorrow  all  that ’s  great  in  man 
Has  ever  sprung.  In  the  bold  pagan  world 
Men  deified  the  beautiful,  the  glad, 

The  strong,  the  boastful,  and  it  came  to  nought ; 

We  have  raised  Pain  and  Sorrow  into  heaven, 

And  in  our  temples,  on  our  altars,  Grief 
Stands  symbol  of  our  faith,  and  it  shall  last 
As  long  as  man  is  mortal  and  unhappy. 

The  gay  at  heart  may  wander  to  the  skies, 

And  harps  may  there  be  found  them,  and  the  branch 
Of  palm  be  put  into  their  hands ; on  earth 
We  know  them  not ; no  votarist  of  our  faith, 

Till  he  has  dropped  his  tears  into  the  stream, 

Tastes  of  its  sweetness. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

This  popular  humorist  and  satirist  (1803-1857) 
finds  his  place  more  appropriately  in  our  list  of 
miscellaneous  -writers,  but  his  first  grand  success 
was  in  the  character  of  a dramatist,  and  his 
comedies  and  other  pieces  for  the  theatre  fill 
two  volumes  of  his  collected  works.  After  some 
obscure  theatrical  labours  for  the  Coburg  Theatre, 
Mr  Jerrold  produced  his  nautical  and  domestic 
drama,  Black-eyed  Susan,  which  was  brought  out 
at  the  Surrey  Theatre  in  1829,  and  had  prodigious 
success.  It  had  a run  of  above  three  hundred 
nights,  and  produced  many  thousands  to  the  theatre, 
though  to  the  author  it  brought  only  about  £70. 
The  sailor  hero  of  the  piece  was  admirably  repre- 
sented by  Mr  T.  P.  Cooke,  and  the  other  characters 
and  situations  in  the  piece  were  managed  with  great 
skill  and  effect.  The  other  dramas  of  Jerrold  are — 
The  Rent  Day , 1832 ; Nell  G wynne,  and  The  House- 
keeper, 1833;  The  Wedding  Gown , 1834;  The 
Schoolfellows,  and  Doves  in  a Cage,  1835 ; Prisoner 
of  War , 1842 ; Bubbles  of  the  Day , and  Time 
Works  Wonders , 1845;  The  Catspaw , 1850 ; Retired 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 


from  Business,  1851 ; St  Cupid , 1853  ; Heart  of  Gold, 
1854.  The  plays  of  Jerrold,  like  all  his  other 
writings,  abound  in  pointed  and  witty  sayings  and 
lively  illustration.  His  incidents  and  characters 
are  also  well  contrasted  and  arranged  for  stage 
effect,  yet  there  is  a want  of  breadth  and  simplicity 


about  most  of  his  dramas  that  renders  them  unattrac- 
tive in  the  closet.  We  dip  into  them  occasionally 
for  a sentiment  or  piece  of  satire  tersely  expressed, 
yet  we  cannot  read  them  continuously  as  we  do  the 
comedies  of  Goldsmith  or  Sheridan.  Perhaps  the 
most  artistic  and  most  interesting  is  Time  Works 
Wonders,  but  the  simple  pathos  and  plot  of  Black- 
eyed  Susan  will  always  render  it  a greater  favourite 
on  the  stage.  The  following  extracts  from  Bubbles 
of  the  Day  ridicule  the  prevailing  rage  for  new 
schemes  and  companies : 

[ Fancy  Fair  in  Guildhall  for  Painting  St  PauVs.] 

Sir  Phenix  Clearcake.  I come  with  a petition  to  you 
— a petition  not  parliamentary,  but  charitable.  We 
propose,  my  lord,  a fancy  fair  in  Guildhall ; its  object 
bo  benevolent,  and  more  than  that,  so  respectable. 

Lord  Skindeep.  Benevolence  and  respectability ! Of 
course,  I’m  with  you.  Well,  the  precise  object? 

Sir  P.  It  is  to  remove  a stain — a very  great  stain 
from  the  city ; to  give  an  air  of  maiden  beauty  to  a 
most  venerable  institution;  to  exercise  a renovating 
taste  at  a most  inconsiderable  outlay ; to  call  up,  as  it 
were,  the  snowy  beauty  of  Greece  in  the  coal-smoke 
atmosphere  of  London;  in  a word,  my  lord — but  as 
yet  ’tis  a profound  secret — it  is  to  paint  St  Paul’s ! 
To  give  it  a virgin  outside — to  make  it  so  truly 
respectable. 

Lord  Skin.  A gigantic  effort ! 

Sir  P.  The  fancy  fair  will  be  on  a most  compre- 
hensive and  philanthropic  scale.  Every  alderman  takes 
a stall ; and  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  city — but  this  also  is  a secret — the  Lady  Mayoress 
has  been  up  three  nights  making  pincushions. 

Lord  Skin.  But  you  don’t  want  me  take  a stall — to 
sell  pincushions? 

Sir  P.  Certainly  not,  my  lord.  And  yet  your 
philanthropic  speeches  in  the  House,  my  lord,  convince 
me  that,  to  obtain  a certain  good,  you  would  sell 
anything. 


Lord  Skin.  Well,  well ; command  me  in  any  way ; 
benevolence  is  my  foible. 

[Companies  for  leasing  Mount  Vesuvius,  for  mak- 
ing a Trip  all  round  the  World,  for  Buying  the 
Serpentine  River,  c&c.] 

Captain  Smoke.  We  are  about  to  start  a company  to 
take  on  lease  Mount  Vesuvius  for  the  manufacture  of 
lucifer-matches. 

Sir  P.  A stupendous  speculation ! I should  say  that, 
when  its  countless  advantages  are  duly  numbered,  it 
will  be  found  a certain  wheel  of  fortune  to  the  enlight- 
ened capitalist. 

Smoke.  Now,  sir,  if  you  would  but  take  the  chair  at 
the  first  meeting — ( Aside  to  Chatham:  We  shall  make 
it  all  right  about  the  shares) — if  you  would  but  speak 
for  two  or  three  hours  on  the  social  improvement 
conferred  by  the  lucifer-match,  with  the  monopoly  of 
sulphur  secured  to  the  company — a monopoly  which  will 
suffer  no  man,  woman,  or  child  to  strike  a light  without 
our  permission. 

Chatham.  Truly,  sir,  in  such  a cause,  to  such  an 
auditory — I fear  my  eloquence. 

Smoke.  Sir,  if  you  would  speak  well  anywhere,  there’s 
nothing  like  first  grinding  your  eloquence  on  a mixed 
meeting.  Depend  on ’t,  if  you  can  only  manage  a little 
humbug  with  a mob,  it  gives  you  great  confidence  for 
another  place. 

Lord  Skin.  Smoke,  never  say  humbug ; it ’s  coarse. 

Sir  P.  And  not  respectable. 

Smoke.  Pardon  me,  my  lord,  it  was  coarse.  But  the 
fact  is,  humbug  has  received  such  high  patronage,  that 
now  it ’s  quite  classic. 

Chat.  But  why  not  embark  his  lordship  in  the 
lucifer  question  ? 

Smoke.  I can’t : I have  his  lordship  in  three  com- 
panies already.  Three.  First,  there’s  a company — half 
a million  capital — for  extracting  civet  from  asafcetida. 
The  second  is  a company  for  a trip  all  round  the  world. 
We  propose  to  hire  a three-decker  of  the  Lords  of  the 
Admiralty,  and  fit  her  up  with  every  accommodation  for 
families.  We ’ve  already  advertised  for  wet-nurses  and 
maids  of  all  work. 

Sir  P.  A magnificent  project ! And  then  the 
fittings-up  will  be  so  respectable.  A delightful  billiard- 
table  in  the  ward-room ; with,  for  the  humbler  classes, 
skittles  on  the  orlop-deck.  Swings  and  archery  for  the 
ladies,  trap-ball  and  cricket  for  the  children,  whilst  the 
marine  sportsman  will  find  the  stock  of  gulls  unlimited. 
Weippert’s  quadrille  band  is  engaged,  and 

Smoke.  For  the  convenience  of  lovers,  the  ship  will 
carry  a parson. 

Chat.  And  the  object? 

Smoke.  Pleasure  and  education.  At  every  new 
country  we  shall  drop  anchor  for  at  least  a week,  that 
the  children  may  go  to  school  and  learn  the  language. 
The  trip  must  answer:  ’twill  occupy  only  three  years, 
and  we’ve  forgotten  nothing  to  make  it  delightful — 
nothing  from  hot  rolls  to  cork  jackets. 

Brown.  And  now,  sir,  the  third  venture  ? 

Smoke.  That,  sir,  is  a company  to  buy  the  Serpentine 
River  for  a Grand  Junction  Temperance  Cemetery. 

Brown.  What ! so  many  watery  graves  ? 

Smoke.  Yes,  sir,  with  floating  tombstones.  Here’s 
the  prospectus.  Look  here ; surmounted  by  a hyacinth 
— the  very  emblem  of  temperance — a hyacinth  flowering 
in  the  limpid  flood.  Now,  if  you  don’t  feel  equal  to  the 
lucifers — I know  his  lordship’s  goodness — he’ll  give  you 
up  the  cemetery.  {Aside  to  Chatham:  A family  vault 
as  a bonus  to  the  chairman.) 

Sir  P.  What  a beautiful  subject  for  a speech ! 
Water  lilies  and  aquatic  plants  gemming  the  trans- 
lucent crystal,  shells  of  rainbow  brightness,  a constant 
supply  of  gold  and  silver  fish,  with  the  right  of  angling 
secured  to  shareholders.  The  extent  of  the  river  being 
necessarily  limited,  will  render  lying  there  so  select,  so 
very  respectable. 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  T0  1859. 


[Time's  Changes .] 

Florentine.  Oh,  sir,  the  magic  of  five  long  years ! "We 
paint  Time  with  glass  and  scythe — should  he  not  carry 
harlequin’s  own  wand?  for,  oh,  indeed  Time’s  changes ! 

Clarence.  Are  they,  in  truth,  so  very  great  ? 

Flor.  Greater  than  harlequin’s ; but  then  Time  works 
them  with  so  grave  a face,  that  even  the  hearts  he 
alters  doubt  the  change,  though  often  turned  from  very 
flesh  to  stone. 

Clar.  Time  has  his  bounteous  changes  too ; and  some- 
times to  the  sweetest  bud  will  give  an  unimagined  beauty 
in  the  flower. — Time  Works  Wonders. 

[Retired  from  Business.] 

Tackle.  Kitty,  see  what  you  ’ll  get  by  waiting ! I ’ll 
grow  you  such  a garland  for  your  wedding. 

Kitty.  A garland,  indeed ! A daisy  to-day  is  worth 
a rose-bush,  to-morrow. 

Puffins.  But,  Mr  Pennyweight,  I trust  you  are  now, 
in  every  sense,  once  and  for  ever,  retired  from  business  ? 

Gunn.  No:  in  every  sense,  who  is?  Life  has  its 
duties  ever;  none  wiser,  better,  than  a manly  disregard 
of  false  distinctions,  made  by  ignorance,  maintained  by 
weakness.  Besting  from  the  activities  of  life,  we  have 
yet  our  daily  task — the  interchange  of  simple  thoughts 
and  gentle  doings.  When,  following  those  already 
passed,  we  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  yon  distant 
spire,  then,  and  then  only,  may  it  be  said  of  us,  retired 
from  business. 

GILBERT  ABBOT  A BECKETT — TOM  TAYLOR — 
CHARLES  DICKENS — SHIRLEY  BROOKS — 
MARK  LEMON — WILKIE  COLLINS — &C. 

This  cluster  of  genial  wits — most  of  them  contri- 
butors to  Punch , and  all  of  them  -well  known  in 
general  literature — have  each  attempted  the  drama. 
Mr  a Beckett  (1810-1856)  delighted  in  puns  and 
burlesque ; lie  produced  above  thirty  dramatic 
pieces,  and  wrote  the  Comic  Blaclcstone  and  Comic 
Histories  of  England  and  Rome.  He  latterly  filled 
the  office  of  police  magistrate — a man  universally 
respected  and  beloved.  Mr  Taylor  (born  in 
Sunderland  in  1817)  is  author  of  several  comedies 
— some  produced  in  conjunction  with  Mr  Charles 
Reade,  the  novelist — and  he  has  written  the  life  of 
Haydon,  the  historical  painter,  a deeply  interesting 
and  melancholy  memoir.  In  1836,  Mr  Charles 
Dickens  wrote  an  opera,  The  Village  Coquettes, 
which  was  acted  at  St  James’s  Theatre,  but  acted 
only  once.  Mr  Brooks  (born  at  Oswestry  in  1816) 
has  produced  four  successful  dramas — The  Lowther 
Arcade,  Our  New  Governess , Honours  and  Riches , and 
The  Creole.  Mr  Mark  Lemon  (born  in  London  in 
1809)  has  written  a vast  number  of  dramatic  pieces 
— above  fifty,  it  is  said;  but  his  best  honours  are 
derived  from  his  editorship  of  Punch,  and  his  occa- 
sional essays  and  poems.  Mr  Wilkie  Collins 
(born  in  London  in  1825,  the  son  of  William  Collins 
the  artist)  is  author  of  two  dramas,  The  Light-house 
and  The  Frozen  Deep.  Mr  Westland  Marston 
(born  at  Boston,  in  Lincolnshire,  in  1819)  produced 
The  Heart  of  the  World,  1847 ; Strathmore,  a tragedy, 
1849;  The  Patrician's  Daughter;  &c.  Mr  Robert 
B.  Brough  (born  in  London  in  1828)  has  produced 
several  burlesque  and  other  dramatic  pieces,  per- 
formed at  the  Olympic  Theatre.  There  are  numer- 
ous other  dramatists — MrPlanche,  Mr  Buckstone, 
Mr  Oxenford,  Mr  Leman  Rede,  Mr  Sullivan, 
Mr  Stirling  Coyne,  &c.,  and  one  gentleman, 
Edward  Fitzball,  in  an  account  of  his  life  recently 
621 


published  (1859)  claims  to  be  the  author  of  above  a 
hundred  pieces  brought  on  the  stage.  The  play- 
goers of  the  metropolis  welcome  these  ‘ Cynthias  of 
the  minute,’  but  few  modern  dramas  can  be  said  to 
have  taken  a place  in  our  literature. 


NOVELISTS. 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

This  distinguished  American  novelist  (1789-1851) 
has  obtained  great  celebrity  in  England,  and  over 
all  Europe,  for  his  pictures  of  the  sea,  sea-fife,  and 
wild  Indian  scenery  and  manners.  His  imagination 


James  Fenimore  Cooper. 


is  essentially  poetical.  He  invests  the  ship  with  all 
the  interest  of  a living  being,  and  makes  his  readers 
follow  its  progress,  and  trace  the  operations  of  those 
on  board,  with  intense  and  never  flagging  anxiety. 
Of  humour  he  has  scarcely  any  perception ; and  in 
delineating  character  and  familiar  incidents,  he  often 
betrays  a great  want  of  taste  and  knowledge  of  the 
world.  ‘When  he  attempts  to  catch  the  ease  of 
fashion,’  it  has  been  truly  said,  ‘he  is  singularly 
unsuccessful.’  He  belongs,  like  Mrs  RadclifFe,  to 
the  romantic  school  of  novelists — especially  to  the 
sea,  the  heath,  and  the  primeval  forest.  Mr  Cooper 
was  born  at  Burlington,  New  Jersey,  son  of  Judge 
William  Cooper.  After  studying  at  Yale  College, 
he  entered  the  navy  as  a midshipman ; and  though 
he  continued  only  six  years  a sailor,  his  nautical 
experience  gave  a character  and  colour  to  his  after- 
life, and  produced  impressions  of  which  the  world 
has  reaped  the  rich  result.  On  his  marriage,  in 
1811,  to  a lady  in  the  state  of  New  York,  Mr 
Cooper  left  the  navy.  His  first  novel,  Precaution, 
appeared  in  1821,  and  attracted  little  attention; 
but  the  same  year  appeared  his  story  of  The  Spy , 
founded  upon  incidents  connected  with  the  American 
Revolution.  This  is  a powerful  and  interesting 
romance,  and  it  was  highly  successful.  The  author’s 
fame  was  still  more  increased  by  his  novels  of  The 
Pioneers  and  The  Pilot,  published  in  1823 ; and 
these  were  succeeded  by  a long  train  of  fictions — 
Lionel  Lincoln,  1S25  ; The  Last  of  the  Mohicans, 
1826  ; Red  Rover , and  The  Prairie,  1827 ; Travelling 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


Bachelor.  1828  ; Wept  of  Wish-ton  Wish , 1829  ; The 
Water  Witch , 1830  ; * Bravo , 1831  ; Heidenmauer , 
1832  ; Headsman , 1833  ; Monikins,  1835  ; Homeward 
Bound,  and  Home  as  Found,  1838 ; The  Pathfinder, 
and  Mercedes  of  Castile,  1840  ; The  Deerslayer,  1841 ; 
The  Two  Admirals,  and  Wing  and  Wing,  1842  ; Ned 
Myers,  and  Wyandotte,  1843  ; Afloat  and  Ashore , and 
Miles  Wallingford , 1844;  The  Chainbearer,  and 
Satanstoe , 1845  ; The  Red  Skins,  1846 ; The  Crater, 
1847 ; Jack  Tier,  and  Oak  Openings , 1848  ; The  Sea 
Lions,  1849 ; and  The  Ways  of  the  Flour,  1850.  Of 
this  numerous  family  of  creations,  the  best  are — 
The  Spy,  The  Pilot,  The  Prairie,  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,  and  The  Red  Rover.  In  these  his  char- 
acteristic excellences — his  noble  marine  painting 
and  delineations  of  American  scenery  and  character 
— are  all  combined.  Besides  his  novels,  Cooper 
wrote  ten  volumes  of  sketches  of  European  travels, 
a History  of  the  Navy  of  the  United  States , and 
various  treatises  on  the  institutions  of  America,  in 
which  a strong  democratic  spirit  was  manifested. 
In  these  he  does  not  appear  to  advantage.  He 
seems  to  have  cherished  some  of  the  worst  prejudices 
of  the  Americans,  and,  in  his  zeal  for  republican 
institutions,  to  have  forgotten  the  candour  and 
temper  becoming  an  enlightened  citizen  of  the 
world.  In  the  department  of  fiction,  however, 
Cooper  has  few  superiors,  and  his  countrymen 
may  well  glory  in  his  name.  He  ‘emphatically 
belongs  to  the  American  nation,’  as  Washington 
Irving  has  said,  while  his  painting  of  nature  under 
new  and  striking  aspects,  has  given  him  a European 
fame  that  can  never  wholly  die. 

[. A Virgin  Wilderness — Lake  Otsego.] 

On  all  sides,  wherever  the  eye  turned,  nothing  met  it 
but  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  lake,  the  placid  view 
of  heaven,  and  the  dense  setting  of  woods.  So  rich  and 
fleecy  were  the  outlines  of  the  forest,  that  scarce  an 
opening  could  be  seen;  the  whole  visible  earth,  from 
the  rounded  mountain-top  to  the  water’s  edge,  present- 
ing one  unvaried  line  of  unbroken  verdure.  As  if 
vegetation  were  not  satisfied  with  a triumph  so  com- 
plete, the  trees  overhung  the  lake  itself,  shooting  out 
towards  the  light;  and  there  were  miles  along  its 
eastern  shore  where  a boat  might  have  pulled  beneath 
the  branches  of  dark  Rembrandt-lcoking  hemlocks, 
quivering  aspens,  and  melancholy  pines.  In  a word, 
the  hand  of  man  had  never  yet  defaced  or  deformed  any 
part  of  this  native  scene,  which  lay  bathed  in  the  sun- 
light, a glorious  picture  of  affluent  forest  grandeur, 
softened  by  the  balminess  of  June,  and  relieved  by  the 
beautiful  variety  afforded  by  the  presence  of  so  broad 
an  expanse  of  water. 

[Death  of  Long  Tom  Coffin.] 

Lifting  his  broad  hands  high  into  the  air,  his  voice 
was  heard  in  the  tempest.  ‘ God’s  will  be  done  with 
me,’  he  cried : ‘ I saw  the  first  timber  of  the  Ariel 
laid,  and  shall  live  just  long  enough  to  see  it  turn  out 
of  her  bottom ; after  which  I wish  to  live  no  longer.’ 
But  his  shipmates  were  far  beyond  the  sounds  of  his 
voice  before  these  were  half  uttered.  All  command  of 
the  boat  was  rendered  impossible,  by  the  numbers  iff 
contained,  as  well  as  the  raging  of  the  surf ; and  as  it 
rose  on  the  white  crest  of  a wave,  Tom  saw  his  beloved 
little  craft  for  the  last  time.  It  fell  into  a trough  of 
the  sea,  and  in  a few  moments  more  its  fragments  were 
ground  into  splinters  on  the  adjoining  rocks.  The 
cockswain  [Tom]  still  remained  where  he  had  cast  off 
the  rope,  and  beheld  the  numerous  heads  and  arms  that 
appeared  rising,  at  short  intervals,  on  the  waves,  some 
making  powerful  and  well-directed  efforts  to  gain  the 
92 


sands,  that  were  becoming  visible  as  the  tide  fell,  and 
others  wildly  tossed,  in  the  frantic  movements  of  help- 
less despair.  The  honest  old  seaman  gave  a cry  of  joy 
as  he  saw  Barnstable  [the  commander  whom  Tom  had 
forced  into  the  boat]  issue  from  the  surf,  where  one 
by  one  several  seamen  soon  appeared  also,  dripping  and 
exhausted.  Many  others  of  the  crew  were  carried  in  a 
similar  manner  to  places  of  safety;  though,  as  Tom 
returned  to  his  seat  on  the  bowsprit,  he  could  not 
conceal  from  his  reluctant  eyes  the  lifeless  forms  that 
were,  in  other  spots,  driven  against  the  rocks  with  a 
fury  that  soon  left  them  but  few  of  the  outward  vestiges 
of  humanity. 

Dillon  and  the  cockswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants 
of  their  dreadful  station.  The  former  stood  in  a kind 
of  stupid  despair,  a witness  of  the  scene;  but  as  his 
curdled  blood  began  again  to  flow  more  warmly  to  his 
heart,  he  crept  close  to  the  side  of  Tom,  with  that  sort 
of  selfish  feeling  that  makes  even  hopeless  misery  more 
tolerable,  when  endured  in  participation  with  another. 

‘ When  the  tide  falls,’  he  said  in  a voice  that  betrayed 
the  agony  of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the 
renewal  of  hope,  ‘ we  shall  be  able  to  walk  to  land.’ 

‘ There  was  One  and  only  One  to  whose  feet  the 
waters  were  the  same  as  a dry  deck,’  returned  the 
cockswain ; ‘ and  none  but  such  as  have  His  power  will 
ever  be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks  to  the  sands.’ 
The  old  seaman  paused,  and  turning  his  eyes,  which 
exhibited  a mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compas- 
sion, on  his  companion,  he  added  with  reverence  : ‘ Had 
you  thought  more  of  Him  in  fair  weather,  your  case 
would  be  less  to  be  pitied  in  this  tempest.’ 

‘Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger?’  asked 
Dillon. 

‘ To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen ! 
Do  you  hear  that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye?’ 

‘ ’Tis  the  wind  driving  by  the  vessel ! ’ 

‘ ’Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,’  said  the  affected  cocks- 
wain, ‘giving  her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking 
up  her  decks,  and  in  a few  minutes  more,  the  hand- 
somest model  that  ever  cut  a wave,  will  be  like  the 
chips  that  fell  from  her  in  framing  ! ’ 

‘ Why  then  did  you  remain  here  ? ’ cried  Dillon  wildly. 
‘ To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God,’ 
returned  Tom.  ‘ These  waves  are  to  me  what  the  land 
is  to  you : I was  born  on  them,  and  I have  always 
meant  that  they  should  be  my  grave.’ 

‘ But  I — I,’  shrieked  Dillon,  ‘ I am  not  ready  to  die  ! 
— I cannot  die  ! — I will  not  die  !’ 

‘Poor  wretch!’  muttered  his  companion,  ‘you  must 
go  like  the  rest  of  us ; when  the  death-watch  is  called, 
none  can  skulk  from  the  muster.’ 

‘ I can  swim,’  Dillon  continued,  rushing  with  frantic 
eagerness  to  the  side  of  the  wreck.  ‘ Is  there  no  billet 
of  wood,  no  rope,  that  I can  take  with  me?’ 

‘ None ; everything  has  been  cut  away,  or  carried  off 
by  the  sea.  If  ye  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take 
with  ye  a stout  heart  and  a clean  conscience,  and  trust 
the  rest  to  God.’ 

‘God!’  echoed  Dillon,  in  the  madness  of  his  frenzj', 
‘I  know  no  God  ! there  is  no  God  that  knows  me  !’ 
‘Peace!’  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain,  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements;  ‘blasphemer, 
peace !’ 

The  heavy  groaning,  produced  by  the  water  in  the 
timbers  of  the  Ariel,  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse 
to  the  raging  feelings  of  Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself 
headlong  into  the  sea.  The  water,  thrown  by  the  roll- 
ing of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  was  necessarily  returned 
to  the  ocean,  in  eddies,  in  different  places  favourable  to 
such  an  action  of  the  element.  Into  the  edge  of  one  of 
these  counter-currents,  that  was  produced  by  the  very 
rocks  on  which  the  schooner  lay,  and  which  the  water- 
men call  the  ‘under-tow,’  Dillon  had  unknowingly 
thrown  his  person ; and  when  the  waves  had  driven 
him  a short  distance  from  the  wreck,  he  was  met  by  a 

625 


PROM  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  so  1859. 


stream  that  his  most  desperate  efforts  could  not  over- 
come. He  was  a light  and  powerful  swimmer,  and  the 
struggle  was  hard  and  protracted.  With  the  shore 
immediately  before  his  eyes,  and  at  no  great  distance, 
he  was  led,  as  by  a false  phantom,  to  continue  his  efforts, 
although  they  did  not  advance  him  a foot.  The  old 
seaman,  who  at  first  had  watched  his  motions  with 
careless  indifference,  understood  the  danger  of  his 
situation  at  a glance,  and,  forgetful  of  his  own  fate,  he 
shouted  aloud,  in  a voice  that  was  driven  over  the 
struggling  victim  to  the  ears  of  his  shipmates  on  the 
sands : 

‘ Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under- tow ! Sheer  to 
the  southward !’ 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too 
much  obscured  by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object; 
he,  however,  blindly  yielded  to  the  call,  and  gradually 
changed  his  direction  until  his  face  was  once  more 
turned  towards  the  vessel.  Tom  looked  around  him  for  a 
rope,  but  all  had  gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been 
swept  away  by  the  waves.  At  this  moment  of  disap- 
pointment, his  eyes  met  those  of  the  desperate  Dillon. 
Calm  and  inured  to  horrors  as  was  the  veteran  seaman, 
he  involuntarily  passed  his  hand  before  his  brow  to 
exclude  the  look  of  despair  he  encountered ; and  when, 
a moment  afterwards,  he  removed  the  rigid  member,  he 
beheld  the  sinking  form  of  the  victim  as  it  gradually 
settled  in  the  ocean,  still  struggling  with  regular  but 
impotent  strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet  to  gain  the 
wreck,  and  to  preserve  an  existence  that  had  been  so 
much  abused  in  its  hour  of  allotted  probation.  ‘He 
will  soon  meet  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  God  knows 
him  ! 5 murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself.  As  he  yet 
spoke,  the  wreck  of  the  Ariel  yielded  to  an  overwhelm- 
ing sea,  and  after  a universal  shudder,  her  timbers  and 
planks  gave  way,  and  were  swept  towards  the  clifis, 
bearing  the  body  of  the  simple-hearted  cockswain  among 
the  ruins. 

RICHARD  H.  BARHAM. 

The  Rev.  Richard  Harris  Barham  (1788-1845), 
under  the  name  of  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  contributed 
to  Bentley's  Miscellany  a series  of  papers,  The 
Ingoldsby  Legends , which  were  afterwards  collected 
into  volumes,  and  went  through  several  editions.  To 
the  third  series  (1847)  was  prefixed  a life  of  the 
author  by  his  son.  Mr  Barham  also  wrote  a novel, 
My  Cousin  Nicholas.  The  Ingoldsby  papers,  prose 
and  verse,  contain  sallies  of  quaint  humour,  classic 
travesties  and  illustrations,  droll  rhymes,  banter 
and  irony,  with  a sprinkling  of  ghost  stories  and 
medieval  legends.  The  intimate  friend  of  Theodore 
Hook,  Mr  Barham  had  something  of  Hook’s  manner, 
with  a love  of  punning  and  pleasantry  as  irrepres- 
sible as  that  of  Hood,  though  accompanied  with  less 
literary  power.  Few  of  the  readers  of  Ingoldsby, 
unless  moving  in  a certain  circle,  imagined  that 
their  author  was  a dignitary  of  the  church,  a minor 
canon  of  St  Paul’s,  a rector  and  royal  chaplain.  He 
appears  to  have  been  a learned  and  amiable  no  less 
than  witty  and  agreeable  man. 


CAPTAIN  FREDERICK  MARRYAT. 

This  popular  naval  writer — the  best  painter  of 
sea  characters  since  Smollett — commenced  what 
proved  to  be  a busy  and  highly  successful  literary 
career  in  1829,  by  the  publication  of  The  Naval 
Officer,  a nautical  tale  in  three  volumes.  This 
work  partook  too  strongly  of  the  free  spirit  of  the 
sailor,  but,  amidst  its  occasional  violations  of  taste 
and  decorum,  there  was  a rough  racy  humour  and 
dramatic  liveliness  that  atoned  for  many  faults. 
In  the  following  year,  the  captain  was  ready  with 
626 


other  three  volumes,  more  carefully  finished,  and 
presenting  a well-compacted  story,  entitled  The 
King's  Own.  Though  occasionally  a little  awkward 
on  land,  Captain  Marryat  was  at  home  on  the  sea ; 
and  whether  serious  or  comic— whether  delineating 
a captain,  midshipman,  or  common  tar,  or  even  a 
carpenter — he  evinced  a minute  practical  acquaint- 
ance with  all  on  board  ship,  and  with  every  variety 


of  nautical  character.  Newton  Foster,  or  the  Mer- 
chant Service,  1832,  was  our  author’s  next  work, 
and  is  a tale  of  various  and  sustained  interest.  It 
was  surpassed,  however,  by  its  immediate  successor, 
Peter  Simple,  the  most  amusing  of  all  the  author’s 
works.  His  naval  commander,  Captain  Savage, 
Chucks  the  boatswain,  O’Brien  the  Irish  lieutenant, 
and  Muddle  the  carpenter,  are  excellent  individual 
portraits — as  distinct  and  life-like  as  Tom  Bowling, 
Hatchway,  or  Pipes.  The  scenes  in  the  West 
Indies  display  the  higher  powers  of  the  novelist, 
and  the  escape  from  the  French  prison  interests 
us  almost  as  deeply  as  the  similar  efforts  of  Caleb 
Williams.  Continuing  his  nautical  scenes  and  por- 
traits, Captain  Marryat  wrote  about  thirty  volumes 
— as  Jacob  Faithful  (one  of  his  best  productions), 
The  Phantom  Ship,  Mr  Midshipman  Easy,  The  Pacha 
of  Many  Tales,  Japhet  in  Search  of  a Father,  Poor 
Jack,  Frank  Mildmay,  Joseph  Rushbrook  the  Poacher , 
Masterman  Ready,  Percival  Keene,  &c.  In  the  hasty 
production  of  so  many  volumes,  the  quality  could 
not  always  be  equal.  The  nautical  humour  and 
racy  dialogue  could  not  always  be  produced  at  will, 
of  a new  and  different  stamp  at  each  successive 
effort.  Such,  however,  was  the  fertile  fancy  and 
active  observation  of  the  author,  and  his  lively 
powers  of  amusing  and  describing,  that  he  has 
fewer  repetitions  and  less  tediousness  than  almost 
any  other  writer  equally  voluminous.  His  next 
novel,  Percival  Keene,  1842,  betrayed  no  falling-off, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  is  one  of  the  most  vigorous 
and  interesting  of  his  ‘sea  changes.’  In  1843  he  [ 
published  a Narrative  of  the  Travels  and  Adventures 
of  Monsieur  Violet,  in  which  fact  and  fiction  are 
blended  with  little  artistic  skill,  and  which  was  i 
proved  to  be  chiefly  a compilation.  Two  other  j 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CAPTAIN  FREDERICK  MARRYAT. 


works  of  mediocre  character  followed — The  Settlers 
in  Canada , 1844,  and  The  Mission , or  Scenes  in 
Africa , 1845.  In  1846  he  regained  something  of 
his  old  nautical  animation  in  The  Privateersman  One 
Hundred  Years  Ago , which  proved  to  be  his  last 
work.  ‘ Captain  Marryat,’  says  a writer  in  the 
Quarterly  Review , ‘ stands  second  to  no  living 
novelist  but  Miss  Edgeworth.  His  happy  deline- 
ations and  contrasts  of  character,  and  easy  play  of 
native  fun,  redeem  a thousand  faults  of  verbosity, 
clumsiness,  and  coarseness.  His  strong  sense  and 
utter  superiority  to  affectation  of  all  sorts,  command 
respect;  and  in  his  quiet  effectiveness  of  circum- 
stantial narrative,  he  sometimes  approaches  old 
Defoe.  There  is  less  of  caricature  about  his  pictures 
than  those  of  any  contemporary  humorist — unless, 
perhaps,  Morier;  and  he  shews  far  larger  and 
maturer  knowledge  of  the  real  workings  of  human 
nature  than  any  of  the  band,  except  the  exquisite 
writer  we  have  just  named,  and  Mr  Theodore  Hook, 
of  whom  praise  is  equally  superfluous.’  This  was 
written  in  1839,  before  Dickens,  Thackeray,  or 
Anthony  Trollope  had  earned  their  laurels;  and 
with  all  our  admiration  of  Marryat,  we  should  be 
disposed  to  claim  for  the  later  novelists  an  equal, 
if  not  superior — as  clear,  and  a more  genial — 
knowledge  of  human  nature — at  least  on  land. 

To  vary  or  relieve  his  incessant  toils  at  original 
composition,  Captain  Marryat  made  a trip  to 
America  in  1837,  the  result  of  which  he  gave  to  the 
world  in  1839,  in  three  volumes,  entitled  A Diary 
in  America , with  Remarks  on  its  Institutions.  This 
was  flying  at  higher  game  than  any  he  had  pre- 
viously brought  down ; but  the  real  value  of  these 
volumes  consists  in  their  resemblance  to  parts  of 
his  novels— in  humorous  caricature  and  anecdote, 
shrewd  observation,  and  lively  or  striking  descrip- 
tion. His  account  of  the  American  navy  is  valu- 
able ; and  so  practical  and  sagacious  an  observer 
could  not  visit  the  schools,  prisons,  and  other  public 
institutions  of  the  New  World,  without  throwing 
out  valuable  reflections,  and  noting  what  is  superior 
or  defective.  He  was  no  admirer  of  the  democratic 
government  of  America:  indeed  his  Diary  is  as 
unfavourable  to  the  national  character  as  the 
sketches  of  Mrs  Trollope  or  Captain  Hall.  But  it 
is  in  relating  traits  of  manners,  peculiarities  of 
speech,  and  other  singular  or  ludicrous  charac- 
teristics of  the  Americans,  that  Captain  Marryat 
excelled.  These  are  as  rich  as  his  fictitious  delinea- 
tions, and,  like  thefn,  probably  owe  a good  deal  to 
the  suggestive  fancy  and  love  of  drollery  proper  to 
the  novelist.  The  success  of  this  Diary  induced  the 
author  to  add  three  additional  volumes  to  it  in  the 
following  year,  but  the  continuation  is  greatly 
inferior. 

The  life  of  this  busy  novelist  terminated,  after  a 
long  and  painful  illness,  at  Langham,  in  Norfolk, 
August  9,  1848.  Captain  Marryat  was  the  second 
son  of  Joseph  Marryat,  Esq.,  M.P.,  of  Wimbleton 
House,  Surrey,  and  was  born  in  the  year  1792.  He 
entered  the  navy  at  an  early  age,  and  was  a mid- 
shipman on  board  the  Imperieuse  when  that  ship 
was  engaged  as  part  of  Lord  Cochrane’s  squadron 
in  supporting  the  Catalonians  against  the  French. 
He  also  served  in  the  attack  on  the  French  fleet  in 
Aix  Roads,  and  in  the  Walcheren  expedition.  In 
1814,  as  lieutenant  of  the  Newcastle , he  cut  out 
four  vessels  in  Boston  Bay,  an  exploit  of  great 
difficulty  and  daring.  During  the  Burmese  war, 
he  commanded  the  Larne , and  was  for  some  time 
senior  officer  on  the  station.  His  services  were 
rewarded  by  professional  promotion  and  honours. 
He  was  a Companion  of  the  Bath,  a Knight  of 


the  Hanoverian  Guelphic  Order,  an  officer  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour,  &c.  In  February  1848,  Captain 
Marryat  received  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his 
son,  lieutenant  on  board  the  Avenger , steam-frigate, 
which  was  lost  on  the  rocks  off  Galita.  This 
bereavement  tended  to  hasten  the  death  of  the  able 
and  accomplished  novelist. 

[A  Prudent  Sea  Captain — Abuse  of  Ship's  Stores .] 
[From  The  King's  Own.] 

‘Well,  Mr  Cheeks,  what  are  the  carpenters  about?’ 
‘Weston  and  Smallbridge  are  going  on  with  the 
chairs — the  whole  of  them  will  be  finished  to-morrow.’ 
‘Well?’ 

‘ Smith  is  about  the  chest  of  drawers,  to  match  the 
one  in  my  Lady  Capperbar’s  bedroom.’ 

‘Very  good.  And  what  is  Hilton  about?’ 

‘He  has  finished  the  spare  leaf  of  the  dining- table, 
sir;  he  is  now  about  a little  job  for  the  second 
lieutenant.’ 

‘A  job  for  the  second  lieutenant,  sir ! How  often 
have  I told  you,  Mr  Cheeks,  that  the  carpenters  are 
not  to  be  employed,  except  on  ship’s  duty,  without  my 
special  permission  !’ 

‘His  standing  bed-place  is  broke,  sir;  he  is  only 
getting  out  a chock  or  two.’ 

‘Mr  Cheeks,  you  have  disobeyed  my  most  positive 
orders.  By  the  by,  sir,  I understand  you  were  not 
sober  last  night?’ 

‘ Please  your  honour,’  replied  the  carpenter,  ‘ I wasn’t 
drunk — I was  only  a little  fresh.’ 

‘Take  you  care,  Mr  Cheeks.  Well,  now,  what  are 
the  rest  of  your  crew  about?’ 

‘Why,  Thomson  and  Waters  are  cutting  out  the  pales 
for  the  garden  out  of  the  jib-boom ; I ’ve  saved  the  heel 
to  return.’ 

‘Very  well;  but  there  wont  be  enough,  will  there?’ 
‘No,  sir;  it  will  take  a hand-mast  to  finish  the 
whole.’ 

‘ Then  we  must  expend  one  when  we  go  out  again. 
We  can  carry  away  a top-mast,  and  make  a new  one  out 
of  the  hand-mast  at  sea.  In  the  meantime,  if  the 
sawyers  have  nothing  to  do,  they  may  as  well  cut  the 
palings  at  once.  And  now,  let  me  see — oh,  the  painters  j 
must  go  on  shore  to  finish  the  attics.’ 

‘Yes,  sir;  but  my  Lady  Capperbar  wishes  the  jeal-  \ 
owsees  to  be  painted  vermilion;  she  says  it  will  look 
more  rural.’ 

‘Mrs  Capperbar  ought  to  know  enough  about  ship’s  j 
stores  by  this  time  to  be  aware  that  we  are  only  allowed  j 
three  colours.  She  may  choose  or  mix  them  as  she  j 
pleases ; but  as  for  going  to  the  expense  of  buying  paint,  | 
I can’t  afford  it.  What  are  the  rest  of  the  men  about?’  j 
‘Repairing  the  second  cutter,  and  making  a new  mast  | 
for  the  pinnace.’ 

‘ By  the  by — that  puts  me  in  mind  of  it — have  you 
expended  any  boat’s  masts?’ 

‘ Only  the  one  carried  away,  sir. 

‘Then  you  must  expend  two  more.  Mrs  C has 

just  sent  me  off  a list  of  a few  things  that  she  wishes 
made  while  we  are  at  anchor,  and  I see  two  poles  for 
clothes-lines.  Saw  off  the  sheave-holes,  and  put  two  pegs 
through  at  right  angles — you  know  how  I mean  ? ’ 

‘Yes,  sir.  What  am  I to  do,  sir,  about  the  cucumber 
frame  ? My  Lady  Capperbar  says  that  she  must  have 
it,  and  I haven’t  glass  enough.  They  grumbled  at  the 
yard  last  time.’ 

‘Mrs  C must  wait  a little.  What  are  the 

armourers  about?’  j 

‘ They  have  been  so  busy  with  your  woi'k,  sir,  that 
the  arms  are  in  a very  bad  condition.  The  first  lieu- 
tenant said  yesterday  that  they  were  a disgrace  to  the 
ship.’ 

4 Who  dares  say  that?’ 

627 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


I ‘ The  first  lieutenant,  sir.’ 

‘Well,  then,  let  them  rub  up  the  arms,  and  let  me 
know  when  they  are  done,  and  we  ’ll  get  the  forge  up.’ 

‘ The  armourer  has  made  sis  rakes  and  six  hoes,  and 
the  two  little  hoes  for  the  children ; but  he  says  that 
he  can’t  make  a spade.’ 

‘ Then  I ’ll  take  his  warrant  away,  by  heavens,  since 
! he  does  not  know  his  duty.  That  will  do,  Mr  Cheeks. 

I I shall  overlook  your  being  in  liquor  this  time ; but 
take  care.  Send  the  boatswain  to  me.’ 

A few  other  authors  have,  like  Captain  Marryat, 
j presented  us  with  good  pictures  of  maritime  life 
and  adventures.  The  Naval  Sketch-book,  1828 ; 
j Sailors  and  Saints,  1829 ; Tales  of  a Tar,  1830 ; 
i Land  Sharks  and  Sea  Gulls,  1838  ; and  other  works, 

! by  Captain  Glasscock,  R.N.,  are  all  genuine  tales 
! of  the  sea,  and  display  a hearty  comic  humour  and 
j rich  phraseology,  with  as  cordial  a contempt  for 
j regularity  of  plot.  Captain  Glasscock  died  in  1847. 
j He  was  one  of  the  inspectors  under  the  Poor  Relief 
Act  in  Ireland,  and  in  that  capacity,  as  well  as  in 
his  naval  character,  was  distinguished  by  energy 
and  ability.  Rattlin  the  Reefer,  and  Outward  Bound, 
or  a Merchant's  Adventures,  by  Mr  Howard,  are 
better  managed  as  to  fable — particularly  .Outward 
Bound,  which  is  a well-constructed  tale — but  have 
not  the  same  breadth  of  humour  as  Captain  Glass- 
cock’s novels.  The  Life  of  a Sailor  and  Ben  Brace, 
by  Captain  Chamier,  are  excellent  works  of  the 
same  class,  replete  with  nature,  observation,  and 
humour.  Tom  Cringle's  Log,  by  Michael  Scott, 
and  The  Cruise  of  the  Midge — both  originally  pub- 
lished in  Blackwood' s Magazine — are  also  veritable 
productions  of  the  sea— a little  coarse,  but  spirited, 
and  shewing  us  ‘ things  as  they  are.’  Mr  Scott,  who 
was  a native  of  Glasgow,  spent  a considerable  part 
of  his  life — from  1806  to  1822 — in  a mercantile 
situation  at  Kingston,  in  Jamaica.  He  settled  in 
his  native  city  as  a merchant,  and  died  there  in 
1835,  aged  forty-six.  Mr  James  Hannay  has  also 
added  to  our  nautical  sketches.  He  may,  however, 
j be  characterised  as  a critical  and  miscellaneous 
writer  of  scholastic  taste  and  acquirements.  He  is 
young,  and  seems  destined  to  occupy  a higher  niche 
than  he  has  yet  attained  in  our  national  literature. 
Mr  Hannay  is  a native  of  Dumfries,  a cadet  of  an  old 
Galloway  family,  and  was  born  in  1827.  He  served 
in  the  navy  for  five  years — from  1840  to  1845. 
Since  then  he  has  been  actively  engaged  in  liter- 
ature, writing  in  various  periodicals — including  the 
Quarterly  and  Westminster  Reviews,  the  Athenaeum , 
&c. — and  has  published  the  following  works : Bis- 
cuits and  Grog,  The  Claret  Cup,  and  Hearts  are 
Trumps,  1848 ; King  Dobbs,  1849 ; Singleton  Fon- 
tenoy,  1850;  Sketches  in  Ultramarine,  1853;  Satire 
and  Satirists,  a series  of  six  lectures,  1854;  Eustace 
Conyers,  a novel  in  three  volumes,  1855 ; &c.  We 
subjoin  from  Eustace  Conyers  a passage  descriptive 
of 

[Nights  at  £ea.] 

Eustace  went  on  deck.  A dark  night  had  come  on 
by  this  time.  The  ship  was  tranquilly  moving  along 
with  a fair  wind.  Few  figures  were  moving  on  deck. 
The  officer  of  the  watch  stood  on  the  poop.  The  man 
at  the  wheel  and  quarter-master  stood  in  silence  before 
the  binnacle ; inside  which,  in  a bright  spot  of  light, 
which  contrasted  strongly  with  the  darkness  outside, 
lay  the  compass,  with  its  round  eloquent  face,  full 
of  meaning  and  expression  to  the  nautical  eye.  The 
men  of  the  watch  were  lying  in  black  heaps  in  their 
sea-jackets,  along  both  sides  of  the  ship’s  waist. 
Nothing  could  be  stiller  than  the  whole  scene.  Eustace 
628 


scarcely  heard  the  ripple  of  the  ship’s  motion,  till  he  j 
leant  over  the  gangway,  and  looked  out  on  the  sea. 

Nights  like  these  make  a man  meditative;  and 
sailors  are  more  serious  than  is  generally  supposed ; 
being  serious  just  as  they  are  gay,  because  they  give 
themselves  up  to  natural  impressions  more  readily 
than  other  people.  At  this  moment,  the  least  conven-  | 
tional  men  now  living  are  probably  afloat.  If  you 
would  know  how  your  ancestors  looked  and  talked, 
before  towns  became  Babylonish,  or  trade  despotic,  you 
must  go  and  have  a cruise  on  salt  water,  for  the  sea’s  ; 
business  is  to  keep  the  earth  fresh ; and  it  preserves 
character  as  it  preserves  meat.  Our  Frogley  Foxes  and  I 
Pearl  Studdses  are  exceptions;  the  results  of  changed 
times,  which  have  brought  the  navy  into  closer  relation  | 
with  the  shore  than  it  was  in  old  days ; and  sprinkled 
it  with  the  proper  denizens  of  other  regions.  Our 
object  is  to  shew  how  the  character  of  the  sailor  born 
is  affected  by  contact  with  the  results  of  modern  ages. 
Can  we  retain  the  spirit  of  Benbow,  minus  that  pigtail, 
to  which  elegant  gentlemen  have  a natural  objection?  I 
Can  we  be  at  once  polished,  yet  free  from  what  the 
newspapers  call  ‘juvenile  extravagance?’  Such  is  our  | 
ambition  for  Eustace.  Still,  we  know  that  Pearl  Studds 
would  go  into  action  as  cheerfully  as  any  man,  and  fears 
less  any  foe’s  face  than  the  banner  of  Levy ; and  we 
must  do  him  no  injustice. 

Such  nights,  then,  Eustace  already  felt,  as  fruitful  in 
thought.  If  he  had  been  pining  for  a little  more 
activity,  if  he  had  drooped  under  the  influence  of  parti- 
cular kinds  of  talk,  a quiet  muse  on  deck  refreshed  him. 
The  sea  regains  all  its  natural  power  over  the  spirit, 
when  the  human  life  of  the  ship  is  hushed.  In  the 
presence  of  its  grand  old  familiar  majesty  you  forget 
trouble,  and  care  little  for  wit.  Hence,  the  talk  of  the 
middle  watch,  which  occupies  the  very  heart  of  the 
night,  from  twelve  to  four,  is  the  most  serious,  the 
deepest,  the  tenderest,  the  most  confidential  of  the 
twenty-four  hours ; and  by  keeping  the  middle  with  a 
man,  you  learn  him  more  intimately  than  you  would  in  j 
any  other  way.  Even  Studds  in  the  middle  watch,  at  j 
least  after  the  ‘watch-stock,’  or  refreshment  was  dis-  j 
posed  of,  grew  a somewhat  different  man.  A certain 
! epicurean  melancholy  came  over  the  spirit  of  Studds,  j 
like  moonlight  falling  on  a banquet-table  after  the  lamps  j 
are  out!  ‘By  Jove,  sir,’  he  would  sigh,  speaking  of  j 
the  hollowness  of  life  generally,  and  he  was  even  heard 
to  give  tender  reminiscences  of  one  ‘Eleanor,’  whose 
fortune  would  probably  have  pleased  him  as  much  as 
her  beauty,  had  not  both  been  transferred  in  matrimony 
to  the  possession  of  a Major  Jones. 

MRS  CATHERINE  FRANCES  GORE. 

This  lady  is  a clever  and  prolific  writer  of  tales 
and  fashionable  novels.  Her  first  work,  Theresa 
Marchmont,  was  published  in  1823 ; her  next  was 
a small  volume  containing  two  tales,  The  Lettre 
de  Cachet  and  The  Reign  of  Terror,  1827.  One  of 
these  relates  to  the  times  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the 
other  to  the  French  Revolution.  They  are  both 
interesting  graceful  tales — superior,  we  think,  to 
some  of  the  more  elaborate  and  extensive  fictions  of 
the  authoress.  A series  of  Hungarian  Tales  suc- 
ceeded. In  1830  appeared  Women  as  They  Are,  or  the 
Manners  of  the  Day,  three  volumes— an  easy  spark- 
ling narrative,  with  correct  pictures  of  modern 
society;  much  lady-like  writing  on  dress  and 
fashion  ; and  some  rather  misplaced  derision  or  con- 
tempt for  ‘ excellent  wives  ’ and  ‘ good  sort  of  men.’ 
This  novel  soon  went  through  a second  edition,  and 
Mrs  Gore  continued  the  same  style  of  fashionable 
portraiture.  In  1831,  she  issued  Mothers  and 
Daughters,  a Tale  of  the  Year  1830.  Here  the 
I maimers  of  gay  life — balls,  dinners,  and  fetes — with 


NOVELIStS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  C.  F.  GORE. 


clever  sketches  of  character  and  amusing  dialogues, 
make  up  the  customary  three  volumes.  The  same 
year  we  find  Mrs  Gore  compiling  a series  of  narra- 
tives for  youth,  entitled  The  Historical  Traveller.  In 
1832  she  came  forward  with  The  Fair  of  May  Fair , 
a series  of  fashionable  tales,  that  were  not  so  well 
received.  The  critics  hinted  that  Mrs  Gore  had 
exhausted  her  stock  of  observation,  and  we  believe 
she  went  to  reside  in  Erance,  where  she  continued 
some  years.  Her  next  tale  was  entitled  Mrs 
Armytage , which  appeared  in  1836,  and  in  the  follow- 
ing year  came  out  Mary  Raymond  and  Memoirs 
of  a Peeress.  In  1838,  The  Diary  of  a D&sennuyee , 
The  Woman  of  the  World , The  Heir  of  Selwood,  and 
The  Book  of  Roses  or  Rose- Fancier's  Manual , a 
delightful  little  work  on  the  history  of  the  rose,  its 
propagation  and  culture.  France  is  celebrated  for 
its  rich  varieties  of  the  queen  of  flowers,  and  Mrs 
Gore  availed  herself  of  the  taste  and  experience  of 
the  French  floriculturists.  A few  months  after- 
wards came  out  The  Heir  of  Selwood,  or  Three 
Epochs  of  a Life,  a novel  in  which  were  exhibited 
i sketches  of  Parisian  as  well  as  English  society,  and 
| an  interesting  though  somewhat  confused  plot.  The 
year  1839  witnessed  three  more  works  of  fiction 
from  this  indefatigable  lady — The  Cabinet  Minister , 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  during  the  regency  of 
George  IV.,  and  includes  among  its  characters  the 
great  name  of  Sheridan ; Preferment,  or  My  Uncle 
I the  Earl,  containing  some  good  sketches  of  drawing- 
room society,  but  no  plot ; and  The  Courtier  of  die 
Days  of  Charles  II.,  and  other  Tales.  Next  year  we 
have  The  Dowager , or  the  New  School  for  Scandal; 
and  in  1841,  Cecil,  or  the  Adventures  of  a Coxcomb,  a 
brilliant  novel,  containing  pictures  of  club  life, 
which  Mr  Beckford,  the  author  of  Vathelc,  is  said  to 
have  furnished  to  the  authoress  ; also  Greville,  or  a 
Season  in  Paris;  Dacre  of  the  South,  or  the  Olden 
Time , a drama ; and  The  Lover  and  Her  Husband, 
&c.,  the  latter  a free  translation  of  M.  Bertrand’s 
Gerfaut.  In  1842,  Mrs  Gore  published  Fascination, 
and  The  Ambassador's  Wife.  In  1843  (with  other 
tales),  The  Banker's  Wife,  or  Court  and  City,  in  which 
the  efforts  of  a family  in  the  middle  rank  to  out- 
shine a nobleman,  and  the  consequences  resulting 
from  this  silly  vanity  and  ambition,  are  truly  and 
powerfully  painted.  Mrs  Gore  has  continued  to 
furnish  one  or  two  novels  a year  up  to  the  present 
time,  her  powers  of  invention,  combination,  and 
application  being  apparently  inexhaustible.  She 
has  seen  much  of  the  world  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
and  is  never  at  a loss  for  character  or  incident.  The 
! worst  of  her  works  must  be  pronounced  clever. 

( Their  chief  value  consists  in  their  lively  caustic 
! pictures  of  fashionable  and  high  society.  ‘ The  more 
! respectable  of  her  personages  are  affccters  of  an 
I excessive  prudery  concerning  the  decencies  of  life — 

; nay,  occasionally  of  an  exalted  and  mystical  reli- 
gious feeling.  The  business  of  their  existence  is  to 
avoid  the  slightest  breach  of  conventional  decorum. 
Whatever,  therefore,  they  do,  is  a fair  and  absolute 
measure  of  the  prevailing  opinions  of  the  class,  and 
may  be  regarded  as  not  derogatory  to  their  position 
in  the  eyes  of  their  equals.  But  the  low  average 
standard  of  morality  thus  depicted,  with  its  con- 
ventional distinctions,  cannot  be  invented.  It  forms 
the  atmosphere  in  which  the  parties  live ; and  were 
j it  a compound  fabricated  at  the  author’s  pleasure, 
the  beings  who  breathe  it  could  not  but  be  uni- 
versally acknowledged  as  fantastical  and  as  mere 
I monstrosities ; they  would  indeed  be  incapable  of 
acting  in  harmony  and  consistence  with  the  known 
laws  and  usages  of  civil  life.  Such  as  a series  of 
parliamentary  reports,  county  meetings,  race-horse 


transactions,  &c.,  they  will  be  found,  with  a reason- 
able allowance  of  artistic  colouring,  to  reflect  accu- 
rately enough  the  notions  current  among  the  upper 
classes  respecting  religion,  politics,  domestic  morals, 
the  social  affections,  and  that  coarse  aggregate  of 
dealing  with  our  neighbours  which  is  embraced  by 
the  term  common  honesty.’*  Besides  her  long 
array  of  regular  novels,  Mrs  Gore  has  contributed 
short  tales  and  sketches  to  the  periodicals,  and  is 
perhaps  unparalleled  for  fertility.  Her  works  must 
exceed  a hundred  volumes,  and  all  are  welcome  to 
the  circulating  libraries.  They  are  mostly  of  the 
same  class — all  pictures  of  existing  life  and  manners, 
but  the  want  of  genuine  feeling,  of  passion,  and 
simplicity,  in  her  living  models,  and  the  endless 
frivolities  of  their  occupations  and  pursuits,  make 
us  sometimes  take  leave  of  Mrs  Gore’s  fashionable 
triflers  in  the  temper  with  which  Goldsmith  parted 
from  Beau  Tibbs — £ The  company  of  fools  may  at 
first  make  us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of 
rendering  us  melancholy.’ 

Mrs  Gore  is  a widow,  with  two  children,  a son 
and  daughter,  the  latter  married,  in  1853,  to  Lord 
Edward  Thynne. 

[ Character  of  a Prudent  Worldly  Lady.'\ 

[From  Women  as  they  Are.] 

Lady  Lilfield  was  a thoroughly  worldly  woman — a 
worthy  scion  of  the  Mordaunt  stock.  She  had  pro- 
fessedly accepted  the  hand  of  Sir  Robert  because  a 
connection  with  him  was  the  best  that  happened  to 
present  itself  in  the  first  year  of  her  debut — the  ‘ best 
match’  to  be  had  at  a season’s  warning  ! She  knew  that 
she  had  been  brought  out  with  the  view  to  dancing  at  a 
certain  number  of  balls,  refusing  a certain  number  of 
good  offers,  and  accepting  a better  one,  somewhere 
between  the  months  of  January  and  June;  and  she 
regarded  it  as  a propitious  dispensation  of  Providence 
to  her  parents  and  to  herself,  that  the  comparative 
proved  a superlative — even  a high  sheriff  of  the  county, 
a baronet  of  respectable  date,  with  ten  thousand  a year  ! 
She  felt  that  her  duty  towards  herself  necessitated  an 
immediate  acceptance  of  the  dullest  ‘good  sort  of  man’ 
extant  throughout  the  three  kingdoms  ; and  the  whole 
routine  of  her  after-life  was  regulated  by  the  same 
rigid  code  of  moral  selfishness.  She  was  penetrated 
with  a most  exact  sense  of  what  was  due  to  her  position 
in  the  world ; but  she  was  equally  precise  in  her  appre- 
ciation of  all  that,  in  her  turn,  she  owed  to  society;  nor, 
from  her  youth  upwards — 

Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever — 

had  she  been  detected  in  the  slightest  infraction  of 
these  minor  social  duties.  She  knew  with  the  utmost 
accuracy  of  domestic  arithmetic — to  the  fraction  of  a 
course  or  an  entree — the  number  of  dinners  which 
Beech  Park  was  indebted  to  its  neighbourhood — the 
complement  of  laundry-maids  indispensable  to  the 
maintenance  of  its  county  dignity — the  aggregate  of 
pines  by  which  it  must  retain  its  horticultural  pre- 
cedence. She  had  never  retarded  by  a day  or  an 
hour  the  arrival  of  the  family-coach  in  Grosvenor 
Square  at  the  exact  moment  creditable  to  Sir  Robert’s 
senatorial  punctuality ; nor  procrastinated  by  half  a 
second  the  simultaneous  bobs  of  her  ostentatious 
Sunday  school,  as  she  sailed  majestically  along  the 
aisle  towards  her  tall,  stately,  pharisaical,  squire- 
archical  pew.  True  to  the  execution  of  her  tasks — 
and  her  whole  life  was  but  one  laborious  task — true 

* Atlienanim , 1839.  Nineteen  ycarB  afterwards,  we  find  the 
same  critic,  in  reviewing  Mrs  Gore’s  novel  of  lleckington , 
characterising  the  voluminous  authoress  as  ‘ always  shrewd 
aud  sensible.’ 

629 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


and  exact  as  the  great  bell  of  the  Beech  Park  turret- 
clock,  she  was  enchanted  with  the  monotonous  music 
of  her  own  cold  iron  tongue ; proclaiming  herself  the 
best  of  wives  and  mothers,  because  Sir  Robert’s  rent- 
roll  could  afford  to  command  the  services  of  a first- 
rate  steward,  and  butler,  and  housekeeper,  and  thus 
insure  a well-ordered  household ; and  because  her 
seven  substantial  children  were  duly  drilled  through 
a daily  portion  of  rice-pudding  and  spelling-book,  and 
an  annual  distribution  of  mumps  and  measles  ! All 
went  well  at  Beech  Park;  for  Lady  Lilfield  was  ‘the 
excellent  wife  ’ of  ‘ a good  sort  of  man ! ’ 

So  bright  an  example  of  domestic  merit — and  what 
country  neighbourhood  cannot  boast  of  its  duplicate? 
— was  naturally  superior  to  seeking  its  pleasures  in 
the  vapid  and  varying  novelties  of  modem  fashion. 
The  habits  of  Beech  Park  still  affected  the  dignified 
and  primeval  purity  of  the  departed  century.  Lady 
Lilfield  remained  true  to  her  annual  eight  rural  months 
of  the  county  of  Durham;  against  whose  claims  Kemp 
town  pleaded,  and  Spa  and  Baden  bubbled  in  vain. 
During  her  pastoral  seclusion,  by  a careful  distribution 
of  her  stores  of  gossiping,  she  contrived  to  prose,  in 
undetected  tautology,  to  successive  detachments  of  an 
extensive  neighbourhood,  concerning  her  London  im- 
portance— her  court  dress — her  dinner  parties — and  her 

refusal  to  visit  the  Duchess  of ; while,  during  the 

reign  of  her  London  importance,  she  made  it  equally  her 
duty  to  bore  her  select  visiting  list  with  the  history  of 
the  new  Beech  Park  school-house — of  the  Beech  Park 
double  dahlias — and  of  the  Beech  Park  privilege  of 
uniting,  in  an  aristocratic  dinner-party,  the  abhorrent 
heads  of  the  rival  political  factions — the  Bianchi  e 
Neri — the  houses  of  Montague  and  Capulet  of  the 
county  palatine  of  Durham.  By  such  minute  sections 
j of  the  wide  chapter  of  colloquial  boredom,  Lady 
Lilfield  acquired  the  character  of  being  a very  charm - 
I ing  woman  throughout  her  respectable  clan  of  dinner- 
I giving  baronets  and  their  wives;  but  the  reputation 
j of  a very  miracle  of  prosiness  among  those 

Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men. 

She  was  but  a weed  in  the  nobler  field  of  society. 

[Exclusive  London  Life .] 

A squirrel  in  a cage,  which  pursues  its  monotonous 
round  from  summer  to  summer,  as  though  it  had  for- 
gotten the  gay  green  wood  and  glorious  air  of  liberty, 
is  not  condemned  to  a more  monotonous  existence  than 
the  fashionable  world  in  the  unvarying  routine  of  its 
amusements  ; and  when  a London  beauty  expands  into 
ecstasies  concerning  the  delights  of  London  to  some 
country  neighbour  on  a foggy  autumn  day,  vaguely 
alluding  to  the  ‘ countless  ’ pleasures  and  ‘ diversified  ’ 
amusements  of  London,  the  country  neighbour  may  be 
assured  that  the  truth  is  not  in  her.  Nothing  can  be 
more  minutely  monotonous  than  the  recreations  of  the 
really  fashionable ; monotony  being,  in. fact,  essential  to 
that  distinction.  Tigers  may  amuse  themselves  in  a 
thousand  irregular  diverting  ways;  but  the  career  of  a 
genuine  exclusive  is  one  to  which  a mill-horse  would 
scarcely  look  for  relief.  London  houses,  London  estab- 
lishments, are  formed  after  the  same  unvarying  model. 
At  the  fifty  or  sixty  balls  to  which  she  is  to  be  indebted 
for  the  excitement  of  her  season,  the  fine  lady  listens 
to  the  same  band,  is  refreshed  from  a buffet  prepared 
by  the  same  skill,  looks  at  the  same  diamonds,  hears 
the  same  trivial  observations ; and  but  for  an  incident 
or  two,  the  growth  of  her  own  follies,  might  find  it 
difficult  to  point  out  the  slightest  difference  between  the 
fete  of  the  countess  on  the  first  of  June,  and  that  of 
the  marquis  on  the  first  of  July.  But  though  twenty 
seasons’  experience  of  these  desolating  facts  might  be 
expected  to  damp  the  ardour  of  certain  dowagers  and 
dandies,  who  are  to  be  found  hurrying  along  the  golden 


railroad  year  after  year,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  the 
young  girls  their  daughters  should  be  easily  allured 
from  their  dull  school-rooms  by  fallacious  promises  of  | 
pleasure. 

MRS  TROLLOPE — ADOLPHUS  AND  ANTHONY 
TROLLOPE. 

Another  keen  observer  and  caustic  delineator  of  i 
modern  manners  we  have  in  Mrs  Prances  Trollope,  i 
the  authoress  of  a long  series  of  fictions.  This  lady  j 
had  nearly  reached  her  fiftieth  year  before  she  j 
entered  on  that  literary  career  which  has  proved  so  ; 
prolific  and  distinguished.  She  first  came  before  j 
the  public  in  1832,  when  her  Domestic  Manners  of  j 
the  Americans  appeared,  and  excited  great  attention,  j 
The  work  was  the  result  of  three  years’  residence 
and  travels  in  the  United  States,  commencing  in  \ 
1829.  Previous  to  this  period,  Mrs  Trollope  had 
resided  at  Harrow.  She  drew  so  severe  a picture 
of  American  faults  and  foibles— of  their  want  of 
delicacy,  their  affectations,  drinking,  coarse  selfish- 
ness, and  ridiculous  peculiarities — that  the  whole 
nation  was  incensed  at  their  English  satirist.  There 


is  much  exaggeration  in  Mrs  Trollope's  sketches; 
but  having  truth  for  their  foundation,  her  book  is 
supposed  to  have  had  some  effect  in  reforming  the 
‘ minor  morals  ’ and  social  habits  of  the  Americans. 
The  same  year  our  authoress  continued  her  satiric 
portraits,  in  a novel  entitled  The  Refugee  in  America , 
marked  by  the  same  traits  as  her  former  work,  but 
exhibiting  little  art  or  talent  in  the  construction  of 
a fable.  Mrs  Trollope  now  tried  new  ground.  In 
1833  she  published  The  Abbess,  a novel,  and  in  the 
following  year,  Belgium  and  Western  Germany  in 
1833,  countries  where  she  found  much  more  to 
gratify  and  interest  her  than  in  America,  and  where 
she  travelled  in  generally  good-humour.  The  only 
serious  evil  which  Mrs  Trollope  seems  to  have 
encountered  in  Germany  was  the  tobacco-smoke, 
which  she  vituperates  with  unwearied  perseverance. 
In  1836  she  renewed  her  war  with  the  Americans 
in  The  Adventures  of  Jonathan  Jefferson  Whitlow,  a 
tale  in  which  she  powerfully  depicts  the  miseries  of 
the  black  and  coloured  population  of  the  southern 
states.  In  this  year,  also,  she  published  Paris  and 


Novelists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 


the  Parisians  in  1835.  In  1837  appeared  The  Vicar 
of  Wr exhill,  her  best  novel,  an  able  and  interesting 
work,  full  of  prejudices,  but  containing  some  excel- 
lent painting  of  manners  and  eccentricities.  In 
1838  our  authoress  appeared  again  as  a traveller: 
Vienna  and  the  Austrians  was  of  the  same  cast. as 
Belgium  and  Germany,  but  more  deformed  by  preju- 
dice. This  journey  also  afforded  Mrs  Trollope 
materials  for  a novel,  which  she  entitled  A Romance 
of  Vienna.  To  this  year,  also,  belongs  Tremordyn 
Cliff,  a novel.  Three  more  works  of  fiction,  in 
three  volumes  each,  were  the  fruit  of  1839 — namely, 
The  Widow  Barnaby,  a highly  amusing  story,  parti- 
cularly the  delineation  of  the  bustling,  scheming, 
unprincipled,  husband-hunting  widow ; Michael  Arm- 
strong, or  the  Factory  Boy,  a caricature  of  the  evils 
attendant  on  the  English  manufacturing  system ; 
and  One  Faidt,  a domestic  story,  illustrating  with 
uncommon  vigour  and  effect  the  dismal  consequences 
of  that  species  of  bad  temper  which  proceeds  from 
pride  and  over-sensitiveness.  In  1840,  we  had  The 
Widow  Married;  and  in  1841,  The  Blue  Belles  of 
England,  and  Charles  Chesterfield.  The  latter  relates 
the  history  of  a youth  of  genius,  and  contains  a 
satirical  picture  of  the  state  of  literature  in  Eng- 
land, branding  authors,  editors,  and  publishers  with 
unprincipled  profligacy,  selfishness,  and  corruption. 
In  1842  Mrs  Trollope,  besides  throwing  off  another 
clever  novel — The  Ward  of  Thorpe  Combe — gave  the 
public  the  result  of  a second  visit  to  Belgium, 
describing  the  changes  that  had  been  effected  since 
1833,  and  also  A Visit  to  Italy.  The  smart  caustic 
style  of  our  authoress  was  not  so  well  adapted  to 
the  classic  scenes,  manners,  and  antiquities  of  Italy, 
as  to  the  broader  features  of  American  life  and 
character,  and  this  work  was  not  so  successful  as 
her  previous  publications.  Returning  to  fiction,  we 
find  Mrs  Trollope,  as  usual,  abounding.  Three 
novels,  of  three  volumes  each,  were  the  produce  of 
1843 — Hargrave,  Jessie  Phillips , and  The  Laurring- 
tons.  The  first  is  a sketch  of  a man  of  fashion ; the 
second,  an  attack  on  the  new  English  poor-law; 
and  the  third,  a lively  satire  on  4 superior  people,’ 
the  ‘bustling  Botherbys’  of  society.  In  1844 
appeared  Young  Love,  a theme  not  well  adapted  to 
the  hard  sarcastic  style  of  Mrs  Trollope,  and,  after 
a considerable  interval,  she  produced  Petticoat 
Government,  Father  Eustace , Uncle  Walter  (1852), 
and  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  a Clever  Woman 
(1854).  These  later  works  of  Mrs  Trollope  are  much 
inferior  to  her  early  novels : the  old  characters  are 
reproduced,  and  coarseness  is  too  often  substituted 
for  strength.  Reviewing  the  aggregate  labours  of 
this  industrious  authoress,  we  cannot  say  that  she 
has  done  good  proportioned  to  her  talents.  Her 
own  sex  suffers  the  most  by  her  satire,  but  her  efforts 
appear  directed  only  against  the  superficialities  of 
life,  and  are  not  calculated  to  check  vice  or  encourage 
virtue.  She  has  scattered  amusement  among  novel 
readers  by  some  of  her  delineations ; but  in  all  her 
mirth  there  is  a mocking  and  a bitter  spirit  which 
is  often  as  misplaced  as  it  is  unfemininc. 

Mrs  Trollope  has  resided  for  some  years  at 
Elorence,  and  there  one  of  her  sons,  T.  Adolphus 
Trollope,  has  written  an  interesting  scholarly 
illustration  of  Italian  history,  The  Girlhood  of 
Catherine  de  Medici,  in  which  he  traces  the  influ- 
ences that  helped  to  form  the  monstrous  character 
of  the  heiress  of  the  Medici.  In  1859  Mr  T.  A. 
Trollope  added  to  his  reputation  by  a biographical 
work,  A Decade  of  Italian  Women,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  delightful  books  of  the  season. 
Another  son,  Anthony  Trollope,  has  added  fresh 
lustre  to  the  family  name  by  a series  of  admirable 


novels.  Living  in  Ireland — as  one  of  the  surveyors 
of  the  General  Post-office — Mr  Trollope’s  two  first 
novels  are  on  Irish  subjects — The  Macdermots  of 
Ballycloran  (1847),  and  Hie  Kellys  and  the  O' Kellys 
(1848).  In  1850  he  produced  a historical  romance, 
La  Vendee;  in  1855,  The  Warden;  and  since  that 
period,  The  Three  Clerks;  .Bar Chester  Towers; 
Doctor  Thorne,  1858  ; and  The  Bertrams,  1859. 
There  is  a degree  of  reality,  vigour,  and  genuine 
fresh  English  feeling  about  Mr  Trollope’s  novels, 
which  render  him  remarkable  among  his  contem- 
poraries. Each  of  his  works,  too,  seems  an  improve- 
ment on  its  immediate  predecessor — the  treatment 
more  artistic,  and  the  lights  and  shades  better  man- 
aged. ‘ He  has  powers,’  says  one  of  Mr  Trollope’s 
most  discriminating  critics — in  the  National  Review 
— ‘which,  if  used  with  due  painstaking  conscien- 
tiousness, may  make  him  one  of  the  most  successful 
novelists  of  the  day,  as  they  always  render  him 
readable  and  entertaining.  But  above  all,  he  has 
the  gift  of  finishing  his  work  to  the  most  minute 
detail,  without  becoming  for  an  instant  tedious  or 
trivial;  and  this  is  a gift  so  rare  that  it  should  never 
be  neglected.’ 

MARGUERITE,  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 

This  lady,  long  known  in  the  world  of  fashion 
and  light  literature,  was  born  at  Knockbrit,  near 
Clonmel,  September  1,  1790.  Her  father,  Edmund 
Power,  was  a small  proprietor  in  Ireland — a squireen 
— who  is  said  to  have  forced  his  daughter,  when 
only  fifteen,  into  a marriage  with  a Captain  Farmer. 
The  marriage  was  unhappy ; Marguerite  left  her 
husband,  and  Captain  Farmer  was  accidentally 
killed.  This  was  in  1817.  In  a few  months  after- 
wards, Marguerite  was  united  to  an  Irish  peer, 
Charles  Gardiner,  Earl  of  Blessington.  Her  rank, 
her  beauty,  and  literary  tastes  now  rendered  her 
the  centre  of  a brilliant  circle,  and  the  doting 
husband  revelled  in  every  species  of  extravagant 
display.  In  1822  they  set  out  on  a continental 
tour.  They  visited  Byron  in  Genoa,  and  Lady 
Blessington’s  Conversations  with  Lord  Byron  (pub- 
lished after  the  death  of  the  poet)  present  a faithful 
and  interesting — though  of  course  incomplete — 
picture  of  the  noble  bard.  In  May  1829,  Lady 
Blessington  was  again  left  a widow,  but  with  a 
jointure  of  about  £2000  a year.  A daughter  of  the 
deceased  earl,  by  a former  marriage,  became  the 
wife  of  Count  Alfred  D’Orsay,  son  of  a French 
general  officer,  and  remarkable  for  his  handsome 
appearance  and  varied  accomplishments.  This 
marriage  also  proved  unfortunate ; the  parties 
separated,  and  while  the  lady  remained  in  Paris, 
the  count  accompanied  Lady  Blessington  to 
England.  This  connection  was  only  broken  by 
death.  It  gave  rise  to  scandalous  rumours,  yet 
the  countess  and  her  friend  maintained  a conspi- 
cuous place  in  society.  The  lady’s  drawing-rooms 
were  attended  by  most  of  the  literary  and  fashion- 
able celebrities,  and  Count  D’Orsay  was  the 
acknowledged  leader  of  fashion,  besides  being  an 
accomplished  artist  in  both  painting  and  sculpture. 
A career  of  gaiety  and  splendour  soon  involved  the 
countess  in  debt.  She  then  applied  herself  to  litera- 
ture, and  produced  a long  series  of  works,  chiefly 
novels,  which  for  a time  were  successful.  She  had, 
in  1822,  published  some  scenes  of  metropolitan  life 
— The  Magic  Lantern,  and  Sketches  and  Fragments ; 
and  she  now  (about  1840)  set  to  book-making  in 
good  earnest.  Iler  first  publication  was  a volume 
of  Travelling  Sketches  in  Belgium , very  meagre  and 
ill  written.  The  next  work  commanded  more 

631 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


attention : it  was  her  Conversations  with  Lord  Byron. 
In  1833  appeared  The  Repealers,  a novel  in  three 
volumes,  hut  containing  scarcely  any  plot,  and  few 
delineations  of  character,  the  greater  part  being 
filled  with  dialogues,  criticism,  and  reflections.  Her 
ladyship  is  sometimes  sarcastic,  sometimes  moral, 
and  more  frequently  personal.  One  female  sketch, 
that  of  Grace  Cassidy,  a young  Irish  wife,  is  the 
only  one  of  the  characters  we  can  remember,  and 
it  shews  that  her  ladyship  was  most  at  home  among 
the  scenes  of  her  early  days.  To  The  Repealers 
succeeded  The  Two  Friends,  The  Confessions  of  an 
Elderly  Gentleman,  The  Confessions  of  an  Elderly 
Lady,  Desultory  Thoughts , The  Belle  of  a Season , 
The  Governess,  The  Idler  in  Italy  (three  volumes, 
1839-40),  The  Ldler  in  France  (two  volumes,  1841), 
The  Victims  of  Society,  and  Meredith.  Her  recollec- 
tions of  Italy  and  France  are  perhaps  the  best  of 
her  works,  for  in  these  her  love  of  anecdote,  epigram, 
and  sentiment,  has  full  scope,  without  any  of  the 
impediments  raised  by  a story.  But  probably  not 
one  of  the  long  list  will  ever  be  reprinted.  Latterly, 
the  popularity  of  the  countess  greatly  declined.  She 
■was  forced  to  break  up  her  establishment  in  Gore 
House,  Kensington;  all  was  sold  off,  and  Lady 
Blessington  and  D’Orsay  repaired  to  Paris.  She 
died  June  4,  1849.  The  count  survived  her  just 
three  years.  The  most  favourable — perhaps  the 
truest — view  of  this  once  popular  lady  is  thus  given 
in  the  epitaph  written  for  her  tomb  by  Mr  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall) : ‘ In  her  lifetime  she  was  loved 
and  admired  for  her  many  graceful  writings,  her 
gentle  manners,  her  kind  and  generous  heart.  Men, 
famous  for  art  and  science,  in  distant  lands  sought 
her  friendship : and  the  historians  and  scholars,  the 
poets,  and  wits,  and  painters  of  her  own  country 
found  an  unfailing  welcome  in  her  ever-hospitable 
home.  She  gave  cheerfully,  to  all  who  were  in  need, 
help  and  sympathy,  and  useful  counsel;  and  she 
died  lamented  by  many  friends.  Those  who  loved 
her  best  in  life,  and  now  lament  her  most,  have 
reared  this  tributary  marble  over  the  place  of  her 
rest.’ 

MRS  S.  C.  HALL. 

Mrs  S.  C.  Hall,  authoress  of  Lights  and  Shadows 
of  Lrish  Life,  and  various  other  works,  ‘ is  a native 
of  Wexford,  though  by  her  mother’s  side  she  is  of 
Swiss  descent.  Her  maiden  name  was  Fielding,  by 
which,  however,  she  was  unknown  in  the  literary 
world,  as  her  first  work  was  not  published  till  after 
her  marriage.  She  belongs  to  an  old  and  excellent 
family  in  her  native  county.  She  first  quitted 
Ireland  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  to  reside  with 
her  mother  in  England,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
she  revisited  her  native  country;  but  the  scenes 
which  were  familiar  to  her  as  a child  have  made 
such  a vivid  and  lasting  impression  on  her  mind, 
and  all  her  sketches  evince  so  much  freshness  and 
vigour,  that  her  readers  might  easily  imagine  she 
had  spent  her  life  among  the  scenes  she  describes. 
To  her  early  absence  from  her  native  country  is 
probably  to  be  traced  one  strong  characteristic  of 
all  her  writings — the  total  absence  of  party  feeling 
on  subjects  connected  with  politics  or  religion.’* 
Mrs  Hall’s  first  work  appeared  in  1829,  and  was 
entitled  Sketches  of  Lrish  Character.  These  bear  a 
closer  resemblance  to  the  tales  of  Miss  Mitford  than 
to  the  Irish  stories  of  Banim  or  Griffin,  and  the 
works  of  Miss  Edgeworth  probably  directed  Mrs 
Hall  to  the  peculiarities  of  Irish  character.  They 
contain  some  fine  rural  description,  and  are 

* Dublin  University  Magazine  for  1840. 

632 


animated  by  a healthy  tone  of  moral  feeling  and  a 
vein  of  delicate  humour.  The  coquetry  of  her  Irish 
girls — very  different  from  that  in  high  life — is 
admirably  depicted.  Next  year  Mrs  Hall  issued 
a little  volume  for  children,  Chronicles  of  a School- 
room, consisting  also  of  a series  of  tales,  simple, 
natural,  and  touching.  The  home-truths  and 
moral  observations  conveyed  in  these  narratives 
reflect  great  credit  on  the  heart  and  the  judg- 
ment of  the  writer.  Indeed,  good  taste  and  good 
feeling  may  be  said  to  preside  over  all  the  works 
of  our  authoress.  In  1831  she  issued  a second 


series  of  Sketches  of  Lrish  Character,  fully  equal 
to  the  first,  and  which  was  well  received.  The 
Rapparee  is  an  excellent  story,  and  some  of  the 
satirical  delineations  are  hit  off  with  great  truth 
and  liveliness.  In  1832  she  ventured  on  a larger 
and  more  difficult  work — a historical  romance  in 
three  volumes,  entitled  The  Buccaneer.  The  scene 
of  this  tale  is  laid  in  England  at  the  time  of  the 
Protectorate,  and  Oliver  himself  is  among  the 
characters.  The  plot  of  The  Buccaneer  is  well 
managed,  and  some  of  the  characters— as  that  of 
Barbara  Iverk,  the  Puritan — are  skilfully  delineated ; 
but  the  work  is  too  feminine,  and  has  too  little  of 
energetic  passion  for  the  stormy  times  in  which  it  is 
cast.  In  1834  Mrs  Hall  published  Tales  of  Woman's 
Trials,  short  stories  of  decidedly  moral  tendency, 
written  in  the  happiest  style  of  the  authoress.  In 
1835  appeared  Uncle  Horace,  a novel;  and  in  1838, 
Lights  and  Shadows  of  Lrish  Life , three  volumes. 
The  latter  had  been  previously  published  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  enjoyed  great  popu- 
larity. The  principal  tale  in  the  collection,  The 
Groves  of  Blarney,  was  dramatised  at  one  of  the 
theatres  with  distinguished  success.  In  1840  Mrs 
Hall  issued  Marian,  or  a Young  Maid's  Fortunes,  in 
which  her  knowledge  of  Irish  character  is  again 
displayed.  Ivatey  Macane,  an  Irish  cook,  who 
adopts  Marian,  a foundling,  and  watches  over  her 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  S.  C.  HALL. 


with  untiring  affection,  is  equal  to  any  of  the  Irish 
portraitures  since  those  of  Miss  Edgeworth.  The 
next  work  of  our  authoress  was  a series  of  Stories 
of  the  Irish  Peasantry , contributed  to  Chambers’s 
Edinburgh  Journal,  and  afterwards  published  in  a 
collected  form.  In  1840,  Mrs  Hall  aided  her 
husband  in  a work  chiefly  composed  by  him,  and 
which  reflects  credit  upon  his  talents  and  industry 
— Ireland , its  Scenery , Character,  &c.  Topographical 
and  statistical  information  is  here  blended  with  the 


poetical  and  romantic,  features  of  the  country — the 
legends  of  the  peasantry — scenes  and  characters  of 
humour  or  pathos — and  all  that  could  be  gathered 
in  five  separate  tours  through  Ireland,  added  to 
early  acquaintance  and  recollection  of  the  country. 
The  work  was  highly  embellished  by  British  artists, 
and  extended  to  three  large  volumes.  In  1845,  Mrs 
Hall  published  what  is  considered  by  many  her  best 
novel,  The  Whiteboy — a striking  Irish  story — and  a 
fairy  tale,  Midsummer  Eve.  To  the  Art  Journal , 


Mrs  Hall’s  former  residence,  Brompton. 


j conducted  by  her  husband,  Mrs  Hall  has  contributed 
| many  pleasant  and  picturesque  sketches,  some  of 
[ which  have  been  collected  and  re-issued  under  the 
title  of  Pilgrimages  to  English  Shrines,  The  Book  of 
I the  Thames , &c.  In  tasteful  description  of  natural 
objects,  and  pictures  of  everyday  life,  Mrs  Hall 
has  few  superiors.  Her  humour  is  not  so  broad  or 
j racy  as  that  of  Lady  Morgan,  nor  her  observation 
so  exact  and  extensive  as  Miss  Edgeworth’s : her 
writings  are  also  unequal,  but  in  general  they  con- 
stitute easy  delightful  reading,  and  possess  a simple 
truth  and  purity  of  sentiment  that  is  ultimately 
| more  fascinating  than  the  darker  shades  and  colour- 
: ings  of  imaginative  composition. 

[Depending  Upon  Others .] 

[From  Sketches  of  Irish  Character.] 

‘ Independence /’ — it  is  the  word,  of  all  others,  that 
Irish — men,  women,  and  children — least  understand  ; 
and  the  calmness,  or  rather  indifference,  with  which 
j they  submit  to  dependence,  bitter  and  miserable  as  it 
; is,  must  be  a source  of  deep  regret  to  all  who  ‘ love  the 
I land,’  or  who  feel  anxious  to  uphold  the  dignity  of 
human  kind.  Let  us  select  a few  cases  from  our  Irish 
village,  such  as  are  abundant  in  every  neighbourhood. 
Shane  Thurlough,  ‘ as  dacent  a boy,’  and  Shane’s  wife, 
as  * clane-skinned  a girl,’  as  any  in  the  world.  There  is 
Shane,  an  active  handsome-looking  fellow,  leaning  over 
the  half-door  of  his  cottage,  kicking  a hole  in  the  wall 
with  his  brogue,  and  picking  up  all  the  large  gravel 
within  his  reach  to  pelt  the  ducks  with — those  useful 
j Irish  scavengers.  Let  us  speak  to  him.  ‘ Good-morrow, 
Shane  !’  ‘ Och  ! the  bright  bames  of  heaven  on  ye  every 
day  ! and  kindly  welcome,  my  lady ; and  wont  ye  step 
in  and  rest — it ’s  powerful  hot,  and  a beautiful  summer, 


sure — the  Lord  be  praised!’  ‘Thank  you,  Shane.  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  cut  the  hay-field  to-day ; if  a 
heavy  shower  comes  it  will  be  spoiled ; it  has  been  fit 
for  the  scythe  these  two  days.’  ‘ Sure  it ’s  all  owing  to 
that  thief  o’  the  world  Tom  Parrel,  my  lady.  Didn’t 
he  promise  me  the  loan  of  his  scythe ; and,  by  the  same 
token,  I was  to  pay  him  for  it ; and  depinding  on  that, 
I didn’t  buy  one,  which  I have  been  threatening  to  do 
for  the  last  two  years.’  ‘But  why  don’t  you  go  to 
Carrick  and  purchase  one?’  ‘To  Carrick  ! Och,  ’tis  a 
good  step  to  Carrick,  and  my  toes  are  on  the  ground — 
saving  your  presence — for  I depinded  on  Tim  Jarvis  to 
tell  Andy  Cappler,  the  brogue-maker,  to  do  my  shoes; 
and,  bad-luck  to  him,  the  spalpeen ! he  forgot  it.’ 

‘ Where’s  your  pretty  wife,  Shane  ? ’ ‘ She ’s  in  all  the  woe 
o’  the  world,  ma’am  dear.  And  she  puts  the  blame  of 
it  on  me,  though  I’m  not  in  the  faut  this  time,  anyhow. 
The  child’s  taken  the  small-pox,  and  she  depinded  on 
me  to  tell  the  doctor  to  cut  it  for  the  cow-pox,  and  I 
depinded  on  Kitty  Cackle,  the  limmer,  to  tell  the  doctor’s 
own  man,  and  thought  she  would  not  forget  it,  becase 
the  boy’s  her  bachelor;  but  out  o’  sight  out  o’  mind — 
the  never  a word  she  tould  him  about  it,  and  the  babby 
has  got  it  nataral,  and  the  woman ’s  in  heart  trouble — 
to  say  nothing  o’  myself — and  it  the  first,  and  all.’  ‘ I am 
very  sorry,  indeed,  for  you  have  got  a much  better  wife 
than  most  men.’  ‘ That ’s  a true  word,  my  lady,  only 
she ’s  fidgety  like  sometimes,  and  says  I don’t  hit  the  nail 
on  the  head  quick  enough ; and  she  takes  a dale  more 
trouble  than  she  need  about  many  a thing.’  ‘ I do  not 
think  I ever  saw  Ellen’s  wheel  without  flax  before, 
Shane?’  ‘Bad  cess  to  the  wheel! — I got  it  this 
morning  about  that  too.  I depinded  on  John  Williams 
to  bring  the  flax  from  O’Flalierty’s  this  day  week,  and 
he  forgot  it ; and  she  says  I ought  to  have  brought  it 
myself,  and  I close  to  the  spot.  But  where’s  the  good? 
says  I;  sure  he’ll  bring  it  next  time.’  ‘I  suppose, 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1850. 


Shane,  you  ■will  soon  move  into  the  new  cottage  at  Clurn 
Hill?  I passed  it  to-day,  and  it  looked  so  cheerful;  and 
when  you  get  there,  you  must  take  Ellen’s  advice,  and 
depend  solely  on  yourself.’  ‘ Och,  ma’am  dear,  don’t 
mintion  it;  sure  it’s  that  makes  me  so  down  in  the 
mouth  this  very  minit.  Sure  I saw  that  horn  blackguard, 
Jack  Waddy,  and  he  comes  in  here  quite  innocent  like  : 
“Shane,  you’ve  an  eye  to  squire’s  new  lodge,”  says 
he.  “ Maybe  I have,”  says  I.  “I  am  yer  man,”  says 
he.  “ How  so  ? ” says  I.  “ Sure  I ’m  as  good  as  married 
to  my  lady’s-maid,”  said  he  ; “ and  I ’ll  spake  to  the 
squire  for  you  my  own  self.”  “ The  blessing  be  about 
you,”  says  I,  quite  grateful — and  we  took  a strong  cup  on 
the  strength  of  it — and,  depinding  on  him,  I thought 
all  safe ; and  what  d’  ye  think,  my  lady  ? Why,  himself 
stalks  into  the  place — talked  the  squire  over,  to  be  sure 
— and  without  so  much  as  by  yer  lave,  sates  himself 
and  his  new  wife  on  the  laase  in  the  house;  and  I 
may  go  whistle.’  ‘ It  was  a great  pity,  Shane,  that  you 
didn’t  go  yourself  to  Mr  Clurn.’  ‘ That ’s  a true  word 
for  ye  ma’am,  dear ; but  it’s  hard  if  a poor  man  can’t 
have  a frind  to  depind  on.’ 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

Mr  George  Payne  Rainsford  James  is  one  of 
Scott’s  historical  imitators — perhaps  the  best  of  the 
numerous  band,  and  unquestionably  the  most  per- 
severing. If  he  had  not  written  so  much — if,  instead 
of  employing  an  amanuensis,  to  whom  he  dictates 
his  ‘ thick-coming  fancies,’  he  had  concentrated  his 


George  P.  R«  James. 


whole  powers  on  a few  congenial  subjects  or  periods 
of  history,  and  resorted  to  the  manual  labour  of 
penmanship  as  a drag-chain  on  the  machine,  lie 
might  have  attained  to  the  highest  honours  of  this 
department  of  composition.  As  it  is,  he  has 
furnished  many  light,  agreeable,  and  picturesque 
books — none  of  questionable  tendency.  Mr  James’s 
first  appearance  as  an  author  was  made,  we 
believe,  in  1822,  when  he  published  a History  of 
the  Life  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince.  In  1829,  he 
struck  into  that  path  in  which  he  has  been  so 
indefatigable,  and  produced  his  historical  romance 
of  Richelieu , a very  attractive  fiction.  In  1830,  he 
issued  two  romances,  Darnley,  or  the  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold,  and  De  L'Orme.  Next  year  he 
produced  Philip  Augustus ; in  1832,  a History  of 
634 


Charlemagne,  and  a tale,  Henry  Masterton  ; in  1833, 
Mary  of  Burgundy , or  the  Revolt  of  Ghent ; in  1834, 
The  Life  and  Adventures  of  John  Marston  Hall;  in 
1835,  One  in  a Thousand,  or  the  Days  of  Henri 
Quatre,  and  The  Gipsy,  a Tale;  in  1837,  Attila,  a 
romance,  and  The  Life  and  Times  of  Louis  XIV.; 
in  1838,  The  Huguenot,  a Tale  of  the  French  Protest- 
ants, and  The  Robber ; in  1839,  Henry  of  Guise,  and 
A Gentleman  of  the  Old  School ; in  1840,  The  King's 
Highway , and  The  Man  at  Arms ; in  1841,  Corse  de 
Leon,  Jacquerie  or  the  Lady  and  Page,  The  Ancient 
Regime,  and  A History  of  the  Life  of  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion ; in  1842,  Morley  Ernstein ; in  1843,  Forest 
Days,  Eva  St  Clair,  The  False  Heir,  and  Arabella 
Stuart.  Altogether,  the  original  works  of  Mr  James 
extend  to  one  hundred  and  eighty-nine  volumes,  and 
he  has  edited  about  a dozen  more  ! ‘ There  seems,’ 

says  a lively  writer,  ‘ to  be  no  limit  to  his  ingenuity, 
his  faculty  of  getting  up  scenes  and  incidents, 
dilemmas,  artifices,  contretemps,  battles,  skirmishes, 
disguises,  escapes,  trials,  combats,  adventures.  He 
accumulates  names,  dresses,  implements  of  war  and 
peace,  official  retinues,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia 
of  customs  and  costumes,  with  astounding  alacrity. 
He  appears  to  have  exhausted  every  imaginable 
situation,  and  to  have  described  every  available 
article  of  attire  on  record.  What  he  must  have 
passed  through — what  triumphs  he  must  have 
enjoyed — what  exigencies  he  must  have  experienced 
—what  love  he  must  have  suffered — what  a grand 
wardrobe  his  brain  must  be ! He  has  made  some 
poetical  and  dramatic  efforts,  but  this  irresistible 
tendency  to  pile  up  circumstantial  particulars  is 
fatal  to  those  forms  of  art  which  demand  intensity 
of  passion.  In  stately  narratives  of  'chivalry  and 
feudal  grandeur,  precision  and  reiteration  are 
desirable  rather  than  injurious — as  we  would  have 
the  most  perfect  accuracy  and  finish  in  a picture  of 
ceremonials ; and  here  Mr  James  is  supreme.  One 
of  his  court  romances  is  a book  of  brave  sights 
and  heraldic  magnificence — it  is  the  next  thing  to 
moving  at  our  leisure  through  some  superb  and 
august  procession.’  The  sameness  of  the  author’s 
style  and  characters  is,  however,  too  marked  to  be 
pleasing, 

Mr  James  is  a native  of  London,  born  about  the 
year  1800.  He  early  commenced  writing  tales, 
encouraged  by  Mr  Washington  Irving,  and  the 
success  of  Richelieu  proved  an  incentive  to  exertion. 
During  the  reign  of  William  IV.,  the  honorary 
office  of  historiographer  of  Great  Britain  was  con- 
ferred upon  him,  but  he  afterwards  relinquished  it, 
and  proceeded  with  his  family  to  the  United  States. 
He  was  six  years  (from  1852  to  1858)  consul  at 
Richmond,  Virginia ; and  at  the  expiration  of  that 
period,  was  appointed  consul  at  Venice,  which  office 
he  still  holds. 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 

Among  our  living  authors,  the  name  of  Bulwer 
Lytton  has  long  been  conspicuous.  It  is  thirty 
years  since  he  appeared  as  a novelist,  and  during 
that  time  there  has  been,  as  Scott  said  of  Byron, 
‘no  reposing  under  the  shade  of  his  laurels — no 
living  upon  the  resource  of  past  reputation : his 
foot  was  always  in  the  arena,  his  shield  hung 
always  in  the  lists.’  He  is  remarkable  also  as 
having  sought  and  obtained  distinction,  in  almost 
every  department  of  literature — in  poetry,  the 
drama,  the  historical  romance,  domestic  novel, 
philosophical  essay,  and  political  disquisition. 
Like  Cowley,  too,  he  is  memorable  as  having 
appeared  as  an  author,  in  a printed  volume,  in 


ttoVELlstfs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  reward  bulwer  lytton. 


his  fifteenth  year.  This  early  and  indefatigable  can- 
didate for  literary  distinction,  enjoyed  advantages 
in  the  circumstances  of  his  birth,  education,  and 
fortune.  He  was  the  youngest  son  of  General 
Bulwer  of  Heydon  Hall  and  Wood  Bailing  in  the 
county  of  Norfolk.  His  mother,  an  amiable  and 
accomplished  woman,  was  of  the  ancient  family  of 
Lytton  of  Knebworth,  in  Hertfordshire  ; and  on  her 
death  in  1843,  the  novelist  succeeded  to  her  estate, 


Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 


and  took  the  name  of  Lytton.*  General  Bulwer  died 
in  1807,  and  the  charge  of  his  three  sons  fell  to  his 
widow,  whose  care  and  tenderness  have  been  com- 
memorated by  the  youngest  and  most  distinguished 
of  her  children.  ‘From  ypur  graceful  and  accom- 
plished taste,’  says  the  novelist,  in  the  dedication 
of  his  works  to  his  mother,  ‘I  early  learned  that 
affection  for  literature  which  has  exercised  so  large 
an  influence  over  the  pursuits  of  my  life ; and  you 
who  were  my  first  guide,  were  my  earliest  critic.’ 
He  is  said  to  have  written  verses  when  he  was  only 
five  or  six  years  old.  In  June  1820,  appeared  his 
first  volume,  Ismael,  an  Oriental  Tale , with  other 
Poems,  written  between  the  Age  of  Thirteen  and  Fifteen. 
The  boyish  rhymes  are,  of  course,  merely  imitative. 
His  next  public  appearance  was  as  the  successful 
candidate  for  the  prize  poem  in  Cambridge  Univer- 
sity. He  was  then  a fellow-commoner  of  Trinity 
Hall,  and  in  1825  he  carried  off  the  Chancellor’s 

* His  full  name,  like  that  of  his  brother  novelist,  Mr  James, 
might  serve  in  point  of  length  for  a Spanish  hidalgo.  It  is 
Edward  George  Earle  Lytton  Bulwer  Lytton.  Ilis  brother, 
Sir  Henry  Lytton  Bulwer,  is  a well-known  diplomatist,  and 
author  of  several  works— An  Autumn  in  Greece ; France,  Social 
and  Literary ; The  Monarchy  of  the  Middle  Classes;  and  a Life 
of  Lord  Byron,  prefixed  to  a Paris  edition  of  the  poet’s  works. 
While  noting  these  family  details,  we  may  state  that  in  1827 
Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  was  married  to  Rosina,  daughter 
of  Francis  Wheeler,  Esq.  of  Lizzard  Connel,  county  of  Limerick 
— an  unhappy  connection  which  was  soon  separated.  The  lady 
has  written  several  novels  not  deficient  in  talent,  but  wild  and 
extravagant.  The  issue  of  this  marriage  was  a son  and  daughter. 
The  latter  died  in  1848 : the  former,  Edward  Robert,  has 
already  been  noticed  as  a poet. 


gold  medal  for  the  best  English  poem.  The  subject 
selected  by  Bulwer  was  sculpture,  and  his  verses  are 
above  the  average  of  prize  poems.  The  long  vaca- 
tion in  his  college  terms,  was  spent  by  our  author  in 
rambles  over  England  and  Scotland,  and  France. 
In  1826,  he  published  a volume  of  miscellaneous 
verse,  entitled  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers,  and  in  1827, 
a poetical  narrative,  called  O'Neil,  or  the  Rebel.  The 
latter  was  in  the  style  of  Byron’s  Corsair,  echoing 
the  false  sentiment  and  morbid  feeling  of  the 
noble  poet,  but  wanting  the  poetic  ardour,  condensed 
energy  of  expression,  and  graceful  picturesqueness 
which  gild,  if  they  do  not  redeem,  the  errors  of 
Byron’s  style.  A love  of  poetry,  however  intense, 
even  when  combined  with  general  literary  talent 
and  devoted  study  of  the  art  ‘unteachable,  untaught,’ 
will  never  make  a poet ; and  of  this  truism,  Bulwer 
Lytton  is  a striking  illustration.  He  has  returned 
again  and  again  to  his  first  love  and  early  ambition, 
and  at  times  seems  to  be  on  the  brink  of  complete 
success  ; yet,  with  all  his  toil  and  repeated  efforts, 
he  has  never  been  able  to  reach  the  summit  of  the 
sacred  mount.  The  following  is  a favourable 
specimen  of  these  poetic  aspirations  : 

Eternal  air — and  thou,  my  mother  earth, 

Hallowed  by  shade  and  silence — and  the  birth 
Of  the  young  moon  (now  watching  o’er  the  sleep 
Of  the  dim  mountains  and  the  dreaming  deep) ; 

And  by  yon  star,  heaven’s  eldest  born — whose  light 
Calls  the  first  smile  upon  the  cheek  of  Night ; 

And  beams  and  bodes,  like  faith  beyond  the  tomb, 
Life  through  the  calm,  and  glory  through  the  gloom  ; 
My  mother  earth — and  ye  her  loftier  race, 

Midst  whom  my  soul  hath  held  its  dwelling-place ; 
Rivers,  and  rocks,  and  valleys,  and  ye  shades 
Which  sleep  at  noonday  o’er  the  haunted  glades 
Made  musical  by  waters  and  the  breeze, 

All  idly  dallying  with  the  glowing  trees ; 

And  songs  of  birds  which,  ever  as  they  fly, 

Breathe  soul  and  gladness  to  the  summer  sky ; 

Ye  courts  of  Nature,  where  aloof  and  lone 
She  sits  and  reigns  with  darkness  for  her  throne ; 
Mysterious  temples  of  the  breathing  God, 

If  mid  your  might  my  earliest  steps  have  trod ; 

If  in  mine  inmost  spirit  still  are  stored 

The  wild  deep  memories  childhood  most  adored  ; 

If  still  amid  the  drought  and  waste  of  years, 

Ye  hold  the  source  of  smiles  and  pangless  tears  : 

Will  ye  not  yet  inspire  me? — for  my  heart 
Beats  low  and  languid — and  this  idle  art, 

Which  I have  summoned  for  an  idle  end, 

Forsakes  and  flies  me  like  a faithless  friend. 

Are  all  your  voices  silent  ? I have  made 
My  home  as  erst  amid  your  thickest  shade : 

And  even  now  your  soft  air  from  above 
Breathes  on  my  temples  like  a sister’s  love. 

Ah  ! could  it  bring  the  freshness  of  the  day 
When  first  my  young  heart  lingered  o’er  its  lay, 

Fain  would  this  wintry  soul  and  frozen  string 
Recall  one  wind — one  whisper  from  the  spring  ! 

In  the  same  year,  1827,  Bulwer  published  his 
first  novel,  Falkland,  a highly  coloured  tale  of 
love  and  passion,  calculated  to  excite  and  inflame, 
and  evidently  based  on  admiration  of  the  peculiar 
genius  and  seductive  errors  of  Byron.  Taking 
up  the  style  of  the  fashionable  novels — rendered 
popular  by  Theodore  Hook,  but  then  on  the  wane — 
Bulwer  next  came  forward  with  Pelham,  or  the 
Adventures  of  a Gentleman , 1828.  This  is  a novel 
full  of  brilliant  and  witty  writing,  sarcastic  levity, 
representations  of  the  manners  of  the  great,  piquant 
remark,  and  scenes  of  intrigue  and  passion.  There 
was  a want  of  skill  in  the  construction  of  the  story, 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


for  the  tragic  and  satirical  parts  were  not  well 
adjusted,  but  the  picture  of  a man  of  fashion — a 
Charles  Surface  of  the  nineteenth  century— was 
attractive,  and  a second  edition  of  Pelham  was  called 
for  in  a few  months.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
same  year,  Bulwer  issued  another  novel,  The  Dis- 
owned, intended  by  the  author  to  contain  ‘ scenes  of 
more  exciting  interest  and  vivid  colouring,  thoughts 
less  superficially  expressed,  passions  more  energetic- 
ally called  forth,  and  a more  sensible  and  pervad- 
ing moral  tendency.’  This  was  aiming  at  a high 
mark,  but  the  labour  was  too  apparent.  The  scene 
of  the  novel  was  laid  in  the  last  century — the  days 
of  Chesterfield,  George  Selwyn,  and  Horace  Walpole ; 
but  it  had  no  peculiar  character  or  appropriate 
illustration,  and  consequently  did  not  attain  to  the 
popularity  of  Pelham.  Devereux,  a Novel,  1829, 
was  a more  finished  performance.  ‘The  lighter 
portion,’  said  one  of  the  critics  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  1 does  not  dispute  the  field  with  the  deeper 
and  more  sombre,  but  follows  gracefully  by  its  side, 
relieving  and  heightening  it.  We  move,  indeed, 
among  the  great,  but  it  is  the  great  of  other  times — 
names  familiar  in  our  mouths — Bolingbroke,  Louis, 
Orleans;  amidst  manners  perhaps  as  frivolous  as 
those  of  the  day,  but  which  the  gentle  touch  of 
time  has  already  invested  with  an  antiquarian  dig- 
nity ; the  passions  of  men,  the  machinery  of  great 
motives  and  universal  feelings,  occupy  the  front; 
the  humours,  the  affections,  the  petty  badges  of 
sects  and  individuals,  retire  into  the  shadows  of  the 
background : no  under-current  of  persiflage  or  epi- 
curean indifference  checks  the  flow  of  that  mournful 
enthusiasm  which  refreshes  its  pictures  of  life  with 
living  waters ; its  eloquent  pages  seem  consecrated 
to  the  memory  of  love,  honour,  religion,  and  unde- 
viating faith.’  In  1830  Bulwer  brought  out  another 
work  of  fiction,  Paul  Clifford,  the  hero  being  a 
romantic  highwayman,  familiar  with  the  haunts 
of  low  vice  and  dissipation,  but  afterwards  trans- 
formed and  elevated  by  the  influence  of  love.  Parts 
are  ably  written,  but  the  general  effect  of  the  novel 
was  undoubtedly  injurious  to  the  public  taste  and 
morals.  The  author  seemed  to  be  sinking  into  a 
representative  of  the  artificial,  unnatural  school — 
an  embodiment  of  Moore’s  sentimentalist — 

A fine,  sallow,  sublime  sort  of  Werter-faced  man, 

With  moustaches  that  gave — what  we  read  of  so  oft — 

The  dear  Corsair-expression,  half  savage,  half  soft. 

And  with  this  sickly  sentimentalism  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  prolix  description.  The  love  of  satire, 
which  had  mingled  largely  in  all  Buiwer’s  works, 
took  a more  definite  shape  in  1831,  in  The  Siamese 
Twins,  a poem  satirical  of  fashion,  of  travel- 
lers, of  politicians,  London  notoriety,  and  various 
other  things,  discussed  or  glanced  at  in  sportive 
or  bitter  mood,  and  in  verses  that  flow  easily,  and 
occasionally  express  vigorous  and  lively  thoughts. 
Among  the  miscellaneous  poems  that  follow  The 
Siamese  Twins,  is  one  entitled  Milton,  which  was 
subsequently  corrected  and  enlarged,  and  is  unques- 
tionably Buiwer’s  best  poetical  production.  He 
tried  fiction  again — the  poetical  satire  having  proved 
a comparative  failure — and  produced,  1831,  Eugene 
Aram,  a story  of  middle  life,  founded  on  the  history 
of  the  English  murderer  of  that  name.  The  char- 
acter of  the  sordid  but  ingenious  Eugene  Aram  is 
idealised  by  the  fancy  of  the  novelist.  He  is  made 
an  enthusiastic  student  and  amiable  visionary.  The 
humbling  part  of  his  crime  was,  he  says,  ‘its  low 
calculations,  its  poor  defence,  its  paltry  trickery,  its 
mean  hypocrisy : these  made  his  chiefest  penance.' 
Unconscious  that  detection  was  close  at  hand,  Aram 
G3G 


is  preparing  to  wed  an  interesting  and  noble-minded 
woman,  the  generous  Madeline ; and  the  scenes  con- 
nected with  this  ill-fated  passion  possess  a strong 
and  tragical  interest.  Throughout  the  work  are 
scattered  some  beautiful  moral  reflections  and 
descriptions,  imbued  with  poetical  feeling  and 
expression.  What  lover  of  literature,  for  example, 
does  not  sympathise  with  this  passage  ? 

[Admiration  of  Genius .] 

There  is  a certain  charm  about  great  superiority 
of  intellect  that  winds  into  deep  affections,  which  a 
much  more  constant  and  even  amiability  of  manners 
in  lesser  men,  often  fails  to  reach.  Genius  makes  many 
enemies,  but  it  makes  sure  friends — friends  who  forgive 
much,  who  endure  long,  who  exact  little ; they  partake 
of  the  character  of  disciples  as  well  as  friends.  There 
lingers  about  the  human  heart  a strong  inclination  to 
look  upward — to  revere : in  this  inclination  lies  the 
source  of  religion,  of  loyalty,  and  also  of  the  worship 
and  immortality  which  are  rendered  so  cheerfully  to  the 
great  of  old.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  a divine  pleasure  to 
admire ! admiration  seems  in  some  measure  to  appro- 
priate to  ourselves  the  qualities  it  honours  in  others. 
We  wed — we  root  ourselves  to  the  natures  we  so  love  to 
contemplate,  and  their  life  grows  a part  of  our  own. 
Thus,  when  a great  man,  who  has  engrossed  our 
thoughts,  our  conjectures,  our  homage,  dies,  a gap  seems 
suddenly  left  in  the  world — a wheel  in  the  mechanism 
of  our  own  being  appears  abruptly  stilled ; a portion  of 
ourselves,  and  not  our  worst  portion — for  how  many 
pure,  high,  generous  sentiments  it  contains  ! — dies  with 
him. 

There  was  strong  interest,  though  a want  of  sim- 
plicity and  nature,  in  Eugene  Aram ; but  Buiwer’s 
next  novel,  Godolphin , published  anonymously,  was 
in  all  respects  an  inferior  work.  About  this  time, 
he  undertook  the  management  of  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine — which  had  attained  a high  reputation 
under  the  editorship  of  Campbell — and  published  in 
that  work  several  essays  and  criticisms,  subse- 
quently collected  and  issued  under  the  title  of  The 
Student.  In  1833  appeared  his  England  and  the 
English,  a series  of  observations  on  society,  liter- 
ature, the  aristocracy,  travelling,  and  other  charac- 
teristics and  peculiarities  of  the  English  people. 
Some  of  these  are  acute  and  clever,  but  many  are 
tinged  with  prejudice,  and  a desire  to  appear  origi- 
nal and  sarcastic.  The  Pilgrims  of  ther  Rhine — a 
fanciful  and  beautifully  illustrated  work — was  Mr 
Buiwer’s  next  offering,  and  it  was  almost  imme- 
diately afterwards  succeeded  by  one  of  his  best 
romances,  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  This  brilliant 
and  interesting  classic  story  was  followed  by  one 
still  more  vigorous  and  masterly,  the  tale  of 
Rienzi,  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes , which  is  the  most 
complete,  high-toned,  and  energetic  of  all  the 
author’s  romantic  fictions.  His  tendency  to  minute 
and  prolonged  description  is,  in  these  works,  relieved 
by  the  classic  associations  connected  with  his  story, 
and  by  historical  information,  while  the  reader’s 
interest  in  the  characters  and  incidents  is  seldom 
permitted  to  flag.  Bulwer  may  now  be  said  to  have 
attained  the  acme  of  popularity  as  an  imaginative 
writer,  but  he  was  still  to  appear  as  a master  of  the 
English  domestic  novel. 

Ambitious  of  shining  in  politics  as  in  literature, 
our  author  had  obtained  a seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  In  1831  he  was  returned  for  the  borough 
of  St  Ives,  and  in  the  following  year  for  the  city  of 
Lincoln,  which  he  continued  to  represent  until  the 
year  1842.  He  was  a siipporter  of  extreme  reform 
principles ; and  in  1835  he  conferred  a signal  favour 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 


on  his  party  by  a political  pamphlet,  entitled  The 
Crisis,  which  had  almost  unexampled  success.  Lord 
Melbourne,  in  return  for  this  powerful  support, 
offered  Bulwer  an  appointment  in  his  administration. 
He  declined  to  accept  office,  but  in  1838  the  honour 
of  a baronetcy  was  conferred  upon  him.  He  has 
since  greatly  modified  his  political  opinions — con- 
scientiously, there  is  every  reason  to  believe — and 
in  1852  he  was  returned  as  a Conservative  member 
for  Hertfordshire,  the  county  in  which  his  property 
is  situated.  His  few  parliamentary  speeches  have 
been  able  and  comprehensive.  They  shew  little  of 
the  partisan  or  keen  debater,  but  are  marked  by 
a thoughtful  earnestness,  and  by  large  and  liberal 
views  of  our  national  interests  and  dependencies. 
In  politics  he  is  still  the  man  of  letters — not  a poli- 
tical adventurer ; and  in  the  busiest  portions  of  his 
public  life  literature  was  never  neglected. 

In  1837  appeared  Bulwer’s  novel  of  Ernest  Mal- 
travers.  He  designed  this  story  to  illustrate  ‘ what, 
though  rare  in  novels,  is  common  in  human  life 
— the  affliction  of  the  good,  the  triumph  of  the 
unprincipled.’  The  character  of  Maltravers  is  far 
from  pleasing ; and  Alice  Barvil  is  evidently  a copy 
from  Byron’s  Haidee.  Ferrers,  the  villain  of  the 
tale,  is  also  a Byronic  creation ; and,  on  the  whole, 
the  violent  contrasts  and  gloomy  delineations  of  this 
novel  render  it  more  akin  to  the  spurious  offspring 
of  sentimental  romance,  than  to  the  family  of  the 
genuine  English  novel.  A continuation  of  this 
work  was  given  in  the  following  year,  under  the 
title  of  Alice,  or  the  Mysteries,  with  no  improvement 
as  to  literary  power  or  correct  moral  philosophy, 
but  still  containing  some  fresh  and  exquisite 
descriptions,  and  delightful  portraiture.  His  next 
j work  was  Athens,  partly  historical  and  partly  philo- 
sophical. In  the  same  year  (1838)  we  had  Leila,  or 
the  Siege  of  Granada , and  Calderon  the  Courtier — 

I light  and  sketchy  productions.  Passing  over  the 
! dramas  of  Bulwer,  we  come  to  Night  and  Morning, 
a novel  with  a clear  and  simple  plot,  and  some  good 
characters.  Gawtrey,  a swindler,  is  well  drawn, 
and  the  account  of  his  death  affords  a specimen  of 
the  novelist’s  ‘ scenic  ’ style.  Gawtrey  is  the  chief 
of  a gang  of  coiners  in  Paris ; they  are  detected, 
and  Gawtrey,  with  his  associate  Morton,  is  pursued 
to  the  attic  in  which  they  live. 

[Death  of  Gawtrey  the  Coiner .] 

At  both  doors  now  were  heard  the  sounds  of  voices. 
‘Open  in  the  king’s  name,  or  expect  no  mercy  ! ’ * Hist ! ’ 
said  Gawtrey.  ‘ One  way  yet — the  window — the  rope.’ 

Morton  opened  the  casement — Gawtrey  uncoiled  the 
rope.  The  dawn  was  breaking;  it  was  light  in  the 
streets,  but  all  seemed  quiet  without.  The  doors 
reeled  and  shook  beneath  the  pressure  of  the  pursuers. 
Gawtrey  flung  the  rope  across  the  street  to  the  opposite 
parapet ; after  two  or  three  efforts,  the  grappling-hook 
caught  firm  hold — the  perilous  path  was  made. 

‘ Go  first,’  said  Morton  ; ‘ I will  not  leave  you  now ; 
you  will  be  longer  getting  across  than  I shall.  I will 
keep  guard  till  you  are  over.’ 

‘ Hark  ! hark ! — are  you  mad  ? You  keep  guard  ! 
What  is  your  strength  to  mine  ? Twenty  men  shall  not 
move  that  door,  while  my  weight  is  against  it.  Quick, 
or  you  destroy  us  both  ! Besides,  you  will  hold  the 
rope  for  me,  it  may  not  be  strong  enough  for  my  bulk  of 
itself.  Stay  ! — stay  one  moment.  If  you  escape,  and  I 
fall — Fanny — my  father,  he  will  take  care  of  her — you 
remember — thanks ! Forgive  me  all  ! Go  ; that’s 
right  !’ 

With  a firm  pulse,  Morton  threw  himself  on  that 
dreadful  bridge ; it  swung  and  crackled  at  his  weight. 
Shifting  his  grasp  rapidly — holding  his  breath — with 


set  teeth — with  closed  eyes — he  moved  on — he  gained 
the  parapet — he  stood  safe  on  the  opposite  side.  And 
now,  straining  his  eyes  across,  he  saw  through  the  open 
casement  into  the  chamber  he  had  just  quitted.  Gawtrey 
was  still  standing  against  the  door  to  the  principal 
staircase,  for  that  of  the  two  was  the  weaker  and  the 
more  assailed.  Presently  the  explosion  of  a firearm  was 
heard ; they  had  shot  through  the  panel.  Gawtrey 
seemed  wounded,  for  he  staggered  forward,  and  uttered 
a fierce  cry ; a moment  more  and  he  gained  the  window 
— he  seized  the  rope — he  hung  over  the  tremendous 
depth ! Morton  knelt  by  the  parapet,  holding  the 
grappling-hook  in  its  place,  with  convulsive  grasp,  and 
fixing  his  eyes,  bloodshot  with  fear  and  suspense,  on  the 
huge  bulk  that  clung  for  life  to  that  slender  cord  ! 

1 Le  voila!  le  voila /’  cried  a voice  from  the  opposite 
side.  Morton  raised  his  gaze  from  Gawtrey;  the  case- 
ment was  darkened  by  the  forms  of  the  pursuers — they 
had  burst  into  the  room — an  officer  spnmg  upon  the 
parapet,  and  Gawtrey,  now  aware  of  his  danger,  opened 
his  eyes,  and,  as  he  moved  on,  glared  upon  the  foe. 
The  policeman  deliberately  raised  his  pistol — Gawtrey 
arrested  himself — from  a wound  in  his  side  the  blood 
trickled  slowly  and  darkly  down,  drop  by  drop,  upon 
the  stones  below ; even  the  officers  of  law  shuddered  as 
they  eyed  him ; his  hair  bristling — his  cheek  white — 
his  lips  drawn  convulsively  from  his  teeth,  and  his  eyes 
glaring  from  beneath  the  frown  of  agony  and  menace  in 
which  yet  spoke  the  indomitable  power  and  fierceness  of 
the  man.  His  look,  so  fixed — so  intense — so  stern,  awed 
the  policeman ; his  hand  trembled  as  he  fired,  and  the 
ball  struck  the  parapet  an  inch  below  the  spot  where 
Morton  knelt.  An  indistinct,  wild,  gurgling  sound — 
half  laugh,  half  yell — of  scorn  and  glee,  broke  from 
Gawtrey’s  lips.  He  swung  himself  on — near — near — 
nearer — a yard  from  the  parapet. 

‘ You  are  saved  !’  cried  Morton ; when  at  that  moment 
a volley  burst  from  the  fatal  casement — the  smoke  rolled 
over  both  the  fugitives — a groan,  or  rather  howl,  of  rage, 
and  despair,  and  agony,  appalled  even  the  hardiest  on 
whose  ear  it  came.  Morton  sprung  to  his  feet,  and 
looked  below.  He  saw  on  the  rugged  stones,  far  down, 
a dark,  formless,  motionless  mass — the  strong  man  of 
passion  and  levity — the  giant  who  had  played  with  life 
and  soul,  as  an  infant  with  the  baubles  that  it  prizes 
and  breaks — was  what  the  Caesar  and  the  leper  alike 
are,  when  all  clay  is  without  God’s  breath — what  glory, 
genius,  power,  and  beauty,  would  be  for  ever  and  for 
ever,  if  there  were  no  God  ! 

This  novel  of  Night  and  Morning,  was  followed 
by  Day  and  Night,  Lights  and  Shadoivs,  Glimmer 
and  Gloom,  an  affected  title  to  a picturesque  and 
interesting  story.  Zanoni,  1842,  is  more  uncon- 
nected in  plot  and  vicious  in  style  than  the  previous 
fictions  of  Bulwer,  and  possesses  no  strong  or 
permanent  interest.  Eva,  the  Ill-omened  Marriage , 
and  other  Tales  and  Poems,  1842,  is  another  attempt 
of  our  author  to  achieve  poetical  honours,  ever 
present  to  his  imagination,  but,  like  the  flowers  on 
the  mountain  cliff, 

Not  to  be  come  at  by  the  willing  hand. 

We  give,  however,  from  the  volume  a happy 
definition : 

Talent  and  Genius. 

Talent  convinces — genius  but  excites ; 

This  tasks  the  reason,  that  the  soul  delights. 

Talent  from  sober  judgment  takes  its  birth, 

And  reconciles  the  pinion  to  the  earth  ; 

Genius  unsettles  with  desires  the  mind, 

Contented  not  till  earth  be  left  behind ; 

Talent,  the  sunshine  on  a cultured  soil, 

Ripens  the  fruit  by  slow  degrees  for  toil. 

637 


FE03I  1830  . CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


Genius,  the  sudden  Iris  of  the  skies, 

On  cloud  itself  reflects  its  wondrous  dyes  : 

And.  to  the  earth,  in  tears  and  glory  given, 

Clasps  in  its  airy  arch  the  pomp  of  Heaven  ! 

Talent  gives  all  that  vulgar  critics  need — 

From  its  plain  horn-book  learn  the  dull  to  read ; 
Genius,  the  Pythian  of  the  beautiful, 

Leaves  its  large  truths  a riddle  to  the  dull — 

From  eyes  profane  a veil  the  Isis  screens, 

And  fools  on  fools  still  ask — ‘What  Hamlet  means?’ 

The  next  work  of  our  author  was  The  Last  of 
the  Barons , 1843,  an  historical  romance,  describing 
the  times  of  Warwick  the  king-maker,  and  contain- 
ing the  most  beautiful  of  Bulwer’s  female  creations, 
the  character  of  Sy bill.  Though  too  much  elaborated 
in  some  parts,  and  even  dreary  as  a story,  this 
romance,  viewed  as  a whole,  is  a powerful  and  great 
work.  Next  year  the  novelist  appeared  as  a trans- 
lator. He  gave  to  the  world  a version  of  Schiller’s 
poems — executed  carefully,  as  all  Bulwer’s  works 
are,  and  occasionally  with  poetic  spirit  and  felicity. 
He  then  ventured  on  an  original  poetical  work, 
The  New  Timon,  a poem  partly  satirical  and  partly 
narrative,  which  he  issued  anonymously,  the  first 
part  appearing  at  Christmas  1845,  and  three  others 
being  subsequently  added.  Timon  is  a romance  of 
London,  exhibiting  on  the  groundwork  of  an 
improbable  plot  sketches  of  the  leading  public  men 
and  authors  of  the  metropolis — eulogising  some, 
vituperating  others,  and  dealing  about  praise  and 
censure  with  a degree  of  rashness,  levity,  and  bad 
taste  almost  inconceivable  in  so  practised  a writer 
and  so  accomplished  a man  as  Bulwer  Lytton. 
Among  those  whom  he  assailed,  both  in  verse  and 
prose,  was  Alfred  Tennyson,  who  was  designated 
‘ School  Miss  Alfred ; ’ and  the  poetry  of  the  laureate 
— so  highly  original,  refined,  and  suggestive — was 
classed  among 

The  jingling  medley  of  purloined  conceits, 
Out-babying  Wordsworth  and  out-glittering  Keats. 

That  the  satirist  was  unable  to  appreciate  the 
! works  of  Wordsworth,  Keats,  or  Tennyson  is  in- 
I credible.  We  must  impute  this  escapade  to  a desire 
to  say  smart  and  severe  things,  as  Pope  and  Byron 
had  said  before  him,  and  to  try  his  artistic  hand 
in  a line  of  authorship  sure  to  attract  attention. 
The  disguise  of  the  New  Timon  was  seen  through, 
and  ‘Miss  Alfred’  is  believed  to  have  rebuked 
the  audacity  of  the  assailant  in  a very  masculine 
reply.*  But  whatever  were  his  affectations  or 

* "We  know  him,  out  of  Shakspeare’s  art. 

And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke — 

The  Old  Timon  with  his  noble  heart, 

That  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old,  here  comes  the  New : 

Regard  him — a familiar  face ; 

I thought  we  knew  him.  What,  it ’s  you, 

The  padded  man  that  wears  the  stays. 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  : 

O Lion,  you  that  made  a noise. 

And  shook  a mane  en  papillotes. 

* * * 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 

And  careless  what  the  hour  may  bring. 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes, 

And  Brummels  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  artist,  sir,  should  rest  in  art, 

And  wave  a little  of  his  claim ; 

To  have  the  great  poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

* * * 

638 


blunders,  Bulwer  Lytton  persevered,  and  he  at  last 
wrought  out  works  worthy  of  his  fame.  His  next 
novel,  however,  was  not  a happy  effort.  Lucretia , 
or  the  Children  of  Night,  was  written  to  exhibit  some 
of  the  workings  of  the  arch-ruler  of  civilisation,  i 
money,  ‘ which  ruins  virtues  in  the  spendthrift,  no 
less  than  engenders  vices  in  the  miser.’  The  sub-  | 
ject  is  treated  in  a melodramatic  style,  with  much 
morbid  sentiment  and  unnecessary  horrors,  and  the 
public  condemnation  of  the  tale  was  so  emphatic, 
that  Sir  Edward  deemed  it  necessary  to  reply  in  A 
Word  to  the  Public.  In  this  pamphlet  the  novelist 
sought  to  vindicate  the  moral  tendency  of  his  tales,  I 
and  to  defend  the  introduction  of  crime  and  terror  ! 
in  works  of  fiction.  His  reasoning  was  just  in  the  I 
abstract,  but  had  no  particular  reference  to  the 
story  in  question,  which  was  defective  as  a work  of 
art ; and,  notwithstanding  his  defence,  Sir  Edward, 
in  a subsequent  edition,  modified  some  of  the  inci- 
dents and  details.  As  a contrast  to  Lucretia,  he 
next  presented  the  public  with  a tale  of  English  | 
domestic  life,  The  Caxtons,  a Family  Picture,  which  ; 
appeared  in  monthly  parts  in  Blackwood’s  Magazine, 
and  in  1849  was  collected  and  issued  in  the  usual  i 
three-volume  form.  Free  from  all  mysticism  and  j 
terror,  and  abounding  in  humour,  quaint  fancies,  I 
and  delineation  of  character,  this  work  was  highly  j 
successful.  The  characters  were  modelled  upon  the  j 
creations  of  Sterne — the  head  of  the  family  being  a I 
simple,  learned,  absent  recluse,  who  speculates  like  ! 
Mr  Shandy ; while  his  brother  the  half-pay  captain,  j 
his  son  Pisistratus — the  historian  of  the  family — j 
his  gentle,  affectionate  wife,  and  the  eccentric  family 
doctor,  are  all  more  or  less  copies  from  the  elder  ! 
novelist,  retaining  much  of  his  genial  spirit,  whim,  j 
and  satire,  but  with  none  of  his  grossness.  While  i 
this  work  was  in  progress,  delighting  the  readers  of  j 
the  Magazine,  its  untiring  author  issued  another  ' 
historical  romance,  Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  ; 
Kings,  a story  of  love  and  war,  of  Gothic  and  Celtic 
superstitions  and  character,  presenting  much  ani- 
mated description,  though  somewhat  overlaid  with 
archajological  details.  The  same  year  (1848),  alter-  | 
nating,  as  before,  poetical  with  prose  fiction,  and 
again  assuming  the  anonymous  guise,  Sir  Edward  i 
came  forward  with  the  first  part  of  a metrical  j 
romance,  King  Arthur,  by  the  Author  of  the  New  j 
Timon.  The  concluding  portion  was  published  early  1 
in  1849,  and  with  it  the  name  of  the  author  was 
given.  A serio-comic  legendary  poem,  in  twelve 
books,  was  a bold  experiment.  Sir  Edward  had 
bestowed  on  the  work  much  thought  and  labour. 

It  exhibits  a great  amount  of  research,  of  curious 
mythological  and  Scandinavian  lore,  and  of  ingeni- 
ous allusions  to  modem  events  and  characters, 
mixed  up  with  allegorical  and  romantic  incidents. 
We  have  the  wandering  king  sent  out  by  Merlin 
in  quest  of  chivalrous  adventures,  guided  by  his 
emblematic  silver  dove  (love),  and  protected  by  his 
magic  sword  (heroic  patriotism)  and  by  his  silver 
shield  (freedom).  He  vanquishes,  of  course,  all 
enemies,  and  ranges  through  all  regions,  having 
also  his  ladye-love,  AEgle,  a fair  maid  of  Etruria. 

"What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a spotless  shirt— 

A dapper  boot — a little  hand — 

If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

* * * 

A Timon  you ! Nay,  nay,  for  shame, 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a jest — 

That  fierce  old  man— to  take  his  name, 

I ou  bandbox  ! Off,  and  let  him  rest. 

Punch,  1846. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVELISTS. 


But  with  all  its  variety,  its  ingenuity,  and  learned 
lore,  King  Arthur  is  found  to  be  tedious.  The  charm 
of  human  interest  is  wanting,  and  the  vivifying 
soul  of  poetry  which  lightens  up  the  allegories  of 
Spenser  and  Ariosto  is  absent  from  the  pages  of  the 
modern  imitator.  The  blending  of  satire  and  comic 
scenes  with  romantic  fable,  though  sanctioned  by 
the  example  of  Ariosto,  was  also  a perilous  attempt ; 
and  we  cannot  say  that  the  covert  descriptions  of 
Louis-Philippe,  Guizot,  or  the  Parisian  February 
revolution,  are  either  very  just  or  very  effective. 
Here  is  the  portrait  of  the  French  minister : 

With  brow  deject,  the  mournful  Vandal  took 
Occasion  prompt  to  leave  his  royal  guest, 

And  sought  a friend  who  served  him,  as  a book 
Read  in  our  illness,  in  our  health  dismissed ; 

For  seldom  did  the  Vandal  condescend 

To  that  poor  drudge  which  monarchs  call  a friend ! 

And  yet  Astutio  was  a man  of  worth 

Before  the  brain  had  reasoned  out  the  heart ; 

But  now  he  learned  to  look  upon  the  earth 
As  peddling  hucksters  look  upon  the  mart ; 

Took  souls  for  wares,  and  conscience  for  a till ; 

And  damned  his  fame  to  save  his  master’s  will. 

Much  lore  he  had  in  men,  and  states,  and  things, 

And  kept  his  memory  mapped  in  prim  precision, 
With  histories,  laws,  and  pedigrees  of  kings, 

And  moral  saws,  which  ran  through  each  division, 
All  neatly  coloured  with  appropriate  hue — 

The  histories  black,  the  morals  heavenly  blue  ! 

But  state-craft,  mainly,  was  his  pride  and  boast ; 

The  ‘ golden  medium  ’ was  his  guiding  star, 

Which  means  ‘ move  on  until  you  ’re  uppermost, 

And  then  things  can’t  be  better  than  they  are  !’ 
Brief,  in  two  rules  he  summed  the  ends  of  man — 

‘ Keep  all  you  have,  and  try  for  all  you  can  !’ 

The  latest  works  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 
have  fulfilled  the  promise  of  healthful  moral  feeling, 
and  the  more  complete  mastery  of  his  intellectual 
resources,  evidenced  in  the  family  picture  of  the 
Caxtons.  My  Novel,  or  Varieties  of  English  Life , 
1853,  and  What  will  lie  Do  with  It?  1858,  are 
genuine  English  stories,  uniting  the  characteristics 
of  town  and  country  life,  and  presenting  the  contrasts 
of  national  character.  His  country  squires  and 
clergymen  are  perhaps  too  good,  and  his  manufac- 
turers and  borough  Radicals  too  coarse  and  vulgar. 
He  views  society  too  exclusively  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  Almacks  and  May  Fair.  He  is  also  more 
apt  to  describe  his  characters  than  to  develop  them 
in  action  and  dialogue ; and  his  digressions,  though 
always  ingenious,  even  when  they  are  pedantic  and 
egotistic,  are  sometimes  misplaced.  These  are  his 
most  prominent  defects  or  drawbacks.  But  there 
is  so  much  variety  in  his  portraits,  so  much  to 
delight  the  fancy  and  exercise  the  understanding, 
that  it  is  on  these  English  tales,  as  we  conceive, 
that  Sir  Edward’s  fame  will  ultimately  rest.  He 
has  exhibited  an  amazing  versatility  of  intellect  and 
noble  perseverance.  He  has  worked  himself  free  of 
the  pruriency  and  affectations  of  his  early  manner, 
and  we  have  now  the  matured  powers  of  the  artist, 
with  deeper  and  broader  sympathies,  and  a wiser 
philosophy  of  human  life. 

In  1853  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  received 
from  the  university  of  Oxford  the  degree  of  D.  C.  L. ; 
in  1856  he  was  elected  rector  of  the  university  of 
Glasgow  ; and  in  1858  he  joined  the  administration 
of  the  Earl  of  Derby  as  Secretary  for  Colonial 
Affairs. 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 


[ Imagination  on  Canvas  and  in  Boolcs .] 

[From  the  Preface  to  The  Last  of  the  Barons .] 

It  is  when  we  compare  works  of  imagination  in 
writing,  with  works  of  imagination  on  the  canvas,  that 
we  can  best  form  a critical  idea  of  the  different  schools 
which  exist  in  each;  for  common  both  to  the  author 
and  the  painter  are  those  styles  which  we  call  the 
familiar,  the  picturesque,  and  the  intellectual.  By 
recurring  to  this  comparison,  we  can  without  much 
difficulty  classify  works  of  fiction  in  their  proper  order, 
and  estimate  the  rank  they  should  severally  hold.  The 
intellectual  will  probably  never  be  the  most  widely 
popular  for  the  moment.  He  who  prefers  to  study  in 
this  school,  must  be  prepared  for  much  depreciation,  for 
its  greatest  excellences,  even  if  he  achieve  them,  are 
not  the  most  obvious  to  the  many.  In  discussing,  for 
instance,  a modern  work,  we  hear  it  praised,  perhaps,  for 
some  striking  passage,  some  prominent  character;  but 
when  do  we  ever  hear  any  comment  on  its  harmony  of 
construction,  on  its  fitness  of  design,  on  its  ideal 
character,  on  its  essentials — in  short,  as  a work  of  art  ? 
What  we  hear  most  valued  in  a picture,  we  often  find 
the  most  neglected  in  a book — namely,  the  composition ; 
and  this,  simply,  because  in  England  painting  is  recog- 
nised as  an  art,  and  estimated  according  to  definite 
theories.  But  in  literature,  we  judge  from  a taste  never 
formed — from  a thousand  prejudices  and  ignorant  pre- 
dilections. We  do  not  yet  comprehend  that  the  author 
is  an  artist,  and  that  the  true  rules  of  art  by  which  he 
should  be  tested,  are  precise  and  immutable.  Hence  the 
singular  and  fantastic  caprices  of  the  popular  opinion 
— its  exaggerations  of  praise  or  censure — its  passion 
and  reaction.  These  violent  fluctuations  betray  both  a 
public  and  a criticism  utterly  unschooled  in  the  ele- 
mentary principles  of  literary  art,  and  entitle  the 
humblest  author  to  dispute  the  censure  of  the  hour, 
while  they  ought  to  render  the  greatest  suspicious  of  its 
praise. 

It  is  then,  in  conformity,  not  with  any  presumptuous 
conviction  of  his  own  superiority,  but  with  his  common 
experience  and  common  sense,  that  every  author  who 
addresses  an  English  audience  in  serious  earnest,  is 
permitted  to  feel  that  his  final  sentence  rests  not  with 
the  jury  before  which  he  is  first  heard.  The  literary 
history  of  the  day  consists  of  a series  of  judgments  set 
aside. 

But  this  uncertainty  must  more  essentially  betide 
every  student,  however  lowly,  in  the  school  I have 
called  the  intellectual,  which  must  ever  be  more  or  less 
at  variance  with  the  popular  canons ; it  is  its  hard 
necessity  to  use  and  disturb  the  lazy  quietude  of  vulgar 
taste,  for  unless  it  did  so,  it  could  neither  elevate  nor 
move.  He  who  resigns  the  Dutch  art  for  the  Italian, 
must  continue  through  the  dark  to  explore  the  principles 
upon  which  he  founds  his  design — to  which  he  adapts 
his  execution ; in  hope  or  in  despondence,  still  faithful 
to  the  theory  which  cares  less  for  the  amount  of  interest 
created,  than  for  the  sources  from  which  the  interest 
is  to  be  drawn— seeking  in  action  the  movement  of  the 
prouder  passions  or  the  subtler  springs  of  conduct — 
seeking  in  repose  the  colouring  of  intellectual  beauty. 

The  low  and  the  high  of  art  are  not  very  readily 
comprehended  ; they  depend  not  upon  the  worldly  degree 
or  the  physical  condition  of  the  characters  delineated ; 
they  depend  entirely  upon  the  quality  of  the  emotion 
which  the  characters  are  intended  to  excite ; namely, 
whether  of  sympathy  for  something  low,  or  of  admiration 
for  something  high.  There  is  nothing  high  in  a boor’s 
head,  by  Teniers — there  is  nothing  low  in  a boor’s  head, 
by  Guido.  What  makes  the  difference  between  the  two  ? 
The  absence  or  presence  of  the  ideal ! But  every  one 
can  judge  of  the  merit  of  the  first,  for  it  is  of  the 
familiar  school ; it  requires  a connoisseur  to  see  the 
merit  of  the  last,  for  it  is  of  the  intellectual. 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


[Power  and  Genius — Idols  of  Imagination.'] 
[From  The  Last  of  ilie  Barons .] 

The  father  and  child  seated  themselves  on  the 
parapet,  and  saw,  below,  the  gay  and  numerous  vessels 
that  glided  over  the  sparkling  river,  while  the  dark 
walls  of  Baynard’s  castle,  the  adjoining  bulwark  and 
battlements  of  Montfichet,  and  the  tall  watch-tower  of 
Warwick’s  mighty  mansion,  frowned,  in  the  distance, 
against  the  soft  blue  sky. 

‘There,’  said  Adam  quietly,  and  pointing  to  the 
feudal  roofs — ‘there  seems  to  rise  power;  and  yonder 
(glancing  to  the  river) — yonder  seems  to  flow  genius ! 
A century  or  so  hence,  the  walls  shall  vanish,  but  the 
river  shall  roll  on.  Man  makes  the  castle,  and  founds 
the  power — God  forms  the  river,  and  creates  the  genius. 
And  yet,  Sybill,  there  may  be  streams  as  broad  and 
stately  as  yonder  Thames,  that  flow  afar  in  the  waste, 
never  seen,  never  heard  by  man.  What  profits  the  river 
unmarked  ? what  the  genius  never  to  be  known  ? ’ 

It  was  not  a common  thing  with  Adam  Warner  to  be 
thus  eloquent.  Usually  silent  and  absorbed,  it  was  not 
his  gift  to  moralise  or  declaim.  His  soul  must  be  deeply 
moved  before  the  profound  and  buried  sentiment  within 
it  could  escape  into  words. 

Sybill  pressed  her  father’s  hand,  and,  though  her  own 
heart  was  very  heavy,  she  forced  her  lips  to  smile,  and 
her  voice  to  soothe.  Adam  interrupted  her. 

‘Child,  child,  ye  women  know  not  what  presses 
darkest  and  most  bitterly  on  the  minds  of  men.  You 
know  not  what  it  is  to  form  out  of  immaterial  things 
some  abstract  but  glorious  object — to  worship — to  serve 
it — to  sacrifice  to  it  as  on  an  altar,  youth,  health,  hope, 
life — and  suddenly,  in  old  age,  to  see  that  the  idol  was 
a phantom,  a mockery,  a shadow  laughing  us  to  scorn, 
because  we  have  sought  to  clasp  it.’ 

‘ Oh  yes,  father,  women  have  known  that  illusion.’ 

‘ What ! Do  they  study  ?’ 

‘No,  father,  but  they  feel !’ 

* Feel ! I comprehend  thee  not.’ 

‘ As  man’s  genius  to  him,  is  women’s  heart  to  her,’ 
answered  Sybill,  her  dark  and  deep  eyes  suffused  with 
tears.  ‘ Doth  not  the  heart  create — invent  ? Doth  it 
not  dream?  Doth  it  not  form  its  idol  out  of  air? 
Groeth  it  not  forth  into  the  future,  to  prophesy  to  itself? 
And,  sooner  or  later,  in  age  or  youth,  doth  it  not  wake 
itself  at  last,  and  see  how  it  hath  wasted  its  all  on 
follies?  Yes,  father,  my  heart  can  answer,  when  thy 
genius  would  complain.’ 

WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH. 

Mr  W.  Harrison  Ainsworth  (born  at  Man- 
chester in  1805)  has  written  several  novels  and 
romances,  partly  founded  on  English  history  and 
manners.  His  Rookwood , 1831,  is  a very  animated 
narrative,  in  which  the  adventures  of  Turpin  the 
highwayman  are  graphically  related,  and  some  of 
the  vulgar  superstitions  of  the  last  century  coloured 
with  the  lights  of  genius.  In  the  interest  and  rapi- 
dity of  his  scenes  and  adventures,  Mr  Ainsworth 
evinced  a dramatic  power  and  art,  but  no  originality 
or  felicity  of  humour  or  character.  His  second 
romance,  Crichton , 1836,  is  founded  on  the  marvel- 
lous history  of  the  Scottish  Cavalier,  but  is  scarcely 
equal  to  the  first.  He  has  since  written  Jack 
Sheppard , a sort  of  Newgate  romance,  The  Tower 
of  London , Guy  Fawkes , Old  St  Pauls,  Windsor 
Castle , The  Lancashire  Witches , The  Star  Chamber, 
The  Flitch  of  Bacon,  and  The  Spendthrift.  There  are 
rich,  copious,  and  brilliant  descriptions  in  some  of 
these  works,  but  their  tendency  must  be  reprobated. 
To  portray  scenes  of  low  successful  villainy,  and  to 
paint  ghastly  and  hideous  details  of  human  suffering, 
610 


to  1859. 


can  be  no  elevating  task  for  a man  of  genius,  nor 
one  likely  to  promote  among  novel  readers  a healthy 
tone  of  moral  feeling  or  sentiment.  The  story  of 
Jack  Sheppard,  illustrated  by  the  pencil  of  Cruik- 
shank,  had  immense  success,  and  was  dramatised. 
Mr  Ainsworth  is  proprietor  and  editor  of  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  and  Bentley’s  Miscellany . 

BENJAMIN  DISRAELI. 

The  Eight  Hon.  Benjamin  Disraeli  (son  of  the 
author  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature,  and  born  in 
London  in  1805)  appeared  as  a novelist  in  the  year 
1826,  when  he  published  Vivian  Grey,  two  volumes. 
A second  part  was  added  in  the  following  year. 
The  work  was  read  with  great  avidity.  It  con- 
tained so  many,  and  such  direct  references  to  public 
men  and  recent  events— such  sarcastic  views  of 
society  and  character  in  high  life — and  was  at  once 


so  arrogant,  egotistic,  and  clever,  that  it  became 
the  book  of  the  season  and  the  talk  of  the  town. 
Passages  of  glowing  sentiment  and  happy  descrip- 
tion gave  evidence  of  poetic  feeling  and  imagination. 
In  1828,  the  young  novelist  continued  his  vein  of 
sarcasm  in  The  Voyage  of  Captain  Popanilla,  an 
adaptation  of  Swift’s  Gulliver  to  modern  times  and 
circumstances.  He  then  sought  out  new  scenes 
abroad,  travelling  over  Italy  and  Greece,  residing 
for  a winter  in  Constantinople,  and  exploring  Syria, 
Egypt,  and  Nubia.  On  his  return  to  England,  Mr 
Disraeli  began  to  mingle  in  the  political  contests 
and  excitement  caused  by  the  Keform  Bill  and  the 
advent  of  the  Whigs  to  power.  He  was  ambitious 
of  a seat  in  parliament,  and  made  three  unsuccessful 
efforts  for  this  purpose— the  two  first  as  an  extreme 
Reformer,  and  the  third  in  the  character  of  a Con- 
servative. He  quarrelled  with  O’Connell  and  Joseph 
Hume,  wrote  furious  letters  against  all  gain sayers, 
and  sent  a challenge  to  O’Connell’s  son.  He  then 
became  the  Coryphceus  of  the  party  denominated 
‘ Young  England,’  and  professed  to  look  for  the 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BENJAMIN  DISRAELI. 


elements  of  national  regeneration  and  -welfare  in 
the  exertions  and  energies  of  the  ‘ heroic  youth  ’ of 
the  country.  From  1830  to  1833  he  produced 
several  works  of  fiction — The  Young  Duke , Contarini 
Fleming , The  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy , The  Rise  of 
Iskander , Ixion  in  Heaven,  &c.  The  best  of  these 
is  Contarini  Fleming,  which  he  afterwards  termed 
The  Psychological  Romance.  Though  in  the  highest 
•degree  improbable  as  a story,  and  exaggerated  in 
tone  and  sentiment,  passages  of  fine  imagination, 
satire,  and  description,  abound  in  this  romance. 
The  hero  seemed  to  be  a self-delineation  of  the 
author — an  idealised  Disraeli,  revelling  in  scenes 
of  future  greatness,  baffling  foreign  diplomatists  and 
political  intriguers,  and  trampling  down  all  opposi- 
tion by  the  brilliancy  of  his  intellect  and  the  force 
of  his  will.  In  Alroy , the  author’s  imagination  ran 
to  waste.  It  is  written  in  a strain  of  Eastern 
hyperbole,  in  a sort  of  lyrical  prose,  and  is  without 
purpose,  coherence,  or  interest.  Nothing  daunted 
by  the  ridicule  heaped  on  this  work,  Mr  Disraeli 
made  a still  bolder  flight  next  year.  In  1834 
appeared,  in  quarto,  The  Revolutionary  Epick,  the 
Work  of  Disraeli  the  Younger,  Author  of  The  Psycho- 
logical Romance.  Such  a title  was  eminently  pro- 
vocative of  ridicule,  and  the  feeling  was  heightened 
by  the  preface,  in  which  the  author  stated  that  his 
poem  was  suggested  on  the  plains  of  Troy,  but 
that  ‘the  poet  hath  ever  embodied  the  spirit  of 
his  time.’  He  instanced  the  Iliad,  the  Eneid,  the 
Divine  Comedy,  and  the  Paradise  Lost,  adding : ‘And 
the  Spirit  of  my  Time,  shall  it  alone  be  uncele- 
brated ? For  me  remains  the  Revolutionary  Epick."' 
Accordingly,  the  Genius  of  Feudalism  and  the  Genius 
•of  Federalism  are  made  to  appear  before  the  throne 
of  Demogorgon,  to  plead  in  blank  verse  the  cause 
of  their  separate  political  systems,  and  Faith  and 
Fealty  and  ‘Young  England’  are  triumphant.  No 
work  of  Mr  Disraeli’s  was  ever  without  some  pas- 
sage of  originality  or  power,  and  a few  of  the 
monologues  and  descriptions  in  this  epic  are  wrought 
up  with  considerable  effect,  but  on  the  whole  it  is 
heavy  and  incongruous,  and  was  universally  con- 
sidered a failure.  Some  political  dissertations 
succeeded — The  Crisis  Examined,  Vindication  of  the 
English  Constitution,  Letters  of  Runnymede,  &c. 
These  are  strongly  anti-Whiggish,  written  after  the 
model  of  Junius,  and  abound  in  elaborate  sarcasm 
and  invective,  occasionally  degenerating  into  bom- 
bast, but  with  traces  of  that  command  of  humorous 
illustration  w'hich  afterwards  distinguished  Mr 
Disraeli  as  a parliamentary  debater.  The  years 
1836  and  1837  were  marked  by  the  production  of 
two  more  novels — Henrietta  Temple,  a Love  Story, 
and  Venetia.  The  former  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing 
and  consistent  of  the  author’s  fictions ; the  second 
is  an  attempt  to  portray  the  characters  of  Byron 
and  Shelley  in  connection  with  a series  of  improb- 
able incidents.  Shortly  after  the  appearance  of 
his  tale  of  Venetia,  its  author  w'as  gratified 
by  the  acquisition  of  that  long-coveted  honour,  a 
seat  in  parliament.  He  was  returned  for  the  borough 
of  Maidstone.  His  first  speech  was  looked  forward 
to  with  some  interest,  for  Mr  Disraeli  had  menaced 
O’Connell  with  the  threat,  ‘We  shall  meet  at 
Philippi,’  and  had  piqued  the  public  curiosity  by 
his  political  reveries  and  bold  satire,  so  that  a 
performance  rich  in  amusement,  if  not  one  of  high 
triumph,  was  anticipated.  In  style  and  delivery 
the  speech  resembled  Mr  Disraeli’s  Oriental  magni- 
ficence; it  was  received  with  shouts  of  derisive 
laughter,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  speaker  fairly 
broke  down,  but  in  conclusion  he  thundered  out 
with  prophetic  sagacity:  ‘I  have  begun  several 


times  many  things,  and  have  often  succeeded  at 
last.  I shall  sit  down  now,  but  the  time  will  come 
when  you  will  hear  me.’  It  -was  long,  however, 
before  he  ventured  on  a second  attempt ; and  when 
he  did  come  forward  again  on  that  trying  arena, 
it  was  obvious  that  he  had  profited  by  the  failure 
and  by  the  subsequent  discipline  it  had  led  him 
to  undertake.  It  is  not  within  our  province  to 
review  the  political  career  of  Mr  Disraeli.  He  was 
eccentric,  overweening,  and  inconsistent — ever  aim- 
ing at  personal  distinction  or  notoriety — eager  to 
dazzle,  astonish,  and  strike.  At  length  his  talent, 
or  rather  genius,  took  a practicable  shape  ; his  taste 
and  ambition  were  chastened,  and  his  efforts  as  a 
politician  and  debater  were  crowned  with  brilliant 
success.  ‘ It  is  a common  opinion,’  as  he  has  him- 
self said,  ‘that  a man  cannot  at  the  same  time  be 
successful  both  in  meditation  and  in  action.  But 
in  life  it  is  wdsest  to  judge  men  individually,  and 
not  decide  upon  them  by  general  rules.  The 
common  opinion  in  this  instance  may  be  very  often 
correct;  but  where  it  fails  to  apply  its  influence 
may  involve  us  in  fatal  mistakes.  A literary  man 
who  is  a man  of  action  is  a two-edged  weapon; 
nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  Caius  Julius  and 
Frederick  the  Great  were  both  eminently  literary 
characters,  and  yet  were  perhaps  the  two  most 
distinguished  men  of  action  of  ancient  and  modern 
times.’  Before  the  novelist  had  succeeded  in  realis- 
ing this  rare  combination,  he  continued  his  literary 
labours.  In  1839  he  produced  a tragedy,  Alcaros , 
which  is  alike  deficient  in  poetic  power  and  artistic 
skill.  In  1844  and  1845  he  wras  successful  with  two 
semi-political  novels,  Coningsby,  or  the  New  Genera- 
tion, and  Sybil,  or  the  Two  Nations.  The  former  wras 
a daring  attempt  to  portray  the  public  men  of  his 
own  times — to  delineate  the  excesses  of  the  Marquis 
of  Hertford,  the  subserviency  and  Irish  assurance 
of  Mr  John  Wilson  Croker,  the  tuft-hunting  and 
dissipation  of  Theodore  Hook,  and  the  political 
influence  and  social  life  of  men  like  the  Duke  of 
Rutland  and  Lord  Lonsdale.  The  lower  class  of 
trading  politicians  and  supple  subordinates  was 
well  drawn  in  the  trio  Messrs  Earwig,  Tadpole, 
and  Taper ; while  the  doctrines  of  ‘ Young  England  ’ 
were  exemplified  in  the  hero,  Coningsby  (the  Hon. 
Mr  Smythe),  in  Sidonia,  the  Jew  (obviously  Mr 
Disraeli  himself),  and  in  the  various  dialogues  and 
episodes  scattered  throughout  the  work.  Pictures 
of  high  life  and  fashionable  frivolities  vary  the 
graver  scenes,  and  defects  in  our  domestic  institu- 
tions and  arrangements  are  commented  upon  in  the 
author’s  pointed  and  epigrammatic  style.  These 
opinions  of  the  ‘ new  generation  ’ are  often  false  in 
sentiment  and  utterly  impracticable — such  as  the 
proposed  revival  of  May  games  and  other  rustic 
sports,  with  profuse  hospitality  on  the  part  of  land- 
owners— while  the  historical  retrospects  of  public 
affairs  and  English  rulers  are  glaringly  partial 
and  unjust.  The  same  defects  characterise  Sybil, 
but  with  less  interest  in  the  narrative  portions  of 
the  w'ork.  It  is,  indeed,  more  strictly  a collection 
of  political  essays  and  conversations  than  a novel. 
One  peculiarity  in  these  works,  and  one  which  has 
become  characteristic  of  Mr  Disraeli,  is  his  chival- 
rous defence  of  the  Jews.  Touched  by  hereditary 
associations  and  poetic  fancy,  he  places  the  Hebrew 
race  above  all  others.  But  even  in  their  day  of 
power  the  Jews  yielded  to  various  conquerors,  and 
their  depressed  political  condition  cannot  but  be 
regarded  as  a proof  of  inferiority.  The  next  flight 
of  our  author  was  towards  the  East.  Tancred,  or 
the  New  Crusade,  1847,  is  extravagant  and  absurd 
in  its  whole  conception  and  plot,  yet  contains  some 


FBom  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859, 


gorgeous  descriptions  of  Oriental  life  and  scenery. 
The  hero,  Tancred,  a young  English  nobleman, 
desires  to  * penetrate  the  great  Asian  mystery,’  and 
travels  over  the  Holy  Land,  encountering  perils 
and  adventures;  he  fights,  loves,  and  meditates; 
but  in  the  end,  when  the  reader  expects  to  be  able 
to  * pluck  the  heart  out  of  this  great  mystery,’  the 
English  father  and  mother  appear  in  Jerusalem,  and 
bear  off  the  errant  and  enthusiastic  crusader.  With 
this  second  ‘ wild  and  wondrous  tale  ’ Mr  Disraeli’s 
career  as  a novelist  seems  to  have  closed.  He  was 
now  immersed  in  politics,  and  conspicuous  as  a 
debater.  When  Sir  Robert  Peel  avowed  and  acted 
upon  his  conversion  to  the  principles  of  free-trade, 
he  was  assailed,  night  after  night,  by  Mr  Disraeli 
in  speeches  memorable  for  their  bitterness,  their 
concentrated  sarcasm,  and  studied  invective.  No 
minister  since  Walpole  had  been  so  incessantly  and 
perseveringly  attacked.  The  Opposition  at  this 
time  was  led  by  Lord  George  Bentinck ; and  when 
the  chief  was  cut  off  by  a sudden  and  premature 
death,  Mr  Disraeli  commemorated  his  services  in  a 
volume  entitled  Lord  George  Bentinck , a Political 
Biography , 1851.  A few  months  after  this  period 
the  Earl  of  Derby  was  called  upon  to  form  a 
Conservative  administration,  and  Mr  Disraeli  was 
made  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  He  retired 
with  his  party  after  about  nine  months’  possession 
of  office,  but  when  Lord  Derby  returned  again  to 
power,  in  1858,  Mr  Disraeli  resumed  his  former 
important  appointment.  In  1859,  the  defeat  of  the 
administration  again  led  to  his  retirement. 


[The  Principle  of  Utility .] 

‘In  this  country,’  said  Sidonia,  ‘since  the  peace, 
there  has  been  an  attempt  to  advocate  a reconstruction 
of  society  on  a purely  rational  basis.  The  principle  of 
utility  has  been  powerfully  developed.  I speak  not 
with  lightness  of  the  labours  of  the  disciples  of  that 
school.  I bow  to  intellect  in  every  form  : and  we  should 
be  grateful  to  any  school  of  philosophers,  even  if  we 
disagree  with  them;  doubly  grateful  in  this  country, 
where  for  so  long  a period  our  statesmen  were  in  so 
pitiable  an  arrear  of  public  intelligence.  There  has 
been  an  attempt  to  reconstruct  society  on  a basis  of 
material  motives  and  calculations.  It  has  failed.  It 
must  ultimately  have  failed  under  any  circumstances : 
its  failure  in  an  ancient  and  densely  peopled  kingdom 
was  inevitable.  How  limited  is  human  reason,  the 
profoundest  inquirers  are  most  conscious.  We  are  not 
indebted  to  the  reason  of  man  for  any  of  the  great 
achievements  which  are  the  landmarks  of  human  action 
and  human  progress.  It  was  not  reason  that  besieged 
Troy;  it  was  not  reason  that  sent  forth  the  Saracen 
from  the  desert  to  conquer  the  world ; that  inspired 
the  Crusades ; that  instituted  the  monastic  orders ; it 
was  not  reason  that  produced  the  Jesuits;  above  all,  it 
was  not  reason  that  created  the  French  Revolution. 
Man  is  only  truly  great  when  he  acts  from  the  passions ; 
never  irresistible  but  when  he  appeals  to  the  imagina- 
tion. Even  Mormon  counts  more  votaries  than  Bentham.’ 
‘ And  you  think,  then,  that  as  imagination  once  subdued 
the  state,  imagination  may  now  save  it  ?’  ‘ Man  is  made 
to  adore  and  to  obey  : but  if  you  will  not  command  him  ; 
if  you  give  him  nothing  to  worship ; he  will  fashion  his 
own  divinities,  and  find  a chieftain  in  his  own  passions.’ 

* But  where  can  we  find  faith  in  a nation  of  sectaries  ? 
Who  can  feel  loyalty  to  a sovereign  of  Downing  Street?’ 

* I speak  of  the  eternal  principles  of  human  nature ; you 
answer  me  with  the  passing  accidents  of  the  hour. 
Sects  rise  and  sects  disappear.  Where  are  the  Fifth- 
monarchy  men?  England  is  governed  by  Downing 
Street ; once  it  was  governed  by  Alfred  and  Elizabeth.’ 

642 


[The  Hd>rew  Race.'] 

‘You  never  observe  a great  intellectual  movement  in 
Europe  in  which  the  Jews  do  not  greatly  participate. 
The  first  Jesuits  were  Jews:  that  mysterious  Russian 
diplomacy  which  so  alarms  Western  Europe  is  organised 
and  principally  carried  on  by  Jews;  that  mighty  revo- 
lution which  is  at  this  moment  preparing  in  Germany, 
and  which  will  be,  in  fact,  a second  and  greater  reforma- 
tion, and  of  which  so  little  is  as  yet  known  in  England, 
is  entirely  developing  under  the  auspices  of  Jews,  who 
almost  monopolise  the  professorial  chairs  of  Germany. 
Neander,  the  founder  of  spiritual  Christianity,  and 
who  is  regius  professor  of  divinity  in  the  university  of 
Berlin,  is  a Jew.  Benary,  equally  famous,  and  in  the 
same  university,  is  a Jew.  Wehl,  the  Arabic  professor 
of  Heidelberg,  is  a Jew.  Years  ago,  when  I was  in 
Palestine,  I met  a German  student  who  was  accumu- 
lating materials  for  the  history  of  Christianity,  and 
studying  the  genius  of  the  place ; a modest  and  learned 
man.  It  was  Wehl;  then  unknown,  since  become  the 
first  Arabic  scholar  of  the  day,  and  the  author  of  the 
life  of  Mohammed.  But  for  the  German  professors  of 
this  race,  their  name  is  Legion.  I think  there  are  more 
than  ten  at  Berlin  alone.  I told  you  just  now  that  I was 
going  up  to  town  to-morrow,  because  I always  made  it 
a rule  to  interpose  when  affairs  of  state  were  on  the 
carpet.  Otherwise,  I never  interfere,  I hear  of  peace 
and  war  in  newspapers,  but  I am  never  alarmed,  except 
when  I am  informed  that  the  sovereigns  want  treasure  ; 
then  I know  that  monarchs  are  serious.  A few  years 
back  we  were  applied  to  by  Russia.  Now,  there  has 
been  no  friendship  between  the  court  of  St  Petersburg 
and  my  family.  It  has  Dutch  connections  which  have 
generally  supplied  it,  and  our  representations  in  favour 
of  the  Polish  Hebrews,  a numerous  race,  but  the  most 
suffering  and  degraded  of  all  the  tribes,  has  not  been 
very  agreeable  to  the  czar.  However,  circumstances 
drew  to  an  approximation  between  the  Romanoffs  and 
th«  Sidonias.  I resolved  to  go  myself  to  St  Petersburg. 
I had  on  my  arrival  an  interview  with  the  Russian 
minister  of  finance,  Count  Cancrin;  I beheld  the  son 
of  a Lithuanian  Jew.  The  loan  was  connected  with 
the  affairs  of  Spain ; I resolved  on  repairing  to  Spain 
from  Russia.  I travelled  without  intermission.  I had 
an  audience  immediately  on  my  arrival  with  the  Spanish 
minister,  Senor  Mendizabel;  I beheld  one  like  myself, 
the  son  of  a Nuovo  Christiano,  a Jew  of  Aragon.  In 
consequence  of  what  transpired  at  Madrid,  I went 
straight  to  Paris,  to  consult  the  president  of  the 
French  council;  I beheld  the  son  of  a French  Jew,  a 
hero,  an  imperial  marshal,  and  very  properly  so,  for 
who  should  be  military  heroes  if  not  those  who  worship 
the  Lord  of  hosts ? ’ ‘ And  is  Soult  a Hebrew ? ’ ‘Yes, 

and  several  of  the  French  marshals,  and  the  most 
famous : Massena,  for  example — his  real  name  was 
Manasseh.  But  to  my  anecdote.  The  consequence  of 
our  consultations  was,  that  some  northern  power  should 
be  applied  to  in  a friendly  and  mediative  capacity. 
"We  fixed  on  Prussia,  and  the  president  of  the  council 
made  an  application  to  the  Prussian  minister,  who 
attended  a few  days  after  our  conference.  Count  Arnim 
entered  the  cabinet,  and  I beheld  a Prussian  Jew.  So 
you  see,  my  dear  Coningsby,  that  the  world  is  governed 
by  very  different  personages  to  what  is  imagined  by 
those  who  are  not  behind  the  scenes.  Favoured  by 
nature  and  by  nature’s  God,  we  produced  the  lyre  of 
David ; we  gave  you  Isaiah  and  Ezekiel ; they  are  our 
Olynthians,  our  Philippics.  Favoured  by  nature  we 
still  remain ; but  in  exact  proportion  as  we  have  been 
favoured  by  nature,  we  have  been  persecuted  by  man. 
After  a thousand  struggles — after  acts  of  heroic 
courage  that  Rome  has  never  equalled — deeds  of  divine 
patriotism  that  Athens,  and  Sparta,  and  Carthage  have 
never  excelled — we  have  endured  fifteen  hundred  years 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  WARREN. 


of  supernatural  slavery ; during  which,  every  device  that 
can  degrade  or  destroy  man  has  been  the  destiny  that 
we  have  sustained  and  baffled.  The  Hebrew  child  has 
entered  adolescence  only  to  learn  that  he  was  the 
Pariah  of  that  ungrateful  Europe  that  owes  to  him  the 
best  part  of  its  laws,  a fine  portion  of  its  literature,  all 
its  religion.  Great  poets  require  a public;  we  have 
been  content  with  the  immortal  melodies  that  we  sung 
more  than  two  thousand  years  ago  by  the  waters  of 
Babylon  and  wept.  They  record  our  triumphs;  they 
solace  our  affliction.  Great  orators  are  the  creatures  of 
popular  assemblies ; we  were  permitted  only  by  stealth 
to  meet  even  in  our  temples.  And  as  for  great  writers, 
the  catalogue  is  not  blank.  What  are  all  the  school- 
men, Aquinas  himself,  to  Maimonides?  and  as  for 
modern  philosophy,  all  springs  from  Spinoza ! But  the 
passionate  and  creative  genius  that  is  the  nearest  link 
to  divinity,  and  which  no  human  tyranny  can  destroy, 
though  it  can  divert  it;  that  should  have  stirred  the 
hearts  of  nations  by  its  inspired  sympathy,  or  governed 
senates  by  its  burning  eloquence,  has  found  a medium 
for  its  expression,  to  which,  in  spite  of  your  prejudices 
and  your  evil  passions,  you  have  been  obliged  to  bow. 
The  ear,  the  voice,  the  fancy  teeming  with  combinations — 
the  imagination  fervent  with  picture  and  emotion,  that 
came  from  Caucasus,  and  which  we  have  preserved 
unpolluted — have  endowed  us  with  almost  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  music;  that  science  of  harmonious  sounds 
which  the  ancients  recognised  as  most  divine,  and  deified 
in  the  person  of  their  most  beautiful  creation.  I speak 
not  of  the  past ; though  were  I to  enter  into  the  history 
of  the  lords  of  melody,  you  would  find  it  the  annals  of 
Hebrew  genius.  But  at  this  moment  even,  musical 
Europe  is  ours.  There  is  not  a company  of  singers, 
not  an  orchestra  in  a single  capital,  that  are  not 
crowded  with  our  children,  under  the  feigned  names 
which  they  adopt  to  conciliate  the  dark  aversion  which 
your  posterity  will  some  day  disclaim  with  shame  and 
disgust.  Almost  every  great  composer,  skilled  musician, 
almost  every  voice  that  ravishes  you  with  its  transport- 
ing strains,  spring  from  our  tribes.  The  catalogue  is 
too  vast  to  enumerate;  too  illustrious  to  dwell  for  a 
moment  on  secondary  names,  however  eminent.  Enough 
for  us  that  the  three  great  creative  minds,  to  whose 
exquisite  inventions  all  nations  at  this  moment  yield 
— Rossini,  Meyerbeer,  Mendelssohn — are  of  Hebrew  race ; 
and  little  do  your  men  of  fashion,  your  “ Muscadins  ” of 
Paris,  and  your  dandies  of  London,  as  they  thrill  into 
raptures  at  the  notes  of  a Pasta  or  a Grisi,  little  do 
they  suspect  that  they  are  offering  homage  to  the  sweet 
singers  of  Israel.’ 

[Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  of  the  City  of  Venice.] 

It  was  in  Switzerland  that  I first  felt  how  constantly 
to  contemplate  sublime  creation  develops  the  poetic 
power.  It  was  here  that  I first  began  to  study  nature. 
Those  forests  of  black  gigantic  pines  rising  out  of  the 
deep  snows;  those  tall  white  cataracts,  leaping  like 
headstrong  youth  into  the  world,  and  dashing  from 
their  precipices,  as  if  allured  by  the  beautiful  delusion 
of  their  own  rainbow  mist ; those  mighty  clouds  sailing 
beneath  my  feet,  or  clinging  to  the  bosoms  of  the  dark 
green  mountains,  or  boiling  up  like  a spell  from  the 
invisible  and  unfathomable  depths ; the  fell  avalanche, 
fleet  as  a spirit  of  evil,  terrific  when  its  sound  suddenly 
breaks  upon  the  almighty  silence,  scarcely  less  terrible 
when  we  gaze  upon  its  crumbling  and  pallid  frame, 
varied  only  by  the  presence  of  one  or  two  blasted  firs ; 
the  head  of  a mountain  loosening  from  its  brother  peak, 
rooting  up,  in  the  roar  of  its  rapid  rush,  a whole  forest 
of  pines,  and  covering  the  earth  for  miles  with  elephan- 
tine masses ; the  supernatural  extent  of  landscape  that 
opens  to  us  new  worlds;  the  strong  eagles,  and  the 
strange  wild  birds  that  suddenly  cross  you  in  your  path, 
and  stare,  and  shrieking  fly — and  all  the  soft  sights  of 


joy  and  loveliness  that  mingle  with  these  sublime  and 
savage  spectacles,  the  rich  pastures  and  the  numerous 
flocks,  and  the  golden  bees  and  the  wild-flowers,  and 
the  carved  and  painted  cottages,  and  the  simple  manners 
and  the  primeval  grace — wherever  I moved,  I was  in 
turn  appalled  or  enchanted;  but  whatever  I beheld, 
new  images  ever  sprang  up  in  my  mind,  and  new 
feelings  ever  crowded  on  my  fancy 

If  I were  to  assign  the  particular  quality  which  con- 
duces to  that  dreamy  and  voluptuous  existence,  which 
men  of  high  imagination  experience  in  Venice,  I should 
describe  it  as  the  feeling  of  abstraction,  which  is 
remarkable  in  that  city,  and  peculiar  to  it.  Venice 
is  the  only  city  which  can  yield  the  magical  delights 
of  solitude.  All  is  still  and  silent.  No  rude  sound 
disturbs  your  reveries ; fancy,  therefore,  is  not  put  to 
flight.  No  rude  sound  distracts  your  self-consciousness. 
This  renders  existence  intense.  We  feel  everything. 
And  we  feel  thus  keenly  in  a city  not  only  eminently 
beautiful,  not  only  abounding  in  wonderful  creations  of 
art,  but  each  step  of  which  is  hallowed  ground,  quick 
with  associations,  that  in  their  more  various  nature, 
their  nearer  relation  to  ourselves,  and  perhaps  their 
more  picturesque  character,  exercise  a greater  influence 
over  the  imagination  than  the  more  antique  story  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  We  feel  all  this  in  a city  too,  which, 
although  her  lustre  be  indeed  dimmed,  can  still  count 
among  her  daughters  maidens  fairer  than  the  orient 
pearls  with  which  her  warriors  once  loved  to  deck 
them.  Poetry,  Tradition,  and  Love,  these  are  the  Graces 
that  have  invested  with  an  ever- charming  cestus  this 
Aphrodite  of  cities. 

SAMUEL  WARREN. 

In  vivid  painting  of  the  passions,  and  depicting 
scenes  of  modern  life,  the  tales  of  Mr  Samuel 
Warren  (born  in  Denbighshire  in  1807)  have 


Samuel  Warren. 


enjoyed  a high  and  deserved  degree  of  popularity. 
His  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a Late  Physician , two 
volumes,  i837,  contain  many  touching  and  beautiful 

€43 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


stories.  His  Ten  Thousand  a Year , though  in  some 
parts  ridiculously  exaggerated,  and  liable  to  the 
suspicion  of  being  a satire  upon  the  middle  classes,  is 
also  an  amusing  and  able  novel.  The  same  remark 
applies  to  his  third  work  of  fiction,  Now  and  Then. 
After  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  Mr  Warren 
published  a slight  work,  The  Lily  and  the  Bee , which 
was  almost  inconceivably  puerile  and  absurd.  He 
has  contributed  various  articles  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  and  has  written  several  professional 
works — Mr  Warren  is  a Queen’s  Counsel — besides 
editing  Blackstone's  Commentaries. 

MRS  BRAY. 

Mrs  Anna  Eliza  Bray  has  written  several  novels, 
and  other  works  descriptive  and  biographical.  A 
native  of  Devonshire,  this  lady  became  the  wife  of 
Mr  Charles  Stothard,  author  of  The  Monumental 
Effigies  of  Great  Britain;  and  on  the  premature 
death  of  Mr  Stothard,  his  widow  published  memoirs 
of  his  life.  She  was  afterwards  married  to  the  Rev. 
Mr  Bray,  vicar  of  Tavistock.  The  novels  of  Mrs 
Bray  are  De  Foix , or  Sketches  of  Manners  and 
Customs  of  the  Fourteenth  Century , 1826 ; The  White 
Hoods,  1828;  The  Protestant,  1829;  Fitz  of  Fitzf or d; 
Henry  de  Pomeroy ; Talba,  or  the  Moor  of  Portugal; 
Trelawney  of  Trelawney ; Trials  of  Domestic  Life; 
&c.  Mrs  Bray  has  also  published  Traditions  and 
Sketches  of  Devonshire  (being  a series  of  letters 
addressed  to  Southey  the  poet) ; Tours  in  Normandy 
and  Switzerland;  and  a Life  of  Thomas  Stothard, 
P.A.,  1851.  In  1844  a collected  edition  of  Mrs 
Bray’s  works  was  published  in  ten  volumes. 

THOMAS  CROFTON  CROKER. 

Mr  Croker  (1798-1854)  was  one  of  the  most 
industrious  and  tasteful  collectors  of  the  legendary 
lore,  the  poetical  traditions,  and  antiquities  of 
Ireland.  He  was  a native  of  Cork — a city  famous 
also  as  the  birthplace  of  Maginn,  Maclise,  and 
Mahony  (Father  Prout).  In  1824  appeared  Mr 
Croker’s  Researches  in  the  South  of  Ireland ; in  1825 
the  first  portion  of  his  Fairy  Legends  and  Traditions 
of  the  South  of  Ireland,  to  which  two  additional 
volumes  were  added  in  1827.  His  other  works 
are — Legends  of  the  Lakes,  or  Sayings  and  Doings 
at  Killarney,  two  volumes,  1828 ; Daniel  O'Rourke, 
or  Rhymes  of  a Pantomime  founded  on  that  Story, 
1829 ; Barney  Mahoney,  1832  ; My  Village  versus  Our 
Village,  1832;  Popular  Songs  of  Ireland,  1839; 
Historical  Songs  of  Ireland,  1841 ; &c.  Mr  Croker 
edited  various  works  illustrative  of  the  history  of 
his  country.  He  held  the  office  of  clerk  in  the 
Admiralty,  to  which  he  had  been  appointed  through 
the  influence  of  his  countryman  and  namesake  John 
Wilson  Croker.  The  tales  of  Barney  Mahoney  and 
My  Village  are  Mr  Crofton  Croker’s  only  strictly 
original  works.  Neither  is  of  the  first  class.  Miss 
Mitford,  in  Our  Village,  may  have  occasionally 
dressed  or  represented  her  village  era  vaudeville,  like 
the  back  scene  of  a theatre,  but  Mr  Croker  in  My 
Village  errs  on  the  opposite  side.  He  gives  us  a 
series  of  Dutch  paintings,  too  little  relieved  by  ima- 
gination or  passion  to  excite  or  gratify  the  curiosity 
of  the  reader.  He  is  happiest  among  the  fanciful 
legends  of  his  native  country,  treasuring  up  their 
romantic  features,  quoting  fragments  of  song, 
describing  a lake  or  ruin,  hitting  off  a dialogue  or 
merry  jest,  and  chronicling  the  peculiarities  of  his 
countrymen  in  their  humours,  their  superstition, 
and  rustic  simplicity.  The  following  is  related  by 
one  of  his  characters : 

614 


[The  Last  of  the  Irish  Serpents.] 

Sure  everybody  has  heard  tell  of  the  blessed  St 
Patrick,  and  how  he  druve  the  sarpints  and  all  manner 
of  venomous  things  out  of  Ireland ; how  he  ‘ bothered 
all  the  varmint’  entirely.  But  for  all  that,  there  was 
one  ould  sarpint  left,  who  was  too  cunning  to  be  talked 
out  of  the  country,  or  made  to  drown  himself.  St 
Patrick  didn’t  well  know  how  to  manage  this  fellow, 
who  was  doing  great  havoc ; till,  at  long  last  he 
bethought  himself,  and  got  a strong  iron  chest  made 
with  nine  boults  upon  it.  So  one  fine  morning  he  takes 
a walk  to  where  the  sarpint  used  to  keep ; and  the 
sarpint,  who  didn’t  like  the  saint  in  the  least,  and  small 
blame  to  him  for  that,  began  to  hiss  and  shew  his  teeth 
at  him  like  anything.  ‘ Oh,’  says  St  Patrick,  says  he, 
‘ where ’s  the  use  of  making  such  a piece  of  work  about 
a gentleman  like  myself  coming  to  see  you?  ’Tis  a nice 
house  I have  got  made  for  you  agin  the  winter;  for 
I ’m  going  to  civilise  the  whole  country,  man  and  beast,’ 
says  he,  ‘ and  you  can  come  and  look  at  it  whenever  you 
please,  and  ’tis  myself  will  be  glad  to  see  you.’  The 
sarpint,  hearing  such  smooth  words,  thought  that  though 
St  Patrick  had  druve  all  the  rest  of  the  sarpints  into  the 
sea,  he  meant  no  harm  to  himself ; so  the  sarpint  walks 
fair  and  easy  up  to  see  him  and  the  house  he  was  speak- 
ing about.  But  when  the  sarpint  saw  the  nine  boults 
upon  the  chest,  he  thought  he  was  sould  (betrayed),  and 
was  for  making  off  with  himself  as  fast  as  ever  he  could. 
‘’Tis  a nice  warm  house,  you  see,’  says  St  Patrick,  ‘and 
’tis  a good  friend  I am  to  you.’  ‘I  thank  you  kindly, 
St  Patrick,  for  your  civility,’  says  the  sarpint;  ‘but  I 
think  it’s  too  small  it  is  for  me’ — meaning  it  for  an 
excuse,  and  away  he  was  going.  ‘Too  small!’  says  St 
Patrick,  ‘stop,  if  you  please,’  says  he,  ‘you’re  out  in 
that,  my  bov,  anyhow — I am  sure  ’twill  fit  you  com- 
pletely ; and  I ’ll  tell  you  what,’  says  he,  ‘ I ’ll  bet  you  a 
gallon  of  porter,’  says  he,  ‘ that  if  you  ’ll  only  try  and 
get  in,  there  ’ll  be  plenty  of  room  for  you.’  The  sarpint 
was  as  thirsty  as  could  he  with  his  walk ; and  ’twas 
great  joy  to  him  the  thoughts  of  doing  St  Patrick  out 
of  the  gallon  of  porter ; so,  swelling  himself  up  as  big 
as  he  could,  in  he  got  to  the  chest,  all  but  a little  bit  of 
his  tail.  ‘There,  now,’  says  he,  ‘I’ve  won  the  gallon, 
for  you  see  the  house  is  too  small  for  me,  for  I can’t  get 
in  my  tail.’  When  what  does  St  Patrick  do,  but  he 
comes  behind  the  great  heavy  lid  of  the  chest,  and, 
putting  his  two  hands  to  it,  down  he  slaps  it  with  a 
bang  like  thunder.  When  the  rogue  of  a sarpint  saw 
the  lid  coming  down,  in  went  his  tail  like  a shot,  for 
fear  of  being  whipped  off  him,  and  St  Patrick  began  at 
once  to  boult  the  nine  iron  boults.  ‘ Oh,  murder  ! wont 
you  let  me  out,  St  Patrick?’  says  the  sarpint;  ‘I’ve 
lost  the  bet  fairly,  and  I’ll  pay  you  the  gallon  like  a 
man.’  ‘ Let  you  out,  my  darling,’  says  St  Patrick,  ‘ to 
be  sure  I will,  by  all  manner  of  means ; but  you  see  I 
haven’t  time  now,  so  you  must  wait  till  to-morrow.’ 
And  so  he  took  the  iron  chest,  with  the  sarpint  in  it, 
and  pitches  it  into  the  lake  here,  where  it  is  to  this 
hour  for  certain ; and  ’tis  the  sarpint  struggling  down  at 
the  bottom  that  makes  the  waves  upon  it.  Many  is  the 
living  man  (continued  Picket)  besides  myself  has  heard 
the  sarpint  crying  out  from  within  the  chest  under  the 
water:  ‘Is  it  to-morrow  yet? — is  it  to-morrow  yet?’ 
which,  to  be  sure,  it  never  can  be  : and  that ’s  the  way 
St  Patrick  settled  the  last  of  the  sarpints,  sir. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Few  authors  have  succeeded  in  achieving  so 
brilliant  a reputation  as  that  secured  by  Mr  Charles 
Dickens  in  a few  years.  The  sale  of  his  works  has 
been  almost  unexampled,  and  several  of  them  have 
been  translated  into  various  languages,  including 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


even  the  Dutch  and  Russian.  Writings  so  univer- 
sally popular  must  appeal  to  passions  and  tastes 
common  to  mankind  in  every  country,  and  at  the 
same  time  must  possess  originality,  novelty  of  style 
or  subject,  and  force  of  delineation.  Mr  Dickens 
was  born  in  1812  at  Landport,  Portsmouth,  in  that 
middle  rank  of  English  life,  within  and  below  which 
his  sympathies  and  powers  as  a novelist  seem 
to  be  bounded.  His  father  held  a situation  in  the 


Navy  Pay  Department,  but  after  the  peace,  con- 
nected himself  with  the  daily  press,  and  became 
a reporter  of  the  parliamentary  debates.  He  was 
desirous  that  his  son  should  follow  the  profession  of 
the  law,  but  the  youth  found  the  confinement  and 
duties  of  an  attorney’s  office  dreary  and  irksome, 
and  he  adopted  his  father’s  profession — that  of  a 
parliamentary  reporter.  In  this  he  was  soon  distin- 
j guished  for  expertness  and  ability.  The  situation 
was  one  calculated  to  sharpen  his  faculties,  and 
I store  his  mind  with  miscellaneous  information, 
j Parliamentary  reporting  is  more  of  a mental  than 
! mechanical  labour.  To  the  power  of  writing  rapidly, 

| there  must  be  joined  quickness  of  apprehension, 
judgment  to  select  and  condense,  and  a degree  of 
imagination,  ready  sympathy,  or  dramatic  talent 
which  identifies  the  reporter  with  the  speaker,  and 
enables  him  to  render  his  meaning  faithfully  and 
vividly.  The  difficulty  is,  to  find  the  mechanical 
art  combined  with  the  intellectual  qualifications ; 

I but  these  Mr  Dickens  possessed  in  perfection.  The 
reporters’  gallery  was  a good  field  of  discipline  and 
observation  for  the  future  novelist,  and  out  of  it,  in 
his  long  unemployed  forenoons,  he  had  the  range 
of  the  world  of  London — its  oddities,  humours, 
streets,  and  houses — which  he  made  his  favourite 
study.  His  first  appearance  as  an  author  was  as  a 
contributor  of  sketches  of  character  and  city  life 
to  the  evening  edition  of  the  Morning  Chronicle , the 
journal  with  which  he  was  connected.  Additions 
were  made  to  these  in  the  Monthly  Magazine , and 
the  whole  were  republished  in  two  volumes,  entitled 
Sketches  by  Boz , and  bearing  respectively  the  dates  of 
1836  and  1837.  In  the  latter  year  he  began  another 
series  of  a similar  character,  The  Pickwick  Papers. 
A publisher  arranged  with  Mr  Dickens  and  a comic 
draughtsman,  Mr  Seymour,  to  produce  a work  which 
should  exhibit  the  adventures  of  a Cockney  sports- 
man— a design  resembling  that  of  Dr  Syntax's  Tour 


by  Combe  and  Rowlandson.  Seymour  unfortun- 
ately sunk  into  despondency,  and  committed  suicide ; 
but  another  artist,  Mr  Hablot  Browne,  was  procured, 
and  continued  the  illustrations  under  the  name  of 
‘Phiz.’  Boz  and  Phiz — author  and  artist — now 
became  the  rage  of  the  town.  Thirty  thousand 
copies  of  the  work  are  said  to  have  been  sold. 
Though  defective  in  plan  and  arrangement,  as  Mr 
Dickens  himself  admits — in  fact,  originally  intended 
as  only  a representation  of  a club  of  oddities — the 
characters,  incidents,  and  dialogues  in  this  new 
series  of  sketches  were  irresistibly  ludicrous  and 
attractive.  Criticism  was  lost  in  laughter.  The 
hero,  Pickwick,  is  almost  as  genial,  unsophisticated, 
and  original  as  My  Uncle  Toby;  while  his  man, 
Sam  Weller,  and  Sam’s  father,  Mr  Weller,  senior, 
were  types  of  low  life  new  to  fiction.  They  were 
caricatures,  as  every  one  saw ; but  so  many  curious 
traits  of  character  were  depicted,  with  such  over- 
flowing, broad,  kindly  humour,  felicities  of  phrase 
and  slang  expression,  and  such  a mass  of  comic 
incidents  and  details,  vivified  by  genius,  that  the 
effect  of  the  whole  was  to  place  Mr  Dickens  at  one 
bound  at  the  head  of  all  his  contemporary  novelists. 
The  pictorial  accompaniments  aided  greatly  in  the 
success  of  the  work.  What  Boz  conceived  and 
described,  Phiz  represented  with  so  much  truth, 
spirit,  and  individuality — seizing  upon  every  trait 
and  feature,  and  preserving  the  same  distinguish- 
ing characteristics  throughout — that  the  characters 
appeared  to  stand  bodily  forth  to  the  world  as  veri- 
table personages  of  the  day,  destined  to  live  for  all 
time  coming.  The  intimate  acquaintance  evinced 
in  Pickwick  with  the  middle  and  low  life  of  London, 
and  of  the  tricks  and  knavery  of  legal  and  medical 
pretenders,  the  arts  of  bookmakers  and  generally 
of  particular  classes  and  usages  common  to  large 
cities,  was  a novelty  in  our  literature.  It  was  a 
restoration  of  the  spirit  of  Hogarth  adapted  to  the 
times  in  which  the  story  appeared.  ‘ So  much 
cant,’  as  one  of  Mr  Dickens’s  critics  remarks,  ‘ had 
been  in  fashion  about  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors, 
the  glorious  constitution,  the  wise  balance  of  King, 
Lords,  and  Commons,  and  other  such  topics,  which 
are  embalmed  in  the  Noodle's  Oration , that  a large 
class  of  people  were  ready  to  hail  with  intense 
satisfaction  the  advent  of  a writer  who  naturally, 
and  without  an  effort,  bantered  everything  in  the 
world,  from  elections  and  law  courts,  down  to 
Cockney  sportsmen,  the  boots  at  an  inn,  cooks 
and  chambermaids.  Mr  Dickens  had  the  additional 
advantage  of  doing  this  not  only  with  exquisite 
skill,  and  with  a sustained  flow  of  spirit  and  drollery 
almost  unequalled  by  any  other  writer,  but  in  a 
style  which  seemed  expressly  intended  to  bring 
into  contempt  all  those  canons  of  criticism  which  a 
large  proportion  of  people  were  learning  to  look 
upon  as  mere  pedantry.’  The  next  work  of  our 
author  was  Nicholas  Nickleby , a tale  which  was  also 
published  in  monthly  numbers,  and  was  no  less 
extensively  read.  The  plan  of  this  work  is  more 
regular  and  connected  than  that  of  Pickwick , and 
the  interest  of  the  narrative  is  well  sustained.  It 
is  perhaps  the  best  of  Mr  Dickens’s  novels.  The 
pedagogue  Squcers,  and  his  seminary  of  Dotheboys 
Hall,  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  and  graphic  of 
English  satirical  delineations;  and  the  picture  it 
presents  of  imposture,  ignorance,  and  brutal  cupidity, 
is  known  to  have  been  little,  if  at  all,  caricatured. 
The  exposure  was  a public  benefit.  The  ludicrous 
account  of  Mr  Crummies  and  his  theatrical  company 
will  occur  to  the  reader  as  another  of  Dickens’s 
happiest  conceptions,  though  it  is  pushed  into  the 
region  of  farce.  In  several  of  our  author’s  works 

615 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


there  appears  a minute  knowledge  of  dramatic  rules 
and  stage  affairs.  He  has  himself  written  an  opera, 
and  evidently  takes  pleasure  in  the  business  of  the 
drama.  As  an  amateur  comedian — in  which  he  has 
occasionally  appeared  for  benevolent  objects — he  is 
described  as  equal  to  the  old  masters  of  the  stage, 
such  as  Charles  Lamb  loved  to  see  and  write  about ; 
and  doubtless  some  of  his  defects  as  well  as  excel- 
lences as  a novelist  may  he  traced  to  this  predilec- 
tion. To  paint  strongly  to  the  eye,  and  produce 
striking  contrasts  of  a pathetic  or  grotesque  descrip- 
tion— to  exaggerate  individual  oddities  and  traits  of 
character,  as  marking  individuals  or  classes — are 
almost  inseparable  from  dramatic  representation. 
Oliver  Twist , the  next  work  of  Mr  Dickens,  appeared 
in  Bentley's  Miscellany , a monthly  magazine  of  which 
the  novelist  was  for  some  time  the  editor.  This 
is  a story  of  outlaw  English  life — of  vice,  wretched- 
ness, and  misery.  The  hero  is  an  orphan  brought 
up  by  the  parish,  and  thrown  among  scenes  and 
characters  of  the  lowest  and  worst  description. 
That  he  should  not,  under  such  training,  have 
become  utterly  callous  and  debased  is  an  improb- 
ability which  the  author  does  not  well  get  over;  but 
the  interest  of  the  story  is  admirably  sustained. 
The  character  of  the  ruffian  Sykes,  and  the  detail 
of  his  atrocities,  particularly  his  murder  of  the 
girl  Nancy,  are  brought  out  with  extraordinary 
effect.  The  descriptive  passages  evince  that  close 
observation  and  skilful  management  of  detail  in 
which  Air  Dickens  never  fails,  except  when  he 
attempts  scenes  in  high  life,  or  is  led  to  carry  his 
humour  or  pathos  into  the  region  of  caricature. 
Take,  for  example,  the  following  account  of  a scene 
of  death  witnessed  by  Oliver  while  acting  in  the 
capacity  of  attendant  to  an  undertaker : 

[Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper .] 

There  was  neither  knocker  nor  hell-handle  at  the 
open  door  where  Oliver  and  his  master  stopped;  so, 
groping  his  way  cautiously  through  the  dark  passage, 
and  bidding  Oliver  keep  close  to  him,  and  not  he  afraid, 
the  undertaker  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  first  flight  of 
stairs,  and,  stumbling  against  a door  on  the  landing, 
rapped  at  it  with  his  knuckles. 

It  was  opened  by  a young  girl  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen. The  undertaker  at  once  saw  enough  of  what  the 
room  contained,  to  know  it  was  the  apartment  to  which 
he  had  been  directed.  He  stepped  in,  and  Oliver 
followed  him. 

There  was  no  fire  in  the  room;  but  a man  was 
crouching  mechanically  over  the  empty  stove.  An  old 
woman,  too,  had  drawn  a low  stool  to  the  cold  hearth, 

I and  was  sitting  beside  him.  There  were  some  ragged 
children  in  another  comer;  and  in  a small  recess, 
opposite  the  door,  there  lay  upon  the  ground  something 
covered  with  an  old  blanket.  Oliver  shuddered  as  he 
cast  his  eyes  towards  the  place,  and  crept  involuntarily 
closer  to  his  master ; for,  though  it  was  covered  up,  the 
boy  felt  that  it  was  a corpse. 

The  man’s  face  was  thin  and  very  pale ; his  hair  and 
beard  were  grizzly,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  The 
old  woman’s  face  was  wrinkled,  her  two  remaining 
teeth  protruded  over  her  under  lip,  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  piercing.  Oliver  was  afraid  to  look  at  either 
her  or  the  man ; they  seemed  so  like  the  rats  he  had 
seen  outside. 

‘Nobody  shall  go  near  her,’  said,  the  man,  starting 
fiercely  up  as  the  undertaker  approached  the  recess. 
‘ Keep  back ! d — n you — keep  back,  if  you  ’ ve  a life  to 
lose !’ 

‘Nonsense,  my  good  man,’  said  the  undertaker,  who 
was  pretty  well  used  to  misery  in  all  its  shapes — 
‘nonsense !’ 

€46 


‘I  tell  you,’  said  the  man,  clenching  his  hands  and 
stamping  furiously  on  the  floor — ‘I  tell  you  I wont 
have  her  put  into  the  ground  She  couldn’t  rest 
there.  The  worms  would  worry — not  eat  her — she  is  so 

worn  away.’ 

The  undertaker  offered  no  reply  to  this  raving,  but 
producing  a tape  from  his  pocket,  knelt  down  for  a 
moment  by  the  side  of  the  body. 

‘Ah  ! ’ said  the  man,  bursting  into  tears,  and  sinking 
on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  woman ; ‘ kneel 
down,  kneel  down ; kneel  round  her  every  one  of  you, 
and  mark  my  words.  I say  she  starved  to  death.  I 
never  knew  how  bad  she  was  till  the  fever  came  upon 
her,  and  then  her  bones  were  starting  through  the  skin. 
There  was  neither  fire  nor  candle ; she  died  in  the  dark 
— in  the  dark ! She  couldn’t  even  see  her  children’s 
faces,  though  we  heard  her  gasping  out  their  names. 

I begged  for  her  in  the  streets,  and  they  sent  me  to 
prison.  When  I came  back  she  was  dying;  and  all 
the  blood  in  my  heart  has  dried  up,  for  they  starved 
her  to  death.  I swear  it  before  the  God  that  saw  it 
— they  starved  her !’  He  twined  his  hands  in  his 
hair,  and  with  a loud  scream  rolled  grovelling  upon  the 
floor,  his  eyes  fixed,  and  the  foam  gushing  from  his  lips. 

The  terrified  children  cried  bitterly;  but  the  old 
woman,  who  had  hitherto  remained  as  quiet  as  if  she 
had  been  wholly  deaf  to  all  that  passed,  menaced  them 
into  silence ; and  having  unloosened  the  man’s  cravat, 
who  still  remained  extended  on  the  ground,  tottered 
towards  the  undertaker. 

‘ She  was  my  daughter,’  said  the  old  woman,  nodding 
her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  corpse,  and  speaking 
with  an  idiotic  leer  more  ghastly  than  even  the  presence 
of  death  itself.  ‘ Lord,  Lord  ! well  it  is  strange  that  I 
who  gave  birth  to  her,  and  was  a woman  then,  should 
be  alive  and  merry  now,  and  she  lying  there  so  cold  and 
stiff ! Lord,  Lord ! — to  think  of  it ; it ’s  as  good  as  a 
play,  as  good  as  a play !’ 

As  the  wretched  creature  mumbled  and  chuckled  in 
her  hideous  merriment,  the  undertaker  turned  to  go 

away. 

‘ Stop,  stop  ! ’ said  the  old  woman  in  a loud  whisper. 
‘Will  she  be  buried  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  to-night? 

I laid  her  out,  and  I must  walk,  you  know.  Send  me  a 
large  cloak;  a good  warm  one,  for  it  is  bitter  cold.  We 
should  have  cake  and  wine,  too,  before  we  go ! Never 
mind : send  some  bread ; only  a loaf  of  bread  and  a 
cup  of  water.  Shall  we  have  some  bread,  dear?’  she 
said  eagerly,  catching  at  the  undertakers  coat  as  he 
once  more  moved  towards  the  door. 

‘Yes,  yes,’  said  the  undertaker;  ‘of  course;  anything, 
everything.’  He  disengaged  himself  from  the  old 
woman’s  grasp,  and,  dragging  Oliver  after  him,  hurried  * 
away. 

The  next  day — the  family  having  been  meanwhile 
relieved  with  a half-quartern  loaf  and  a piece  of  cheese, 
left  with  them  by  Mr  Bumble  himself — Oliver  and  his 
master  returned  to  the  miserable  abode,  where  Mr 
Bumble  had  already  arrived,  accompanied  by  four  men 
from  the  workhouse  who  were  to  act  as  bearers.  An 
old  black  cloak  had  been  thrown  over  the  rags  of  the 
old  woman  and  the  man ; the  bare  coffin  having  been 
screwed  down,  was  then  hoisted  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
bearers,  and  carried  down  stairs  into  the  street. 

‘Now,  you  must  put  your  best  leg  foremost,  old  lady,* 
whispered  Sowerberry  in  the  old  woman’s  ear ; ‘ we  are 
rather  late,  and  it  wont  do  to  keep  the  clergyman 
waiting.  Move  on,  my  men — as  quick  as  you  like.’ 

Thus  directed,  the  bearers  trotted  on  under  their  light  j 
burden,  and  the  two  mourners  kept  as  near  them  as  they 
could.  Mr  Bumble  and  Sowerberry  walked  at  a good 
smart  pace  in  front ; and  Oliver,  whose  legs  were  not  so 
long  as  his  master’s,  ran  by  the  side. 

Thex*e  was  not  so  great  a necessity  for  hurrying  as  Mr 
Sowerberry  had  anticipated,  however;  for  when  they  : 
reached  the  obscure  corner  of  the  churchyard,  in  which  j 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVELISTS. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  nettles  grew,  and  the  parish  graves  were  made,  the 
clergyman  had  not  arrived,  and  the  clerk,  who  was 
sitting  by  the  vestry-room  fire,  seemed  to  think  it  by  no 
means  improbable  that  it  might  be  an  hour  or  so  before 
he  came.  So  they  set  the  bier  down  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave ; and  the  two  mourners  waited  patiently  in  the 
damp  clay,  with  a cold  rain  drizzling  down,  while  the 
ragged  boys,  whom  the  spectacle  had  attracted  into  the 
churchyard,  played  a noisy  game  at  hide-and-seek  among 
the  tombstones,  or  varied  their  amusements  by  jumping 
backwards  and  forwards  over  the  coffin.  Mr  Sowerberry 
and  Bumble,  being  personal  friends  of  the  clerk,  sat  by 
the  fire  with  him,  and  read  the  paper. 

At  length,  after  the  lapse  of  something  more  than  an 
hour,  Mr  Bumble,  and  Sowerberry,  and  the  clerk  were 
seen  running  towards  the  grave ; and  immediately 
afterwards  the  clergyman  appeared,  putting  on  his  sur- 
plice as  he  came  along.  Mr  Bumble  then  thrashed  a 
boy  or  two,  to  keep  up  appearances ; and  the  reverend 
gentleman,  having  read  as  much  of  the  burial-service  as 
could  be  compressed  into  four  minutes,  gave  his  surplice 
to  the  clerk,  and  ran  away  again. 

‘Now,  Bill,’  said  Sowerberry  to  the  grave-digger,  ‘fill 
up.’ 

It  was  no  very  difficult  task,  for  the  grave  was  so  full 
that  the  uppermost  coffin  was  within  a few  feet  of  the 
surface.  The  grave-digger  shovelled  in  the  earth, 
stamped  it  loosely  down  with  his  feet,  shouldered  his 
spade,  and  walked  off,  followed  by  the  boys,  who 
murmured  very  loud  complaints  at  the  fun  being  over 
so  soon. 

‘Come,  my  good  fellow,’  said  Bumble,  tapping  the 
man  on  the  back,  ‘ they  want  to  shut  up  the  yard.’ 

The  man,  who  had  never  once  moved  since  he  had 
taken  his  station  by  the  grave  side,  started,  raised  his 
head,  stared  at  the  person  who  had  addressed  him, 
walked  forward  for  a few  paces,  and  then  fell  down  in 
a fit.  The  crazy  old  woman  was  too  much  occupied  in 
bewailing  the  loss  of  her  cloak — which  the  under- 
taker had  taken  off — to  pay  him  any  attention ; so  they 
threw  a can  of  cold  water  over  him,  and  when  he  came 
to,  saw  him  safely  out  of  the  churchyard,  locked  the  gate, 
and  departed  on  their  different  ways. 

‘Well,  Oliver,’  said  Sowerberry,  as  they  walked  home, 
‘how  do  you  like  it?’ 

‘Pretty  well,  thank  you,  sir,’  replied  Oliver,  with 
considerable  hesitation.  ‘ Not  very  much,  sir.’ 

‘ Ah ! you  ’ll  get  used  to  it  in  time,  Oliver,’  said 
Sowerberry.  ‘Nothing  when  you  are  used  to  it,  my 
boy.’ 

Oliver  wondered  in  his  own  mind  whether  it  had 
taken  a very  long  time  to  get  Mr  Sowerberry  used  to 
it;  but  he  thought  it  better  not  to  ask  the  question, 

I and  walked  back  to  the  shop,  thinking  over  all  he  had 
| seen  and  heard. 

Mr  Dickens  was  now  a recognised  master  of 
English  fiction,  and  critics  and  readers  looked  with 
interest  to  his  future  career.  Perhaps  no  author 
since  Pope  and  Congreve  ever  stood  so  high  at  the 
same  age.  ‘ The  difficulties  to  which  he  is  exposed 
in  his  present  periodical  mode  of  writing,’  said  the 
Edinburgh  Review , ‘are,  in  some  respects,  greater 
than  if  he  allowed  himself  a wider  field,  and  gave 
his  whole  work  to  the  public  at  once.  But  he  would 
be  subjected  to  a severer  criticism  if  his  fiction 
could  be  read  continuously— if  his  power  of  maintain- 
ing a sustained  interest  could  be  tested — if  his  work 
could  be  viewed  as  a connected  whole,  and  its 
object,  plan,  consistency,  and  arrangement,  brought 
to  the  notice  of  the  reader  at  once.  This  ordeal 
cannot  be  passed  triumphantly  without  the  aid  of 
other  qualities  than  necessarily  belong  to  the  most 
brilliant  sketcher  of  detached  scenes.  We  do  not, 
however,  mean  to  express  a doubt  that  Mr  Dickens 


can  write  with  judgment  as  well  as  with  spirit. 
His  powers  of  observation  and  description  are 
qualities  rarer,  and  less  capable  of  being  acquired, 
than  those  which  would  enable  him  to  combine  the 
scattered  portions  of  a tale  into  one  consistent  and 
harmonious  whole.  If  he  will  endeavour  to  supply 
whatever  may  be  effected  by  care  and  study — avoid 
imitation  of  other  writers — keep  nature  steadily 
before  his  eyes — and  check  all  disposition  to 
exaggerate — we  know  no  writer  who  seems  likely 
to  attain  higher  success  in  that  rich  and  useful 
department  of  fiction  which  is  founded  on  faithful 
representations  of  human  character,  as  exemplified 
in  the  aspects  of  English  life.’  Unfortunately  this 
tendency  to  exaggerate  both  in  humorous  and 
sentimental  description  has  increased,  instead  of 
diminishing,  in  the  author’s  latest  works.  At  the 
same  time  he  has  honourably  laboured  to  expose 
and  redress  social  evils. 

In  1840,  Mr  Dickens  commenced  a new  species  of 
fiction,  entitled  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock , designed, 
like  the  Tales  of  My  Landlord , to  comprise  different 
tales  under  one  general  title,  and  joined  by  one 
connecting  narrative.  The  outline  was  by  no  means 
prepossessing  or  natural ; but  as  soon  as  the  reader 
had  got  through  this  exterior  scaffolding,  and 
entered  on  the  first  story,  the  genius  of  the  author 
was  found  to  be  undiminished.  The  effects  of 
gambling  are  depicted  with  great  force.  There  is 
something  very  striking  in  the  conception  of  the 
helpless  old  gamester,  tottering  upon  the  verge  of 
the  grave,  and  at  that  period  when  most  of  our 
other  passions  are  as  much  worn  out  as  the  frame 
which  sustains  them,  still  maddened  with  that 
terrible  infatuation  which  seems  to  shoot  up  stronger 
and  stronger  as  every  other  desire  and  energy  dies 
away.  Little  Nell,  the  grandchild,  is  a beautiful 
creation  of  pure-mindedness  and  innocence,  yet  with 
those  habits  of  pensive  reflection,  and  that  firmness 
and  energy  of  mind  which  misfortune  will  often 
engraft  on  the  otherwise  buoyant  and  unthinking 
spirit  of  childhood ; and  the  contrast  between  her 
and  her  grandfather,  now  dwindled  in  every  respect 
but  the  one  into  a second  childhood,  and  comforted, 
directed,  and  sustained  by  her  unshrinking  firmness 
and  love,  is  very  finely  managed.  The  death  of 
Nell  is  the  most  pathetic  and  touching  of  the 
author’s  serious  passages — it  is  also  instructive  in 
its  pathos,  for  we  feel  with  the  author,  that  ‘ when 
death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young,  for 
every  fragile  form  from  which  he  lets  the  panting 
spirit  free,  a hundred  virtues  rise,  in  shapes  of 
mercy,  charity,  and  love,  to  walk  the  world  and 
bless  it.  Of  every  tear  that  sorrowing  mortals  shed 
on  such  green  graves,  some  good  is  born,  some 
gentler  nature  comes.  In  the  destroyer’s  steps  there 
spring  up  bright  creations  that  defy  his  power,  and 
his  dark  path  becomes  a way  of  light  to  heaven.’ 
In  the  course  of  this  tale  there  are  many  interesting 
and  whimsical  incidents  and  adventures,  with  fine 
glimpses  of  rural  scenes,  old  churches,  and  church- 
yards. The  horrors  of  the  almost  hopeless  want 
which  too  often  prevails  in  the  great  manufacturing 
towns,  and  the  wild  and  reckless  despair  which  it 
engenders,  are  described  with  equal  mastery  of 
colouring  and  effect.  The  account  of  the  wretch 
whose  whole  life  had  been  spent  in  watching,  day 
and  night,  a furnace,  until  he  imagined  it  to  be  a 
living  being,  and  its  roaring  the  voice  of  the  only 
friend  he  had  ever  known,  although  grotesque,  has 
something  in  it  very  terrible : we  may  smile  at  the 
wildness,  yet  shudder  at  the  horror  of  the  fancy. 
A second  story,  Barnaby  Radge , is  included  in 
Master  Humphrey’s  Clock , and  this  also  contains 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


some  excellent  minute  painting,  a variety  of  broad 
humour  and  laughable  caricature,  Avith  some 
masterly  scenes  of  passion  and  description.  The 
account  of  the  excesses  committed  during  Lord 
George  Gordon’s  riots  in  1780  may  vie  with  Scott’s 
narrative  of  the  Porteous  mob ; and  poor  Barnaby 
Budge  with  his  raven  may  be  considered  as  no 
unworthy  companion  to  Davie  Gellatley.  There  is 
also  a picture  of  an  old  English  inn,  the  Maypole, 
near  Epping  Forest,  and  an  old  innkeeper,  John 
Willet,  which  is  perfect  in  its  kind — such,  perhaps, 
as  only  Dickens  could  have  painted,  though  Wash- 
ington Irving  might  have  made  the  first  etching. 
Of  the  success  of  this  work  and  of  its  author,  we 
have  a passing  glimpse  in  one  of  Lord  Jeffrey’s 
letters,  dated  May  4,  1841.  ‘I  have  seen  a good 
deal  of  Charles  Dickens,  with  whom  I have 
struck  up  what  I mean  to  be  an  eternal  and  inti- 
mate friendship.  I often  sit  an  hour  tete-a-tete, 
or  take  a long  walk  in  the  park  with  him — the 
only  way  really  to  know  or  be  known  by  either 
man  or  woman.  Taken  in  this  way,  I think 

him  very  amiable  and  agreeable.  In  mixed  com- 
pany, where  he  is  now  much  sought  after  as  a 
lion,  he  is  rather  reserved,  &c.  He  has  dined 
here,  and  me  with  him,  at  rather  too  sumptuous 
a dinner  for  a man  with  a family,  and  only  beginning 
to  be  rich,  though  selling  44,000  copies  of  his 
weekly  [monthly]  issues.’* 

After  completing  these  tales,  Mr  Dickens  made  a 
trip  to  America,  of  which  he  published  an  account 
in  1842,  under  the  somewhat  quaint  title  of  Ame- 
rican Notes  for  General  Circulation . This  work 
J disappointed  the  author’s  admirers,  which  may  be 
considered  as  including  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
reading  public.  The  field  had  already  been  well 
gleaned,  the  American  character  and  institutions 
frequently  described  and  generally  understood,  and 
Mr  Dickens  could  not  hope  to  add  to  our  knowledge 
on  any  of  the  great  topics  connected  with  the  con- 
dition or  future  destinies  of  the  New  World.  On 
one  national  point  only  did  the  novelist  dissertate 
at  length — the  state  of  the  newspaper  press,  which 
he  describes  as  corrupt  and  debased  beyond  any 
experience  or  conception  in  this  country.  He  also 
joins  with  Captain  Basil  Hall,  Mrs  Trollope,  and 
Captain  Marryat,  in  representing  the  social  state 
and  morality  of  the  people  as  low  and  dangerous, 
destitute  of  high  principle  or  generosity.  So  acute 
and  practised  an  observer  as  Dickens  could  not 
travel  without  noting  many  oddities  of  character, 
and  viewing  familiar  objects  in  a new  light ; and  we 
are  tempted  to  extract  two  short  passages  from  his 
American  Notes,  which  shew  the  practised  hand  of 
the  novelist.  The  first  is  a sketch  of  an  original 
met  with  by  our  author  on  board  a Pittsburg  canal- 
boat. 

[ A Man  from  the  Brown  Forests  of  the  Mississippi.] 

A thin-faced,  spare-figured  man  of  middle  age  and 
stature,  dressed  in  a dusty  drabbish-coloured  suit,  such 
as  I never  saw  before.  He  was  perfectly  quiet  during 
the  first  part  of  the  journey ; indeed  I don’t  remember 
having  so  much  as  seen  him  until  he  was  brought  out 
by  circumstances,  as  great  men  often  are.  The  canal 
extends  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  there  of  course 
it  stops,  the  passengers  being  conveyed  across  it  by  land- 
carriage,  and  taken  on  afterwards  by  another  canal- 
boat,  the  counterpart  of  the  first,  which  awaits  them  on 

* Life  of  Lord  Jeffrey . vol.  ii.  p.  338.  Several  letters  from 
Jeffrey  to  Dickens  are  published  in  this  work,  and  shew  the 
affectionate  interest  which  the  then  aged  critic  took  in  the  fame 
and  prosperity  of  the  young  novelist. 

648 


the  other  side.  There  are  two  canal  lines  of  passage- 
boat;  one  is  called  the  Express,  and  one — a cheaper 
one — the  Pioneer.  The  Pioneer  gets  first  to  the  moun- 
tain, and  waits  for  the  Express  people  to  come  up,  both 
sets  of  passengers  being  conveyed  across  it  at  the  same 
time.  We  were  the  Express  company,  but  when  we 
had  crossed  the  mountain,  and  had  come  to  the  second 
boat,  the  proprietors  took  it  into  their  heads  to  draft  all 
the  Pioneers  into  it  likewise,  so  that  we  were  five-and- 
forty  at  least,  and  the  accession  of  passengers  was  not 
all  of  that  kind  which  improved  the  prospect  of  sleeping 
at  night.  Our  people  grumbled  at  this,  as  people  do  in 
such  cases,  but  suffered  the  boat  to  be  towed  off  with 
the  whole  freight  aboard  nevertheless;  and  away  we 
went  down  the  canal.  At  home  I should  have  protested 
lustily,  but,  being  a foreigner  here,  I held  my  peace. 
Not  so  this  passenger.  He  cleft  a path  among  the 
people  on  deck — we  were  nearly  all  qn  deck — and, 
without  addressing  anybody  whomsoever,  soliloquised  as 
follows  : ‘ This  may  suit  you,  this  may,  but  it  don’t  suit 
me.  This  may  be  all  very  well  with  down-easters  and 
men  of  Boston  raising,  but  it  wont  suit  my  figure 
nohow ; and  no  two  ways  about  that ; and  so  I tell  you. 
Now,  I’m  from  the  brown  forests  of  the  Mississippi,  I 
am,  and  when  the  sun  shines  on  me,  it  does  shine — a 
little.  It  don’t  glimmer  where  I live,  the  sun  don’t.. 
No.  I’m  a brown  forester,  I am.  I an’t  a Johnny 
Cake.  There  are  no  smooth  skins  where  I live.  "We’re 
rough  men  there.  Rather.  If  down-easters  and  men 
of  Boston  raising  like  this,  I am  glad  of  it,  but  I’m 
none  of  that  raising,  nor  of  that  breed.  No.  This, 
company  wants  a little  fixing,  it  does.  I ’m  the  wrong 
sort  of  man  for  ’em,  I am.  They  wont  like  me,  they 
wont.  This  is  piling  of  it  up,  a little  too  mountainous, 
this  is.’  At  the  end  of  every  one  of  these  short  sentences 
he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  walked  the  other  way; 
checking  himself  abruptly  when  he  had  finished  another 
short  sentence,  and  turning  back  again.  It  is  impossible 
for  me  to  say  what  terrific  meaning  was  hidden  in  the 
words  of  this  brown  forester,  but  I know  that  the 
other  passengers  looked  on  in  a sort  of  admiring  horror, 
and  that  presently  the  boat  was  put  back  to  the  wharf, 
and  as  many  of  the  Pioneers  as  could  be  coaxed  or 
bullied  into  going  away,  were  got  rid  of.  When  we 
started  again,  some  of  the  boldest  spirits  on  board  made- 
bold  to  say  to  the  obvious  occasion  of  this  improvement 
in  our  prospects,  ‘Much  obliged  to  you,  sir:’  where- 
unto  the  brown  forester — waving  his  hand,  and  still 
walking  up  and  down  as  before — replied : ‘No  you  an’t. 
You’re  none  o’  my  raising.  You  may  act  for  yourselves, 
you  may.  I jiave  pinted  out  the  way.  Down-easters 
and  Johnny  Cakes  can  follow  if  they  please.  I an’t  a 
Johnny  Cake,  I an’t.  I am  from  the  brown  forests  of 
the  Mississippi,  1 am;’  and  so  on,  as  before.  He  was 
unanimously  voted  one  of  the  tables  for  his  bed  at 
night — there  is  a great  contest  for  the  tables — in  con- 
sideration of  his  public  services,  and  he  had  the  warmest 
corner  by  the  stove  throughout  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
But  I never  could  find  out  that  he  did  anything  except 
sit  there ; nor  did  I hear  him  speak  again  until,  in  the 
midst  of  the  bustle  and  turmoil  of  getting  the  luggage 
ashore  in  the  dark  at  Pittsburg,  I stumbled  over  him 
as  he  sat  smoking  a cigar  on  the  cabin  steps,  and  heard 
him  muttering  to  himself,  with  a short  laugh  of  defiance  : 
‘I  an’t  a Johnny  Cake,  I an’t.  I’m  from  the  brown 
forests  of  the  Mississippi.  I am,  damme ! ’ I am 
inclined  to  argue  from  this  that  he  had  never  left  off 
saying  so. 

The  following  is  completely  in  the  style  of  Dickens 
— a finished  miniature,  yet  full  of  heart : 

[The  Bustling,  Affectionate,  little  American  Woman.] 

There  was  a little  woman  on  board  with  a little  baby ; 
and  both  little  woman  and  little  child  were  cheerful. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


good-looking,  bright-eyed,  and  fair  to  see.  The  little 
woman  had  been  passing  a long  time  with  her  sick 
mother  in  New  York,  and  had  left  her  home  in  St  Louis 
in  that  condition  in  which  ladies  who  truly  love  their 
lords  desire  to  be.  The  baby  was  born  in  her  mother’s 
house,  and  she  had  not  seen  her  husband  (to  whom  she 
was  now  returning)  for  twelve  months,  having  left  him 
a month  or  two  after  their  marriage.  Well,  to  be  sure, 
there  never  was  a little  woman  so  full  of  hope,  and 
tenderness,  and  love,  and  anxiety,  as  this  little  woman 
was ; and  all  day  long  she  wondered  whether  ‘ he  ’ would 
be  at  the  wharf ; and  whether  ‘ he  ’ had  got  her  letter ; 
and  whether,  if  she  sent  the  baby  ashore  by  some- 
body else,  ‘ he  ’ would  know  it  meeting  it  in  the  street ; 
which,  seeing  that  he  had  never  set  eyes  upon  it  in  his 
life,  was  not  very  likely  in  the  abstract,  but  was  probable 
enough  to  the  young  mother.  She  was  such  an  artless 
little  creature,  and  was  in  such  a sunny,  beaming, 
hopeful  state,  and  let  out  all  this  matter  clinging  close 
about  her  heart  so  freely,  that  all  the  other  lady-pas- 
sengers entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  as  much  as  she ; and 
the  captain  (who  heard  all  about  it  from  his  wife)  was 
wondrous  sly,  I promise  you,  inquiring  every  time  we 
met  at  table,  as  in  forgetfulness,  whether  she  expected 
anybody  to  meet  her  at  St  Louis,  and  whether  she  would 
want  to  go  ashore  the  night  we  reached  it  (but  he 
supposed  she  wouldn’t),  and  cutting  many  other  dry 
jokes  of  that  nature.  There  was  one  little  weazen-dried, 
apple -faced  old  woman,  who  took  occasion  to  doubt  the 
constancy  of  husbands  in  such  circumstances  of  bereave- 
ment ; and  there  was  another  lady  (with  a lapdog),  old 
enough  to  moralise  on  the  lightness  of  human  affections, 

I and  yet  not  so  old  that  she  could  help  nursing  the  baby 
! now  and  then,  or  laughing  with  the  rest  when  the  little 
! woman  called  it  by  its  father’s  name,  and  asked  it  all 
j manner  of  fantastic  questions  concerning  him  in  the  joy 
of  her  heart.  It  was  something  of  a blow  to  the  little 
woman,  that  when  we  were  within  twenty  miles  of  our 
destination,  it  became  clearly  necessary  to  put  this  baby 
to  bed.  But  she  got  over  it  with  the  same  good-humour, 
tied  a handkerchief  round  her  head,  and  came  out  into 
the  little  gallery  with  the  rest.  Then,  such  an  oracle 
I as  she  became  in  reference  to  the  localities ! and  such 
facetiousness  as  was  displayed  by  the  married  ladies, 
and  such  sympathy  as  was  shewn  by  the  single  ones,  and 
such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  little  woman  herself  (who 
would  just  as  soon  have  cried)  greeted  every  jest  with  ! 
At  last  there  were  the  lights  of  St  Louis,  and  here  was 
the  wharf,  and  those  were  the  steps;  and  the  little 
woman,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughing 
(or  seeming  to  laugh)  more  than  ever,  ran  into  her  own 
I cabin  and  shut  herself  up.  I have  no  doubt  that  in  the 
charming  inconsistency  of  such  excitement,  she  stopped 
her  ears,  lest  she  should  hear  ‘him’  asking  for  her — 
but  I did  not  see  her  do  it.  Then  a great  crowd  of 
people  rushed  on  board,  though  the  boat  was  not  yet 
made  fast,  but  was  wandering  about  among  the  other 
boats  to  find  a landing-place ; and  everybody  looked  for 
the  husband,  and  nobody  saw  him,  when,  in  the  midst  of 
us  all — Heaven  knows  how  she  ever  got  there  ! — there  was 
the  little  woman  clinging  with  both  arms  tight  round 
the  neck  of  a fine,  good-looking,  sturdy  young  fellow ; 
and  in  a moment  afterwards  there  she  was  again, 
actually  clapping  her  little  hands  for  joy,  as  she  dragged 
him  through  the  small  door  of  her  small  cabin  to  look 
at  the  baby  as  he  lay  asleep  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1843,  Mr  Dickens 
I entered  upon  a new  tale,  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  in 
which  many  of  his  American  reminiscences  are 
embodied.  The  quackeries  of  architects  are  admir- 
ably ridiculed  in  the  character  of  Pecksniff,  and  the 
nurse,  Mrs  Gamp,  with  her  Eidolon , Mrs  Harris,  is 
one  of  the  most  finished  and  original  of  the  author’s 
portraits.  About  Christmas  of  the  same  year  the 
fertile  author  threw  off  a light  production  in  his 


happiest  manner,  A Christmas  Carol,  in  Prose , which 
enjoyed  vast  popularity,  and  was  dramatised  at  the 
London  theatres.  A goblin  story,  The  Chimes , 
greeted  the  Christmas  of  1844;  and  a fairy  tale, 
The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth , was  ready  for  the  same 
genial  season  in  1845.  These  little  annual  stories 
are  imbued  with  excellent  feeling,  and  are  redolent 
of  both  tenderness  and  humour.  They  still  continue 
to  be  eagerly  read.  A residence  in  Italy  furnished 
Mr  Dickens  with  materials  for  a series  of  sketches, 
originally  published  in  a new  morning  paper,  The 
Daily  News,  which  was  for  a short  time  under  the 
charge  of  Mr  Dickens : they  were  afterwards 
collected  and  republished  in  a volume  bearing  the 
title  of  Pictures  from  Italy , 1846.  It  is  perhaps 
characteristic  of  the  author  that  Rome  reminded 
him  of  London ! 

We  began  in  a perfect  fever  to  strain  our  eyes  for 
Rome ; and  when,  after  another  mile  or  two,  the  Eternal 
City  appeared,  at  length,  in  the  distance,  it  looked  like 
— I am  half  afraid  to  write  the  word — London.  There 
it  lay  under  a thick  cloud,  with  innumerable  towers,  and 
steeples,  and  roofs  of  houses  rising  up  into  the  sky,  and 
high  above  them  all,  one  dome.  I swear  that,  keenly  as 
I felt  the  seeming  absurdity  of  the  comparison,  it  was  so 
like  London,  at  that  distance,  that  if  you  could  have 
shewn  it  me  in  a glass,  I should  have  taken  it  for 
nothing  else. 

Though  of  the  slightest  texture  and  generally 
short,  these  Italian  pictures  of  Mr  Dickens  are  not 
unworthy  of  his  graphic  pencil.  We  extract  his 
account  of  the  most  august  of  the  Roman  ruins, 
which  the  reader  may  compare  with  those  of  Byron 
and  Forsyth  in  this  volume : 

[The  Coliseum.'] 

It  is  no  fiction,  but  plain,  sober,  honest  truth  to  say 
— so  suggestive  and  distinct  is  it  at  this  hour — that, 
for  a moment,  actually  in  passing  in,  they  who  will,  may 
have  the  whole  great  pile  before  them,  as  it  used  to  be  ; 
with  thousands  of  eager  faces  staring  down  into  the 
arena,  and  such  a whirl  of  strife  and  blood  and  dust 
going  on  there,  as  no  language  can  describe.  Its 
solitude,  its  awful  beauty,  and  its  utter  desolation, 
strike  upon  the  stranger,  the  next  moment,  like  a 
softened  sorrow ; and  never  in  his  life,  perhaps,  will  he 
be  so  moved  and  overcome  by  any  sight  not  immediately 
connected  with  his  own  affections  and  afflictions.  To 
see  it  crumbling  there,  an  inch  a year ; its  walls  and 
arches  overgrown  with  green ; its  corridors  open  to  the 
day  ; the  long  grass  growing  in  its  porches ; young  trees 
of  yesterday  springing  up  on  its  ragged  parapets  and 
bearing  fruit — chance  produce  of  the  seeds  dropped 
there  by  the  birds  who  build  their  nests  within  its 
chinks  and  crannies ; to  see  its  Pit  of  Fight  filled  up 
with  earth,  and  the  peaceful  Cross  planted  in  the  centre ; 
to  climb  into  its  upper  halls,  and  look  down  on  ruin, 
ruin,  ruin,  all  about  it;  the  triumphal  arches  of 
Constantine,  Septimus  Severus,  and  Titus;  the  Roman 
Forum,  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars,  the  temples  of  the  old 
religion  fallen  and  gone ; is  to  see  the  ghost  of  old  Rome 
— wicked,  wonderful  old  city! — haunting  the  very  ground 
on  which  its  people  trod.  It  is  the  most  impressive,  the 
most  stately,  the  most  solemn,  grand,  majestic,  mourn- 
ful sight  conceivable.  Never,  in  its  bloodiest  prime,  can 
^ho  sight  of  the  gigantic  Coliseum,  full  and  running  over 
with  the  lustiest  life,  have  moved  one  lieai-t,  as  it  must 
move  all  who  look  upon  it  now — a ruin.  God  be  thanked 
— a ruin  ! As  it  tops  the  other  ruins — standing  there 
a mountain  among  graves — so  do  its  ancient  influences 
outlive  all  other  remnants  of  the  old  mythology  and  old 
butchery  of  Rome,  in  the  nature  of  the  fierce  and  cruel 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Roman  people.  The  Italian  face  changes  as  the  visitor 
approaches  the  city ; its  beauty  becomes  devilish — and 
there  is  scarcely  one  countenance  in  a hundred  among 
the  common  people  in  the  streets  that  would  not  be  at 
home  and  happy  in  a renovated  Coliseum  to-morrow. 
Here  was  Rome,  indeed,  at  last — and  such  a Rome  as 
one  can  imagine  in  its  full  and  awful  grandeur ! We 
wandered  out  upon  the  Appian  Way ; and  then  went  on 
through  miles  of  ruined  tombs  and  broken  walls,  with 
here  and  there  a desolate  and  uninhabited  house ; past 
the  Circus  of  Romulus,  where  the  course  of  the  chariots, 
the  stations  of  the  judges,  competitors,  and  spectators 
are  yet  as  plainly  to  be  seen  as  in  old  time ; past  the 
tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella;  past  all  enclosure,  hedge,  or 
stake,  wall  or  fence;  away  upon  the  open  Campagna, 
where  on  that  side  of  Rome  nothing  is  to  be  beheld  but 
ruin.  Except  where  the  distant  Apennines  bound  the 
view  upon  the  left,  the  whole  wide  prospect  is  one  field 
of  ruin.  Broken  aqueducts,  left  in  the  most  picturesque 
and  beautiful  clusters  of  arches ; broken  temples,  broken 
tombs.  A desert  of  decay.  Sombre  and  desolate  beyond 
all  expression — and  with  a history  in  every  stone  that 
strews  the  ground. 

Since  1846  Mr  Dickens  has  continued  his  series 
of  fictions,  mostly  in  the  monthly  form  of  publica- 
tion, and  has  added  two  more  Christmas  tales — The 
Battle  of  Life  and  The  Haunted  Man.  His  late 
novels  are  Doiribey  and  Son,  David  Copperfield,  Bleak 
House,  Hard  Times,  and  Little  Dorrit.  Of  these, 
David  Copperfield  is  incomparably  the  best,  and  is 
one  of  the  most  pleasing  and  natural  of  all  the 
author’s  works.  A discriminating  critic  in  the 
National  Review  thus  adverts  to  the  later  works  of 
the  novelist:  ‘Even  in  his  earlier  works  it  was 
impossible  not  to  fancy  that  there  was  a weakness 
of  fibre  unfavourable  to  the  longevity  of  excellence. 
This  was  the  effect  of  his  deficiency  in  those  mascu- 
line faculties  of  which  we  have  said  so  much — the 
reasoning  understanding  and  firm  far-seeing  saga- 
city. It  is  these  two  component  elements  which 
stiffen  the  mind,  and  give  a consistency  to  the  creed, 
and  a coherence  to  its  effects — which  enable  it  to 
protect  itself  from  the  rush  of  circumstances.  If  to 
a deficiency  in  these  we  add  an  extreme  sensibility 
to  circumstances — a mobility,  as  Lord  Byron  used 
to  call  it,  of  emotion,  which  is  easily  impressed,  and 
still  more  easily  carried  avay  by  impression — we 
have  the  idea  of  a character  peculiarly  unfitted  to 
bear  the  flux  of  time  and  chance.  A man  of  very 
great  determination  could  hardly  bear  up  against 
them  with  such  slight  aids  from  within,  and  with 
such  peculiar  sensibility  to  temptation.  A man  of 
merely  ordinary  determination  would  succumb  to 
it;  and  Mr  Dickens  has  succumbed.  His  position 
was  certainly  unfavourable.  He  has  told  us  that  the 
works  of  his  later  years,  inferior  as  all  good  critics 
have  deemed  them,  have  yet  been  more  read  than 
those  of  his  earlier  and  healthier  years.'  The  most 
characteristic  part  of  his  audience,  the  lower  middle- 
class,  were  ready  to  receive  with  delight  the  least 
favourable  productions  of  his  genius.  Human 
nature  cannot  endure  this ; it  is  too  much  to  have 
to  endure  a coincident  temptation  both  from  within 
and  from  without.  Mr  Dickens  was  too  much 
inclined  by  natural  disposition  to  lachrymose  elo- 
quence and  exaggerated  caricature.  Such  was  the 
kind  of  writing  which  he  wrote  most  easily.  He 
found,  likewise,  that  such  was  the  kind  of  writing 
that  was  read  most  readily;  and,  of  course,  he  wrote 
that  kind.  Who  would  have  done  otherwise  ? No 
critic  is  entitled  to  speak  very  harshly  of  such 
degeneracy,  if  he  is  not  sure  that  he  could  have 
coped  with  difficulties  so  peculiar.  If  that  rule  is 
to  be  observed,  who  is  there  that  will  not  be  silent  ? 

650 


No  other  Englishman  has  attained  such  a hold  on 
the  vast  populace ; it  is  little,  therefore,  to  say  that 
no  other  has  surmounted  its  attendant  temptations.’ 
The  popularity  of  Mr  Dickens  has  been  still 
more  emphatically  displayed  by  the  crowds  that 
have  flocked  in  town  and  country  to  hear  him  read 
portions  from  his  works.  These  public  readings 
have  proved  an  El  Dorado  to  the  novelist,  and  form 
a new  feature  in  the  modern  literary  life. 


W.  H.  THACKERAY. 

While  Dickens  was  in  the  blaze  of  his  early  fame, 
another  master  of  English  fiction,  dealing  with  the 
realities  of  life  and  the  various  aspects  of  English 
society  in  the  nineteenth  century,  was  gradually 
working  his  way  into  public  favour  and  attaining 
the  full  measure  of  his  intellectual  strength. 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray — the  legitimate 
successor  of  Henry  Fielding — is  a native  of 
Calcutta,  born  in  the  year  1811.  His  father  was 


in  the  civil  service  of  the  Hon.  East  India  Company ; 
his  grandfather,  the  Eev.  Richard  Thackeray  of 
Hadley,  in  Middlesex,  was  of  a good  old  Yorkshire 
family  that  had  given  several  grave  rectors  and 
studious  scholars  to  the  Church  of  England.  In 
his  seventh  year  the  future  novelist  was  sent  to  this 
country  to  receive  his  education.  ‘When  I first 
saw  England,’  he  said  in  one  of  his  lectures,  ‘she 
was  in  mourning  for  the  young  Princess  Charlotte, 
the  hope  of  the  empire.  I came  from  India  as  a 
child,  and  our  ship  touched^  at  an  island  on  the  way 
home,  where  my  black  servant  took  me  a walk 
over  rocks  and  hills  till  we  passed  a garden  where 
we  saw  a man  walking.  “ That  is  he,”  said  the 
black  man;  “that  is  Bonaparte;  he  eats  three  sheep 
every  day  and  all  the  children  on  whom  he  can  lay 
hands ! ” There  were  people  in  the  British  dominions 
besides  that  poor  black,  who  had  an  equal  terror 
and  horror  of  the  Corsican  ogre.’  Young  Thackeray 
was  placed  in  the  Charterhouse  School— a vener- 
able endowment,  retired  and  quiet  amidst  the  roar 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


of  London,  which  had  formerly  received  as  gown- 
boys  or  scholars  the  melodious  poet  Crashaw, 
Addison,  Steele,  and  John  Wesley.  Thackeray  has 
affectionately  commemorated  the  old  Carthusian 
establishment  in  several  of  his  writings,  and  has 
invested  it  with  a strong  pathetic  interest  by 
! making  it  the  last  refuge  and  death-scene  of  one 
J of  the  finest  of  his  characters,  Colonel  Newcome. 
i From  the  Charterhouse,  Thackeray  went  to  the 
I university  of  Cambridge.  He  did  not  remain  to 
j take  his  degree.  His  great  ambition  was  to  be  an 
artist ; he  was  heir  to  a considerable  fortune — 

; <£20,000,  it  is  said — and  he  travelled  and  studied 
j for  four  or  five  years  in  France,  Italy,  and  Germany. 

In  1830-31,  he  was  one  of 4 at  least  a score  of  young 
i English  lads  who  used  to  live  at  Weimar  for  study, 

! or  sport,  or  society ; all  of  which  were  to  he  had 
in  the  friendly  little  Saxon  capital,’  and  who  were 
received  with  the  kindliest  hospitality  by  the  Grand 
Duke  and  Duchess.*  On  returning  to  England,  Mr 
Thackeray  continued  his  art-studies.  Some  losses 
and  unsuccessful  speculations,  it  is  said,  greatly 
reduced  his  fortune,  and  he  applied  himself  vigor- 
ously to  that  which  was  destined  to  be  his  vocation 
I and  glory — literature.  He  afterwards  entered  him- 
[ self  of  the  Middle  Temple,  and  was  called  to  the 
bar  (May  1848),  but  apparently  without  any  inten- 
[ tion  of  following  the  profession  of  the  law.  Mr 
Thackeray  first  became  known  through  Fraser's 
j Magazine , to  which  he  was  a regular  contributor 
under  the  names  of  ‘ Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  ’ and 
* George  Fitz-Boodle,  Esquire  ’ — names  typical  of  his 
artistic  and  satirical  predilections.  Tales,  criticism, 
descriptive  sketches,  and  poetry  were  all  dashed  off 
; by  his  ready  pen.  They  were  of  unequal  merit,  and 
for  some  time  attracted  little  attention  ; but  the  late 
John  Sterling,  among  others,  recognised  the  genius 
of  Thackeray  in  his  tale  of  The  Hoggarty  Diamond , 
and  predicted  the  future  success  of  its  author.  The 
playful  ease  and  vigour  of  his  style  was  conspicuous. 
It  was  that  of  the  scholar  combined  with  the 
shrewdness  and  knowledge  of  a man  of  the  world. 

‘ Titmarsh’  had  both  seen  and  read  much.  His 
school  and  college  life,  his  foreign  travels  and 
residence  abroad,  his  artist  and  Temple  experiences, 
even  his  ‘ losses  ’ supplied  a wide  field  for  observa- 
tion, reflection,  and  satire.  He  was  thirty  years  of 
1 age  or  more  ere  he  made  any  bold  push  for  fame. 

By  this  time  the  mind  was  fully  stored  and  matured. 

I Mr  Thackeray  has  never,  we  suspect,  paid  much 
| attention  to  what  Burke  called  the  ‘mechanical 
I part  of  literature’ — the  mere  collocation  of  words 
i and  construction  of  sentences;  but,  of  course, 

I greater  facility  as  well  as  more  perfect  art  would 
| be  acquired  by  repeated  efforts.  The  great  regu- 
lators— taste,  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  gentle- 
manly feeling — he  possessed  ere  he  began  to  write. 
Under  his  pseudonym  of  Titmarsh,  literary  Cockney 
and  sketcher,  Mr  Thackeray  published  several  works 
— The  Paris  Sketch  Book , two  volumes,  1840;  The 
\ Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon , and  The  Chronicle  of 
the  Drum , 1841 ; and  The  Irish  Sketch  Book , 1843. 
j None  of  these  were  very  popular,  though  the  Irish 
sketches  are  highly  amusing,  and  contain  some  of 
Mr  Thackeray’s  happiest  touches.  The  following 
I incident,  for  example,  is  admirably  told.  The 

* Lewes’s  Life  of  Goethe.  At  this  time  Mr  Thackeray  saw 
Goethe,  and  had  the  good-luck,  he  says,  to  purchase  Schiller’s 
sword,  which  formed  a part  of  his  coAume  at  the  court  enter- 
tainments. ‘ My  delight  in  those  days,’  he  adds,  ‘was  to  make 
caricatures  for  children.  I was  touched  to  find  [on  revisiting 
Weimar  in  1853]  that  they  were  remembered,  and  some  even 
kept  until  the  present  time ; and  very  proud  to  be  told,  as  a 
lad,  that  the  great  Goethe  had  looked  at  some  of  them.’ 


tourist  meets  with  a set  of  jovial  Irish  yachtsmen, 
bound  like  himself  for  Killarney : 

[ Car  Travelling  in  Ireland.'] 

The  Irish  car  seems  accommodated  for  any  number  of 
persons.  It  appeared  to  be  full  when  we  left  Glengariff, 
for  a traveller  from  Beerhaven,  and  five  gentlemen  from 
the  yacht  took  seats  upon  it  with  myself ; and  we 
fancied  it  was  impossible  more  than  seven  should  travel 
by  such  a conveyance,  but  the  driver  shewed  the  capa- 
bilities of  his  vehicle  presently.  The  journey  from 
Grlengariff  to  Kenmare  is  one  of  astonishing  beauty; 
and  I have  seen  Killarney  since,  and  am  sure  that 
Glengariff  loses  nothing  by  comparison  with  this  most 
beautiful  of  lakes.  Rock,  wood,  and  sea,  stretch  around 
the  traveller  a thousand  delightful  pictures ; the  land- 
scape is  at  first  wild,  without  being  fierce,  immense 
woods  and  plantations  enriching  the  valleys,  beautiful 
streams  to  be  seen  everywhere.  Here,  again,  I was 
surprised  at  the  great  population  along  the  road;  for 
one  saw  but  few  cabins,  and  there  is  no  village  between 
Glengariff  and  Kenmare.  But  men  and  women  were 
on  the  banks,  and  in  the  fields;  children,  as  usual, 
came  trooping  up  to  the  car ; and  the  jovial  men  of  the 
yacht  had  great  conversation  with  most  of  the  persons 
whom  we  met  on  the  road.  A merrier  set  of  fellows 
it  were  hard  to  meet.  ‘Should  you  like  anything  to 
drink,  sir?’  says  one,  commencing  the  acquaintance; 

‘ we  have  the  best  whisky  in  the  world,  and  plenty  of 
porter  in  the  basket.’  Therewith,  the  jolly  seaman 
produced  a long  bottle  of  grog,  which  was  passed  round 
from  one  to  another ; and  then  began  singing,  shouting, 
laughing,  roaring  for  the  whole  journey — ‘ British  sailors 
have  a knack,  pull  away,  yeho,  boys  ! Hurroo  ! my  fine 
fellow,  does  your  mother  know  you  ’re  out  ? Hurroo  ! 
Tim  Hurlihy  ? you  ’re  a fluke,  Tim  Hurlihy  ! ’ One  man 
sang  on  the  roof,  one  hurrooed  to  the  echo,  another 
apostrophised  the  aforesaid  Hurlihy,  as  he  passed  grin- 
ning on  a car ; a fourth  had  a pocket  handkerchief  flaunt- 
ing from  a pole,  with  which  he  performed  exercises  in  the 
face  of  any  horseman  whom  he  met ; and  great  were 
their  yells  as  the  ponies  shied  off  at  the  salutation,  and 
the  riders  swerved  in  their  saddles.  In  the  midst  of 
this  rattling  chorus  we  went  along;  gradually  the 
country  grew  wilder  and  more  desolate,  and  we  passed 
through  a grim  mountain  region,  bleak  and  bare ; the 
road  winding  round  some  of  the  innumerable  hills, 
and  once  or  twice,  by  means  of  a tunnel,  rushing  boldly 
through  them.  One  of  these  tunnels,  they  say,  is  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  long ; and  a pretty  howling,  I 
need  not  say,  was  made  through  that  pipe  of  rock  by 
the  jolly  yacht’s  crew.  ‘ We  saw  you  sketching  in  the 
blacksmith’s  shed  at  Glengariff,’  says  one,  ‘ and  we 
wished  we  had  you  on  board.  Such  a jolly  life  as  we  had 
of  it !’  They  roved  about  the  coast,  they  sailed  in  their 
vessels,  they  feasted  off  the  best  of  fish,  mutton,  and 
whisky ; they  had,  Gamble’s  turtle  soup  on  board,  and 
fun  from  morning  till  night,  and  vice  versa.  Gradually 
it  came  out  that  there  was  not,  owing  to  the  tremendous 
rains,  a dry  corner  in  their  ship — that  they  slung  two 
in  a huge  hammock  in  the  cabin,  and  that  one  of  their 
crew  had  been  ill,  and  shirked  off.  What  a wonderful 
thing  pleasure  is ! to  be  wet  all  day  and  night ; to  be 
scorched  and  blistered  by  the  sun  and  rain ; to  beat  in 
and  out  of  little  harbours,  and  to  exceed  diurnally  upon 
whisky  punch.  Faith,  London  and  an  arm-chair  at  the 
club  are  more  to  the  tastes  of  some  men  ! 

Tho  pencil  of  Titmarsh,  in  this  and  some  other 
of  his  works,  comes  admirably  in  aid  of  his  pen, 
and  the  Irish  themselves  confessed  that  their  people, 
cabins,  and  costume  had  never  been  more  faith- 
fully depicted.  About  the  time  that  these  Irish 
sketches  appeared,  their  author  was  contributing, 
under  his  alter  ego  of  Fitz-Boodle,  to  Fraser's  Magazine 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


his  tale  of  Barry  Lyndon , which  appears  to  us  the 
best  of  his  short  stories.  It  is  a relation  of  the 
adventures  of  an  Irish  picaroon , or  gambler  and 
fortune-hunter,  and  abounds  'in  racy  humour  and 
striking  incidents.  The  commencement  of  Punch 
i — the  wittiest  of  periodicals — in  1841  opened  up  a 
j new  field  for  Mr  Thackeray,  and  his  papers,  signed 
j ‘ The  Fat  Contributor,’  soon  became  famous.  These 
I were  followed  by  Jeam.es' s Diary  and  the  Snob 
j Papers , distinguished  by  their  inimitable  vein  of 
! irony  and  wit,  and  he  also  made  various  contri- 
I butions  in  verse.  A journey  to  the  East  next  led 
! to  Notes  of  a Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo , 
j by  way  of  TJsbon , Athens , Constantinople , and  Jeru- 
| salem , by  M.  A.  Titmarsh.  This  volume  appeared 
j in  1846 ; and  in  the  following  year  he  issued  a small 
i Christmas  hook,  Mrs  Perkins's  Ball.  But  before 
| this  time  Mr  Thackeray  had  commenced,  in  monthly 
i parts,  his  story  of  Vanity  Fail’,  a Novel  without  a Hero , 

■ illustrated  by  himself,  or  to  use  his  own  expression, 
j ‘ illuminated  with  the  author’s  own  candles.’  Every 
! month  added  to  the  popularity  of  this  work,  and 
! ere  it  was  concluded  it  was  obvious  that  Mr 
Thackeray’s  probationary  period  was  past— that 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  and  George  Eitz-Boodle 
would  disappear  from  Fraser , and  their  author  take 
his  place  in  his  own  proper  name  and  person  as  one 
of  the  first  of  English  novelists,  and  the  greatest 
social  satirist  of  his  age.  In  regularity  of  story  and 
consistency  of  detail — though  these  by  no  means 
constitute  Mr  Thackeray’s  strength — Vanity  Fair 
greatly  excels  any  of  his  previous  works,  while  in 
delineation  of  character  it  stands  pre-eminent. 
Becky  Sharp  and  Amelia  Sedley — one  recognised 
as  the  ‘impersonation  of  intellect  without  virtue, 
and  the  other  as  that  of  virtue  without  intellect  ’ 
— are  not  only  perfectly  original  characters,  but 
are  drawn  with  so  much  dramatic  power,  knowledge 
of  life,  and  shrewd  observation,  as  to  render  them 
studies  in  human  nature  and  moral  anatomy. 
Amidst  all  her  selfishness,  Becky  preserves  a 
portion  of  the  reader’s  sympathy,  and  we  follow 
her  with  unabated  interest  through  her  vicissitudes 
as  French  teacher,  governess,  the  wife  of  the  heavy 
dragoon,  the  lady  of  fashion,  and  even  the  desperate 
and  degraded  swindler.  From  part  of  this  demora- 
lisation we  could  have  wished  that  Becky  had  been 
spared  by  her  historian,  and  the  story  would  have 
been  complete,  morally  and  artistically,  without  it. 
But  there  are  few  scenes,  even  the  most  cynical 
and  humiliating,  that  the  reader  desires  to  strike 
out:  all  have  such  an  air  of  truth,  and  are  so 
lively,  biting,  and  humorous,  or  are  so  quietly  and 
deeply  affecting,  that  such  a complete  panorama 
of  actual  life  at  home  and  abroad  had  not  been 
unfolded  for  many  years.  The  novelist  had  soared 
far  beyond  the  region  of  mere  town  life  and 
snobbism.  He  had  also  greatly  heightened  the 
interest  felt  in  his  characters  by  connecting  them 
with  historical  events  and  places.  We  have  a 
picture  of  Brussels  in  1815 ; and  as  Fielding  in 
Tom  Jones  glanced  at  some  of  the  incidents  of  the 
J acobite  rising  in  ’45,  Thackeray  reproduced,  as  it 
were,  the  terrors  and  anxieties  felt  by  thousands  as 
to  the  issue  of  the  great  struggles  at  Quatre  Bras 
and  Waterloo. 

Having  completed  Vanity  Fair,  Mr  Thackeray 
published  another  Christmas  volume,  Our  Street, 
1848,  to  which  a companion- volume,  Dr  Birch  and 
his  Young  Friends,  was  added  next  year.  He  had 
also  entered  upon  another  monthly  serial — his 
second  great  work — The  History  of  Pendennis.  This 
was  an  attempt  to  describe  the  gentlemen  of  the 
present  age — ‘ no  better  nor  worse  than  most 
652 


educated  men.’  And  even  these  educated  men,  accord- 
ing to  the  satirist,  cannot  be  painted  as  they  are, 
with  the  notorious  foibles  and  selfishness  of  their 
education.  ‘ Since  the  author  of  Tom  Jones  was 
buried,  no  writer  of  fiction  among  us  has  been 
permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost  powers  a man . 
We  must  drape  him,  and  give  him  a certain  con- 
ventional simper.  Society  will  not  tolerate  the 
natural  in  our  art.’  This  is  rather  too  broadly 
stated,  but  society,  no  doubt,  considers  that  it 
would  not  be  benefited  by  such  toleration.  Mr 
Thackeray,  however,  has  done  more  than  most  men 
to  strip  off  conventional  disguises  and  hypocrisies, 
and  he  affords  glimpses  of  the  interdicted  region — 
too  near  at  times,  but  without  seeking  to  render 
evil  attractive.  His  hero,  Pendennis,  is  scarcely  a 
higher  model  of  humanity  than  Tom  Jones,  though 
the  difference  in  national  manners  and  feelings, 
brought  about  during  a hundred  years,  has  saved 
him  from  some  of  the  descents  into  which  Jones 
was  almost  perforce  drawn.  Mr  Thackeray’s  hero 
falls  in  love  at  sixteen,  his  juvenile  flame  being  a 
young  actress,  who  jilts  him  on  finding  that  his 
fortune  is  not  what  she  believed  it  to  be.  This 
boyish  passion,  contrasted  with  the  character  of 
the  actress  and  that  of  her  father — a drunken  Irish 
captain — is  forcibly  delineated.  Pendennis  is  sent 
to  the  university,  gets  into  debt,  is  plucked,  and 
returns  home  to  his  widowed  mother,  who  is  ever 
kind,  gentle,  and  forgiving,  but  without  any  strong 
sense  or  firmness — another  favourite  type  of  char- 
acter with  Mr  Thackeray.  The  youth  then  becomes 
a law  student,  but  tires  of  the  profession,  and  adopts 
that  of  literature.  In  this  he  is  ultimately  success- 
ful, and  by  means  of  his  novels  and  poetry,  aided 
by  the  services  of  his  uncle,  Major  Pendennis,  he 
obtains  an  introduction  into  fashionable  society.  A 
varied  career  of  this  kind  affords  scope  for  the 
author’s  powers  of  description,  and  for  the  intro- 
duction of  characters  of  all  grades  and  pretensions. 
Major  Pendennis — an  antiquated  beau — a military 
Will  Honeycomb,  and  a determined  tuft-hunter,  is 
a finished  portrait.  The  sketches  of  literary  life 
— professional  writers — may  be  compared  with  a 
similar  description  in  Humphry  Clinker;  and  the 
domestic  scenes  in  the  novel  are  true  to  nature, 
both  in  their  satirical  views  of  life  and  in  incidents 
of  a tender  and  pathetic  nature.  Pendennis  was 
concluded  in  1850.  In  the  Christmas  of  that  year 
Mr  Thackeray  republished  one  of  his  Titmarsh  con- 
tributions to  Fraser,  1846,  a mock  continuation  of 
Scott’s  Ivanhoe , entitled  Rebecca  and  Roivena.  This 
piece  was  certainly  not  worthy  of  resuscitation.  An 
original  Christmas  tale  was  ready  next  winter — 
The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,  in  which  Mr  M.  A. 
Titmarsh  was  revived,  in  order  to  conduct  and 
satirise  the  Kicklebury  family — mother,  daughter, 
courier,  and  footman,  in  all  their  worldly  pride, 
vulgarity,  and  grandeur,  as  they  cross  the  Channel, 
and  proceed  to  their  destination  at  ‘Rougetnoirburg.’ 
This  is  a clever  little  satire — faithful  though  bitter, 
as  all  continental  travellers  admit — but  it  was  seized 
upon  by  the  Times  newspaper,  as  illustrating  that 
propensity  charged  upon  the  novelist  of  representing 
only  the  dark  side  of  human  nature — its  failings 
and  vices — as  if  no  real  goodness  or  virtue  existed 
in  the  world.  The  accusation  thus  brought  against 
Mr  Thackeray  he  repelled,  or  rather  ridiculed  in  a 
reply,  entitled  An  Essay  on  Thunder  and  Small  Beer, 
prefixed  to  a second  edition  of  the  Christmas 
volume.  One  passage  on  verbal  criticism  may  be 
quoted  as  characteristic. 

‘ It  has  been  customary,’  says  the  critic,  ‘ of  late  years 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


for  the  purveyors  of  amusing  literature  to  put  forth 
certain  opuscules,  denominated  Christmas  hooks,  with  the 
ostensible  intention  of  swelling  the  tide  of  exhilaration, 
or  other  expansive  emotions,  incident  upon  the  exodus 
of  the  old  or  the  inauguration  of  the  new  year.’ 

That  is  something  like  a sentence  (rejoins  Titmarsh) 
not  a word  scarcely  hut’s  in  Latin,  and  the  longest 
and  handsomest  out  of  the  whole  dictionary.  That  is 
proper  economy — as  you  see  a buck  from  Holywell 
Street  put  every  pinchbeck  pin,  ring,  and  chain  which 
he  possesses  about  his  shirt,  hands,  and  waistcoat,  and 
then  go  and  cut  a dash  in  the  park,  or  swagger  with  his 
order  to  the  theatre.  It  costs  him  no  more  to  wear  all 
his  ornaments  about  his  distinguished  person  than  to 
leave  them  at  home.  If  you  can  be  a swell  at  a cheap 
rate,  why  not?  And  I protest,  for  my  part,  I had  no 
idea  what  I was  really  about  in  writing  and  submitting 
my  little  book  for  sale  until  my  friend  the  critic,  looking 
at  the  article,  and  examining  it  with  the  eyes  of  a 
connoisseur,  pronounced  that  what  I had  fancied  simply 
to  be  a book  was  in  fact  ‘an  opuscule  denominated 
so-and-so,  and  ostensibly  intended  to  swell  the  tide  of 
expansive  emotion  incident  upon  the  inauguration  of 
the  new  year.’  I can  hardly  believe  as  much  even  now 
— so  little  do  we  know  what  we  really  are  after,  until 
men  of  genius  come  and  interpret. 

In  the  summer  of  1851  Mr  Thackeray  appeared  as 
a lecturer.  His  subject  was  The  English  Humorists 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century , and  all  the  rank  and 
fashion,  with  no  small  portion  of  the  men  of  letters 
of  London,  flocked  to  Willis’s  Rooms  to  hear  the 
popular  novelist  descant  on  the  lives  and  works  of 
his  great  predecessors  in  fiction,  from  Swift  to 
Goldsmith.  The  lectures  were  afterwards  repeated 
in  Scotland  and  in  America,  and  they  are  now 
published,  forming  one  of  the  most  delightful  little 
hooks  in  the  language.  Ten  thousand  copies  of  the 
cheap  edition  of  this  volume  were  sold  in  one  week. 
To  Swift,  Mr  Thackeray  was  perhaps  too  severe — 
to  Fielding,  too  indulgent;  Steele  is  painted  en 
beau  in  cordial  love,  and  with  little  shadow;  yet 
we  know  not  where  the  reader  will  find  in  the  same 
limited  compass  so  much  just  and  discriminating 
criticism,  or  so  many  fine  thoughts  and  amusing 
anecdotes,  as  those  which  this  loving  brother  of  the 
craft  has  treasured  up  regarding  his  ‘fellows’  of 
the  last  century.  The  Queen  Anne  period  touched 
upon  in  these  lectures  formed  the  subject  of 
Mr  Thackeray’s  next  novel,  Esmond,  published  in 
three  volumes,  1852.  The  work  is  in  the  form  of 
an  autobiography.  The  hero,  Colonel  Henry 
Esmond,  is  a Cavalier  and  Jacobite,  who,  after 
serving  his  country  abroad,  mingles  with  its  wits 
and  courtiers  at  home ; plots  for  the  restoration  of 
the  Chevalier  St  George ; and  finally  retires  to 
Virginia,  where,  in  his  old  age,  he  writes  this 
memoir  of  himself  and  of  the  noble  family  of 
Castlewood,  of  which  he  is  a member.  Historical 
events  and  characters  arc  freely  introduced. 
Esmond  serves  under  Marlborough  at  Blenheim 
and  Ramilies,  and  we  have  a portrait  of  the  great 
general  as  darkly  coloured  as  the  portrait  of  him 
by  Macaulay.  The  Chevalier  is  also  brought  upon 
the  stage,  and  Swift,  Congreve,  Addison,  and  Steele 
are  among  the  interlocutors.  But  the  chief  interest 
of  the  work  centres  in  a few  characters — in  Esmond 
himself,  the  pure,  disinterested,  and  high-minded 
Cavalier;  in  Lady  Castlewood;  and  in  Lady  Castle- 
wood’s  daughter,  Beatrix,  a haughty  and  spoiled, 
yet  fascinating  beauty.  Esmond  woos  Beatrix — 
a hopeless  pursuit  of  many  years ; but  lie  is  finally 
rejected,  and  in  the  end  he  is  united  to  Lady 
Castlewood — to  the  mother  instead  of  the  daughter 
— for  whom  he  had  secretly  cherished  from  his 


boyhood  an  affection  amounting  to  veneration.  It 
required  all  Mr  Thackeray’s  art  and  genius  to  keep 
such  a plot  from  revolting  the  reader,  and  we  can- 
not say  that  he  has  wholly  triumphed  over  the 
difficulty.  The  boyish  passion  is  true  to  nature. 
At  that  period  of  life  the  mature  beauty  is  more 
overpowering  to  the  youthful  imagination  than  any 
charmer  of  sixteen.  But  when  Esmond  marries  he 
is  forty,  and  the  lady  is  ten  years  his  senior.  The 
romance  of  life  is  over.  The  skilful  novelist,  how- 
ever, by  his  delineation  of  Lady  Castlewood,  and 
by  a succession  of  incidents,  proceeding,  as  it  were, 
by  some  inevitable  destiny,  partly  reconciles  us  to 
the  anomaly.  His  characters  and  descriptions  are 
so  finely  drawn  and  finished,  the  style  of  the  Queen 
Anne  period  is  so  admirably  copied  in  thought, 
sentiment,  and  diction,  and  so  many  striking  and 
eloquent  passages  occur  throughout  the  work,  that 
Esmond  appears  to  be  more  complete  as  a whole  than 
either  of  its  more  popular  predecessors.  It  is  a 
grand  and  melancholy  story,  standing  in  the  same 
relation  to  Mr  Thackeray’s  other  works  that  Scott’s 
Bride  of  Lammermoor  does  to  the  great  "YVaverley 
group. 

We  give  one  extract — sardonic  yet  sad — from 
Esmond. 

[. Uecay  of  Matrimonial  Love.] 

’Twas  easy  for  Harry  to  see,  however  much  his  lady 
persisted  in  obedience  and  admiration  for  her  husband, 
that  my  lord  tired  of  his  quiet  life,  and  grew  weary,  and 
then  testy,  at  those  gentle  bonds  with  which  his  wife 
would  have  held  him.  As  they  say  the  Grand  Lama  of 
Thibet  is  very  much  fatigued  by  his  character  of  divinity, 
and  yawns  on  his  altar  as  his  bonzes  kneel  and  worship 
him,  many  a home-god  grows  heartily  sick  of  the 
reverence  with  which  his  family-devotees  pursue  him, 
and  sighs  for  freedom  and  for  his  old  life,  and  to  be  off 
the  pedestal  on  which  his  dependents  would  have  him 
sit  for  ever,  whilst  they  adore  him,  and  ply  him  with 
flowers,  and  hymns,  and  incense,  and  flattery : so,  after 
a few  years  of  his  marriage,  my  honest  Lord  Castlewood 
began  to  tire ; all  the  high-flown  raptures  and  devotional 
ceremonies  with  which  his  wife,  his  chief  priestess, 
treated  him,  first  sent  him  to  sleep,  and  then  drove  him 
out  of  doors ; for  the  truth  must  be  told,  that  my  lord 
was  a jolly  gentleman,  with  very  little  of  the  august  or 
divine  in  his  nature,  though  his  fond  wife  persisted  in 
revering  it — and  besides,  he  had  to  pay  a penalty  for 
this  love,  which  persons  of  his  disposition  seldom  like 
to  defray ; and,  in  a word,  if  he  had  a loving  wife,  he  had 
a very  jealous  and  exacting  one.  Then  he  wearied  of 
this  jealousy ; then  he  broke  away  from  it ; then  came, 
no  doubt,  complaints  and  recriminations ; then,  perhaps, 
promises  of  amendment  not  fulfilled ; then  upbraidings 
not  the  more  pleasant  because  they  were  silent,  and 
only  sad  looks  and  tearful  eyes  conveyed  them.  Then, 
perhaps,  the  pair  reached  that  other  stage  which  is  not 
uncommon  in  married  life,  when  the  woman  perceives 
that  the  god  of  the  honeymoon  is  a god  no  more ; only 
a mortal  like  the  rest  of  us — and  so  she  looks  into  her 
heart,  and,  lo ! vacua  sedes  et  inania  arcana.  And 
now,  supposing  our  lady  to  have  a fine  genius  and  a 
brilliant  wit  of  her  own,  and  the  magic  spell  and 
infatuation  removed  from  her  which  had  led  her  to 
worship  as  a god  a very  ordinary  mortal — and  what 
follows?  They  live  together,  and  they  dine  together, 
and  they  say,  ‘ My  dear  ’ and  ‘ My  love  ’ as  heretofore  ; 
but  the  man  is  himself,  and  the  woman  herself : that 
dream  of  love  is  over,  as  everything  else  is  over  in  life ; 
as  flowers  and  fury,  and  griefs  and  pleasures  are  over. 

The  next  work  of  Mr  Thackeray  is  considered  his 
masterpiece.  It  is  in  the  old  vein — a transcript  of 
real  life  in  the  present  day,  with  all  its  faults  and 

653 


prom  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


follies,  hypocrisy  and  injustice.  The  work  came 
recommended  by  the  familiar  and  inviting  title  of 
The  Newcomes : Memoirs  of  a Most  Respectable 
Family.  Edited  by  Arthur  Pendennis , Esq.  It  was 
issued  in  the  monthly  form,  and  was  completed  in 
1855.  The  leading  theme  or  moral  of  the  story  is 
the  misery  occasioned  by  forced  and  ill-assorted 
marriages.  That  unhallowed  traffic  of  the  great 
and  worldly  is  denounced  with  all  the  author’s 
moral  indignation  and  caustic  severity,  and  its 
results  are  developed  in  incidents  of  the  most 
striking  and  affecting  description.  Thus  of  one 
fair  victim  we  read : 

[Lady  Clara  Newcome."] 

Poor  Lady  Clara  ! I fancy  a better  lot  for  you  than 
that  to  which  fate  handed  you  over.  I fancy  there  need 
have  been  no  deceit  in  your  fond,  simple,  little  heart, 
could  it  but  have  been  given  into  other  keeping.  But 
you  were  consigned  to  a master  whose  scorn  and  cruelty 
terrified  you : under  whose  sardonic  glances  your  scared 
eyes  were  afraid  to  look  up,  and  before  whose  gloomy 
coldness  you  dared  not  be  happy.  Suppose  a little 
plant ; very  frail  and  delicate  from  the  first,  but  that 
might  have  bloomed  sweetly  and  borne  fair  flowers,  had 
it  received  warm  shelter  and  kindly  nurture ; suppose 
a young  creature  taken  out  of  her  home,  and  given  over 
to  a hard  master  whose  caresses  are  as  insulting  as  his 
neglect ; consigned  to  cruel  usage ; to  weary  loneliness ; 
to  bitter  insulting  recollections  of  the  past ; suppose  her 
schooled  into  hypocrisy  by  tyranny — and  then,  quick, 
let  us  hire  an  advocate  to  roar  out  to  a British  jury  the 
wrongs  of  her  injured  husband,  to  paint  the  agonies  of 
his  bleeding  heart  (if  Mr  Advocate  gets  plaintiff’s  brief 
in  time,  and  before  defendant’s  attorney  has  retained 
him),  and  to  shew  society  injured  through  him  ! Let  us 
console  that  martyr,  I say,  with  thumping  damages; 
and  as  for  the  woman — the  guilty  wretch ! — let  us  lead 
her  out  and  stone  her.  * * So  Lady  Clara  flies  from 

the  custody  of  her  tyrant,  but  to  what  a rescue  ? The 
very  man  who  loves  her,  and  gives  her  asylum,  pities 
and  deplores  her.  She  scarce  dares  to  look  out  of  the 
windows  of  her  new  home  upon  the  world,  lest  it  should 
know  and  reproach  her.  All  the  sisterhood  of  friend- 
ship is  cut  off  from  her.  If  she  dares  to  go  abroad,  she 
feels  the  sneer  of  the  world  as  she  goes  through  it,  and 
knows  that  malice  and  scorn  whisper  behind  her. 
People,  as  criminal,  but  undiscovered,  make  room  for 
her  as  if  her  touch  were  pollution.  She  knows  she  has 
darkened  the  lot  and  made  wretched  the  home  of  the 
man  she  loves  best,  that  his  friends  who  see  her  treat 
her  with  but  a doubtful  respect,  and  the  domestics  who 
attend  her  with  a suspicious  obedience.  In  the  country 
lanes,  or  the  streets  of  the  country  town,  neighbours 
look  aside  as  the  carriage  passes  in  which  she  is  splendid 
and  lonely.  Rough  hunting  companions  of  her  hus- 
band’s come  to  the  table : he  is  driven  perforce  to  the 
company  of  flatterers  and  men  of  inferior  sort;  his 
equals,  at  least  in  his  own  home,  will  not  live  with  him. 
She  would  be  kind,  perhaps,  and  charitable  to  the 
cottagers  around  her,  but  she  fears  to  visit  them,  lest  they 
too  should  scorn  her.  The  clergyman  who  distributes 
her  charities,  blushes  and  looks  awkward  on  passing  her 
in  the  village,  if  he  should  be  walking  with  his  wife  or 
one  of  his  children.’ 

Could  anything  more  sternly  or  touchingly  true 
be  written?  The  summation  of  Clara’s  miseries, 
item  by  item,  might  have  been  made  by  Swift,  but 
there  is  a pathos  and  moral  beauty  in  the  passage 
that  the  dean  never  reached.  The  real  hero  of 
the  novel  is  Colonel  Newcome — a counterpart  to 
Fielding’s  Allworthy.  The  old  officer’s  high  sense  of 
honour,  his  simplicity,  his  never-failing  kindness  of 
654 


heart,  his  antique  courtesy — as  engaging  as  that  of 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley — his  misfortunes  and  ruin 
through  the  knavery  of  others — and  his  death  as 
a ‘poor  brother’  in  the  Charterhouse,  form  alto- 
gether so  noble,  so  affecting  a picture,  and  one  so 
perfectly  natural  and  life-like,  that  it  can  scarcely 
be  even  recalled  without  tears.  The  author,  it  was 
said,  might  have  given  a less  painful  end  to  the 
good  colonel,  to  soothe  him  after  the  buffetings  of 
the  world.  The  same  remark  was  made  on  Scott’s 
treatment  of  his  Jewess  Rebecca,  and  we  have  no 
doubt  Mr  Thackeray’s  answer  would  be  that  of 
Scott — ‘ A character  of  a highly  virtuous  and  lofty 
stamp  is  degraded  rather  than  exalted  by  an  attempt 
to  reward  virtue  with  worldly  prosperity.  Such  is 
not  the  recompense  which  Providence  has  deemed 
worthy  of  suffering  merit.’  The  best  of  Mr 
Thackeray’s  female  portraits — his  highest  compli- 
ment to  the  sex — is  in  this  novel.  Ethel  Newcome, 
in  her  pride  and  sensibility — the  former  balancing, 
and  at  last  overcoming,  the  weaknesses  induced  by 
the  latter — is  drawn  with  great  delicacy  and  truth ; 
while  in  the  French  characters,  the  family  of  De 
Florae  and  others,  we  have  an  entirely  new  creation 
— a cluster  of  originals.  The  gay  roue',  Paul  de 
Florae — who  plays  the  Englishman  in  top-boots  and 
buckskins — could  only  be  hit  off  by  one  equally  at 
home  in  French  and  in  English  society.  Of  course 
there  are  in  The  Newcomes  many  other  personages 
and  classes — as  the  sanctimonious  fop,  the  coarse 
and  covetous  trader,  the  parasite,  the  schemer,  &c. 
— Avho  are  drawn  with  the  novelist’s  usual  keen 
insight  and  minute  detail,  though  possessing  fewer 
features  of  novelty  or  interest.  Those  who  have 
traversed  leisurely  the  fable-land  of  The  Newcomes , 
have  found  it,  as  Mr  Thackeray’s  critic  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  observed,  ‘as  healthful  as  it  is 
beguiling ; and  it  is  through  its  more  sterling  quali- 
ties that  he  has  won  for  his  book  a loving  admira- 
tion in  many  a home  where  genius  alone  would 
have  been  faintly  welcomed.’  The  author’s  decided 
success  now  led  to  the  republication  of  his  early 
pieces — the  Miscellanies : Prose  and  Verse,  taken 
from  Fraser , Punch,  and  other  journals ; and  critics 
and  general  readers  were  busied  in  tracing  the 
first  developments  of  that  genius  which  was  not 
fortunate  enough  to  obtain  speedy  recognition. 
The  same  characteristics  were  found  in  all — the 
easy,  idiomatic  style,  the  clear,  manly  thought, 
the  innate  proneness  to  satire — but  all  in  his 
later  works  ripened  and  mellowed  by  the  fifteen 
years’  sun  and  shade  that  had  passed  over  the 
writer.  Recurring  again  to  the  pleasant  and  pro- 
fitable trade  of  lecturing,  Mr  Thackeray  crossed 
the  Atlantic,  taking  with  him  four  more  lectures — 
The  Four  Georges — which,  after  being  delivered  in 
the  United  States  in  1855-56,  were,  on  his  return, 
repeated  in  London,  and  in  most  of  the  large  towns 
in  England  and  Scotland.  The  Hanoverian  monarchs 
afforded  but  little  room  for  eulogistic  writing  or  fine 
moral  painting;  and  the  dark  shades— the  coarse- 
ness, immorality,  and  heartlessness  that  pervaded 
the  courts  of  at  least  the  first,  second,  and  fourth 
of  the  Georges — were  exhibited  without  any  relief 
or  softening.  George  III.,  as  the  better  man,  fared 
better  with  the  lecturer ; and  the  closing  scene  when 
old,  blind,  and  bereft  of  reason,  the  monarch  sank 
to  rest,  was  described  with  great  pathos  and  pictur- 
esque effect.  The  society,  literature,  manners,  and 
fashion  of  the  different  periods  were  briefly  touched 
upon — somewhat  in  the  style  of  Horace  Walpole; 
and  we  believe  Mr  Thackeray  contemplates,  among 
his  future  tasks,  expanding  these  lectures  into 
memoirs  of  the  different  reigns.  The  novelist  now 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  w.  m.  thackeray. 

aimed  at  a different  sort  of  public  distinction.  The 
representation  of  the  city  of  Oxford  becoming  vacant, 
he  offered  himself  as  a candidate — the  advocate  of  all 
liberal  measures — but  was  defeated  by  the  present 
member,  Mr  Cardwell  (July  1857),  the  numbers 
being  1085  to  1018.  Before  the  close  of  the  year 
Mr  Thackeray  was  at  the  more  appropriate  and,  we 
should  think,  congenial  occupation  of  another  serial. 
The  Castlewood  family  was  revived,  and  in  The 
Virginians  we  had  a tale  of  the  days  of  George  II. 
—of  Chesterfield,  Queensberry,  Garrick,  and  John- 
son— the  gaming-table,  coffee-house,  and  theatre, 
but  with  Washington,  Wolfe,  and  the  American 
war  in  the  background.  As  a story,  The  Virginians 
is  defective.  The  incidents  hang  loosely  together 
and  want  progressive  interest,  but  the  work  abounds 
in  passages  of  fine  philosophic  humour  and  satire. 
The  author  frequently  stops  to  moralise  and  preach 
sotte  voce  to  his  readers,  and  in  these  digressions  we 
have  some  of  his  choicest  and  most  racy  sentences. 
Youth  and  love  are  his  favourite  themes.  There  is 
a healthy  natural  world  both  within  and  without 
the  world  of  fashion — particularly  without . Mere 
wealth  and  ton  go  for  nothing  in  the  composition  of 
happiness,  and  genuine,  manly  love  is  independent 
of  the  sunshine  of  prosperity.  Few,  however,  have 
strength  of  mind  to  renounce  the  shams  and  discern 
the  realities  of  life,  and  thus  arise  mistakes,  mis- 
understandings, and  misery.  Such  is  part  of  the 
creed  here  inculcated — and  inculcated  in  the  blandest 
of  Mr  Thackeray’s  moods.  We  quote  a few  of  his 
‘ mottoes  of  the  heart  ’ and  satirical  touches. 

[ Recollection  of  Youthful  Beauty .] 

When  cheeks  are  faded  and  eyes  are  dim,  is  it  sad 
or  pleasant,  I wonder,  for  the  woman  who  is  a beauty 
no  more,  to  recall  the  period  of  her  bloom  ? When  the 
heart  is  withered,  do  the  old  love  to  remember  how  it 
once  was  fresh,  and  beat  with  warm  emotions  ? When 
the  spirits  are  languid  and  weary,  do  we  like  to  think 
how  bright  they  were  in  other  days;  the  hope  how 
buoyant,  the  sympathies  how  ready,  the  enjoyment  of 
life  how  keen  and  eager?  So  they  fall — the  buds  of 
prime,  the  roses  of  beauty,  the  florid  harvests  of 
summer — fall  and  wither,  and  the  naked  branches 
shiver  in  the  winter. 

[Indifference  of  the  World .] 

The  world  can  pry  out  everything  about  us  which  it 
has  a mind  to  know.  But  there  is  this  consolation, 
which  men  will  never  accept  in  their  own  cases,  that 
the  world  doesn’t  care.  Consider  the  amount  of  scandal 
it  has  been  forced  to  hear  in  its  time,  and  how  weary 
and  blase  it  must  be  of  that  kind  of  intelligence.  You 
are  taken  to  prison,  and  fancy  yourself  indelibly  dis- 
graced ? You  are  bankrupt  under  odd  circumstances  ? You 
drive  a queer  bargain  with  your  friends  and  are  found 
out,  and  imagine  the  world  will  punish  you  ? Psha ! 
Your  shame  is  only  vanity.  Go  and  talk  to  the  world 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  nothing  has  happened. 
Tumble  down ; brush  the  mud  off  your  clothes ; appear 
with  a smiling  countenance,  and  nobody  cares.  Do  you 
suppose  society  is  going  to  take  out  its  pocket-handker- 
chief and  be  inconsolable  when  you  die?  Why  should 
it  care  very  much,  then,  whether  your  worship  graces 
yourself  or  disgraces  yourself?  Whatever  happens,  it 
talks,  meets,  jokes,  yawns,  has  its  dinner  pretty  much 
as  before. 

[Lackeys  and  Footmen  in  the  Last  Century .] 

Lackeys,  liveries,  footmen  — the  old  society  was 
encumbered  with  a prodigious  quantity  of  these.  Gentle 

men  or  women  could  scarce  move  without  one,  some- 
times two  or  three,  vassals  in  attendance.  Every  theatre 
had  its  footmen’s  gallery ; an  army  of  the  liveried  race 
hustled  round  every  chapel-door.  They  swarmed  in 
anterooms,  they  sprawled  in  halls  and  on  landings, 
they  guzzled,  devoured,  debauched,  cheated,  played  cards, 
bullied  visitors  for  vails  [or  gratuities].  That  noble 
old  race  of  footmen  is  well-nigh  gone.  A few  thousand 
of  them  may  still  be  left  among  us.  Grand,  tall, 
beautiful,  melancholy,  we  still  behold  them  on  levee  days, 
with  their  nosegays  and  their  buckles,  their  plush  and 
their  powder.  So  have  I seen  in  America  specimens, 
nay,  camps  and  villages,  of  Red  Indians.  But  the  race 
is  doomed.  The  fatal  decree  has  gone  forth,  and  Uncas 
with  his  tomahawk  and  eagle’s  plume,  and  Jeames  with 
his  cocked-hat  and  long  cane,  are  passing  out  of  the 
world  where  they  once  walked  in  glory. 

[The  English  Country  Gentleman.'] 

To  be  a good  old  country  gentleman,  is  to  hold  a 
position  nearest  the  gods,  and  at  the  summit  of  earthly 
felicity.  To  have  a large  unencumbered  rent-roll,  and 
the  rents  paid  regularly  by  adoring  farmers,  who  bless 
their  stars  at  having  such  a landlord  as  his  honour ; to 
have  no  tenant  holding  back  with  his  money,  excepting 
just  one,  perhaps,  who  does  so  just  in  order  to  give 
occasion  to  Good  Old  Country  Gentleman  to  shew  his 
sublime  charity  and  universal  benevolence  of  soul;  to 
hunt  three  days  a week,  love  the  sport  of  all  things,  and 
have  perfect  good  health  and  good  appetite  in  conse- 
quence; to  have  not  only  a good  appetite,  but  a good 
dinner ; to  sit  down  at  church  in  the  midst  of  a chorus 
of  blessings  from  the  villagers,  the  first  man  in  the 
parish,  the  benefactor  of  the  parish,  with  a consciousness 
of  consummate  desert,  saying,  ‘ Have  mercy  upon  us 
miserable  sinners,’  to  be  sure,  but  only  for  form’s  sake, 
and  to  give  other  folks  an  example : — a G.O.C.G.  a 
miserable  sinner ! So  healthy,  so  wealthy,  so  jolly,  so 
much  respected  by  the  vicar,  so  much  honoured  by  the 
tenants,  so  much  beloved  and  admired  by  his  family, 
amongst  whom  his  story  of  grouse  in  the  gun-room 
causes  laughter  from  generation  to  generation;  this 
perfect  being  a miserable  sinner ! Allans  done!  Give 
any  man  good  health  and  temper,  five  thousand  a year, 
the  adoration  of  his  parish,  and  the  love  and  worship 
of  his  family,  and  I ’ll  defy  you  to  make  him  so  heartily 
dissatisfied  with  his  spiritual  condition  as  to  set  himself 
down  a miserable  anything.  If  you  were  a Royal 
Highness,  and  went,  to  church  in  the  most  perfect  health 
and  comfort,  the  parson  waiting  to  begin  the  service, 
until  your  R.H.  came  in,  would  you  believe  yourself 
to  be  a miserable,  &c.?  You  might,  when  racked  with 
gout,  in  solitude,  the  fear  of  death  before  your  eyes,  the 
doctor  having  cut  off  your  bottle  of  claret,  and  ordered 
arrow-root  and  a little  sherry — you  might  then  be 
humiliated,  and  acknowledge  your  shortcomings  and 
the  vanity  of  things  in  general ; but  in  high  health, 
sunshine,  spirits,  that  word  ‘ miserable  ’ is  only  a form. 
You  can’t  think  in  your  heart  that  you  are  to  be  pitied 
much  for  the  present.  If  you  are  to  be  miserable,  what 
is  Colin  Ploughman  with  the  ague,  seven  children,  two 
pounds  a year  rent  to  pay  for  his  cottage,  and  eight 
shillings  a week?  No;  a healthy,  rich,  jolly  country 
gentleman,  if  miserable,  has  a very  supportable  misery; 
if  a sinner,  has  very  few  people  to  tell  him  so. 

We  add  one  specimen  of  Mr  Thackeray’s  verse, 
which  differs  very  little  from  his  prose : the  colour 
and  flavour  are  the  same. 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse. 

A street  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 

Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields; 

655 

FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


And  here ’s  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 
But  still  in  comfortable  case  ; 

The  which  in  youth  I oft  attended, 

To  eat  a howl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a noble  dish  is — 

A sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew. 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo ; 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffern, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach  and  dace ; 

All  these  you  eat  at  Terre’s  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a rich  and  savoury  stew  ’tis ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 

"Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 

Nor  find  a fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before ; 

The  smiling  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 
Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 

Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I recollect  his  droll  grimace  ; 

He ’d  come  and  smile  before  your  table,  . 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter — nothing’s  changed  or  older, 
‘How’s  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?’ 

The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 

‘ Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a day.’ 

‘ It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  Terre ’s  run  his  race.’ 

‘What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?’ 

‘ Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse?’ 

‘ Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,’  ’s  the  waiter’s  answer ; 

‘Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il?’ 

‘ Tell  me  a good  one.’  ‘ That  I can,  sir  : 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.’ 

‘So  Terre’s  gone,’  I say,  and  sink  in 
My  old  accustomed  corner-place  ; 

‘He’s  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 
With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse.’ 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 

Ah  ! vanished  many  a busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I took. 
When  first  I saw  ye,  Cari  luoghi, 

I ’d  scarce  a beard  upon  my  face, 

And  now  a grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty, 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine  ? 

Come,  waiter ! quick,  a flagon  crusty — 

I ’ll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 

The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 
My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 

Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There’s  Jack  has  made  a wondrous  marriage; 

There’s  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There ’s  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage ; 

There’s  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette; 

On  J ames’s  head  the  grass  is  growing : 

Good  Lord  ! the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 
fi56 


Ah  me  ! how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I mind  me  of  a time  that ’s  gone, 

When  here  I ’d  sit,  as  now  I ’m  sitting, 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 

A fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 
— There ’s  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

* * * , 

I drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes  : 

Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 
In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 

Welcome  the  wine,  whate’er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate’er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 

The  leading  features  of  Mr  Thackeray’s  genius  are 
well  sketched  in  the  following  extract  from 
Brimley’s  Essays:  ‘Mr  Thackeray’s  humour  does 
not  mainly  consist  in  the  creation  of  oddities  of 
manner,  habit,  or  feeling,  hut  in  so  representing 
actual  men  and  women  as  to  excite  a sense  of  incon- 
gruity in  the  reader’s  mind — a feeling  that  the 
follies  and  vices  described  are  deviations  from  an 
ideal  of  humanity  always  present  to  the  writer.  The 
real  is  described  vividly,  with  that  perception  of 
individuality  which  constitutes  the  artist ; but  the 
description  implies  and  suggests  a standard  higher 
than  itself,  not  by  any  direct  assertion  of  such 
a standard,  but  by  an  unmistakable  irony.  The 
moral  antithesis  of  actual  and  ideal  is  the  root 
from  which  springs  the  peculiar  charm  of  Mr 
Thackeray’s  writings ; that  mixture  of  gaiety  and 
seriousness,  of  sarcasm  and  tenderness,  of  enjoy- 
ment and  cynicism,  which  reflects  so  well  the  con- 
tradictory consciousness  of  man  as  a being  with 
senses  and  passions  and  limited  knowledge,  yet 
with  a conscience  and  a reason  speaking  to  him  of 
eternal  laws,  and  a moral  order  of  the  universe.  It 
is  this  that  makes  Mr  Thackeray  a profound  moralist, 
just  as  Hogarth  shewed  his  knowledge  of  perspective 
by  drawing  a landscape  throughout  in  violation  of 
its  rules.  So,  in  Mr  Thackeray’s  picture  of  society 
as  it  is,  society  as  it  ought  to  be  is  implied.  He 
could  not  have  painted  Vanity  Fair  as  he  has,  unless 
Eden  had  been  shining  brightly  in  his  inner  eyes. 
The  historian  of  snobs  indicates  in  every  touch  his 
fine  sense  of  a gentleman  or  a lady.  No  one  could 
be  simply  amused  with  Mr  Thackeray’s  descriptions 
or  his  dialogues.  A shame  at  one’s  own  defects,  at 
the  defects  of  the  world  in  which  one  was  living, 
was  irresistibly  aroused  along  with  the  reception  of 
the  particular  portraiture.  But  while  he  was  deal- 
ing with  his  own  age,  his  keen  perceptive  faculty 
prevailed,  and  the  actual  predominates  in  his  pictures 
of  modern  society.  His  fine  appreciation  of  high 
character  has  hitherto  been  chiefly  shewn  (though 
with  bright  exceptions)  by  his  definition  of  its  con- 
trary.’ The  critic  then  remarks  that  in  the  two 
leading  characters  of  Esmond  the  novelist  displays 
his  true  nature  without  the  mask  of  satire  and 
irony.  This  is  also  the  case  in  The  Newcomes  and 
The  Virginians — the  characters  in  whom  the  reader 
is  most  interested  are  honourable  and  generous. 

THE  REV.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

As  a novelist,  poet,  theologian,  and  active  philan- 
thropist, Mr  Kingsley,  rector  of  Eversley,  Hamp- 
shire, is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  meritorious 
men  of  his  age.  His  views  of  social  reform  verge 
upon  Chartism,  and  in  some  instances  are  crude 
and  impracticable  in  the  present  state  of  society ; 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  rev.  Charles  kingsley. 


but  his  zeal,  disinterestedness,  and  unceasing  perse- 
verance' in  seeking  to  remedy  evils  which  press 
upon  the  working-classes,  no  one  doubts  or  questions, 
while  the  genius  he  has  brought  to  bear  on  his 
various  duties  and  tasks  reflects  honour  on  our 
literature.  Mr  Kingsley  is  a native  of  Devonshire, 
born  at  Holne  Vicarage,  near  Dartmoor,  in  1819. 
He  studied  at  King’s  College,  London,  and  Magda- 
lene College,  Cambridge,  and  intended  to  follow  the 
profession  of  the  law.  He  soon,  however,  abandoned 
this  pursuit,  and  entered  the  church,  obtaining  first 
the  curacy,  and  then  the  rectory  of  Eversley,  which 
he  lias  invested  with  a European  interest  and  fame. 
Mr  Kingsley’s  first  appearance  as  an  author  was  in 
the  character  of  a dramatic  poet.  In  1848  he  pub- 
lished The  Saint's  Tragedy , or  the  story  of  Elizabeth 
of  Hungary,  landgravine  of  Thuringia,  and  a saint 
of  the  Romish  calendar.  This  poem  is  a sort  of 
protest  against  superstitious  homage  and  false 
miracles,  but  it  gives  also  a vivid  picture  of  life  in 
I the  middle  ages,  and  is  animated  by  a poetical 
[ imagination.  His  next  work  was  one  of  fiction — 

I Alton  Locke,  Tailor  ancl  Poet : an  Autobiography,  two 
| volumes,  1850.  The  design  of  this  tale  is  to  shew 
| the  evils  of  competition  and  the  grievances  of  the 
! artisan  class.  The  hardships  which  drove  Alton  to 
I become  a Chartist,  and  his  mental  struggles  as  he 
! oscillated  between  infidelity  and  religion,  are  power- 
i fully  depicted,  though  the  story  is,  in  some  respects, 
a painful  one,  and  in  parts  greatly  exaggerated, 
j Mr  Kingsley’s  remedy  for  the  evils  of  compe- 
tition and  the  tyranny  of  masters  in  large  towns  is 
the  adoption  of  the  associative  principle  among  the 
workmen — combining  capital  and  labour — and  in 
the  case  of  the  tailors  and  a few  other  trades,  the 
scheme  was  tried.  The  same  social  topics  are  dis- 
cussed in  Mr  Kingsley’s  Yeast,  a Problem,  1851,  which 
is  devoted  more  particularly  to  the  condition  of  the 
agricultural  labourers,  and  is  written  with  a plain- 
ness and  vehemence  that  deterred  fastidious  readers, 
j Mr  Kingsley  put  his  views  into  a more  definite  shape 
| in  a lecture  on  the  Application  of  Associative  Prin- 
! ciples  and  Methods  to  Agriculture,  published  also  in 
I 1851.  But  in  this  tract  the  author’s  denunciation 
i of  large  towns  and  mill-owners,  and  his  proposal 
! to  restore  the1  population  to  the  land,  are  erroneous 
both  in  theory  and  sentiment.  ‘ The  earth,’  he  says, 

‘ hath  bubbles,  and  such  cities  as  Manchester  are  of 
them.  A short-sighted  and  hasty  greed  created 
them,  and  when  they  have  lasted  their  little  time 
and  had  their  day,  they  will  vanish  like  bubbles.’ 
Such  ‘Christian  Socialism’  as  this  would  throw 
back  society  into  ignorance  and  poverty,  instead  of 
solving  the  problem  as  to  the  rich  and  the  poor. 
Phcethon,  or  Loose  Thoughts  for  Loose  Thinkers,  1852, 
and  Hypatia,  or  New  Friends  with  an  Old  Face, 
1853,  were  Mr  Kingsley’s  next  works.  These  were 
followed  by  a series  of  lectures,  delivered  at  the 
Philosophical  Institution,  Edinburgh,  on  Alexandria 
ancl  her  Schools,  1854 ; and  in  the  following  year  our 
author  took  a higher  and  more  genial  position  as  a 
man  of  letters  by  his  novel  of  Westward  Ho!  and 
his  delightful  little  treatise  of  Glaucus,  or  the 
Wonders  of  the  Shore.  In  his  Westward  Ho!  Mr 
I Kingsley  threw  himself  into  the  exciting  and 
brilliant  Elizabethan  period,  professing  to  relate 
the  ‘Voyages  and  Adventures  of  Sir  Amy  as  Leigh, 
Knight,  of  Burrough,  in  the  county  of  Devon,  in 
the  reign  of  Her  Most  Glorious  Majesty  Queen 
Elizabeth ; rendered  into  modern  English  by  Charles 
Kingsley.’  Here  we  have  Raleigh,  Drake,  Hawkins, 
and  the  other  great  names  of  Devonshire  once  more 
in  action ; we  have  adventures  in  the  Spanish  main 
and  South  American  continent,  the  memorable  chase 
94 


and  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  the  plots  of 
Jesuits,  the  pride  of  Spaniards,  English  burghers, 
Puritans,  seamen,  and  soldiers — an  endless  variety 
of  incidents  and  characters,  with  descriptions  of 
scenery  which  for  rich  colouring  and  picturesqueness 
are  almost  unrivalled.  Believing  that  the  Protes- 
tantism of  the  Elizabethan  age  was  all-important 
to  the  cause  of  freedom  as  well  as  true  religion, 
Mr  Kingsley  gives  no  quarter  to  its  opponents,  and 
has  marred  the  effect  of  parts  of  his  narrative  by 
frequent  and  bitter  assaults  on  the  Romish  Church. 
In  the  delineation  of  passion — especially  the  passion 
of  love,  as  operating  on  grave  and  lofty  minds  like 
that  of  Amyas  Leigh — Mr  Kingsley  is  eminently 
successful.  He  is  more  intent  on  such  moral 
painting  and  on  the  development  of  character,  than 
on  the  construction  of  a regular  story.  But  the 
most  popular  passages  in  his  tale — the  most  highly 
wrought  and  easily  remembered — are  his  pictures 
of  wild  Indian  life  and  scenery.  In  these  we  have 
primeval  innocence  and  intense  enjoyment,  in  con- 
nection with  the  gorgeous,  unchecked  luxuriance  of 
nature— as  if  the  pictorial  splendour  of  the  Eairy 
Queen  had  been  transported  to  this  wild  Arcadia 
of  the  west.  Passing  over  some  sermons  and 
occasional  tracts,  we  come  to  Mr  Kingsley’s  next 
novel,  Two  Years  Ago , published  in  1857.  This 
work  is  of  the  school  or  class  of  Alton  Locke,  exhi- 
biting contrasts  of  social  life  and  character,  with 
references  to  modern  events,  as  the  gold-digging  in 
Australia,  the  Crimean  war,  and  the  political  insti- 
tutions of  the  United  States.  The  story  is  deficient 
in  clearness  and  interest,  but  contains  scenes  of 
domestic  pathos  and  descriptions  of  external  nature 
worthy  the  graphic  pencil  and  vivid  imagination  of 
its  author.  Reverting  again  to  poetry — though  few 
of  his  prose  pages  are  without  some  tincture  of  the 
poetical  element — Mr  Kingsley,  in  1858,  published 
Andromeda , and  other  Poems , a classic  theme  adopted 
from  a Greek  legend,  and  expressed  in  hexameter 
verse,  carrying  the  reader 

Over  the  sea,  past  Crete,  on  the  Syrian  shore  to  the 
southward. 

The  poetry  of  Mr  Kingsley,  like  that  of  Sir 
Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  is  rather  a graceful  foil  to 
his  other  works,  than  the  basis  of  a reputation ; < 
but  we  quote  a pathetic  lyric  of  the  sea  which,  set 
to  music  by  Hullah,  has  drawn  tears  from  many 
bright  eyes,  and  perhaps — what  the  author  would 
value  more— prompted  to  acts  of  charity  and 
kindness : 

Three  Fishers  ivent  Sailing. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 

Out  into  the  west,  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  best, 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 
town. 

For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 

And  there’s  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbour  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went 
down ; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the 
shower, 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and 
brown. 

But  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep, 

And  the  harbour  be  moaning. 

657 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands, 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town. 
For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it ’s  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

[Scene  in  the  Indian  Forest — Sir  Amyas  Paidet  pm  sues 
Two  of  his  missing  Seamen^] 

Forth  Amyas  went,  with  Ayacanora  as  a guide,  some 
five  miles  upward  along  the  forest  slopes,  till  the  girl 
whispered,  ‘ There  they  are ; ’ and  Amyas,  pushing  him- 
self gently  through  a thicket  of  bamboo,  beheld  a scene 
which,  in  spite  of  his  wrath,  kept  him  silent,  and  perhaps 
softened,  for  a minute. 

On  the  further  side  of  a little  lawn,  the  stream  leaped 
through  a chasm  beneath  overarching  vines,  sprinkling 
eternal  freshness  upon  all  around,  and  then  sank  foam- 
ing into  a clear  rock-basin,  a bath  for  Dian’s  self.  On 
its  further  side,  the  crag  rose  some  twenty  feet  in  height, 
bank  upon  bank  of  feathered  ferns  and  cushioned  moss, 
over  the  rich  green  beds  of  which  drooped  a thousand 
orchids,  scarlet,  white,  and  orange,  and  made  the  still 
pool  gorgeous  with  the  reflection  of  their  gorgeousness. 
At  its  more  quiet  outfall,  it  was  half -hidden  in  huge 
fantastic  leaves  and  tall  flowering  stems ; but  near  the 
water-fall  the  grassy  bank  sloped  down  toward  the  stream, 
and  there,  on  palm -leaves  strewed  upon  the  turf,  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  crags,  lay  the  two  men  whom  Amyas 
sought,  and  whom,  now  he  had  found  them,  he  had 
hardly  heart  to  wake  from  their  delicious  dream. 

For  what  a nest  it  was  which  they  had  found  ! The 
air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  and  quivering 
with  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  the  humming  of  the 
colibris  and  insects,  the  cheerful  song  of  birds,  the 
gentle  cooing  of  a hundred  doves ; while  now  and  then, 
from  far  away,  the  musical  wail  of  the  sloth,  or  the  deep 
toll  of  the  bell-bird,  came  softly  to  the  ear.  What  was 
not  there  which  eye  or  ear  could  need?  And  what 
which  palate  could  need  either  ? For  on  the  rock  above, 
some  strange  tree,  leaning  forward,  dropped  every  now 
and  then  a luscious  apple  upon  the  grass  below,  and 
huge  wild  plantains  bent  beneath  their  load  of  fruit. 

There,  on  the  stream  bank,  lay  the  two  renegades 
from  civilised  life.  They  had  cast  away  their  clothes, 
and  painted  themselves,  like  the  Indians,  with  amotta 
and  indigo.  One  lay  lazily  picking  up  the  fruit  which 
fell  close  to  his  side;  the  other  sat,  his  back  against 
a cushion  of  soft  moss,  his  hands  folded  languidly  upon 
his  lap,  giving  himself  up  to  the  soft  influence  of  the 
narcotic  coca- juice,  with  half-shut  dreamy  eyes  fixed 
on  the  everlasting  sparkle  of  the  water-fall — 

* While  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound. 

Did  pass  into  his  face.’ 

Somewhat  apart  crouched  their  two  dusky  brides, 
crowned  with  fragrant  flowers,  but  working  busily,  like 
true  women,  for  the  lords  whom  they  delighted  to 
honour.  One  sat  plaiting  palm-fibres  into  a basket; 
the  other  was  boring  the  stem  of  a huge  milk-tree, 
which  rose  like  some  mighty  column  on  the  right  hand 
of  the  lawn,  its  broad  canopy  of  leaves  unseen  through 
the  dense  underwood  of  laurel  and  bamboo,  and 
betokened  only  by  the  rustle  far  aloft,  and  by  the 
mellow  shade  in  which  it  bathed  the  whole  delicious 
scene. 

Amyas  stood  silent  for  awhile,  partly  from  noble 
shame  at  seeing  two  Christian  men  thus  fallen  of  their 
own  self-will;  partly  because — and  he  could  not  but 
confess  that — a solemn  calm  brooded  above  that  glorious 
place,  to  break  through  which  seemed  sacrilege  even 
while  he  felt  it  duty.  Such,  he  thought,  was  Paradise 
of  old ; such  our  first  parents’  bridal  bower  ! Ah ! if 
man  had  not  fallen,  he  too  might  have  dwelt  for  ever  in 
658 

such  a home — with  whom?  He  started,  and  shaking 
off  the  spell,  advanced  sword  in  hand. 

The  women  saw  him,  and  sprang  to  their  feet,  caught 
up  their  long  pocunas,  and  leaped  like  deer  each  in  front 
of  her  beloved.  There  they  stood,  the  deadly  tubes 
pressed  to  their  lips,  eyeing  him  like  tigresses  who  pro- 
tect their  young,  while  every  slender  limb  quivered,  not 
with  terror,  but  with  rage.  Amyas  paused,  half  in 
admiration,  half  in  prudence ; for  one  rash  step  was 
death.  But  rushing  through  the  canes,  Ayacanora 
sprang  to  the  front,  and  shrieked  to  them  in  Indian. 
At  the  sight  of  the  prophetess  the  women  wavered,  and 
Amyas,  putting  on  as  gentle  a face  as  he  could,  stepped 
forward  assuring  them  in  his  best  Indian  that  he  would 
harm  no  one. 

‘ Ebsworthy ! Parracombe  ! Are  you  grown  such 
savages  already,  that  you  have  forgotten  your  captain  ? 
Stand  up,  men,  and  salute  !’  Ebsworthy  sprang  to  his 
feet,  obeyed  mechanically,  and  then  slipped  behind  his 
bride  again,  as  if  in  shame.  The  dreamer  turned  his 
head  languidly,  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and 
then  returned  to  his  contemplation.  Amyas  rested  the 
point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground,  and  his  hands  upon 
the  hilt,  and  looked  sadly  and  solemnly  upon  the  pair. 
Ebsworthy  broke  the  silence,  half  reproachfully,  half 
trying  to  bluster  away  the  coming  storm. 

‘Well,  noble  captain,  so  you’ve  hunted  out  us  poor 
fellows;  and  want  to  drag  us  back  again  in  a halter, 

I suppose?’ 

‘ I came  to  look  for  Christians,  and  I find  heathens  ; 
for  men,  and  I find  swine.  I shall  leave  the  heathens 
to  their  wilderness,  and  the  swine  to  their  trough. 
Parracombe !’ 

‘He’s  too  happy  to  answer  you,  sir.  And  why  not? 
What  do  you  want  of  us?  Our  two  years’  vow  is  out, 
and  we  are  free  men  now.’ 

‘Free  to  become  like  the  beasts  that  perish?  You 
are  the  Queen’s  servants  still,  and  in  her  name  I charge  | 
you’ 

‘ Free  to  be  happy,’  interrupted  the  man.  ‘ With  the 
best  of  wives,  the  best  of  food,  a warmer  bed  than  a 
duke’s,  and  a finer  garden  than  an  emperor’s.  As  for 
clothes,  why  the  plague  should  a man  wear  them  where 
he  don’t  need  them  ? As  for  gold,  what ’s  the  use  of  it 
where  Heaven  sends  everything  ready-made  to  your 
hands  ? Hearken,  Captain  Leigh.  You  ’ve  been  a good 
captain  to  me,  and  I ’ll  repay  you  with  a bit  of  sound 
advice.  Give  up  your  gold-hunting,  and  toiling  and 
moiling  after  honour  and  glory,  and  copy  us.  Take 
that  fair  maid  behind  you  there  to  wife;  pitch  here 
with  us;  and  see  if  you  are  not  happier  in  one  day 
than  ever  you  were  in  all  your  life  before.’ 

‘ You  are  drunk,  sirrah ! William  Parracombe  ! 
Will  you  speak  to  me,  or  shall  I heave  you  into  the 
stream  to  sober  you?’  ‘Who  calls  William  Parra- 
combe?’ answered  a sleepy  voice.’  ‘I,  fool! — your 
captain.’  ‘ I am  not  William  Parracombe.  He  is 
dead  long  ago  of  hunger,  and  labour,  and  heavy  sorrow, 
and  will  never  see  Bideford  town  any  more.  He  is 
turned  into  an  Indian  now ; and  he  is  to  sleep,  sleep, 
sleep  for  a hundred  years,  till  he  gets  his  strength  again, 
poor  fellow  ’ 

‘ Awake,  then,  thou  that  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the 
dead,  and  Christ  shall  give  thee  light ! A christened 
Englishman,  and  living  thus  the  life  of  a beast ! ’ 

‘Christ  shall  give  thee  light?’  answered  the  same 
unnatural,  abstracted  voice.  ‘Yes;  so  the  parsons  say. 
And  they  say,  too,  that  he  is  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth. 

I should  have  thought  his  light  was  as  near  us  here  as 
anywhere,  and  nearer  too,  by  the  look  of  the  place.  Look  ! 
round,’  said  he,  waving  a lazy  hand,  ‘ and  see  the  works  ! 
of  God,  and  the  place  of  paradise,  whither  poor  weary  ! 
souls  go  home  and  rest,  after  their  masters  in  the  i 
wicked  world  have  used  them  up,  with  labour  and  j 
sorrow,  and  made  them  wade  knee-deep  in  blood — I ’m  I 
tired  of  blood,  and  tired  of  gold.  I ’ll  march  no  more ; 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


NOVELISTS. 


I ’ll  fight  no  more ; I ’ll  hunger  no  more  after  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit.  What  shall  I get  by  it  ? Maybe 
I shall  leave  my  bones  in  the  wilderness.  I can  but  do 
that  here.  Maybe  I shall  get  home  with  a few  pezos,  to 
die  an  old  cripple  in  some  stinking  hovel, "that  a monkey 
would  scorn  to  lodge  in  here.  You  may  go  on ; it  ’ll  pay 
you.  You  may  be  a rich  man,  and  a knight,  and  live  in 
a fine  house,  and  drink  good  wine,  and  go  to  court,  and 
torment  your  soul  with  trying  to  get  more,  when  you’ve 
got  too  much  already ; plotting  and  planning  to 
scramble  upon  your  neighbour’s  shoulders,  as  they  all 
did — Sir  Richard,  and  Mr  Raleigh,  and  Chichester,  and 
poor  dear  old  Sir  Warham,  and  all  of  them  that  I used 
to  watch  when  I lived  before.  They  were  no  happier 
than  I was  then ; I ’ll  warrant  they  are  no  happier  now. 
Go  your  ways,  captain ; climb  to  glory  upon  some  other 
backs  than  ours,  and  leave  us  here  in  peace,  alone  with 
God  and  God’s  woods,  and  the  good  wives  that  God  has 
given  us,  to  play  a little  like  school  children.  It ’s  long 
since  I ’ve  had  play-hours ; and  now  I ’ll  be  a little  child 
once  more,  with  the  flowers,  and  the  singing  birds,  and 
the  silver  fishes  in  the  stream,  that  are  at  peace,  and 
think  no  harm,  and  want  neither  clothes,  nor  money, 
nor  knighthood,  nor  peerage,  but  just  take  what  comes ; 
and  their  heavenly  Father  feedeth  them,  and  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these — and 
will  he  not  much  more  feed  us,  that  are  of  more  value 
than  many  sparrows?’ 

‘ And  will  you  live  here,  shut  out  from  all  Christian 
ordinances  ?’ 

‘ Christian  ordinances ! Adam  and  Eve  had  no 
parsons  in  paradise.  The  Lord  was  their  priest,  and 
the  Lord  was  their  shepherd,  and  he  ’ll  be  ours  too.  But 
go  your  ways,  sir,  and  send  up  Sir  John  Brimblecombe, 
and  let  him  marry  us  here  church  fashion — though  we 
have  sworn  troth  to  each  other  before  God  already — 
and  let  him  give  us  the  Holy  Sacrament  once  and  for 
all,  and  then  read  the  funeral-service  over  us,  and  go 
his  ways,  and  count  us  for  dead,  sir — 'for  dead  we  are 
to  the  wicked  worthless  world  we  came  out  of  three 
years  ago.  And  when  the  Lord  chooses  to  call  us,  the 
little  birds  will  cover  us  with  leaves,  as  they  did  the 
babies  in  the  wood,  and  fresher  flowers  will  grow  out  of 
our  graves,  sir,  than  out  of  yours  in  that  bare  Northam 
churchyard  there  beyond  the  weary,  weary,  weary  sea.’ 

His  voice  died  away  to  a murmur,  and  his  head  sank 
on  his  breast.  Amyas  stood  spell-bound.  The  effect  of 
the  narcotic  was  all  but  miraculous  in  his  eyes.  The 
sustained  eloquence,  the  novel  richness  of  diction  in  one 
seemingly  drowned  in  sensual  sloth,  were  in  his  eyes  the 
possession  of  some  evil  spirit.  And  yet  he  could  not 
answer  the  Evil  One.  His  English  heart,  full  of  the 
divine  instinct  of  duty  and  public  spirit,  told  him  that 
it  must  be  a lie : but  how  to  prove  it  a lie  ? And  he 
stood  for  full  ten  minutes  searching  for  an  answer,  which 
seemed  to  fly  further  and  further  off  the  more  he  sought 
for  it.  * * 

A rustle ! a roar  ! a shriek ! and  Amyas  lifted  his 
eyes  in  time  to  see  a huge  dark  bar  shoot  from  the  crag 
above  the  dreamer’s  head,  among  the  group  of  girls.,  A 
dull  crash,  as  the  group  flew  asunder ; and  in  the  midst, 
upon  the  ground,  the  tawny  limbs  of  one  were  writhing 
beneath  the  fangs  of  a black  jaguar,  the  rarest  and  most 
terrible  of  the  forest  kings.  Of  one?  But  of  which? 
Was  it  Ayacanora  ? And  sword  in  hand,  Amyas  rushed 
madly  forward : before  he  reached  the  spot  those 
tortured  limbs  were  still. 

It  was  not  Ayacanora ; for  with  a shriek  which  rang 
through  the  woods,  the  wretched  dreamer,  wakened  thus 
at  last,  sprang  up  and  felt  for  his  sword.  Fool ! he  had 
left  it  in  his  hammock ! Screaming  the  name  of  his 
dead  bride,  he  rushed  on  the  jaguar,  as  it  crouched 
above  its  prey,  and  seizing  its  head  with  teeth  and 
nails,  worried  it,  in  the  ferocity  of  his  madness,  like  a 
mastiff  dog. 

The  brute  wrenched  its  head  from  his  grasp,  and 


| raised  its  dreadful  paw.  Another  moment,  and  the 
husband’s  corpse  would  have  lain  by  the  wife’s.  But 
high  in  air  gleamed  Amyas’s  blade;  down,  with  all 
the  weight  of  his  huge  body  and  strong  arm,  fell  that 
most  trusty  steel;  the  head  of  the  jaguar  dropped 
grinning  on  its  victim’s  corpse : 

‘ And  all  stood  still,  who  saw  him  fall, 

While  men  might  count  a score.’ 

‘0  Lord  Jesus,’  said  Amyas  to  himself,  ‘thou  hast 
answered  the  devil  for  me ! And  this  is  the  selfish 
rest  for  which  I would  have  bartered  the  rest  which 
comes  by  working  where  thou  hast  put  me  ! ’ 

They  bore  away  the  lithe  corpse  into  the  forest,  and 
buried  it  under  soft  moss  and  virgin  mould ; and  so  the 
fair  clay  was  transfigured  into  fairer  flowers,  and  the 
poor  gentle  untaught  spirit  returned  to  God  who  gave  it. 
And  then  Amyas  went  sadly  and  silently  back  again, 
and  Parracombe  walked  after  him,  like  one  who  walks 
in  sleep.  Ebsworthy,  sobered  by  the  shock,  entreated 
to  come  too  : but  Amyas  forbade  him  gently.  ‘ No,  lad, 
you  are  forgiven.  God  forbid  that  I should  judge  you 
or  any  man.  Sir  John  shall  come  up  and  marry  you ; 
and  then,  if  it  still  be  your  will  to  stay,  the  Lord  forgive 
you,  if  you  be  wrong ; in  the  meanwhile,  we  will  leave 
with  you  all  that  we  can  spare.  Stay  here,  and  pray  to 
God  to  make  you,  and  me  too,  wiser  men.’ 

And  so  Amyas  departed.  He  had  come  out  stern  and 
proud,  but  he  came  back  again  like  a little  child. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

In  the  Real  as  distinguished  from  the  Ideal 
school  of  fiction,  Charlotte  Bronte  (afterwards 
Nicholls)  by  her  tale  of  Jane  Eyre  attained  imme- 
diate and  remarkable  popularity.  Its  Yorkshire 
scenes  and  characters  were  new  to  readers,  and  the 
whole  had  the  stamp  of  truth  and  close  observation* 
The  life  of  Charlotte  Bronte  was  one  of  deep  and 
painful  interest.  Her  father,  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Bronte — who  still  survives  at  the  age  of  eighty-two 
— is  a native  of  the  County  Down  in  Ireland.  One 
of  a family  of  ten,  the  children  of  a small  farmer, 
Patrick  Bronte  saw  the  necessity  for  early  exertion. 
At  the  age  of  j sixteen  he  opened  a school,  then 
became  a tutor  in  a gentleman’s  family,  and  after- 
wards, at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  entered  himself 
of  St  John’s  College,  Cambridge.  Having  taken 
his  degree  he  obtained  a curacy  in  Essex,  whence 
he  removed  to  Yorkshire — first  to  Hartford,  near 
Leeds.  At  Hartford  he  married  a gentle,  serious 
young  Cornish  woman,  Maria  Branwell,  by  whom 
in  little  more  than  six  years  he  had  six  children. 
In  1820  the  family  moved  to  another  Yorkshire 
home,  Mr  Bronte  having  obtained  the  living  of 
Haworth,  four  miles  from  Keighley.  The  income 
of  the  minister,  £170  per  annum,  might  have  sufficed 
for  humble  comfort,  but  the  parsonage  was  bleak 
and  uncomfortable — a low  oblong  stone  building, 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  straggling  village  on  a 
steep  hill,  without  the  shelter  of  a tree,  with  the 
churchyard  pressing  down  on  it  on  both  sides,  and 
behind  a long  tract  of  wild  moors.  Charlotte 
Bronte  thus  describes  the  scene. 

[Description  of  Yorkshire  Moors .] 

A village  parsonage  amongst  the  hills  bordering  York- 
shire and  Lancashire.  The  scenery  of  these1  hills  is  not 
grand — it  is  not  romantic;  it  is  scarcely  striking. 
Long  low  moors,  dark  with  heath,  shut  in  little  valleys, 
where  a stream  waters,  here  and  there,  a fringe  of 
stunted  copse.  Mills  and  scattered  cottages  chase 
romance  from  these  valleys : it  is  only  higher  up,  deep 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


in  amongst  the  ridges  of  the  moors,  that  Imagination 
can  find  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  foot ; and  even  if  she 
finds  it  there,  she  must  be  a solitude-loving  raven — 
no  gentle  dove.  . If  she  demand  beauty  to  inspire  her, 
she  must  bring  it  inborn : these  moors  are  too  stem  to 
yield  any  product  so  delicate.  The  eye  of  the  gazer 
must  itself  brim  with  a ‘ purple  light,’  intense  enough 
to  perpetuate  the  brief  flower-flush  of  August  on  the 
heather,  or  the  rare  sunset-smile  of  June ; out  of  his 
heart  must  well  the  freshness  that  in  later  spring  and 
early  summer  brightens  the  bracken,  nurtures  the  moss, 
and  cherishes  the  starry  flowers  that  spangle  for  a few 
weeks  the  pasture  of  the  moor -sheep.  Unless  that  light 
and  freshness  are  innate  and  self-sustained,  the  drear 
prospect  of  a Yorkshire  moor  will  be  found  as  barren 
of  poetic  as  of  agricultural  interest : where  the  love  of 
wild  nature  is  strong,  the  locality  will  perhaps  be  clung 
to  with  the  more  passionate  constancy,  because  from 
the  hill -lover  s self  comes  half  its  charm. 

The  population  of  Haworth  and  its  neighbourhood 
was  chiefly  engaged  in  the  worsted  manufacture. 
They  were  noted  for  a wild,  lawless  energy,  and 
were  divided  by  sectarian  differences.  The  Bronte 
family  kept  aloof  unless  when  direct  service  was 
required,  and  the  minister  always  carried  a pistol 
with  him  on  his  walks.  He  was  an  eccentric,  half- 
misanthropical  man,  with  absurd  notions  on  the 
subject  of  education.  He  kept  his  children  on  a 
vegetable  diet,  and  clothed  them  in  the  humblest 
garments,  that  they  might  grow  up  hardy  and 
indifferent  to  dress.  He  took  his  meals  in  his  own 
room.  His  wife  died  the  year  after  the  arrival  of 
the  family  at  Haworth,  and  the  poor  children  were 
mostly  left  to  themselves,  occupying  a room  called 
the  ‘ children’s  study  ’ — though  the  eldest  student 
was  only  about  seven  years  of  age — or  they  wandered 
hand  in  hand  over  the  moors.  They  were  all  small 
and  feeble,  stunted  in  their  growth,  but  with  remark- 
able precocity  of  intellect.  The  eccentric  minister 
one  day  made  an  experiment  to  test  their  powers  of 
reflection  or  understanding.  He  had  a mask  in  the 
house,  and  thinking  they  might  speak  with  less 
timidity  if  thus  concealed,  he  told  them  all  to  stand 
and  speak  boldly  from  under  cover  of  the  mask. 
The  youngest,  about  four  years  of  age,  was  asked 
what  a child  like  her  most  wanted ; she  answered : 
‘Age  and  experience.’  The  next  was  asked  what 
had  best  be  done  with  her  brother,  who  was  some- 
times a naughty  boy : ‘ Reason  with  him,’  she  said ; 
‘and  when  he  won’t  listen  to  reason,  whip  him.’ 
The  boy  was  then  questioned  as  to  the  best  way 
of  knowing  the  difference  between  the  intellects  of 
man  and  woman,  and  he  replied : ‘ By  considering 
the  difference  between  them  as  to  their  bodies.’ 
Charlotte  was  asked  what  was  the  best  book  in 
the  world : ‘ The  Bible,’  she  said ; ‘ and  next  to  that, 
the  Book  of  Nature.’  Another  was  asked  what 
was  the  best  education  for  a woman,  and  she 
replied:  ‘That  which  would  make  her  rule  her 
house  well.’  Lastly,  the  oldest — about  ten  years 
of  age — was  asked  what  was  the  best  mode  of 
spending  time,  and  she  answered:  ‘By  laying  it 
out  in  preparation  for  a happy  eternity.’  These 
extraordinary  little  reasoners  took  a great  interest 
in  politics  and  public  events;  they  read  and  dis- 
cussed the  newspapers,  and  set  up  among  them- 
selves ‘little  magazines  ’ in  imitation  of  BlacJxcoocTs 
Magazine.  Tales,  dramas,  poems,  and  romances 
were  all  attempted  by  the  girls,  and  in  one  period 
of  fifteen  months,  before  she  was  fifteen  years  of 
age,  Charlotte  had  filled  twenty-two  volumes  with 
original  compositions,  written  in  a hand  so  painfully 
small  and  close  as  scarcely  to  be  decipherable  with- 
out the  aid  of  a magnifying-glass.  Four  of  the 


girls  were  at  length  sent  out  to  be  educated.  An 
active,  wealthy  clergyman,  the  Rev.  W.  Carus 
Wilson,  established  a school  for  the  education  of 
the  daughters  of  poor  clergymen  at  a place  called 
Cowan’s  Bridge,  between  Leeds  and  Kendal.  Each 
pupil  paid  £11  a year,  with  £1  of  entrance-money. 
The  institution,  however,  was  badly  managed.  The 
i food  was  insufficient  and  badly  cooked,  and  one 
of  the  teachers — satirised  in  Jane  Eyre  as  ‘ Miss 
Scatcherd  ’ — tyrannised  over  one  of  the  Brontes 
with  inhuman  severity.  A fever  afterwards  broke 
out  in  the  school,  and  the  little  band  of  sisters 
returned  to  the  old  stone  parsonage  and  the 
i ‘ children’s  study  ’ at  Haworth.  Death,  however, 

| soon  thinned  the  affectionate  group.  Maria  died 
in  1825  in  her  twelfth  year,  and  in  the  same  year 
' Elizabeth,  aged  eleven.  Branwell,  the  only  boy  of 
; the  family,  was  educated  at  home ; he  had  the 
; family  talent  and  precocity,  wrote  verses,  and  had 
a turn  for  drawing,  but  ultimately  became  idle  and 
I dissipated,  and  occasioned  the  most  poignant  distress 
to  his  sisters.  The  latter  made  many  efforts  to 
place  themselves  in  an  independent  position.  They 
went  out  as  governesses,  but  disliked  the  occupa- 
tion. Charlotte  wrote  to  Southey,  sending  some 
! of  her  poetry,  and  the  laureate  replied  in  a kindly 
; but  discouraging  tone.  The  project  of  keeping  a 
school  was  then  suggested.  The  aunt — who  had 
come  from  Cornwall  and  assisted  at  Haworth  since 
the  death  of  her  sister — advanced  a little  money, 
and  Charlotte  and  Emily  proceeded  to  Brussels  in 
order  to  acquire  a knowledge  of  foreign  languages. 
They  entered  a pensionnat,  and  remained  from 
February  to  September  1842,  when  they  were 
recalled  b}r  the  death  of  their  aunt.  Charlotte 
again  returned  to  Brussels,  and  officiated  about  a 
twelvemonth  as  a teacher,  her  salary  being  just 
£16  per  annum,  out  of  which  she  had  to  pay  ten 
francs  a month  for  German  lessons.  In  January 
1844  she  was  again  at  Haworth.  The  sisters 
advertised  that  they  would  receive  pupils  in  the 
parsonage,  but  no  pupils  came.  They  then  ventured 
on  the  publication  of  a volume  of  their  poems.  The 
death  of  their  aunt  had  somewhat  improved  their 
circumstances,  and  a sum  of  £31,  10s.  was  spent  in 
printing  the  Poems , by  Currer,  Ellis , and  Acton  Bell. 
This  ambiguous  choice  of  names  was  dictated,  as 
Charlotte  relates,  by  ‘a  sort  of  conscientious  scruple 
at  assuming  Christian  names  positively  masculine, 
while  they  did  not  like  to  declare  themselves  women.’ 
The  volume  had  little  success.  The  best  of  the 
pieces  are  those  by  Emily,  who  had  more  vivacity 
and  force  of  character  than  her  sisters.  Mrs  Gaskell, 
in  her  interesting  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  has  the 
following  remarkable  statement  relative  to  Emily, 
and  the  passage  also  illustrates  Charlotte’s  novel  of 
Shirley  : 


[ Emily  Bronte  and  her  Dog  * Keeper 

From  her  many  traits  in  Shirley’s  character  were 
taken ; her  way  of  sitting  on  the  rug  reading,  with  her 
arm  round  her  rough  bull-dog’s  neck ; her  calling  to 
a strange  dog,  running  past,  with  hanging  head  and 
lolling  tongue,  to  give  it  a merciful  draught  of  water, 
its  maddened  snap  at  her,  her  nobly  stem  presence  of 
mind,  going  right  into  the  kitchen,  and  taking  up  one 
of  Tabby’s  [the  old  servant  in  the  parsonage]  red-hot 
Italian  irons  to  sear  the  bitten  place,  and  telling  no 
one,  till  the  danger  was  well-nigh  over,  for  fear  of  the 
terrors  that  might  beset  their  weaker  minds.  All  this, 
looked  upon  as  a well-invented  fiction  in  Shirley,  was 
written  down  by  Charlotte  with  streaming  eyes ; it  was 
the  literal  account  of  what  Emily  had  done.  The  same 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONT& 


tawny  bull-dog  (with  his  ‘strangled  whistle’)  called 
‘ Tartar  ’ in  Shirley , was  ‘ Keeper  ’ in  Haworth  parson- 
age— a gift  to  Emily.  With  the  gift  came  a warning. 
Keeper  was  faithful  to  the  depths  of  his  nature  as  long 
as  he  "was  with  friends ; but  he  who  struck  him  with  a 
stick  or  whip,  roused  the  relentless  nature  of  the  brute, 
who  flew  at  his  throat  forthwith,  and  held  him  there  till 
one  or  the  other  was  at  the  point  of  death.  Now  Keeper’s 
household  fault  was  this : he  loved  to  steal  upstairs, 
and  stretch  his  square,  tawny  limbs  on  the  comfortable 
beds,  covered  over  with  white  delicate  counterpanes. 
But  the  cleanliness  of  the  parsonage  arrangements 
was  perfect,  and  Emily  declared  that  if  he  was  found 
again  transgressing,  she  herself,  in  defiance  of  warning 
and  his  well-known  ferocity  of  nature,  would  beat  him 
so  severely,  that  he  would  never  offend  again.  In  the 

fathering  dusk  of  the  evening,  Tabby  came  to  tell 
Imily  that  Keeper  was  lying  on  the  best  bed  in  drowsy 
voluptuousness.  Charlotte  saw  Emily’s  whitening  face 
and  set  mouth,  but  dared  not  interfere ; no  one  dared 
when  Emily’s  eyes  glowed  in  that  manner  out  of  the  pale- 
ness of  her  face,  and  when  her  lips  were  so  compressed 
into  stone.  She  went  up  stairs,  and  Tabby  and  Charlotte 
stood  in  the  gloomy  passage  below.  Down  stairs  came 
Emily,  dragging  after  her  the  unwilling  Keeper,  his 
hind-legs  set  in  a heavy  attitude  of  resistance,  held  by 
the  ‘ scuft  of  his  neck,’  but  growling  low  and  savagely 
all  the  time.  The  watchers  would  fain  have  spoken, 
but  durst  not,  for  fear  of  taking  off  Emily’s  attention, 
and  causing  her  to  avert  her  head  for  a moment  from 
the  enraged  brute.  She  let  him  go,  planted  in  a dark 
comer  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs ; no  time  was  there 
to  fetch  stick  or  rod,  for  fear  of  the  strangling  clutch  at 
her  throat — her  bare  clenched  fist  struck  against  his 
red  fierce  eyes,  before  he  had  time  to  make  his  spring, 
and,  in  the  language  of  the  turf,  she  ‘punished’  him 
till  his  eyes  were  swelled  up,  and  the  half -blind  stupe- 
fied beast  was  led  to  his  accustomed  lair  to  have  his 
swollen  head  fomented  and  cared  for  by  the  very  Emily 
herself.  The  generous  dog  owed  her  no  grudge;  he 
loved  her  dearly  ever  after ; he  walked  first  among  the 
mourners  at  her  funeral ; he  slept  moaning  for  nights 
at  the  door  of  her  empty  room ; and  never,  so  to  speak, 
rejoiced,  dog-fashion,  after  her  death. 

Each  of  the  three  sisters  commenced  a novel; 
Charlotte’s  was  called  The  Professor , Emily’s  Wuther- 
ing  Heights , and  Anne’s  Agnes  Grey.  When  com- 
pleted, the  tales  were  sent  to  London.  Charlotte’s 
was  rejected  by  several  publishers,  and  her  sisters’, 
after  various  refusals,  were  only  accepted  on  terms 
‘impoverishing  to  their  authors.’  Charlotte,  how- 
ever, was  encouraged  to  try  a longer  work  in  a 
more  saleable  form,  and  the  very  day  that  The  Pro- 
fessor was  returned,  Jane  Eyre  was  commenced.  It 
was  finished,  accepted  by  Smith,  Elder,  & Co., 
and  published  in  October  1847.  Its  success  was 
instant  and  remarkable.  Three  editions  were  called 
for  within  a twelvemonth.  A new  genius  had  arisen, 
‘capable  of  depicting  the  strong,  self-reliant,  racy, 
and  individual  characters  which  lingered  still  in 
the  north.’  This  individuality  of  character  and 
description,  eulogised  by  Mrs  Gaskell,  constitutes 
the  attraction  and  the  value  of  the  novel,  for  the 
plot  is  in  many  parts  improbable,  and  some  of  the 
scenes  are  drawn  with  coarseness  as  well  as  power. 
There  was  truth  in  the  observation  that  ‘Jane  Eyre’ 
was  too  like  Richardson’s  ‘Pamela’  in  her  inter- 
course with  her  ‘Master,’  though  the  inherent 
indelicacy  of  such  passages — of  which  the  authoress 
was  unconscious — were  soon  forgotten  in  the  strong 
interest  excited  by  Jane’s  misfortunes  and  moral 
heroism.  Much  of  Charlotte’s  own  history,  down 
even  to  her  petite  figure  and  plain  face,  is  embodied 
in  the  story  of  the  heroine.  The  authorship  had 


been  kept  a profound  secret.  But  when  success 
was  assured,  Charlotte  carried  a copy  of  the  novel 
to  her  father ; he  read  it  in  his  study,  and  at  tea- 
time  said : ‘ Girls,  do  you  know  Charlotte  has  been 
writing  a book,  and  it  is  much  better  than  likely .’  He 
had  tried  book-making  himself,  but  with  very  differ- 
ent powers  and  different  results.*  In  December 
1847  Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey , by  Emily 
and  Anne  Bronte,  were  published.  The  former  had 

* Mrs  Gaskell  was  probably  not  aware— and  Charlotte  Bronte 
might  wish  to  conceal— that  the  singular  minister  of  Haworth, 
while  resident  at  Hartshead,  published  two  small  volumes  of 
verse— Cottage  Poems,  1811 ; and  The  Rural  Minstrel,  a Miscel- 
lany of  Descriptive  Poems,  1813 — the  year  after  his  marriage. 
His  name  is  prefixed  to  both—'  By  the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte, 
B.  A.,  Minister  of  Hartshead-cum-Clifton,  near  Leeds,  York- 
shire;’ and  both  volumes  bear  the  imprint,  ‘Halifax,  printed 
and  sold  by  P.  K.  Holden,  for  the  Author.’  There  would  have 
been  difficulty  in  ushering  them  into  the  world  in  any  other 
way,  for  assuredly  no  publisher  would,  at  his  own  cost,  have 
undertaken  the  risk.  The  poems  have  nothing  but  their  piety 
to  recommend  them.  In  a pretty  long  ‘ Advertisement  ’ to  the 
Cottage  Poems,  Mr  Bronte  states  that  they  were  chiefly  designed 
for  the  lower  classes  of  society,  and  he  complacently  adds : 

' When  released  from  his  clerical  avocations,  he  [the  author]' 
was  occupied  in  writing  the  Cottage  Poems ; from  morning  till 
noon,  and  from  noon  till  night,  his  employment  was  full  of 
indescribable  pleasure,  such  as  he  could  wish  to  taste  as  long 
as  life  lasts.  Ilis  hours  glided  pleasantly  and  almost  imper- 
ceptibly by  ; and  when  night  drew  on,  and  he  retired  to  rest, 
ere  he  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep,  with  sweet  calmness  and 
serenity  of  mind,  he  often  reflected  that,  though  the  delicate 
palate  of  criticism  might  be  disgusted,  the  business  of  the  day, 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  humble  task,  was  well-pleasing  in  the 
sight  of  God,  and  might,  by  His  blessing,  be  rendered  useful  to 
some  poor  soul,  who  cared  little  about  critical  niceties,’  &c. 

The  first  piece — ‘ To  the  Rev.  J B , whilst  Journeying: 

for  the  Recovery  of  his  Health  ’—is  an  epistle  modelled  after 
Burns : 

When  warmed  with  zeal,  my  rustic  muse 
Feels  fluttering  fain  to  tell  her  news, 

And  paint  her  simple,  lowly  views, 

With  all  her  art, 

And,  though  in  genius  but  obtuse, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

Of  palaces  and  courts  of  kings, 

She  thinks  but  little,  never  sings, 

But  wildly  strikes  her  uncouth  strings 
In  some  poor  cot, 

Spreads  o’er  the  poor  her  fostering  wings, 

And  soothes  their  lot. 

Another  piece,  ‘ The  Irish  Cabin,’  might  seem  to  promise  some 
fresh  feeling  and  early  recollections,  but  it  is  a fancy  piece, 
without  one  bit  of  characteristic  painting,  except  that  the 
supper  presented  to  the  pious  visitor  in  the  cabin  consists  of 
‘ the  mealy  potato  and  herring,  and  water  just  fresh  from  the 
spring.’  Mr  Bronte's  character  of  his  countrymen,  however, 
has  the  merit  of  truth : 

In  friendship,  fair  Erin,  you  glow; 

Offended,  you  quickly  forgive ; 

Your  courage  is  known  to  each  foe, 

Yet  foes  on  your  bounty  might  live. 

Some  faults  you,  however,  must  own, 

Dissensions,  impetuous  zeal, 

And  wild  prodigality,  grown 

Too  big  for  your  income  and  weal. 

To  the  Rural  Minstrel  another  prefatory  ‘Advertisement’  is 
prefixed,  but  without  stating  how  the  previous  volume  had 
been  received.  He  says  : 4 He  does  not  think  it  necessary  to 
apologise  for  delivering  his  sentiments  in  verse,  since  he  is 
authorised  to  do  so  by  many  excellent  precedents  in  human 
composition;’  and  he  ‘ has  preferred  writing  the  greater 
part  of  this  little  volume  in  the  irregular  metre,  as  it  is 
sanctioned  by  the  authority  of  some  of  the  most  eminent 
authors,  is  most  congenial  to  his  mind,  and  seemed  to  him 
best  calculated  for  poems  of  a descriptive  nature.’  Of  this 

truly  irregular  metre  we  give  one  stanza  or  paragraph  from 

1 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


some  strong  delineation — a finished  picture  of  a 
villain,  but  the  effect  was  unpleasing.  A second 
tale  by  Anne,  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,  is  an 
improvement  on  the  former  work,  and  was  more 
successful.  Both  of  these  novelists,  however,  were 
now  fast  sinking  into  the  grave.  Emily  first  declined, 
and  Charlotte  has  told  the  melancholy  sequel  in  a 
few-  brief  but  impressive  words. 

[Death  of  Emily  and  Anne  Bronte.'] 

Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  [Emily]  lingered  over 
any  task  that  lay  before  her,  and  she  did  not  linger 
now.  She  sank  rapidly.  She  made  haste  to  leave  us. 
Yet,  while  physically  she  perished,  mentally  she  grew 
stronger  than  we  had  yet  known  her.  Day  by  day, 
when  I saw  with  what  a front  she  met  suffering,  I 
looked  on  her  with  an  anguish  of  wonder  and  love.  I 
have  seen  nothing  like  it ; but,  indeed,  I have  never  seen 
her  parallel  in  anything.  Stronger  than  a man,  simpler 
than  a child,  her  nature  stood  alone.  The  awful  point 
was,  that  while  full  of  ruth  for  others,  on  herself  she 
had  no  pity;  the  spirit  was  inexorable  to  the  flesh; 
from  the  trembling  hand,  the  unnerved  limbs,  the  faded 
eyes,  the  same  service  was  exacted  as  they  had  rendered 
in  health.  To  stand  by  and  witness  this,  and  not  dare 
to  remonstrate,  was  a pain  no  words  can  render.  Two 
cruel  months  of  hope  and  fear  passed  painfully  by,  and 
the  day  came  at  last  when  the  terrors  and  pains  of 
death  were  to  be  undergone  by  this  treasure,  which  had 
grown  dearer  and  dearer  to  our  hearts  as  it  wasted 
before  our  eyes.  Towards  the  decline  of  that  day,  we 
had  nothing  of  Emily  but  her  mortal  remains  as  con- 
sumption left  them.  She  died  December  19,  1848  [in 
her  thirtieth  year].  "We  thought  this  enough ; but  we 
were  utterly  and  presumptuously  wrong.  She  was  not 
buried  ere  Anne  fell  ill.  She  had  not  been  committed 
to  the  grave  a fortnight,  before  we  received  distinct 
intimation  that  it  was  necessary  to  prepare  our  minds 
to  see  the  younger  sister  go  after  the  elder.  Accordingly, 
she  followed  in  the  same  path  with  a slower  step,  and 
with  a patience  that  equalled  the  other’s  fortitude. 
She  was  religious,  and  it  was  by  leaning  on  those  Chris- 
tian doctrines  in  which  she  firmly  believed  that  she 
found  support  through  her  most  painful  journey.  I 
witnessed  their  efficacy  in  her  latest  hour  and  greatest 
trial,  and  must  bear  my  testimony  to  the  calm  triumph 
with  which  they  brought  her  through.  She  died  May 
28,  1849  [aged  twenty-nine]. 

the  best  piece  in  the  collection,  ‘ Lines  Addressed  to  a Lady  on 
her  Birthday’ — evidently  his  gentle  wife  Maria : 

Then  let  the  vernal  landscape’s  ample  bound, 

That  gaily  smiles  around, 

With  all  the  sweets  it  richly  spreads  abroad 
To  our  own  Father  and  redeeming  God, 
Progressively  endear 
Whate’er  we  do,  whate’er  we  say. 

Let  pure  religion  bear  the  sovereign  sway ; 

So  shall  each  rolling  year, 

Crowned  with  thy  birthday  solid  joys  impart. 

And  gently  soothe  our  undivided  heart. 

And  when  our  spring  of  life  is  done, 

And  sets  our  summer  sun  ; 

When  time  shall  blot  from  memory’s  view 
These  humble  lines  addressed  to  you; 

And  e’en  the  fields  and  pleasant  cot. 

Where  once  we  lived,  shall  be  forgot ; 

Conveyed  to  brightest  realms  above, 

And  wrapt  in  purest,  warmest  love, 

Where  sin,  and  death,  and  changes  ne’er  annoy, 

W e ’ll  taste  of  endless  bliss  without  alloy. 

The  strong  interest  attaching  to  this  remarkable  man,  in 
connection  with  his  family,  and  the  apparent  rarity  of  his 
Poems — for  the  sight  of  which  we  are  indebted  to  Mr  Hotten, 
bookseller,  Piccadilly— will  readily  excuse  this  long  note. 

662 


Charlotte  alone  was  now  left  with  the  aged  father, 
for  Branwell,  after  sinking  from  vice  to  vice,  had 
died  the  year  before,  in  his  thirty-first  year. 
Literary  labour  was  indispensable;  and  Charlotte 
completed  her . tale  of  Shirley , another  series  of 
Yorkshire  delineations,  fresh  and  vigorous  as  the 
former,  and  as  well  received  by  the  public.  It  was 
published  in  1849.  With  the  publication  of  Shirley 
ended  the  mystery  of  the  authorship.  A Haworth 
man,  residing  in  Liverpool,  read  the  novel,  and 
recognised  the  localities  and  dialect ; he  guessed  it 
to  be  Miss  Bronte’s,  and  communicated  his  discovery 
to  a Liverpool  paper,  after  which  Miss  Bronte  paid 
a visit  to  London,  and  the  fact  was  made  distinctly 
known.  It  was  three  years  after  this  ere  she 
appeared  again  as  a novelist.  Her  experiences  at 
the  pensionnat  in  Brussels,  and  the  insight  she  had 
obtained  into  French  character,  suggested  the  sub- 
ject of  her  next  work,  Vilette,  which  was  published 
in  1853.  In  merely  literary  merit  and  skill  of  con- 
struction, it  is  superior  to  Shirley , but  it  had  not 
the  same  strong  interest  or  air  of  reality.  This  was 
to  be  the  last  of  Charlotte  Bronte’s  triumphs.  Her 
father’s  curate,  Mr  Nicholls,  had  entertained  a deep 
and  enduring  attachment  for  her.  The  old  minister 
was  at  first  opposed  to  the  match ; but  he  at  length 
yielded,  and  Charlotte  was  married  in  June  1854. 
A few  months  of  happy  wedded  life  brightened  the 
close  of  her  strange  and  sad  career,  in  which  she 
had  displayed  the  virtues  of  a noble  self-sacrificing 
nature,  and  she  died  March  31,  1855,  in  the 
thirty-ninth  year  of  her  age.  Her  first  novel,  The 
Professor , has  since  been  published,  but  it  will  not 
bear  comparison  with  her  other  works. 


CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER — SAMUEL  LOVER. 

A series  of  Irish  novels,  totally  different  in 
character  from  those  of  Banim  or  Carleton,  but  as 


Charles  James  Lever. 


distinctly  and  truly  national,  has  been  written  by 
Mr  Lever,  who  commenced  his  career  in  1839  with 
The  Confessions  of  Harry  Lorrequer.  The  author 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LEITCH  RITCHIE — MRS  CROWE. 


was  then  in  his  thirty-third  year,  and  had  seen 
‘ life  ’ both  at  home  and  abroad.  He  studied  medi- 
cine in  his  native  city  of  Dublin,  and  afterwards  in 
France;  practised  for  some  years  in  the  north  of 
Ireland,  and  then  removed  to  Brussels  as  physician 
to  the  embassy  there.  The  success  of  Lorrequer 
soon  led  to  another  novel  of  the  same  class,  Charles 
O'Malley , the  Irish  Dragoon , 1841,  and  two  other 
semi-military  fictions,  Jack  Hinton , the  Guardsman , 
1842,  and  Tom  Burke  of  Ours , 1844.  In  his  next 
work  Mr  Lever  sought  to  picture  Ireland  in  its 
days  of  trouble  and  revolt.  In  1845  he  produced 
The  O’Donoghue,  a Tale  of  Ireland  Fifty  Years 
Ago;  then  The  Knight  of  G wynne,  a Tale  of  the 
Union , 1847 ; Roland  Cashel , 1849 ; The  Daltons , 
1852  ; The  Dodd  Family  Abroad , 1854 ; The  Martins 
of  Cro ’ Martin , 1856 ; The  Fortunes  of  Glencore, 
1857 ; and  Davenport  Dunn , 1859.  For  a short 
period,  after  1842,  Mr  Lever  conducted  the  Dublin 
University  Magazine.  The  novels  of  this  versatile 
and  lively  author  had  all  a considerable  sale — some 
of  the  early  ones  rivalled  the  works  of  Dickens  in 
popularity.  In  addition  to  his  battle  scenes  and 
romantic  exploits,  Mr  Lever  has  a rich,  racy,  national 
humour.  His  heroes  have  all  a strong  love  of  adven- 
ture, a national  proneness  to  blundering,  and  a 
tendency  to  get  into  scrapes  and  questionable  situa- 
tions. The  author’s  chief  fault  is  his  sometimes 
mistaking  farce  for  comedy — mere  animal  spirits  for 
wit  or  humour.  In  Glencore  he  tried  the  higher 
style  of  fiction — ‘ the  detection  of  character,  and  the 
unravelment  of  that  tangled  skein  which  makes  up 
human  motives,’  but  his  satire  and  serious  painting 
are  not  equal  to  his  light-hearted  gaiety,  rollicking 
fun,  and  broad,  laughable  caricature. 

Another  Irish  worthy — a poet,  novelist,  painter, 
and  musician — is  Mr  Samuel  Lover,  born  in  Dublin 
in  1797.  In  1818  Mr  Lover  sang  a song  of  his  own 
composition  at  a dinner  given  to  Moore,  and  he 
has  produced  a number  of  good  Irish  songs — The 
Angels'  Whisper , Molly  Bawn,  Rory  O' More,  The 
Four-leaved  Shamrock,  &c.  His  Irish  novels,  Rory 
O'More  (1839),  Handy  Andy,  Treasure  Trove,  and 
The  Confessions  of  Con  Gregan,  were  well  received. 
His  short  Irish  sketches,  however,  are  much  better, 

I and  by  reciting  some  of  these,  and  singing  some  of 
his  fine  wild  ballads,  he  makes  up  a public  enter- 
tainment, which  he  has  given  with  great  success  in 
Ireland  and  England,  and  also  in  America. 


LEITCH  RITCHIE. 

This  gentleman,  long  and  extensively  connected 
with  periodical  literature,  is  author  of  four  novels, 
Schinderhannes,  the  Robber  of  the  Rhine;  The  Game 
of  Life;  The  Magician;  and  Weary  foot  Common, 
1855.  Mr  Ritchie  is  also  author  of  a volume  of 
short  tales,  Head  and  Tail  Pieces,  and  of  various 
contributions  to  literary  journals.  His  most  elabo- 
rate works  are  descriptions  of  continental  tours, 
published  with  illustrations,  under  the  titles  of 
Turner's  Annual  Tour,  and  Heath's  Picturesque 
Annual,  of  which  illustrated  works  Mr  Ritchie 
produced  twelve  volumes.  An  illustrated  Pedes- 
trian Tour  of  the  Wye,  by  Mr  Ritchie,  is  of  the 
same  class.  The  Romance  of  French  History,  The 
| Library  of  Romance,  and  other  editorial  labours  of 
; a kindred  description  mark  Mr  Ritchie’s  literary 
career;  and  after  having  been  connected  with  several 
London  journals  and  magazines,  he  repaired  to 
Scotland,  and  for  several  years  bore  a part  in 
conducting  Chambers' s Journal.  He  is  again  (1859) 
in  London,  professionally  engaged  on  literature— an 
able  and  indefatigable  labourer  in  that  crowded 


vineyard.  Mr  Ritchie  is  a native  of  Scotland,  born 
at  Greenock  in  the  year  1800. 


MRS  CROWE. 

This  lady  differs  from  most  of  her  sister-novelists 
in  a love  of  the  supernatural  and  mysterious.  She 
walks  in  the  unseen  world  of  dreams,  apparitions, 
and  spiritual  influences  ; yet  withal  she  possesses  a 
vigorous  intellect,  acute  observation,  and  dramatic 
skill  in  describing  characters  and  incidents.  Few 
who  have  taken  up  one  of  her  stories  will  lay  down 
the  volume  until  it  has  been  wholly  perused.  Mrs 
Crowe’s  first  publication  was  a tragedy,  Aristodemus , 
1838,  which  wTas  recognised  by  the  critical  and 
select  few  as  a production  of  great  merit.  Her 
next  work  was  addressed  to  the  many.  The  Adven- 
tures of  Susan  Hopley,  1841,  is  a novel  of  English 
life,  and  was  very  successful.  It  was  followed  by 
Men  and  Women,  or  Manorial  Rights,  1843 — a tale 
less  popularly  attractive  than  Susan  Hopley,  but 
undoubtedly  superior  to  it  in  most  essential  points. 
Mrs  Crowe  next  translated  The  Seeress  of  Prev or st, 
revelations  concerning  the  inner  life  of  man,  by 
Justinus  Kerner ; and  two  years  afterwards  (1847) 
she  published  The  Story  of  Lilly  Dawson.  The 
heroine,  w7hen  a child,  falls  into  the  hands  of  a 
family  of  English  smugglers,  desperadoes  of  the 
Dirk  Hatterick  stamp,  and  the  account  given  of  the 
gradual  development  of  her  intellect  and  affections 
amidst  scenes  of  brutal  violence  and  terror,  with 
the  story  of  her  subsequent  escape  and  adventures 
when  the  world  was  all  before  her,  forms  a narrative 
of  psychological  as  well  as  of  romantic  interest. 
Among  the  opinions  and  reflections  thrown  out  by 
the  authoress  is  an  admission  that  the  intellectual 
faculty  of  woman  is  inferior  in  quality  and  calibre 
to  that  of  man : 

If,  as  we  believe,  under  no  system  of  training,  the 
intellect  of  woman  would  be  found  as  strong  as  that 
of  man,  she  is  compensated  by  her  intuitions  being 
stronger — if  her  reason  be  less  majestic,  her  insight  is 
clearer — where  man  reasons,  she  sees.  Nature,  in  short, 
gave  her  all  that  was  needful  to  enable  her  to  fill  a 
noble  part  in  the  world’s  history,  if  man  would  but 
let  her  play  it  out,  and  not  treat  her  like  a full-grown 
baby,  to  be  flattered  and  spoiled  on  the  one  hand,  and 
coerced  and  restricted  on  the  other,  vibrating  betwixt 
royal  rule  and  slavish  serfdom. 

In  1848  Mrs  Crowe  issued  two  volumes  represent- 
ing The  Night  Side  of  Nature,  or  Ghosts  and  Ghost 
Seers.  Some  of  the  stories  are  derived  from  the 
German,  and  others  are  relations  of  supernatural 
events  said  to  have  happened  in  this  country,  some 
of  them  within  the  author’s  knowledge.  The 
evidence  in  support  of  them  is  slight,  but  such  as 
delight  to  revel  in  details  of  symbolical  dreams, 
presentiments,  and  wraiths,  will  find  Mrs  Crowe’s 
work  a curious  and  interesting  storehouse.  Our 
authoress  relaxed  for  a short  space  from  such  mid- 
night studies,  and  produced,  also  in  1848,  an  excel- 
lent story  for  children,  Pippie's  Warning,  or  Mind 
Your  Temper.  In  1850  we  find  Mrs  Crowe  again 
endeavouring  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  nature.  Her 
Light  and  Darkness , or  Mysteries  of  Life,  is  a collec- 
tion of  marvellous  stories,  some  of  them  tales  of 
continental  jurisprudence,  and  all  related  in  Mrs 
Crowe’s  clever,  earnest,  and  undoubting  mannef. 
Another  three-volume  novel  from  her  pen  appeared 
in  1852,  The  Adventures  of  a Beauty,  describing  the 
perplexities  arising  out  of  a secret  marriage  con- 
tracted by  a wealthy  baronet’s  son  with  the  daughter 
of  a farmer ; and  another  domestic  story,  Linny 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

Lockwood,  two  volumes,  1854,  appears  to  complete 
the  round  of  Mrs  Crowe’s  works  of  fiction.  The 
novelist,  we  may  add,  is  a native  of  Borough  Green, 
county  of  Kent ; her  maiden  name  was  Catherine 
Stevens,  and  in  1822  she  was  married  to  Colonel 
Crowe. 

The  Priest  of  St  Quentin. 

[Abridged  from  Light  and  Darkness .] 

It  is  in  the  annals  of  the  doings  and  sufferings  of  the 
good  and  brave  spirits  of  the  earth  that  we  should  learn 
our  lessons.  It  is  by  these  that  our  hearts  are  mellowed, 
our  minds  exalted,  and  our  souls  nerved  to  go  and  do 
likewise.  But  there  are  occasionally  circumstances 
connected  with  the  history  of  great  crimes  that  render 
them  the  most  impressive  of  homilies ; fitting  them  to  be 
set  aloft  as  beacons  to  warn  away  the  frail  mortal,  tossed 
on  the  tempest  of  his  passions,  from  the  destruction 
that  awaits  him  if  he  pursues  his  course;  and  such 
instruction  we  hold  may  be  best  derived  from  those 
cases  in  which  the  subsequent  feelings  of  a criminal 
are  disclosed  to  us ; those  cases,  in  short,  in  which  the 
chastisement  prpceeds  from  within  instead  of  from 
without;  that  chastisement  that  no  cunning  conceal- 
ment, no  legal  subtlety,  no  eloquent  counsel,  no  indulgent 
judge  can  avert. 

In  the  year  1822,  a young  priest  was  inducted  into 
the  cure  of  a small  village  called  St  Quentin,  situated  on 
the  borders  of  Piedmont.  He  was  about  eight-and- 
twenty  years  of  age ; tall,  stout,  and  gifted  with  uncom- 
mon bodily  strength.  But  his  countenance  was  not 
pleasing ; his  complexion  was  sallow,  his  eye  malicious, 
his  smile  treacherous.  He  was,  moreover,  a rigid 
pastor ; zealous  overmuch ; reproving  harshly,  inflicting 
severe  penances,  and  magnifying  small  faults  into 
great  sins.  The  fact  was,  he  was  extremely  ambitious, 
and  not  possessing  those  qualities  that  were  likely  to 
recommend  him  to  the  notice  of  his  superiors,  he  sought 
to  win  their  favour  by  his  burning  zeal  and  exemplary 
rigour. 

About  a quarter  of  an  hour’s  walk  from  the  church 
there  resided  a retired  soldier,  named  Stephen  Chamelot, 
with  his  beautiful  wife  Marie  Guerin.  He  was  the 
possessor  of  a small  bit  of  land,  and  passed  his  days  in 
peace  and  contentment  with  Marie,  who  was  as  pious 
and  prudent  as  she  was  beautiful.  Her  only  fault  was, 
that  where  religion  was  concerned,  she  did  not  allow 
herself  the  exercise  of  her  judgment ; her  piety  amounted 
to  fanaticism,  and  every  priest,  in  her  eyes,  was  a saint. 
Antoine  Mingrat  was  her  confessor,  and  the  pastor  of  her 
parish. 

On  the  8th  of  May  1822,  several  young  persons  in 
the  adjoining  parish  of  Yeuray  were  to  receive  their  first 
communion,  and  Marie,  who  was  a constant  attendant 
at  all  the  religious  festivals  in  the  neighbourhood, 
announced  her  intention  of  being  present.  Mingrat, 
hearing  of  this,  made  it  the  pretext  of  a visit  to  her. 
He  had  a letter  for  the  minister  there,  which  he 
requested  her  to  take  charge  of.  He  had  not,  however, 
brought  it  with  him,  but  promised  to  have  it  ready  by 
the  evening  when  she  came  to  confession.  On  the  same 
afternoon  she  was  seen  to  leave  the  village  for  this 
purpose,  having  requested  her  friends,  when  her  husband 
came  home,  to  tell  him  whither  she  was  gone.  Poor 
Marie  never  returned  to  her  happy  home,  and,  after  one 
other  momentary  glimpse  of  her,  we  see  her  alive  no 
more. 

We  learn  from  Madame  St  Michel,  a lady  of  great 
respectability,  who  happened  to  be  at  her  devotions  in 
the  church  of  St  Quentin,  about  five  o’clock  on  that 
afternoon,  that  she  saw  Marie  Charnel ot  enter  and  throw 
herself  on  her  knees  before  the  confessional,  whilst  at 
the  same  moment  she  perceived  a strange  figure  in  black, 
apparently  without  either  arms  or  legs,  and  with  some 
singular  head-gear,  glide  behind  the  altar.  Alarmed  at 
664 

the  phantom,  she  tried  to  draw  Marie’s  attention  to  it ; 
but  the  latter  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  her  devotions 
to  heed  her ; and  when  Madame  St  Michel  looked  again 
the  spectre  had  disappeared.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  phantom  was  Mingrat,  though  the  motive  of 
his  assuming  the  disguise  does  not  appear ; neither  do 
we  know  what  further  occurred  in  the  church,  except 
that  she  must  have  been  induced  to  accompany  him  to 
his  house,  which  was  close  at  hand,  probably  for  the 
purpose  of  receiving  the  letter  for  the  minister  of 
Yeuray.  No  one,  however,  saw  her  enter.  The  priest 
kept  but  one  maid,  a simple,  honest  young  creature, 
who  was  also  very  devout,  and  standing  in  great  awe  of 
her  master. 

The  first  indications  we  gather  that  a crime  had  been 
committed,  are  from  the  evidence  of  this  girl.  Some- 
where betwixt  the  hour  of  five  and  the  closing  in  of 
the  evening,  she  thought  she  heard  suppressed  sighs 
proceeding  from  a back  room  of  the  parsonage,  but  these 
sounds  she  did  not  investigate  further.  Later,  came  the 
sacristan,  to  ask  if  he  should  ring  in  the  mass  for  the 
dead,  and  then  the  girl  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
parlour  where  she  supposed  her  master  to  be,  in  order 
to  make  the  inquiry.  There  being  no  answer,  she 
ascended  the  stairs  to  his  chamber,  where  at  first  she 
was  not  more  successful,  although  she  heard  heavy  sighs 
from  within.  She  tried  to  lift  the  latch,  but  the  door 
was  fast,  and,  alarmed,  she  knocked  vehemently.  Then 
the  priest  spoke,  and  in  a loud  voice  bade  her  go  below 
and  he  would  follow  her  immediately.  She  went,  but 
she  had  scarcely  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  when 
he  appeared  at  the  top,  inquiring  who  wanted  him.  On 
learning  what  the  sacristan  sought,  he  answered  decid- 
edly no ; and  then  retreating  into  his  chamber,  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

There  was  something  in  this  that  seems  to  have 
awakened  the  girl’s  curiosity  as  well  as  her  fears,  so  she 
crept  softly  up  the  stairs  and  listened  at  the  door ; she 
heard  still  the  sighs  and  groans — then  the  groans  ceased, 
and  there  was  silence.  Pale  and  trembling  she  went 
below.  By  and  by  the  priest  came  down,  evidently 
much  disturbed.  She  told  him  she  had  been  frightened  \ 
she  thought  he  had  been  dying  in  the  chamber  above. 
He  bade  her  hold  her  tongue,  called  her  a fool,  and 
ordered  her  to  take  the  newspaper  to  Monsieur  Huddard,. 
with  his  compliments.  But  curiosity  was  stronger  than 
obedience.  She  took  the  paper,  but  instead  of  going  to- 
the  neighbour’s  with  it,  she  went  round  the  church  and 
came  again  to  the  portal.  She  could  now  hear  nothing  %r 
but  she  saw  a light  in  the  upper  room,  and  tried  to 
climb  to  the  window ; but  she  could  not  do  this  without 
making  some  noise — instantly  the  light  was  extinguished, 
and  she  heard  the  priest  descending  the  stairs.  Presently 
he  opened  the  door,  and  stepping  out,  cried  : ‘ Who ’s 
there?’  He  had  called  several  times  before  she  had 
courage  to  speak;  at  length  she  answered,  trembling: 
‘ It  is  I.’ 

‘What  are  you  doing  there?’  he  asked  in  an  angry 
tone.  ‘ I was  going  to  shut  the  door  of  the  hen-coop,’ 
she  replied.  ‘That’s  false!’  said  he.  ‘You  were 
here  for  some  other  purpose.’  Then  he  ascended  the 
stairs  again,  and  shut  himself  into  the  mysterious 
chamber.  The  girl  remained  below,  oppressed  with  fear 
and  anxiety ; what  could  be  going  on  above  ? She  took 
a book  of  devotion  and  tried  to  calm  her  mind  by 
reading  it ; but  in  vain — she  could  not  collect  her 
thoughts.  Suddenly  she  was  startled  by  a violent 
knocking  at  the  door,  but  before  she  could  reach  it,  the 
priest  came  down,  and  thrusting  her  aside,  opened  it 
himself.  It  was  Charnelot,  come  to  inquire  for  his  wife ; 
she  had  left  home,  saying  she  was  going  to  confession, 
but  had  not  returned.  Mingrat  had  his  answer  ready. 
He  said  that  he  had  seen  her  in  the  church,  but  that, 
displeased  with  the  unsuitableness  of  her  attire,  he  had 
sent  her  home  again.  Nevertheless,  his  speech  was  not 
calm ; he  stammered  and  spoke  thick ; but  no  suspicion 

novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  mrs  crowe. 

of  the  truth  seems  to  have  entered  the  husband’s  mind. 
He  retired ; and  Mingrat  sent  away  the  maid,  who  did 
not  sleep  in  the  house,  and  then  commenced  the  labours 
of  that  most  awful  night. 

Not  far  from  the  church  was  an  ascent,  on  the  summit 
of  which  rose  a wall  of  huge  strangely  formed  rock ; at 
the  foot  of  this  cliff  flowed  the  river  Isere.  Mingrat’s 
object  appears  to  have  been  to  convey  the  body  of  his 
victim  thither,  and  throw  it  into  the  stream.  With 
this  view,  he  bound  it  hand  and  foot  with  cords,  and  let 
it  down  from  the  window;  then  he  extinguished  the 
light,  and,  descending  himself  by  the  stairs,  he  lifted  it, 
and  partly  by  carrying,  and  partly  by  dragging,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  conveying  it  to  the  top  of  the  hill ; but  here 
he  found  a difficulty  he  had  not  reckoned  on ; great  as 
was  his  strength,  he  could  not  raise  the  body  over  the 
rock. 

This  was  an  alarming  discovery,  for  the  night  was 
short  where  there  was  so  much  to  be  done.  It  then 
occurred  to  him,  that  if  he  could  separate  the  limbs 
from  the  trunk,  he  might  more  easily  dispose  of  it ; and 
he  attempted  this  by  means  of  his  pocket-knife,  but  all 
were  inadequate. 

And  now  imagine  his  situation ! Let  us  picture  to 
ourselves  the  murderer  as  he  stood  on  that  lonely  hill, 
scantily  sprinkled  with  thorn-bushes  and  withered 
hazel-trees ; battered  by  the  storm,  for  the  rain  fell  and 
the  wind  raged  furiously  on  that  awful  night : before  him, 
the  steep  ascent  that  he  could  not  surmount ; beside 
him,  the  body  that  he  could  not  get  rid  of  ! Conceive 
his  horror,  his  anguish,  his  despair  ! Hotf  little  do  we 
think,  when  each  night  we  lay  our  heads  calmly  on  our 
pillows,  of  the  scenes  that  at  that  moment  may  be  acting 
in  different  parts  of  the  world!  For  myself,  I could 
not,  on  hearing  this  fearful  story,  help  endeavouring  to 
recall  the  fearful  drama  ; bringing  back  to  my  memory 
that  May  of  1822  ; contrasting  situations — my  peaceful 
chamber,  my  calm  sleep,  and  my  cheerful  waking.  I 
felt  ready  to  fall  upon  my  knees,  and  bless  God  that  I 
had  been  exempted  from  such  trials.  Indeed,  it  is  the 
melting  of  the  heart  that  this  tale  produced  on  myself 
that  has  induced  me  to  relate  it ; for  such  contem- 
plations are  very  wholesome.  Trembling  whilst  we 
rejoice,  we  learn  the  inestimable  value  of  innocence; 
and  whilst  humbly  thankful  for  the  past,  we  prepare 
to  encounter  the  future,  at  once  softened  and  strength- 
ened, encouraged  and  reproved. 

But  to  return  to  that  lonely  hill  and  the  conflict  there. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? He  must  either  carry  the  body 
round  to  the  river  by  the  public  path,  or  return  home 
and  fetch  a more  efficient  instrument.  The  time  that 
either  operation  would  absorb  was  terrific  to  think  of. 
At  length  he  decided  on  the  latter  expedient,  probably 
from  the  apprehension  that  passengers  would  be  abroad 
upon  the  road  before  he  could  accomplish  his  task.  So 
with  rapid  strides  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  manse, 
possessed  himself  of  the  kitchen  hatchet,  and  returned 
to  the  hill.  With  the  aid  of  this  weapon  he  attained 
his  object,  and  then  succeeded  in  conveying  the  mangled 
remains  to  the  river ; leaving,  as  he  believed,  no  traces 
of  his  own  whereabout,  or  of  his  victim’s  fate,  except 
a handkerchief  she  had  worn  about  her  neck.  This  he 
hung  on  a thorn-bush  near  the  water,  in  order  to 
encourage  the  idea  that  she  had  destroyed  herself. 

The  morning  now  began  to  dawn,  but  his  night’s  work 
was  scarcely  half 'finished.  How  much  must  be  done 
before  the  maid  returned  ! There  were  the  murdered 
woman’s  clothes  to  be  disposed  of;  his  own  blood- 
besprinkled  habiliments  to  be  cleaned ; the  hatchet  to 
be  polished.  It  was  a sore  labour,  for  still,  toil  as  he 
would,  some  spot,  some  stain  remained  ! Her  dress  he 
burned,  cutting  it  up  into  shreds,  and  then  cutting  again 
to  make  them  small  enough  for  hasty  combustion ; but 
the  very  ashes.were  treacherous,  and  cried  aloud  against 
him.  They  were  so  red  that  he  was  obliged  to  mingle 
sand  and  earth  amongst  them  to  disguise  the  colour. 

As  for  the  hatchet,  in  his  anguish  he  rubbed  it  so  bright 
that  its  very  lustre  stood  out  as  a testimony  against  him. 
It  is  surely  one  of  the  providences  of  God  that  the 
stains  of  blood  should  be  so  difficult  to  efface  ! 

But  suddenly  he  pauses — his  whole  frame  is  relaxed 
— his  visage,  inflamed  by  the  torture  of  his  mind  and 
his  vehement  labours,  is  overspread  with  a ghastly  pallor 
— what  is  it  that  affrights  him  so?  Is  there  a noise 
without,  or  has  he  discerned  some  human  eye  watching 
him  through  an  unguarded  chink  ? Why  does  he  fling 
down  the  hatchet,  and  thrust  his  hands  wildly  into  his 
pockets,  and  then  rush  frantically  from  the  house  ? He 
has  missed  his  pocIcet-Jcnife!  He  must  have  left  it 
behind  him  on  the  hill.  Oh,  the  agony  of  that  moment !. 
Away  he  strides  again,  this  time  in  the  broad  light  of 
day — but  everything  must  be  risked  to  recover  such 
a damning  evidence.  He  reaches  the  summit — seeks  it 
— looks  here,  looks  there — under  every  bush,  in  every 
cleft — runs  hither,  thither — but  in  vain  ; the  knife  has 
disappeared.  He  dare  linger  no  longer — he  must  return 
without  it. 

He  reached  the  parsonage  before  the  maid’s  arrival, 
and,  had  it  not  been  for  her  fanatical  faith  in  his  holy 
office,  his  demeanour  must  now  have  betrayed  him.  He 
met  her  now  with  confusion  ; addressed  her  with  fury — 
‘Where  had  she  been?  What  had  she  seen?  What 
did  she  think?’  The  poor  girl,  trembling,  answered 
that  she  had  seen  nothing,  understood  nothing.  She 
had  only  heard  a sighing  and  groaning,  and  she  fancied 
that  her  master  was  ill. 

Nevertheless,  she  could  not  close  her  eyes  to  what  she 
saw ; why  was  the  kitchen  hearth  heaped  with  ashes  ? 
There  must  surely  have  been  a large  fire  since  she  had 
last  been  there ! She  swept  them  aside,  and  there 
appeared  a half-burned  wreath  of  flowers ; in  the  back 
yard,  upon  some  straw,  she  perceived  blood  spots,  and 
picked  up  a withered  leaf  of  hazel ; there  were  no  hazel- 
trees  there,  and  the  leaf  was  stained,  and  there  was 
something  adhering  to  it  that  made  her  own  blood 
freeze.  She  found  a bit  of  the  minister’s  cloak,  too, 
and  that  was  stained.  What  should  she  do?  What 
ought  she  to  do?  When  she  saw  him  she  durst  not 
open  her  lips  to  speak,  and  was  about  to  retreat,  when 
he  sternly  bade  her  go  up  stairs.  This  harshness  ren- 
dered her  desperate,  and  folding  her  hands,  as  in  earnest 
prayer,  she  besought  him  to  ‘ let  her  go  away,  for  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer.’ 

What  a thunder-clap  to  Mingrat ! The  request  told 
all.  He  was  betrayed;  his  fatal  secret,  his  life,  his 
honour,  were  in  the  power  of  this  girl.  Shaking 
like  a leaf,  the  girl  stood  before  him  ; whilst  he, 
barring  her  way  to  the  door,  and  holding  her  arm  with 
a grasp  of  iron,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth,  deliberated 
what  was  to  be  done.  Suddenly  a resource  presents 
itself.  He  is  acquainted  with  her  simplicity  and 
scrupulous  conscience,  and  hope  awakes  once  more. 
Still  grasping  her  arm,  he  dragged  her  to  the  church — 
it  was  yet  early  morning,  and  no  one  was  there  to 
witness  the  scene — flung  her  on  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
and  gave  her  the  choice  at  once  to  die  or  there  swear  to 
observe  an  inviolable  secrecy  on  the  events  of  that 
night.  She  consented  to  take  the  oath,  and  he  held  the 
crucifix  upon  her  lips  whilst  she  pronounced  it. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  disappearance  of  the  beautiful 
Marie  Charnelot  was  beginning  to  excite  general  atten- 
tion, and  her  husband  naturally  became  extremely 
uneasy.  Her  having  been  seen  to  enter  the  village  of 
St  Quentin,  conjoined  to  her  avowed  intention  of  going 
to  confession,  inevitably  connected  Antoine  Mingrat 
with  the  mystery ; but  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood 
were  extremely  pious  ; however  unlovable  a being  their 
pastor  was,  he  was  a holy  one  in  their  eyes. 

It  happened  that  very  early  on  that  morning,  a gentle- 
man, named  Michon,  had  occasion  to  visit  a part  of  his 
property  which  was  situated  at  a little  distance  from  the 
village.  His  way  lay  across  the  hill,  and,  although  the 

665 

FROM  1330 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


day  was  but  dawning,  it  was  light  enough  for  him  to  per- 
ceive that  the  ground  was  stained  with  newly  shed  blood. 
He  stopped;  some  animal  might  have  fallen  a prey  to 
the  eagles  ! But  no ; here  were  traces  of  human  inter- 
vention. Near  at  hand  lay  a bloody  cord ; further, 
stuck  in  the  earth,  a pocket-knife  with  a black  handle 
bearing  the  same  fatal  marks.  He  picked  it  up ; but, 
overcome  with  horror,  flung  it  from  him  into  a bush, 
and  hastily  left  the  place.  Presently,  however,  recol- 
lecting how  important  this  instrument  would  be  to  the 
conviction  of  the  assassin,  whoever  he  might  be,  he 
returned,  and  buried  it  in  the  earth.  Thus,  when 
Mingrat  went  back  to  seek  it,  it  was  no  longer  to  be 
found. 

It  was  an  hour  or  more  after  this,  though  still  early 
morning,  that  a butcher  and  his  son,  on  their  way  to 
St  Quentin,  had  occasion  to  pass  under  the  cliff.  ‘ See 
there,  father,’  said  the  boy,  with  some  alarm,  ‘ what  is 
that  man  doing  upon  the  hill?'  The  butcher  looked, 
and  with  surprise  perceived  it  was  Antoine  Mingrat 
the  priest.  His  gestures,  too,  amazed  them,  for  them- 
selves unseen,  they  saw  him  distinctly ; his  eye  wandered 
in  all  directions — he  ran  hastily  from  place  to  place — 
now  stooped  staring  into  a bush — then,  upon  his  knees, 
seemed  to  be  peering  into  the  earth — then  stood  erect 
and  glared  wildly  about  him — and  at  length,  with  a 
frantic  gesture  of  despair,  fled  down  the  hill. 

The  excitement  of  the  public  continued  to  increase. 
By  this  time  Marie’s  handkerchief  being  found  upon 
the  thorn-bush,  and  blood  stains  traced  as  far  as  the 
river,  a warm  discussion  arose  as  to  whether  she  had 
drowned  herself,  after  unsuccessfully  attempting  some 
other  mode  of  death,  or  whether  she  had  fallen  by  the 
hand  of  another.  Mingrat,  who  for  appearance’  sake 
had  been  obliged  to  accompany  some  of  her  friends  to 
the  scene  of  the  murder,  and  was  the  unwilling  auditor 
of  the  dispute,  evinced  the  most  violent  anguish ; 
wringing  his  hands,  and  convulsively  casting  up  his 
eyes  to  heaven.  In  spite  of  their  superstitious  reverence 
for  the  Church,  they  began  to  suspect  him ; and  now 
Michon  came  forward  with  the  knife,  and  placed  it  in 
the  hands  of  the  magistrate.  Charnelot  declared  it  had 
not  belonged  to  his  wife.  Was  it  the  priest’s?  Still 
fettered  by  their  veneration,  they  durst  not  ask  him  the 
question ; so,  under  pretence  of  an  ordinary  visit,  the 
adjunct  or  substitute  called  on  him,  and  adroitly  led 
the  conversation  to  the  subject  which  then  formed  the 
theme  of  inquiry.  Mingrat  as  adroitly  changed  it ; the 
adjunct  brought  it  back  again  to  Marie ; Mingrat  said 
he  was  suffering  extremely  from  the  state  of  his  blood, 
which  was  much  disordered;  and,  indeed,  at  the 
moment  he  spoke,  his  visitor  describes  his  face  to  have 
been  almost  black ; gradually,  the  adjunct  spoke  of  the 
knife — he  wondered  that  Marie  should  have  had  recourse 
to  such  a weapon ; Mingrat,  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  table  before  him,  requested  the  loan  of  a 
certain  work  on  geometry  which  the  adjunct  possessed ; 
the  latter  promised  it  and  took  his  leave,  confirmed  in 
his  suspicions.  He  knew  that  the  priest  had  a copy  of 
the  book  in  his  own  library. 

Meanwhile  an  aunt  of  Mingrat’ s,  who  had  been  absent 
on  a journey,  arrived  at  St  Quentin,  and  learned  the 
fatal  rumour.  Alarmed,  she  took  the  opportunity  of 
the  adjunct’s  visit  to  her  nephew  to  call  on  his  wife, 
and  turning  the  conversation  on  the  murder,  she 
requested  to  see  the  knife ; the  lady  produced  it.  For 
some  moments  the  poor  woman  remained  motionless, 
staring  at  it  with  a fixed  gaze  of  horror,  then  clasping 
her  hands,  she  murmured,  with  quivering  lips  : ‘ That, 
then,  is  the  instrument  of  this  dreadful  crime!’ 
Unable  to  utter  another  syllable,  she  rose  and  quitted 
the  house. 

Scarcely  had  the  adjunct  reached  home  when  Mingrat 
himself  arrived,  under  the  pretext  of  fetching  the  book 
he  wanted ; his  real  motive  was  supposed  to  be  a faint 
hope  of  possessing  himself  of  the  knife.  His  conver- 
666 


sation  was  confused  and  unconnected,  whilst  his  eye 
wandered  anxiously  over  the  room.  This  visit  produced 
a very  unfavourable  impression  against  him ; but  still, 
always  considering  his  office,  there  was  nothing  that  in 
the  magistrate’s  opinion  authorised  him  to  lay  hands  on 
the  priest.  It  was  not  till  the  remains  of  the  poor 
victim  were  found  in  the  river,  by  some  boys  who  were 
fishing  on  its  banks,  that  the  higher  authorities  inter- 
fered, and  despatched  some  gens  d’armes  to  his  house  to 
keep  him  under  surveillance. 

It  was  on  the  eighth  day  after  the  death  of  Marie 
Charnelot,  whilst  the  gens  d’armes  were  at  table,  that 
a stranger,  evidently  a priest,  entered  the  room,  and 
placing  a letter  in  Mingrat’s  hands,  desired  him  instantly 
to  read  it,  and  then  disappeared.  The  letter  contained 
the  following  words:  "‘You  are  covered  with  infamy  by 
the  rumours  which  connect  you  with  that  murdered 
woman.  If  you  are  guilty,  fly  instantly!’  The  priest 
was  the  vicar  of  Toulon.  Antoine  Mingrat  followed 
this  advice ; intentionally  or  otherwise,  the  gens  d’armes 
allowed  him  to  escape,  and  he  fled  across  the  mountains 
into  Piedmont.  The  aunt  also  disappeared.  It  was 
with  much  difficulty  that  the  poor  maid  was  brought  to 
confess  what  she  knew ; her  vow  weighed  heavily  upon 
her;  and  it  was  only,  under  the  influence  of  another 
confessor  that  she  at  length  gave  her  evidence.  The 
guilt  of  Mingrat  was  now  established,  but  he  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  law.  The  bereaved  husband  and  a 
brother  of  Marie’s,  went  to  Paris,  and  throwing  them- 
selves at  the  king’s  feet,  demanded  that  the  criminal 
should  be  required  of  the  Sardinian  government.  But 
there  were  difficulties  in  the  way  of  their  satisfaction ; 
Mingrat  was,  however,  seized  and  thrown  into  prison  at 
Chambery.  But  the  family  and  friends  still  thirsted 
for  vengeance,  and  the  process  was  continued  till,  at 
length,  in  1828,  the  assassin  was  formally  demanded  of 
the  Piedmontese.  But  this  requisition  only  resulted 
in  his  removal  to  the  strong  fortress  of  Fenestrelle, 
from  whence,  it  is  supposed,  he  was  transferred  to  a 
penitentiary. 

To  this  hour,  the  inhabitants  of  St  Quentin  and  its 
neighbourhood  look  with  terror  on  the  scene  of  this 
dreadful  tragedy,  never  passing  over  the  hill  by  night, 
and  as  rarely  as  they  can  by  day. 

MISS  PARDOE. 

Miss  Jijlia  Pardoe,  born  at  Beverley,  in  York- 
shire, the  daughter  of  a field-officer  in  the  army, 
has  been  an  extensive  writer  in  fiction,  in  books  of 
travels,  and  in  historical  memoirs.  Her  most 
successful  efforts  have  been  those  devoted  to  Eastern 
manners  and  society.  She  is  said  to  have  produced 
a volume  of  poems  at  the  age  of  thirteen.  The  first 
of  her  works  which  attracted  any  attention  was  Traits 
and  Traditions  of  Portugal , published  in  1833.  Hav- 
ing proceeded  to  the  East,  Miss  Pardoe  wrote  The 
City  of  the  Sultan,  1836,  which  has  been  succeeded 
by  The  Romance  of  the  Harem  and  The  Beauties  of  the 
Bosphorus.  So  recently  as  1857,  reverting  to  these 
Eastern  studies  and  observations,  Miss  Pardoe  pro- 
duced a pleasant  collection  of  Oriental  tales,  entitled 
Thousand  and  One  Bays.  A visit  to  Hungary  led  to 
The  City  of  the  Magyar , or  Hungary  and  its  Institu- 
tions, 1810,  and  to  a novel,  entitled  The  Hungarian 
Castle.  Another  journey  called  forth  Recollections 
of  the  Rhone  and  the  Chartreuse ; while  studies  in 
French  history  suggested  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  or  the 
Court  of  the  Seventeenth  Century , and  The  Life  of 
Marie  de  Medicis , 1812.  The  novels  of  Miss  Pardoe 
are  numerous.  Among  them  are  Reginald  Lyle , 
Flies  in  Amber,  The  Jealous  Wife,  Poor  Relations , and 
Pilgrimages  in  Paris — the  last  published  in  1858, 
and  consisting  of  short  romantic  tales  which  had 
appeared  in  various  periodicals. 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  MARSH — MRS  GASKELL. 


MRS  MARSH — LADY  GEORGIANA  FULLERTON. 

The  domestic  novels  of  these  ladies  have  been 
received  with  great  favour.  They  are  earnest, 
impassioned,  and  eloquent  expositions  of  English 
life  and  feeling — those  of  Lady  Eullerton,  perhaps, 
too  uniformly  sad  and  gloomy.  Mrs  Marsh  is,  next 
to  Mrs  Gore,  the ' most  voluminous  of  our  lady- 
novelists.  From  the  year  1834,  when  she  published 
Two  Old  Men’s  Tales , she  must  have  written  at  least 
fifty  volumes.  To  none  of  them,  we  believe,  was 
| her  name  affixed ; but  the  authorship  appears  to  be 
well  known,  and  is  often  referred  to.  Mrs  Anne 
j Marsh  is  a Staffordshire  lady,  daughter  of  Mr 
| Caldwell,  Recorder  of  Newcastle-under-Line ; her 
j husband  was  a London  banker.  About  her  thirty- 
I sixth  year  she  entered  on  her  career  as  an  authoress, 

| publishing  first,  as  already  stated,  her  Old  Men’s 
! Tales,  which  were  followed  by  Tales  of  the  Woods 
and  Fields , 1836 ; Triumphs  of  Time , Mount  Sorel, 

I The  AdmiraVs  Daughter , Emilia  Wyndham,  1846 ; 
i Father  Darcy , Norman  Bridge , Angela , Mordaunt 
j Hall,  Lettice  Arnold,  Lady  Evelyn,  Tales  of  the 
J French  Revolution , Bellah,  a Tale  of  La  Vendee,  The 
Wilmingtons,  Time  the  Avenger,  Ravenscliffe,  Castle 
j Avon,  Aubrey,  The  Heiress  of  Haughton,  &c.  Here 
is  quite  a library  of  fiction,  and  much  of  it  of  a very 
high  order.  Lady  Fullerton  has  produced  three 
novels — Ellen  Middleton,  1844 ; Grantley  Manor, 
1847 ; and  Lady  Bird,  1852.  The  novelist  is  the 
second  daughter  of  Earl  Granville  (George  Leveson 
Gower),  and  was  married  in  1833  to  A.  G.  Fullerton, 
Esq.,  of  Ballenloy  Castle,  county  of  Antrim. 

MISS  KAVANAGH. 

A series  of  tales,  having  moral  and  benevolent 
aims,  has  been  produced  by  Miss  J ulia  Kavanagh. 
In  1847  she  published  a Christmas  hook,  The  Three 
Paths;  and  in  1848,  Madeleine,  a Tale  of  Auvergne, 
founded  on  Fact.  The  ‘ fact  ’ that  gave  rise  to  this 
interesting  story  is  the  devotion  of  a peasant-girl, 
who  by  her  labour  founded  an  hospital  in  her 
native  village.  Woman  in  France  during  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  two  volumes,  1850,  was  Miss  Kavanagh’s 
next  work — an  ambitious  and  somewhat  perilous 
theme ; but  the  memoirs  and  anecdotes  of  the  belles 
esprits  who  ruled  the  Parisian  courts  and  coteries 
are  told  with  discretion  and  feeling  as  well  as  taste. 
French  society  and  scenery  supplied  materials  for 
another  fiction,  Nathalie,  1851  ; after  which*  Miss 
Kavanagh  gave  short  biographies  of  women  eminent 
for  works  of  charity  and  goodness,  entitling  the 
collection  Women  of  Christianity,  1852.  She  has 
since  published  Daisy  Burns,  1853  ; Grace  Lee,  1855; 
Rachel  Gray,  1856;  Adele,  1858;  and  A Summer 
and  Winter  in  the  Two  Sicilies,  two  volumes,  1858. 
The  last  is  hut  a poor  work.  In  fiction  and  memoirs 
Miss  Kavanagh  is  always  interesting,  delicate  in 
fancy  and  feeling,  and  often  rich  in  description. 
This  lady  is  a native  of  Ireland,  born  at  Thurles,  in 
Tipperary,  in 'the  year  1824;  but  she  was  educated 
in  France. 

MRS  GASKELL. 

About  the  same  time  that  Charlotte  Bronte 
was  drawing  scenes  and  characters  from  Yorkshire, 
another  lady-novelist  was  depicting  the  condition 
of  the  manufacturing  classes  in  Lancashire.  Mrs 
Elizabeth  C.  Gaskell  (nee  Stromkin),  wife  of  the 
Rev.  W.  Gaskell,  Unitarian  minister,  Manchester, 
in  1848  published  anonymously  Mary  Barton,  a 
Tale  of  Manchester  Life.  The  work  is  a faithful 


and  painfully  interesting  picture  of  the  society  of 
the  manufacturing  capital.  The  heroine  is  the 
daughter  of  a factory  operative,  and  the  family 
group,  with  their  relatives  and  friends,  is  drawn 
with  a distinctness  and  force  that  leave  no  doubt 
of  its  truth.  The  authoress  says  she  had  often 
thought  how  deep  might  be  the  romance  in  the  lives 
of  some  of  those  who  elbowed  her  daily  in  the 
streets  of  Manchester. 

‘ I had  always,’  she  adds,  ‘ felt  a deep  sympathy 
with  the  care-worn  men,  who  looked  as  if  doomed 
to  struggle  through  their  lives  in  strange  alterna- 
tions between  work  and  want : tossed  to  and  fro 
by  circumstances  apparently  in  even  a greater 
degree  than  other  men.  A little  manifestation  of 
this  sympathy,  and  a little  attention  to  the  expres- 
sion of  feelings  on  the  part  of  some  of  the  work- 
people with  whom  I was  acquainted,  had  laid  open 
to  me  the  hearts  of  one  or  two  of  the  more  thought- 
ful among  them;  I saw  that  they  were  sore  and 
irritable  against  the  rich,  the  even  tenor  of  whose 
seemingly  happy  lives  appeared  to  increase  the 
anguish  caused  by  the  lottery-like  nature  of  their 
own.  Whether  the  bitter  complaints  made  by  them, 
of  the  neglect  which  they  experienced  from  the 
prosperous — especially  from  the  masters  whose 
fortunes  they  had  helped  to  build  up — were  well 
founded  or  no,  it  is  not  for  me  to  judge.  It  is 
enough  to  say,  that  this  belief  of  the  injustice  and 
unkindness  which  they  endure  from  their  fellow- 
creatures,  taints  what  might  be  resignation  to  God’s 
will,  and  turns  it  to  revenge  in  too  many  of  the 
poor  uneducated  factory-workers  of  Manchester.’ 
The  effects  of  bad  times,  ^political  agitation,  and 
‘strikes,’  are  depicted  and  brought  home  more 
vividly  to  the  reader  by  their  connection  with  the 
characters  in  the  novel.  The  Lancashire  dialect  is 
also  occasionally  introduced,  adding  to  the  impres- 
sion of  reality  made  by  the  whole  work ; and  though 
the  chief  interest  is  of  a painful  character,  the 
novelist  reflects  the  lights  as  well  as  the  shades  of 
artisan  life.  Her  powers  of  description  may  be 
seen  from  the  beautiful  opening  scene. 

[Picture  of  Green  Heys  Fields,  Manchester .] 

There  are  some  fields  near  Manchester,  well  known  to 
the  inhabitants  as  ‘ Green  Heys  Fields,’  through  which 
runs  a public  footpath  to  a little  village  about  two  miles 
distant.  In  spite  of  these  fields  being  flat  and  low — 
nay,  in  spite  of  the  want  of  wood  (the  great  and  usual 
recommendation  of  level  tracts  of  land),  there  is  a charm 
about  them  which  strikes  even  the  inhabitant  of  a 
mountainous  district,  who  sees  and  feels  the  effect  of 
contrast  in  these  common-place  but  thoroughly  rural 
fields,  with  the  busy,  bustling  manufacturing  town  he 
left  but  half  an  hour  ago.  Here  and  there  an  old  black 
and  white  farmhouse,  with  its  rambling  outbuildings, 
speaks  of  other  times  and  other  occupations  than  those 
which  now  absorb  the  population  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Here  in  their  seasons  may  be  seen  the  country  business 
of  hay-making,  ploughing,  &c.,  which  are  such  pleasant 
mysteries  for  towns-people  to  watch ; and  here  the 
artisan,  deafened’  with  noise  of  tongues  and  engines, 
may  come  to  listen  awhile  to  the  delicious  sounds  of 
rural  life ; the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  milk -maids’  call, 
the  clatter  and  cackle  of  poultry  in  the  old  farm-yards. 
You  cannot  wonder,  then,  that  these  fields  are  popular 
places  of  resort  at  every  holiday  time ; and  you  would 
not  wonder,  if  you  could  see,  or  I properly  describe,  the 
charm  of  one  particular  stile,  that  it  should  be,  on  such 
occasions,  a crowded  halting-place.  Close  by  it  is  a 
deep,  clear  pond,  reflecting  in  its  dark-green  depths  the 
shadowy  trees  that  bend  over  it  to  exclude  the  sun. 
The  only  place  where  its  banks  are  shelving  is  on  the 

667 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


side  next  to  a rambling  farm-yard,  belonging  to  one  of 
those  old-world,  gabled,  black  and  white  houses  I named 
above,  overlooking  the  field  through  which  the  public 
footpath  leads.  The  porch  of  this  farmhouse  is 
covered  by  a rose-tree ; and  the  little  garden  surround- 
ing it  is  crowded  with  a medley  of  old-fashioned  herbs 
and  flowers,  planted  long  ago,  when  the  garden  was  the 
only  druggist’s  shop  within  reach,  and  allowed  to  grow 
in  scrambling  and  wild  luxuriance — roses,  lavender, 
sage,  balm  (for  tea),  rosemary,  pinks  and  wallflowers, 
onions  and  jessamine,  in  most  republican  and  indis- 
criminate order.  This  farmhouse  and  garden  are 
within  a hundred  yards  of  the  stile  of  which  I spoke, 
leading  from  the  large  pasture  field  into  a smaller  one, 
divided  by  a hedge  of  hawthorn  and  black-thorn ; and 
near  this  stile,  on  the  further  side,  there  runs  a tale 
that  primroses  may  often  be  found,  and  occasionally  the 
blue  sweet  violet  on  the  grassy  hedge -bank. 

I do  not  know  whether  it  was  on  a holiday  granted 
by  the  masters,  or  a holiday  seized  in  right  of  nature 
and  her  beautiful  spring-time  by  the  workmen ; but  one 
afternoon — now  ten  or  a dozen  years  ago — these  fields 
were  much  thronged.  It  was  an  early  May  evening — the 
April  of  the  poets ; for  heavy  showers  had  fallen  all  the 
morning,  and  the  round,  soft  white  clouds  which  were 
blown  by  a west  wind  over  the  dark-blue  sky,  were 
sometimes  varied  by  one  blacker  and  more  threatening. 
The  softness  of  the  day  tempted  forth  the  young  green 
leaves,  which  almost  visibly  fluttered  into  life ; and  the 
willows,  which  that  morning  had  had  only  a brown 
reflection  in  the  water  below,  were  now  of  that  tender 
gray-green  which  blends  so  delicately  with  the  spring 
harmony  of  colours. 

Groups  of  merry,  and  somewhat  loud-talking  girls, 
whose  ages  might  range  from  twelve  to  twenty,  came  by 
with  a buoyant  step.  They  were  most  of  them  factory- 
girls,  and  wore  the  usual  out-of-doors’  dress  of  that 
particular  class  of  maidens ; namely,  a shawl,  which  at 
mid-day,  or  in  fine  weather,  was  allowed  to  be  merely  a 
shawl,  but  towards  evening,  or  if  the  day  were  chilly, 
became  a sort  of  Spanish  mantilla  or  Scotch  plaid,  and 
was  brought  over  the  head  and  hung  loosely  down,  or 
was  pinned  under  the  chin  in  no  un picturesque  fashion. 
Their  faces  were  not  remarkable  for  beauty;  indeed, 
they  were  below  the  average,  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions ; they  had  dark  hair,  neatly  and  classically  arranged, 
dark  eyes,  but  sallow  complexions  and  irregular  features. 
The  only  thing  to  strike  a passer-by  was  an  acuteness 
and  intelligence  of  countenance,  which  has  often  been 
noticed  in  a manufacturing  population. 

There  were  also  numbers  of  boys,  or  rather  young 
men,  rambling  among  these  fields,  ready  to  bandy  jokes 
with  any  one,  and  particularly  ready  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  the  girls,  who,  however,  held  themselves 
aloof,  not  in  a shy,  but  rather  in  an  independent  way, 
assuming  an  indifferent  manner  to  the  noisy  wit  or 
obstreperous  compliments  of  the  lads.  Here  and  there 
came  a sober,  quiet  couple,  either  whispering  lowers,  or 
husband  and  wife,  as  the  case  might  be;  and  if  the 
latter,  they  were  seldom  unencumbered  by  an  infant, 
carried  for  the  most  part  by  the  father,  while  occa- 
sionally even  three  or  four  little  toddlers  had  been 
carried  or  dragged  thus  far,  in  order  that  the  whole 
family  might  enjoy  the  delicious  May  afternoon 
together. 

In  1850  Mrs  Gaskell  published  The  Moorland 
Cottage — a short  domestic  tale;  in  1853,  Ruth , a 
novel  in  three  volumes,  and  Cranford,  a collection 
of  sketches  that  had  appeared  in  a periodical  work ; 
and  in  1855,  North  and  South,  another  story  of  the 
manufacturing  districts,  which  had  also  been  origin- 
ally published  in  the  periodical  form.  These  novels 
were  all  popular.  The  authoress  was  a prose  Crabbe 
— earnest,  faithful,  and  often  spirited  in  her  delinea- 
tions of  humble  life.  By  confining  herself  chiefly 


to  1850. 


to  the  manufacturing  population,  she  threw  light 
on  conditions  of  life,  habits,  and  feelings  compar- 
atively new  and  original  in  our  fictitious  literature.  ! 
Her  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  1857,  has  all  the  ! 
interest  of  a romance,  and  as  a literary  work  is  ! 
worthy  of  the  authoress  of  Mary  Barton. 

WILKIE  COLLINS. 

This  gentleman’s  first  work  was  a life  of  his 
father,  William  Collins,  the  celebrated  English 
painter.  It  was  published  in  1848,  and  was  univer- 
sally recognised  as  a valuable  addition  to  our  art- 
biography.  Mr  Collins  then  tried  another  field. 
He  now  turned  to  fiction,  and  in  1850  published 
a classic  romance  of  the  fifth  century,  entitled 
Antonina , or  the  Fall  of  Rome.  Though  much 
inferior  to  Bulwer’s  historical  romances,  the  work 
evinced  Mr  Collins’s  art  in  constructing  an  interest- 
ing story,  and  this  dramatic  faculty — rather  than 
skill  in  depicting  character — has  distinguished  his 
subsequent  productions.  These  are  Rambles  beyond 
Railways , or  Notes  in  Cornwall,  1851 ; Basil,  a novel, 
1852;  Mr  Wray’s  Cask  Box,  1852;  Hide  and  Seek , 
1854;  After  Dark,  1856;  The  Dead  Secret,  1857. 
The  last  of  these  tales  appeared  in  Household  Words, 
and  kept  its  readers  in  breathless  suspense — the 
delight  of  all  lovers  of  romance — until  the  secret 
was  unfolded.  Mr  Collins  is  author  also  of  a drama, 
The  Frozen  Deep , performed  by  Mr  Dickens,  by  the 
dramatist  himself,  and  other  friends,  amateur  actors 
in  aid  of  the  family  of  Douglas  J errold. 

CAPTAIN  MAINE  REID. 

In  the  description  of  daring  feats  and  romantic 
adventures — scenes  in  the  desert,  the  forest,  and 
wild  hunting-ground — Captain  Mayne  Reid,  of  the 
United  States  army,  has  earned  great  popularity, 
especially  with  the  young.  He  seems  to  have  made 
Cooper  the  novelist  his  model,  but  several  of  his 
works  are  more  particularly  devoted  to  natural 
history.  This  gentleman  is  a native  of  the  north 
of  Ireland,  son  of  a Presbyterian  minister,  and  was 
born  in  the  year  1818.  In  his  twentieth  year  he 
went  abroad  to  ‘ push  his  fortune.’  He  set  out  for 
Mexico,  made  trading  excursions  with  the  Indians 
up  the  Red  River,  and  afterwards  sailed  up  the 
Missouri,  and  settled  on  the  prairies  for  a period 
of  four  or  five  years.  He  then  took  to  the  literary 
profession  in  Philadelphia;  but  in  1845,  when  war 
was  declared  between  the  United  States  and  Mexico, 
Mr  Reid  obtained  a commission  in  the  American 
army,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  gallantry. 
He  led  the  forlorn-hope  at  the  assault  of  the  castle 
of  Chapultepec,  and  was  severely  wounded.  The 
Mexican  war  over,  Captain  Reid  organised  a body 
of  men  to  aid  the  Hungarians  in  their  struggle  for 
independence,  hut  the  failure  of  the  insurrection 
prevented  his  reaping  any  fresh  laurels  as  a soldier. 
He  now  repaired  to  England  and  resumed  his 
pen.  His  personal  experiences  had  furnished 
materials  of  a rare  and  exciting  kind,  and  he 
published  a series  of  romances  and  other  works, 
which  were  well  received.  In  1849  appeared  The 
Rifle  Rangers ; in  1850,  The  Scalp  Hunters ; in  1852, 
The  Desert  Home  and  Boy  Hunters;  in  1853,  The 
Young  Voyageurs ; in  1854,  The  Forest  Exiles;  in 
1855,  The  Bush  Boys,  The  Hunter’s  Feast,  and  The 
White  Chief;  in  1856,  The  Quadroon,  or  a Lover’s 
Adventures  in  Louisiana;  in  1857,  The  Young 
Yagers;  in  1858,  The  Plant  Hunters  and  The  War 
Trail;  in  1859,  Oyeola,  &c.  As  a vivid  describer 
of  foreign  scenes,  Captain  Reid  is  entitled  to  praise* 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISS  MULOCK. 


but  his  incidents,  though  exciting,  are  often  highly 
improbable. 

MISS  MULOCK. 

In  1849  appeared  The  Ogilvies — a ‘first  novel,’  as 
the  authoress  timidly  announced,  but  without  giving 
her  name.  It  was  instantly  successful  and  appre- 
ciated as  a work  of  great  genius,  ‘ written  with  deep 
earnestness,  and  pervaded  by  a noble  and  loving 
philosophy.’  Next  year  came  forth  Olive , sustain- 
ing the  reputation  of  the  writer ; and  Olive  has  been 
followed  by  The  Head  of  the  Family , 1851 ; Alice 
Learmont , a Fairy  Tale,  1852 ; Agatha's  Husband, 
1853 ; John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  1856 ; Nothing 
New,  1857  ; A Woman's  Thoughts  About  Women,  &c. 
Several  children’s  books — as  Rhoda's  Lessons,  Cola 
Monti,  A Hero , Bread  upon  the  Waters,  and  The 
Little  Lychetts — have  been  produced  by  the  authoress 
of  The  Ogilvies;  and  she  has  contributed  a great 
number  of  short  essays  and  poems  to  Chambers's 
Journal  and  other  periodicals.  The  accomplished 
and  gifted  young  lady,  who  has  thus  delighted  and 
benefited  society  by  her  genius,  is  Miss  Dinah 
Maria  Mulock:,  born  at  Stoke-upon-Trent,  Stafford- 
shire, in  1826.  Notices  of  her  father — a literary 
man,  but  of  eccentric  views  and  opinions — occur  in 
his  countryman  Moore’s  journals  and  Life  of  Byron. 
As  a moral  teacher,  none  of  the  novelists  of  the 
i present  day  excel  Miss  Mulock.  She  is  not  formally 
j didactic— she  insinuates  instruction.  A too  pro- 
longed feminine  softness  and  occasional  sentimen- 
| talism  constitute  the  defects  of  her  novels,  though 
less  prominent  in  her  later  works  than  in  her 
first  two  novels.  Her  mission,  it  has  justly  been 
remarked,  is  to  shew  ‘ how  the  trials,  perplexities, 
joys,  sorrows,  labours,  and  successes  of  life  deepen 
or  wither  the  character  according  to  its  inward 
bent — how  continued  insincerity  gradually  darkens 
and  corrupts  the  life-springs  of  the  mind — and 
how  every  event,  adverse  or  fortunate,  tends  to 
strengthen  and  expand  a high  mind,  and  to  break 
the  springs  of  a selfish  or  even  merely  weak  and 
self-indulgent  nature.’  * In  carrying  out  this  moral 
purpose,  Miss  Mulock  displays  eloquence,  pathos, 
a subdued  but  genial  humour,  and  happy  delineation 
of  character.  A little  more  artistic  labour,  and 
wider  observation  of  life  and  manners,  would  place 
her  in  the  highest  rank  of  novelists.  We  give  one 
extract  from  The  Ogilvies,  descriptive  of  the  death 
of  the  boy  Leigh  Penny  thorne.  Mr  Dickens’s 

description  of  a similar  event,  in  his  novel  of 
Dombey,  was  much  admired,  but  it  is  not  more 
truly  or  pathetically  given  than  in  this  passage  by 
Miss  Mulock. 

[Death  of  Leigh  Penny thorne.] 

1 Leigh  may  take  a little  longer  drive  to-day,  for  Mrs 
Frederick  does  not  want  the  carriage.  I wish  I were 
going  with  you  both,’  sighed  the  mother;  ‘but  Mr 
Pennythorne  does  not  like  being  left  alone  when  he  is 
writing.’  ‘ Cillie ! Cillie ! are  you  going  to  stay  in 
Leigh’s  room  all  day?’  resounded  from  the  study  door. 
Poor  Mrs  Pennythorne  cast  a hopeless  glance  at  Philip, 
hastily  kissed  her  boy,  and  disappeared  in  a moment. 
Leigh  looked  after  her  wistfully.  ‘ I wish  she  could  stay 
with  me  a little  more.  She  would  like  it  now,  and — 
afterwards!  But  she  is  a good,  dear  mother!  and  she 
knows  I think  so.  Be  sure  you  tell  her  that  I did, 
Philip.’  Wychnor  pressed  the  boy’s  hand : it  was  a 
strange  and  touching  thing,  this  calm  mingling  of  death 
with  life  in  Leigh’s  thoughts  and  words.  He  was 

* North  British  Review,  November  1858. 


silent  a minute,  and  then  went  on  in  a cheerful  tone. 
‘ You  must  let  me  remain  out  a good  while  to-day,  I feel 
so  strong ; and,  perhaps,  I might  stay  a little  later,  to 
watch  the  sunset.  I never  can  see  it  from  my  room, 
you  know;  which  seems  rather  hard,  now  the  evenings 
are  so  beautiful  and  spring-like.’  Philip  soothed  him 
as  an  elder  brother  might  have  done,  and  promised  all, 
provided  he  felt  strong  enough.  Then  he  took  Leigh  in 
his  arms  like  a child,  and  carried  him  down  stairs  to 
the  gay  carriage.  What  different  occupants  were  the 
fluttering,  fashionable  young  wife,  and  the  poor  sick 
boy,  who  lay  half-buried  in  cloaks  and  cushions ! Yet 
Leigh  lifted  up  his  head  with  a cheerful  look  when  Mrs 
Pennythorne  appeared  at  a window  to  give  her  part- 
ing nod  as  they  drove  away.  Philip  saw  the  bright 
loving  smile  that  passed  between  mother  and  son — he 
thought  of  it  afterwards  many  a time.  ‘ Now,  where 
shall  we  go,  Leigh?’  was  the  first  question  proposed,  as 
they  drove  along  the  interminable  Kensington  High 
Street.  Leigh  pleaded  for  some  quiet  road  : he  wanted 
to  go  far  out  in  the  country,  to  that  beautiful  lane  which 
runs  along  by  the  river  side  at  Chiswick.  He  had  been 
there  once  at  the  beginning  of  his  illness,  and  had  often 
talked  of  the  place  since.  It  haunted  him,  he  said,  with 
its  overhanging  trees,  and  the  river  view  breaking  in 
between  them — its  tiny  wavelets  all  sparkling  in  the 
sun.  He  knew  it  would  look  just  the  same  this  calm, 
bright  May  afternoon.  So  accordingly  they  went  thither. 
It  was  one  of  those  spring  days  when  the  earth  seems  to 
rest  from  her  joyful  labour  of  budding  and  blossoming, 
and  to  be  dreaming  of  summer.  The  birds  in  the  trees 
—the  swans  in  the  water — the  white  clouds  in  the  sky 
— were  alike  still ; and  upon  all  things  had  fallen  the 
spell  of  a blessed  silence — a silence  full  of  happiness, 
and  hope,  and  love.  Happiness,  hope,  and  love,  what 
words,  what  idle  words  they  would  sound,  unto  the  two 
who  were  passing  slowly  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees ! 
Oh,  earth,  beautiful,  cruel  mother  ! how  canst  thou  smile 
with  a face  so  fair  when  sorrow  or  death  is  on  thy 
children  ! But  the  earth  answers  softly : ‘ I smile  with 
a calm  and  changeless  smile,  to  tell  my  frail  children 
that  if  in  me,  made  but  for  their  use,  is  such  ever 
renewed  life  and  joy,  shall  it  not  be  so  with  them  ? 
And  even  while  they  gaze  upon  me,  I pour  into  their 
hearts  my  deep  peace ! ’ It  was  so  with  Philip  and 
Leigh.  They  sat  silent,  hand  in  hand,  and  looked  on 
this  beautiful  scene : from  both,  the  bitterness  passed 
away — the  bitterness  of  life,  and  that  of  death.  Which 
was  the  greater?  On  the  bridge  at  Kew,  Leigh  spoke. 
He  begged  that  the  carriage  might  rest  a moment  to 
let  him  look  at  the  sunset,  which  was  very  lovely.  He 
half  lifted  himself  up,  and  the  large  brown  eyes  seemed 
drinking  in  all  the  beauty  that  was  in  land,  river,  and 
sky:  they  rested  longest  there.  Then  they  turned  to  meet 
Philip’s : that  mute  gaze  between  the  two  was  full  of 
solemn  meaning.  ‘ Are  you  content?’  whispered  Philip. 

‘ Yes,  quite  : now  let  us  go  home.’  Leigh’s  eyes  closed, 
and  his  voice  grew  faint.  ‘You  seem  tired,’  said  the 
other  anxiously.  ‘Yes,  a little.  Take  me  home  soon, 
will  you,  Philip?’  His  head  drooped  on  the  young 
man’s  shoulder  heavily — so  heavily,  that  Philip  signed 
to  the  coachman  to  drive  on  at  his  utmost  speed.  Then 
he  put  his  arm  round  the  boy,  who  lay  with  closed  eyes, 
his  white  cheek  looking  gray  and  sunken  in  the  purple 
evening  light.  Once  Philip  spoke,  almost  trembling 
lest  no  answer  should  come.  ‘ Are  you  quite  easy,  dear 
Leigh  ? ’ The  eyes  opened,  and  the  lips  parted  with  a faint 
smile.  ‘ Yes,  thank  you,  only  weary ; I can  hardly  keep 
awake,  but  I must  till  I have  seen  my  mother.’  And 
still  the  dying  head  sank  heavier  on  Philip’s  shoulder, 
and  the  hands  which  he  drew  in  his  to  warm  them 
were  already  growing  damp  and  rigid.  He  sat  with 
this  solemn  burden  in  his  arms,  and  the  carriage  drove 
homewards  until  they  entered  the  square.  The  mother 
stood  at  the  door ! ‘ Take  her  away,  for  God’s  sake — 

only  one  minute,’  whispered  Philip  to  the  servant ; but 

669 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


she  had  sprung  already  to  the  carriage.  ‘ Leigh  ! how 
is  my  darling  Leigh  ? ’ Her  voice  seemed  to  pierce  even 
through  the  shadows  of  another  world  and  reach  the 
dying  boy : he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  tenderly 
upon  her.  ‘ Leigh  is  tired — almost  asleep.  Take  the 
cushion,  Mrs  Pennythorne,  and  I will  carry  him  in,’ 
said  Wychnor  hastily.  She  obeyed  without  a word, 
but  her  face  grew  deadly  white,  and  her  hands  trembled. 
When  the  boy  was  placed,  as  he  seemed  to  wish,  in  his 
mother’s  arm-chair,  she  came  and  knelt  before  him, 
looking  into  his  face.  There  was  a shadow  there.  She 
saw  it,  and  felt  that  the  time  was  come  when  not  even 
the  mother  could  stand  between  her  child  and  death. 
Philip  thought  she  would  have  shrieked,  or  fainted; 
but  she  did  neither.  She  only  gazed  into  the  dim  eyes 
with  a wild,  earnest,  almost  beseeching  gaze.  ‘ Mother, 
you  will  let  me  go?’  murmured  Leigh.  She  drew  a 
long  sigh,  as  if  repressing  an  agony  so  terrible  that  the 
struggle  was  like  that  of  a soul  parting ; and  then  said : 
‘Yes,  my  darling!’  He  smiled — what  a heaven  is 
there  in  the  happy  smile  of  the  dying ! — and  suffered 
her  fond  ministering  hands — unwilling  even  yet  to  give 
up  their  long  tendance — to  unfasten  the  cloak  and  put 
the  wine  to  his  lips.  Then  she  sat  down  beside  him, 
laid  his  head  on  her  bosom,  and  awaited — oh,  mighty 
strength  of  a mother’s  love  ! — awaited,  tearless  and 
calm,  the  passing  away  of  the  life  which  she  had  given. 

‘ He  is  quite  content — quite  happy — he  told  me  so,’ 
Philip  whispered  in  her  ear,  with  his  soft,  comforting 
voice.  She  turned  round  one  moment  with  a startled 
air:  ‘Yes,  yes,  I know.  Hush!’  and  she  bent  down 
again  over  her  child,  whose  faint  lips  seemed  trying 
to  frame,  scarcely  louder  than  a sigh,  the  last  word : 

‘ Mother!  ’ Then  there  fell  over  the  twilight-shadowed 
room  a solemn  silence,  long  and  deep,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  spirit  passed.  They  only  knew  that  it  was 
so,  when,  as  the  moon  rose,  the  pale  spiritual  light  fell 
on  the  calm  face  of  the  dead  boy,  still  pillowed  on  the 
mother’s  breast.  She  turned  and  looked  upon  it  with- 
out a cry  or  a moan,  so  beautiful,  so  heavenly  was  it ! 
At  that  moment,  had  they  put  to  her  the  question  of 
old : ‘ Is  it  well  with  the  child  ? ’ she  would  have 
answered,  like  the  Shunammite  : ‘ It  is  well ! ’ 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Mr  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  at  one  time 
American  consul  at  Liverpool,  has  written  two  of 
the  most  original  and  powerful  of  our  modern 
fictions,  and  a series  of  short  tales  and  sketches, 
scarcely  inferior,  as  respects  purity  of  style  or 
individuality  of  portraiture,  to  those  of  Washington 
Irving.  He  was  born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts, 
about  the  year  1807.  He  studied  at  Bowdoin 
College,  and  early  became  a contributor  to  literary 
periodicals,  in  which  all  American  authors  seem 
to  make  their  first  flights.  These  sketches  were 
collected  and  published,  the  first  series  in  1837, 
a second  in  1842,  and  a third  in  1843.  The 
first  two  were  entitled  Twice-told  Tales , and  the 
third,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse — this  last  title 
being  derived  from  the  name  of  the  house  in  which 
the  essayist  lived,  the  ‘ Old  Manse,’  in  the  village 
of  Concord.  A number  of  excellent  children’s 
books  also  proceeded  from  Mr  Hawthorne’s  graceful 
and  attractive  pen.  His  romances  are — The  Scarlet 
Letter , 1850;  The  House  with  Seven  Gables , 1851; 
and  The  Blithedale  Romance , 1852.  The  first  of 
these  pictures  of  New  England  life  and  Puritanism 
is  on  a painful  subject,  for  The  Scarlet  Letter  is  the 
badge  of  the  heroine’s  shame,  and  her  misery  and 
degradation  form  the  leading  theme  of  the  story. 
But  it  is  intensely  interesting,  and  its  darker  shades 
are  relieved  by  passages  of  fine  description.  The 
second  romance  does  not  possess  the  same  harrow- 
670 


ing  interest,  but  it  has  greater  variety,  and  the 
inmates  of  the  old  house  are  drawn  with  consum- 
mate skill.  The  Blithedale  Romance  is  a story 
founded  on  the  Socialist  experiment  at  Brook 
Farm,  which,  of  course,  proved  a failure. 

‘ The  peril  of  our  new  way  of  life,’  says  Mr 
Hawthorne,  ‘ was  not  lest  we  should  fail  in  becom- 
ing practical  agriculturists,  but  that  we  should 
probably  cease  to  be  anything  else.  While  our 
enterprise  lay  all  in  theory,  we  had  pleased  our- 
selves with  delectable  visions  of  the  spiritualisation 
of  labour.  It  was  to  be  our  form  of  prayer  and 
ceremonial  of  worship.  Each  stroke  of  the  hoe  was 
to  uncover  some  aromatic  root  of  wisdom,  hereto- 
fore hidden  from  the  sun.  Pausing  in  the  field,  to 
let  the  wind  exhale  the  moisture  from  our  foreheads, 
we  were  to  look  upward,  and  catch  glimpses  into 
the  far-off  soul  .of  truth.  In  this  point  of  view, 
matters  did  not  turn  out  quite  so  well  as  we  anti- 
cipated. It  is  very  true  that,  sometimes,  gazing 
casually  around  me,  out  of  the  midst  of  my  toil, 

I used  to  discern  a richer  picturesqueness  in  the 
visible  scene  of  earth  and  sky.  There  was,  at  such 
moments,  a novelty,  an  unwonted  aspect,  on  the 
face  of  nature,  as  if  she  had  been  taken  by  surprise 
and  seen  at  unawares,  with  no  opportunity  to  put  j 
off  her  real  look,  and  assume  the  mask  with  which  1 
she  mysteriously  hides  herself  from  mortals.  But  ! 
this  was  all.  The  clods  of  earth  which  we  so  con-  ! 
stantly  belaboured  and  turned  over  and  over,  were  ! 
never  etherialised  into  thought.  Our  thoughts,  on  j 
the  contrary,  were  fast  becoming  cloddish.  Our  j 
labour  symbolised  nothing,  and  left  us  mentally 
sluggish  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening.  Intellectual  j 
activity  is  incompatible  with  any  large  amount  of 
bodily  exercise.  The  yeoman  and  the  scholar — 
the  yeoman  and  the  man  of  finest  moral  culture,  ! 
though  not  the  man  of  sturdiest  sense  and  integrity 
— are  two  distinct  individuals,  and  can  never  be  ! 
melted  or  welded  into  one  substance.’  In  quaint  | 
description  and  love  of  odd  localities,  Mr  Hawthorne,  ; 
in  his  short  pieces,  reminds  us  of  Charles  Lamb. 

He  is  a humorist  with  poetical  fancy  and  feeling. 

In  his  romances,  however,  he  puts  forth  greater 
power — a passionate  energy  and  earnestness,  with 
a love  of  the  supernatural,  but  he  never  loses  the 
simplicity  and  beauty  of  his  style. 

MRS  STOWE. 

No  work  of  fiction,  perhaps,  ever  had  so  large  an 
immediate  sale  as  the  American  story  of  Uncle  \ 
Tom's  Cabin , by  Mrs  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

It  first  appeared  in  parts  in  a weekly  journal,  The 
Washington  National  Era , 1850;  and  when  com- 
pleted it  was  published  in  a collected  form,  and  in 
less  than  a year  200,000  copies  are  said  to  have 
been  sold  in  the  United  States.  It  was  soon 
imported  into  this  country,  and  there  being  no 
restraining  law  of  international  copyright,  it  was 
issued  in  every  form  from  the  price  of  a shilling 
upwards.  At  least  half  a million  copies  must  have 
been  sold  in  twelve  months.  So  graphic  and  terrible 
a picture  of  slavery  in  the  Southern  States  of 
America  could  not  fail  to  interest  all  classes ; and 
though  ‘Uncle  Tom’  may  have  been  drawn  too 
saint-like,  and  Legree,  the  slave-owner,  too  dark 
a fiend,  it  is  acknowledged  that  the  characters  and 
incidents  in  the  tale  are  founded  on  facts  and 
authentic  documents.  To  verify  her  statements 
Mrs  Stowe,  in  1853,  published  a Key  to  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin , in  which  she  had  collected  advertisements 
of  the  sale  of  slaves,  letters  from  the  sufferers,  and 
arguments  in  support  of  slavery  from  newspapers. 


novelists.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  mrs  ellis. 


law  reports,  and  even  sermons.  The  law  of 
the  case  is  thus  eloquently  summarised  by  the 
authoress. 


[American  Law  of  Slavery .] 

Slavery,  as  defined  in  American  law,  is  no  more 
capable  of  being  regulated  in  its  administration  by 
principles  of  humanity  than  the  torture  system  of  the 
Inquisition.  Every  act  of  humanity  of  every  individual 
owner  is  an  illogical  result  from  the  legal  definition; 
and  the  reason  why  the  slave  code  of  America  is  more 
atrocious  than  any  ever  before  exhibited  under  the  sun, 
is  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  are  a more  coldly  and 
strictly  logical  race,  and  have  an  unflinching  courage  to 
meet  the  consequences  of  every  premise  which  they 
lay  down,  and  to  work  out  an  accursed  principle,  with 
mathematical  accuracy,  to  its  most  accursed  results. 
The  decisions  in  American  law-books  shew  nothing  so 
much  as  this  severe,  unflinching  accuracy  of  logic.  It 
is  often  and  evidently  not  because  judges  are  inhuman 
or  partial,  but  because  they  are  logical  and  truthful, 
that  they  announce  from  the  bench,  in  the  calmest 
manner,  decisions  which  one  would  think  might  make 
the  earth  shudder,  and  the  sun  turn  pale.  The  French 
and  the  Spanish  nations  are,  by  constitution,  more 
impulsive,  passionate,  and  poetic  than  logical ; hence  it 
will  be  found  that  while  there  may  be  more  instances 
of  individual  barbarity,  as  might  be  expected  among 
impulsive  and  passionate  people,  there  is  in  their  slave 
code  more  exhibition  of  humanity.  The  code  of  the 
state  of  Louisiana  contains  more  really  humane  pro- 
visions, were  there  any  means  of  enforcing  them,  than 
that  of  any  other  state  in  the  Union.  It  is  believed 
that  there  is  no  code  of  laws  in  the  world  which  con- 
tains such  a perfect  cabinet  crystallisation  of  every 
tear  and  every  drop  of  blood  which  can  be  wrung  from 
humanity,  so  accurately,  elegantly,  and  scientifically 
arranged,  as  the  slave  code  of  America.  It  is  a case  of 
elegant  surgical  instruments  for  the  work  of  dissecting 
the  living  human  heart;  every  instrument  wrought 
with  exactest  temper  and  polish,  and  adapted  with 
exquisite  care,  and  labelled  with  the  name  of  the  nerve, 
or  artery,  or  muscle  which  it  is  designed  to  sever.  The 
instruments  of  the  anatomist  are  instruments  of  earthly 
steel  and  wood,  designed  to  operate  at  most  on  perishable 
and  corruptible  matter;  but  these  are  instruments  of 
keener  temper  and  more  ethereal  workmanship,  designed 
in  the  most  precise  and  scientific  manner  to  Destroy 
the  Immortal  Soul,  and  carefully  and  gradually  to 
reduce  man  from  the  hign  position  of  a free  agent,  a 
social,  religious,  accountable  being,  down  to  the  condition 
of  the  brute,  or  of  inanimate  matter. 

Mrs  Stowe  visited  England  in  this  year  (1853), 
and  was  received  with  great  distinction.  In  London 
she  received  an  address  from  the  ladies  of  England, 
presented  to  her  in  Stafford  House — the  residence 
of  the  Duke  of  Sutherland — by  Lord  Shaftesbury. 
She  afterwards  travelled  over  the  country,  and 
from  England  she  proceeded  to  France  and  Switzer- 
land. An  account  of  this  European  tour  was 
published  by  Mrs  Stowe,  under  the  title  of  Sunny 
Memories  of  Foreign  Lands.  There  are  some 
pleasant  passages  of  description  in  this  work,  but 
on  the  whole  it  ig  unworthy  of  the  authoress.  So 
much  tuft-hunting,  vanity,  and  slip-slop  criticism 
could  hardly  have  been  expected  from  one  who  had 
displayed  so  much  mastery  over  the  stronger  feel- 
ings and  passions  of  our  nature,  and  so  much  art 
in  the  construction  of  a story.  Receptions,  break- 
fast-parties,  and  personal  compliments  make  up  a 
large  portion  of  these  Memories , but  here  is  one 
pleasing  extract. 


[English  Trees — Warwick  Castle .] 

When  we  came  fairly  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle, 
a scene  of  magnificent  beauty  opened  before  us.  I 
cannot  describe  it  minutely.  The  principal  features 
are  the  battlements,  towers,  and  turrets  of  the  old 
feudal  castle,  encompassed  by  grounds  on  which  has  been 
expended  all  that  princely  art  of  landscape  gardening 
for  which  England  is  famous — leafy  thickets,  magni- 
ficent trees,  openings,  and  vistas  of  verdure,  and  wide 
sweeps  of  grass,  short,  thick,  and  vividly  green,  as  the 
velvet  moss  we  sometimes  see  growing  on  rocks  in  New 
England.  Grass  is  an  art  and  a science  in  England — 
it  is  an  institution.  The  pains  that  are  taken  in  sowing, 
tending,  cutting,  clipping,  rolling,  and  otherwise  nursing 
and  coaxing  it,  being  seconded  by  the  misty  breath  and 
often  falling  tears  of  the  climate,  produce  results  which 
must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated.  So  again  of  trees  in 
England.  Trees  here  are  an  order  of  nobility ; and  they 
wear  their  crowns  right  kingly.  A few  years  ago  when 
Miss  Sedgwick  was  in  this  country,  while  admiring  some 
splendid  trees  in  a nobleman’s  park,  a lady  standing  by 
said  to  her  encouragingly:  ‘0,  well,  I suppose  your  trees 
in  America  will  be  grown  up  after  awhile  !’  Since  that 
time,  another  style  of  thinking  of  America  has  come  up, 
and  the  remark  that  I most  generally  hear  made  is,  ‘ 0, 

I suppose,  we  cannot  think  of  shewing  you  anything  in 
the  way  of  trees,  coming  as  you  do  from  America!’ 
Throwing  out  of  account,  however,  the  gigantic  growth 
of  our  western  river  bottoms,  where  I have  seen 
sycamore  trunks  twenty  feet  in  diameter — leaving  out 
of  account,  I say,  all  this  mammoth  arboria,  these 
English  parks  have  trees  as  fine  and  as  effective,  of  their 
kind,  as  any  of  ours ; and  when  I say  their  trees  are  an 
order  of  nobility,  I mean  that  they  pay  a reverence  to  them 
such  as  their  magnificence  deserves.  Such  elms  as  adorn 
the  streets  of  New  Haven,  or  overarch  the  meadows  of 
Andover,  would  in  England  be  considered  as  of  a value 
which  no  money  could  represent ; no  pains,  no  expense 
would  be  spared  to  preserve  their  life  and  health ; they 
would  never  be  shot  dead  by  having  gas-pipes  laid  under 
them,  as  they  have  been  in  some  of  our  New  England 
towns ; or  suffered  to  be  devoured  by  canker-worms  for 
want  of  any  amount  of  money  spent  in  their  defence. 
Some  of  the  finest  trees  in  this  place  are  magnificent 
cedars  of  Lebanon,  which  bring  to  mind  the  expression 
in  the  Psalms,  ‘ Excellent  as  the  cedars.’  They  are  the 
very  impersonation  of  kingly  majesty,  and  are  fitted  to 
grace  the  old  feudal  stronghold  of  Warwick  the  king- 
maker. These  trees,  standing  as  they  do  amid  magni- 
ficent sweeps  and  undulations  of  lawn,  throwing  out 
their  mighty  arms  with  such  majestic  breadth  and 
freedom  of  outline,  are  themselves  a living,  growing, 
historical  epic.  Their  seed  was  brought  from  the  Holy 
Land  in  the  old  days  of  the  Crusades : and  a hundred 
legends  might  be  made  up  of  the  time,  date,  and  occasion 
of  their  planting. 

Two  other  novels  founded  on  American  life,  and 
touching  on  the  slavery  question,  have  been  produced 
by  Mrs  Stowe — Dred,  1856 ; and  The  Minister's 
Wooing , 1859.  Before  the  period  of  her  European 
fame  she  had  also  contributed  tales  and  sketches 
to  American  periodicals,  afterwards  collected  and  ! 
published  as  The  May-Flower , and  Two  Ways  of 
Spending  the  Sabbath.  Mrs  Stowe  is  the  daughter 
of  Dr  Lyman  Beecher,  an  able  Congregational 
minister,  and  wife  of  the  Rev.  Calvin  E.  Stowe, 
professor  of  biblical  history  in  the  Lane  Seminary. 
She  was  born  at  Lichfield,  Connecticut,  in  the 
year  1812. 

MRS  ELLIS. 

This  lady  is  the  Hannah  More  of  the  present 
generation.  She  has  written  fifty  or  sixty  volumes, 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


nearly  all  conveying  moral  or  religious  instruction, 
and  all  written  in  a style  calculated  to  render  them 
both  interesting  and  popular.  Her  principal  works 
are — The  Women  of  England \ 1838  ; A Summer  and 
Winter  in  the  Pyrenees , 1841  ; The  Daughters  of 
England,  1842  ; The  Wives  of  England  and  The 
Mothers  of  England,  1843 ; Prevention  Better  than 
Cure,  1847 ; Hints  on  Formation  of  Character , 
1848.  Several  short  tales  and  poems  have  also 
been  published  by  Mrs  Ellis.  This  accomplished 
and  industrious  lady  ( nee  Sarah  Stickney)  was  in 
1837  married  to  the  distinguished  missionary,  the 
Rev.  William  Ellis,  author  of  Polynesian  Researches 
in  the  Society  and  Sandwich  Islands,  four  volumes, 
1832. 


MISS  C.  M.  YONGE— MISS  SEWELL — MISS  JEWSBURY,  ETC. 

A not  less  voluminous  writer  is  Miss  Yonge, 
whose  novel,  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe,  1853,  at  once 
established  her  reputation.  She  had,  however, 
previous  to  this  date  written  several  other  tales 
— Henriettas  Wish,  Venneth,  and  Langley  School, 
1850 ; The  Kings  of  England,  The  Two  Guardians, 
and  Landmarks  of  Ancient  History,  1852  ; &c.  The 
popularity  of  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe  induced  the 
authoress  to  continue  what  may  be  called  the 
regular  novel  style ; and  in  Heart's  Ease,  1854  ; 
Daisy  Chain,  1856 ; and  Dynevor  Terrace,  1857, 
we  have  interesting,  well-constructed  tales.  The 
children’s  books  of  Miss  Yonge  have  also  been 
exceedingly  popular ; and  all  her  works,  like  those 
of  Mrs  Ellis,  have  in  view  the  moral  improvement 
of  the  young,  more  particularly  those  of  her  own 
sex. 

The  tales  of  Miss  Elizabeth  Sewell — Amy 
Herbert,  Gertrude,  Laneton  Parsonage,  Margaret 
Percival,  Katherine  Ashton,  Cleve  Hall,  &c.,  are  also 
well  known,  as  affording  moral  instruction,  blended 
with  delicate,  womanly  pictures  of  life  and  character. 

Miss  Geraldine  Jewsbury  is  more  ambitious 
in  style,  but  not  always  so  successful.  Her  novels 
are — Zoe,  1845 ; The  Half-Sisters , 1848  ; Constance 
Herbert  and  Angelo,  1855 ; Right  or  Wrong,  1859 ; 
&c.  Of  these,  Constance  Herbert  is  the  best,  both 
for  the  interest  of  the  story  and  its  literary  merits. 

A series  of  novels  by  some  unknown  lady — some- 
times we  have  seen  ‘ Miss  Manning  ’ named  as  the 
authoress — was  commenced  in  1851,  with  The 
Maiden  and  Married  Life  of  Mary  Powell,  after- 
wards Mistress  Powell,  an  ideal  representation  of 
Milton’s  first  wife,  written  and  printed  in  the 
antique  style  of  the  period.  This  has  been  followed 
by  The  Household  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  The  Provo- 
cations of  Madame  Palissy,  The  Good  Old  Times,  &c. 

SELINA  BUNBURY. 

Like  several  of  her  contemporaries,  Miss  Bunbury 
has  varied  her  literary  labours,  alternating  truth 
with  fiction — foreign  travel  with  English  novels. 
Her  first  work,  Coombe  Abbey,  a tale,  appeared  in 
1843;  then  Rides  in  the  Pyrenees,  1844;  Anne 
Boleyn,  1845;  Evenings  in  the  Pyrenees , 1848;  Life 
in  Sweden,  1853 ; Summer  in  Northern  Europe,  1856  ; 
Our  Own  Story,  1856 ; Russia  after  the  War,  1857. 
Some  children’s  books  and  occasional  productions 
have  also  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Bunbury. 

MRS  OLIPHANT. 

The  tales  illustrative  of  Scottish  life  by  Mrs 
Oliphant  ( nee  Margaret  Wilson)  have  been  distin- 
guished by  a graceful  simplicity  and  truth.  The 
672 


first  is  in  the  form  of  an  autobiography,  Passages 
in  the  Life  of  Mrs  Margaret  Maitland  of  Sunnyside , 
1849.  The  quiet  pathos  and  domestic  incidents  of 
this  story  are  not  unworthy  of  Galt,  whose  Annals 
of  the  Parish  probably  suggested  to  Mrs  Oliphant 
the  outline  of  her  tale.  In  1851,  Merkland,  a Story 
of  Scottish  Life,  appeared,  and  sustained  the  repu- 
tation of  the  authoress.  There  is  here  a plot  of 
stirring  interest  and  greater  variety  of  characters, 
though  the  female  portraits  are  still  the  best  drawn. 
Adam  Graeme  of  Mossgray,  1852,  presents  another 
series  of  home  pictures,  but  is  inferior  to  its  prede- 
cessors. Harry  Muir,  1853,  aims  at  inculcating 
temperance,  and  is  a powerful,  pathetic  tale.  The 
hero  is  one  of  those  characters  common  in  life,  but 
difficult  to  render  interesting  in  fiction — a good- 
natured,  pleasant  youth,  easily  led  into  evil  as  well 
as  good  courses.  Magdalen  Hepburn , a Story  of  the 
Scottish  Reformation,  1854,  may  be  considered  a 
historical  romance,  as  Knox  and  other  characters 
of  his  age  are  introduced,  and  the  most  striking 
scenes  relate  to  the  progress  of  the  Reformation. 
The  interior  pictures  of  the  authoress  are  still, 
however,  the  most  winning  portion  of  her  works. 
Lilliesleaf  1855,  is  a concluding  series  of  Passages 
in  the  Life  of  Mrs  Margaret  Maitland,  and  the 
authoress  has  had  the  rare  felicity  of  making  the 
second  equal  to  the  first  portion.  Zaidee,  a Romance, 
1856,  is  in  a style  new  to  Mrs  Oliphant.  The 
scene  is  laid  partly  in  Cheshire  and  partly  abroad, 
and  the  heroine,  like  Jane  Eyre,  is  an  orphan,  who 
passes  through  various  trying  scenes  and  adventures 
— nearly  all  interesting,  though  in  many  instances 
highly  improbable.  Two  shorter  tales,  Katie 
Stewart  and  The  Quiet  Heart  have  been  published 
by  Mrs  Oliphant. 

MISS  CATHARINE  SINCLAIR. 

In  the  illustration  of  Scottish  life  this  lady  has 
also  borne  a part.  Her  novels  have  all  enjoyed 
considerable  popularity,  and  her  narratives  of  tours 
in  Scotland  and  Wales  are  pleasant  light  reading. 
The  following  are  among  her  various  productions : 
Modern  Accomplishments,  1836 ; Modern  Society , 
1837 ; Holiday  House , 1839 ; Hill  and  Valley  (a 
Welsh  tour),  Scotland  and  the  Scotch,  Shetland  and 
the  Shetlanders,  1840;  Journey  of  Life , 1847;  Modern 
Flirtations,  and  Beatrice,  1855 ; &c.  Miss  Sinclair 
has  for  several  years  been  a distinguished  member 
of  Edinburgh  society,  active  in  promoting  its 
benevolent  schemes  and  social  improvement.  She 
is  a daughter  of  the  late  Sir  John  Sinclair,  Bart., 
and  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  the  year  1800. 

MRS  MARY  C0WDEN  CLARKE. 

Mrs  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  daughter  of  Mr 
Vincent  Novello,  and  bom  in  1809,  has  written  a 
few  works  of  fiction  and  literary  sketches — Kit 
Bam' s Adventures,  1849;  The  Girlhood  of  Shakspeare's 
Heroines,  1852 ; and  The  Iron  Cousin,  1854.  But 
Mrs  Clarke  has  conferred  a greater  favour  on  the 
public  by  her  Concordance  to  Shakspeare , being  a 
verbal  index  to  the  dramatic  works  of  the  poet — a 
work  long  wanted,  and  very  ably  executed  by  this 
lady. 

CHARLES  READE. 

The  novels  of  Mr  Charles  Reade — Fellow  of 
Magdalene  College,  Oxford,  and  in  1843  called  to 
the  Bar — have  been  among  the  most  popular  of  our 
recent  works  of  fiction.  In  1853  appeared  his  Peg 
Woffington,  a lively,  sparkling  story  of  town-life 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


and  the  theatres  a century  ago,  when  Garrick, 
Quin,  and  Colley  Cibber  were  their  great  names. 
The  heroine,  Peg  Woffington,  was  an  actress, 
remarkable  for  beauty  and  for  her  personation  of 
certain  characters  in  comedy.  Walpole  thought 
her  an  ‘ impudent  Irish-faced  girl,’  but  he  admitted 
that  ‘ all  the  town  was  in  love  with  her.’  Mr 
Reade’s  second  heroine  was  of  a very  different 
stamp.  His  Christie  Johnstone , 1853,  is  a tale  of 
fisher-life  in  Scotland,  the  scene  being  laid  at 
Newbaven  on  the  Forth.  A young  lord,  Viscount 
Ipsden,  is  advised  by  his  physician,  as  a cure  for 
ennui  and  dyspepsia,  to  make  acquaintance  with 
people  of  low  estate,  and  to  learn  their  ways,  their 
minds,  and  their  troubles.  He  sails  in  his  yacht 
to  the  Forth,  accompanied  by  his  valet. 

[Newhaven  Fisherwomen.~\ 

‘ Saunders  ! do  you  know  what  Dr  Aberford  means  by 
the  lower  classes?’  ‘Perfectly,  my  lord.’  ‘Are  there 
any  about  here?’  ‘I  am  sorry  to  say  they  are  every- 
where, my  lord.’  ‘Get  me  some’ — ( cigarette ).  Out 
went  Saunders,  with  his  usual  graceful  empressement , 
but  an  internal  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  He  was  absent 
an  hour  and  a half ; he  then  returned  with  a double 
expression  on  his  face.  Pride  at  his  success  in  diving 
to  the  very  bottom  of  society,  and  contempt  of  what  he 
had  fished  up  thence.  He  approached  his  lord  mysteri- 
ously, and  said,  sotto  voce,  but  impressively  : ‘ This  is  low 
enough,  my  lord.’  Then  glided  back,  and  ushered  in, 
with  polite  disdain,  two  lovelier  women  than  he  had 
ever  opened  a door  to  in  the  whole  course  of  his  perfumed 
existence. 

On  their  heads  they  wore  caps  of  Dutch  or  Flemish 
■origin,  with  a broad  lace  border,  stiffened  and  arched, 
over  the  forehead,  about  three  inches  high,  leaving  the 
brow  and  cheeks  unencumbered.  They  had  cotton 
jackets,  bright  red  and  yellow,  mixed  in  patterns, 
confined  at  the  waist  by  the  apron-strings,  but  bob- 
tailed below  the  waist;  short  woollen  petticoats,  with 
broad  vertical  strip*es,  red  and  white  most  vivid  in 
colour ; white  worsted  stockings,  and  neat  though 
high-quartered  shoes.  Under  their  jackets  they  wore 
a thick  spotted  cotton  handkerchief,  about  one  inch  of 
which  was  visible  round  the  lower  part  of  the  throat. 
Of  their  petticoats,  the  outer  one  was  kilted,  or  gathered 
up  towards  the  front;  and  the  second,  of  the  same 
colour,  hung  in  the  usual  way. 

Of  these  young  women,  one  had  an  olive  complexion, 
with  the  red  blood  mantling  under  it,  and  black  hair, 
and  glorious  black  eyebrows.  The  other  was  fair,  with  a 
massive  but  shapely  throat,  as  white  as  milk;  glossy 
brown  hair,  the  loose  threads  of  which  glittered  like 
gold ; and  a blue  eye,  which,  being  contrasted  with  dark 
eyebrows  and  lashes,  took  the  luminous  effect  peculiar 
to  that  rare  beauty. 

Their  short  petticoats  revealed  a neat  ankle  and  a leg 
with  a noble  swell ; for  nature,  when  she  is  in  earnest, 
builds  beauty  on  the  ideas  of  ancient  sculptors  and  poets, 
not  of  modern  poetasters,  who,  with  their  airy-like  sylphs 
and  their  smoke -like  verses,  fight  for  want  of  flesh  in 
woman  and  want  of  fact  in  poetry  as  parallel  beauties. 
They  are,  my  lads.  Continuez!  These  women  had  a 
grand  corporeal  trait ; they  had  never  known  a corset ! 
so  they  were  strait  as  javelins;  they  could  lift  their 
hands  above  their  heads — actually ! Their  supple  persons 
moved  as  nature  intended ; every  gesture  was  ease, 
grace,  and  freedom.  What  with  their  own  radiance,  and 
the  snowy  cleanliness  and  brightness  of  their  costume, 
they  came  like  meteors  into  the  apartment. 

Lord  Ipsden,  rising  gently  from  his  seat,  with  the 
same  quiet  politeness  with  which  he  would  have  received 
two  princes  of  the  blood,  said,  ‘How  do  you  do?’  and 
smiled  a welcome.  ‘Fine,  hoow’s  yourscl?’  answered 
the  dark  lass,  whose  name  was  Jean  Carnie,  and  whose 
95 


G.  R.  GLEIG — W.  H.  MAXWELL. 


voice  was  not  so  sweet  as  her  face.  ‘ What’n  lord  are 
ye  ?’  continued  she.  ‘Are  ye  a juke?  I wad  like  fine 
to  hae  a crack  wi’  a juke.’  Saunders,  who  knew  himself 
the  cause  of  this  question,  replied,  sotto  voce,  ‘His 
lordship  is  a viscount-.’  ‘I  dinna  ken’t,’  was  Jean’s 
remark ; ‘ but  it  has  a bonny  soond.’  ‘ What  mair  would 
ye  hae  ? ’ said  the  fair  beauty,  whose  name  was  Christie 
Johnstone.  Then  appealing  to  his  lordship  as  the 
likeliest  to  know,  she  added  : ‘Nobeelity  is  just  a soond 
itsel,  I’m  tauld.’  The  viscount  finding  himself  expected 
to  say  something  on  a topic  he  had  not  attended  much 
to,  answered  drily:  ‘We  must  ask  the  republicans,  they 
are  the  people  that  give  their  minds  to  such  subjects.’ 
‘And  yon  man,’  asked  Jean  Carnie,  ‘is  he  a lord,  too?’ 

‘ I am  his  lordship’s  servant,’  replied  Saunders  gravely, 
not  without  a secret  misgiving  whether  fate  had  been 
just.  ‘Na !’  replied  she,  not  to  be  imposed  upon.  ‘Ye 
are  statelier  and  prooder  than  this  ane.’  ‘ I will  explain,’ 
said  his  master.  ‘ Saunders  knows  his  value ; a servant 
like  Saunders  is  rarer  than  an  idle  viscount.’ 

Mr  Reade  is  not  very  happy  with  his  Scotch  dia- 
logue. His  novel,  however,  is  lively  and  amusing. 
In  1856  he  published  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend, 
a Matter  of  Fact  Romance,  the  scene  of  which  is 
partly  laid  in  Australia,  and  which  introduces  us 
to  life  in  the  bush  and  to  a series  of  surprising 
adventures.  The  Course  of  True  Love  never  did  Run 
Smooth,  1857,  was  his  next  publication — a volume 
containing  three  short  tales.  All  the  works  of  Mr 
Reade  are  lively  and  epigrammatic  in  style.  He  is 
a dramatist  as  well  as  a novelist,  and  his  theatrical 
tastes  and  style  are  seen  in  his  tales. 

G.  R.  GLEIG — W.  H.  MAXWELL — JAMES  GRANT. 

Various  military  narratives,  in  which  imaginary 
scenes  and  characters  are  mixed  up  with  real  events 
and  descriptions  of  continental  scenery,  have  been 
written  by  the  above  gentlemen.  The  Rev.  George 
Robert  Gleig  (son  of  Bishop  Gleig  of  Brechin,  and 
born  in  1795)  in  the  early  part  of  his  life  served 
in  the  army,  but  afterwards  entered  the  church, 
and  is  now  chaplain  of  Chelsea  Hospital.  A portion 
of  his  military  experience  is  given  in  his  work,  The 
Subaltern,  1825,  which  gives  an  accurate  and  lively 
account  of  some  of  the  scenes  in  the  Peninsular  war. 
He  has  since  proved  one  of  our  most  voluminous 
writers.  Among  his  works  are,  The  Chelsea  Pension- 
ers, 1829  ; The  Country  Curate,  1834  ; The  Chronicles 
of  Waltham,  1835  ; The  Hussar,  1837 ; Traditions  of 
Chelsea  College,  1838 ; The  Only  Daughter,  1839 ; 
The  Veterans  of  Chelsea  Hospital,  1841 ; The  Light 
Dragoon,  1844;  Story  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo;  &c. 
Mr  Gleig  has  also  written  Lives  of  British  Military 
Commanders,  a History  of  British  India,  a Familiar 
History  of  England,  a Life  of  Sir  Thomas  Munro, 
Memoirs  of  Warren  Hastings,  a Military  History  of 
Great  Britain , an  account  of  Sale’s  Brigade  in 
Afghanistan,  Campaigns  of  the  British  Army  in  Wash- 
ington, a Life  of  Lord  Clive,  three  volumes  of  travels 
in  Germany,  Bohemia,  and  Hungary,  two  volumes 
of  Essays  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Reviews,  several  volumes  of  sermons  and  educational 
treatises,  &c.  Many  of  these  works  of  Mr  Gleig 
bear  traces  of  haste  and  mere  book-making;  the 
Memoirs  of  Hastings  have  been  strongly  condemned 
by  Macaulay ; but,  in  general,  Mr  Gleig  is  an  agree- 
able writer,  clear,  observant,  and  popular  in  style. 

CArTAiN  William  Hamilton  Maxwell,  an  Irish 
officer,  is  author  of  Stories  of  Waterloo,  1829 ; Wild 
Sports  of  the  West ; The  Bivouac ; The  Dark  Lady  of 
Doona;  Adventures  of  Captain  Blake ; The  Fortunes 
of  Hector  O’Halloran;  The  Victories  of  Wellington 
and  the  British  Armies  ; &c. 

673 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859, 


A number  of  military  novels  and  memoirs  of 
eminent  commanders  have  been  written  by  Mr 
James  Graxt  (born  in  Edinburgh  in  1822),  and 
who  served  for  a short  time  in  the  62d  regiment. 
Among  these  are,  The  Romance  of  War,  1846,  to 
which  a sequel  was  added  the  following  year; 
Adventures  of  an  Aide-de-camp,  1848:  Walter  Fenton, 
or  the  Scottish  Cavalier,  1850 ; Bothicell,  1851 ; Jane 
Seton,  1853 ; Philip  Rollo,  1854 ; The  Yellow  Frigate, 
1855 ; The  Phantom  Regiment,  1856.  Memoirs  of 
Sir  John  Hepburn  and  Kirkaldy  of  Grange  have 
been  written  by  Mr  Grant,  and  Memorials  of  Edin- 
burgh Castle.  Familiar  with  Scottish  history,  some  of 
Mr  Grant’s  novels  present  animated  pictures  of  the 
times,  though  often  rambling  and  ill  constructed. 

SAMUEL  PHILLIPS — ANGUS  B.  REACH  — 
ALBERT  SMITH. 

The  author  of  Caleb  Stukeley  and  other  tales,  Mr 
Samuel  Phillips  (1815-1854),  was  for  some  years 
literary  critic  of  the  Times,  and  afterwards  literary 
director  of  the  Crystal  Palace.  The  only  works  to 
which  he  put  his  name  were  certain  guide-books  to 
the  Palace.  Mr  Phillips  was  by  birth  a Jew,  son 
of  a London  tradesman.  In  his  fifteenth  year  he 
appeared  as  an  actor  in  Covent  Garden  Theatre ; 
but  his  friends  placed  him  in  the  London  University, 
and  whilst  there,  he  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Duke  of  Sussex  by  an  essay  on  Milton.  Through 
the  duke’s  assistance  he  was  sent  to  Gottingen 
University.  On  his  return,  he  accepted  the  office 
of  private  secretary  to  Alderman  Salomons,  but  in 
a short  time  exchanged  this  post  for  that  of  private 
tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Marquis  of  Aylesbury. 
A fall  from  his  horse  endangered  his  life,  and  ever 
afterwards  his  health  was  weak  and  precarious. 
His  novel  of  Caleb  Stukeley  appeared  originally  in 
Blackwood’s  Magazine,  and  was  reprinted  in  1843. 
Its  success  led  to  other  contributions  to  Blackwood — 
We  are  all  Low  People  There,  and  other  tales.  He 
occasionally  sent  letters  to  the  Times , and  ultimately 
formed  a regular  engagement  with  the  conductors 
of  that  paper.  His  reviews  of  books  were  vigorous 
and  slashing ; Dickens,  Carlyle,  Mrs  Stowe,  and 
other  popular  writers  were  boldly  assailed  by  the 
anonymous  critic,  and  his  articles  became  the  talk 
of  the  town.  Two  volumes  of  these  literary  essays 
have  since  been  published.  Mr  Phillips  afterwards 
was  connected  with  the  Morning  Herald  and  John 
Bull  newspapers;  and  in  1852  he  joined  the  Crystal 
Palace  Company,  for  whom  he  wrote  the  Shilling 
Hand-look  and  Guide  to  the  Portrait  Gallery.  The 
tales  of  Mr  Phillips  all  bear  the  impress  of  his 
energetic  mind  and  shrewd  caustic  observation. 
With  better  health,  he  would  probably  have  been 
more  genial,  and  have  accomplished  some  complete 
artistic  work. 

As  a first-class  journalist  and  happy  descriptive 
writer,  few  young  men  rose  into  greater  favour 
and  popularity  than  Mr  Axgus  Bethuxe  Beach 
(1821-1856).  He  was  a native  of  Inverness;  but 
before  he  had  reached  his  twentieth  year  he  was  in 
London,  busily  employed  on  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
as  reporter  and  critic,  and,  let  us  add,  honourably 
supporting  his  parents,  on  whom  misfortune  had 
fallen.  Besides  contributing  to  the  magazines,  Air 
Beach  wrote  two  novels — Clement  Lorimer,  one 
volume,  1848 ; and  Leonard  Lindsay,  two  volumes, 
1850.  The  first  is  a tale  of  the  Italian  vendetta; 
the  second,  a spirited  story  of  bucaneering  adven- 
ture. He  wrote  also  a number  of  light  satires, 
dramatic  pieces,  and  sketches  of  social  life — The 
Natural  History  of  Bores  and  Humbugs,  the  Comic 

674 


Bradshaw,  London  on  the  Thames,  The  Man  of  the 
Moon,  &c.  Being  despatched  to  France  as  a com- 
missioner for  the  Morning  Chronicle,  he  enriched  his 
note-book  with  sketches  social,  picturesque,  and 
legendary,  published  with  the  title  of  Claret  and 
Olives,  from  the  Garonne  to  the  Rhone,  1852.  The 
disappointment  he  experienced  in  traversing  what 
is  considered  the  most  poetic  region  of  France  h& 
thus  describes : 

\The  South  of  France .] 

We  entered  Languedoc,  the  most  early  civilised  of  tho 
provinces  which  now  make  up  France — the  land  where 
chivalry  was  first  wedded  to  literature — the  land  whose 
tongue  laid  the  foundations  of  the  greater  part  of 
modem  poetry — the  land  where  the  people  first  rebelled 
against  the  tyranny  of  Borne — the  land  of  the  Menestrals 
and  the  Albigenses.  People  are  apt  to  think  of  this 
favoured  tract  of  Europe  as  a sort  of  terrestrial  paradise 
— one  great  glowing  odorous  garden — where,  in  the  shade 
of  the  orange  and  the  olive  tree,  queens  of  love  and 
beauty  crowned  the  heads  of  wandering  troubadours.  The 
literary  and  historic  associations  have  not  unnaturally 
operated  upon  our  common  notions  of  the  country ; and 
for  the  ‘ South  of  France,’  we  are  very  apt  to  conjure  up 
a brave,  fictitious  landscape.  Yet,  this  country  is  no  Eden. 
It  has  been  admirably  described,  in  a single  phrase,  the 
‘ Austere  South  of  France.’  It  is  austere — grim — sombre. 
It  never  smiles : it  is  scathed  and  parched.  There  is  no 
freshness  or  rurality  in  it.  It  does  not  seem  the  country, 
but  a vast  yard — shadeless,  glaring,  drear,  and  dry.  Let 
us  glance  from  our  elevated  perch  over  the  district  we 
are  traversing.  A vast,  rolling  wilderness  of  clodded 
earth,  browned  and  baked  by  the  sun ; here  and  there 
masses  of  red  rock  heaving  themselves  above  the  soil 
like  protrading  ribs  of  the  earth,  and  a vast  coating  of 
drowthy  dust,  lying  like  snow  upon  the  ground.  To  the 
left,  a long  ridge  of  iron-like  mountains — on  all  sides 
rolling  hills,  stern  and  kneaded,  looking  as  though 
frozen.  On  the  slopes  and  in  the  plain,  endless  rows  of 
scrubby,  ugly  trees,  powdered  with  the  universal  dust, 
and  looking  exactly  like  mopsticks.  Sprawling  and 
straggling  over  the  soil  beneath  them,  jungles  of  bumt- 
up  leafless  bushes,  tangled  and  apparently  neglected. 
The  trees  are  olives  and  mulberries — the  bushes,  vines. 
Glance  again  across  the  country.  It  seems  a solitude. 
Perhaps  one  or  two  distant  figures,  gray  with  dust,  ar& 
labouring  to  break  the  clods  with  wooden  hammers; 
but  that  is  alL  No  cottages — no  farmhouses — no 
hedges — all  one  rolling  sweep  of  iron-like,  bumt-up, 
glaring  land.  In  the  distance  you  may  espy  a village. 
It  looks  like  a fortification — all  blank,  high  stone  walls, 
and  no  windows,  but  mere  loopholes.  A square  church 
tower  gloomily  and  heavily  overtops  the  houses,  or  the 
dungeon  of  an  ancient  fortress  rears  its  massive  pile  of 
mouldering  stone.  Where  have  you  seen  such  a land- 
scape before?  Stem  and  forbidding,  it  has  yet  a 
familiar  look.  These  scrubby,  mop-headed  trees — these 
formal  square  lines  of  huge  edifices — these  banks  and 
braes,  varying  in  hue  from  the  gray  of  the  dust  to  the 
red  of  the  rock — why,  they  are  precisely  the  backgrounds 
of  the  pictures  of  the  renaissance  painters  of  France 
and  Italy. 

With  his  various  tasks  and  incessant  labour, 
the  health  of  the  young  litterateur  gave  way. 
Mental  disease  prostrated  him,  and  for  the  last 
two  years  of  his  life  (closed  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
five)  he  was  helpless.  The  case  of  one  so  young,  so 
brilliant,  so  unselfish,  and  so  full  of  life  and  vivacity 
thus  struck  down,  was  inexpressibly  touching.  One 
eminent  and  generous  man  of  letters — Mr  Thackeray 
— by  special  lectures  and  personal  bounty,  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  comfort  of  the  sufferer ; and 
another — Mr  Shirley  Brooks — undertook,  and  for 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


many  months  cheerfully  fulfilled,  some  of  his  friend’s 
literary  engagements.  The  Literary  Fund  also  lent 
assistance.  It  is  gratifying  to  note  these  instances 
of  sympathy,  but  more  important  to  mark  the 
warning  which  Mr  Reach’s  case  holds  out  to  young 
literary  aspirants  of  the  dangers  of  over-application. 

Mr  Albert  Smith  (born  at  Chertsey  in  1816)  is 
best  known  for  his  illustrated  lectures  or  amusing 
monologues  in  the  Egyptian  Hall,  Piccadilly,  in 
which  he  describes  a visit  to  Constantinople,  the 
ascent  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  a trip  to  China  in  1858-9. 
Of  these  tours  he  has  also  published  accounts.  Mr 
Smith  studied  medicine  both  in  London  and  Paris, 
but  began  early  to  write  for  the  magazines,  and 
threw  off  numerous  tales  and  sketches — as  The 
Adventures  of  Mr  Ledbury , The  Scattergood  Family, 
Christopher  Tadpole , The  Pottleton  Legacy,  several 
dramatic  pieces,  &c.  His  lectures — somewhat  in 
the  style  of  Mathews’s  ‘At  Home,’  but  with  the 
addition  of  very  fine  scenery — have  been  amazingly 
successful:  ‘Mont  Blanc’  was  repeated  above  a 
thousand  times,  and  almost  invariably  to  crowded 
houses. 

G.  H.  LEWES. 

Mr  George  Henry  Lewes,  a writer  certainly 
of  extraordinary  talent  and  variety  of  acquirements, 
but  most  eminent  as  a philosophical  essayist  and 
critic,  has  written  two  novels — Ranthorpe,  1847,  and 
Rose,  Blanche,  and  Violet , 1848.  In  the  former,  he 
traces  the  moral  influence  of  genius  on  its  possessor, 
and  though  there  is  little  artistic  power  evinced  in 
the  plot  of  the  tale,  it  is  a suggestive  and  able  work. 
In  his  second  novel,  which  is  longer  and  much  more 
skilfully  constructed,  Mr  Lewes  aims  chiefly  at  the 
delineation  of  character.  His  three  sisters,  Rose, 
Blanche,  and  Violet,  are  typical  of  different  classes 
of  character — the  gay,  the  gentle,  and  the  decided ; 
and  as  each  of  tl\e  ladies  forms  an  attachment,  we 
have  other  characters  and  contrasts,  with  various 
complicated  incidents  and  love-passages.  The 
author,  however,  is  more  of  a moral  teacher  than  a 
story-teller,  and  he  sets  himself  resolutely  to 
demolish  what  he  considers  popular  fallacies,  and 
to  satirise  the  follies  and  delusions  prevalent  in 
society.  Here  is  one  of  his  ethical  positions. 

[ Superiority  of  the  Moral  over  the  Intellectual  Nature 
of  Man.] 

Strength  of  Will  is  the  quality  most  needing  cultiva- 
tion in  mankind.  Will  is  the  central  force  which  gives 
strength  and  greatness  to  character.  We  overestimate 
the  value  of  Talent,  because  it  dazzles  us ; and  we  are 
apt  to  underrate  the  importance  of  Will,  because  its 
works  are  less  shining.  Talent  gracefully  adorns  life ; 
but  it  is  Will  which  carries  us  victoriously  through  the 
struggle.  Intellect  is  the  torch  which  lights  us  on  our 
way ; Will  the  strong  arm  which  rough-hews  the  path 
for  us.  The  clever,  weak  man  sees  all  the  obstacles  on 
his  path ; the  very  torch  he  carries,  being  brighter  than 
that  of  most  men,  enables  him,  perhaps,  to  see  that  the 
path  before  him  may  be  directest,  the  best — yet  it  also 
enables  him  to  see  the  crooked  turnings  by  which  he 
may,  as  he  fancies,  reach  the  goal  without  encountering 
difficulties.  If,  indeed,  Intellect  w'ere  a sun,  instead  of 
a torch — if  it  irradiated  every  corner  and  crevice — then 
would  man  see  how,  in  spite  of  every  obstacle,  the  direct 
path  was  the  only  safe  one,  and  he  would  cut  his  way 
through  by  manful  labour.  But  constituted  as  we  are, 
it  is  the  clever,  weak  men  who  stumble  most — the 
strong  men  who  are  most  virtuous  and  happy.  In  this 
world,  there  cannot  be  virtue  without  strong  Will;  the 
weak  ‘ know  the  right,  and  yet  the  wrong  pursue.’ 


G.  H.  LEWES. 


No  one,  I suppose,  will  accuse  me  of  deifying 
Obstinacy,  or  even  mere  brute  Will ; nor  of  depreciat- 
ing Intellect.  But  we  have  had  too  many  dithyrambs 
in  honour  of  mere  Intelligence;  and  the  older  I grow, 
the  clearer  I see  that  Intellect  is  not  the  highest  faculty 
in  man,  although  the  most  brilliant.  Knowledge,  after 
all,  is  not  the  greatest  thing  in  life ; it  is  not  the  ‘ be- 
all  and  the  end-all  here.’  Life  is  not  Science.  The 
light  of  Intellect  is  truly  a precious  light;  but  its 
aim  and  end  is  simply  to  shine.  The  moral  nature  of 
man  is  more  sacred  in  my  eyes  than  his  intellectual 
nature.  I know  they  cannot  be  divorced — that  without 
intelligence  we  should  be  brutes — but  it  is  the  tendency 
of  our  gaping,  wondering  dispositions  to  give  pre-eminence 
to  those  faculties  which  most  astonish  us.  Strength  of 
character  seldom,  if  ever,  astonishes;  goodness,  loving- 
ness, and  quiet  self-sacrifice,  are  worth  all  the  talents  in 
the  world. 

And  in  the  following  we  have  a sound,  healthy 
doctrine  which  has  also  received  the  support  of 
Thackeray : 

[Real  Men  of  Genius  resolute  Workers .] 

There  is,  in  the  present  day,  an  overplus  of  raving 
about  genius,  and  its  prescriptive  rights  of  vagabondage, 
its  irresponsibility,  and  its  insubordination  to  all  the 
laws  of  common  sense.  Common  sense  is  so  prosaic ! 
Yet  it  appears  from  the  history  of  art  that  the  real  men 
of  genius  did  not  rave  about  anything  of  the  kind. 
They  were  resolute  workers,  not  idle  dreamers.  They 
knew  that  their  genius  was  not  a frenzy,  not  a super- 
natural thing  at  all,  but  simply  the  colossal  proportions 
of  faculties  which,  in  a lesser  degree,  the  meanest  of 
mankind  shared  with  them.  They  knew  that  whatever 
it  was,  it  would  not  enable  them  to  accomplish  with 
success  the  things  they  undertook,  unless  they  devoted 
their  whole  energies  to  the  task. 

Would  Michael  Angelo  have  built  St  Peter’s,  sculptured 
the  Moses,  and  made  the  walls  of  the  Vatican  sacred 
with  the  presence  of  his  gigantic  pencil,  had  he  awaited 
inspiration  while  his  works  were  in  progress  ? Would 
Rubens  have  dazzled  all  the  galleries  of  Europe,  had  he 
allowed  his  brush  to  hesitate?  would  Beethoven  and 
Mozart  have  poured  out  their  souls  into  such  abundant 
melodies  ? would  Goethe  have  written  the  sixty  volumes 
of  his  works — had  they  not  often,  very  often,  sat  down 
like  drudges  to  an  unwilling  task,  and  found  themselves 
speedily  engrossed  with  that  to  which  they  were  so 
averse  ? 

‘Use  the  pen,’  says  a thoughtful  and  subtle  author, 
‘there  is  no  magic  in  it;  but  it  keeps  the  mind  from 
staggering  about.'  This,  is  an  aphorism  which  should 
be  printed  in  letters  of  gold  over  the  studio  door  of 
every  artist.  Use  the  pen  or  the  brush ; do  not  pause, 
do  not  trifle,  have  no  misgivings ; but  keep  your  mind 
from  staggering  about  by  fixing  it  resolutely  on  the 
matter  before  you,  and  then  all  that  you  can  do  you  will 
do  : inspiration  will  not  enable  you  to  do  more.  Write 
or  paint : act,  do  not  hesitate.  If  what  you  have  written 
or  painted  should  turn  out  imperfect,  you  can  correct  it, 
and  the  correction  will  be  more  efficient  than  that 
correction  which  takes  place  in  the  shifting  thoughts  of 
hesitation.  You  will  learn  from  your  failures  infinitely 
more  than  from  the  vague  wandering  reflections  of  a 
mind  loosened  from  its  moorings ; because  the  failure  is 
absolute,  it  is  precise,  it  stands  bodily  before  you,  your 
eyes  and  judgment  cannot  be  juggled  with,  you  know 
whether  a certain  verse  is  harmonious,  whether  the 
rhyme  is  there  or  not  there;  but  in  the  other  case  you 
not  only  can  juggle  with  yourself,  but  do  so,  the  very 
indeterminateness  of  your  thoughts  makes  you  do  so ; 
as  long  as  the  idea  is  not  positively  clothed  in  its  artistic 
form,  it  is  impossible  accurately  to  say  what  it  will  be. 
The  magic  of  the  pen  lies  in  the  concentration  of  your 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


thoughts  upon  one  object.  Let  your  pen  fall,  begin  to 
trifle  with  blotting-paper,  look  at  the  ceiling,  bite  your 
nails,  and  otherwise  dally  with  your  purpose,  and  you 
waste  your  time,  scatter  your  thoughts,  and  repress  the 
nervous  energy  necessary  for  your  task.  Some  men 
dally  and  dally,  hesitate  and  trifle  until  the  last  possible 
moment,  and  when  the  printer’s  boy  is  knocking  at  the 
door,  they  begin : necessity  goading  them,  they  write 
with  singular  rapidity,  and  with  singular  success ; they 
are  astonished  at  themselves.  What  is  the  secret? 
Simply  this ; they  have  had  no  time  to  hesitate.  Con- 
centrating their  powers  upon  the  one  object  before 
them,  they  have  done  what  they  could  do. 

Impatient  reader ! if  I am  tedious,  forgive  me. 
These  lines  may  meet  the  eyes  of  some  to  whom  they 
are  specially  addressed,  and  may  awaken  thoughts  in 
their  minds  not  unimportant  to  their  future  career. 
Forgive  me,  if  only  because  I have  taken  what  is  called 
the  prosaic  side  ! I have  not  flattered  the  shallow 
sophisms  which  would  give  a gloss  to  idleness  and 
incapacity.  I have  not  availed  myself  of  the  splendid 
tirades,  so  easy  to  write,  about  the  glorious  privileges  of 
genius.  My  ‘preaching’  may  be  very  ineffectual,  but 
at  any  rate  it  advocates  the  honest  dignity  of  labour ; 
let  my  cause  excuse  my  tediousness. 

Mr  Lewes  is  a native  of  London,  born  in  1817. 
He  received  his  education  partly  abroad  and  partly 
from  Dr  Burney  at  Greenwich.  Being  intended 
for  a mercantile  life,  he  was  placed  in  the  office  of  a 
Russian  merchant,  but  soon  abandoned  it  for  the 
medical  profession.  From  this  he  was  driven,  it  is 
said,  by  a feeling  of  horror  at  witnessing  surgical 
■operations,  and  he  took  to  literature  as  a profession. 
His  principal  works  are  a Biographical  History  of 
Philosophy , four  volumes,  1845  ; The  Spanish  Drama, 
Dope  de  Vega  and  Calderon , 1846 ; Life  of  Maxi - 
milieu  Robespierre , 1849  ; Exposition  of  the  Principles 
of  the  Cours  de  Philosophic  positif  of  Auguste  Comte , 
1853  ; The  Life  and  Works  of  Goethe,  two  volumes, 
1855  ; Sea-side  Studies  at  Ilfracombe,  Tenby,  the 
Scilly  Isles,  and  Jersey,  1857  ; the  Physiology  of  Com- 
mon Life ; &c.  Mr  Lewes  has  also  been  an  exten- 
sive contributor  to  the  reviews  and  other  periodicals ; 
and  he  is  said  to  have  edited  for  nearly  five  years 
a weekly  paper,  The  Leader. 

THE  BROTHERS  MATHEW— WILLI  AMS — BROOKS 
— CUPPLES — ETC. 

A clever  serial  production,  The  Greatest  Plague  of 
Life,  being  the  adventures  of  a mistress  in  search 
of  a good  servant,  was  produced  by  Henry  and 
Augustus  Mathew,  brothers,  and  extensive  miscel- 
laneous writers.  From  the  same  copartnery  pro- 
ceeded Whom  to  Marry  and  How  to  get  Married,  The 
Image  of  his  Brother,  and  Paved  with  Gold.  Mr 
Henry  Mayhew  (the  elder  brother,  born  in  London 
in  1812)  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  employed  by  the 
Morning  Chronicle  in  investigations  concerning 
‘ Labour  and  the  Poor,’  and  his  contributions,  pub- 
lished separately  under  the  title  of  London  Labour 
and  the  London  Poor,  1851,  contain  a mass  of 
statistical  and  curious  information.  The  same  gen- 
tleman has  also  written  Word-painting  from  the 
Rhine,  1856;  and  he  was  one  of  the  original  writers 
in  Punch.  A younger  brother,  Horace  Mayhew, 
is  also  one  of  the  Punch  contributors,  and  has  written 
a number  of  light  pieces,  the  most  popular  of  which 
was  Letters  Left  at  the  Pastry-cook’s.  Another 
brother,  Thomas  Mayhew,  commenced  the  Penny 
National  Library,  and  otherwise  distinguished  him- 
self in  the  service  of  cheap  literature ; and  a fifth 
.brother,  Edward  Mayhew,  is  also  connected  with 
676 


periodical  literature,  and  author  of  some  veterinary 
works. 

In  the  department  of  old  English  or  antiquarian 
fiction,  Mr  Folkestone  Williams  has  obtained 
celebrity  by  his  tales  of  Shakspeare  and  his  Friends, 
The  Youth  of  Shakspeare,  Maids  of  Honour,  The 
Luttrels,  &c.  lie  has  also  written  Memoirs  of  Sophia 
Dorothea,  The  Court  of  James  I.,  The  Court  of  Charles 
I.,  &c. 

Among  the  ‘stories  of  our  own  time’  is  Aspen 
Court,  1855,  by  Shirley  Brooks.  This  novel 
displays  knowledge  of  the  world,  as  well  as  origin- 
ality of  thought,  and  the  style  is  easy  and  often 
brilliant.  Mr  Brooks  was  engaged  by  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  Morning  Chronicle  to  investigate  the 
condition  of  the  cultivators  in  the  south  of  Russia, 
Asia  Minor,  and  Egypt,  and  part  of  the  letters 
written  at  that  time  have  been  published  under 
the  title  of  The  Russians  of  the  South.  For  several 
years  Mr  Brooks  has  been  one  of  the  regular 
writers  of  Punch.  He  appears  equally  at  home  in 
verse  and  prose — in  light  airy  satire  and  acute 
suggestive  remark. 

The  Green  Hand,  a sea  story,  by  George 
Cupples  (1856),  relates  the  adventures  of  a naval 
lieutenant,  and  is  full  of  romantic  and  humorous 
incident.  It  has  enjoyed  immense  popularity. 

Mr  J.  C.  Jeafpreson  has  since  1854  produced 
three  novels — Crew  Rise,  Isabel,  and  Miriam  Copley. 
The  best  feature  in  these  works  is  that  they  are  of 
the  real  school — copies  from  nature.  In  the  same 
plain  outspoken  manner  Mr  Jeaffreson  has  written 
Novels  and  Novelists,  from  Elizabeth  to  Victoria , two 
volumes,  1858. 

Alfred  Staunton,  by  J.  Stanyan  Bigg  (1859), 
may  be  distinguished  from  the  countless  throng  of 
new  novels  by  its  possessing  thought  and  literary 
power,  without  skilful  construction  or  regularity. 
The  sketches  of  society  and  scenery  in  Cumberland 
drawn  by  Mr  Bigg,  are  fresh  and  evidently  true  to 
nature.  The  novelist  is  also  a poet : his  Night  and 
the  Soul,  a dramatic  poem,  1854,  is  of  the  style  of 
Bailey’s  Mystic. 

Two  novels  by  Mr  George  Meredith — The 
Shaving  of  Shagpat,  1856,  and  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel , 1859 — possess  originality  and  interest.  The 
first  is  called  ‘an  Arabian  entertainment,’  and  is 
thoroughly  Eastern  in  colouring  and  costume.  The 
second  is  an  English  story,  illustrating  the  folly  and 
misery  of  a perverted,  unnatural  system  of  moral 
training  and  education. 

Colonel  Edward  Bruce  Hamley,  of  the  Royal 
Artillery,  is  author  of  Lady  Lee’s  Widowhood,  a 
novel  originally  published  in  Blackwoods  Magazine , 
and  reprinted  in  a separate  form  in  two  volumes, 
1854.  This  is  a lively,  spirited  story,  and  was 
hailed  as  a remarkable  first  work.  Colonel  Hamley 
also  contributed  to  Blackwood  a narrative  of  the 
war  in  Southern  Russia,  written  in  a tent  in  the 
Crimea,  and  since  published  with  the  title  of  The 
Story  of  the  Campaign,  1855. 

Mr  Francis  E.  Smedley,  an  extensive  miscel- 
laneous writer  in  the  periodicals,  has  published 
two  popular  novels — Frank  Fairlegh,  1850,  and 
Harry  Coverdale’s  Courtship,  1854-5. 

Tom  Brown’s  School-days,  by  an  Old  Boy,  1857, 
gives  an  excellent  account  of  Rugby  School  under 
Dr  Arnold ; also  some  delightful  sketches  of  scenery, 
rural  customs,  and  sports  in  Berkshire.  The  hero, 
Tom  Brown,  is  the  son  of  a Berkshire  squire ; he 
is  genial,  good-humoured,  and  high-spirited ; he 
fights  his  way  nobly  at  Rugby,  and  battles  against 
bullying,  tossing,  and  other  evils  of  our  public 
schools.  The  tone  and  feeling  of  the  volume  are 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  ELIOF. 


admirable,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  see  so  healthy  and 
wise  a book — for  so  it  may  be  termed — in  its  sixth 
edition  within  twelve  months.  The  same  author 
has  still  further  commemorated  his  beloved  Berk- 
shire in  The  Scouring  of  the  White  Horse,  or  the 
Long  Vacation  Ramble  of  a London  Cleric , 1858.  In 
this  work  the  country  games,  traditions,  and  anti- 
quarian associations  of  Berkshire  are  described. 

[The  Browns .] 

The  Browns  have  become  illustrious  by  the  pen  of 
Thackeray  and  the  pencil  of  Boyle,  within  the  memory 
of  the  young  gentlemen  who  are  now  matriculating  at 
the  universities.  Notwithstanding  the  well-merited  but 
late  fame  which  has  now  fallen  upon  them,  any  one  at 
all  acquainted  with  the  family  must  feel  that  much 
has  yet  to  be  written  and  said  before  the  British  nation 
will  be  properly  sensible  of  how  much  of  its  greatness 
it  owes  to  the  Browns.  For  centuries,  in  their  quiet, 
dogged,  home-spun  way,  they  have  been  subduing  the 
earth  in  most  English  counties,  and  leaving  their  mark 
in  American  forests  and  Australian  uplands.  Wherever 
the  fleets  and  armies  of  England  have  won  renown, 
there  stalwart  sons  of  the  Browns  have  done  yeomen’s 
work.  With  the  yew-bow  and  cloth-yard  shaft  at 
Cressy  and  Agincourt — with  the  brown  bill  and  pike 
under  the  brave  Lord  Willoughby — with  culverin  and 
demi-culverin  against  Spaniards  and  Dutchmen — with 
hand-grenade  and  sabre,  and  musket  and  bayonet  under 
Rodney  and  St  Vincent,  Wolfe  and  Moore,  Nelson  and 
Wellington,  they  have  carried  their  lives  in  their 
hands ; getting  hard  knocks  and  hard  work  in  plenty, 
which  was  on  the  whole  what  they  looked  for,  and  the 
best  thing  for  them  : and  little  praise  or  pudding,  which 
indeed  they,  and  most  of  us,  are  better  without.  Talbots 
and  Stanleys,  St  Maurs  and  such-like  folk,  have  led 
armies  and  made  laws  time  out  of  mind;  but  those 
noble  families  would  be  somewhat  astounded — if  the 
accounts  ever  came  to  be  fairly  taken — to  find  how 
small  their  work  for  England  has  been  by  the  side  of 
that  of  the  Browns. 

The  author  of  Tom  Browris  School-days  is  under- 
stood to  be  Thomas  Hughes,  Esq.,  a Chancery 
barrister,  son  of  John  Hughes,  Esq.,  of  Oriel 
College,  Oxford,  author  of  the  Itinerary  of  Provence , 
and  editor  of  the  Boscobel  Tracts.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
pronounced  this  gentleman  ‘ a poet,  a draughtsman, 
and  a scholar.’  The  once  famous  ballad  of  The 
One-horse  Shay,  and  other  political  jeux  d’ esprit s in 
John  Bull,  were  by  the  elder  Mr  Hughes. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Under  this  name,  acknowledged  to  be  fictitious, 
j some  modest  novelist  has  published  Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life,  two  volumes,  1858,  and  Adam  Bede, 
three  volumes,  1859.  The  latter  work  has  had 
remarkable  success,  five  editions  having  been 
exhausted  almost  within  as  many  months.  The 
story  is  of  the  Ileal  school,  as  humble  in  most  of 
its  characters  and  as  faithful  in  its  portraiture  as 
Jane  Eyre.  The  opening  sentences  disclose  the 
worldly  condition  of  the  hero,  and  form  a fine  piece 
of  English  painting.  The  scene  is  the  workshop  of 
a carpenter  in  a village,  and  the  date  of  the  story 
1799. 

[Description  of  Adam  Bede.] 

The  afternoon  sun  was  warm  on  the  five  workmen 
there,  busy  upon  doors  and  window-frames  and  wains- 
cotting.  A scent  of  pine-wood  from  a tent-like  pile  of 
planks  outside  the  open  door  mingled  itself  with  the  scent 
of  the  elder-bushes  which  were  spreading  their  summer 


snow  close  to  the  open  window  opposite ; the  slanting 
sunbeams  shone  through  the  transparent  shavings  that 
flew  before  the  steady  plane,  and  lit  up  the  fine  grain  of 
the  oak  panelling  which  stood  propped  against  the  wall. 
On  a heap  of  those  soft  shavings  a rough  gray  shepherd- 
dog  had  made  himself  a pleasant  bed,  and  was  lying  with 
his  nose  between  his  fore-paws,  occasionally  wrinkling 
his  brows  to  cast  a glance  at  the  tallest  of  the  fiv& 
workmen,  who  was  carving  a shield  in  the  centre  of  a 
wooden  mantel-piece.  It  was  to  this  workman  that  the 
strong  barytone  belonged  which  was  heard  above  the 
sound  of  plane  and  hammer  singing : 

‘ Awake  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run ; 

Shake  off  dull  sloth  ’ . . . 

Here  some  measurement  was  to  be  taken  which  required 
more  concentrated  attention,  and  the  sonorous  voice 
subsided  into  a low  whistle ; but  it  presently  broke  out 
again  with  renewed  vigour : 

‘ Let  all  thy  converse  be  sincere, 

Thy  conscience  as  the  noonday  clear.’ 

Such  a voice  could  only  come  from  a broad  chest,  and 
the  broad  chest  belonged  to  a large-boned  muscular 
man,  nearly  six  feet  high,  with  a back  so  flat  and  a head 
so  well  poised,  that  when  he  drew  himself  up  to  take  a 
more  distant  survey  of  his  work,  he  had  the  air  of  a 
soldier  standing  at  ease.  The  sleeve  rolled  up  above 
the  elbow  shewed  an  arm  that  was  likely  to  win  the 
prize  for  feats  of  strength ; yet  the  long  supple  hand, 
with  its  bony  finger-tips,  looked  ready  for  works  of 
skill.  In  his  tall  stalwartness  Adam  Bede  was  a Saxon, 
and  justified  his  name ; but  the  jet-black  hair,  made  the 
more  noticeable  by  its  contrast  with  the  light  paper-cap, 
and  the  keen  glance  of  the  dark  eyes  that  shone  from, 
under  strongly-marked,  prominent,  and  mobile  eyebrows, 
indicated  a mixture  of  Celtic  blood. 

The  real  heroine  of  the  tale  is  Dinah  Morris,  the 
Methodist  preacher ; but  Adam  Bede’s  love  is  fixed 
on  a rustic  coquette  and  beauty,  thus  finely 
described  as  standing  in  the  dairy  of  the  Hall 
Farm. 

[Hetty  Sorrel. ] 

It  is  of  little  use  for  me  to  tell  you  that  Hetty’s  cheek 
was  like  a rose-petal,  that  dimples  played  about  her 
pouting  lips,  that  her  large  dark  eyes  had  a soft  roguish- 
ness under  their  long  lashes,  and  that  her  curly  hair, 
though  all  pushed  back  under  her  round  cap  while  she 
was  at  work,  stole  back  in  dark  delicate  rings  on  her 
forehead  and  about  her  white  shell-like  ears ; it  is  of 
little  use  for  me  to  say  how  lovely  was  the  contour  of 
her  pink  and  white  neckerchief,  tucked  into  her  low 
plum-coloured  stuff  bodice;  or  how  the  linen  butter- 
making apron,  with  its  bib,  seemed  a thing  to  be 
imitated  in  silk  by  duchesses,  since  it  fell  in  such 
charming  lines ; or  how  her  brown  stockings  and  thick- 
soled  buckled  shoes,  lost  all  that  clumsiness  which  they 
must  certainly  have  had  when  empty  of  her  foot  and 
ankle  ; of  little  use,  unless  you  have  seen  a woman  who 
affected  you  as  Hetty  affected  her  beholders,  for 
otherwise,  though  you  might  conjure  up  the  image  of 
a lovely  woman,  she  would  not  in  the  least  resemble 
that  distracted  kitten-like  maiden.  Hetty’s  was  a 
spring-tide  beauty ; it  was  the  beauty  of  young  frisking 
things,  round-limbed,  gamboling,  circumventing  you  by 
a false  air  of  innocence — the  innocence  of  a young 
star-browed  calf,  for  example,  that,  being  inclined  for 
a promenade  out  of  bounds,  leads  you  a severe  steeple- 
chase over  hedge  and  ditch,  and  only  comes  to  a stand 
in  the  middle  of  a bog. 

Poor  Hetty’s  vanity  and  beauty  lead  her  to  ruin. 
She  agrees  to  marry  Adam  Bede,  but  at  length  goes 
away  to  seek  her  former  lover,  Arthur  Donnithorne, 

677 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


the  gentleman,  and  to  hide  her  shame.  The  account 
of  her  wanderings  and  her  meditated  suicide,  is 
related  with  affecting  minuteness  and  true  pathos. 
Hetty  is  comforted  by  the  gentle  Methodist 
enthusiast,  Dinah  Morris,  who  at  last  becomes  the 
wife  of  Adam  Bede.  The  other  characters  in  the 
novel  are  all  distinct,  well-defined  individuals.  The 
vicar  of  the  parish,  Mr  Irvine,  the  old  bachelor 
schoolmaster,  Bartle  Massey,  and  Mr  and  Mrs 
Poyser  of  the  Hall  Farm,  are  striking,  lifelike 
portraits.  Mrs  Poyser  is  an  original,  rich  in  pro- 
verbial philosophy,  good  sense,  and  amusing  volu- 
bility. The  following  is  a discussion  on  matrimony, 
the  interlocutors  being  the  schoolmaster,  the 
gardener,  and  Mr  and  Mrs  Poyser : 


[. Dialogue  on  Matrimony.'] 

‘What !’  said  Bartle,  with  an  air  of  disgust.  ‘ Was 
there  a woman  concerned  ? Then  I give  yon  up,  Adam/ 
‘But  it’s  a woman  you’n  spoke  well  on,  Bartle,’  said 
Mr  Poyser.  ‘Come,  now,  you  canna  draw  back;  you 
said  once  as  women  wouldna  ha’  been  a bad  invention  if 
they’d  all  been  like  Dinah.’ 

*1  meant  her  voice,  man — I meant  her  voice,  that 
was  all,’  said  Bartle.  ‘I  can  bear  to  hear  her  speak 
without  wanting  to  put  wool  in  my  ears.  As  for  other 
things,  I daresay  she’s  like  the  rest  o’  the  women — 
thinks  two  and  two  ’ll  come  to  make  five,  if  she  cries 
and  bothers  enough  about  it.’ 

‘ Ay,  ay !’  said  Mrs  Poyser ; ‘ one  ’ud  think,  an’  hear 
some  folk  talk,  as  the  men  war  ’cute  enough  to  count 
the  corns  in  a bag  o’  wheat  wi’  only  smelling  at  it. 
They  can  see  thiough  a barn-door,  they  can.  Perhaps 
that's  the  reason  they  can  see  so  little  o’  this  side  on ’t.’ 
Martin  Poyser  shook  with  delighted  laughter,  and 
winked  at  Adam,  as  much  as  to  say  the  schoolmaster 
was  in  for  it  now. 

‘ Ah  ! ’ said  Bartle  sneeringly,  ‘ the  women  are  quick 
enough — they’re  quick  enough.  They  know  the  rights 
of  a story  before  they  hear  it,  and  can  tell  a man  what 
his  thoughts  are  before  he  knows  ’em  himself.’ 

‘ Like  enough,’  said  Mrs  Poyser ; ‘ for  the  men  are 
’ mostly  so  slow,  their  thoughts  overrun  ’em,  an’  they  can 
only  catch  ’em  by  the  tail  I can  count  a stocking-top 
while  a man ’s  getting ’s  tongue  ready ; an’  when  he  out 
wi’  his  speech  at  last,  there ’s  little  broth  to  be  made 
on’t.  It’s  your  dead  chicks  take  the  longest  hatchin’. 
Howiver,  I’m  not  denyin’  the  women  are  foolish  : God 
Almighty  made  ’em  to  match  the  men.’ 

‘Match!’  said  Bartle;  ‘ay,  as  vinegar  matches  one’s 
teeth.  If  a man  says  a word,  his  wife  ’ll  match  it  with 
a contradiction ; if  he ’s  a mind  for  hot  meat,  his  wife’ll 
match  it  with  cold  bacon ; if  he  laughs,  she  '11  match 
him  with  whimpering.  She ’s  such  a match  as  the  horse- 
fly is  to  th’  horse  : she ’s  got  the  right  venom  to  sting 
him  with — the  right  venom  to  sting  him  with.’ 

‘Yes,’  said  Mrs  Poyser,  * I know  what  the  men  like — 
a poor  soft,  as  ’ud  simper  at  ’em  like  the  pictur  o’  the 
sun,  whether  they  did  right  or  wrong,  an’  say  thank  you 
for  a kick,  an’  pretend  she  didna  know  winch  end  she 
stood  uppermost,  till  her  husband  told  her.  That ’s  what 
a man  wants  in  a wife,  mostly : he  wants  to  make  sure 
o’  one  fool  as ’ll  tell  him  he’s  wise.  But  there’s  some 
men  can  do  wi’out  that — they  think  so  much  o’  them- 
selves a’ready — an’  that’s  how  it  is  there’s  old 
bachelors.’ 

‘Come,  Craig,’  said  Mr  Poyser  jocosely,  ‘you  mun 
get  married  pretty  quick,  else  you  ’ll  be  set  down  for  an 
I old  bachelor ; an’  you  see  what  the  women  ’ull  think  on 
you.’ 

‘Well,’  said  Mr  Craig,  willing  to  conciliate  Mrs 
Poyser,  and  setting  a high  value  on  his  own  compli- 
| ments,  ‘ I like  a cleverish  woman — a woman  o’  sperrit — 
i a m ana  ring  woman.’ 


‘You’re  out  there,  Craig,’  said  Bartle  dryly;  ‘you’re 
out  there.  You  judge  o’  your  garden-stuff  on  a better 
plan  than  that ; you  pick  the  things  for  what  they  can 
excel  in — for  what  they  can  excel  in.  You  don’t  value 
your  peas  for  their  roots,  or  your  carrots  for  their  flowers. 
Now  that’s  the  way  you  should  choose  women : their 
| cleverness  ’ll  never  come  to  much — never  come  to  much ; 

| but  they  make  excellent  simpletons,  ripe  and  strong 
I flavoured’ 

‘What  dost  say  to  that?’  said  Mr  Poyser,  throwing 
himself  hack  and  looking  merrily  at  his  wife. 

‘ Say ! ’ answered  Mrs  Poyser,  with  dangerous  fire 
kindling  in  her  eye ; ‘ why,  I say  as  some  folk’s  tongues 
are  like  the  clocks  as  run  on  strikin’,  not  to  tell  you  the 
time  o’  the  day,  but  because  there’s  summat  wrong 
i’  their  own  inside.’ 


[. Family  Likeness.] 

Family  likeness  has  often  a deep  sadness  in  it. 
Nature,  that  great  tragic  dramatist,  knits  us  together 
by  bone  and  muscle,  and  divides  us  by  the  subtler  web 
of  our  brains ; blends  yearning  and  repulsion ; and  ties 
us  by  our  heart-strings  to  the  beings  that  jar  us  at  every 
movement.  We  hear  a voice  with  the  very  cadence  of 
our  own,  uttering  the  thoughts  we  despise ; we  see  eyes 
— ah  ! so  like  our  mother’s — averted  from  us  in  cold 
alienation ; and  our  last  darling  child  startles  us  with 
the  air  and  gestures  of  the  sister  we  parted  from  in 
bitterness  long  years  ago.  The  father,  to  whom  we  owe 
our  best  heritage — the  mechanical  instinct,  the  keen 
sensibility  to  harmony,  the  unconscious  skill  of  the 
modelling  hand — galls  us,  and  puts  us  to  shame  by  his 
daily  errors  ; the  long-lost  mother,  whose  face  we  begin 
to  see  in  the  glass  as  our  own  wrinkles  come,  once 
fretted  our  young  souls  with  her  anxious  humours  and 
irrational  persistence. 


In  closing  these  extracts  from  the  novelists,  we 
may  note  some  results  brought  out  by  Professor 
Masson  in  his  work  on  British  Novelists , 1859. 
Since  the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  annual 
number  of  British  novels  has  been  quadrupled,  as 
compared  with  what  it  was  when  he  was  in  the 
middle  of  his  Waverley  series,  having  risen  from 
twenty-six  a year,  or  a new  novel  every  fortnight, 
to  about  one  hundred  a year,  or  two  new  novels 
nearly  every  week.  In  all,  there  have  been  about 
3000  novels,  making  about  7000  separate  volumes, 
produced  in  these  islands,  since  the  publication  of 
Waverley  in  1814. 


HISTORIAKS. 


SIB  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

At  the  close  of  the  French  revolutionary  war, 
countless  multitudes  were  drawn  from  every  part 
of  Europe  to  Paris  to  witness  the  meeting  of  the 
allied  sovereigns  in  1814.  Among  them  was  ‘one 
young  man  who  had  watched  with  intense  interest 
the  progress  of  the  war  from  his  earliest  years,  and 
who,  having  hurried  from  his  paternal  roof  in  Edin- 
burgh on  the  first  cessation  of  hostilities,  then  con- 
ceived the  first  idea  of  narrating  its  events,  and 
amidst  its  wonders  inhaled  that  ardent  spirit,  that 
deep  enthusiasm  which,  sustaining  him  through 
fifteen  subsequent  years  of  travel  and  study,  and 
fifteen  more  of  composition,  has  at  length  realised 
itself  in  the  present  history/  The  work  thus 
characteristically  referred  to  by  its  author,  Mr, 
now  Sib  Archibald  Alison,  is  The  History  of 
Europe , from  the  Commencement  of  the  French 
Revolution  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons , ten. 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 


volumes,  1839-42,  and  which  has  since,  in  various 
forms,  gone  through  nine  editions.  As  a vast 
storehouse  of  facts  and  details  relating  to  the 
most  important  and  memorable  period  in  modern 
history,  this  work  is  valuable.  The  ardour  and 
enthusiasm  of  the  author  bore  him  bravely  over 
the  wide  and  intricate  fields  he  had  to  traverse.  His 
narrative  is  generally  animated,  and  his  account  of 
battles,  and  sieges,  and  great  civil  events,  related 
with  spirit  and  picturesque  effect.  Having  visited 


most  of  the  localities  described,  many  interesting 
minute  touches  and  graphic  illustrations  have  been 
added  by  the  historian  from  personal  observation, 
or  the  statements  of  eye-witnesses  on  the  spot ; and 
he  appears  to  have  been  diligent  and  conscientious 
in  consulting  written  authorities.  The  defects  of 
the  work  are,  however,  considerable.  The  style  is 
often  careless,  turgid,  and  obscure ; and  the  high 
Tory  prejudices  of  the  author,  with  certain  opinions 
on  the  Currency  question— the  influence  of  which 
he  greatly,  exaggerates — render  him  often  a tedious 
as  well  as  unsafe  guide.  His  moral  reflections  and 
deductions  are  mostly  superfluous,  and  quite  un- 
worthy of  the  author  of  the  narrative  portions  of 
the  history.  In  a few  instances  he  has  been  accused 
by  his  own  Conservative  friends  of  extracting 
military  details  from  questionable  sources,  and 
forming  rash  judgments  on  questions  of  strategy. 
Thus  he  maintains  that  in  the  great  campaign  of 
1815,  Napoleon  ‘surprised,  out-manoeuvred,  and 
out-generaled  ’ both  Wellington  and  Blucher — a 
position  which  does  not  seem  well  supported,  but 
which  at  leafft  evinces  the  historian’s  determination 
to  think  for  himself,  and  not  to  sacrifice  his  convic- 
tions to  party.  In  describing  the  causes  which  led 
to  the  French  Revolution,  he  also  enumerates  fairly 
the  enormous  wrongs  and  oppressions  under  which 
the  people  laboured;  but  with  singular  incon- 
sistency he  adds,  that  the  immediate  source  of  the 
convulsion  was  the  spirit  of  innovation  which  over- 
spread France.  Carlyle  more  correctly  assigns 
famine  as  the  ‘immediate’  cause — the  unprecedented 


scarcity  and  dearness  of  provisions ; but,  of  course, 
a variety  of  other  elements  entered  into  the  for- 
mation of  that  great  convulsion.  Some  of  the 
features  of  the  Revolution  are  well  drawn  by 
Alison.  The  small  number  of  persons  who  perpe- 
trated the  atrocities  in  Paris,  and  the  apathy  of  the 
great  body  of  the  citizens  he  thus  describes : 

[The  French  Revolutionary  Assassins.] 

The  small  number  of  those  who  perpetrated  these 
murders  in  the  French  capital  under  the  eyes  of  the 
legislature,  is  one  of  the  most  instructive  facts  in  the 
history  of  revolutions.  Marat  had  long  before  said,  that 
with  200  assassins  at  a louis  a day,  he  would  govern 
France,  and  cause  300,000  heads  to  fall ; and  the  events 
of  the  2d  September  seemed  to  justify  the  opinion. 
The  number  of  those  actually  engaged  in  the  massacres 
did  not  exceed  300 ; and  twice  as  many  more  witnessed 
and  encouraged  their  proceedings ; yet  this  handful 
of  men  governed  Paris  and  France,  with  a despotism 
which  three  hundred  thousand  armed  warriors  after- 
wards strove  in  vain  to  effect.  The  immense  majority 
of  the  well-disposed  citizens,  divided  in  opinion,  irreso- 
lute in  conduct,  and  dispersed  in  different  quarters, 
were  incapable  of  arresting  a band  of  assassins,  engaged 
in  the  most  atrocious  cruelties  of  which  modern  Europe 
has  yet  afforded  an  example — an  important  warning  to 
the  strenuous  and  the  good  in  every  succeeding  age,  to 
combine  for  defence  the  moment  that  the  aspiring  and 
the  desperate  have  begun  to  agitate  the  public  mind, 
and  never  to  trust  that  mere  smallness  of  numbers  can 
be  relied  on  for  preventing  reckless  ambition  from 
destroying  irresolute  virtue.  It  is  not  less  worthy  of 
observation,  that  these  atrocious  massacres  took  place 
in  the  heart  of  a city  where  above  50,000  men  were 
enrolled  in  the  National  Guard,  and  had  arms  in  their 
hands ; a force  specifically  destined  to  prevent  insurrec- 
tionary movements,  and  support,  under  all  changes, 
the  majesty  of  the  law.  They  were  so  divided  in 
opinion,  and  the  revolutionists  composed  so  large  a 
part  of  their  number,  that  nothing  whatever  was  done 
by  them,  either  on  the  10th  August,  when  the 
king  was  dethroned,  or  the  2d  September,  when  the 
prisoners  were  massacred.  This  puts  in  a forcible 
point  of  view  the  weakness  of  such  a force,  which,  being 
composed  of  citizens,  is  distracted  by  their  feelings,  and 
actuated  by  their  passions.  In  ordinary  times,  it  may 
exhibit  an  imposing  array,  and  be  adequate  to  the 
repression  of  the  smaller  disorders ; but  it  is  paralysed 
by  the  events  which  throw  society  into  convulsions, 
and  generally  fails  at  the  decisive  moment  when  its 
aid  is  most  required. 

Another  specimen  of  the  author’s  style  of 
summary  and  reflection  may  be  given : 

[The  Reign  of  Terror .] 

Thus  terminated  the  Reign  of  Terror,  a period  fraught 
with  greater  political  instruction  than  any  of  equal 
duration  which  has  existed  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  In  no  former  period  had  the  efforts  of  the 
people  so  completely  triumphed,  or  the  higher  orders 
been  so  thoroughly  crushed  by  the  lower.  The  throne 
had  been  overturned,  the  altar  destroyed : the  aris- 
tocracy levelled  with  the  dust,  the  nobles  were  in  exile, 
the  clergy  in  captivity,  the  gentry  in  affliction.  A 
merciless  sword  had  waved  over  the  state,  destroying 
alike  the  dignity  of  rank,  the  splendour  of  talent,  and 
the  graces  of  beauty.  All  that  excelled  the  labouring 
classes  in  situation,  fortune,  or  acquirement,  had  been 
removed ; they  had  triumphed  over  their  oppressors, 
seized  their  possessions,  and  risen  into  their  stations. 
And  what  was  the  consequence?  The  establishment 
of  a more  cruel  and  revolting  tyranny  than  any  which 

/IT  O 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

mankind  had  yet  witnessed ; the  destruction  of  all  the 
charities  and  enjoyments  of  life ; the  dreadful  spectacle 
of  streams  of  blood  flowing  through  every  part  of 
France.  The  earliest  friends,  the  warmest  advocates, 
the  firmest  supporters  of  the  people,  were  swept  off 
indiscriminately  with  their  bitterest  enemies;  in  the 
unequal  struggle,  virtue  and  philanthropy  sunk  under 
ambition  and  violence,  and  society  returned  to  a state 
of  chaos,  when  all  the  elements  of  private  or  public 
happiness  were  scattered  to  the  winds.  Such  are  the 
results  of  unchaining  the  passions  of  the  multitude; 
such  the  peril  of  suddenly  admitting  the  light  upon  a 
benighted  people.  The  extent  to  which  blood  was  shed 
in  France  during  this  melancholy  period,  will  hardly  be 
credited  by  future  ages.  The  Republican  Prudhomme, 
whose  prepossessions  led  him  to  anything  rather  than 
an'  exaggeration  of  the  horrors  of  the  popular  party,  has 
given  the  following  appalling  account  of  the  victims  of 
the  Revolution : 

Nobles, 1,278 

Noble  women,  ....  750 

Wives  of  labourers  and  artisans,  . 1,467 

Religieuses,  ....  350 

Priests, 1,135 

Common  persons,  not  noble,  . 13,623 

Guillotined  by  sentence  of  the  Revo-  } 1Q  10 

lutionary  Tribunal,  . . . | 18j603  18>6t3 

Women  died  of  premature  childbirth,  . 3,400 

In  childbirth  from  grief,  . . . 348 

Women  killed  in  La  Vendee,  . . . 15,000 

Children  killed  in  La  Vendee,  . . 22,000 

Men  slain  in  La  Vendee,  ....  900,000 

Victims  under  Carrier  at  Nantes,  . 32,000 

f Children  shot,  . . . . 500 

Children  drowned,  . . . 1,500 

| 1 Women  shot,  ....  264 

•s  j Women  drowned,  . . , 500 

£ j Priests  shot, 300 

O j Priests  drowned,  . . . 460 

| Nobles  drowned,  ....  1,400 

(Artisans  drowned,  . . . 5,300 

Victims  at  Lyon, 31,000 

Total,  ....  1,022,351 

In  this  enumeration  are  not  comprehended  the  massacres 
at  Versailles,  at  the  Abbey,  the  Cannes,  or  other  prisons 
on  September  2,  the  victims  of  the  Glaciere  of  Avignon, 
those  shot  at  Toulon  and  Marseille,  or  the  persons 
slain  in  the  little  town  of  Bedoin,  of  which  the  whole 
population  perished.  It  is  in  an  especial  manner 
remarkable  in  this  dismal  catalogue,  how  large  a pro- 
portion of  the  victims  of  the  Revolution  were  persons 
in  the  middling  and  lower  ranks  of  life.  The  priests 
and  nobles  guillotined  are  only  2413,  while  the  persons 
of  plebeian  origin  exceed  13,000 ! The  nobles  and 
priests  put  to  death  at  Nantes  were  only  2160 ; while 
the  infants  drowned  and  shot  are  2000,  the  women  764, 
and  the  artisans  5300 ! So  rapidly  in  revolutionary 
convulsions  does  the  career  of  cruelty  reach  the  lower 
orders,  and  so  wide-spread  is  the  carnage  dealt  out  to 
them,  compared  with  that  which  they  have  sought  to 
inflict  on  their  superiors.  The  facility  with  which  a 
faction,  composed  of  a few  of  the  most  audacious  and 
reckless  of  the  nation,  triumphed  over  the  immense 
majority  of  their  fellow-citizens,  and  led  them  forth 
like  victims  to  the  sacrifice,  is  not  the  least  extra- 
ordinary or  memorable  part  of  that  eventful  period. 
The  bloody  faction  at  Paris  never  exceeded  a few 
hundred  men ; their  talents  were  by  no  means  of  the 
highest  order,  nor  their  weight  in  society  considerable ; 
yet  they  trampled  under  foot  all  the  influential  classes, 
ruled  mighty  armies  with  absolute  sway,  kept  200,000 
of  their  fellow- citizens  in  captivity,  and  daily  led  out 
several  hundred  persons,  ofj  the  best  blood  in  France, 
to  execution.  Such  is  the  effect  of  the  unity  of  action 
which  atrocious  wickedness  produces ; such  the  ascend- 
ency which  in  periods  of  anarchy  is  acquired  by  the 
most  savage  and  lawless  of  the  people.  The  peaceable 
and  inoffensive  citizens  lived  and  wept  in  silence ; terror 
680 

crushed  every  attempt  at  combination ; the  extremity 
of  grief  subdued  even  the  firmest  hearts.  In  despair 
at  effecting  any  change  in  the  general  sufferings,  apathy 
universally  prevailed,  the  people  sought  to  bury  their 
I sorrows  in  the  delirium  of  present  enjoyments,  and 
the  theatres  were  never  fuller  than  during  the  whole 
duration  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Ignorance  of  human 
nature  can  alone  lead  us  to  ascribe  this  to  any  pecu- 
liarity in  the  French  character ; the  same  effects  have 
been  observed  in  all  parts  and  ages  of  the  world,  as 
invariably  attending  a state  of  extreme  and  long-con- 
tinued distress.  The  death  of  Hebert  and  the  anarchists 
was  that  of  guilty  depravity;  that  of  Robespierre  and 
the  Decemvirs,  of  sanguinary  fanaticism ; that  of 
Danton  and  his  confederates,  of  stoical  infidelity ; that 
of  Madame  Roland  and  the  Girondists,  of  deluded 
virtue ; that  of  Louis  and  his  family,  of  religious 
forgiveness.  The  moralist  will  contrast  the  different 
effects  of  virtue  and  wickedness  in  the  last  moments 
of  life ; the  Christian  will  mark  with  thankfulness  the 
superiority  in  the  supreme  hour  to  the  sublimest  efforts 
of  human  virtue,  which  was  evinced  by  the  believers  in 
his  own  faith. 

A continuation  has  been  made  to  this  work — The 
History  of  Europe  from  the  Fall  of  Napoleon  in  1815 
to  the  Accession  of  Louis  Napoleon  in  1852,  eight 
volumes,  1852-59.  The  author,  however,  had  not 
exercised  much  care  in  this  compilation.  It  is 
hastily  and  inaccurately  written,  and  is  disfigured 
by  blunders,  omissions,  and  inconsistencies.  Some 
of  the  author’s  opinions  or  crotchets  are  pushed  to 
a ridiculous  extreme,  as  his  delusion  that  most  of 
the  political  changes  of  the  last  thirty  years — the 
abolition  of  the  corn-laws,  Catholic  emancipation,  ; 
and  parliamentary  reform — may  all  be  traced  to  the 
act  of  1826  which  interdicted  the  further  issue  of  j 
£1  and  £2  bank-notes ! The  diffuse  style  of  narra-  j 
tive  which  was  felt  as  a drawback  on  the  earlier  ; 
history,  is  still  more  conspicuous  in  this  continua-  j 
tion — no  doubt  from  want  of  time  and  care  in  the  j 
laborious  work  of  condensation.  The  other  writ-  j 
ings  of  our  author — exclusive  of  pamphlets  on  Free-  j 
trade  and  the  Currency— are  a Life  of  Marlborough , j 
1847  (afterwards  greatly  enlarged  in  the  second  ! 
edition,  1852),  and  Essays , Political,  Historical,  and  j 
Miscellaneous,  three  volumes,  1850.  Sir  Archibald 
is  the  eldest  son  of  the  Rev.  Archibald  Alison,  j 
author  of  the  Essay  on  Taste,  &c.  He  was  born  in  1 
1792,  studied  in  Edinburgh,  and  was  called  to  the  j 
bar  in  1814.  In  1834  he  received  the  legal  appoint-  j 
ment  he  now  holds,  that  of  Sheriff  of  Lanarkshire,  j 
and  was  created  a baronet  in  1852.  Besides  his  i 
historical  works,  Sir  Archibald  has  written  treatises 
on  the  principles  and  practice  of  the  criminal  law 
of  Scotland. 

W.  H.  PRESCOTT. 

The  celebrated  American  historian,  William 
Hickling  Pr£Scott,  was  born  at  Salem,  Massa- 
chusetts, May  4,  1796.  His  father  was  an  emi- 
nent judge  and  lawyer.  While  a student  in  Harvard 
College,  a slight  accident  threatened  to . deprive  the 
future  historian  of  sight,  and  in  the  result  proved  a 
severe  interruption  to  his  studies.  One  of  his  fellow- 
collegians  threw  a crust  of  bread  at  him,  which 
struck  one  of  his  eyes,  and  deprived  it  almost  wholly 
of  sight,  while  the  other  was  sympathetically  affected. 
He  travelled  partly  for  medical  advice,  and  visited 
England,  France,  and  Italy,  remaining  absent  about 
two  years.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  he 
married  and  settled  in  Boston.  His  first  literary 
production  was  an  essay  on  Italian  Narrative  Poetry , 
contributed  in  1824  to  the  North  American  Review , 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


W.  H.  PRESCOTT. 


in  which  work  many  valuable  papers  from  his  pen 
afterwards  appeared.  Devoting  himself  to  the  liter- 
ature and  history  of  Spain,  he  fixed  upon  the  reign  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  commenced  his  history 
of  that  period.  He  had  only,  however,  commenced  his 
task  when  his  eye  gave  way,  and  he  enjoyed  no  use 
of  it  again  for  reading  for  several  years.  His  liter- 
ary enthusiasm,  however,  was  too  strong  to  he  sub- 
dued even  by  this  calamity ; he  engaged  a reader, 
dictated  copious  notes,  and  from  these  notes  con- 
structed his  composition,  making  in  his  mind  those 
corrections  which  are  usually  made  in  the  manu- 
script. Instead  of  dictating  the  work  thus  composed, 
he  used  a writing-case  made  for  the  blind,  which  he 
thus  describes : ‘ It  consists  of  a frame  of  the  size 
of  a piece  of  paper,  traversed  by  brass  wires  as  many 
as  lines  are  wanted  on  the  page,  and  with  a sheet 
of  carbonated  paper,  such  as  is  used  for  getting 
duplicates,  pasted  on  the  reverse  side.  With  an 
ivory  or  agate  stylus  the  writer  traces  his  characters 
between  the  wires  on  the  carbonated  sheet,  making 
indelible  marks  which  he  cannot  see  on  the  white 
page  below.’  In  this  way  the  historian  proceeded 
with  his  task,  finding,  he  says,  his  writing-case  his 
best  friend  in  his  lonely  hours.  The  sight  of  his 
eye  partially  returned,  but  never  sufficiently  to 
enable  him  to  use  it  by  candle-light.  In  1837 
appeared  his  history  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella , in 
three  volumes,  and  the  work  was  eminently  success- 
ful on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  In  1843,  The 
Conquest  of  Mexico,  three  volumes,  and  in  1847,  The 
Conquest  of  Peru,  two  volumes,  still  further  extended 
Mr  Prescott’s  reputation,  and  it  is  calculated  that 
latterly  he  received  from  £4000  to  £5000  a year 
from  the  sale  of  his  writings.  The  successful  his- 
torian now  made  a visit  to  England,  and  was  received 
with  the  utmost  distinction  and  favour,  the  univer- 
sity of  Oxford  conferring  upon  him  the  honorary 
degree  of  LL.D.  In  1854  his  History  of  Philip  II. 
was  ready  for  the  press,  and  he  was  to  receive  £1000 
for  each  volume  of  the  work,  which,  it  was  supposed, 
would  extend  to  six  volumes.  A decision  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  however,  annulled  this  bargain.  It 
was  found  that  no  American,  not  domiciled  in 
England  at  the  time  of  the  publication  of  his  book, 
could  claim  the  benefit  of  our  copyright  law.  ‘If 
Mr  Prescott  had  thought  proper  to  have  resided  in 
England  during,  and  for  a certain  time  before  and 
after  the  publication  of  the  book,  he  might  have 
reaped  the  full  benefit  of  its  great  success  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  But  he  would  not  take  this 
course.  At  a great  pecuniary  sacrifice,  he  preferred 
to  present  the  world  with  one  signal  example  more 
of  the  injustice  to  which  the  writers  of  England 
and  America  are  exposed  by  the  want  of  a reason- 
able system  of  international  copyright — a want  for 
which  the  American  legislature  appears  to  be  wholly 
responsible.’*  Two  volumes  of  Philip  II.  appeared 
in  1855,  and  the  third  volume  in  1858.  In  the  inter- 
val the  author  had  experienced  a shock  of  paralysis, 
and  another  shock  on  the  28th  of  January  1859 
proved  fatal.  When  sitting  alone  in  his  library, 
the  historian  was  struck  down  by  this  sudden 
and  terrible  agent  of  death,  and  in  less  than  two 
hours  he  expired.  Ilis  remains  were  followed  to 
the  grave  by  a vast  concourse  of  citizens  and 
mourners. 

As  an  historian,  Prescott  may  rank  with  Robert- 
son as  a master  of  the  art  of  narrative,  while  he 
excels  him  in  the  variety  and  extent  of  his  illus- 
trative researches.  He  was  happy  in  the  choice  of 

* Memoir  of  Prescott,  by  Mr  Stirling  of  Keir,  M.P.,  in 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 


his  subjects.  The  very  names  of  Castile  and  Aragon, 
Mexico  and  Peru  possess  a romantic  charm,  and  the 
characters  and  scenes  he  depicts  have  the  interest 
and  splendour  of  the  most  gorgeous  fiction.  To 
some  extent  the  American  historian  fell  into  the 
error  of  Robertson  in  palliating  the  enormous 
cruelties  that  marked  the  career  of  the  Spanish 
conquerors ; but  he  is  more  careful  in  citing  his 
authorities,  in  order,  as  he  says,  ‘ to  put  the 
reader  in  a position  for  judging  for  himself,  and  thus 
for  revising,  and,  if  need  be,  for  reversing  the 
judgments  of  the  historian.’ 


[View  of  Mexico  from  the  Summit  of  Ahualco. ] 

Their  progress  was  now  comparatively  easy,  and  they 
marched  forward  with  a buoyant  step,  as  they  felt  they 
were  treading  the  soil  of  Montezuma. 

They  had  not  advanced  far,  when,  turning  an  angle 
of  the  sierra,  they  suddenly  came  on  a view  which 
more  than  compensated  the  toils  of  the  preceding  day. 
It  was  that  of  the  valley  of  Mexico,  or  Tenochtitlan,  as 
more  commonly  called  by  the  natives ; which,  with  its 
picturesque  assemblage  of  water,  woodland,  and  culti- 
vated plains,  its  shining  cities  and  shadowy  hills,  was 
spread  out  like  some  gay  and  gorgeous  panorama  before 
them.  In  the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere  of  these  upper 
regions,  even  remote  objects  have  a brilliancy  of  colour- 
ing and  a distinctness  of  outline  which  seem  to  anni- 
hilate distance.  Stretching  far  away  at  their  feet,  were 
seen  noble  forests  of  oak,  sycamore,  and  cedar,  and 
beyond,  yellow  fields  of  maize,  and  the  towering  maguey, 
intermingled  with  orchards  and  blooming  gardens ; for 
flowers,  in  such  demand  for  their  religious  festivals, 
were  even  more  abundant  in  this  populous  Valley  than 
in  other  parts  of  Anahuac.  In  the  centre  of  the  great 
basin  were  beheld  the  lakes,  occupying  then  a much 
larger  portion  of  its  surface  than  at  present,  their 
borders  thickly  studded  with  towns  and  hamlets ; and 
in  the  midst — like  some  Indian  empress  with  her 
coronal  of  pearls — the  fair  city  of  Mexico,  with  her 
white  towers  and  pyramidal  temples,  reposing,  as  it 
were,  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters — the  far-famed 
‘Venice  of  the  Aztecs.’  High  over  all  rose  the  royal 
hill  of  Chapoltepee,  the  residence  of  the  Mexican 
monarchs,  crowned  with  the  same  grove  of  gigantic 
cypresses  which  at  this  day  fling  their  broad  shadows 
over  the  land.  In  the  distance,  beyond  the  blue  waters 
of  the  lake,  and  nearly  screened  by  intervening  foliage, 
was  seen  a shining  speck,  the  rival  capital  of  Tezcuco;. 
and  still  further  on,  the  dark  belt  of  porphyry,  girdling 
the  valley  around,  like  a rich  setting  which  nature  had 
devised  for  the  fairest  of  her  jewels.  Such  was  the 
beautiful  vision  which  broke  on  the  eyes  of  the  con- 
querors. And  even  now,  when  so  sacl  a change  has 
come  over  the  scene;  when  the  stately  forests  have 
been  laid  low,  and  the  soil,  unsheltered  from  the  fierce 
radiance  of  a tropical  sun,  is  in  many  places  abandoned 
to  sterility;  when  the  waters  have  retired,  leaving  a 
broad  and  ghastly  margin  white  with  the  incrustation 
of  salts,  while  the  cities  and  hamlets  on  their  borders 
have  mouldered  into  ruins : even  now  that  desolation 
broods  over  the  landscape,  so  indestructible  are  the 
lines  of  beauty  which  nature  has  traced  on  its  features, 
that  no  traveller,  however  cold,  can  gaze  on  them  with 
any  other  emotions  than  those  of  astonishment  and 
rapture. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  the  emotions  of  the 
Spaniards,  when,  after  working  their  toilsome  way  into 
the  upper  air,  the  cloudy  tabernacle  parted  before  their 
eyes,  and  they  beheld  these  fair  scenes  in  all  their 
pristine  magnificence  and  beauty ! It  was  like  the 
spectacle  which  greeted  the  eyes  of  Moses  from  the 
summit  of  Pisgah,  and  in  the  warm  glow  of  their 
feelings  they  cried  out : ‘ It  is  the  promised  land  ! ’ 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


[Storming  the  Temple  of  Mexico .] 

Cortes,  having  cleared  a way  for  the  assault,  sprang 
np  the  lower  stairway,  followed  by  Alvarado,  Sandoval, 
Ordaz,  and  the  other  gallant  cavaliers  of  his  little  band, 
leaving  a file  of  arqnebnsiers  and  a strong  corps  of 
Indian  allies  to  hold  the  enemy  'in  check  at  the  foot 
of  the  monument.  On  the  first  landing,  as  well  as  on 
the  several  galleries  above,  and  on  the  summit,  the 
Aztec  warriors  were  drawn  np  to  dispute  his  passage. 
From  their  elevated  position  they  showered  down 
volleys  of  lighter  missiles,  together  with  heavy  stones, 
beams,  and  burning  rafters,  which,  thundering  along 
the  stairway,  overturned  the  ascending  Spaniards,  and 
carried  desolation  through  their  ranks.  The  more 
fortunate,  eluding  or  springing  over  these  obstacles, 
succeeded  in  gaining  the  first  terrace,  where,  throwing 
themselves  on  their  enemies,  they  compelled  them, 
after  a short  resistance,  to  fall  back.  The  assailants 
pressed  on,  effectually  supported  by  a brisk  fire  of  the 
musketeers  from  below,  which  so  much  galled  the 
Mexicans  in  their  exposed  situation  that  they  were  glad 
to  take  shelter  on  the  broad  summit  of  the  teocalli 

Cortes  and  his  comrades  were  close  upon  their  rear, 
and  the  two  parties  soon  found  themselves  face  to  face 
on  this  aerial  battle-field,  engaged  in  mortal  combat  in 
presence  of  the  whole  city,  as  well  as  of  the  troops  in 
the  courtyard,  who  paused,  as  if  by  mutual  consent, 
from  their  own  hostilities,  gazing  in  silent  expectation 
on  the  issue  of  those  above.  The  area,  though  somewhat 
smaller  than  the  base  of  the  teocalli,  was  large  enough  to 
afford  a fair  field  of  fight  for  a thousand  combatants. 
It  was  paved  with  broad  flat  stones.  No  impediment 
occurred  over  its  surface,  except  the  huge  sacrificial 
block,  and  the  temples  of  stone  which  rose  to  the  height 
of  forty  feet,  at  the  further  extremity  of  the  arena. 
One  of  these  had  been  consecrated  to  the  cross;  the 
other  was  still  occupied  by  the  Mexican  war-god.  The 
Christian  and  the  Aztec  contended  for  their  religions 
under  the  very  shadow  of  their  respective  shrines ; while 
the  Indian  priests,  running  to  and  fro,  with  their  hair 
wildly  streaming  over  their  sable  mantles,  seemed 
hovering  in  mid-air,  like  so  many  demons  of  darkness 
urging  on  the  work  of  slaughter. 

The  parties  closed  with  the  desperate  fury  of  men 
who  had  no  hope  but  in  victory.  Quarter  was  neither 
asked  nor  given ; and  to  fly  was  impossible.  The  edge 
of  the  area  was  unprotected  by  parapet  or  battlement. 
The  least  slip  would  be  fatal ; and  the  combatants,  as 
they  struggled  in  mortal  agony,  were  sometimes  seen  to 
roll  over  the  sheer  sides  of  the  precipice  together. 
Cortes  himself  is  said  to  have  had  a narrow  escape 
from  this  dreadful  fate.  Two  warriors,  of  strong  mus- 
cular frames,  seized  on  him,  and  were  dragging  him 
violently  towards  the  brink  of  the  pyramid.  Aware  of 
their  intention,  he  struggled  with  all  his  force,  and, 
before  they  could  accomplish  their  purpose,  succeeded 
in  tearing  himself  from  their  grasp,  and  hurling  one 
of  them  over  the  walls  with  his  own  arm.  The  story 
is  not  improbable  in  itself,  for  Cort6s  was  a man  of 
uncommon  agility  and  strength.  It  has  been  often 
repeated ; but  not  by  contemporary  history. 

The  battle  lasted  with  unintermitting  fury  for  three 
hours.  The  number  of  the  enemy  was  double  that  of 
the  Christians ; and  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  a contest 
which  must  be  determined  by  numbers  and  brute  force, 
rather  than  by  superior  science.  But  it  was  not  so. 
The  invulnerable  armour  of  the  Spaniard,  his  sword  of 
matchless  temper,  and  his  skill  in  the  use  of  it,  gave 
him  advantages  which  far  outweighed  the  odds  of 
physical  strength  and  numbers.  After  doing  all  that 
the  courage  of  despair  could  enable  men  to  do,  resist- 
ance grew  fainter  and  fainter  on  the  side  of  the  Aztecs. 
One  after  another  they  had  fallen.  Two  or  three 
priests  only  survived  to  be  led  away  in  triumph  by 
the  victors.  Every  other  combatant  was  stretched  a 


corpse  on  the  bloody  arena,  or  had  been  hurled  from 
the  giddy  heights.  Yet  the  loss  of  the  Spaniards  was 
not  inconsiderable:  it  amounted  to  forty-five  of  their 
best  men ; and  nearly  all  the  remainder  were  more  or 
less  injured  in  the  desperate  conflict. 

The  victorious  cavaliers  now  rushed  towards  the 
sanctuaries.  The  lower  story  was  of  stone,  the  two 
upper  were  of  wood.  Penetrating  into  their  recesses, 
they  had  the  mortification  to  find  the  image  of  the 
Virgin  and  Cross  removed.  But  in  the  other  edifice 
they  still  beheld  the  grim  figure  of  Huitzilopotchli,  with 
his  censer  of  smoking  hearts,  and  the  walls  of  his 
oratory  reeking  with  gore — not  improbably  of  their 
own  countrymen.  With  shouts  of  triumph  the 
Christians  tore  the  uncouth  monster  from  his  niche, 
and  tumbled  him,  in  the  presence  of  the  horror-struck 
Aztecs,  down  the  steps  of  the  teocalli  They  then  set 
fire  to  the  accursed  building.  The  flame  speedily  ran 
up  the  slender  towers,  sending  forth  an  ominous  light 
over  city,  lake,  and  valley,  to  the  remotest  hut  among 
the  mountains.  It  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  paganism, 
and  proclaimed  the  fall  of  that  sanguinary  religion 
which  had  so  long*  hung  like  a dark  cloud  over  the 
fair  regions  of  Anahuac. 

[Fatal  Visit  of  the  Inca  to  Pizarro  and  his  Followers 
in  the  City  of  Caxamalca .] 

It  was  not  long  before  sunset  when  the  van  of  the 
royal  procession  entered  the  gates  of  the  city.  First 
came  some  hundreds  of  the  menials,  employed  to  clear 
the  path  from  every  obstacle,  and  singing  songs  of 
triumph  as  they  came,  ‘ which  in  our  ears,’  says  one  of 
the  conquerors,  ‘ sounded  like  the  songs  of  hell !’  Then 
followed  other  bodies  of  different  ranks,  and  dressed  in 
different  liveries.  Some  wore  a showy  stuffj  checkered 
white  and  red,  like  the  squares  of  a chess-board ; others 
were  clad  in  pure  white,  bearing  hammers  or  maces  of 
silver  or  copper  j and  the  guards,  together  with  those 
in  immediate  attendance  on  the  prince,  were  distin- 
guished by  a rich  azure  livery,  and  a profusion  of  gay 
ornaments,  while  the  large  pendents  attached  to  the 
ears  indicated  the  Peruvian  noble. 

Elevated  high  above  his  vassals  came  the  Inca 
Atahuallpa,  borne  on  a sedan  or  open  litter,  on  which 
was  a sort  of  throne  made  of  massive  gold  of  inesti- 
mable value.  The  palanquin  was  lined  with  the  richly 
coloured  plumes  of  tropical  birds,  and  studded  with 
shining  plates  of  gold  and  silver.  Bound  his  neck  was 
suspended  a collar  of  emeralds,  of  uncommon  size  and 
brilliancy.  His  short  hair  was  decorated  with  golden 
ornaments,  and  the  imperial  borla  encircled  his  temples. 
The  bearing  of  the  Inca  was  sedate  and  dignified  ; and 
from  his  lofty  station  he  looked  down  on  the  multitudes 
below  with  an  air  of  composure,  like  one  accustomed  to 
command. 

As  the  leading  files  of  the  procession  entered  the  great 
square,  larger,  says  an  old  chronicler,  than  any  square 
in  Spain,  they  opened  to  the  right  and  left  for  the  royal 
retinue  to  pass.  Everything  was  conducted  with  admir- 
able order.  The  monarch  was  permitted  to  traverse  the 
plaza  in  silence,  and  not  a Spaniard  was  to  be  seen. 
When  some  five  or  six  thousand  of  his  people  had 
entered  the  place,  Atahuallpa  halted,  and,  turning  round 
with  an  inquiring  look,  demanded,  ‘Where  are  the 
strangers?’ 

At  this  moment  Fray  Vicente  de  Valverde,  a Domini- 
can friar,  Pizarro’ s chaplain,  and  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Cuzco,  came  forward  with  his  breviary,  or,  as  other 
accounts  say,  a Bible  in  one  hand,  and  a crucifix  in  the 
other,  and,  approaching  the  Inca,  told  him  that  he  came 
by  order  of  his  commander  to  expound  to  him  thp 
doctrines  of  the  true  faith,  for  which  purpose  the 
Spaniards  had  come  from  a great  distance  to  his  country. 
The  friar  then  explained,  as  clearly  as  he  could,  the  I 
mysterious  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  and,  ascending  high 


historians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  w.  h.  prescott. 


in  his  account,  began  with  the  creation  of  man,  thence 
passed  to  his  fall,  to  his  subsequent  redemption  by 
Jesus  Christ,  to  the  crucifixion,  and  the  ascension,  when 
the  Saviour  left  the  apostle  Peter  as  his  vicegerent 
upon  earth.  This  power  had  been  transmitted  to  the 
successors  of  the  apostle,  good  and  wise  men,  who,  under 
the  title  of  Popes,  held  authority  over  all  powers  and 
potentates  on  earth.  One  of  the  last  of  these  Popes  had 
commissioned  the  Spanish  emperor,  the  most  mighty 
monarch  in  the  world,  to  conquer  and  convert  the 
natives  in  this  western  hemisphere ; and  his  general, 
Francisco  Pizarro,  had  now  come  to  execute  this  import- 
ant mission.  The  friar  concluded  with  beseeching  the 
Peruvian  monarch  to  receive  him  kindly ; to  abjure  the 
errors  of  his  own  faith,  and  embrace  that  of  the  Chris- 
tians now  proffered  to  him,  the  only  one  by  which  he 
could  hope  for  salvation ; and,  furthermore,  to  acknow- 
ledge himself  a tributary  of  the  Emperor  Charles  the 
Fifth,  who,  in  that  event,  would  aid  and  protect  him  as 
I his  loyal  vassal. 

Whether  Atahuallpa  possessed  himself  of  every  link 
j in-  the  curious  chain  of  argument  by  which  the  monk 
j connected  Pizarro  with  St  Peter,  may  be  doubted.  It  is 
I certain,  however,  that  he  must  have  had  very  incorrect 
j notions  of  the  Trinity,  if,  as  Garcilasso  states,  the 
! interpreter  Felipillo  explained  it  by  saying,  that  ‘the 
j Christians  believed  in  three  Gods  and  one  God,  and 
j that  made  four.’  But  there  is  no  doubt  he  perfectly 
j comprehended  that  the  drift  of  the  discourse  was  to 
I persuade  him  to  resign  his  sceptre  and  acknowledge 
j the  supremacy  of  another. 

The  eyes  of  the  Indian  monarch  flashed  fire,  and  his 
I dark  brow  grew  darker,  as  he  replied : ‘ I will  be  no 
! man’s  tributary!  I am  greater  than  any  prince  upon 
j earth.  Your  emperor  may  be  a great  prince ; I do  not 
i doubt  it,  when  I see  that  he  has  sent  his  subjects  so  far 
I across  the  waters ; and  I am  willing  to  hold  him  as  a 
i brother.  As  for  the  Pope  of  whom  you  speak,  he  must 
be  crazy  to  talk  of  giving  away  countries  which  do  not 
belong  to  him.  For  my  faith,’  he  continued,  ‘ I will 
not  change  it.  Your  own  God,  as  you  say,  was  put  to 
death  by  the  very  men  whom  he  created.  But  mine,’ 
he  concluded,  pointing  to  his  deity — then,  alas  ! sinking 
in  glory  behind  the  mountains — ‘ my  god  still  lives  in 
the  heavens,  and  looks  down  on  his  children.’ 

He  then  demanded  of  Valverde  by  what  authority  he 
had  said  these  things.  The  friar  pointed  to  the  book 
which  he  held  as  his  authority.  Atahuallpa,  taking  it, 
j turned  over  the  pages  a moment,  then,  as  the  insult  he 
had  received  probably  flashed  across  his  mind,  he  threw 
| it  down  with  vehemence,  and  exclaimed : ‘ Tell  your 
I comrades  that  they  shall  give  me  an  account  of  their 
! doings  in  my  land.  I will  not  go  from  here  till  they 
have  made  me  full  satisfaction  for  all  the  wrongs  they 
have  committed.’ 

The  friar,  greatly  scandalised  by  the  indignity  offered 
to  the  sacred  volume,  stayed  only  to  pick  it  up,  and 
hastening  to  Pizarro,  informed  him  of  what  had  been 
done,  exclaiming  at  the  same  time : ‘ Do  you  not  see 
I that  while  we  stand  h^re  wasting  our  breath  in  talking 
j with  this  dog,  full  of  pride  as  he  is,  the  fields  are  filling 
I with  Indians  ? Set  on  at  once ; I absolve  you.’  Pizarro 
saw  that  the  hour  had  come.  He  waved  a white  scarf 
in  the  air,  the  appointed  signal.  The  fatal  gun  was 
fired  from  the  fortress.  Then  springing  into  the  square, 
the  Spanish  captain  and  his  followers  shouted  the  old 
war-cry  of  ‘ St  Jago  and  at  them  !’  It  was  answered  by 
the  battle-cry  of  every  Spaniard  in  the  city,  as,  rushing 
from  the  avenues  of  the  great  halls  in  which  they  were 
concealed,  they  poured  into  the  plaza,  horse  and  foot, 
each  in  his  own  dark  column,  and  threw  themselves  into 
the  midst  of  the  Indian  crowd.  The  latter,  taken  by 
surprise,  stunned  by  the  report  of  artillery  and  muskets, 
the  echoes  of  which  reverberated  like  thunder  from  the 
surrounding  buildings,  and  blinded  by  the  smoke  which 
rolled  in  sulphureous  volumes  along  the  square,  were 


seized  with  a panic.  They  knew  not  whither  to  fly  for 
refuge  from  the  coming  ruin.  Nobles  and  commoners — 
all  were  trampled  down  under  the  fierce  charge  of  the 
cavalry,  who  dealt  their  blows  right  and  left,  without 
sparing;  while  their  swords,  flashing  through  the  thick 
gloom,  carried  dismay  into  the  hearts  of  the  wretched 
natives,  who  now,  for  the  first  time,  saw  the  horse  and 
his  rider  in  all  their  terrors.  They  made  no  resistance 
— as,  indeed,  they  had  no  weapons  with  which  to  make 
it.  Every  avenue  to  escape  was  closed,  for  the  entrance 
to  the  square  was  choked  up  with  the  dead  bodies  of 
men  who  had  perished  in  vain  efforts  to  fly ; and  such 
was  the  agony  of  the  survivors  under  the  terrible 
pressure  of  their  assailants,  that  a large  body  of  Indians, 
by  their  convulsive  struggles,  burst  through  the  wall  of 
stone  and  dried  clay  which  formed  part  of  the  boundary 
of  the  plaza  ! It  fell,  leaving  an  opening  of  more  than 
a hundred  paces,  through  which  multitudes  now  found 
their  way  into  the  country,  still  hotly  pursued  by  the 
cavalry,  who,  leaping  the  fallen  rubbish,  hung  on  the 
rear  of  the  fugitives,  striking  them  down  in  all 
directions. 

Meanwhile  the  fight,  or  rather  massacre,  continued 
hot  around  the  Inca,  whose  person  was  the  great  object 
of  the  assault.  His  faithful  nobles,  rallying  about  him, 
threw  themselves  in  the  way  of  the  assailants,  and 
strove,  by  tearing  them  from  their  saddles,  or,  at  least,  by 
offering  their  own  bosoms  as  a mark  for  their  vengeance, 
to  shield  their  beloved  master.  It  is  said  by  some 
authorities  that  they  carried  weapons  concealed  under 
their  clothes.  If  so,  it  availed  them  little,  as  it  is  not 
pretended  that  they  used  them.  But  the  most  timid 
animal  will  defend  itself  when  at  bay.  That  they  did 
not  so  in  the  present  instance,  is  proof  that  they  had 
no  weapons  to  use.  Yet  they  still  continued  to  force 
back  the  cavaliers,  clinging  to  their  horses  with  dying 
grasp,  and,  as  one  was  cut  down,  another  taking  the 
place  of  his  fallen  comrade  with  a loyalty  truly  affecting. 

The  Indian  monarch,  stunned  and  bewildered,  saw 
his  faithful  subjects  falling  round  him  without  hardly 
comprehending  his  situation.  The  litter  on  which  he 
rode  heaved  to  and  fro,  as  the  mighty  press  swayed 
backwards  and  forwards;  and  he  gazed  on  the  over- 
whelming ruin,  like  some  forlorn  mariner,  who,  tossed 
about  in  his  bark  by  the  furious  elements,  sees  the 
lightning’s  flash  and  hears  the  thunder  bursting  around 
him,  with  the  consciousness  that  he  can  do  nothing  to 
avert  his  fate.  At  length,  weary  with  the  work  of 
destruction,  the  Spaniards,  as  the  shades  of  evening 
grew  deeper,  felt  afraid  that  the  royal  prize  might, 
after  all,  elude  them ; and  some  of  the  cavaliers  made 
a desperate  attempt  to  end  the  affray  at  once  by  taking 
Atahuallpa’s  life.  But  Pizarro,  who  was  nearest  his 
person,  called  out  with  stentorian  voice : * Let  no  one, 
who  values  his  life,  strike  at  the  Inca ; ’ and,  stretching 
out  his  arm  to  shield  him,  received  a wound  on  the 
hand  from  one  of  his  own  men — the  only  wound 
received  by  a Spaniard  in  the  action. 

The  struggle  now  became  fiercer  than  ever  round  the 
royal  litter.  It  reeled  more  and  more,  and  at  length 
several  of  the  nobles  who  supported  it  having  been 
slain,  it  was  overturned,  and  the  Indian  prince  would 
have  come  with  violence  to  the  ground,  had  not  his 
fall  been  broken  by  the  efforts  of  Pizarro  and  some 
other  of  the  cavaliers,  who  caught  him  in  their  arms. 
The  imperial  borla  was  instantly  snatched  from  his 
temples  by  a soldier  named  Estete,  and  the  unhappy 
monarch,  strongly  secured,  was  removed  to  a neigh- 
bouring building,  where  he  was  carefully  guarded. 

All  attempt  at  resistance  now  ceased.  The  fate  of 
the  Inca  soon  spread  over  town  and  country.  The 
charm  which  might  have  held  the  Peruvians  together 
was  dissolved.  Every  man  thought  only  of  his  own 
safety.  Even  the  soldiery  encamped  on  the  adjacent 
fields  took  the  alarm,  and,  learning  the  fatal  tidings, 
were  seen  flying  in  every  direction  before  their  pursuers, 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


■who  in  the  heat  of  triumph  shewed  no  touch  of  mercy. 
At  length  night,  more  pitiful  than  man,  threw  her 
friendly  mantle  over  the  fugitives,  and  the  scattered 
troops  of  Pizarro  rallied  once  more  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  in  the  bloody  square  of  Caxamalca. 

Another  proof  of  what  Mr  Lockhart  called  c the 
creditable  desire  felt  by  one  great  section,  at  least 
of  America,  to  discharge  the  debt  due  to  Spain, 
her  first  discoverer,’  is  afforded  by  Mb  Tickxor’s 
History  of  Spanish  Literature , three  volumes,  1849. 
Mr  Ticknor  is  professor  of  modern  literature  in 
Harvard  College.  He  states  that  he  devoted  more 
than  thirty  years  to  his  history. 

LORD  MACAULAY. 

The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  were  published,  as 
already  stated,  in  1842.  In  the  following  year, 
Lord  Macaulay  published  a selection  of  Critical  and 
Historical  Essays , contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Review , 
which  are  still  unrivalled  among  productions  of  this 
kind.  The  reading  and  knowledge  of  the  essayist 
are  immense.  In  questions  of  classical  learning 
and  criticism — in  English  poetry,  philosophy,  and 
history — in  all  the  minutiae  of  biography  and  literary 
anecdote — in  the  principles  and  details  of  govern- 
ment—in  the  revolutions  of  parties  and  opinions — 
in  all.  these  he  seems  equally  versant  and  equally 
felicitous  as  a critic.  Perhaps  he  is  most  striking 
and  original  in  his  historical  articles,  which  present 
pictures  of  the  times  of  which  he  treats,  with 
portraits  of  the  principal  actors,  and  illustrations 
drawn  from  contemporary  events  and  characters  in 
other  countries.  His  reviews  of  Hallam’s  Consti- 
tutional History,  and  the  Memoirs  of  Burleigh, 
Hampden,  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  Chatham,  Sir 
William  Temple,  Clive,  and  Warren  Hastings,  form 
a series  of  brilliant  and  complete  historical  retro- 
spects or  summaries  unequalled  in  our  literature. 
His  eloquent  papers  on  Lord  Bacon,  Horace  Walpole, 
Boswell’s  Johnson,  Addison,  Byron,  &c.,  have  equal 
literary  value ; and  recent  additions  have  been 
made  to  this  rich  collection  in  the  Encyclopcedia 
Britannica,  to  which  Lord  Macaulay  has  contributed 
biographies  of  Atterbury,  Bunyan,  Goldsmith, 
Johnson,  and  the  second  William  Pitt. 

In  1848  appeared  the  first  two  volumes  of  Lord 
Macaulay’s  great  historical  work,  The  History  of 
England  from  the  Accession  of  James  II.  In  his 
opening  chapter,  in  a few  magnificent  sentences,  he 
explains  the  nature  and  scope  of  his  work. 

[Exordium  to  History  of  England .] 

I purpose  to  write  the  history  of  England  from  the 
accession  of  King  James  II.,  down  to  a time  which  is 
within  the  memory  of  men  still  living.  I shall  recount 
the  errors  which,  in  a few  months,  alienated  a loyal 
gentry  and  priesthood  from  the  house  of  Stuart.  I 
shall  trace  the  course  of  that  revolution  which  termi- 
nated the  long  struggle  between  our  sovereigns  and 
their  parliaments,  and  bound  up  together  the  rights  of 
the  people,  and  the  title  of  the  reigning  dynasty.  I 
shall  relate  how  the  new  settlement  was,  during  many 
troubled  years,  successfully  defended  against  foreign 
and  domestic  enemies ; how,  under  that  settlement,  the 
authority  of  law  and  the  security  of  property  were 
found  to  be  compatible  with  a liberty  of  discussion  and 
of  individual  action  never  before  known;  how,  from 
the  auspicious  union  of  order  and  freedom,  sprang  a 
prosperity  of  which  the  annals  of  human  affairs  had 
furnished  no  example;  how  our  country,  from  a state 
of  ignominious  vassalage,  rapidly  rose  to  the  place  of 
umpire  among  European  powers ; how  her  opulence  and 


her  martial  glory  grew  together ; how,  by  wise  and 
resolute  good  faith,  was  gradually  established  a public 
credit  fruitful  of  marvels,  which  to  the  statesmen  of 
any  former  age  would  have  seemed  incredible ; how  a 
gigantic  commerce  gave  birth  to  a maritime  power,  com- 
pared with  which  every  other  maritime  power,  ancient 
or  modem,  sinks  into  insignificance ; how  Scotland, 
after  ages  of  enmity,  was  at  length  united  to  England, 
not  merely  by  legal  bonds,  but  by  indissoluble  ties  of 
interest  and  affection ; how  in  America,  the  British 
colonies  rapidly  became  far  mightier  and  wealthier  than 
the  realms  which  Cortes  and  Pizarro  had  added  to  the 
dominions  of  Charles  Y. ; how  in  Asia,  British  adven- 
turers founded  an  empire  not  less  splendid  and  more 
durable  than  that  of  Alexander. 

Nor  will  it  be  less  my  duty  faithfully  to  record 
disasters  mingled  with  triumphs,  with  great  national 
crimes  and  follies  far  more  humiliating  than  any  dis- 
aster. It  will  be  seen  that  what  we  justly  account  our 
chief  blessings  were  not  without  alloy.  It  will  be  seen 
that  the  system  which  effectually  secured  our  liberties 
against  the  encroachments  of  kingly  power,  gave  birth 
to  a new  class  of  abuses  from  which  absolute  monarchies 
are  exempt.  It  will  be  seen  that  in  consequence  partly 
of  unwise  interference,  and  partly  of  unwise  neglect, 
the  increase  of  wealth  and  the  extension  of  trade  pro- 
duced, together  with  immense  good,  some  evils  from 
which  poor  and  rude  societies  are  free.  It  will  be  seen 
how,  in  two  important  dependencies  of  the  crown,  wrong 
was  followed  by  just  retribution ; how  imprudence  and 
obstinacy  broke  the  ties  which  bound  the  North  Ameri- 
can colonies  to  the  parent  state;  how  Ireland,  cursed 
by  the  domination  of  race  over  race,  and  of  religion  over 
religion,  remained  indeed  a member  of  the  empire,  but 
a withered  and  distorted  member,  adding  no  strength 
to  the  body  politic,  and  reproachfully  pointed  at  by  all 
who  feared  or  envied  the  greatness  of  England. 

Yet,  unless  I greatly  deceive  myself,  the  general  effect  J 
of  this  checkered  narrative  will  be  to  excite  thankful-  | 
ness  in  all  religious  minds,  and  hope  in  the  breasts  of  J 
all  patriots.  For  the  history  of  our  country  during  the  I 
last  hundred  and  sixty  years  is  eminently  the  history  I 
of  physical,  of  moral,  and  of  intellectual  improvement.  { 
Those  who  compare  the  age  on  which  their  lot  has  ; 
fallen  with  a golden  age  which  exists  only  in  their  j 
imagination,  may  talk  of  degeneracy  and  decay ; but  no 
man  who  is  correctly  informed  as  to  the  past,  will  be 
disposed  to  take  a morose  or  desponding  view  of  the 
present. 

I should  very  imperfectly  execute  the  task  which  I 
have  undertaken,  if  I were  merely  to  treat  of  battles 
and  sieges,  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  administrations,  of 
intrigues  in  the  palace,  and  of  debates  in  the  parlia- 
ment. It  will  be  my  endeavour  to  relate  the  history  of 
the  people  as  well  as  the  history  of  the  government,  to 
trace  the  progress  of  useful  and  ornamental  arts,  to 
describe  the  rise  of  religious  sects  and  the  changes 
of  literary  taste,  to  portray  the  manners  of  successive 
generations,  and  not  to  pass  by  with  neglect  even  the 
revolutions  which  have  taken  place  in  dress,  furniture, 
repasts,  and  public  entertainments.  I shall  cheerfully 
bear  the  reproach  of  having  descended  below  the  dignity 
of  history,  if  I can  succeed  in  placing  before  the  English 
of  the  nineteenth  century  a true  picture  of  the  life  of 
their  ancestors. 

Volumes  III.  and  IV.  appeared  in  1855,  and  it  is 
hopeless  to  expect  that  the  historian  will  live  to 
realise  his  intention  of  bringing  down  his  history  to 
‘ a time  within  the  memory  of  men  still  living,’  or 
living  in  1848.  The  anticipated  period  we  may 
assume  to  be  the  close  of  the  last  century;  and 
between  1685 — the  date  of  the  accession  of  James  II. 
— and  1800,  we  have  one  hundred  and  fifteen  years, 
of  which  Lord  Macaulay  has  as  yet  only  travelled 
over  twelve.  His  fourth  volume  concludes  with  the 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  MACAULAY. 


Peace  of  Ryswick  in  1697.  No  historical  work  in 
modern  times  has  excited  the  same  amount  of 
interest  and  anxiety,  or,  we  may  add,  of  admiration, 
as  Lord  Macaulay’s  history.  Robertson  and  Gibbon 
were  astonished  at  their  own  success ; it  greatly 
exceeded  their  most  daring  and  sanguine  hopes ; 
but  the  number  of  readers  was  then  limited,  and 
quarto  volumes  travelled  slowly.  Compared  with 
Macaulay,  it  was  as  the  old  mail-coach  drawn  up 
with  the  railway  express.  Before  the  second  por- 
tion of  Macaulay’s  history  was  ready,  eleven  large 
editions  of  the  first  had  been  disposed  of.  It  had 
been  read  with  the  eagerness  and  avidity  of  a 
romance.  Its  fascinating  style,  its  portraits  of 
historical  personages — all  brought  before  us  in  life 
and  action— and  its  descriptions  of  public  events, 
scenery,  and  the  progress  of  society,  were  irresist- 
ible. The  colouring  might  at  times  appear  too 
high,  almost  coarse,  but  there  were  no  obscure  or 
misty  passages.  Highly  embellished  as  was  the 
style,  it  was  as  clear  and  intelligible  as  that  of 
Swift  or  Defoe.  It  was  the  pre-Raphaelite  painting 
without  its  littleness.  Whether  drawing  a land- 
scape or  portrait,  evolving  the  nice  distinctions  and 
subtle  traits  of  character  or  motives,  stating  a legal 
argument,  or  disentangling  a complicated  party 
question,  this  virtue  of  perspicacity  never  forsakes 
the  historian.  It  is  no  doubt  a homely  virtue,  but 
here  it  is  united  to  vivid  imagination  and  rhetorical 
brilliance.  So  much  ornament  with  so  much  strong 
sense,  logical  clearness,  and  easy  adaptation  of  style 
to  every  purpose  of  the  historian,  was  never  before 
seen  in  combination.  In  producing  his  distinct  and 
striking  impressions,  the  historian  is  charged  with 
painting  too  strongly  and  exaggerating  his  portraits. 
He  has  his  likes  and  dislikes — his  moral  sympathies 
and  antipathies.  Marlborough  is  undoubtedly  por- 
trayed in  too  dark  colours,  and  William  Penn  also 
suffers  injustice.  The  outline  in  each  case  is  cor- 
rect. Marlborough  was  treacherous  and  avaricious, 
and  Penn  was  too  much  of  a courtier  in  a bad  court. 
But  the  historian  magnifies  their  defects.  He  does 
not  make  allowance  for  the  character  and  habits  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived,  and  he  seizes  upon 
doubtful  and  obscure  incidents  or  statements  by 
unscrupulous  adversaries  as  pregnant  and  infallible 
proofs  of  guilt.  In  his  pictures  of  social  life  and 
manners  there  is  also  a tendency  to  caricature; 
exceptional  and  accidental  cases  are  made  gene- 
ral; and  the  vivid  fancy  of  the  historian  sports 
among  startling  contrasts  and  moral  incongruities. 
Blemishes  of  this  kind  have  been  pointed  out  by 
laborious  critics  and  political  opponents ; the  ‘ criti- 
cal telescope  ’ has  been  incessantly  levelled  at  the 
great  luminary,  yet  nearly  all  will  subscribe  to 
the  opinion  that  ‘ a writer  of  more  passionless  and 
judicial  mind  would  not  have  produced  a work  of 
half  so  intense  and  deep  an  interest;  that  if 
Macaulay  had  been  more  minutely  scrupulous,  he 
would  not  have  been  nearly  as  picturesque;  and 
that  if  he  had  been  less  picturesque,  we  should  not 
have  retained  nearly  so  much  of  his  delineations, 
and  should,  therefore,  have  been  losers  of  so  much 
knowledge  which  is  substantially,  if  not  always 
circumstantially,  correct.’  * Ilis  History  is  alto- 
gether one  of  the  glories  of  our  country  and 
literature. 

The  most  splendid  passages  of  the  History — the 
character  of  William,  the  account  of  the  Monmouth 
insurrection,  the  trial  of  the  bishops,  the  siege  of 
Derry,  &c. — are  too  long  for  quotation,  but  a few 
extracts  will  illustrate  the  above  remarks. 

* North  British  Review,  No.  49,  in  which  there  is  an  able  and 
candid  appreciation  of  Macaulay’s  History. 


[The  Revolution  of  1688-9.] 

On  the  morning  of  Wednesday  the  13th  of  February 
[1689]  the  court  of  Whitehall  and  all  the  neighbour- 
ing streets  were  filled  with  gazers.  The  magnificent 
Banqueting  House,  the  master-piece  of  Inigo,  embellished 
by  master-pieces  of  Rubens,  had  been  prepared  for  a 
great  ceremony.  The  walls  were  lined  by  the  yeomen 
of  the  guard.  Near  the  northern  door,  on  the  right 
hand,  a large  number  of  peers  had  assembled.  On  the 
left  were  the  Commons  with  their  Speaker,  attended 
by  the  mace.  The  southern  door  opened;  and  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Orange,  side  by  side,  entered, 
and  took  their  place  under  the  canopy  of  state. 

Both  Houses  approached,  bowing  low.  William  and 
Mary  advanced  a few  steps.  Halifax  on  the  right,  and 
Powle  on  the  left  stood  forth,  and  Halifax  spoke.  The 
Convention,  he  said,  had  agreed  to  a resolution  which 
he  prayed  their  highnesses  to  hear.  They  signified 
their  assent ; and  the  clerk  of  the  House  of  Lords  read, 
in  a loud  voice,  the  Declaration  of  Right.  When  he 
had  concluded,  Halifax,  in  the  name  of  all  the  estates 
of  the  realm,  requested  the  prince  and  princess  to 
accept  the  crown. 

William,  in  his  own  name,  and  in  that  of  his  wife, 
answered  that  the  crown  was,  in  their  estimation,  the 
more  valuable  because  it  was  presented  to  them  as  a 
token  of  the  confidence  of  the  nation.  ‘ We  thankfully 
accept,’  he  said,  ‘ what  you  have  offered  us  ! ’ Then, 
for  himself,  he  assured  them  that  the  laws  of  England, 
which  he  had  once  already  vindicated,  should  be  the 
rules  of  his  conduct;  that  it  should  be  his  study  to 
promote  the  welfare  of  the  kingdom ; and  that,  as  to 
the  means  of  doing  so,  he  should  constantly  recur  to 
the  advice  of  the  Houses,  and  should  be  disposed  to 
trust  their  judgment  rather  than  his  own.  These 
words  were  received  with  a shout  of  joy  which  was 
heard  in  the  streets  below,  and  was  instantly  answered 
by  huzzas  from  many  thousands  of  voices.  The  Lords 
and  Commons  then  reverently  retired  from  the  Banquet- 
ing House,  and  went  in  procession  to  the  great  gate  of 
Whitehall,  where  the  heralds  and  pursuivants  were 
waiting  in  their  gorgeous  tabards.  All  the  space  as 
far  as  Charing  Cross  was  one  sea  of  heads.  The  kettle- 
drums struck  up,  the  trumpets  pealed,  and  Garter 
King  at  Arms,  in  a loud  voice,  proclaimed  the  Prince 
and  Princess  of  Orange  King  and  Queen  of  England ; 
charged  all  Englishmen  to  pay,  from  that  moment,  faith 
and  true  allegiance  to  the  new  sovereigns ; and  besought 
God,  who  had  already  wrought  so  signal  a deliverance 
for  our  church  and  nation,  to  bless  William  and  Mary 
with  a long  and  happy  reign. 

Thus  was  consummated  the  English  Revolution. 
When  we  compare  it  with  those  revolutions  which 
have  during  the  last  sixty  years  overthrown  so  many 
ancient  governments,  we  cannot  but  be  struck  by  its 
peculiar  character.  The  continental  revolutions  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries  took  place  in 
countries  where  all  trace  of  the  limited  monarchy  of 
the  middle  ages  had  long  been  effaced.  The  right  of 
the  prince  to  make  laws  and  to  levy  money  had,  during 
many  generations,  been  undisputed.  His  throne  was 
guarded  by  a great  regular  army.  His  administration 
could  not,  without  extreme  peril,  be  blamed  even  in 
the  mildest  terms.  His  subjects  held  their  personal 
liberty  by  no  other  tenure  than  his  pleasure.  Not  a 
single  institution  was  left  which  had,  within  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  man,  afforded  efficient  protection 
to  the  subject  against  the  utmost  excess  of  tyranny. 
Those  great  councils  which  had  once  curbed  the  regal 
power  had  sunk  into  oblivion.  Their  composition  and 
their  privileges  were  known  only  to  antiquaries.  We 
cannot  wonder,  therefore,  that,  when  men  who  had 
been  thus  ruled  succeeded  in  wresting  supreme  power 
from  a government  which  they  had  long  in  secret  hated, 
they  should  have  been  impatient  to  demolish  and 


psoit  1830  C Y CLOPiEDI  A OF  to  1859. 


unable  to  construct;  that  they  should  have  been 
fascinated  by  every  specious  novelty ; that  they  should 
have  proscribed  every  title,  ceremony,  and  phrase  asso- 
ciated with  the  old  system;  and  that,  turning  away 
with  disgust  from  their  own  national  ^precedents  and 
traditions,  they  should  have  sought  for  principles  of 
government  in  the  writings  of  theorists,  or  aped,  with 
ignorant  and  ungraceful  affectation,  the  patriots  of 
Athens  and  Eome.  As  little  can  we  wonder  that  the 
violent  action  of  the  revolutionary  spirit  should  have 
been  followed  by  reaction  equally  violent,  and  that 
confusion  should  speedily  have  engendered  despotism 
sterner  than  that  from  which  it  had  sprung. 

Had  we  been  in  the  same  situation ; had  Strafford 
succeeded  in  his  favourite  scheme  of  Thorough ; had 
he  formed  an  army  as  numerous  and  as  well  disciplined 
as  that  which,  a few  years  later,  was  formed  by 
Cromwell;  had  a series  of  judicial  decisions  similar 
to  that  which,  a few  years  later,  was  pronounced  by 
the  Exchequer  Chamber  in  the  case  of  ship-money, 
transferred  to  the  crown  the  right  of  taxing  the  people ; 
had  the  Star  Chamber  and  the  High  Commission  con- 
tinued to  fine,  mutilate,  and  imprison  every  man  who 
dared  to  raise  his  voice  against  the  government;  had 
the  press  been  as  completely  enslaved  here  as  at  Vienna 
or  Naples;  had  our  kings  gradually  drawn  to  them- 
selves the  whole  legislative  power ; had  six  generations 
of  Englishmen  passed  away  without  a single  session  of 
parliament;  and  had  we  then  at  length  risen  up  in 
some  moment  of  wild  excitement  against  our  masters, 
what  an  outbreak  would  that  have  been  ! With  what 
a crash,  heard  and  felt  to  the  furthest  ends  of  the 
world,  would  the  whole  vast  fabric  of  society  have 
fallen ! How  many  thousands  of  exiles,  once  the  most 
prosperous  and  the  most  refined  members  of  this  great 
community,  would  have  begged  their  bread  in  con- 
tinental cities,  or  have  sheltered  their  heads  under 
huts  of  bark  in  the  uncleared  forests  of  America  ! How 
often  should  we  have  seen  the  pavement  of  London 
piled  up  in  barricades,  the  houses  dinted  with  bullets, 
the  gutters  foaming  with  blood ! How  many  times 
should  we  have  rushed  wildly  from  extreme  to  extreme, 
sought  refuge  from  anarchy  in  despotism,  and  been 
again  driven  by  despotism  into  anarchy!  How  many 
years  of  blood  and  confusion  would  it  have  cost  us  to 
learn  the  very  rudiments  of  political  science ! How 
many  childish  theories  would  have  duped  us ! How 
many  rude  and  ill-poised  constitutions  should  we  have 
set  up,  only  to  see  them  tumble  down ! Happy  would 
it  have  been  for  us  if  a sharp  discipline  of  half  a 
I century  had  sufficed  to  educate  us  into  a capacity  of 
I enjoying  true  freedom. 

These  calamities  our  Revolution  averted.  It  was  a 
i revolution  strictly  defensive,  and  had  prescription  and 
legitimacy  on  its  side.  Here,  and  here  only,  a limited 
monarchy  of  the  thirteenth  century  had  come  down 
unimpaired  to  the  seventeenth  century.  Our  parlia- 
mentary institutions  were  in  full  vigour.  The  main 
principles  of  our  government  were  excellent.  They 
were  not,  indeed,  formally  and  exactly  set  forth  in  a 
single  written  instrument ; but  they  were  to  be  found 
j scattered  over  our  ancient  and  noble  statutes;  and, 

! what  was  of  far  greater  moment,  they  had  been 
engraven  on  the  hearts  of  Englishmen  during  four 
hundred  years.  That,  without  the  consent  of  the 
representatives  of  the  nation,  no  legislative  act  could 
be  passed,  no  tax  imposed,  no  regular  soldiery  kept  up ; 
that  no  man  could  be  imprisoned,  even  for  a day,  by 
the  arbitrary  will  of  the  sovereign ; that  no  tool  of 
power  could  plead  the  royal  command  as  a justification 
for  violating  any  right  of  the  humblest  subject,  were 
held,  both  by  Whigs  and  Tories,  to  be  fundamental  laws 
of  the  realm.  A realm  of  which  these  were  the  funda- 
mental laws  stood  in  no  need  of  a new  constitution. 

But,  though  a new  constitution  was  not  needed,  it 
was  plain  that  changes  were  required.  The  misgovern- 
6S6 


ment  of  the  Stuarts,  and  the  troubles  which  that  mis- 
government  had  produced,  sufficiently  proved  that  there 
was  somewhere  a defect  in  our  polity ; and  that  defect 
it  was  the  duty  of  the  Convention  to  discover  and  to 
supply.  * * The  Convention  had  two  great  duties 
to  perform.  The  first  was  to  clear  the  fundamental 
laws  of  the  realm  from  ambiguity;  the  second  was  to 
eradicate  from  the  minds,  both  of  the  governors  and 
the  governed,  the  false  and  pernicious  notion  that  the 
royal  prerogative  was  something  more  sublime  and  holy  i 
than  those  fundamental  laws.  The  former  object  was 
attained  by  the  solemn  recital  and  claim  with  which, 
the  Declaration  of  Right  commences ; the  latter,  by  the 
resolution  which  pronounced  the  throne  vacant,  and 
invited  William  and  Mary  to  fill  it.  The  change  seems 
small.  Not  a single  flower  of  the  crown  was  touched ; 
not  a single  new  right  was  given  to  the  people.  * * 

The  highest  eulogy  which  can  be  pronounced  on  the 
revolution  of  1688  is  this,  that  it  was  our  last  revolu- 
tion. Several  generations  have  now  passed  away  since 
any  wise  and  patriotic  Englishman  has  meditated  ■ 
resistance  to  the  established  government.  In  all 
honest  and  reflecting  minds  there  is  a conviction, 
daily  strengthened  by  experience,  that  the  means  of  , 
effecting  every  improvement  which  the  constitution 
requires,  may  be  found  within  the  constitution  itself. 

[The  Valley  of  Glencoe .] 

Mac  Ian  dwelt  in  the  mouth  of  a ravine  situated  not 
far  from  the  southern  shore  of  Lochleven,  an  arm  of  the 
sea  which  deeply  indents  the  western  coast  of  Scotland, 
and  separates  Argyleshire  from  Inverness-shire.  Near 
his  house  were  two  or  three  small  hamlets  inhabited  by 
his  tribe.  The  whole  population  which  he  governed 
was  not  supposed  to  exceed  two  hundred  souls.  In  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  little  cluster  of  villages  was  some 
copsewood  and  some  pasture-land ; but  a little  further 
up  the  defile,  no  sign  of  population  or  of  fruitfulness 
was  to  be  seen.  In  the  Gaelic  tongue,  Glencoe  signifies 
the  Glen  of  Weeping;  and  in  truth  that  pass  is  the 
most  dreary  and  melancholy  of  all  the  Scottish  passes — 
the  very  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  Mists  and 
storms  brood  over  it  through  the  greater  part  of  the 
finest  summer;  and  even  on  those  rare  days  when  the 
sun  is  bright,  and  when  there  is  no  cloud  in  the  sky, 
the  impression  made  by  the  landscape  is  sad  and  awful. 
The  path  lies  along  a stream  which  issues  from  the 
most  sullen  and  gldomy  of  mountain-pools.  Huge 
precipices  of  naked  stone  frown  on  both  sides.  Even 
in  July  the  streaks  of  snow  may  often  be  discerned  in 
the  rifts  near  the  summits.  All  down  the  sides  of  the 
crags  heaps  of  ruin  mark  the  headlong  paths  of  the  1 
torrents.  Mile  after  mile  the  traveller  looks  in  vain 
for  the  smoke  of  one  hut,  or  for  one  human  form  j 
wrapped  in  a plaid,  and  listens  in  vain  for  the  bark  of  , 
a shepherd’s  dog,  or  the  bleat  of  a lamb.  Mile  after  i 
mile  the  only  sound  that  indicates  life  is  the  faint  cry  ! 
of  a bird  of  prey  from  some  storm-beaten  pinnacle  of  ! 
rock.  The  progress  of  civilisation,  which  has  turned  ! 
so  many  wastes  into  fields  yellow  with  harvests,  or  gay  ( 
with  apple  blossoms,  has  only  made  Glencoe  more  deso-  j 
late.  All  the  science  and  industry  of  a peaceful  age  j 
can  extract  nothing  valuable  from  that  wilderness ; but  ' 
in  an  age  of  violence  and  rapine,  the  wilderness  itself  J 
was  valued  on  account  of  the  shelter  it  afforded  to  j 
the  plunderer  and  his  plunder. 

[The  English  Country  Gentleman  of  1688.] 

A country  gentleman  who  witnessed  the  revolution 
was  probably  in  the  receipt  of  about  the  fourth  part  of  i 
the  rent  which  his  acres  now  yield  to  his  posterity ; he 
was,  therefore,  as  compared  with  his  posterity,  a poor 
man,  and  was  generally  under  the  necessity  of  residing, 
with  little  interruption,  on  his  estate.  To  travel  on 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LOUD  MACAULAY. 


the  continent,  to  maintain  an  establishment  in  London, 
or  even  to  visit  London  frequently,  were  pleasures  in 
which  only  the  great  proprietors  could  indulge.  It  may 
be  confidently  affirmed  that  of  the  squires  whose  names 
were  in  King  Charles’s  commissions  of  peace  and  lieuten- 
ancy, not  one  in  twenty  went  to  town  once  in  five  years, 
or  had  ever  in  his  life  wandered  so  far  as  Paris.  Many 
lords  of  manors  had  received  an  education  differing 
little  from  that  of  their  menial  servants.  The  heir  of 
an  estate  often  passed  his  boyhood  and  youth  at  the 
seat  of  his  family  with  no  better  tutors  than  grooms  and 
gamekeepers,  and  scarce  attained  learning  enough  to 
sign  his  name  to  a mittimus.  If  he  went  to  school  and 
to  college,  he  generally  returned  before  he  was  twenty 
to  the  seclusion  of  the  old  hall ; and  there,  unless  his 
mind  were  very  happily  constituted  by  nature,  soon  forgot 
his  academical  pursuits  in  rural  business  and  pleasures. 
His  chief  serious  employment  was  the  care  of  his 
property.  He  examined  samples  of  grain,  handled  pigs, 
and  on  market-days  made  bargains  over  a tankard  with 
drovers  and  hop-merchants.  His  chief  pleasures  were 
commonly  derived  from  field-sports  and  from  an  un- 
refined sensuality.  His  language  and  pronunciation 
were  such  as  we  should  now  expect  to  hear  only  from 
the  most  ignorant  clowns.  His  oaths,  coarse  jests,  and 
scurrilous  terms  of  abuse,  were  uttered  with  the 
broadest  accent  of  his  province.  It  was  easy  to  discern, 
from  the  first  words  which  he  spoke,  whether  he  came 
from  Somersetshire  or  Yorkshire.  He  troubled  himself 
little  about  decorating  his  abode,  and  if  he  attempted 
decoration,  seldom  produced  anything  but  deformity. 
The  litter  of  a farmyard  gathered  under  the  windows 
of  his  bedchamber,  and  the  cabbages  and  gooseberry- 
bushes  grew  close  to  his  hall  door.  His  table  was 
loaded  with  coarse  plenty,  and  guests  were  cordially 
welcome  to  it;  but  as  the  habit  of  drinking  to  excess 
was  general  in  the  class  to  which  he  belonged,  and  as 
his  fortune  did  not  enable  him  to  intoxicate  large 
assemblies  daily  with  claret  or  canary,  strong  beer  was 
the  ordinary  beverage.  The  quantity  of  beer  consumed 
in  those  days  was  indeed  enormous;  for  beer  then 
was  to  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  not  only  all  that 
beer  now  is,  but  all  that  wine,  tea,  and  ardent  spirits 
now  are;  it  was  only  at  great  houses,  or  on  great 
occasions,  that  foreign  drink  was  placed  on  the  board. 
The  ladies  of  the  house,  whose  business  it  had  commonly 
been  to  cook  the  repast,  retired  as  soon  as  the  dishes 
had  been  devoured,  and  left  the  gentlemen  to  their  ale 
and  tobacco.  The  coarse  jollity  of  the  afternoon  wras 
often  prolonged  till  the  revellers  were  laid  under  the 
table. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  the  country  gentleman  caught 
glimpses  of  the  great  world,  and  what  he  saw  of  it 
tended  rather  to  confuse  than  to  enlighten  his  under- 
standing. His  opinions  respecting  religion,  government, 
foreign  countries,  and  former  times,  having  been  derived, 
not  from  study,  from  observation,  or  from  conversation 
with  enlightened  companions,  but  from  such  traditions 
as  were  current  in  his  own  small  circle,  were  the 
opinions  of  a child ; he  adhered  to  them,  however,  with 
the  obstinacy  which  is  generally  found  in  ignorant  men 
accustomed  to  be  fed  with  flattery.  His  animosities 
were  numerous  and  bitter.  He  Hated  Frenchmen  and 
Italians,  Scotchmen  and  Irishmen,  Papists  and  Presby- 
terians, Independents  and  Baptists,  Quakers  and  Jews. 
Towards  London  and  Londoners  he  felt  an  aversion 
which  more  than  once  produced  important  political 
effects.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  in  tastes  and 
acquirements  below  a housekeeper  or  a still-room  maid 
of  the  present  day.  They  stitched  and  spun,  brewed 
gooseberry-wine,  cured  marigolds,  and  made  the  crust 
for  the  venison  pasty. 

From  this  description  it  might  be  supposed  that  the 
English  esquire  of  the  seventeenth  century  did  not 
materially  differ  from  a rustic  miller  or  ale-house 
keeper  of  our  time.  There  are,  however,  some  important 


parts  of  his  character  still  to  be  noted,  which  will 
greatly  modify  this  estimate.  Unlettered  as  he  was  and 
unpolished,  he  was  still  in  some  important  points  a 
gentleman.  He  was  a member  of  a proud  and  powerful 
aristocracy,  and  was  distinguished  by  many  both  of  the 
good  and  of  the  bad  qualities  which  belong  to  aristocrats. 
His  family  pride  was  beyond  that  of  a Talbot  or  a 
Howard.  He  knew  the  genealogies  and  coats-of-arms 
of  all  his  neighbours,  and  could  tell  which  of  them  had 
assumed  supporters  without  any  right,  and  which  of 
them  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  great-grandsons  of 
aldermen.  He  was  a magistrate,  and  as  such  admini- 
stered gratuitously  to  those  who  dwelt  around  him  a 
rude  patriarchal  justice,  which,  in  spite  of  innumerable 
blunders  and  of  occasional  acts  of  tyranny,  was  yet  better 
than  no  justice  at  all.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  train- 
bands  ; and  his  military  dignity,  though  it  might  move 
the  mirth  of  gallants  who  had  served  a campaign  in 
Flanders,  raised  his  character  in  his  own  eyes  and  in 
the  eyes  of  his  neighbours.  Nor,  indeed,  was  his. 
soldiership  justly  a subject  of  derision.  In  every 
county  there  were  elderly  gentlemen  who  had  seen 
service  which  was  no  child’s  play.  One  had  been 
knighted  by  Charles  I.,  after  the  battle  of  Edgehill ; 
another  still  wore  a patch  over  the  scar  which  he  had 
received  at  Naseby ; a third  had  defended  his  old  house 
till  Fairfax  had  blown  in  the  door  with  a petard.  The 
presence  of  these  old  Cavaliers,  with  their  old  swords 
and  holsters,  and  with  their  old  stories  about  Goring 
and  Lunsford,  gave  to  the  musters  of  militia  an  earnest 
and  warlike  aspect,  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
wanting.  Even  those  country  gentlemen  who  were 
too  young  to  have  themselves  exchanged  blows  with 
the  cuirassiers  of  the  parliament,  had,  from  childhood, 
been  surrounded  by  the  traces  of  recent  war,  and  fed 
with  stories  of  the  martial  exploits  of  their  fathers  and 
uncles.  Thus  the  character  of  the  English  esquire  of  the 
seventeenth  century  was  compounded  of  two  elements 
which  we  are  not  accustomed  to  find  united.  His 
ignorance  and  uncouthness,  his  low  tastes  and  g£0ss 
phrases,  would,  in  our  time,  be  considered  as  indicating 
a nature  and  a breeding  thoroughly  plebeian.  Yet  he 
was  essentially  a patrician,  and  had,  in  large  measure, 
both  the  virtues  and  the  vices  which  flourish  among  men 
set  from  their  birth  in  high  places,  and  accustomed 
to  authority,  to  observance,  and  to  self-respect.  It  is 
not  easy  for  a generation  which  is  accustomed  to  find 
chivalrous  sentiments  only  in  company  with  liberal 
studies  and  polished  manners  to  image  to  itself  a man 
with  the  deportment,  the  vocabulary,  and  the  accent  of 
a carter,  yet  punctilious  on  matters  of  genealogy  and 
precedence,  and  yet  ready  to  risk  his  life  rather  than 
see  a stain  cast  on  the  honour  of  his  house.  It  is  only, 
however,  by  thus  joining  together  things  seldom  or  never 
found  together  in  our  own  experience,  that  we  can  form 
a just  idea  of  that  rustic  aristocracy  which  constituted 
the  main  strength  of  the  aimies  of  Charles  I.,  and  which 
long  supported  with  strange  fidelity  the  interest  of  his 
descendants. 

The  gross,  uneducated,  untravelled  country  gentleman 
was  commonly  a Tory ; but  though  devotedly  attached 
to  hereditary  monarchy,  he  had  no  partiality  for 
courtiers  and  ministers.  He  thought,  not  without 
reason,  that  Whitehall  was  filled  with  the  most  corrupt 
of  mankind ; that  of  the  great  sums  which  the  House  of 
Commons  had  voted  to  the  crown  since  the  Restoration, 
part  had  been  embezzled  by  cunning  politicians,  and 
part  squandered  on  buffoons  and  foreign  courtezans. 
His  stout  English  heart  swelled  with  indignation  at  the 
thought  that  the  government  of  his  country  should  be 
subject  to  French  dictation.  Being  himself  generally  an 
old  Cavalier,  or  the  son  of  an  old  Cavalier,  he  reflected 
with  bitter  resentment  on  the  ingratitude  with  which 
the  Stuarts  had  requited  their  best  friends.  Those  who 
heard  him  grumble  at  the  neglect  with  which  he  was 
treated,  and  at  the  profusion  with  which  wealth  was 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


lavished  on  the  bastards  of  Nell  Grwynn  and  Madam 
Carwell,  would  have  supposed  him  ripe  for  rebellion. 
But  all  this  ill-humour  lasted  only  till  the  throne  was 
really  in  danger.  It  was  precisely  when  those  whom 
the  sovereign  had  loaded  with  wealth  and  honours 
shrank  from  his  side,  that  the  country  gentlemen,  so 
surly  and  mutinous  in  the  season  of  his  prosperity, 
rallied  round  him  in  a body.  Thus,  after  murmuring 
twenty  years  at  the  misgovernment  of  Charles  II.,  they 
came  to  his  rescue  in  his  extremity,  when  his  own 
secretaries  of  state  and  lords  of  the  treasury  had 
deserted  him,  and  enabled  him  to  gain  a complete 
victory  over  the  opposition ; nor  can  there  be  any  doubt 
that  they  would  have  shewn  equal  loyalty  to  his  brother 
James,  if  James  would,  even  at  the  moment,  have 
refrained  from  outraging  their  strongest  feeling.  For 
there  was  one  institution,  and  one  only,  which  they 
prized  even  more  than  hereditary  monarchy ; and  that 
institution  was  the  Church  of  England.  Their  love  of 
the  church  was  not,  indeed,  the  effect  of  study  or 
meditation.  Few  among  them  could  have  given  any 
reason,  drawn  from  Scripture  or  ecclesiastical  history, 
for  adhering  to  her  doctrines,  her  ritual,  and  her  polity  ; 
nor  were  they,  as  a class,  by  any  means  strict  observers 
of  that  code  of  morality  which  is  common  to  all  Christian 
sects.  But  the  experience  of  many  ages  proves  that 
men  may  be  ready  to  fight  to  the  death,  and  to  perse- 
cute without  pity,  for  a religion  whose  creed  they  do 
not  understand,  and  whose  precepts  they  habitually 
disobey.  * * 

When  the  lord  of  a Lincolnshire  or  Shropshire  manor 
appeared  in  Fleet  Street,  he  was  as  easily  distinguished 
from  the  resident  population  as  a Turk  or  a Lascar. 
His  dress,  his  gait,  his  accent,  the  manner  in  which  he 
stared  at  the  shops,  stumbled  into  the  gutters,  ran 
against  the  porters,  and  stood  under  the  water-spouts, 
marked  him  out  as  an  excellent  subject  for  the  opera- 
tions of  swindlers  and  banterers.  Bullies  jostled  him 
into  the  kennel.  Hackney-coachmen  splashed  him  from 
head  to  foot.  Thieves  explored,  with  perfect  security, 
the  huge  pockets  of  his  horseman’s  coat,  while  he  stood 
entranced  by  the  splendour  of  the  lord-mayor’s  show. 
Money-droppers,  sore  from  the  cart's  tail,  introduced 
themselves  to  him,  and  appeared  to  him  the  most 
friendly  gentlemen  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Painted 
women,  the  refuse  of  Lewkner  Lane  and  Whatstone 
Park,  passed  themselves  on  him  for  countesses  and 
maids  of  honour.  If  he  asked  his  way  to  St  James’s, 
his  informants  sent  him  to  Mile  End.  If  he  went  into 
a shop,  he  was  instantly  discerned  to  be  a purchaser  of 
everything  that  nobody  else  would  buy — of  second-hand 
embroidery,  copper  rings,  and  watches  that  would  not 
go.  If  he  rambled  into  any  fashionable  coffee-house, 
he  became  a mark  for  the  insolent  derision  of  fops  and 
the  grave  waggery  of  Templars.  Enraged  and  mortified, 
he  soon  returned  to  his  mansion ; and  there,  in  the 
homage  of  his  tenants,  and  the  conversation  of  his  boon- 
companions,  found  consolation  for  the  vexations  and 
humiliations  he  had  undergone.  There  he  once  more 
found  himself  a great  man ; and  he  saw  nothing  above 
him,  except  when  at  the  assizes  he  took  his  seat  on  the 
bench  near  the  judge,  or  when  at  the  muster  of  the 
militia  he  saluted  the  lord-lieutenant. 


SIR  FRANCIS  PALGRAVE. 

This  distinguished  archaeologist,  deputy-keeper 
of  the  Public  Records,  has  been  an  indefatigable 
student  of  our  early  history.  In  1831  he  published 
a History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons — a popular  work 
contributed  to  Murray’s  Family  Library.  In  the 
following  year  appeared  his  Rise  and  Progress  of  the 
English  Commonwealth — the  term  ‘ commonwealth  ’ 
being  employed  by  the  historian,  as  by  Locke,  to 
signify  an  independent  community,  not  a democracy. 


This  work  contains  a mass  of  information  regarding 
the  most  obscure  part  of  our  annals,  with  original 
records,  and  details  concerning  the  political  institu- 
tions of  ancient  Europe.  Sir  Francis  afterwards 
projected  a more  elaborate  history,  tracing  the 
Normans  from  the  first  establishment  of  the  ‘ Terra 
Normannorum’  as  a settlement  on  the  coast  of  Gaul 
under  the  Danish  chieftains,  till  their  union  with 
England  by  William  the  Conqueror.  Of  this  work, 
entitled  The  History  of  Normandy  and  of  England , 
two  volumes  have  appeared — one  in  1851  and  the 
other  in  1857.  Some  fanciful  positions  and 
generalisations  have  been  adopted  by  Sir  Francis 
Palgrave,  but  few  have  dug  so  deep  in  the  dark 
mines  of  our  early  history,  and  the  nation  owes  him 
gratitude  for  the  light  he  has  thrown  on  the  origin 
of  the  British  people  and  institutions.  He  thinks 
that  the  great  truth  on  which  the  whole  history  of 
European  society  and  civilisation  depends,  is  the 
influence  of  Rome,  even  when  she  had  fallen,  and 
was  ‘ tattered,  sordid,  and  faded  as  was  her  imperial 
robe.’  The  chieftains  of  the  barbarian  dynasties  each 
assumed  the  semblance  of  the  Caesars,  and  employed 
their  titles  and  symbols.  To  Charlemagne  this 
infusion  of  the  imperial  principle  into  the  Teutonism 
of  the  Western  commonwealth  is  chiefly  due. 

{The  Battle  of  Hastings,  October  14,  1066.] 

William  had  been  most  actively  employed.  As  a 
preliminary  to  further  proceedings,  he  had  caused  all 
the  vessels  to  be  drawn  on  shore  and  rendered  unser- 
viceable. He  told  his  men  that  they  must  prepare  to 
conquer  or  to  die — flight  was  impossible.  He  had 
occupied  the  Roman  castle  of  Pevensey,  whose  walls  are 
yet  existing,  flanked  by  Anglo-Norman  towers,  and  he 
had  personally  surveyed  all  the  adjoining  country,  for 
he  never  trusted  this  part  of  a general’s  duty  to  any 
eyes  but  his  own.  One  Robert,  a Norman  thane,  who 
was  settled  in  the  neighbourhood,  advised  him  to  cast 
up  intrench  ments  for  the  purpose  of  resisting  Harold. 
William  replied,  that  his  best  defence  was  in  the  valour 
of  his  army  and  the  goodness  of  his  cause. 

In  compliance  with  the  opinions  of  the  age,  William 
had  an  astrologer  in  his  train.  An  oriental  monarch, 
at  the  present  time,  never  engages  in  battle  without  a 
previous  horoscope  ; and  this  superstition  was  univer- 
sally adopted  in  Europe  during  the  middle  ages.  But 
William’s  ‘ clerk’  was  not  merely  a star-gazer.  He  had 
graduated  in  all  the  occult  sciences — he  was  a necro- 
mancer, or,  as  the  word  was  often  spelled,  in  order  to 
accommodate  it  to  the  supposed  etymology,  a nigro- 
mancer — a ‘sortilegus’ — and  a soothsayer.  These 
accomplishments  in  the  sixteenth  century  would  have 
assuredly  brought  the  clerk  to  the  stake ; but  in  the 
eleventh,  although  they  were  highly  illegal  according  to 
the  strict  letter  of  the  ecclesiastical  law,  yet  they  were 
studied  as  eagerly  as  any  other  branch  of  metaphysics, 
of  which  they  were  supposed  to  form  a part.  The 
sorcerer  or  sortilegus,  by  casting  sortes  or  lots,  had 
ascertained  that  the  duke  would  succeed,  and  that 
Harold  would  surrender  without  a battle,  upon  which 
assurance  the  Normans  entirely  relied.  After  the 
landing,  William  inquired  for  his  conjuror.  A pilot 
came  forward,  and  told  him  that  the  unlucky  wight 
had  been  drowned  in  the  passage.  William  then 
immediately  pointed  out  tjie  folly  of  trusting  to  the 
predictions  of  one  who  was  utterly  unable  to  tell  what 
would  happen  unto  himself.  When  William  first  set 
foot  on  shore,  he  had  shewn  the  same  spirit.  He 
stumbled,  and  fell  forward  on  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

1 Mai  signe  est  giP  exclaimed  his  troops,  affrighted  at 
the  omen.  ‘ No,’  answered  William,  as  he  rose  ; ‘ I 
have  taken  seizin  of  the  country,’  shewing  the  clod  of 
earth  which  he  had  grasped.  One  of  his  soldiers,  with 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  FRANCIS  PALGRAVE. 


the  quickness  of  a modern  Frenchman,  instantly  fol- 
lowed up  the  idea  ; he  ran  to  a cottage,  and  pulled  out 
a bundle  of  reeds  from  the  thatch,  telling  him  to  receive 
that  symbol  also,  as  the  seizin  of  the  realm  with  which 
he  was  invested.  These  little  anecdotes  display  the 
turn  and  temper  of  the  Normans,  and  the  alacrity  by 
which  thq  army  was  pervaded. 

Some  fruitless  attempts  are  said  to  have  been  made 
at  negotiation.  Harold  despatched  a monk  to  the 
enemy’s  camp,  who  was  to  exhort  William  to  abandon 
his  enterprise.  The  duke  insisted  on  his  right ; but, 
as  some  historians  relate,  he  offered  to  submit  his 
claim  to  a legal  decision,  to  be  pronounced  by  the  pope, 
either  according  to  the  law  of  Normandy,  or  according 
to  the  law  of  England ; or  if  this  mode  of  adjustment 
did  not  please  Harold,  that  the  question  should  be 
decided  by  single  combat,  the  crown  becoming  the 
meed  of  the  victor.  The  propositions  of  William  are 
stated,  by  other  authorities,  to  have  contained  a pro- 
position for  a compromise — namely,  that  Harold  should 
take  Northumbria,  and  William  the  rest  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  dominions.  All  or  any  of  these  proposals  are 
such  as  may  very  probably  have  been  made ; but  they 
were  not  minuted  down  in  formal  protocols,  or  couched 
in  diplomatic  notes ; they  were  verbal  messages,  sent 
to  and  fro  on  the  eve  of  a bloody  battle. 

Fear  prevailed  in  both  camps.  The  English,  in 
addition  to  the  apprehensions  which  even  the  most 
stout-hearted  feel  on  the  eve  of  a morrow  whose  close 
they  may  never  see,  dreaded  the  papal  excommunication, 
the  curse  encountered  in  support  of  the  unlawful 
authority  of  a usurper.  When  they  were  informed 
that  battle  had  been  decided  upon,  they  stormed  and 
swore  ; and  now  the  cowardice  of  conscience  spurred 
them  on  to  riot  and  revelry.  The  whole  night  was 
passed  in  debauch.  Wces-heal  and  Drinlc-heal  re- 
sounded from  the  tents ; the  wine-cups  passed  gaily 
round  and  round  by  the  smoky  blaze  of  the  red  watch- 
fires,  while  the  ballad  of  ribald  mirth  was  loudly  sung 
by  the  carousers. 

In  the  Norman  Leaguer,  far  otherwise  had  the 
dread  of  the  approaching  morn  affected  the  hearts  of 
William’s  soldiery.  No  voice  was  heard  excepting 
the  solemn  response  of  the  Litany  and  the  chant  of 
the  psalm.  The  penitents  confessed  their  sins,  the 
masses  were  said,  and  the  sense  of  the  imminent  peril 
of  the  morrow  was  tranquillised  by  penance  and  prayer. 
Each  of  the  nations,  as  we  are  told  by  one  of  our  most 
trustworthy  English  historians,  acted  according  to  their 
‘ national  custom  ; ’ and  severe  is  the  censure  which  the 
English  thus  receive. 

The  English  were  strongly  fortified  in  their  position 
by  lines  of  trenches  and  palisades;  and  within  these 
defences  they  were  marshalled  according  to  the  Danish 
fashion — shield  against  shield,  presenting  an  impene- 
trable front  to  the  enemy.  The  men  of  Kent  formed 
the  vanguard,  for  it  was  their  privilege  to  be  the  first 
in  the  strife.  The  burgesses  of  London,  in  like  manner, 
claimed  and  obtained  the  honour  of  being  the  royal 
body-guard,  and  they  were  drawn  up  around  the 
standard.  At  the  foot  of  this  banner  stood  Harold, 
with  his  brothers,  Leofwin  and  Gurth,  and  a chosen 
body  of  the  bravest  thanes. 

Before  the  Normans  began  their  march,  and  very 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  feast  of  St  Calixtus, 
William  had  assembled  his  barons  around  him,  and 
exhorted  them  to  maintain  his  righteous  cause.  As 
the  invaders  drew  nigh,  Harold  saw  a division 
advancing,  composed  of  the  volunteers  from  the  county 
of  Boulogne  and  from  the  Amiennois,  under  the  com- 
mand of  William  Fitz-Osbem  and  Roger  Montgomery. 
‘ It  is  the  duke,’  exclaimed  Harold,  ‘ and  little  shall  I 
fear  him.  By  my  forces  will  his  be  four  times  outnum- 
bered !’  Gurth  shook  his  head,  and  expatiated  on  the 
strength  of  the  Norman  cavalry,  as  opposed  to  the  foot- 
soldiers  of  England ; but  their  discourse  was  stopped  by 


the  appearance  of  the  combined  cohorts  under  Aimeric, 
Viscount  of  Thouars,  and  Alan  Fergant  of  Brittany. 
Harold’s  heart  sunk  at  the  sight,  and  he  broke  out  into 
passionate  exclamations  of  fear  and  dismay.  But  now 
the  third  and  last  division  of  the  Norman  army  was 
drawing  nigh.  The  consecrated  Gonfanon  floats  amidst 
the  forest  of  spears,  and  Harold  is  now  too  well  aware 
that  he  beholds  the  ranks  which  are  commanded  in 
person  by  the  Duke  of  Normandy. 

Immediately  before  the  duke  rode  Taillefer,  the 
minstrel,  singing,  with  a loud  and  clear  voice,  the  lay 
of  Charlemagne  and  Roland,  and  the  emprises  of  the 
Paladins  who  had  fallen  in  the  dolorous  pass  of  Ron- 
cevaux.  Taillefer,  as  his  guerdon,  had  craved  permis- 
sion to  strike  the  first  blow,  for  he  was  a valiant 
warrior,  emulating  the  deeds  which  he  sung  : his 
appellation,  Taille-fer,  is  probably  to  be  considered  not 
as  his  real  name,  but  as  an  epithet  derived  from  his 
strength  and  prowess ; and  he  fully  justified  his 
demand,  by  transfixing  the  first  Englishman  whom  he 
attacked,  and  by  felling  the  second  to  the  ground.  The 
battle  now  became  general,  and  raged  with  the  greatest  | 
fury.  The  Normans  advanced  beyond  the  English  lines,  j 
but  they  were  driven  back,  and  forced  into  a trench,  j 
where  horses  and  riders  fell  upon  each  other  in  fearful 
confusion.  More  Normans  were  slain  here  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  field.  The  alarm  spread ; the  light 
troops  left  in  charge  of  the  baggage  and  the  stores 
thought  that  all  was  lost,  and  were  about  to  take  flight ; 
but  the  fierce  Odo,  bishop  of  Bayeux,  the  duke’s  half- 
brother,  and  who  was  better  fitted  for  the  shield  than 
for  the  mitre,  succeeded  in  reassuring  them,  and  then, 
returning  to  the  field,  and  rushing  into  that  part  where 
the  battle  was  hottest,  he  fought  as  the  stoutest  of  the 
warriors  engaged  in  the  conflict. 

From  nine  in  the  morning  till  three  in  the  afternoon, 
the  successes  on  either  side  were  nearly  balanced.  The 
charges  of  the  Norman  cavalry  gave  them  great  advan- 
tage, but  the  English  phalanx  repelled  their  enemies ; 
and  the  soldiers  were  so  well  protected  by  their  targets, 
that  the  artillery  of  the  Normans  was  long  discharged 
in  vain.  The  bowmen,  seeing  that  they  had  failed  to 
make  any  impression,  altered  the  direction  of  their  shafts, 
and  instead  of  shooting  point-blank,  the  flights  of 
arrows  were  directed  upwards,  so  that  the  points  came 
down  upon  the  heads  of  the  men  of  England,  and  the 
iron  shower  fell  with  murderous  effect.  The  English 
ranks  were  exceedingly  distressed  by  the  volleys,  yet 
they  still  stood  firm  ; and  the  Normans  now  employed 
a stratagem  to  decoy  their  opponents  out  of  their 
intrenchments.  A feigned  retreat  on  their  part,  J 
induced  the  English  to  pursue  them  with  great  heat,  j 
The  Normans  suddenly  wheeled  about,  and  a new  and  I 
fiercer  battle  was  urged.  The  field  was  covered  with  j 
separate  bands  of  foemen,  each  engaged  with  one  j 
another.  Here,  the  English  yielded — there,  they  con-  j 
quered.  One  English  thane,  armed  with  a battle-axe,  i 
spread  dismay  amongst  the  Frenchmen.  He  was  cut  ! 
down  by  Roger  de  Montgomery.  The  Normans  have  j 
preserved  the  name  of  the  Norman  baron,  but  that  of 
the  Englishman  is  lost  in  oblivion.  Some  other  English 
thanes  are  also  praised  as  having  singly,  and  by  their 
personal  prowess,  delayed  the  ruin  of  their  countrymen  j 
and  country. 

At  one  period  of  the  battle,  the  Normans  were  nearly  j 
routed.  The  cry  was  raised  that  the  duke  was  slain,  i 
and  they  began  to  fly  in  every  direction.  William 
threw  off  his  helmet,  and  galloping  through  the  squad- 
rons, rallied  his  barons,  though  not  without  great 
difficulty.  Harold,  on  his  part,  used  every  possible 
exertion,  and  was  distinguished  as  the  most  active 
and  bravest  amongst  the  soldiers  in  the  host  which 
he  led  on  to  destruction.  A Norman  arrow  wounded 
him  in  the  left  eye  ; he  dropped  from  his  steed  in 
agony,  and  was  borne  to  the  foot  of  the  standard,  j 
The  English  began  to  give  way,  or  rather  to  retreat 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


to  the  standard  as  their  rallying-point.  The  Normans 
encircled  them,  and  fought  desperately  to  reach  this 
goaL  Robert  Fitz-Emest  had  almost  seized  the  banner, 
but  he  was  killed  in  the  attempt.  William  led  his 
troops  on  with  the  intention,  it  is  said,  of  measuring 
his  sword  with  Harold.  He  did  encounter  an  English 
i horseman,  from  whom  he  received  such  a stroke  upon 
j his  helmet,  that  he  was  nearly  brought  to  the  ground. 
| The  Normans  flew  to  the  aid  of  their  sovereign,  and 
the  bold  Englishman  was  pierced  by  their  lances. 
About  the  same  time  the  tide  of  battle  took  a moment- 
ary turn.  The  Kentish  men  and  East  Saxons  rallied, 
and  repelled  the  Norman  barons ; but  Harold  was  not 
amongst  them ; and  William  led  on  his  troops  with 
desperate  intrepidity.  In  the  thick  crowd  of  the 
assailants  and  the  assailed,  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  were 
l plunged  deep  into  the  gore  of  the  dead  and  the  dying. 
Gurth  was  at  the  foot  of  the  standard,  without  hope, 
but  without  fear : he  fell  by  the  falchion  of  William. 
The  English  banner  was  cast  down,  and  the  Gonfanon 
planted  in  its  place,  announced  that  William  of 
Normandy  was  the  conqueror.  It  was  now  late  in  the 
evening.  The  English  troops  were  entirely  broken,  yet 
no  Englishman  would  surrender.  The  conflict  continued 
in  many  parts  of  the  bloody  field  long  after  dark. 

By  William’s  orders,  a spot  close  to  the  Gonfanon 
was  cleared,  and  he  caused  his  pavilion  to  be  pitched 
among  the  corpses  which  were  heaped  around.  He 
there  supped  with  his  barons  ; and  they  feasted  among 
the  dead ; but  when  he  contemplated  the  fearful 
slaughter,  a natural  feeling  of  pity,  perhaps  allied  to 
repentance,  arose  in  his  stern  mind ; and  the  Abbey 
of  Battle,  in  which  the  prayer  was  to  be  offered  up 
perpetually  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  all  who 
had  fallen  in  the  conflict,  was  at  once  the  monument 
of  his  triumph  and  the  token  of  his  piety.  The  abbey 
was  most  richly  endowed,  and  all  the  land  for  one 
league  round  about  was  annexed  to  the  Battle  franchise. 
The  abbot  was  freed  from  the  authority  of  the  Metro- 
politan of  Canterbury,  and  invested  with  ‘archiepiscopal 
jurisdiction.  The  high-altar  was  erected  on  the  very 
spot  where  Harold’s  standard  had  waved ; and  the 
roll,  deposited  in  the  archives  of  the  monastery, 
recorded  the  names  of  those  who  had  fought  with  the 
Conqueror,  and  amongst  whom  the  lands  of  broad 
England  were  divided.  But  all  this  pomp  and  solem- 
i nity  has  passed  away  like  a dream.  The  ‘perpetual 
j prayer’  has  ceased  for  ever — the  roll  of  Battle  is  rent. 

I The  shields  of  the  Norman  lineages  are  trodden  in  the 
j dust — the  abbey  is  levelled  with  the  ground — and  a 
' dank  and  reedy  pool  fills  the  spot  where  the  foundations 
! of  the  quire  have  been  uncovered,  merely  for  the  gaze 
! of  the  idle  visitor,  or  the  instruction  of  the  moping 
I antiquary. 

MR  FROUDE. 

•The  research  and  statistical  knowledge  evinced 
by  Lord  Macaulay  in  his  view  of  the  state  of 
i England  in  1685,  have  been  rivalled  by  another 
[ historian,  an  investigator  of  an  earlier  period.  The 
j History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the 
Death  of  Elizabeth,  by  J.  A.  Froude,  late  Fellow 
of  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  is  a work  of  sterling 
ability,  though  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  a special 
pleader.  The  object  of  the  author  is  to  vindicate 
the  character  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  to  depict  the 
actual  condition,  the  contentment  and  loyalty  of 
the  people  during  his  reign.  For  part  of  the 
original  and  curious  detail  in  which  the  work 
abounds,  Mr  Froude  was  indebted  to  Sir  Francis 
Palgrave,  but  he  has  himself  been  indefatigable  in 
collecting  information  from  state-papers  and  other 
sources.  The  result  is,  not  a justification  of  the 
capricious  tyranny  and  cruelty  of  Henry — which  in 
essential  points  is  unjustifiable — but  the  removal 
690 


of  some  stains  from  his  memory  which  have  been 
continued  without  examination  by  previous  writers ; 
and  the  accumulation  of  many  interesting  facts 
relative  to  the  great  men  and  the  social  state  of 
England  in  that  transitionary  era.  Life  was  then, 
according  to  the  historian,  unrefined,  but  ‘ coloured 
with  a broad  rosy  English  health.’  Personal  free- 
dom, however,  was  very  limited ; and  under  such  a 
system  of  statutory  restriction  or  protection  as  then 
prevailed,  no  nation  could  ever  have  advanced.  Mr 
Froude  has  not  yet  completed  his  work.  Two 
volumes  were  published  in  1856,  and  two  more  in 
1858,  bringing  down  the  history  to  the  death  of 
Henry. 


[. Markets  and  Wages  in  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII.] 

Wheat,  the  price  of  which  necessarily  varied,  averaged 
in  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  tenpence  the 
bushel ; barley  averaging  at  the  same  time  three 
shillings  the  quarter.  With  wheat  the  fluctuations  were 
excessive ; a table  of  its  possible  variations  describes  it 
as  ranging  from  eighteenpence  the  quarter  to  twenty 
shillings ; the  average,  however,  being  six-and-eight-  j 
pence.  When  the  price  was  above  this  sum,  the  | 
merchants  might  import  to  bring  it  down;  when  it  | 
was  below  this  price,  the  farmers  were  allowed  to  export  ! 
to  the  foreign  markets ; and  the  same  average  continued  j 
to  hold,  with  no  perceptible  tendency  to  a rise,  till  the  j 
close  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Beef  and  pork  were  a halfpenny  a pound — mutton  I 
was  three-farthings.  They  were  fixed  at  these  prices  I 
by  the  3d  of  the  24th  of  Henry  VIII.  But  this  act  j 
was  unpopular  both  with  buyers  and  with  sellers.  The  ; 
old  practice  had  been  to  sell  in  the  gross,  and  under  ; 
that  arrangement  the  rates  had  been  generally  lower. 
Stowe  says:  ‘It  was  this  year  enacted  that  butch  era  I 
should  sell  their  beef  and  mutton  by  weight — beef  for 
a halfpenny  the  pound,  and  mutton  for  three-farthings ; 
which  being  devised  for  the  great  commodity  of  the 
realm — as  it  was  thought — hath  proved  far  otherwise : ; 
for  at  that  time  fat  oxen  were  sold  for  six-and-twenty 
shillings  and  eightpence  the  piece;  fat  wethers  for 
three  shillings  and  fourpence  the  piece ; fat  calves  at 
a like  price ; and  fat  lambs  for  twelvepence.  The 
butchers  of  London  sold  penny  pieces  of  beef  for  the 
relief  of  the  poor — every  piece  two  pounds  and  a half, 
sometimes  three  pounds  for  a penny ; and  thirteen  and 
sometimes  fourteen  of  these  pieces  for  twelvepence; 
mutton,  eightpence  the  quarter ; and  an  hundredweight 
of  beef  for  four  shillings  and  eightpence.’  The  act  was 
repealed  in  consequence  of  the  complaints  against  it, 
but  the  prices  never  fell  again  to  what  they  had  been, 
although  beef,  sold  in  the  gross,  could  still  be  had  for 
a halfpenny  a pound  in  1570. 

Strong  beer,  such  as  we  now  buy  for  eighteenpence  a 
gallon,  was  then  a penny  a gallon ; and  table-beer  less 
than  a halfpenny.  French  and  German  wines  were 
eightpence  the  gallon.  Spanish  and  Portuguese  wines 
a shilling.  This  was  the  highest  price  at  which  the 
best  wines  might  be  sold ; and  if  there  was  any  fault 
in  quality  or  quantity,  the  dealers  forfeited  four  times 
the  amount.  Rent,  another  important  consideration, 
cannot  be  fixed  so  accurately,  for  parliament  did  not 
interfere  with  it.  Here,  however,  we  are  not  without 
very  tolerable  information.  ‘ My  father,’  says  Latimer, 

‘ was  a yeoman,  and  had  no  land  of  his  own ; only  he 
had  a farm  of  three  or  four  pounds  by  the  year  at  the 
uttermost,  and  hereupon  he  tilled  so  much  as  kept 
half-a-dozen  men.  He  had  walk  for  a hundred  sheep, 
and  my  mother  milked  thirty  kine.  He  was  able,  and  j 
did  find  the  king  a harness  with  himself  and  his  horse.  ! 
I remembered  that  I buckled  on  his  harness  when  he 
went  to  Blackheath  field.  He  kept  me  to  school,  or 
else  I had  not  been  able  to  have  preached  before  the 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MR  PROTIDE. 


king’s  majesty  now.  He  married  my  sisters  with  five 
pounds,  or  twenty  nobles,  each,  having  brought  them 
up  in  godliness  and  fear  of  God.  He  kept  hospitality 
for  his  poor  neighbours,  and  some  alms  he  gave  to  the 
poor ; and  all  this  he  did  off  the  said  farm.’  If  ‘ three 
or  four  pounds  at  the  uttermost’  was  the  rent  of  a 
farm  yielding  such  results,  the  rent  of  labourers’  cottages 
is  not  likely  to  have  been  considerable. 

I am  below  the  truth,  therefore,  with  this  scale  of 
prices  in  assuming  the  penny  in  terms  of  a labourer’s 
necessities  to  have  been  equal  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  to  the  present  shilling.  For  a penny,  at  the  time 
of  which  I write,  the  labourer  could  buy  more  bread, 
beef,  beer,  and  wine — he  could  do  more  towards  finding 
lodging  for  himself  and  his  family — than  the  labourer  of 
the  nineteenth  century  can  for  a shilling.  I do  not  see 
that  this  admits  of  question.  Turning,  then,  to  the 
table  of  wages,  it  will  be  easy  to  ascertain  his  position. 
By  the  3d  of  the  6th  of  Henry  VIII.,  it  was  enacted 
that  master  carpenters,  masons,  bricklayers,  tylers, 
plummers,  glaziers,  joiners,  and  other  employers  of  such 
skilled  workmen,  should  give  to  each  of  their  journey- 
men, if  no  meat  or  drink  was  allowed,  sixpence  a day 
for  half  the  year,  fivepence  a day  for  the  other  half ; or 
fivepence  half-penny  for  the  yearly  average.  The  com- 
mon labourers  were  to  receive  fourpence  a day  for  half 
the  year,  for  the  remaining  half,  threepence.  In  the 
harvest  months  they  were  allowed  to  work  by  the  piece, 
and  might  earn  considerably  more ; so  that,  in  fact — 
and  this  was  the  rate  at  which  their  wages  were  usually 
estimated — the  day-labourer  received,  on  an  average, 
fourpence  a day  for  the  whole  year.  Nor  was  he  in 
danger,  except  by  his  own  fault  or  by  unusual  accident, 
of  being  thrown  out  of  employ ; for  he  was  engaged  by 
contract  for  not  less  than  a year,  and  could  not  be 
dismissed  before  his  term  had  expired,  unless  some 
gross  misconduct  could  be  proved  against  him  before 
two  magistrates.  Allowing  a deduction  of  one  day  in 
the  week  for  a saint’s  day  or  a holiday,  he  received, 
therefore,  steadily  and  regularly,  if  well  conducted,  an 
equivalent  of  twenty  shillings  a week  : twenty  shillings 
a week  and  a holiday : and  this  is  far  from  being  a full 
account  of  his  advantages.  In  most  parishes,  if  not  in 
all,  there  were  large  ranges  of  common  and  unenclosed 
forest-land,  which  furnished  his  fuel  to  him  gratis, 
where  pigs  might  range,  and  ducks  and  geese ; where, 
if  he  could  afford  a cow,  he  was  in  no  danger  of  being 
unable  to  feed  it ; and  so  important  was  this  privilege 
considered,  that  when  the  commons  began  -to  be  largely 
enclosed,  parliament  insisted  that  the  working-man 
should  not  be  without  some  piece  of  ground  on  which 
he  could  employ  his  own  and  his  family’s  industry.  By 
the  7th  of  the  31st  of  Elizabeth,  it  was  ordered  that 
no  cottage  should  be  built  for  residence  without  four 
acres  of  land  at  lowest  being  attached  to  it  for  the  sole 
use  of  the  occupants  of  such  cottage. 

[Portrait  of  Henry  F///.] 

Nature  had  been  prodigal  to  him  of  her  rarest  gifts. 
In  person  he  is  said  to  have  resembled  his  grandfather, 
Edward  IV.,  who  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Europe. 
His  form  and  bearing  were  princely;  and  amidst  the 
easy  freedom  of  his  address,  his  manner  remained 
majestic.  No  knight  in  England  could  match  him  in 
the  tournament,  except  the  Duke  o i Suffolk;  he  drew 
with  ease  as  strong  a bow  as  was  borne  by  any  yeoman 
of  his  guard ; and  these  powers  were  sustained  in 
unfailing  vigour  by  a temperate  habit  and  by  constant 
exercise.  Of  his  intellectual  ability  we  are  not  le£t  to 
judge  from  the  suspicious  panegyrics  of  his  contempo- 
raries. His  state-papers  and  letters  may  be  placed  by 
the  side  of  those  of  Wolsey  or  of  Cromwell,  and  they 
lose  nothing  in  the  comparison.  Though  they  are 
broadly  different,  the  perception  is  equally  clear,  the 
expression  equally  powerful,  and  they  breathe  throughout 


an  irresistible  vigour  of  purpose.  In  addition  to 
this,  he  had  a fine  musical  taste,  carefully  cultivated ; 
he  spoke  and  wrote  in  four  languages;  and  his  know- 
ledge of  a multitude  of  other  subjects,  with  which  his 
versatile  ability  made  him  conversant,  would  have 
formed  the  reputation  of  any  ordinary  man.  He  was 
among  the  best  physicians  of  his  age ; he  was  his  own 
engineer,  inventing  improvements  in  artillery,  and  new 
constructions  in  ship-building;  and  this  not  with  the 
condescending  incapacity  of  a royal  amateur,  but  with 
thorough  workmanlike  understanding.  His  reading 
was  vast,  especially  in  theology,  which  has  been  ridicu- 
lously ascribed  by  Lord  Herbert  to  his  father’s  intention  I 
of  educating  him  for  the  archbishopric  of  Canterbury — I 
as  if  the  scientific  mastery  of  such  a subject  could  have 
been  acquired  by  a boy  of  twelve  years  of  age,  for  he 
was  no  more  when  he  became  Prince  of  Wales.  He 
must  have  studied  theology  with  the  full  maturity  of 
his  understanding;  and  he  had  a fixed,  and  perhaps 
unfortunate,  interest  in  the  subject  itself. 

In  all  directions  of  human  activity,  Henry  displayed 
natural  powers  of  the  highest  order,  at  the  highest 
stretch  of  industrious  culture.  He  was  ‘attentive,’  as  ! 
it  is  called,  ‘ to  his  religious  duties,’  being  present  at  the 
services  in  the  chapel  two  or  three  times  a day  with 
unfailing  regularity,  and  shewing  to  outward  appearance 
a real  sense  of  religious  obligation  in  the  energy  and 
purity  of  his  life.  In  private,  he  was  good-humoured 
and  good-natured.  His  letters  to  his  secretaries,  though 
never  undignified,  are  simple,  easy,  and  unrestrained; 
and  the  letters  written  by  them  to  him  are  similarly 
plain  and  business-like,  as  if  the  writers  knew  that  the 
person  whom  they  were  addressing  disliked  compliments, 
and  chose  to  be  treated  as  a man.  Again,  from  their 
correspondence  with  one  another,  when  they  describe 
interviews  with  him,  we  gather  the  same  pleasant 
impression.  He  seems  to  have  been  always  kind, 
always  considerate ; inquiring  into  their  private  con- 
cerns with  genuine  interest,  and  winning,  as  a conse- 
quence, their  warm  and  unaffected  attachment. 

As  a ruler,  he  had  been  eminently  popular.  All  his 
wars  had  been  successful.  He  had  the  splendid  tastes 
in  which  the  English  people  most  delighted,  and  he  had 
substantially  acted  out  his  own  theory  of  his  duty,  which 
was  expressed  in  the  following  words  : 

* Scripture  taketh  princes  to  be,  as  it  were,  fathers 
and  nurses  to  their  subjects,  and  by  Scripture  it 
appeareth  that  it  appertaineth  unto  the  office  of  princes 
to  see  that  right  religion  and  true  doctrine  be  maintained 
and  taught,  and  that  their  subjects  may  be  well  ruled 
and  governed  by  good  and  just  laws  ; and  to  provide 
and  care  for  them  that  all  things  necessary  for  them 
may  be  plenteous;  and  that  the  people  and  common- 
weal may  increase ; and  to  defend  them  from  oppression 
and  invasion,  as  well  within  the  realm  as  without;  and 
to  see  that  justice  be  administered  unto  them  indiffer- 
ently ; and  to  hear  benignly  all  their  complaints ; and 
to  shew  towards  them,  although  they  offend,  fatherly 
pity.  And,  finally,  so  to  correct  them  that  the  evil, 
that  they  had  yet  rather  save  them  than  lose  them  if  it 
were  not  for  respect  of  justice,  and  maintenance  of 
peace  and  good  order  in  the  commonweal.’ 

These  principles  do  really  appear  to  have  determined 
Henry’s  conduct  in  his  earlier  years.  He  had  more  than 
once  been  tried  with  insurrection,  which  he  had  soothed 
down  without  bloodshed,  and  extinguished  in  forgive- 
ness ; and  London  long  recollected  the  great  scene  which 
followed  ‘evil  May-day,’  1517,  when  the  apprentices 
were  brought  down  to  Westminster  Hall  to  receive  their 
pardons.  There  had  been  a dangerous  riot  in  the  streets, 
which  might  have  provoked  a mild  government  to 
severity ; but  the  king  contented  himself  with  punish- 
ing the  five  ringleaders,  and  four  hundred  other  prisoners, 
after  being  paraded  down  the  streets  in  white  shirts 
with  halters  round  their  necks,  were  dismissed  with 
an  admonition,  Wolsey  weeping  as  he  pronounced  it. 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


It  is  certain  that  if  he  had  died  before  the  divorce 
was  mooted,  Henry  YIII.,  like  that  Roman  emperor 
said  by  Tacitus  to  have  been  consensu  omnium  dignus 
imperii  nisi  imperasset,  would  have  been  considered  by 
posterity  as  formed  by  Providence  for  the  conduct  of 
the  Reformation,  and  his  loss  would  have  been  deplored 
as  a perpetual  calamity.  We  must  allow  him,  therefore, 
the  benefit  of  his  past  career,  and  be  careful  to  remem- 
ber it,  when  interpreting  his  later  actions.  Not  many 
men  would  have  borne  themselves  through  the  same 
trials  with  the  same  integrity ; but  the  circumstances  of 
those  trials  had  not  tested  the  true  defects  in  his  moral 
constitution.  Like  all  princes  of  the  Plantagenet  blood, 
he  was  a person  of  a most  intense  and  imperious  wilL 
His  impulses,  in  general,  nobly  directed,  had  never 
known  contradiction ; and  late  in  life,  when  his 
character  was  formed,  he  was  forced  into  collision  with 
difficulties  with  which  the  experience  of  discipline 
had  not  fitted  him  to  contend.  Education  had  done 
much  for  him,  but  his  nature  required  more  cor- 
rection than  his  position  had  permitted,  whilst  unbroken 
prosperity  and  early  independence  of  control  had 
been  his  most  serious  misfortune.  He  had  capacity, 
if  his  training  had  been  equal  to  it,  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  of  men.  With  all  his  faults  about  him,  he  was 
still,  perhaps,  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries ; and 
the  man  best  able  of  all  living  Englishmen  to  govern 
England,  had  he  not  been  set  to  do  it  by  the  conditions 
of  his  birth. 


DR  ARNOLD— SIR  G.  C.  LEWIS. 

Early  Roman  history  has  of  late  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  investigation  and  discussion.  The  celebrated 
work  of  Niebuhr,  thePrussian  historian  (1776-1831), 
was  published  in  1811,  and  again,  much  modified 
and  enlarged,  in  1827.  For  some  time  it  attracted 
little  attention  in  this  country,  but  gradually  fol- 
lowers and  disciples  sprung  up.  The  leading  theory 
of  Niebuhr  was,  that  the  commonly  received  history 
of  the  early  centuries  of  Rome  was  in  great  part 
fabulous,  founded  on  popular  songs  or  lays  chanted 
at  the  Roman  banquets.  Greece  had  her  rhapsodists, 
the  Teutonic  nations  their  bards,  and  Rome,  he 
concluded,  had  also  her  poetical  chroniclers.  To 
eliminate  whatever  portion  of  truth  was  contained 
in  these  stories  of  the  mythic  period — and  Niebuhr 
believed  that  they  did  contain  many  authentic  facts 
— was  the  chosen  task  of  the  learned  Prussian,  and 
of  all  those  who  adopted  his  ‘ ballad  theory  ’ as  a 
sound  historical  hypothesis.  One  of  the  most 
enthusiastic  of  his  admirers  was  Dr  Thomas 
Arnold  (1795-1842),  the  well-known  and  popular 
master  of  Rugby  School.  Arnold  was  a native  of 
East  Cowes,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  his  father 
resided  as  collector  of  customs.  He  was  educated 
at  Winchester,  and  afterwards  at  Oxford,  being 
elected  a Fellow  of  Oriel  College  in  1815.  He 
remained  at  Oxford  four  more  years,  employed  in 
instructing  pupils  ; and  in  his  twenty-fifth  year 
he  settled  at  Laleham,  near  Staines,  in  Middlesex. 
At  Laleham  he  took  pupils,  as  before,  married,  and 
spent  nine  years  of  happiness  and  study.  He  took 
priest’s  orders  in  1828,  and  in  that  year  occurred 
the  great  turning-point  of  his  life — he  was  appointed 
to  Rugby  School.  He  longed  to  ‘ try  whether  our 
public  school  system  has  not  in  it  some  noble  ele- 
ments which  may  produce  fruit  even  to  life  eternal,’ 
and  his  exertions  not  only  raised  Rugby  School  to 
the  highest  popularity,  but  introduced  a great 
change  and  improvement  into  all  the  public  schools 
in  England.  He  trusted  much  to  the  4 sixth  form,’ 
or  elder  boys,  who  exercise  a recognised  authority 
over  the  junior  pupils,  and  these  he  inspired  with 
692 


love,  reverence,  and  confidence.  His  interest  in  his 


pupils  was  that  of  a parent,  and  it  was  unceasing. 
On  Sunday  he  preached  to  them ; ‘ he  was  still  the 
instructor  and  the  schoolmaster,  only  teaching  and 
educating  with  increased  solemnity  and  energy.’ 
All  ‘ unpromising  subjects,’  or  pupils  likely  to  taint 
others,  he  removed  from  the  school.  ‘It  is  not 
j necessary,’  he  said,  ‘ that  this  should  be  a school  of 
three  hundred,  or  one  hundred,  or  of  fifty  boys ; but 
i it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be  a school  of  Christian 
! gentlemen.’  His  firmness,  his  sympathy,  his  fine 
manly  character,  and  devotion  to  duty,  in  time 
bound  all  good  hearts  to  him.  Out  of  doors,  Arnold 
had  also  his  battles  to  fight.  He  was  a liberal  in 
politics,  though  not  a partisan,  and  a keen  church 
reformer.  To  the  High  Church  party  he  was 
strenuously  opposed.  The  Church,  he  said,  meant 
| not  the  priesthood,  but  the  body  of  believers. 

, Christianity  recognised  no  priesthood — the  whole 
i body  of  believers  were  equally  brethren.  Nothing, 
he  conceived,  could  save  the  Church  but  a union 
j with  the  Dissenters ; and  the  civil  power  was  more 
I able  than  the  clergy,  not  only  to  govern,  but  to  fix 
, the  doctrines  of  the  Church.  These  Erastian  views, 
propounded  with  his  usual  zeal  and  earnestness, 
offended  and  alarmed  many  of  Arnold’s  own  friends, 
especially  those  of  the  clergy,  and  he  also  failed  to 
; conciliate  the  Dissenters.  The  Whig  government, 
in  1835,  appointed  him  a Fellow  in  the  Senate  of  the 
I new  University  of  London.  Arnold,  convinced  that 
! Christianity  should  be  the  basis  and  principle  of  all 
education  in  a Christian  country,  proposed  that 
every  candidate  for  a degree  in  the  university 
should  be  examined  on  the  Scriptures.  This  was 
resisted — at  least  to  the  extent  that  the  examina- 
tion should  not  be  compulsory,  but  voluntary — 
and  Arnold  afterwards  resigned  his  appointment. 
In  1841,  he  obtained  one  more  congenial  to  his 
i tastes  and  pursuits — he  was  nominated  Regius 
j Professor  of  Modern  History  at  Oxford.  His  inau- 
gural lecture  was  attended  by  a vast  concourse  of 
; students  and  Mends,  for  the  popular  tide  had  now 
turned  in  his  favour,  and  his  robust  health  promised 
a long  succession  of  professorial  triumphs,  as  well 
as  of  general  usefulness.  He  had  purchased  a small 
property  in  Westmoreland — Fox  How,  situated  in 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  portions  of  the  Lake 
country,  with  the  now  classic  river  Rotha,  ‘purior 
electro,’  winding  round  his  fields.  At  Fox  How  he 
spent  his  vacations ; and  he  was  preparing  to  return 
thither  in  the  summer  of  1842,  when,  one  night,  he 
was  seized  with  spasms  of  the  heart,  and  died  ere 
I eight  o’clock  next  morning,  J une  12,  1 842.  The 
works  of  Dr  Arnold  give  but  a faint  idea  of  what 
I he  accomplished.  He  was  emphatically  a man  of 
action.  His  writings,  however,  are  characteristic  of 
the  man — earnest,  clear  in  conception  and  style, 
j and  independent  in  thought.  His  History  of  Rome , 
which  he  intended  to  carry  down  to  the  Fall  of  the 
j Western  Empire,  was  completed  only  to  the  end  of 
! the  Second  Punic  War,  and  is  contained  in  three 
; volumes : he  edited  Thucydides , and  his  Introductoi-y 
| Lectures  on  Modern  History — eight  in  number — 
were  published  after  his  death,  in  one  volume,  1843. 
i Six  volumes  of  his  Sennons,  chiefly  delivered  to  the 
Rugby  boys,  have  also  been  published,  with  a 
volume  of  tracts  on  social  and  political  topics, 
collected  and  republished  by  his  pupil  and  bio- 
grapher, the  Rev.  A.  P.  Stanley.  His  Roman  History 
— in  which  he  closely  follows  Niebuhr — is  striking 
and  picturesque,  rather  than  philosophical.  His 
strong  moral  feeling  and  hatred  of  tyranny  in  all  its 
' shapes  occasionally  break  forth,  and  he  gave  anima- 
! tion  to  his  narrative  by  contrasting  ancient  with 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  ARNOLD. 


modern  events — a mode  of  illustration  in  which  he 
has  been  followed  by  Macaulay  and  Grote. 

[Character  of  Scijpio.] 

A mind  like  Scipio’s,  working  its  way  under  the 
peculiar  influences  of  his  time  and  country,  cannot  but 
move  irregularly — it  cannot  but  be  full  of  contra- 
dictions. Two  hundred  years  later,  the  mind  of  the 
dictator,  Caesar,  acquiesced  contentedly  in  epicureanism  ; 
he  retained  no  more  of  enthusiasm  than  was  inseparable 
from  the  intensity  of  his  intellectual  power,  and  the 
fervour  of  his  courage,  even  amidst  his  utter  moral 
degradation.  But  Scipio  could  not  be  like  Caesar.  His 
mind  rose  above  the  state  of  things  around  him ; his 
spirit  was  solitary  and  kingly;  he  was  cramped  by 
living  among  those  as  his  equals  whom  he  felt  fitted 
to  guide  as  from  some  higher  sphere ; and  he  retired  at 
last  to  Liternum,  to  breathe  freely,  to  enjoy  the  simpli- 
city of  his  childhood,  since  he  could  not  fulfil  his  natural 
calling  to  be  a hero-king.  So  far  he  stood  apart  from 
his  countrymen — admired,  reverenced,  but  not  loved. 
But  he  could  not  shake  off  all  the  influences  of  his  time  : 
the  virtue,  public  and  private,  which  still  existed  at 
Rome — the  reverence  paid  by  the  wisest  and  best  men 
to  the  religion  of  their  fathers — were  elements  too 
congenial  to  his  nature  not  to  retain  their  hold  on  it : 
they  cherished  that  nobleness  of  soul  in  him,  and  that 
faith  in  the  invisible  and  divine,  which  two  centuries  of 
growing  unbelief  rendered  almost  impossible  in  the  days 
of  Caesar.  Yet  how  strange  must  the  conflict  be  when 
faith  is  combined  wdth  the  highest  intellectual  power, 
and  its  appointed  object  is  no  better  than  paganism  ! 
Longing  to  believe,  yet  repelled  by  palpable  falsehood — 
crossed  inevitably  with  snatches  of  unbelief,  in  which 
hypocrisy  is  ever  close  at  the  door — it  breaks  out 
desperately,  as  it  may  seem,  into  the  region  of  dreams 
and  visions,  and  mysterious  communings  with  the 
invisible,  as  if  longing  to  find  that  food  in  its  own 
creations  which  no  outward  objective  truth  offers  to 
it.  The  propoi-tions  of  belief  and  unbelief  in  the  human 
mind  in  such  cases,  no  human  judgment  can  determine 
— they  are  the  wonders  of  history ; characters  inevitably 
misrepresented  by  the  vulgar,  and  viewed  even  by  those 
who,  in  some  sense,  have  the  key  to  them  as  a mystery 
not  fully  to  be  comprehended,  and  still  less  explained 
to  others.  The  genius  which  conceived  the  incompre- 
hensible character  of  Hamlet  would  alone  be  able  to 
describe  with  intuitive  truth  the  character  of  Scipio  or 
of  Cromwell.  With  all  his  greatness  there  was  a 
waywardness  in  him  which  seems  often  to  accompany 
genius ; a self-idolatry,  natural  enough  where  there  is  so 
keen  a consciousness  of  power  and  of  lofty  designs;  a 
self-dependence,  which  feels  even  the  most  sacred 
external  relations  to  be  unessential  to  its  own  perfection. 
Such  is  the  Achilles  of  Homer — the  highest  conception 
of  the  individual  hero  relying  on  himself,  and  sufficient 
to  himself.  But  the  same  poet  who  conceived  the 
character  of  Achilles  has  also  drawn  that  of  Hector; 
of  the  truly  noble,  because  unselfish  hero — who  subdues 
his  genius  to  make  it  minister  to  the  good  of  others — 
who  lives  for  his  relations,  his  friends,  and  his  country. 
And  as  Scipio  lived  in  himself  and  for  himself  like 
Achilles,  so  the  virtue  of  Hector  was  worthily  repre- 
sented in  the  life  of  his  great  rival  Hannibal,  who, 
from  his  childhood  to  his  latest  hour,  in  war  and  in 
peace,  through  glory  and  through  obloquy,  amid  victories 
and  amid  disappointments,  ever  remembered  to  what 
purpose  his  father  had  devoted  him,  and  withdrew  no 
thought,  or  desire,  or  deed,  from  their  pledged  service 
to  his  country. 

[Character  of  Hannibal .] 

Hannibal’s  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Homeric  god, 
who,  in  his  hatred  of  the  Trojans,  rises  from  the  deep 


to  rally  the  fainting  Greeks,  and  to  lead  them  against 
the  enemy ; so  the  calm  courage  with  which  Hector  met 
his  more  than  human  adversary  in  his  country’s  cause, 
is  no  unworthy  image  of  the  unyielding  magnanimity 
displayed  by  the  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal 
utterly  eclipses  Carthage,  so,  on  the  contrary,  Fabius, 
Marcellus,  Claudius  Nero,  even  Scipio  himself,  are  as 
nothing  when  compared  to  the  spirit  and  wisdom  and 
power  of  Rome.  The  senate,  which  voted  its  thanks  to 
its  political  enemy,  Yarro,  after  his  disastrous  defeat, 
because  he  had  not  despaired  of  the  commonwealth, 
and  which  threatened  either  to  solicit,  or  to  reprove,  or 
to  threaten,  or  in  any  way  to  notice  the  twelve  colonies 
which  had  refused  their  accustomed  supplies  of  men  for 
the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honoured  than  the  conqueror 
of  Zama.  This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear  in 
mind,  because  our  tendency  is  to  admire  individual 
greatness  far  more  than  national ; and  as  no  single 
Roman  will  bear  comparison  with  Hannibal,  we  are  apt 
to  murmur  at  the  event  of  the  contest,  and  to  think 
that  the  victory  was  awarded  to  the  least  worthy  of  the 
combatants.  On  the  contrary,  never  wras  the  wisdom  of 
God’s  providence  more  manifest  than  in  the  issue  of  the 
struggle  between  Rome  and  Carthage.  It  was  clearly 
for  the  good  of  mankind  that  Hannibal  should  be  con- 
quered ; his  triumph  would  have  stopped  the  progress 
of  the  world.  For  great  men  can  only  act  permanently 
by  forming  great  nations ; and  no  one  man,  even  though 
it  were  Hannibal  himself,  can  in  one  generation  effect 
such  a work.  But  where  the  nation  has  been  merely 
enkindled  for  a while  by  a great  man’s  spirit,  the  light 
passes  away  with  him  who  communicated  it ; and  the 
nation,  when  he  is  gone,  is  like  a dead  body,  to  which 
magic  power  had  for  a moment  given  an  unnatural  life ; 
when  the  charm  has  ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and  stiff  as 
before.  He  who  grieves  over  the  battle  of  Zama  should 
carry  on  his  thoughts  to  a period  thirty  years  later, 
when  Hannibal  must,  in  the  course  of  nature,  have  been 
dead,  and  consider  how  the  isolated  Phoenician  city  of 
Carthage  was  fitted  to  receive  and  to  consolidate  the 
civilisation  of  Greece,  or  by  its  laws  and  institutions 
to  bind  together  barbarians  of  every  race  and  language 
into  an  organised  empire,  and  prepare  them  for  becoming, 
when  that  empire  was  dissolved,  the  free  members  of 
the  commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe. 

[Sufferings  during  the  Siege  of  Genoa .] 

In  the  autumn  of  1799  the  Austrians  had  driven  the 
French  out  of  Lombardy  and  Piedmont;  their  last 
victory  of  Fossano  or  Genola  had  won  the  fortress  of 
Coni  or  Cuneo,  close  under  the  Alps,  and  at  the  very 
extremity  of  the  plain  of  the  Po ; the  French  clung  to 
Italy  only  by  their  hold  of  the  Riviera  of  Genoa,  the 
narrow  strip  of  coast  between  the  Apennines  and  the 
sea,  which  extends  from  the  frontiers  of  France  almost 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Arno.  Hither  the  remains  of  the 
French  force  were  collected,  commanded  by  General 
Massena,  and  the  point  of  chief  importance  to  his 
defence  was  the  city  of  Genoa.  Napoleon  had  just 
returned  from  Egypt,  and  was  become  First  Consul ; but 
he  could  not  be  expected  to  take  the  field  till  the  follow- 
ing spring,  and  till  then,  Massena  was  hopeless  of  relief 
from  without — everything  was  to  depend  on  his  own 
pertinacity.  The  strength  of  his  army  made  it  impos- 
sible to  force  it  in  such  a position  as  Genoa;  but  its 
very  numbers,  added  to  the  population  of  a great  city, 
held  out  to  the  enemy  a hope  of  reducing  it  by 
famine ; and  as  Genoa  derives  most  of  its  supplies  by 
sea,  Lord  Keith,  the  British  naval  commander-in- 
chief in  the  Mediterranean,  lent  the  assistance  of  his 
naval  force  to  the  Austrians,  and  by  the  vigilance  of 
his  cruisers,  the  whole  coasting-trade  right  and  left 
along  the  Riviera  was  effectually  cut  off.  It  is  not  at 
once  that  the  inhabitants  of  a great  city,  accustomed  to 
the  daily  sight  of  well-stored  shops  and  an  abundant 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


i market,  begin  to  realise  the  idea  of  scarcity;  or  that 
! the  wealthy  classes  of  society,  who  have  never  known 
j any  other  state  than  one  of  abundance  and  luxury,  begin 
: seriously  to  conceive  of  famine.  But  the  shops  were 
\ emptied,  and  the  storehouses  began  to  be  drawn  upon, 

; and  no  fresh  supply  or  hope  of  supply  appeared.  "Winter 
' passed  away,  and  spring  returned,  so  early  and  so  beau- 
; tiful  on  that  garden-like  coast,  sheltered  as  it  is  from 
the  north  winds  by  its  belt  of  mountains,  and  open  to 
the  full  range  of  the  southern  sun.  Spring  returned, 
and  clothed  the  hillsides  with  its  fresh  verchire.  But 
; that  verdure  was  no  longer  the  mere  delight  of  the 
! careless  eye  of  luxury,  refreshing  the  citizens  with  its 
liveliness  and  softness  when  they  rode  or  walked  up 
; thither  from  the  city  to  enjoy  the  surpassing  beauty  of 
I the  prospect.  The  green  hillsides  were  now  visited 
for  a very  different  object : ladies  of  the  highest  rank 
might  be  seen  cutting  up  every  plant  which  it  was 
possible  to  turn  to  food,  and  bearing  home  the  common 
weeds  of  our  roadsides  as  a most  precious  treasure. 
The  French  general  pitied  the  distress  of  the  people, 
but  the  lives  and  strength  of  his  garrison  seemed  to  him 
more  important  than  the  lives  of  the  Genoese ; and  such 
provisions  as  remained  were  reserved,  in  the  first  place, 
for  the  French  army.  Scarcity  became  utter  want,  and 
; want  became  famine.  In  the  most  gorgeous  palaces  of 
. that  gorgeous  city,  no  less  than  in  the  humblest  tene- 
ments of  its  humblest  poor,  death  was  busy;  not  the 
momentary  death  of  battle  or  massacre,  nor  the  speedy 
death  of  pestilence,  but  the  lingering  death  of  famine. 
Infants  died  before  their  parents’  eyes;  husbands  and 
wives  lay  down  to  expire  together.  A man  whom  I 
saw  at  Genoa  in  1825,  told  me  that  his  father  and  two 
of  his  brothers  had  been  starved  to  death  in  this  fatal 
siege.  So  it  went  on  till,  in  the  month  of  June,  when 
Napoleon  had  already  descended  from  the  Alps  into  the 
plains  of  Lombardy,  the  misery  became  unendurable, 
and  Massena  surrendered.  But  before  he  did  so,  20,000 
innocent  persons,  old  and  young,  women  and  children, 
had  died  by  the  most  horrible  of  deaths  which 
humanity  can  endure ! 

Sra  George  Cornwall  Lewis,  who  has 
served  in  the  English  government  as  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  and  is  now  (1859)  Secretary  of 
State  for  the  Home  Department,  is  an  enthusiastic 
student  of  history.  An  accomplished  classical 
and  German  scholar,  he  has  examined  the  early 
history  of  Greece  and  Rome  with  the  views  of  the 
German  commentators,  and  he  combats  the  theory 
of  Niebuhr  in  an  elaborate  work,  entitled  An  Inquiry 
into  the  Credibility  of  Early  Roman  History,  two 
volumes,  1855.  All  attempts  to  reduce  the  pictur- 
esque narratives  of  the  early  centuries  of  Rome  to 
a purely  historical  form  he  conceives  to  be  nugatory, 
and  he  devotes  considerable  space  to  an  examination 
of  the  primitive  history  of  the  nations  of  Italy. 
Dionysius,  Livy,  and  the  other  ancient  historians, 
had  no  authentic  materials  for  the  primitive  ethno- 
j logy  and  the  early  national  movements  of  Italy, 
and,  of  course,  modern  inquirers  cannot  hope  to 
arrive  at  safe  conclusions  on  the  subject.  Hence  he 
dismisses  the  results  not  only  of  the  uncritical 
Italian  historians,  but  those  of  the  learned  and 
sagacious  Germans,  Niebuhr  and  Muller.  ‘The 
legends  are  mere  shifting  clouds  of  mythology, 
which  may  at  a distance  deceive  the  mariner  by  the 
appearance  of  solid  land,  but  disappear  as  he 
approaches  and  examines  them  by  a close  view.’ 
The  scepticism  of  Sir  George,  however,  is  considered 
rather  too  sweeping ; and  it  has  justly  been  remarked, 

I that  ‘ we  may  be  contented  to  believe  of  Roman 
history  at  least  as  much  as  Cicero  believed,  without 
i inquiring  too  curiously  the  grounds  of  his  belief.’ 
| The  following  notice  of  Niebuhr’s  theory  also 
694 


appears  to  tell  against  Sir  George’s  own  rule  with 
respect  to  the  rationalistic  treatment  of  early 
history. 

[Niebuhrs  Ballad  Theory .] 

He  divides  the  Roman  history  into  three  periods : 
1.  The  purely  mythical  period,  including  the  foundation 
I of  the  city  and  the  reigns  of  the  first  two  kings.  2.  The 
mythico-historical  period,  including  the  reigns  of  the 
j last  five  kiDgs,  and  the  first  fourteen  years  of  the 
J republic.  3.  The  historical  period,  beginning  with  the 
first  secession.  The  poems,  however,  which  he  supposes 
j to  have  served  as  the  origin  of  the  received  history,  are 
not  peculiar  to  any  one  of  these  periods ; they  equally 
| appear  in  the  reigns  of  Romulus  and  Numa,  in  the  time 
of  the  Tarquins,  and  in  the  narratives  of  Coriolanus,  and 
I of  the  siege  of  Yeii.  If  the  history  of  periods  so  widely 
different  was  equally  drawn  from  a poetical  source,  it  is 
dear  that  the  poems  must  have  arisen  under  wholly 
dissimilar  circumstances,  and  that  they  can  afford  no 
sure  foundation  for  any  historical  inference. 

For  solving  the  problem  of  the  early  Roman  history, 
the  great  desideratum  is,  to  obtain  some  means  of 
separating  the  truth  from  the  fiction ; and,  if  any  parts 
be  true,  of  explaining  how  the  records  were  preserved 
with  fidelity,  until  the  time  of  the  earliest  historians, 
by  whom  they  were  adopted,  and  who,  through  certain 
intermediate  stages,  have  transmitted  them  to  us. 

For  example,  we  may  believe  that  the  expulsion  of 
the  Tarquins,  the  creation  of  a dictator  and  of  tribunes, 
the  adventures  of  Coriolanus,  the  Decemvirate,  the 
expedition  of  the  Fabii  and  the  battle  of  the  Cremera, 
the  siege  of  Yeii,  the  capture  of  Rome  by  the  Gauls,  and 
the  disaster  of  Caudium,  with  other  portions  of  the 
Samnite  wars,  are  events  which  are  indeed  to  a con- 
siderable extent  distorted,  obscured,  and  corrupted  by 
fiction,  and  incrusted  with  legendary  additions ; but 
that  they,  nevertheless,  contain  a nucleus  of  fact,  in 
varying  degrees : if  so,  we  should  wish  to  know  how 
far  the  fact  extends,  and  where  the  fiction  begins— and 
also  what  were  the  means  by  which  a general  historical 
tradition  of  events,  as  they  really  happened,  was  per- 
petuated. This  is  the  question  to  which  an  answer  is 
desired ; and  therefore  we  are  not  assisted  by  a theory 
which  explains  how  that  part  of  the  narrative  which  is 
not  historical,  originated. 

Sir  G.  C.  Lewis  has  published  several  short 
historical  and  political  treatises,  including  The 
Romance  Languages , On  the  Use  and  Abuse  of  Poli- 
tical Terms,  On  the  Government  of  Dependencies,  On  the 
Influence  of  Authority  in  Matters  of  Opinion,  On 
Methods  of  Observation  and  Reasoning  in  Politics,  &c. 
He  was  for  a short  period  editor  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  Sir  George  was  born  in  1806 ; was  educated 
at  Eton  and  Christ  Church,  Oxford;  and  having 
studied  at  the  Middle  Temple,  was  called  to  the  bar 
in  1831.  In  1855,  he  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy 
by  the  death  of  his  father,  Sir  Thomas  Frankland 
Lewis. 

The  Roman  History  of  Dr  Arnold  was  left,  as 
already  mentioned,  in  an  unfinished  state,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  sudden  death  of  the  author.  No 
good  account  of  the  period  between  the  close  of  the 
second  Carthaginian  Avar  and  the  death  of  Sylla 
existed  in  our  English  historical  literature,  and  to 
supply  the  void,  the  Rev.  Charles  Merivale,  B.D., 
late  Fellow  of  St  John’s  College,  Cambridge,  com- 
menced, in  1850,  a History  of  the  Romans  under  the 
Empire.  The  work  has  extended  to  five  volumes, 
1856.  Though  a little  prolix  and  inflated  in  style, 
Mr  Merivale’s  History  is  an  able,  scholarly  work. 

The  social  condition  of  the  Romans  is  illustrated 
by  a small  Avork  evincing  great  research,  An  Inquiry 
into  the  State  of  Slavery  amongst  the  Romans,  from  the 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EARL  STANHOPE. 


Earliest  Period  till  the  Establishment  of  the  Lombards 
in  Italy,  by  William  Blair,  1833.  In  the  earlier 
periods  of  the  republic,  from  the  expulsion  of  the 
kings  to  the  capture  of  Corinth,  146  b.c.,  the  pro- 
portion of  slaves  stood  as  one  slave  to  every  free 
Roman ; but  opulence  and  luxury,  and  foreign  wars 
— the  latter  always  pouring  in  captives — greatly 
increased  the  number  of  slaves.  From  the  fall  of 
Corinth  to  the  reign  of  Alexander  Severus,  Mr  Blair 
calculates  that  the  proportion  was  as  high  as  three 
slaves  to  one  free  man. 

[Roman  Luxury — Slaves .] 

Some  rich  individuals  are  said  to  have  possessed 
10,000,  even  20,000,  of  their  fellow-creatures.  Pompey’s 
freedman,  Demetrius,  had  a great  many ; those  of 
Crassus  were  very  numerous,  and  formed  a large  part  of 
his  fortune — his  band  of  architects  and  masons  alone 
exceeded  500.  Scaurus  possessed  above  4000  domestic, 
and  as  many  rustic  slaves.  In  the  reign  of  Augustus, 
a freedman,  who  had  sustained  great  losses  during  the 
civil  wars,  left  4116  slaves,  besides  other  property. 
The  household  of  Pedanius  Secundus,  prsefect  of  Rome 
under  Nero,  wras,  on  a melancholy  occasion,  found  to 
consist  of  400  slaves.  When  the  wife  of  Apuleius  gave 
up  the  lesser  part  of  her  estate  to  her  son,  400  slaves 
formed  one  of  the  items  surrendered.  Slaves  always 
composed  a great  part  of  the  movable  property  of 
individuals,  and  were  one  of  the  chief  signs  of  opulence. 
We  learn  from  the  laws  respecting  marriage,  that  they 
formed  the  chief  articles  of  ladies’  dowries.  A law 
passed  by  Augustus  against  the  excessive  manumission 
of  slaves  by  testament,  forbidding  any  one  to  bequeath 
liberty  to  more  than  one-fifth  of  all  his  slaves,  fixes  the 
I maximum  to  be  so  freed,  under  any  circumstances,  at 
| 100 ; whence  we  may  reasonably  infer,  that  500  was 
i not  an  extraordinary  number  of  slaves  to  be  held  by 
one  owner.  It  was,  at  all  times,  after  the  introduction 
of  luxury,  fashionable  to  go  abroad  attended  by  a great 
train  of  slaves.  Horace  mentions  such  a troop  con- 
sisting of  200,  and  considers  ten  a very  small  retinue. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  Empire,  the  usual  number  of 
personal  attendants  must  have  been  large,  for  we  have  a 
regulation  of  Augustus  to  prohibit  exiles  from  carrying 
with  them  more  than  twenty  slaves.  Besides  the  mari- 
time law  of  the  Bhodians,  sanctioned  by  the  Roman 
emperors,  from  Tiberius  to  Alexander  Severus,  con- 
: templates  every  merchant’s  or  trader’s  being  attended 
; by  two  slaves  upoD  a voyage.  We  have  some  reason 
also  to  believe  that  the  lowest  number  of  slaves  to 
which  the  term  family  or  set  ( familia ) applied  was 
fifteen. 

For  classical  biography  and  antiquities,  the 
dictionaries  edited  by  Dr.  William  Smith  are 
invaluable.  These  are — Dictionary  of  Greek  and 
| Roman  Biography  and  Mythology , three  volumes, 
1850 ; and  Dictionary  of  Greek  and  Roman  Antiquities, 
one  volume,  1851. 


EARL  STANHOPE. 

Philip  IIenrv,  Earl  Stanhope,  when  Lord 
Mahon,  commenced  a History  of  England  from  the 
Peace  of  Utrecht  to  the  Peace  of  Aix-la-  Chapelle. 
The  first  volume  appeared  in  1836,  and  the  work 
ultimately  extended  to  seven  volumes,  of  which  a 
second  edition  has  since  been  published.  The  period 
of  seventy  years  thus  copiously  treated  had  been 
included  in  Smollett’s  hasty,  voluminous  History, 
but  the  ground  was  certainly  not  pre-occupied. 
Great  additional  information  had  also  been  accumu- 
lated in  Coxe’s  Lives  of  Marlborough  and  Walpole, 
Lord  Hervey’s  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  George  II., 


the  Stuart  Papers,  the  Suffolk  and  Hardwicke 
Correspondence,  and  numerous  other  sources.  In 
the  early  portion  of  his  work — the  Queen  Anne 
period — there  is  a strong  and  abiding  interest 
derived  from  the  great  names  engaged  in  the  poli- 
tical struggles  of  the  day,  and  the  nearly  equal 
strength  of  the  parties.  Lord  Mahon  thus  sketches 
the  contending  factions : 

[ Whig  and  Tory  in  the  Reign  of  Queen  Anne.] 

At  that  period  the  two  great  contending  parties  were 
distinguished,  as  at  present,  by  the  nicknames  of  Whig 
and  Tory.  But  it  is  very  remarkable  that  in  Queen 
Anne’s  reign  the  relative  meaning  of  these  terms  was 
not  only  different  but  opposite  to  that  which  they  bore 
at  the  accession  of  William  IV.  In  theory,  indeed,  the 
main  principle  of  each  continues  the  same.  The  lead- 
ing principle  of  the  Tories  is  the  dread  of  popular 
licentiousness.  The  leading  principle  of  the  Whigs  is 
the  dread  of  royal  encroachment.  It  may  thence,  per- 
haps, be  deduced  that  good  and  wise  men  would  attach 
themselves  either  to  the  Whig  or  to  the  Tory  party, 
according  as  there  seemed  to  be  the  greater  danger  at 
that  particular  period  from  despotism  or  from  demo- 
cracy. The  same  person  who  would  have  been  a Whig 
in  1712  would  have  been  a Tory  in  1830.  For,  on 
examination,  it  will  be  found  that,  in  nearly  all  par- 
ticulars, a modern  Tory  resembles  a Whig  of  Queen 
Anne’s  reign,  and  a Tory  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  a 
modern  Whig. 

First,  as  to  the  Tories.  The  Tories  of  Queen  Anne’s 
reign  pursued  a most  unceasing  opposition  to  a just  and 
glorious  war  against  France.  They  treated  the  great 
general  of  the  age  as  their  peculiar  adversary.  To  our 
recent  enemies,  the  French,  their  policy  was  supple 
and  crouching.  They  had  an  indifference,  or  even  an 
aversion,  to  our  old  allies  the  Dutch;  they  had  a 
political  leaning  towards  the  Roman  Catholics  at  home ; 
they  were  supported  by  the  Roman  Catholics  in  their 
elections ; they  had  a love  of  triennial  parliaments,  in 
preference  to  septennial ; they  attempted  to  abolish  the 
protecting  duties  and  restrictions  of  commerce;  they 
wished  to  favour  our  trade  with  France  at  the  expense 
of  our  trade  with  Portugal ; they  were  supported  by  a 
faction  whose  war-cry  was  ‘ Repeal  of  the  Union,’  in  a 
sister-kingdom.  To  serve  a temporary  purpose  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  they  had  recourse — for  the  first  time 
in  our  annals — to  a large  and  overwhelming  creation 
of  peers.  Like  the  Whigs  in  May  1831,  they  chose 
the  moment  of  the  highest  popular  passion  and  excite- 
ment to  dissolve  the  House  of  Commons,  hoping  to 
avail  themselves  of  a short-lived  cry  for  the  purpose 
of  permanent  delusion.  The  Whigs  of  Queen  Anne’s 
time,  on  the  other  hand,  supported  that  splendid  war 
which  led  to  such  victories  as  Ramillies  and  Blenheim. 
They  had  for  a leader  the  great  man  who  gained  those 
victories;  they  advocated  the  old  principles  of  trade; 
they  prolonged  the  duration  of  parliaments ; they  took 
their  stand  on  the  principles  of  the  Revolution  of  1688 ; 
they  raised  the  cry  of  ‘No  Popery ; ’ they  loudly 
inveighed  against  the  subserviency  to  France,  the 
desertion  of  our  old  allies,  the  outrage  wrought  upon 
the  peers,  the  deceptions  practised  upon  the  sovereign, 
and  the  other  measures  of  the  Tory  administration. 
Such  were  the  Tories,  and  such  were  the  Whigs  of 
Queen  Anne. 

We  give  a specimen  of  tlie  noble  historian’s 
character-painting : 

[ Charles  Edward  Stuart , the  Yoivny  Pretender.] 

Charles  Edward  Stuart  is  one  of  those  characters  that 
cannot  be  portrayed  at  a single  sketch,  but  have  so 
greatly  altered,  as  to  require  a new  delineation  at 

695 


from  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

different  periods.  View  him  in  his  later  years,  and  we  i 
behold  the  ruins  of  intemperance — as  wasted  but  not 
as  venerable  as  those  of  time ; we  find  him  in  his 
anticipated  age  a besotted  drunkard,  a peevish  husband, 
a tyrannical  master — his  understanding  debased,  and  his 
temper  soured.  But  not  such  was  the  Charles  Stuart 
of  1745.  Not  such  was  the  gallant  Prince  full  of  youth, 
of  hope,  of  courage,  who,  landing  with  seven  men  in  the 
wilds  of  Moidart,  could  rally  a kingdom  round  his 
banner,  and  scatter  his  foes  before  him  at  Preston  and 
at  Falkirk.  Not  such  was  the  gay  and  courtly  host  of 
Holyrood.  Not  such  was  he,  whose  endurance  of  fatigue  : 
and  eagerness  for  battle  shone  pre-eminent,  even  amongst ! 
Highland  chiefs;  while  fairer  critics  proclaimed  him 
the  most  winning  in  conversation,  the  most  graceful  in 
j the  dance ! Can  we  think  lowly  of  one  who  could 
! acquire  such  unbounded  popularity  in  so  few  months, 

| and  over  so  noble  a nation  as  the  Scots ; who  could  so 
j deeply  stamp  his  image  on  their  hearts  that,  even  thirty  * 
or  forty  years  after  his  departure,  his  name,  as  we  are 
I told,  always  awakened  the  most  ardent  praises  from  all 
who  had  known  him — the  most  rugged  hearts  were  seen 
to  melt  at  his  remembrance — and  tears  to  steal  down  ; 
the  furrowed  cheeks  of  the  veteran?  Let  us,  then,  | 
without  denying  the  faults  of  his  character,  or  extenu-  j 
ating  the  degradation  of  his  age,  do  justice  to  the  lustre 
of  his  manhood. 

The  person  of  Charles — I begin  with  this  for  the  | 
; sake  of  female  readers — was  tall  and  well  formed;  his 
limbs  athletic  and  active.  He  excelled  in  all  manly 
! exercises,  and  was  inured  to  every  kind  of  toil,  espe- 
: cially  long  marches  on  foot,  having  applied  himself  to 
field-sports  in  Italy,  and  become  an  excellent  walker. 
His  face  was  strikingly  handsome,  of  a perfect  oval  and 
a fair  complexion ; his  eyes  light-blue ; his  features 
high  and  noble.  Contrary  to  the  custom  of  the  time, 
which  prescribed  perukes,  his  own  fair  hair  usually  fell 
in  long  ringlets  on  his  neck.  This  goodly  person  was 
enhanced  by  his  graceful  manners;  frequently  con- 
descending to  the  most  familiar  kindness,  yet  always 
shielded  by  a regal  dignity,  he  had  a peculiar  talent  to 
please  and  to  persuade,  and  never  failed  to  adapt  his 
conversation  to  the  taste  or  to  the  station  of  those 
whom  he  addressed.  Yet  he  owed  nothing  to  his  educa- 
tion : it  had  been  intrusted  to  Sir  Thomas  Sheridan, 
an  Irish  Roman  Catholic,  who  has  not  escaped  the 
suspicion  of  being  in  the  pay  of  the  British  government, 
and  at  their  instigation  betraying  his  duty  as  a teacher. 

I am  bound  to  say,  that  I have  found  no  corroboration 
: of  so  foul  a charge.  Sheridan  appears  to  me  to  have 
lived  and  died  a man  of  honour ; but  history  can  only 
i acquit  him  of  base  perfidy  by  accusing  him  of  gross 
neglect.  He  had  certainly  left  his  pupil  uninstructed 
in  the  most  common  elements  of  knowledge.  Charles’s 
letters,  which  I have  seen  amongst  the  Stuart  Papers, 
are  written  in  a large,  rude,  rambling  hand  like  a 
school-boy’s.  In  spelling,  they  are  still  more  deficient. 
With  him  ‘humour,’  for  example,  becomes  umer;  the 
weapon  he  knew  so  well  how  to  wield,  is  a sord  : and 
even  his  own  father’s  name  appears  under  the  alias  of 
gems.  Nor  are  these  errors  confined  to  a single  lan- 
guage : who — to  give  another  instance  from  his  French 
— would  recognise  a hunting-knife  in  cooto  de  chas? 
I can,  therefore,  readily  believe  that,  as  Dr  King  assures 
us,  he  knew  very  little  of  the  history  or  constitution 
of  England.  But  the  letters  of  Charles,  while  they 
| prove  his  want  of  education,  no  less  clearly  display  his 
natural  powers,  great  energy  of  character,  and  great 
warmth  of  heart.  Writing  confidentially,  just  before 
he  sailed  for  Scotland,  he  says : * I made  my  devotions 
on  Pentecost  Day,  recommending  myself  particularly  to 
the  Almighty  on  this  occasion  to  guide  and  direct  me, 
and  to  continue  to  me  always  the  same  sentiments, 
which  are,  rather  to  suffer  anything  than  fail  in  any 
of  my  duties.’  His  young  brother,  Henry  of  York,  is 
mentioned  with  the  utmost  tenderness;  and,  though 
626 

on  his  return  from  Scotland,  he  conceived  that  he  had 
reason  to  complain  of  Henry’s  coldness  and  reserve,  the 
fault  is  lightly  touched  upon,  and  Charles  observes  that, 
whatever  may  be  his  brother’s  want  of  kindness,  it  shall 
never  diminish  his  own.  To  his  father,  his  tone  is 
both  affectionate  and  dutiful : he  frequently  acknow- 
ledges his  goodness;  and  when,  at  the  outset  of  his 
great  enterprise  of  1745,  he  entreats  a blessing  from 
the  pope,  surely  the  sternest  Romanist  might  forgive 
him  for  adding,  that  he  shall  think  a blessing  from  his 
parent  more  precious  and  more  holy  still.  As  to  his 
friends  and  partisans,  Prince  Charles  has  been  often 
accused  of  not  being  sufficiently  moved  by  their  suffer- 
ings, or  grateful  for  their  services.  Bred  up  amidst 
monks  and  bigots,  who  seemed  far  less  afraid  of  his 
remaining  excluded  from  power,  than  that  on  gaining 
he  should  use  it  liberally,  he  had  been  taught  the 
highest  notions  of  prerogative  and  hereditary  right. 
From  thence  he  might  infer,  that  those  who  served 
him  in  Scotland  did  no  more  than  their  duty ; were 
merely  fulfilling  a plain  social  obligation ; and  were 
not,  therefore,  entitled  to  any  very  especial  praise  and 
admiration.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  remember 
how  prone  are  all  exiles  to  exaggerate  their  own  desert, 
to  think  no  rewards  sufficient  for  it,  and  to  complain 
of  neglect  even  where  none  really  exists ; and  moreover 
that,  in  point  of  fact,  many  passages  from  Charles’s 
most  familiar  correspondence  might  be  adduced  to  shew 
a watchful  and  affectionate  care  for  his  adherents.  As 
a very  young  man,  he  determined  that  he  would  sooner 
submit  to  personal  privation  than  embarrass  his  friends 
by  contracting  debts.  On  returning  from  Scotland,  he 
told  the  French  minister,  D’Argenson,  that  he  would 
never  ask  anything  for  himself,  but  was  ready  to  go 
down  on  his  knees  to  obtain  favours  for  his  brother- 
exiles.  Once,  after  lamenting  some  divisions  and  mis- 
conduct amongst  his  servants,  he  declares  that,  never- 
theless, an  honest  man  is  so  highly  to  be  prized  that, 

‘ unless  your  majesty  orders  me,  I should  part  - with 
them  with  a sore  heart.’  Nay,  more,  as  it  appears  to 
me,  this  warm  feeling  of  Charles  for  his  unfortunate 
friends  survived  almost  alone,  when,  in  his  decline  of 
life,  nearly  every  other  noble  quality  had  been  dimmed 
and  defaced  from  his  mind.  In  1783,  Mr  Greathed,  a 
personal  friend  of  Mr  Fox,  succeeded  in  obtaining  an 
interview  with  him  at  Rome.  Being  alone  with  him 
for  some  time,  the  English  traveller  studiously  led  the 
conversation  to  his  enterprise  in  Scotland.  The  Prince 
shewed  some  reluctance  to  enter  upon  the  subject,  and 
seemed  to  suffer  much  pain  at  the  remembrance ; but 
Mr  Greathed,  with  more  of  curiosity  than  of  discretion, 
still  persevered.  At  length,  then,  the  Prince  appeared 
to  shake  off  the  load  which  oppressed  him ; his  eye 
brightened,  his  face  assumed  unwonted  animation ; and 
he  began  the  narrative  of  his  Scottish  campaigns  with 
a vehement  energy  of  manner,  recounting  his  marches, 
his  battles,  his  victories,  and  his  defeat;  his  hair- 
breadth escapes,  and  the  inviolable  and  devoted  attach- 
ment of  his  Highland  followers,  and  at  length  proceed- 
ing to  the  dreadful  penalties  which  so  many  of  them 
had  subsequently  undergone.  But  the  recital  of  their 
sufferings  appeared  to  wound  him  far  more  deeply  than 
his  own ; then,  and  not  till  then,  his  fortitude  forsook 
him,  his  voice  faltered,  his  eye  became  fixed,  and  he 
fell  to  the  floor  in  convulsions.  At  the  noise,  in  rushed 
the  Duchess  of  Albany,  his  illegitimate  daughter,  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  next  apartment.  ‘ Sir,’  she 
exclaimed  to  Mr  Greathed,  ‘what  is  this?  You  must 
have  been  speaking  to  my  father  about  Scotland  and 
the  Highlanders?  No  one  dares  to  mention  these 
subjects  in  his  presence.’ 

Once  more,  however,  let  me  turn  from  the  last  gleams 
of  the  expiring  flame  to  the  hours  of  its  meridian 
brightness.  In  estimating  the  abilities  of  Prince  Charles, 
I may  first  observe  that  they  stood  in  most  direct  con- 
trast to  his  father’s.  Each  excelled  in  what  the  other 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EARL  STANHOPE. 


wanted.  No  man  could  express  himself  with  more 
clearness  and  elegance  than  James:  it  has  been  said 
of  him  that  he  wrote  better  than  any  of  those  whom  he 
employed ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  his  conduct  was 
always  deficient  in  energy  and  enterprise.  Charles,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  no  penman;  while  in  action — in 
doing  what  deserves  to  be  written,  and  not  in  merely 
writing  w'hat  deserves  to  be  read — he  stood  far  superior. 
He  had  some  little  experience  of  war — having,  when 
very  young,  joined  the  Spanish  army  at  the  siege  of 
Gaeta,  and  distinguished  himself  on  that  occasion — and 
he  loved  it  as  the  birthright  both  of  a Sobieski  and  a 
Stuart.  His  quick  intelligence,  his  promptness  of 
decision,  and  his  contempt  of  danger,  are  recorded  on 
unquestionable  testimony.  His  talents  as  a leader 
probably  never  rose  above  the  common  level;  yet,  in 
some  cases  in  Scotland,  where  he  and  his  more  practised 
ofiicers  differed  in  opinion,  it  will,  I think,  appear  that 
they  were  wrong  and  he  wTas  right.  No  knight  of  the 
olden  time  could  have  a loftier  sense  of  honour ; indeed 
he  pushed  it  to  such  wild  extremes,  that  it  often  led 
him  into  error  and  misfortune.  Thus  he  lost  the  battle 
of  Culloden  in  a great  measure  because  he  disdained  to 
take  advantage  of  the  ground,  and  deemed  it  more 
chivalrous  to  meet  the  enemy  on  equal  terms.  Thus, 
also,  his  wilful  and  froward  conduct  at  the  peace  of 
Aix-la-Chapelle  proceeded  from  a false  point  of  honour, 
which  he  thought  involved  in  it.  At  other  times,  again, 
this  generous  spirit  may  deserve  unmingled  praise  : he 
could  never  be  persuaded  or  provoked  into  adopting  any 
harsh  measures  of  retaliation  ; his  extreme  lenity  to  his 
prisoners,  even  to  such  as  had  attempted  his  life,  was,  it 
seems,  a common  matter  of  complaint  among  his  troops ; 
and  even  when  encouragement  had  been  given  to  his 
assassination,  and  a price  put  upon  his  head,  he  con- 
tinued most  earnestly  to  urge  that  in  no  possible  case 
should  ‘ the  Elector,’  as  he  called  his  rival,  suffer  any 
personal  injury  or  insult.  This  anxiety  was  always 
present  in  his  mind.  Mr  Forsyth,  a gentleman  whose 
description  of  Italy  is  far  the  best  that  has  appeared, 
and  whose  scrupulous  accuracy  and  superior  means  of 
information  will  be  acknowledged  by  all  travellers, 
relates  how,  only  a few  years  after  the  Scottish  expe- 
dition, Charles,  relying  on  the  faith  of  a single  adherent, 
set  out  for  London  in  an  humble  disguise,  and  under  the 
name  of  Smith.  On  arriving  there,  he  was  introduced 
at  midnight  into  a room  full  of  conspirators  whom  he 
had  never  previously  seen.  ‘ Here,’  said  his  conductor, 
‘is  the  person  you  want,’  and  left  him  locked  up  in  the 
mysterious  assembly.  These  were  men  who  imagined 
themselves  equal,  at  that  time,  to  treat  with  him  for  the 
throne  of  England.  ‘ Dispose  of  me,  gentlemen,  as  you 
please,’  said  Charles ; ‘ my  life  is  in  your  power,  and  I 
therefore  can  stipulate  for  nothing.  Yet  give  me,  I 
entreat,  one  solemn  promise,  that  if  your  design  should 
succeed,  the  present  family  shall  be  sent  safely  and 
honourably  home.’ 

Another  quality  of  Charles’s  mind  was  great  firmness 
of  resolution,  which  pride  and  sorrow  afterwards  hard- 
ened into  sullen  obstinacy.  He  was  likewise  at  all 
times  prone  to  gusts  and  sallies  of  anger,  when  his 
language  became  the  more  peremptory,  from  a haughty 
consciousness  of  his  adversities.  I have  found  among 
his  papers  a note  without  direction,  but  no  doubt 
intended  for  some  tardy  officer.  It  contained  only  these 
words  : ‘ I order  you  to  execute  my  orders,  or  else  never 
to  come  back.’  Such  harshness  might,  probably,  turn  a 
wavering  adherent  to  the  latter  alternative.  Thus,  also, 
his  public  expressions  of  resentment  against  the  court  of 
France,  at  different  periods,  were  certainly  far  more  just 
than  politic.  There  seemed  always  swelling  at  his  heart 
a proud  determination  that  no  man  should  dare  to  use 
him  the  worse  for  his  evil  fortune,  and  that  he  should 
sacrifice  anything  or  everything  sooner  than  his  dignity. 

This  is  a portrait  of  Charles  Edward  as  he  appeared 


in  his  prime.  In  a subsequent  volume,  Lord  Stanhope 
gives  a sketch  of  him  in  his  later  years,  part  of 
which  we  subjoin : 

An  English  lady  who  was  at  Rome  in  1770  observes : 

‘ The  Pretender  is  naturally  above  the  middle  size,  but 
stoops  excessively ; he  appears  bloated  and  red  in  the 
face;  his  countenance  heavy  and  sleepy,  which  is 
attributed  to  his  having  given  into  excess  of  drinking ; 
but,  when  a young  man,  he  must  have  been  esteemed 
handsome.  His  complexion  is  of  the  fair  tint,  his  eyes 
blue,  his  hair  light-brown,  and  the  contour  of  his  face 
a long  oval ; he  is  by  no  means  thin,  has  a noble  person, 
and  a graceful  manner.  His  dress  was  scarlet,  laced 
with  broad  gold-lace ; he  wears  the  blue  riband  outside 
of  his  coat,  from  which  depends  a cameo,  antique,  as 
large  as  the  palm  of  my  hand ; and  he  wears  the  same 
garter  and  motto  as  those  of  the  noble  Order  of  St 
George  in  England.  Upon  the  whole,  he  has  a melan- 
choly, mortified  appearance.  Two  gentlemen  constantly 
attend  him ; they  are  of  Irish  extraction,  and  Roman 
Catholics  you  may  be  sure.  At  Princess  Palestrina’s  he 
asked  me  if  I understood  the  game  of  tarrochi , which 
they  were  about  to  play  at.  I answered  in  the  nega- 
tive : upon  which,  taking  the  pack  in  his  hands,  he 
desired  to  know  if  I had  ever  seen  such  odd  cards?  I 
replied  that  they  were  very  odd  indeed.  He  then, 
displaying  them,  said  : “Here  is  everything  in  the  world 
to  be  found  in  these  cards — the  sun,  moon,  the  stars; 
and  here,”  says  he,  throwing  me  a card,  “ is  the  pope ; 
here  is  the  devil;  and,”  added  he,  “there  is  but  one  of 
the  trio  wanting,  and  you  know  who  that  should  be  !” 
[The  Pretender].  I was  so  amazed,  so  astonished, 
though  he  spoke  this  last  in  a laughing,  good-humoured 
manner,  that  I did  not  know  which  way  to  look;  and 
as  to  a reply,  I made  none.’ 

In  his  youth,  Charles,  as  we  have  seen,  had  formed 
the  resolution  of  marrying  only  a Protestant  princess  : 
however,  he  remained  single  during  the  greater  part  of 
his  career;  and  when,  in  1754,  he  was  urged  by  his 
father  to  take  a wife,  he  replied  : * The  unworthy 
behaviour  of  certain  ministers,  the  10th  of  December 
1748,  has  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  settle  anywhere 
without  honour  or  interest  being  at  stake ; and  were  it 
even  possible  for  me  to  find  a place  of  abode,  I think 
our  family  have  had  sufferings  enough,  which  will  always 
hinder  me  to  marry,  so  long  as  in  misfortune,  for  that 
would  only  conduce  to  increase  misery,  or  subject  any  of 
the  family  that  should  have  the  spirit  of  their  father  to 
be  tied  neck  and  heel,  rather  than  yield  to  a vile 
ministry.’  Nevertheless,  in  1772,  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
two,  Charles  espoused  a Roman  Catholic,  and  a girl  of 
twenty,  Princess  Louisa  of  Stolberg.  This  union  proved 
as  unhappy  as  it  was  ill  assorted.  Charles  treated  his 
young  wife  with  very  little  kindness.  He  appears,  in 
fact,  to  have  contracted  a disparaging  opinion  of  her 
sex  in  general ; and  I have  found,  in  a paper  of  his 
writing  about  that  period,  ‘As  for  men,  I have  studied 
them  closely ; and  were  I to  live  till  fourscore,  I could 
scarcely  know  them  better  than  now ; but  as  for  women, 
I have  thought  it  useless,  they  being  so  much  more 
wicked  and  impenetrable.’  Ungenerous  and  ungrateful 
words ! Surely,  as  he  wrote  them,  the  image  of  Flora 
Macdonald  should  have  risen  in  his  heart  and  restrained 
his  pen ! 

The  History  of  Lord  Stanhope,  in  style  and  general 
merit,  may  rank  with  Mr  P.  F.  Tytler’s  History  of 
Scotland.  The  narrative  is  easy  and  flowing,  and 
diligence  has  been  exercised  in  the  collection  of 
facts.  The  noble  historian  is  also  author  of  a History 
of  the  War  of  the  Succession  in  Spain,  one  volume, 
1832;  a Life  of  the  Great  Prince  Condc,  1845;  a 
Life  of  Belisarius,  1848  ; and  a volume  of  Historical 
Essays , contributed  to  the  Quarterly  Review,  and 
containing  sketches  of  Joan  of  Arc,  Mary  Queen  of 

GS)7 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


Scots,  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  Frederick  II.,  &c. 
His  lordship  has  also  edited  the  Letters  of  the  Earl 
of  Chesterfield,  four  volumes,  1845,  and  was  one  of 
the  executors  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  the  Duke  of 
Wellington.  The  Earl  of  Stanhope  was  horn 
January  31,  1805. 

THOMAS  KEIGHTLEY,  ETC. 

A volume  of  Outlines  of  History  having  appeared 
in  1830  in  Lardner's  Cyclopaedia,  Dr  Arnold  urged 
its  author,  Mr  Thomas  Keightley,  to  write  a series 
of  histories  of  moderate  size,  which  might  be  used 
in  schools,  and  prove  trustworthy  manuals  in  after- 
life. Mr  Keightley  obeyed  the  call,  and  has  pro- 
duced a number  of  historical  compilations  of  great 
merit.  His  History  of  England,  two  volumes,  and 
the  same  enlarged  in  three  volumes,  is  admitted  to 
be  the  one  most  free  from  party-spirit ; and  his 
Histories  of  India,  Greece,  and  Rome,  each  in  ope 
volume,  may  be  said  to  contain  the  essence  of 
most  of  what  has  been  written  and  discovered 
regarding  those  countries.  Mr  Keightley  has  also 
produced  a History  of  the  War  of  Independence  in 
Greece,  two  volumes,  1830;  and  The  Crusaders,  or  J 
scenes,  events,  and  characters  from  the  times  of 
the  Crusades.  These  works  have  all  been  popular. 
The  Outlines  are  read  in  schools,  colleges,  and  uni- 
versities ; the  Duke  of  Wellington  directed  them  to 
be  read  by  officers  and  candidates  for  commissions 
in  the  army.  The  History  of  Greece  has  been  trans- 
lated into  modem  Greek,  and  published  at  Athens. 
In  the  department  of  mythology,  Mr  Keightley  has 
also  been  a successful  student,  and  has  produced 
the  Mythology  of  Ancient  Greece  and  Italy;  Fairy 
Mythology , illustrative  of  the  romance  and  super- 
stition of  various  countries ; and  Tales  and  Popular 
Fictions , their  Resemblance  and  Transmission  from 
Country  to  Country.  From  the  second  of  these  works 
we  give  a brief  extract. 

[Superstitious  Beliefs .] 

According  to  a well-known  law  of  our  nature,  effects 
suggest  causes ; and  another  law,  perhaps  equally  general, 
impels  us  to  ascribe  to  the  actual  and  efficient  cause  the 
attribute  of  intelligence.  The  mind  of  the  deepest 
philosopher  is  thu3  acted  upon  equally  with  that  of 
j the  peasant  or  the  savage ; the  only  difference  lies  in 
I the  nature  of  the  intelligent  cause  at  which  they 
| respectively  stop.  The  one  pursues  the  chain  of  cause 
! and  effect,  and  traces  out  its  various  links  till  he  arrives 
I at  the  great  intelligent  cause  of  all,  however  he  may 
designate  him ; the  other,  when  unusual  phenomena 
j excite  his  attention,  ascribes  their  production  to  the 
j immediate  agency  of  some  of  the  inferior  beings  recog- 
j nised  by  his  legendary  creed.  The  action  of  this  latter 
principle  must  forcibly  strike  the  minds  of  those  who 
disdain  not  to  bestow  a portion  of  their  attention  on 
the  popular  legends  and  traditions  of  different  countries, 
j Every  extraordinary  appearance  is  found  to  have  its 
j extraordinary  cause  assigned ; a cause  always  connected 
with  the  history  or  religion,  ancient  or  modern,  of  the 
country,  and  not  unfrequently  varying  with  a change  of 
faith.  The  noises  and  eruptions  of  Aitna  and  Stromboli 
were,  in  ancient  times,  ascribed  to  Typlron  or  Vulcan, 
and  at  this  day  the  popular  belief  connects  them  with 
the  infernal  regions.  The  sounds  resembling  the  clanking 
of  chains,  hammering  of  iron,  and  blowing  of  bellows, 
once  to  be  heard  in  the  island  of  Barrie,  were  made  by 
the  fiends  whom  Merlin  had  set  to  work  to  frame  the 
wall  of  brass  to  surround  Caermarthen.  The  marks 
which  natural  causes  have  impressed  on  the  solid  and 
unyielding  granite  rock  were  produced,  according  to  the 
popular  creed,  by  the  contact  of  the  hero,  the  saint,  or 


the  god : masses  of  stone,  resembling  domestic  imple- 
ments in  form,  were  the  toys,  or  the  corresponding 
implements  of  the  heroes  or  giants  of  old.  Grecian 
imagination  ascribed  to  the  galaxy  or  Milky-wav  an 
origin  in  the  teeming  breast  of  the  queen  of  heaven : 
marks  appeared  in  the  petals  of  flowers  on  the  occasion 
of  a youth’s  or  a hero’s  untimely  death : the  rose  derived 
its  present  hue  from  the  blood  of  Venus,  as  she  hurried 
barefoot  through  the  woods  and  lawns ; while  the  pro- 
fessors of  Islam,  less  fancifully,  refer  the  origin  of  this 
flower  to  the  moisture  that  exuded  from  the  sacred 
person  of  their  prophet.  Under  a purer  form  of  religion, 
the  cruciform  stripes  which  mark  the  back  and  shoulders 
of  the  patient  ass  first  appeared,  according  to  the  popular 
tradition,  when  the.  Son  of  God  condescended  to  enter 
the  Holy  City,  mounted  on  that  animal ; and  a fish,  only 
to  be  found  in  the  sea,  still  bears  the  impress  of  the 
finger  and  thumb  of  the  apostle,  who  drew  him  out  of 
the  waters  of  Lake  Tiberias  to  take  the  tribute-money 
that  lay  in  his  mouth.  The  repetition  of  the  voice 
among  the  hills  is,  in  Norway  and  Sweden,  ascribed  to 
the  dwarfs  mocking  the  human  speaker ; while  the  more 
elegant  fancy  of  Greece  gave  birth  to  Echo,  a nymph 
who  pined  for  love,  and  who  still  fondly  repeats  the 
accents  that  she  hears.  The  magic  scenery  occasionally 
presented  on  the  waters  of  the  Straits  of  Messina  is 
produced  by  the  power  of  the  fata  morgana ; the  gossa- 
mers that  float  through  the  haze  of  an  autumnal  morning 
are  woven  by  the  ingenious  dwarfs ; the  verdant  circlets 
in  the  mead  are  traced  beneath  the  light  steps  of  the 
dancing  elves ; and  St  Cuthbert  forges  and  fashions  the 
beads  that  bear  his  name,  and  lie  scattered  along  the 
shore  of  Lindisfarne.  In  accordance  with  these  laws, 
we  find  in  most  countries  a popular  belief  in  different 
classes  of  beings  distinct  from  men,  and  from  the  higher 
orders  of  divinities.  These  beings  are  usually  believed 
to  inhabit,  in  the  caverns  of  earth,  or  the  depths  of 
the  waters,  a region  of  their  own.  They  generally  excel 
mankind  in  power  and  in  knowledge,  and,  like  them, 
are  subject  to  the  inevitable  laws  of  death,  though 
after  a more  prolonged  period  of  existence.  How  these 
classes  were  first  called  into  existence  it  is  not  easy 
to  say ; but  if,  as  some  assert,  all  the  ancient  systems 
of  heathen  religion  were  devised  by  philosophers  for  the 
instruction  of  rude  tribes  by  appeals  to  their  senses,  we 
might  suppose  that  the  minds  which  peopled  the  skies 
with  their  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  divinities 
gave  birth  also  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  field  and  flood, 
and  that  the  numerous  tales  of  their  exploits  and 
adventures  are  the  production  of  poetic  fiction  or  rude 
invention. 

In  1855,  Mr  Keightley  published  a Life  of  Milton , 
intended  to  serve  as  a companion  and  introduction 
to  an  edition  of  Milton’s  poems.  This  is  an  original 
and  in  many  respects  profound  work.  The  opinions 
of  Milton  are  very  clearly  and  fully  elucidated, 
and  the  extensive  learning  of  the  biographer  and 
historian  has  enabled  him  to  add  some  valuable, 
suggestive  criticism ; for  example,  in  Milton’s  time 
the  Ptolemaic  astronomy  was  the  prevalent  one,  and 
Mr  Keightley  asks 

[Could  Milton  have  written  Paradise  Lost  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century  ?] 

Now,  with  the  seventeenth  century,  at  least  in 
England,  expired  the  astronomy  of  Ptolemy.  Had 
Milton,  then,  lived  after  that  century,  he  could  not  for 
a moment  have  believed  in  a solid,  globous  world, 
enclosing  various  revolving  spheres,  with  the  earth 
in  the  centre,  and  unlimited,  unoccupied,  undigested 
space  beyond.  His  local  heaven  and  local  hell  would 
then  have  become,  if  not  impossibilities,  fleeting  and 
uncertain  to  a degree  which  would  preclude  all  firm, 
undoubting  faith  in  their  existence ; for  far  as  the  most 


powerful  telescopes  can  pierce  into  space,  there  is 
nothing  found  but  a uniformity  of  stars  after  stars  in 
endless  succession,  exalting  infinitely  our  idea  of  the 
Deity  and  his  attributes,  but  enfeebling  in  proportion 
that  of  any  portion  of  space  being  his  peculiar  abode. 
Were  Milton  in  possession  of  this  knowledge,  is  it 
possible  that  he  could  have  written  the  first  three  books 
of  Paradise  Lost ? We  are  decidedly  of  opinion  that  he 
could  not,  for  he  would  never  have  written  that  of  the 
I truth  of  which  he  could  not  have  persuaded  himself  by 
any  illusion  of  the  imagination.  It  may  be  said  that  he 
would  have  adapted  his  fictions  to  the  present  state  of 
astronomy.  But  he  could  not  have  done  it : such  is  the 
sublime  simplicity  of  the  true  system  of  the  universe, 
that  it  is  quite  unsuited  to  poetry,  except  in  the  most 
transient  form. 

Mr  Keightley  is  a native  of  Ireland,  born  about 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  ‘amid  the  throes  of 
the  French  Revolution.’  He  has  long  resided  at 
Chiswick  on  the  Thames,  a retired  but  busy 
student. 

The  Pictorial  History  of  England , planned  by  Mr 
Charles  Knight,  in  the  manner  of  Dr  Henry’s 
History,  is  deserving  of  honourable  mention.  It 
was  commenced  about  the  year  1840,  and  was  con- 
tinued for  four  years,  forming  eight  large  volumes, 
and  extending  from  the  earliest  period  to  the  Peace 
of  1815.  Professing  to  be  a history  of  the  people 
as  well  as  of  the  kingdom , every  period  of  English 
history  includes  chapters  on  religion,  the  con- 
stitution and  laws,  national  industry,  manners, 
literature,  &c.  A great  number  of  illustrations  was 
also  added ; and  the  work  altogether  was  precisely 
what  was  wanted  by  the  general  reader.  The  two 
principal  writers  in  this  work  were  Mr  Craik  and 
Mr  Macfarlane.  George  Lillie  Craik  was  born 
in  Fife  in  1799.  He  is  author  of  a series  of  biogra- 
phies, entitled  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  under  Diffi- 
culties, two  volumes,  1847;  and  The  Romance  of  the 
Peerage,  four  volumes,  1848.  Parts  of  his  Pictorial 
History,  relating  to  English  literature  and  commerce, 
have  been  published  in  a separate  form.  Mr  Craik 
now  worthily  fills  the  chair  of  English  history  and 
literature  in  Queen’s  College,  Belfast.  Mr  Charles 
Macfarlane  was  a voluminous  writer  and  colla- 
borateur  with  Mr  Craik  and  others  in  Mr  Charles 
Knight’s  serial  works.  He  wrote  Recollections  of  the 
South  of  Italy,  1846  ; and  A Glance  at  Revolutionised 
Italy,  1 849.  The  elaborate  account  of  the  reign  of 
George  III.,  in  the  Pictorial  History,  was  chiefly 
written  by  Mr  Macfarlane.  He  died  in  the  Charter 
House  in  1858.  To  render  the  History  still  more 
complete,  Mr  Knight  added  a narrative  of  the  Thirty 
Years’  Peace,  1816-1846.  This  History  of  the  Peace 
was  written  by  Miss  Harriet  Martineau,  whose 
facile  and  vigorous  pen  and  general  knowledge 
rendered  her  peculiarly  well  adapted  for  the 
task.  The  Pictorial  History,  and  the  History  of 
the  Peace,  have  been  revised  and  corrected  under 
the  care  of  Messrs  Chambers,  in  seven  volumes, 
with  sequels  in  separate  volumes,  presenting 
Pictorial  Histories  of  the  Russian  War  and  Indian 
Revolt.  The  Russian  war  has  been  brilliantly  illus- 
trated by  an  eye-witness,  Mr  William  Howard 
Russell,  the  ‘ Special  Correspondent  ’ of  the  Times. 
Mr  Russell  accompanied  the  army  to  the  Crimea, 
and  transmitted  from  day  to  day  letters  descriptive 
of  the  progress  of  the  troops,  the  country  through 
which  they  passed,  the  people  they  met,  and  all 
the  public  incidents  and  events  of  that  dreadful 
campaign.  His  picturesque  style  and  glowing 
narratives  deepened  the  tragic  interest  of  the  war. 
But  the  letters  told  also  of  grievous  mismanagement 
on  the  part  of  the  home  authorities,  and  of  supine- 


ness on  the  part  of  certain  of  our  commanders,  j 
These  details,  it  is  now  proved,  were  in  some  j 
instances  exaggerated ; the  merits  of  our  allies  the 
French  were  also  unduly  extolled ; but  much  good 
was  undoubtedly  done  by  the  revelations  and  com- 
ments of  the  fearless  and  energetic  * Correspondent.’ 

A bad  system  of  official  routine  was  broken  in  upon, 
if  not  entirely  uprooted,  and  a solemn  public  warn- 
ing was  held  out  for  the  future.  The  benefit  of  this 
was  subsequently  experienced  in  India,  whither  Mr 
Russell  also  went  to  record  the  incidents  of  the 
revolt.  His  Russian  battle-pictures  and  descrip- 
tions were  collected  into  two  volumes,  1855-56; 
the  first  giving  an  account  of  the  war  from  the 
landing  of  the  troops  at  Gallipoli  to  the  death  of 
Lord  Raglan,  and  the  second,  continuing  the 
history  to  the  evacuation  of  the  Crimea.  We  give 
a portion  of  one  of  his  battle-pieces. 

[ The  Battle  of  Balaklava,  October  25,  1854.] 

Never  did  the  painter’s  eye  rest  on  a more  beautiful 
scene  than  I beheld  from  the  ridge.  The  fleecy  vapours 
still  hung  around  the  mountain-tops,  and  mingled  with 
the  ascending  volumes  of  smoke ; the  patch  of  sea 
sparkled  in  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  but  its  light 
was  eclipsed  by  the  flashes  which  gleamed  from  the 
masses  of  armed  men  below.  Looking  to  the  left 
towards  the  gorge,  we  beheld  six  compact  masses  of 
Russian  infantry,  which  had  just  debouched  from  the 
mountain-passes  near  the  Tchernaya,  and  were  slowly 
advancing  with  solemn  stateliness  up  the  valley.  Imme- 
diately in  their  front  wras  a regular  line  of  artillery,  of 
at  least  twenty  pieces  strong.  Two  batteries  of  light 
guns  were  already  a mile  in  advance  of  them,  and  were 
playing  with  energy  on  the  redoubts,  from  which  feeble 
puffs  of  smoke  came  at  long  intervals.  Behind  these 
guns,  in  front  of  the  infantry,  were  enormous  bodies  of 
cavalry.  They  were  in  six  compact  squares,  three  on 
each  flank,  moving  down  en  Echelon  towards  us,  and  the 
valley  was  lit  up  with  the  blaze  of  their  sabres,  and 
lance  points,  and  gay  accoutrements.  In  their  front, 
and  extending  along  the  intervals  between  each  battery 
of  guns,  were  clouds  of  mounted  skirmishers,  wheeling 
and  whirling  in  the  front  of  their  march  like  autumn 
leaves  tossed  by  the  wind.  The  Zouaves  close  to  us  were 
lying  like  tigers  at  the  spring,  with  ready  rifles  in  hand, 
hidden  chin-deep  by  the  earthworks  which  run  along 
the  line  of  these  ridges  on  our  rear;  but  the  quick-eyed 
Russians  were  manoeuvring  on  the  other  side  of  the 
valley,  and  did  not  expose  their  columns  to  attack. 
Below  the  Zouaves  wre  could  see  the  Turkish  gunners  in 
the  redoubts,  all  in  confusion  as  the  shells  burst  over 
them.  Just  as  I came  up,  the  Russians  had  carried 
No.  1 Redoubt,  the  furthest  and  most  elevated  of  all, 
and  their  horsemen  were  chasing  the  Turks  across  the 
interval  which  lay  between  it  and  Redoubt  No.  2.  At 
that  moment  the  cavalry,  under  Lord  Lucan,  were 
formed  in  glittering  masses — the  Light  Brigade,  under 
Lord  Cardigan,  in  advance ; the  Heavy  Brigade,  under 
Brigadier-general  Scarlett,  in  reserve.  They  were  drawn 
up  just  in  front  of  their  encampment,  and  were  concealed 
from  the  view  of  the  enemy  by  a slight  ‘ wave  ’ in  the 
plain.  Considerably  to  the  rear  of  their  right,  the  93d 
Highlanders  were  drawn  up  in  line,  in  front  of  the 
approach  to  Balaklava.  Above  and  behind  them,  on  the 
heights,  the  marines  were  visible  through  the  glass, 
drawn  up  under  arms,  and  the  gunners  could  be  seen 
ready  in  the  earthworks,  in  which  were  placed  the 
heavy  ships’  guns.  The  93d  had  originally  been 
advanced  somewhat  more  into  the  plain,  but  the 
instant  the  Russians  got  possession  of  the  first  redoubt 
they  opened  fire  on  them  from  our  own  guns,  which 
inflicted  some  injury,  and  Sir  Colin  Campbell  ‘retired’ 
his  men  to  a better  position.  Meantime  the  enemy 


fsoji  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


advanced  his  cavalry  rapidly.  To  our  inexpressible 
disgust  -we  saw  the  Turks  in  Redoubt  No.  2 fly  at  their 
approach.  They  ran  in  scattered  groups  across  towards 
Redoubt  No.  3,  and  towards  Balaklava ; but  the  horse- 
hoof  of  the  Cossack  was  too  quick  for  them,  and  sword 
and  lance  were  busily  plied  among  the  retreating  herd. 
The  yells  of  the  pursuers  and  pursued  were  plainly 
audible.  As  the  Lancers  and  Light  Cavalry  of  the 
Russians  advanced,  they  gathered  up  their  skirmishers 
with  great  speed  and  in  excellent  order — the  shifting 
trails  of  men,  which  played  all  over  the  valley  like 
moonlight  on  the  water,  contracted,  gathered  up,  and 
the  little  peloton  in  a few  moments  became  a solid 
column.  Then  up  came  their  guns,  in  rushed  their 
gunners  to  the  abandoned  redoubt,  and  the  guns  of 
No.  2 Redoubt  soon  played  with  deadly  effect  upon  the 
dispirited  defenders  of  No.  3 Redoubt.  Two  or  three 
shots  in  return  from  the  earthworks,  and  all  is  silent. 
The  Turks  swarm  over  the  earthworks,  and  run  in 
confusion  towards  the  town,  firing  their  muskets  at  the 
enemy  as  they  run.  Again  the  solid  column  of  cavalry 
opens  like  a fan,  and  resolves  itself  into  a ‘long  spray’ 
of  skirmishers.  It  laps  the  flying  Turks,  steel  flashes 
in  the  air,  and  down  go  the  poor  Moslem  quivering  on 
the  plain,  split  through  fez  and  musket-guard  to  the 
chin  and  breast-belt ! There  is  no  support  for  them. 
It  is  evident  the  Russians  have  been  too  quick  for  us. 
The  Turks  have  been  too  quick  also,  for  they  have  not 
held  their- redoubts  long  enough  to  enable  us  to  bring 
them  help.  In  vain  the  naval  guns  on  the  heights  fire 
on  the  Russian  cavalry;  the  distance  is  too  great  for 
shot  or  shell  to  reach.  In  vain  the  Turkish  gunners  in 
the  earthen  batteries,  which  are  placed  along  the  French 
intrenchments,  strive  to  protect  their  flying  countrymen ; 
their  shot  fly  wide  and  short  of  the  swarming  masses. 
The  Turks  betake  themselves  towards  the  Highlanders, 
i where  they  check  their  flight,  and  form  into  companies 
1 on  the  flanks  of  the  Highlanders.  As  the  Russian 
J cavalry  on  the  left  of  their  line  crown  the  hill  across  the 
valley,  they  perceive  the  Highlanders  drawn  up  at  the 
! distance  of  some  half-mile,  calmly  waiting  their  approach. 

! They  halt,  and  squadron  after  squadron  flies  up  from 
j the  rear,  till  they  have  a body  of  some  1500  men  along 
the  ridge — lancers,  and  dragoons,  and  hussars.  Then 
they  move  en  echelon  in  two  bodies,  with  another  in 
reserve.  The  cavalry,  who  have  been  pursuing  the  Turks 
on  the  right,  are  coming  up  to  the  ridge  beneath  us, 
which  conceals  our  cavalry  from  view.  The  Heavy 
Brigade  in  advance  is  drawn  up  in  two  lines.  The  first 
j line  consists  of  the  Scots  Greys,  and  of  their  old  com- 
j panions  in  glory,  the  Enniskillens ; the  second,  of  the 
i 4th  Royal  Irish,  of  the  5th  Dragoon  Guards,  and  of  the 
1st  Royal  Dragoons.  The  Light  Cavalry  Brigade  is  on 
| their  left,  in  two  lines  also.  The  silence  is  oppressive ; 

| between  the  cannon  bursts  one  can  hear  the  champing 
I of  bits  and  the  clink  of  sabres  in  the  valley  below.  The 
| Russians  on  their  left  drew  breath  for  a moment,  and 
I then  in  one  grand  line  dashed  at  the  Highlanders.  The 
j ground  flies  beneath  their  horses’  feet ; gathering  speed 
j at  every  stride,  they  dash  on  towards  that  thin  red 
I streak  topped  with  a line  of  steel.  The  Turks  fire  a 
volley  at  eight  hundred  yards,  and  run.  As  the 
Russians  come  within  six  hundred  yards,  down  goes 
that  line  of  steel  in  front,  and  out  rings  a rolling  volley 
of  Minie  musketry.  The  distance  is  too  great;  the 
Russians  are  not  checked,  but  still  sweep  onward 
through  the  smoke,  with  the  whole  force  of  horse  and 
man,  here  and  there  knocked  over  by  the  shot  of  our 
batteries  above.  With  breathless  suspense  every  one 
awaits  the  bursting  of  the  wave  upon  the  line  of  Gaelic 
rock ; but  ere  they  come  within  a hundred  and  fifty 
yards,  another  deadly  volley  flashes  from  the  levelled 
t rifle,  and  carries  death  and  terror  into  the  Russians. 
They  wheel  about,  open  files  right  and  left,  and  fly  back 
faster  than  they  came.  4 Bravo,  Highlanders  ! well 
done ! ’ shouted  the  excited  spectators : but  events 
700 


thicken.  The  Highlanders  and  their  splendid  front  are 
soon  forgotten,  men  scarcely  have  a moment  to  think  of 
this  fact,  that  the  93d  never  altered  their  formation  to 
receive  that  tide  of  horsemen.  ‘No,’  said  Sir  Colin  1 
Campbell,  ‘ I did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  form  them 
even  four  deep  !’  The  ordinary  British  line,  two  deep, 
was  quite  sufficient  to  repel  the  attack  of  these 
Muscovite  cavaliers.  Our  eyes  were,  however,  turned  in 
a moment  on  our  own  cavalry.  We  saw  Brigadier- 
general  Scarlett  ride  along  in  front  of  his  massive 
squadrons.  The  Russians — evidently  corps  d elite — their 
light-blue  jackets  embroidered  with  silver  lace,  were 
advancing  on  their  left,  at  an  easy  gallop,  towards  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  A forest  of  lances  glistened  in  their  rear, 
and  several  squadrons  of  gray-coated  dragoons  moved  up 
quickly  to  support  them  as  they  reached  the  summit. 
The  instant  they  came  in  sight  the  trumpets  of  our 
cavalry  gave  out  the  warning-blast  which  told  us  all  that 
in  another  moment  we  should  see  the  shock  of  battle 
beneath  our  very  eyes.  Lord  Raglan,  all  his  staff  and 
escort,  and  groups  of  officers,  the  Zouaves,  French 
generals  and  officers,  and  bodies  of  French  infantry  on 
the  height,  were  spectators  of  the  scene  as  though  they 
were  looking  on  the  stage  from  the  boxes  of  a theatre. 
Nearly  every  one  dismounted  and  sat  down,  and  not  a 
word  was  said.  The  Russians  advanced  down  the  hill 
at  a slow  canter,  which  they  changed  to  a trot,  and 
at  last  nearly  halted.  Their  first  line  was  at  least 
double  the  length  of  ours — it  was  three  times  as  deep. 
Behind  them  was  a similar  line,  equally  strong  and 
compact.  They  evidently  despised  their  insignificant- 
looking enemy ; but  their  time  was  come.  The  trumpets 
rang  out  again  through  the  valley,  and  the  Greys  and 
Enniskilleners  went  right  at  the  centre  of  the  Russian 
cavalry.  The  space  between  them  was  only  a few 
hundred  yards ; it  was  scarce  enough  to  let  the  horses 
‘ gather  way,’  nor  had  the  men  quite  space  sufficient  for 
the  full  play  of  their  sword-arms.  The  Russian  line 
brings  forward  each  wing  as  our  cavalry  advance,  and 
threatens  to  annihilate  them  as  they  pass  on.  Turning 
a little  to  their  left,  so  as  to  meet  the  Russian  right,  the 
Greys  rush  on  with  a cheer  that  thrills  to  every  heart — 
the  wild  shout  of  the  Enniskilleners  rises  through  the 
air  at  the  same  instant.  As  lightning  Cashes  through  a 
cloud,  the  Greys  and  Enniskilleners  pierce  through  the 
dark  masses  of  Russians.  The  shock  was  but  for  a 
moment.  There  was  a clash  of  steel  and  a light  play 
of  sword-blades  in  the  air,  and  then  the  Greys  and  the 
redcoats  disappear  in  the  midst  of  the  shaken  and 
quivering  columns.  In  another  moment  we  see  them 
emerging  and  dashing  on  with  diminished  numbers,  and 
in  broken  order,  against  the  second  line,  which  is 
advancing  against  them  as  fast  as  it  can  to  retrieve  the 
fortune  of  the  charge.  It  was  a terrible  moment.  ‘ God 
help  them  ! they  are  lost !’  was  the  exclamation  of 
more  than  one  man,  and  the  thought  of  many.  With 
unabated  fire  the  noble  hearts  dashed  at  their  enemy. 

It  was  a fight  of  heroes.  The  first  line  of  Russians,  j 
which  had  been  smashed  utterly  by  our  charge,  and  had 
fled  off  at  one  flank  and  towards  the  centre,  were  coming 
back  to  swallow  up  our  handful  of  men.  By  sheer  steel 
and  sheer  courage  Enniskillener  and  Scot  were  winning 
their  desperate  way  right  through  the  enemy’s  squadrons, 
and  already  grey  horses  and  redcoats  had  appeared 
right  at  the  rear  of  the  second  mass,  when,  with 
irresistible  force,  like  one  bolt  from  a bow,  the  1st  ; 
Royals,  the  4th  Dragoon  Guards,  and  the  5th  Dragoon  j 
Guards,  rushed  at  the  remnants  of  the  first  line  of  the  | 
enemy;  went  through  it  as  though  it  were  made  of  , 
pasteboard ; and,  dashing  on  the  second  body  of  Russians  j 
as  they  were  still  disordered  by  the  terrible  assault  of  j 
the  Greys  and  their  companions,  put  them  to  utter  rout,  j 
This  Russian  horse,  in  less  than  five  minutes  after  it  j 
met  our  dragoons,  was  flying  with  all  its  speed  before  a j 
force  certainly  not  half  its  strength.  A cheer  burst  | 
from  every  lip — in  the  enthusiasm,  officers  and  men  ! 


historians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  w.  h.  russell. 

took  off  their  caps  and  shouted  with  delight,  and  thus 
keeping  up  the  scenic  character  of  their  position,  they 
clapped  their  hands  again  and  again.  Lord  Raglan  at 
once  despatched  Lieutenant  Curzon,  aide-de-camp,  to 
convey  his  congratulations  to  Brigadier-general  Scarlett, 
and  to  say : ‘ Well  done !’  The  gallant  old  officer’s  face 
beamed  with  pleasure  when  he  received  the  message. 
‘I  beg  to  thank  his  lordship  very  sincerely,’  was  his 
reply.  The  cavalry  did  not  long  pursue  their  enemy. 
Their  loss  was  very  slight,  about  thirty-five  killed  and 
wounded  in  both  affairs.  There  were  not  more  than 
four  or  five  men  killed  outright,  and  our  most  material 
loss  was  from  the  cannon  playing  on  our  heavy  dragoons 
afterwards,  when  covering  the  retreat  of  our  light 
cavalry. 

J A disastrous  scene  followed  this  triumph — the 
! famous  Light  Cavalry  charge.*  It  had  been  Lord 
Raglan’s  intention  that  the  cavalry  should  aid  in 
regaining  the  heights  surmounted  by  the  redoubts 
taken  from  the  Turks,  or  in  default  of  this,  to 
prevent  the  Russians  from  carrying  off  the  guns 

* The  poet-laureate,  Mr  Tennyson,  has  commemorated  this 
splendid  but  melancholy  feat  of  war : 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade. 

i. 

Half  a league,  half  a league, 

Half  a league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

• Charge ! ’ was  the  captain’s  cry ; 

Their ’s  not  to  reason  why, 

Their ’s  not  to  make  reply. 

Their 's  but  to  do  and  die ; 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

ir. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered ; 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

nr. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 

Flashed  all  at  once  in  air, 

Sabring  the  gunners  there, 

Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered  : 

Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 

Fiercely  the  line  they  broke ; 

Strong  was  the  sabre-stroke; 

Making  an  army  reel, 

Shaken  and  sundered; 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

IV. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them. 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered. 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

They  had  struck  so  well, 

Rode  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Half  a league  back  again, 

Up  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

V. 

Honour  the  brave  and  bold ! 

Long  shall  the  talc  be  told, 

Yea,  when  our  babes  are  old— 

How  they  rode  onward. 

at  those  redoubts.  Some  misconception  occurred 
as  to  the  order ; Captain  Nolan,  who  conveyed  the 
message,  fell  in  the  charge;  but  it  was  construed 
by  the  lieutenant-general,  Lord  Lucan,  to  mean, 
that  he  should  attack  at  all  hazards,  and  the  Earl 
of  Cardigan,  as  second  in  command,  put  the  order 
in  execution. 

The  whole  brigade  (adds  Mr  Russell)  scarcely  made  one 
effective  regiment  according  to  the  numbers  of  continental 
armies ; and  yet  it  was  more  than  we  could  spare.  As 
they  rushed  towards  the  front,  the  Russians  opened  on 
them  from  the  guns  in  the  redoubt  on  the  right,  with 
volleys  of  musketry  and  rifles.  They  swept  proudly 
past,  glittering  in  the  morning  sun  in  all  the  pride  and 
splendour  of  war.  We  could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence 
of  our  senses ! Surely  that  handful  of  men  are  not 
going  to  charge  an  army  in  position  ? Alas  ! it  was  but 
too  true — their  desperate  valour  knew  no  bounds,  and 
far  indeed  was  it  removed  from  its  so-called  better 
part — discretion.  They  advanced  in  two  lines,  quicken- 
ing their  pace  as  they  closed  towards  the  enemy.  A 
more  fearful  spectacle  was  never  witnessed  than  by 
those  who,  without  the  power  to  aid,  beheld  their  heroic 
countrymen  rushing  to  the  arms  of  death.  At  the 
distance  of  1200  yards,  the  whole  line  of  the  enemy 
belched  forth,  from  thirty  iron  mouths,  a flood  of  smoke 
and  flame,  through  which  hissed  the  deadly  balls.  Their 
flight  was  marked  by  instant  gaps  in  our  ranks,  by  dead 
men  and  horses,  by  steeds  flying  wounded  or  riderless 
across  the  plain.  The  first  line  is  broken ; it  is  joined 
by  the  second ; they  never  halt  or  check  their  speed 
an  instant.  With  diminished  ranks,  thinned  by  those 
thirty  guns,  which  the  Russians  had  laid  with  the  most 
deadly  accuracy,  with  a halo  of  flashing  steel  above 
their  heads,  and  with  a cheer  which  was  many  a noble 
fellow’s  death-cry,  they  flew  into  the  smoke  of  the 
batteries,  but  ere  they  were  lost  from  view,  the  plain 
was  strewed  with  their  bodies  and  with  the  carcasses  of 
horses.  They  were  exposed  to  an  oblique  fire  from  the 
batteries  on  the  hills  on  both  sides,  as  well  as  to  a 
direct  fire  of  musketry.  Through  the  clouds  of  smoke 
we  could  see  their  sabres  flashing  as  they  rode  up  to 
the  guns  and  dashed  between  them,  cutting  down  the 
gunners  as  they  stood.  We  saw  them  riding  through 
the  guns,  as  I have  said ; to  our  delight  we  saw  them 
returning,  after  breaking  through  a column  of  Russian 
infantry,  and  scattering  them  like  chaff,  when  the  flank 
fire  of  the  battery  on  the  hill  swept  them  down, 
scattered  and  broken  as  they  were.  Wounded  men  and 
dismounted  troopers  flying  towards  us  told  the  sad  tale 
— demi-gods  could  not  have  done  what  we  had  failed  to 
do.  At  the  very  moment  when  they  were  about  to 
retreat,  an  enormous  mass  of  lancers  was  hurled  on 
their  flank.  Colonel  Shewell,  of  the  8th  Hussars,  saw 
the  danger,  and  rode  his  few  men  straight  at  them, 
cutting  his  way  through  with  fearful  loss.  The  other 
regiments  turned  and  engaged  in  a desperate  encounter. 
With  courage  too  great  almost  for  credence,  they  were 
breaking  their  way  through  the  columns  which  enveloped 
them,  when  there  took  place  an  act  of  atrocity  without 
parallel  in  the  modern  warfare  of  civilised  nations.  The 
Russian  gunners,  when  the  storm  of  cavalry  passed, 
returned  to  their  guns.  They  saw  their  own  cavalry 
mingled  with  the  troopers  who  had  just  ridden  over 
them,  and,  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of  the  Russian  name, 
the  miscreants  poured  a murderous  volley  of  grape  and 
canister  on  the  mass  of  struggling  men  and  horses, 
mingling  friend  and  foe  in  one  common  ruin  ! It  was 
as  much  as  our  heavy  cavalry  brigade  could  do  to  cover 
the  retreat  of  the  miserable  remnants  of  that  band  of 
heroes  as  they  returned  to  the  place  they  had  so  lately 
quitted  in  all  the  pride  of  life.  At  thirty-five  minutes 
past  eleven  not  a British  soldier,  except  the  dead  and 
dying,  was  left  in  front  of  these  bloody  Muscovite 
guns. 

701 

FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Mr  Russell,  we  may  add,  is  a native  of  Dublin, 
born  in  the  year  1816  ; he  studied  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege ; and,  on  removing  to  London,  entered  himself 
j at  the  Temple  as  a student  of  law,  but  soon  became 
! engaged  on  the  daily  press. 

Some  excellent  military  narratives  of  the  Crimean 
: and  Indian  wars  have  been  published,  with  journals 
[ and  other  works  relating  to  the  campaigns. 

A History  of  England  during  the  Reign  of  George 
''  III.,  by  William  Massey,  M.P.,  volume  i.,  1745- 
! 1770,  volume  ii.,  1770-1780,  is  a popular  work, 

| exhibiting  no  great  research,  but  impartially  and 
I pleasantly  written.  It  deals  chiefly  with  the  pro- 
; gress  of  society,  and  the  phases  of  social  life  and 
manners. 

[ Gambling  in  the  Last  Century .] 

The  vice  which,  above  all  others,  infested  English 
society  during  the  greater  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  was  gaining.  Men  and  women,  the  old  and 
| the  young,  beaux  and  statesmen,  peers  and  apprentices, 

I the  learned  and  polite,  as  well  as  the  ignorant  and 
vulgar,  were  alike  involved  in  the  vortex  of  play. 

| Horse-racing,  cock-fighting,  betting  of  every  descrip- 
tion, with  the  ordinary  resources  of  cards  and  dice, 
were  the  chief  employment  of  many,  and  were  tam- 
pered with  more  or  less  by  almost  every  person  in  the 
higher  ranks  of  life.  The  proprietary  clubs — White’s, 
Brookes’ s,  Boodle’s — were  originally  instituted  to  evade 
the  statute  against  public  gaming-houses.  But  every 
fashionable  assembly  was  a gaming-house.  Large  balls 
and  routs  had  not  yet  come  in  vogue.  A ball  seldom 
consisted  of  more  than  ten  or  twelve  couples ; and  the 
practice  of  collecting  a crowd  of  fine  people  to  do 
nothing,  is  an  invention  of  recent  date.  When  a lady 
received  company,  card-tables  were  provided  for  all  the 
guests ; and  even  where  there  was  dancing,  cards  formed 
the  principal  part  of  the  entertainment.  Games  of  skill 
were  seldom  played.  Brag,  crimp,  basset,  ombre,  hazard, 
commerce,  spadille — the  very  names  of  which  are  hardly 
known  to  the  present  generation — furnished  the  excite- 
ment of  play,  and  enabled  people  of  fashion  to  win  and 
lose  their  money  without  mental  effort.  Whist  was  not 
much  in  vogue  until  a later  period,  and  was  far  too 
abstruse  and  slow  to  suit  the  depraved  taste  which 
required  unadulterated  stimulants.  The  ordinary  stakes 
at  these  mixed  assemblies  would,  at  the  present  day,  be 
considered  high,  even  at  clubs  where  a rubber  is  still 
allowed.  The  consequences  of  such  gaming  were  often 
still  more  lamentable  than  those  which  usually  attend 
such  practices.  It  would  happen  that  a lady  lost  more 
than  she  could  venture  to  confess  to  a husband  or  father. 
Her  creditor  was  probably  a fine  gentleman,  or  she 
became  indebted  to  some  rich  admirer  for  the  means  of 
discharging  her  liabilities.  In  either  event,  the  result 
may  be  guessed.  In  the  one  case,  the  debt  of  honour 
was  liquidated  on  the  old  principle  of  the  law-merchant, 
according  to  which  there  was  but  one  alternative  to 
payment  in  purse.  In  the  other,  there  was  likewise  but 
one  mode  in  which  the  acknowledgment  of- obligation 
by  a fine  woman  would  be  acceptable  to  a man  of  the 
world. 

The  history  of  Scotland  was  left  by  Mr  Fraser 
Tytler  at  the  period  of  the  union  of  the  crowns 
under  James  VI.  A subsequent  portion  has  been 
fully  treated  by  Mr  John  Hill  Burton,  advocate, 
in  a work,  entitled  History  of  Scotland  from  the 
Revolution  to  the  Extinction  of  the  Last  Jacobite 
Insurrection  (1689-1748),  two  volumes,  1853.  This 
work  has  received  the  approbation  of  Lord  Macaulay 
and  all  other  historical  readers ; it  is  honestly  and 
diligently  executed,  with  passages  of  vigorous  and 
picturesque  eloquence — as  the  account  of  the  Battle 
of  Killiecrankie,  and  the  Massacre  of  Glencoe.  We 

702 


subjoin,  as  best  suited  to  our  limits,  part  of  the 
historian’s  notice  of  the  Scottish  language  and 
literature : 

[The  Scottish  Language  after  the  Period  of  the 
Revolution .] 

The  development  of  pure  literature  in  Scotland,  had, 
for  half  a century  after  the  Revolution,  to  struggle 
with  a peculiar  difficulty  arising  out  of  the  tenor  of  the 
national  history.  The  languages  of  England  and  of 
Lowland  Scotland,  speaking  of  both  in  a general  sense, 
were  as  entirely  taken  from  a northern  Teutonic  stock 
common  to  both,  as  the  languages  of  Essex  and  York- 
shire. Like  other  national  characteristics,  the  language 
of  Scotland  took  a direction  severing  itself  from  that  of 
England  after  the  War  of  Independence.  Centuries  | 
elapsed,  however,  ere  the  distinctive  peculiarities  of 
each  had  gone  far  in  its  own  direction,  and  away  from  ! 
the  other.  The  earliest  material  change  was  in  the 
language  of  England  by  the  infusion  of  the  Norman,  j 
while  Scotland  kept  closer  to  the  old  Saxon  stock.  ; 
Thus  it  is  that  Scottish  writers  of  the  age  of  Gower  and  j 
Chaucer — such  as  Barbour,  the  archdeacon  of  Aberdeen,  I 
and  Wyntoun,  the  monk  of  Lochleven— wrote  a language  j 
more  intelligible  to  the  present  age  than  that  of  their  | 
English  contemporaries,  because  it  is  not  so  sensibly 
tinged  with  Gallicisms.  France  had  subsequently,  as  we 
have  seen,  a great  social  and  constitutional  influence  in 
Scotland,  which  brought  a few  foreign  terms  into  use, 
but  it  scarcely  touched  the  structure  of  the  language. 
This  gradually  assumed  a purely  national,  or,  as  it  came 
to  be  deemed  when  Scotland  was  becoming  absorbed 
into  the  British  community,  a provincial  tongue.  The 
Scottish  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  wrote  in  a j 
language  as  different  from  the  English  as  we  might  ; 
suppose  the  Norse  of  the  same  age  to  be  from  the  j 
Danish.  John  Knox,  who  lived  much  in  England,  was  ; 
charged  with  the  affected  employment  of  English  | 
novelties,  because  he  attempted  so  to  modify  the  Scottish  i 
peculiarities  as  to  make  his  works  readable  to  his  j 
friends  beyond  the  Border.  It  was  felt,  indeed,  in  his 
day,  that  the  Scottish  tongue  was  becoming  provincial,  | 
and  those  who  desired  to  speak  beyond  a mere  home  I 
audience,  wrote  in  Latin.  Hence  arose  that  class  of  j 
scholars  headed  by  Buchanan,  who  almost  made  the 
language  of  Rome  vernacular  to  themselves.  Those  who  : 
are  acquainted  with  the  epistolary  correspondence  of 
learned  Scotsmen  in  the  seventeenth  century,  will 
observe  how  easily  they  take  to  Latin — how  uneasy 
and  diffident  they  feel  in  the  use  of  English.  Some-  j 
times,  indeed,  the  ancient  language  is  evidently  sought 
as  a relief,  when  the  writer  is  addressing  one  to  whom  he 
cannot  use  a Scottish  expression,  while  he  is  unable  to 
handle  the  corresponding  English  idiom.  But  Latin  was  i 
dying  away  as  the  common  language  of  literature  and  j 
science.  Each  great  nation  was  forming  her  own  literary  ! 
tongue.  The  Revolution  was  completed  within  the  time  j 
embraced  in  this  history.  But  Scotland  had  not  kept  an  | 
independent  literary  language  of  her  own,  nor  was  she  j 
sufficiently  expert  in  the  use  of  that  which  had  been 
created  in  England.  Hence,  in  a great  measure,  we  can 
distinctly  account  for  the  literary  barrenness  of  the  ! 
country.  The  men  may  have  existed,  but  they  had  not  | 
the  tools.  An  acquaintance  with  the  correspondence  of  i 
Scotsmen,  for  the  first  half  century  after  the  Revolution, 
shews  the  extreme  difficulty  which  even  those  who  were 
high  in  rank  and  well  educated  felt  in  conveying  their 
thoughts  through  a dialect  imperfectly  resembling  the 
language  of  The  Spectator.  Any  attempt  to  keep  up  a ; 
Scottish  literary  language  had  been  abandoned  in  prose  J 
before  the  Revolution.  In  verse,  incidental  causes  made  j 
it  seem  as  if  the  struggle  were  still  continued.  The  old 
Scottish  melodies,  so  mysterious  in  their  origin,  never 
ceased  to  have  the  charm  of  musical  association  for  the 
people. 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


BISHOP  THIRLWALL — MR  GROTE. 


Mr  Burton  has  made  further  additions  to  our 
knowledge  of  Scottish  literature  and  society  by  his 
valuable  Life  and  Correspondence  of  David  Hume , his 
Lives  of  Lord  Lovat  and  Duncan  Forbes  of  Culloden 
— both  works  written  from  family  papers  and  other 
original  sources  of  information — and  his  Narratives 
from.  Criminal  Trials  in  Scotland.  As  a member  of 
the  Scottish  bar,  Mr  Burton  has  also  been  a hard 
legal  student,  having  written  a work  on  the  Scottish 
Bankrupt  Law , a Manual  of  the  Law  of  Scotland , &c. 
In  another  not  very  promising  mine  he  has  been  a 
successful  labourer : his  Political  and  Social  Economy , 
1849,  is  a little  volume  giving  a clear  and  popular 
summary  of  this  science,  and  he  has  extracted  from 
the  mass  of  Jeremy  Bentham’s  works  a very 
readable  collection  of  Benthamiana. 

The  awakened  curiosity  of  the  public  regarding 
Scottish  history  and  manners — mainly  to  be  attri- 
buted to  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  works — induced  the  late 
Henry  Cockburn  (1779-1854)  to  write  Memorials 
of  his  Time,  or  sketches  of  the  public  character  and 
social  habits  of  the  leading  citizens  of  Edinburgh 
from  the  end  of  the  last  century,  to  the  culminating- 
point  in  the  celebrity  of  the  Scottish  capital  at  the 
date  of  the  Waverley  novels.  The  author  of  the 
Memorials , Lord  Cockburn,  a Scottish  judge,  was 
shrewd,  observant,  and  playful — a genial  humorist 
and  man  of  fine  taste,  with  a vein  of  energetic 
eloquence,  when  roused,  that  was  irresistible  with  a 
Scottish  audience.  What  Lord  Cockburn  did  for 
his  time  by  personal  observation  and  memory,  has 
been  done  for  a much  earlier  period,  through  the 
medium  of  books  and  manuscripts,  by  Mr  Robert 
Chambers,  in  his  Domestic  Annals  of  Scotland  from 
the  Reformation  to  the  Revolution,  two  volumes,  1858. 
His  object,  as  stated  in  the  preface  to  the  work,  was 
to  detail  ‘the  series  of  occurrences  beneath  the 
region  of  history,  the  effects  of  passion,  superstition, 
and  ignorance  in  the  people,  the  extraordinary 
natural  events  which  disturbed  their  tranquillity; 
the  calamities  which  affected  their  wellbeing,  the 
traits  of  false  political  economy  by  which  that  well- 
being was  checked,  and  generally  those  things  which 
enable  us  to  see  how  our  forefathers  thought,  felt, 
and  suffered,  and  how,  on  the  whole,  ordinary  life 
looked  in  their  days.’  The  language  of  the  original 
contemporary  narrators  is  given  wherever  it  was 
sufficiently  intelligible  and  concise.  This  work  has 
been  very  successful.  Three  other  volumes  by  Mr 
Chambers  are  devoted  to  local  and  national  annals. 
The  History  of  the  Rebellion  of  1745-G,  Traditions  of 
Edinburgh,  and  Popular  Rhymes  of  Scotland.  The 
New  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland,  written  by  the 
established  clergy  of  the  different  parishes,  and 
completed  in  fifteen  volumes  in  1845,  supplies  a 
great  body  of  information.  In  topographical  and 
antiquarian  history,  England  far  excels  the  sister 
country ; but  the  book-clubs — the  Bannatyne, 
Abbotsford,  Maitland,  and  Spalding  Clubs — by  the 
publication  of  family-papers  and  reprints,  carefully 
edited,  of  early  Scottish  literature,  have  done  much 
to  illustrate  our  national  annals.  Another  marked 
improvement  is  the  appointment  by  government  of 
two  able  antiquaries— Mr  Joseph  Robertson,  and  Mr 
John  Stuart— as  Searchers  of  Records  for  Literary 
Purposes  in  the  General  Register-House,  Edinburgh. 

BISHOP  THIRLWALL — MR  GROTE — COLONEL 
MURE — MR  GLADSTONE — ETC. 

The  bishop  of  St  David’s,  Dr  Cqnnop  Thirl- 
wall,  contributed  to  Lardner’s  Cyclopaedia  a History 
of  Greece,  which  extended  to  eight  volumes,  and 
has  been  enlarged  and  reprinted,  1845-52.  It  is  a 


learned  and  philosophical  work,  evincing  a thorough 
knowledge  of  Greek  literature  and  of  the  German  i 
commentators.  A critic  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 
while  acknowledging  the  calm  practical  wisdom 
which  Dr  Thirlwall  has  displayed  in  his  History, 
says : ‘ It  is  impossible  not  to  miss  in  the  marble 
coldness  of  the  bishop  of  St  David’s  something  of  j 
the  animating  warmth  which  his  predecessor 
(Mitford)  derived  from  his  practical  life  as  an  English 
country  gentleman ; while,  on  the  other  hand,  every 
one  recognises  the  abundant  stores  of  knowledge 
and  the  tact  of  finished  erudition  with  which  the 
Cambridge  scholar  was  so  largely  gifted,  and  which 
to  the  Hampshire  squire  were  almost  entirely  denied.’ 
Dr  Thirlwall  was  born,  in  1797,  at  Stepney,  Middle- 
sex, son  of  the  rector  of  Bowers  Gifford,  Essex.  He 
st  udied  at  Cambridge,  and  carried  off  high  academical 
honours  at  Trinity  College.  He  intended  following 
the  profession  of  the  law,  and,  after  keeping  his 
terms,  was  called  to  the  bar  at  Lincoln’s  Inn,  in 
1825.  Three  years’  experience  seems  to  have  dis- 
gusted him  with  the  legal  profession;  he  entered 
the  church,  obtained  a rectory  in  Yorkshire,  then 
became  dean  of  Brecon,  and  in  1840  was  promoted 
to  the  see  of  St  David’s. 

A more  elaborate  and  more  valuable  History  of 
Greece  is  that  of  Mr  George  Grote,  commencing 
with  the  earliest  or  legendary  history  of  Greece, 
and  closing  with  the  generation  contemporary  with 
Alexander  the  Great.  This  work  extends  to  twelve 
volumes.  The  first  two  were  published  in  1848 ; 
but  it  appears  from  a letter  of  Niebuhr,  addressed  to 
Professor  Lieber.  that  so  early  as  1827  Mr  Grote 
was  engaged  on  the  work.  The  primitive  period 
of  Grecian  history— the  expedition  of  the  Argonauts 
and  the  wars  of  Thebes  and  Troy — he  treats  as 
merely  poetical  inventions.  On  the  subject  of  the 
Homeric  poems,  he  holds  that  the  Odyssey  is  an 
original  unity,  ‘ a premeditated  structure  and  a con- 
centration of  interest  upon  one  prime  hero  under 
well-defined  circumstances.’  The  Iliad,  he  says, 
produces  on  his  mind  an  impression  totally  different: 
it  ‘presents  the  appearance  of  a house  built  upon 
a plan  comparatively  narrow  and  subsequently 
enlarged  by  successive  additions.’  He  conceives 
that  both  poems  are  about  the  same  age,  and  that 
age  a very  early  one,  anterior  to  the  First  Olympiad. 
Passing  to  authentic  history,  Mr  Grote  endeavours 
to  realise  the  views  and  feelings  of  the  Greeks,  and 
not  to  judge  of  them  by  an  English  standard.  Our 
idea  of  a limited  monarchy,  for  example,  was  unknown 
even  to  the  most  learned  of  the  Athenians. 

[Early  Greek  History  not  to  be  Judged  by  Modern 
Feeling.'] 

The  theory  of  a constitutional  king,  especially  as  it 
exists  in  England,  would  have  appeared  to  Aristotle 
impracticable ; to  establish  a king  who  will  reign  with- 
out governing — in  whose  name  all  government  is  carried 
on,  yet  whose  personal  will  is  in  practice  of  little  or  no 
effect — exempt  from  all  responsibility,  without  making 
use  of  the  exemption — receiving  from  every  one 
unmeasured  demonstrations  of  homage,  which  are  never 
translated  into  act,  except  within  the  bounds  of  a 
known  law — surrounded  with  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  power,  yet  acting  as  a passive  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  ministers  marked  out  for  his  choice  by  indica- 
tions which  he  is  not  at  liberty  to  resist.  This  remark- 
able combination  of  the  fiction  of  superhuman  grandeur 
and  licence  with  the  reality  of  an  invisible  strait-waist- 
coat,  is  what  an  Englishman  has  in  his  mind  when  he 
speaks  of  a constitutional  king.  When  the  Greeks 
thought  of  a man  exempt  from  legal  responsibility,  they 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


conceived  him  as  really  and  truly  such,  in  deed  as  well 
as  in  name,  with  a defenceless  community  exposed  to 
his  oppressions  ; and  their  fear  and  hatred  of  him  was 
measured  by  their  reverence  for  a government  of  equal 
law  and  free  speech,  with  the  ascendency  of  which  their 
whole  hopes  of  security  were  associated,  in  the  demo- 
; cracy  of  Athens  more,  perhaps,  than  in  any  other  portion 
of  Greece.  And  this  feeling,  as  it  was  one  of  the  best 
in  the  Greek  mind,  so  it  was  also  one  of  the  most  widely 
spread,  a point  of  unanimity  highly  valuable  amidst  so 
many  points  of  dissension.  We  cannot  construe  or  criti- 
cise it  by  reference  to  the  feelings  of  modem  Europe, 
j still  less  to  the  very  peculiar  feelings  of  England 
I respecting  kingship;  and  it  is  the  application,  some- 
times explicit,  and  sometimes  tacit,  of  this  unsuitable 
standard  which  renders  3Ir  Mitford’s  appreciation  of 
Greek  politics  so  often  incorrect  and  unfair. 

The  great  object  of  the  historian  is  to  penetrate  the 
inner  life  of  the  Greeks,  and  to  portray  their  social, 
moral,  and  religious  condition.  He  traces  with  ela- 
borate minuteness  the  rise  and  progress  of  the 
Athenian  democracy,  of  which  he  is  an  ardent 
admirer;  and  some  of  the  Athenian  institutions 
previously  condemned,  he  warmly  defends.  The 
institution  of  ostracism,  or  banishment  without 
accusation  or  trial,  he  conceives  to  have  been  neces- 
sary for  the  purpose  of  thwarting  the  efforts  of 
ambitious  leaders.  With  this  view  it  was  devised 
by  Clisthenes,  * and  it  was  guarded  from  abuse  by 
various  precautions,  the  most  important  of  which 
was,  that  the  concurrence  of  one-fourth  of  all  the 
citizens  was  required,  and  that  those  citizens  voted 
by  ballot.  The  two  classes  of  demagogues  and  j 
sophists  he  also  vindicates,  comparing  the  former  to  j 
our  popular  leaders  of  the  Opposition  in  parliament, 
and  the  latter  to  our  teachers  and  professors.  Even  , 
Cleon,  the  greatest  of  the  demagogues,  he  thinks  ' 
has  been  unfairly  traduced  by  Thucydides  and 
Aristophanes,  particularly  the  latter,  who  indulged  ! 
I in  all  the  licence  of  a comic  satirist.  ‘No  man,’  ; 
says  Mr  Grote,  ‘thinks  of  judging  Sir  Robert' 
Walpole,  or  Mr  Fox,  or  Mirabeau  from  the  numerous  1 
lampoons  put  in  circulation  against  them ; no  man 
will  take  measure  of  a political  Englishman  from  ; 
Punch,  or  of  a Frenchman  from  Charivari .’  The 
four  stages  of  Athenian  democracy  represented 
by  Solon,  Clisthenes,  Aristides,  and  Pericles  are  j 
carefully  described  and  discriminated  by  Mr  Grote ; 
he  gives  also  an  admirable  account  of  the  Greek 
colonies;  and  his  narrative  of  the  Peloponnesian 
War — which  fills  two  volumes — contains  novel  aud 
striking  views  of  events,  as  well  as  of  the  char- 
acters of  Pericles,  Alcibiades,  Lysander,  &c.  Even 
the  Eetreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand,  which  apparently 
had  been  exhausted  by  Xenophon,  is  told  by  Mr 
Grote  with  a spirit  and  freshness,  and  so  much  new 
illustration,  as  to  render  it  a deeply  interesting 
portion  of  his  history.  The  following  will  give  an 
idea  of  Mr  Grote’s  style  of  narrative : 

j [Xenophon's  Address  to  the  Army  after  the  betrayed 

Grecian  Generals  had  been  Slain  by  the  Persians. ] 

While  their  camp  thus  remained  unmolested,  every 
i man  within  it  was  a prey  to  the  most  agonising  appre- 
j hensions.  Ruin  appeared  impending  and  inevitable, 
i though  no  one  could  tell  in  what  precise  form  it  would 
come.  The  Greeks  were  in  the  midst  of  a hostile 

* One  peculiarity  cf  Mr  Grote  is  spelling  the  Greek  names 
after  the  German  fashion  : Clisthenes  is  Kleislhenet ; Socrates 
is  Sokrates ; Alcibiades,  Alkibiadet;  Aristides,  Aruteidet ; &c. 
All  this  appears  unnecessary,  and  is  a sort  of  pedantic  trifling 
unworthy  of  so  great  a historian. 

701 


country,  ten  thousand  stadia  from  home,  surrounded 
; by  enemies,  blocked  up  by  impassable  mountains  and 
rivers,  without  guides,  without  provisions,  without 
cavalry  to  aid  their  retreat,  without  generals  to  give 
orders.  A stupor  of  sorrow  and  conscious  helplessness 
| seized  upon  all ; few  came  to  the  evening  muster ; few 
1 lighted  fires  to  cook  their  suppers ; every  man  lay  down 
to  rest  where  he  was ; yet  no  man  could  sleep,  for  fear, 
anguish,  and  yearning  after  relatives  whom  he  was 
never  again  to  behold. 

Amidst  the  many  causes  of  despondency  which  weighed  i 
' down  this  forlorn  army,  there  was  none  more  serious 
than  the  fact,  that  not  a single  man  among  them  had  j 
now  either  authority  to  command,  or  obligation  to  take  I 
the  initiative.  Nor  was  any  ambitious  candidate  likely  i 
to  volunteer  his  pretensions,  at  a moment  when  the  post  , 
' promised  nothing  but  the  maximum  of  difficulty  as  well 
j as  of  hazard.  A new,  self -kindled  light,  and  self-origin- 
ated stimulus,  was  required  to  vivify  the  embers  of 
suspended  hope  and  action  in  a mass  paralysed  for  the 
moment,  but  every  way  capable  of  effort ; and  the 
inspiration  now  fell,  happily  for  the  army,  upon  one  in 
whom  a full  measure  of  soldierly  strength  and  courage 
was  combined  with  the  education  of  an  Athenian,  a 
democrat,  and  a philosopher. 

Xenophon  had  equipped  himself  in  his  finest  military 
costume  at  this  his  first  official  appearance  before  the 
army,  when  the  scales  seemed  to  tremble  between  life 
and  death.  Taking  up  the  protest  of  Eleanor  against 
the  treachery  of  the  Persians,  he  insisted  that  any 
attempt  to  enter  into  convention  or  trust  with  such 
liars,  would  be  utter  ruin ; but  that  if  energetic  resolu- 
tion were  taken  to  deal  with  them  only  at  the  point  of 
the  sword,  and  punish  their  misdeeds,  there  was  good 
hope  of  the  favour  of  the  gods  and  of  ultimate  preser-  1 
vation.  As  he  pronounced  this  last  word,  one  of  the 
soldiers  near  him  happened  to  sneeze ; immediately  the 
whole  army  around  shouted  with  one  accord  the  accus-  j 
tomed  invocation  to  Zeus  the  Preserver ; and  Xenophon,  j 
taking  up  the  accident,  continued : ‘ Since,  gentlemen, 
this  omen  from  Zeus  the  Preserver  has  appeared  at  the 
instant  when  we  were  talking  about  preservation,  let  us  j 
here  vow  to  offer  the  preserving  sacrifice  to  that  god, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  sacrifice  to  the  remaining  gods 
as  well  as  we  can,  in  the  first  friendly  country  which  we 
may  reach.  Let  every  man  who  agrees  with  me  hold 
up  his  hand.5  All  held  up  their  hands : all  then  joined 
in  the  vow,  and  shouted  the  paean. 

This  accident,  so  dexterously  turned  to  profit  by  the 
rhetorical  skill  of  Xenophon,  was  eminently  beneficial 
in  raising  the  army  out  of  the  depression  which  weighed 
them  down,  and  in  disposing  them  to  listen  to  his 
animating  appeal.  Repeating  his  assurances  that  the 
gods  were  on  their  side,  and  hostile  to  their  perjured  ! 
enemy,  he  recalled  to  their  memory  the  great  invasions 
of  Greece  by  Darius  and  Xerxes — how  the  vast  hosts  of 
Persia  had  been  disgracefully  repelled.  The  army  had 
shewn  themselves  on  the  field  of  Kunaxa  worthy  of  j 
such  forefathers ; and  they  would,  for  the  future,  be  yet 
bolder,  knowing  by  that  battle  of  what  stuff  the  Persians 
! were  made.  As  for  Ariseus  and  his  troops,  alike  traitors  ! 
i and  cowards,  their  desertion  was  rather  a gain  than  a 1 
I loss.  The  enemy  were  superior  in  horsemen  : but  men  j 
on  horseback  were,  after  all,  only  men,  half  occupied  in  i 
the  fear  of  losing  their  seats,  incapable  of  prevailing 
against  infantry  firm  on  the  ground,  and  only  better  J 
able  to  run  away.  Now,  that  the  satrap  refused  to  j 
furnish  them  with  provisions  to  buy,  they  on  their  side  j 
were  released  from  their  covenant,  and  would  take  j 
! provisions  without  buying.  Then  as  to  the  rivers;  j 
’ those  were  indeed  difficult  to  be  crossed,  in  the  middle 
1 of  their  course ; but  the  army  would  march  up  to  their 
' sources,  and  could  then  pass  them  without  wetting  the 
knee.  Or,  indeed,  the  Greeks  might  renounce  the  idea 
of  retreat,  and  establish  themselves  permanently  in  the 
king's  own  country,  defying  all  his  force,  like  the 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MR  GROTE. 


Mysians  and  Pisidians.  ‘ If,’  said  Xenophon,  ‘ we  plant 
ourselves  here  at  our  ease  in  a rich  country,  with  these 
tall,  stately,  and  beautiful  Median  and  Persian  women 
for  our  companions,  we  shall  be  only  too  ready,  like  the 
Lotophagi,  to  forget  our  way  home.  We  ought  first  to 
go  back  to  Greece,  and  tell  our  countrymen  that  if  they 
remain  poor,  it  is  their  own  fault,  when  there  are  rich 
settlements  in  this  country  awaiting  all  who  choose  to 
come,  and  who  have  courage  to  seize  them.  Let  us  burn 
•our  baggage- wagons  and  tents,  and  carry  with  us  nothing 
but  what  is  of  the  stxfictest  necessity.  Above  all  things, 
let  us  maintain  ox-der,  discipline,  and  obedience  to  the 
commanders,  upon  which  our  entire  hope  of  safety 
•depends.  Let  eveiy  man  promise  to  lend  his  hand  to 
the  commanders  in  punishing  any  disobedient  indi- 
viduals ; and  let  us  thus  shew  the  enemy  that  we  have 
ten  thousand  persons  like  Kleai’chus,  instead  of  that 
one  whom  they  have  so  perfidiously  seized.  Now  is  the 
time  for  action.  If  any  man,  however  obscure,  has  any 
thing  better  to  suggest,  let  him  come  forward  and  state 
it ; for  we  have  all  but  one  object — the  common  safety.’ 

It  appears  that  no  one  else  desired  to  say  a word,  and 
that  the  speech  of  Xenophon  gave  unqualified  satis- 
faction ; for  when  Cheirisophus  put  the  question,  that 
the  meeting  should  sanction  his  recommendations,  and 
finally  elect  the  new  generals  proposed — every  man  held 
up  his  hand.  Xenophon  then  moved  that  the  army 
should  break  up  immediately,  and  march'  to  some  well- 
stored  villages,  rather  more  than  two  miles  distant ; 
that  the  march  should  be  in  a hollow  oblong,  with  the 
baggage  in  the  centre ; that  Cheirisophus,  as  a Lacedae- 
monian, should  lead  the  van ; while  Eleanor,  and  the 
other  senior  officers,  would  command  on  each  flank,  and 
himself,  with  Timasion,  as  the  two  youngest  of  the 
generals,  would  lead  the  rear-guard. 

In  the  later  volumes  we  have  an  equally  interest- 
ing and  copious  account  of  the  career  of  Epami- 
nondas — the  Washington  of  Greece ; the  struggles 
of  Demosthenes  against  Philip ; and  the  success  of 
Timoleon.  The  historian’s  fulness  of  detail  and  the 
ethical  interest  he  imparts  to  his  work,  with  the 
associations  connected  with  the  heroic  events  he 
relates,  and  the  great  names  that  have 

Gone  glittering  through  the  dream  of  things  that  were, 

render  the  whole  the  most  noble  and  affecting  record 
in  the  history  of  humanity.  From  the  epoch  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  Mr  Grote  dates  £ not  only  the 
extinction  of  Grecian  political  freedom  and  self 
action,  but  also  the  decay  of  productive  genius, 
and  the  debasement  of  that  consummate  literary 
and  rhetorical  excellence  which  the  fourth  century 
before  Christ  had  seen  exhibited  in  Plato  and 
Demosthenes.’  There  was,  however,  one  branch 
of  intellectual  energy  which  continued  to  flourish 
‘comparatively  little  impaired  under  the  prepon- 
derance of  the  Macedonian  sword  ’ — the  spirit  of 
speculation  and  philosophy,  and  to  this  subject 
Mr  Grote  proposes  to  devote  a separate  work.  His 
History  was  completed  in  1856,  the  author  being 
then  in  his  sixty-second  year. 

Mr  Grote  is  of  German  ancestry.  His  grand- 
father, the  first  of  the  family  that  settled  in 
England,  established  the  banking-house  that  still 
bears  the  name  of  Mr  Grote  as  one  of  the  founders, 
and  the  historian  was  for  some  time  employed  in 
the  bank.  He  sat  in  parliament  as  one  of  the 
representatives  of  the  city  of  London  from  1832 
till  1841,  and  was  known  as  a Radical  Reformer 
and  supporter  of  vote  by  ballot.  His  annual  motion 
in  favour  of  the  ballot  was  always  prefaced  by  a 
good  argumentative  speech,  and  he  wrote  one  or  | 
two  political  pamphlets  and  essays  in  the  Reviews. 
•Sydney  Smith  sarcastically  said : ‘ Mr  Grote  is  a 
97  1 


very  worthy,  honest,  and  able  man ; and  if  the 
world  were  a chess-board,  would  be  an  important 
politician.’ 

[ Character  of  Dion.] 

Apart  from  wealth  and  high  position,  the  personal 
character  of  Dion  was  in  itself  marked  and  prominent. 
He  was  of  an  energetic  temper,  great  bravery,  and  very 
considerable  mental  capacities.  Though  his  nature  was 
haughty  and  disdainful  towards  individuals,  yet  as  to 
political  communion,  his  ambition  was  by  no  means 
pux’ely  self-seeking  and  egotistic,  like  that  of  the  elder 
Dionysius.  Animated  with  vehement  love  of  power, 
he  was  at  the  same  time  penetrated  with  that  sense 
of  regulated  polity  and  submission  of  individual  will 
to  fixed  laws,  which  floated  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Grecian  talk  and  literature,  and  stood  so  high  in 
Grecian  morality.  He  was,  moreovei’,  capable  of  act- 
ing with  enthusiasm,  and  braving  every  hazard  in 
prosecution  of  his  own  convictions. 

Born  about  the  year  408  b.  c.,  Dion  was  twenty-one 
years  of  age  in  387  b.  a,  when  the  elder  Dionysius, 
having  dismantled  Rhegium  and  subdued  Kroton, 
attained  the  maximum  of  his  dominion,  as  master  of 
the  Sicilian  and  Italian  Greeks.  Standing  high  in  the 
favour  of  his  brother-in-law  Dionysius,  Dion  doubtless 
took  part  in  the  wars  whereby  this  large  dominion  had 
been  acquired ; as  well  as  in  the  life  of  indulgence  and 
luxury  which  prevailed  generally  among  wealthy  Greeks 
in  Sicily  and  Italy,  and  which  to  the  Athenian  Plato 
appeared  alike  surprising  and  impulsive.  That  great 
philosopher  visited  Italy  and  Sicily  about  387  b.c.  He 
was  in  acquaintance  and  fellowship  with  the  school  of 
philosophers  called  Pythagoreans ; the  remnant  of  the 
Pythagorean  brotherhood,  who  had  once  exei’cised  so 
powerful  a political  influence  over  the  cities  of  those 
regions,  and  who  still  enjoyed  considerable  reputation, 
even  after  complete  political  downfall,  through  indi- 
vidual ability  and  rank  of  the  members,  combined  with, 
habits  of  recluse  study,  mysticism,  and  attachment 
among  themselves. 

With  these  Pythagoreans  Dion  also,  a young  man  of 
open  mind  and  ardent  aspirations,  was  naturally  thrown 
into  communication  by  the  proceedings  of  the  elder 
Dionysius  in  Italy.  Through  them  he  came  into  inter- 
course with  Plato,  whose  conversation  made  an  epoch  in 
his  life. 

The  mystic  turn  of  imagination,  the  sententious 
brevity,  and  the  mathematical  researches  of  the  Pytha- 
goreans, produced  doubtless  an  imposing  effect  upon 
Dion ; just  as  Lysis,  a member  of  that  brotherhood, 
had  acquired  the  attachment  and  influenced  the  senti- 
ments of  Epaminondas  at  Thebes.  But  Plato’s  power 
of  working  upon  the  minds  of  young  men  was  far  more 
impressive  and  irresistible.  He  possessed  a large  l’ange 
of  practical  experience,  a mastei’y  of  political  and  social 
topics,  and  a charm  of  eloquence,  to  which  the  Pytha- 
goreans were  strangers.  The  stirring  effects  of  the 
Socratic  talk,  as  well  as  of  the  democratical  atmosphere 
in  which  Plato  had  been  brought  up,  had  developed  all 
the  communicative  aptitude  of  his  mind ; and  gi-eat  as 
that  aptitude  appears  in  his  remaining  dialogues,  there 
is  gi’ound  for  believing  that  it  was  far  greater  in  his 
conversation.  Brought  up  as  Dion  had  been  at  the 
coui-t  of  Dionysius — accustomed  to  see  around  him  only 
slavish  deference  and  luxurious  enjoyment — unused  to 
open  speech  or  large  philosophical  discussion — he  found 
in  Plato  a new  man  exhibited,  and  a new  world  opened 
before  him. 

As  the  stimulus  from  the  teacher  was  here  put  forth 
with  consummate  efficacy,  so  the  pi’edisposition  of  the 
learner  enabled  it  to  take  full  effect.  Dion  became  an 
altered  man  both  in  public  sentiment  and  in  individual 
behaviour.  He  recollected  that,  twenty  years  before, 
his  country,  Syracuse,  had  been  as  free  as  Athens.  He 


FROM  1830  - CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859, 


learned  to  abhor  the  iniquity  of  the  despotism  by  which 
her  liberty  had  been  overthrown,  and  by  which  subse- 
quently the  liberties  of  so  many  other  Creeks  in  Italy 
and  Sicily  had  been  trodden  down  also.  He  was  made 
to  remark  that  Sicily  had  been  half  barbarised  through 
the  foreign  mercenaries  imported  as  the  despots’  instru- 
ments. He  conceived  the  sublime  idea  or  dream  of 
rectifying  all  this  accumulation  of  wrong  and  suffering. 
It  was  his  first  wish  to  cleanse  Syracuse  from  the  blot 
of  slavery,  and  to  clothe  her  anew  in  the  brightness  and 
dignity  of  freedom,  yet  not  with  the  view  of  restoring 
the  popular  government  as  it  had  stood  prior  to  the 
usurpation,  but  of  establishing  an  improved  constitu- 
tional polity,  originated  by  himself,  with  laws  which 
should  not  only  secure  individual  rights,  but  also 
educate  and  moralise  the  citizens.  The  function  which 
he  imagined  to  himself,  and  which  the  conversation  of 
Plato  suggested,  was  not  that  of  a despot  like  Dionysius, 
but  that  of  a despotic  legislator  like  Lycurgus,  taking 
advantage  of  a momentary  omnipotence,  conferred  upon 
him  by  grateful  citizens  in  a state  of  public  confusion, 
to  originate  a good  system,  which,  when  once  put  in 
motion,  would  keep  itself  alive  by  fashioning  the  minds 
of  the  citizens  to  its  own  intrinsic  excellence.  After 
having  thus  both  liberated  and  reformed  Syracuse,  Dion 
promised  to  himself  that  he  would  employ  Syracusan 
force,  not  in  annihilating,  but  in  recreating,  other  free 
Hellenic  communities  throughout  the  island,  expelling 
from  thence  all  the  barbarians — both  the  imported 
mercenaries  and  the  Carthaginians. 

Mr  George  Finlay,  an  English  merchant  at 
Athens,  has  written  several  works — concise,  but 
philosophical  in  spirit,  and  containing  original  views 
and  information — relative  to  the  history  of  Greece. 
His  first  was  Greece  under  the  Romans  (1845) ; 
History  of  the  Byzantine  Empire , from  A.  D.  716 
to  1057  (1853),  and  continued  to  1453  (1854) ; 
Mediaeval  Greece  and  Trebizond  to  1461 ; and  the 
History  of  Greece  under  the  Olhoman  and  Venetian 
Domination,  from  1453  to  1821  (1856). 

[ Vicissitudes  of  Nations.'] 

The  vicissitudes  which  the  great  masses  of  the  nations 
of  the  earth  have  undergone  in  past  ages  have  hitherto 
received  very  little  attention  from  historians,  who  have 
adorned  their  pages  with  the  records  of  kings,  and  the 
personal  exploits  of  princes  and  great  men,  or  attached 
their  narrative  to  the  fortunes  of  the  dominant  classes, 
without  noticing  the  fate  of  the  people.  History,  how- 
ever, continually  repeats  the  lesson  that  power,  numbers, 
and  the  highest  civilisation  of  an  aristocracy,  are,  even 
when  united,  insufficient  to  insure  national  prosperity, 
and  establish  the  power  of  the  rulers  on  so  firm  and 
permanent  a basis  as  shall  guarantee  the  dominant  class 
from  annihilation.  On  the  other  hand,  it  teaches  us 
that  conquered  tribes,  destitute  of  all  these  advantages, 
may  continue  to  perpetuate  their  existence  in  misery 
and  contempt.  It  is  that  portion  only  of  mankind 
which  eats  bread  raised  from  the  soil  by  the  sweat  of 
its  brow,  that  can  form  the  basis  of  a permanent  national 
existence.  The  history  of  the  Romans  and  of  the  Jews 
illustrates  these  facts.  Yet  even  the  cultivation  of  the 
soil  cannot  always  insure  a race  from  destruction,  ‘for 
mutability  is  nature’s  bane.’  The  Thracian  race  has 
disappeared.  The  great  Celtic  race  has  dwindled  away, 
and  seems  hastening  to  complete  absorption  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon.  The  Hellenic  race,  whose  colonies  extended 
from  Marseille  to  Bactria,  and  from  the  Cimmerian 
Bosphorus  to  the  coast  of  Cvrenaica,  has  become  extinct 
in  many  countries  where  it  once  formed  the  bulk  of  the 
population,  as  in  Magna  Graecia  and  Sicily.  On  the 
other  hand,  mixed  races  have  arisen,  and,  like  the 
Albanians  and  Vallachians,  have  intruded  themselves 
706 


into  the  ancient  seats  of  the  Hellenes.  But  these  revo- 
lutions and  changes  in  the  population  of  the  globe  imply 
no  degradation  of  mankind,  as  some  writers  appear  to 
think,  for  the  Romans  and  the  English  afford  examples 
that  mixed  races  may  attain  as  high  a degree  of  physical 
power  and  mental  superiority  as  has  ever  been  reached 
by  races  of  the  purest  blood  in  ancient  or  modern  times. 

A different  view  of  the  Homeric  question 
from  that  entertained  by  Mr  Grote,  and  also 
of  some  portions  of  Athenian  history,  has  been 
taken  by  William  Mure,  Esq.,  of  Caldwell — 
colonel  of  the  Renfrewshire  Militia,  and  bom  in 
1799 — in  his  able  work,  A Critical  History  of  the 
Language  and  Literature  of  Ancient  Greece,  four 
volumes,  1850-53.  Colonel  Mure  had  travelled  in 
Greece ; and  in  the  Journal  of  his  tour — published  in 
1842 — had  entered  into  the  Homeric  controversy, 
especially  with  regard  to  the  supposed  localities  of 
the  Odyssey , and  had  adduced  several  illustrations 
of  the  poems  from  his  observation  and  studies.  A 
sound  scholar,  and  chiefly  occupied  on  Greek  liter- 
ature and  history  for  a period  of  twenty  years,  he 
brought  to  his  Critical  History  a degree  of  know- 
ledge perhaps  not  excelled  by  that  of  Mr  Grote,  but 
tinctured  by  political  opinions  directly  opposite  to 
those  of  his  brother  Hellenist.  His  examination  of 
the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  occupies  a considerable 
portion  of  his  History , and  the  general  conclusion  at 
which  he  arrives  is,  that  each  poem  was  originally 
composed,  in  its  substantial  integrity,  as  we  now 
possess  it.  We  give  one  short  specimen  of  Colonel 
Mure’s  analysis. 

[The  Unity  of  the  Homeric  Poems.] 

It  is  probable  that,  like  most  other  great  painters  of 
human  nature,  Homer  was  indebted  to  previous  tradi- 
tion for  tbe  original  sketches  of  his  principal  heroes- 
These  sketches,  however,  could  have  been  little  more 
than  outlines,  which,  as  worked  up  into  the  finished 
portraits  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey , must  rank  as  his 
own  genuine  productions.  In  every  branch  of  imitative 
art,  this  faculty  of  representing  to  the  life  the  moral 
phenomena  of  our  nature,  in  their  varied  phases  of 
virtue,  vice,  weakness,  or  eccentricity,  is  the  highest  and 
rarest  attribute  of  genius,  and  rarest  of  all  as  exercised 
by  Homer  through  the  medium  of  dramatic  action, 
where  the  characters  are  never  formally  described,  but 
made  to  develop  themselves  by  their  own  language  and 
conduct.  It  is  this,  among  his  many  great  qualities, 
which  chiefly  raises  Homer  above  all  other  poets  of  his 
own  class ; nor,  with  the  single  exception,  perhaps,  of 
the  great  English  dramatist,  has  any  poet  ever  produced 
so  numerous  and  spirited  a variety  of  original  characters, 
of  different  ages,  ranks,  and  sexes.  Still  more  peculiar 
to  himself  than  their  variety,  is  the  unity  of  thought, 
feeling,  and  expression,  often  of  minute  phraseology,  with 
which  they  are  individually  sustained,  and  yet  without 
an  appearance  of  effort  on  the  part  of  their  author. 
Each  describes  himself  spontaneously,  when  brought  on 
the  scene,  just  as  the  automata  of  Vulcan  in  the  Odysseyt 
though  indebted  to  the  divine  artist  for  the  mechanism 
on  which  they  move,  appear  to  perform  their  functions 
by  their  own  unaided  powers.  That  any  two  or  more 
poets  should  simultaneously  have  conceived  such  a 
character  as  Achilles,  is  next  to  impossible.  Still  less 
credible  is  it,  that  the  different  parts  of  the  Iliad , 
where  the  hero  successively  appears  as  the  same  sublime 
ideal  being,  under  the  influence  of  the  same  combination 
of  virtues,  failings,  and  passions — thinking,  speaking, 
acting,  and  suffering,  according  to  the  same  single  type 
of  heroic  grandeur — can  be  tbe  production  of  more  than 
a single  mind.  Such  evidence  is,  perhaps,  even  stronger 
in  the  case  of  the  less  prominent  actors,  in  so  far  as  it 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HR  BANCROFT. 


is  less  possible  that  different  artists  should  simul- 
taneously agree  in  their  portraits  of  mere  subordinate 
incidental  personages,  than  of  heroes  whose  renown  may 
have  rendered  their  characters  a species  of  public 
property.  Two  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age  might, 
without  any  concert,  have  harmonised  to  a great  extent 
in  their  portrait  of  Henry  V.;  but  that  the  correspond- 
ence should  have  extended  to  the  imaginary  companions 
of  his  youth — the  Falstaffs,  Pistols,  Bardolphs,  Quickleys 
— were  incredible.  But  the  nicest  shades  of  peculiarity 
in  the  inferior  actors  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey , are  con- 
ceived and  maintained  in  the  same  spirit  of  distinction 
as  in  Achilles  or  Hector. 

Colonel  Mure’s  work  is  still  incomplete.  His 
fourth  volume  enters  on  the  Attic  period  of  Greek 
literature — the  great  era  of  the  drama  and  the  per- 
fection of  Greek  prose — from  the  usurpation  of 
Pisistratus  at  Athens,  560  b.c.,  to  the  death  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  323  b.c.  He  gives  an  account 
of  the  origin  and  early  history  of  Greek  prose  com- 
position, and  an  elaborate  biographical  and  critical 
study  of  Herodotus,  reserving  for  future  volumes 
the  later  Greek  prose  authors  and  Attic  poets. 

Another  and  more  distinguished  votary  of  Greek 
literature  is  the  Right  Hon.  W.  E.  Gladstone, 
M.P.,  who,  in  1858,  published  Studies  on  Homer 
and  the  Homeric  Age,  three  volumes.  Mr  Gladstone 
does  not  enter  into  any  detailed  criticism  of  the 
Iliad  or  Odyssey;  he  deals  with  the  geography, 
history,  and  chronology  of  the  poems,  maintaining 
the  credibility  of  Homer  as  the  delineator  of  an 
age,  and  finding  also  fragments  of  revealed  religion 
in  his  system  of  mythology.  He  traces  the  notion 
of  a Logos  in  Minerva,  the  Deliverer  in  Apollo,  the 
Virgin  in  Latona,  and  even  the  rainbow  of  the  Old 
Testament  in  Iris ; while  the  principle  of  Evil, 
acting  by  deceit,  he  conceives  to  be  represented  in 
the  Homeric  Ate.  This  certainly  appears  to  be 
fanciful,  though  supported  by  Mr  Gladstone’s 
remarkable  subtlety  of  intellect  and  variety  of 
illustration.  One  volume  of  the  work  is  devoted 
to  Olympus,  and  another  to  establish  Homer’s  right 
to  be  considered  the  father  of  political  science.  In 
supporting  his  different  hypotheses,  we  need  not  say 
that  Mr  Gladstone  evinces  great  ingenuity  and  a 
refined  critical  taste.  His  work  is  indeed  a cyclo- 
paedia of  Homeric  illustration  and  classic  lore. 

We  may  notice  here  a work  recently  completed, 
A History  of  the  Literature  of  Ancient  Greece , by 
K.  O.  Muller,  continued  after  the  author’s  death 
by  J.  W.  Donaldson,  D.D.,  three  volumes,  1858. 
Dr  Donaldson’s  portion  of  the  work  embraces  the 
period  from  the  foundation  of  the  Socratic  schools 
to  the  taking  of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks.  The 
work  is  altogether  a valuable  one— concise  without 
being  dry  or  meagre.  A History  of  Greece,  mainly 
based  upon  that  of  Dr  Thirlwall,  by  Dr  L.  Schmitz, 
rector  of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  1851,  is  well 
adapted  for  educational  purposes:  it  comes  down 
to  the  destruction  of  Corinth,  146  b.c.  Dr  Schmitz 
is  author  of  a popular  History  of  Rome,  1847, 
and  a Manual  of  Ancient  History  to  the  overthrow 
of  the  Western  Empire,  476  a.d.  He  has  also 
translated  Niebuhr’s  Lectures.  Few  foreigners 
have  acquired  such  a mastery  of  the  English 
language  as  Dr  Schmitz. 


Dr  A.  Bancroft,  a Congregational  or  Unitarian 
minister,  had  written  a Life  of  Washington,  1807, 
and  the  paternal  tastes  and  example  had  probably 
some  effect  in  directing  the  literary  labours  of  the 
son.  Having  graduated  with  distinction  at  Harvard 
College,  he  afterwards  studied  in  Germany,  and,  on 
his  return,  entered  the  church.  A love  of  literature, 
however,  prevailed,  and  Mr  Bancroft  commenced 
author  by  publishing  a volume  of  Poems.  Some 
translations  from  the  German,  chiefly  the  historical 
manuals  of  Professor  Heeren,  next  engaged  Mr 
Bancroft,  and  he  added  to  these  precarious  literary 
gains  by  opening  a school  at  Northampton.  He 
seems  next  to  have  tried  public  employment,  and 
was  successively  collector  at  the  port  of  Boston, 
and  secretary  of  the  navy.  In  1846,  he  was  j 
appointed  minister  plenipotentiary  to  England. 
The  latter  appointment  may  be  considered  as  due  I 
to  the  literary  reputation  of  Mr  Bancroft,  who  had  j 
then  entered  on  his  great  historical  work.  In  1834: 
appeared  his  History  of  the  Colonisation  of  the  United 
States,  volume  i.  A second  volume  was  published 
in  1837,  and  a third  in  1840.  The  success  of  this 
work  induced  the  author  to  continue  his  researches, 
and  he  commenced  the  History  of  the  American 
Revolution.  From  1852  to  1858,  four  volumes  were 
published,  making  seven  in  all,  devoted  to  the 
history  of  the  United  States.  There  was  much  new 
information  in  these  volumes,  for  manuscript  and 
unpublished  sources  were  thrown  open  to  their 
author ; his  style  was  lively  and  energetic,  and  his 
democratic  prejudices,  though  sometimes  unneces- 
sarily brought  forward,  gave  a warmth  and  indi- 
viduality to  the  narrative.  The  historian  was  in  i 
earnest — a hearty  lover  of  his  country,  and  of  the 
founders  of  its  independence.  At  the  same  time,  j 
his  narrative  must  be  pronounced  fair  and  candid,  I 
and  free  from  any  attempt  to  awaken  old  animo-  ! 
sides.  We  give  a short  extract,  as  illustrating  Mr 
Bancroft’s  style. 

[ The  Town  of  Boston  in  the  Last  Century .] 

The  king  set  himself,  and  his  ministry,  and  parlia- 
ment, and  all  Great  Britain,  to  subdue  to  his  will  one 
stubborn  little  town  on  the  sterile  coast  of  the  Massa-  : 
chusetts  Bay.  The  odds  against  it  were  fearful ; but  it 
shewed  a life  inextinguishable,  and  had  been  chosen  to 
keep  guard  over  the  liberties  of  mankind. 

The  Old  World  had  not  its  parallel.  It  counted  l 
about  sixteen  thousand  inhabitants  of  European  origin, 
all  of  whom  learned  to  read  and  write.  Good  public 
schools  were  the  foundation  of  its  political  system  ; and 
Benjamin  Franklin,  one  of  their  grateful  pupils,  in  his 
youth  apprenticed  to  the  art  which  makes  knowledge 
the  common  pi'operty  of  mankind,  had  gone  forth  from 
them  to  stand  before  the  nations  as  the  representative 
of  the  modern  plebeian  class. 

As  its  schools  were  for  all  its  children,  so  the  great 
body  of  its  male  inhabitants  of  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
when  assembled  in  a hall  which  Faueuil,  of  Huguenot 
ancestry,  had  built  for  them,  was  the  source  of  all 
municipal  authority.  In  the  meeting  of  the  town,  its 
taxes  were  voted,  its  affairs  discussed  and  settled ; its 
agents  and  public  servants  annually  elected  by  ballot; 
and  abstract  political  principles  freely  debated.  A 
small  property  qualification  was  attached  to  the  right 
of  suffrage,  but  did  not  exclude  enough  to  change  the 
character  of  the  institution.  There  had  never  existed 
a considerable  municipality,  approaching  so  nearly  to 
a pure  democracy ; and,  for  so  populous  a place,  it  was 
undoubtedly  the  most  orderly  and  best  governed  in  the 
world. 

Its  ecclesiastical  polity  was  in  like  manner  republi- 
can. The  great  mass  were  congregationalists ; each  church 

707 


MR  BANCROFT,  THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIAN. 

The  history  of  the  United  States  has  been  ably 
and  copiously  related  by  a native  historian,  Mu 
George  Bancroft.  This  gentleman  was  born  in 
1800,  at  Worcester,  in  Massachusetts.  His  father, 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  a-o  1859. 


was  an  assembly  formed  by  voluntary  agreement;  self- 
constituted,  self -supported,  and  independent.  They  were 
clear  that  no  person  or  church  had  power  over  another 
church.  There  was  not  a Roman  Catholic  altar  in  the 
place ; the  usages  of  ‘ papists’  were  looked  upon  as  worn- 
out  superstitions,  fit  only  for  the  ignorant.  But  the  people 
were  not  merely  the  fiercest  enemies  of  ‘ popery  and 
slavery ; ’ they  were  Protestants  even  against  Protes- 
tantism ; and  though  the  English  Church  was  tolerated, 
Boston  kept  up  its  exasperation  against  prelacy.  Its 
ministers  were  still  its  prophets  and  its  guides;  its 
pulpit,  in  which,  now  that  Mayhew  was  no  more,  Cooper 
wras  admired  above  all  others  for  eloquence  and  patriot- 
ism, by  weekly  appeals  inflamed  alike  the  fervour  of 
piety  and  of  liberty.  In  the  Boston  Gazette , it  enjoyed 
a free  press,  which  gave  currency  to  its  conclusions  on 
the  natural  right  of  man  to  self-government. 

Its  citizens  were  inquisitive;  seeking  to  know  the 
causes  of  things,  and  to  search  for  the  reason  of  existing 
institutions  in  the  laws  of  nature.  Yet  they  controlled 
their  speculative  turn  by  practical  judgment,  exhibiting 
the  seeming  contradiction  of  susceptibility  to  enthu- 
siasm, and  calculating  shrewdness.  They  were  fond  of 
gain,  and  adventurous,  penetrating,  and  keen  in  their 
pursuit  of  it ; yet  their  avidity  was  tempered  by  a well- 
considered  and  continuing  liberality.  Nearly  every  man 
was  struggling  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  and 
his  own  fortune ; and  yet  individually,  and  as  a body, 
they  were  public-spirited. 

SIR  JOHN  GARDINER  WILKINSON — CHEVALIER 
BUNSEN — MR  S.  SHARPE. 

In  the  study  of  Egyptian  antiquities,  now  culti- 
vated with  ardour  and  perseverance,  Sir  John 
Gardiner  Wilkinson  has  taken  a prominent  part. 
Nearly  forty  years  since,  he  had  made  surveys  of 
the  topography  of  Thebes  and  the  Pyramids,  and 
collections  of  the  hieroglyphics.  In  1828,  he  pub- 
lished at  Malta  Materia  Hieroglyphica,  four-  parts. 
But  his  great  work  is  his  Manners  and  Customs  of 
the  Ancient  Egyptians , six  volumes,  1837-41.  About 
nine  hundred  wood-cuts  illustrate  this  history,  taken 
chiefly  from  the  paintings  in  the  Egyptian  tombs, 
the  earliest  descriptive  illustrations  of  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  any  nation.  Of  this  work,  an 
abridgment  was  published  by  the  author,  a Popular 
Account  of  the  Ancient  Egyptians,  two  volumes,  1854. 
Sir  John  truly  remarks,  that  ‘the  influence  which 
Egypt  had  in  early  times  on  Greece  gives  to 
every  inquiry  respecting  it  an  additional  interest ; 
and  the  frequent  mention  of  the  Egyptians  in  the 
Bible  connects  them  with  the  Hebrew  records,  of 
which  many  satisfactory  illustrations  occur  in  the 
sculptures  of  Pharaonic  times.’ 

[Moral  Superiority  of  the  Ancient  Egyptians .] 

The  early  part  of  Egyptian  monumental  history  is 
coeval  with  the  arrivals  of  Abraham  and  of  Joseph, 
and  the  exodus  of  the  Israelites ; and  we  know  from 
the  Bible  what  was  the  state  of  the  world  at  that  time. 
But  then,  and  apparently  long  before,  the  habits  of 
social  life  in  Egypt  were  already  what  we  find  them  to 
have  been  during  the  most  glorious  period  of  their 
career  ; and  as  the  people  had  already  laid  aside  their 
arms,  and  military  men  only  carried  them  when  on 
service,  some  notion  may  be  had  of  the  very  remote  date 
of  Egyptian  civilisation.  In  the  treatment  of  women, 
they  seem  to  have  been  very  far  advanced  beyond  other 
wealthy  communities  of  the  same  era,  having  usages 
very  similar  to  those  of  modern  Europe  ; and  such  was 
the  respect  shewn  to  women,  that  precedence  was  given 
to  them  over  men,  and  the  wives  and  daughters  of  kings 
succeeded  to  the  throne  like  the  male  branches  of  the 

708 


royal  family.  Nor  was  this  privilege  rescinded,  even 
though  it  had  more  than  once  entailed  upon  them  the 
troubles  of  a contested  succession ; foreign  kings  often 
having  claimed  a right  to  the  throne  through  marriage 
with  an  Egyptian  princess.  It  was  not  a mere  influence 
that  they  possessed,  which  women  often  acquire  in  the 
most  arbitrary  eastern  communities;  nor  a political 
importance  accorded  to  a particular  individual,  like 
that  of  the  Sultana  Valideh,  the  queen-mother  at 
Constantinople ; it  was  a right  acknowledged  by  law, 
both  in  public  and  private  life.  They  knew  that  unless 
women  were  treated  with  respect,  and  made  to  exercise 
an  influence  over  society,  the  public  standard  would 
soon  be  lowered,  and  the  manners  and  morals  of  men 
would  suffer ; and  in  acknowledging  this,  they  pointed 
out  to  women  the  very  responsible  duties  they  had  to 
perform  to  the  community.  It  has  been  said  that  the 
Egyptian  priests  were  only  allowed  to  have  one  wife, 
while  the  rest  of  the  community  had  as  many  as  they 
chose ; but,  besides  the  improbability  of  such  a licence, 
the  testimony  of  the  monuments  accords  with  Herodotus 
in  disproving  the  statement,  and  each  individual  is 
represented  in  his  tomb  with  a single  consort.  Their 
mutual  affection  is  also  indicated  by  the  fond  manner 
in  which  they  are  seated  together,  and  by  the  expres- 
sions of  endearment  they  use  to  each  other,  as  well  as 
to  their  children.  And  if  further  proof  were  wanting 
to  shew  their  respect  for  social  ties,  we  may  mention 
the  conduct  of  Pharaoh,  in  the  case  of  the  supposed 
sister  of  Abraham,  standing  in  remarkable  contrast  to 
the  habits  of  most  princes  of  those  and  many  subsequent 
ages. 

The  learned  Chevalier  Bunsen — lately  Prussian 
ambassador  in  London,  and  a native  of  Corbach, 
Germany,  where  he  was  born  in  1790 — commenced, 
in  1848,  the  publication  of  his  historical  investiga- 
tion, Egypt’s  Place  in  Universal  Ifistory.  A second 
volume  was  published  in  1854,  and  the  third  in 
1859.  The  work  was  translated  from  the  German, 
under  the  author’s  superintendence,  by  Mr  C.  H. 
Cottrell.  The  object  of  M.  Bunsen  was  to  establish, 
by  means  of  the  language  and  chronology  of  Egypt, 
as  recently  investigated,  the  position  of  the  Egyp- 
tians as  a nation  in  primeval  history,  or  before  the 
period  of  historical  records.  He  gives  them  a 
vastly  remote  antiquity,  assigning  the  date  of  the 
first  king  of  Egypt  to  an  era  four  thousand  years 
before  the  Christian  era.  The  Egyptians,  he  says, 
were  an  Asiatic  race,  who  emigrated  from  Chaldea 
and  settled  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile  about  the 
eleventh  millennium  b.  c.  ; the  historical  Deluge, 
which  took  place  in  a considerable  part  of  Central 
Asia,  cannot  have  occurred  at  a more  recent  period 
than  the  tenth  millennium  b.c.  ; and  man  existed 
on  the  earth  about  20,000  years  b.c.,  or  even  earlier. 
These  antediluvian  and  pre-historic  conclusions  of 
the  Chevalier  have  been  generally  disputed.  We 
have  not  yet  sufficient  materials  to  enable  us  to  fix 
positively  the  dates  of  the  earlier  period  of  the 
Egyptian  monarchy.  In  1852,  M.  Bunsen  published 
another  historical  investigation,  Hippolytus  and  his 
Age,  or  the  Doctrine  and  Practice  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  under  Commodus  and  Alexander  Severus ; and 
Ancient  and  Modern  Christianity  and  Divinity  Com- 
pared, four  volumes,  1852.  This  work  of  Hippolytus 
is  certainly  a literary  curiosity.  In  1842,  a Greek 
manuscript  was  discovered  at  Mount  Atlios.  It  was 
printed  at  Oxford  in  1851,  and  ascribed  to  the 
celebrated  Origen.  Chevalier  Bunsen,  however, 
clearly  established  that  it  was  the  composition  of 
Hippolytus,  and  written  about  the  year  225.  The 
document,  thus  remarkably  preserved  for  above  six- 
teen centuries,  is  highly  valuable,  as  shewing  what 
was  the  real  Christian  creed  and  liturgical  practice 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISS  STRICKLAND. 


exactly  one  hundred  years  before  the  Council  of 
Nice.  It  gives  no  countenance  to  ‘ the  prerogative 
of  right  claimed  by  the  Church  of  Rome  over  others, 
nor  to  any  sacred  language  in  preference  to  the 
vernacular,  nor  to  any  indelible  character  or  celibacy 
of  the  priesthood,  nor  to  infant  baptism,  nor  to  any 
propitiatory  sacrifice  in  the  Eucharist,  which  Hip- 
polytus  considered  to  be  an  offering  purely  of  a 
spiritual  nature,  a sacrifice  of  praise  and  thanks.’ 
( Athenaeum , 1852.)  Chevalier  Bunsen,  who  indulges 
in  some  mystical  hopes  and  visions  of  the  ‘ Church 
of  the  Future,’  eloquently  exclaims  : 

[The  Primitive  Church .] 

Take  away  ignorance,  misunderstandings,  and  for- 
geries, and  the  naked  truth  remains — not  a spectre, 
thank  God  ! carefully  to  be  veiled,  but  an  image  of 
divine  beauty,  radiant  with  eternal  truth.  Break  down 
the  bars  which  separate  us  from  the  communion  of  the 
primitive  church — I mean,  free  yourselves  from  the 
letter  of  later  canons,  and  conventional  abstractions — 
and  you  move  unshackled  in  the  open  ocean  of  faith. 
You  hold  fellowship  with  the  spirits  of  the  heroes  of 
Christian  antiquity,  and  you  trace  the  stream  of  unity 
as  it  rolls  uninterruptedly  through  eighteen  centuries, 
in  spite  of  rocks  and  quicksands. 

Mr  Samuel  Sharpe — a nephew  of  the  late  Mr 
Samuel  Rogers — has  written  a History  of  Egypt , 
from  the  earliest  times  till*  the  conquest  by  the 
Arabs  in  640  a.d.  This  is  a clear,  succinct  history, 
in  two  volumes,  the  third  edition,  1857.  Mr  Sharpe 
has  also  written  Historic  Notes  on  the  Books  of  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments , and  an  Historical  Account 
of  the  Monuments  of  Egypt , in  one  of  the  Crystal 
Palace  Handbooks. 


MISS  STRICKLAND. 

Miss  Agnes  Strickland,  authoress  of  historical 
memoirs  of  the  Queens  of  England  and  Scotland, 
is  a native  of  Suffolk,  daughter  of  Thomas  Strick- 
land, Esq.,  of  Reydon  Hall.  Her  first  publication 
was  a poetical  narrative,  Worcester  Field , or  the 
Cavalier;  she  also  wrote  a tale,  Demetrius;  but 
she  soon  struck  into  that  path  for  which  she 
seemed  destined  — historical  composition.  She 
i wrote  historic  scenes  and  stories  for  children,  and 
! in  1835  produced  The  Pilgrims  of  Walsingham , 
constructed  on  the  plan  of  Chaucer’s  Canterbury 
Pilgrims.  She  then,  aided  by  a sister,  Miss  Eliza- 
beth Strickland,  entered  upon  her  elaborate  work, 
Lives  of  the  Queens  of  England  from  the  Norman 
I Conquest , twelve  volumes,  1840-49.  Of  this  work, 
j a second  edition  w'as  published  in  1851,  in  eight 
volumes.  The  English  history  was  followed  by 
Lives  of  the  Queens  of  Scotland  and  English 
Princesses  connected  with  the  Regal  Succession  of 
Great  Britain , eight  volumes,  1850-59.  The  life 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  in  this  work  is  written 
with  great  fulness  of  detail  and  illustration,  many 
new  facts  having  been  added  by  study  of  the 
papers  in  the  Register  House,  Edinburgh,  and 
documents  in  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Moray 
and  the  representatives  of  other  ancient  families. 
The  collection  of  Mary’s  letters  by  Prince  Labanoff 
also  afforded  new  materials,  not  available  to  previous 
historians  of  the  unfortunate  queen. 

[Queen  Mary  and  the  Lords  of  Council  at  Lochleven 
Castle .] 

The  conspirators,  calling  themselves  the  Lords  of 
Secret  Council,  having  completed  their  arrangements 


for  their  long-meditated  project  of  depriving  her  of 
her  crown,  summoned  Lord  Lindsay  to  Edinburgh, 
and  on  the  23d  of  July  delivered  to  him  and  Sir 
Robert  Melville  three  deeds,  to  which  they  were 
instructed  to  obtain  her  signature,  either  by  flattering 
words  or  absolute  force.  The  first  contained  a declara- 
tion, as  if  from  herself,  ‘ that  being  in  infirm  health, 
and  worn  out  with  the  cares  of  government,  she  had 
taken  purpose  voluntarily  to  resign  her  crown  and 
office  to  her  dearest  son,  James,  Prince  of  Scotland.’ 
In  the  second,  ‘ her  trusty  brother  James,  Earl  of 
Moray,  was  constituted  regent  for  the  prince  her  son, 
during  the  minority  of  the  royal  infant.’  The  third 
appointed  a provisional  council  of  regency,  consisting 
of  Morton  and  the  other  Lords  of  Secret  Council,  to 
carry  on  the  government  till  Moray’s  return  ; or,  in 
case  of  his  refusing  to  accept  it,  till  the  prince  arrived 
at  the  legal  age  for  exercising  it  himself.  Aware  that 
Mary  would  not  easily  be  induced  to  execute  such 
instruments,  Sir  Robert  Melville  was  especially  employed 
to  cajole  her  into  this  political  suicide.  That  ungrate- 
ful courtier,  who  had  been  employed  and  trusted  by  his 
unfortunate  sovereign  ever  since  her  return  from  France, 
and  had  received  nothing  but  benefits  from  her, 
undertook  this  office.  Having  obtained  a private  inter- 
view with  her,  he  deceitfully  entreated  her  ‘ to  sign 
certain  deeds  that  would  be  presented  to  her  by  Lind- 
say, as  the  only  means  of  preserving  her  life,  which,  he 
assured  her,  was  in  the  most  imminent  danger.’  Then 
he  gave  her  a turquoise  ring,  telling  her  ‘ it  was  sent  to 
her  from  the  Earls  of  Argyle,  Huntly,  and  Athole,  Secre- 
tary Lethington,  and  the  Laird  of  Grange,  who  loved 
her  majesty,  and  had  by  that  token  accredited  him  to 
exhort  her  to  avert  the  peril  to  which  she  would  be 
exposed,  if  she  ventured  to  refuse  the  requisition  of  the 
Lords  of  Secret  Council,  whose  designs,  they  well  knew, 
were  to  take  her  life,  either  secretly  or  by  a mock-trial 
among  themselves.’  Finding  the  queen  impatient  of 
this  insidious  advice,  he  produced  a letter  from  the 
English  ambassador  Throckmorton,  out  of  the  scabbard 
of  his  sword,  telling  her  ‘ he  had  concealed  it  there  at 
peril  of  his  own  life,  in  order  to  convey  it  to  her’ — 
a paltry  piece  of  acting,  worthy  of  the  parties  by  whom 
it  had  been  devised,  for  the  letter  had  been  written  for 
the  express  purpose  of  inducing  Mary  to  accede  to  the 
demission  of  her  regal  dignity,  telling  her,  as  if  in 
confidence,  ‘ that  it  was  the  queen  of  England’s  sisterly 
advice  that  she  should  not  irritate  those  who  had  her 
in  their  power,  by  refusing  the  only  concession  that 
could  save  her  life ; and  observing  that  nothing  that 
was  done  under  her  present  circumstances  could  be  of 
any  force  when  she  regained  her  freedom.’  Mary, 
however,  resolutely  refused  to  sign  the  deeds ; declaring, 
with  truly  royal  courage,  that  she  would  not  make 
herself  a party  to  the  treason  of  her  own  subjects,  by 
acceding  to  their  lawless  requisition,  which,  as  she 
truly  alleged,  ‘ proceeded  only  of  the  ambition  of  a 
few,  and  was  far  from  the  desire  of  her  people.’ 

The  fair-spoken  Melville  having  reported  his  ill 
success  to  his  coadjutor  Lord  Lindsay,  Moray’s  brother- 
in-law,  the  bully  of  the  party,  who  had  been  selected 
for  the  honourable  office  of  extorting  by  force  from  the 
royal  captive  the  concession  she  denied,  that  brutal 
ruffian  burst  rudely  into  her  presence,  and,  flinging 
the  deeds  violently  on  the  table  before  her,  told  her  to 
sign  them  without  delay,  or  worse  would  befall  her. 
‘What!’  exclaimed  Mary,  ‘shall  I set  my  hand  to  a 
deliberate  falsehood,  and,  to  gratify  the  ambition  of  my 
nobles,  relinquish  the  office  God  hath  given  to  me,  to 
my  son,  an  infant  little  more  than  a year  old,  incap- 
able of  governing  the  realm,  that  my  brother  Moray 
may  reign  in  his  name?’  She  was  proceeding  to 
demonstrate  the  unreasonableness  of  what  was  required 
of  her,  but  Lindsay  contemptuously  interrupted  her, 
with  scornful  laughter  ; then,  scowling  ferociously  upon 
her,  he  swore  with  a deep  oath,  ‘ that  if  she  would  not 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  T0  1859. 

sign  those  instruments,  he  would  do  it  with  her  heart’s 
blood,  and  cast  her  into  the  lake  to  feed  the  fishes.’ 
Full  well  did  the  defenceless  woman  know  how  capable 
he  was  of  performing  his  threat,  having  seen  his  rapier 
reeking  with  human  blood  shed  in  her  presence,  when 
he  assisted  at  the  butchery  of  her  unfortunate  secretary. 
The  ink  was  scarcely  dry  of  her  royal  signature  to  the 
remission  she  had  granted  to  him  for  that  outrage  ; 
but,  reckless  of  the  fact  that  he  owed  his  life,  his 
forfeit  lands,  yea,  the  very  power  of  injuring  her,  to 
her  generous  clemency,  he  thus  requited  the  grace  she 
had,  in  evil  hour  for  herself,  accorded  to  him.  Her 
heart  was  too  full  to  continue  the  unequal  contest.  ‘ I 
am  not  yet  five-and-twenty,’  she  pathetically  observed  ; 
somewhat  more  she  would  have  said,  but  her  utterance 
failed  her,  and  she  began  to  weep  with  hysterical 
emotion.  Sir  Robert  Melville,  affecting  an  air  of  the 
deepest  concern,  whispered  in  her  ear  an  earnest 
entreaty  for  her  ‘ to  save  her  life  by  signing  the  papers,’ 
reiterating  ‘ that  whatever  she  did  would  be  invalid, 
because  extorted  by  force.’ 

Mary’s  tears  continued  to  flow,  but  sign  she  would 
not,  till  Lindsay,  infuriated  by  her  resolute  resistance, 
swore  ‘that,  having  begun  the  matter,  he  would  also 
finish  it  then  and  there,’  forced  the  pen  into  her  reluct- 
ant hand,  and,  according  to  the  popular  version  of 
this  scene  of  lawless  violence,  grasped  her  arm  in  the 
struggle  so  rudely,  as  to  leave  the  prints  of  his  mail- 
clad  fingers  visibly  impressed.  In  an  access  of  pain 
and  terror,  with  streaming  eyes  and  averted  head,  she 
affixed  her  regal  signature  to  the  three  deeds,  without 
once  looking  upon  them.  Sir  Walter  Scott  alludes  to 
Lindsay’s  barbarous  treatment  of  his  hapless  queen  in 
these  nervous  lines  : 

And  haggard  Lindsay’s  iron  eye, 

That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

George  Douglas,  the  youngest  son  of  the  evil  lady  of 
Lochleven,  being  present,  indignantly  remonstrated 
with  his  savage  brother-in-law,  Lindsay,  for  his  mis- 
conduct ; and  though  hitherto  employed  as  one  of  the 
persons  whose  office  it  was  to  keep  guard  over  her,  he 
became  from  that  hour  the  most  devoted  of  her  friends 
and  champions,  and  the  contriver  of  her  escape.  His 
elder  brother,  Sir  William  Douglas,  the  castellan,  abso- 
lutely refused  to  be  present ; entered  a protest  against 
the  wrong  that  had  been  perpetrated  under  his  roof ; 
and  besought  the  queen  to  give  him  a letter  of  exon- 
eration, certifying  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
and  that  it  was  against  his  consent — which  letter  she 
gave  him. 

Private  journals  and  correspondence  have  thrown 
much  light  on  modern  English  history.  Family 
pride  or  cupidity  has  in  some  instances  led  to 
undue  disclosures  of  this  description,  breaking  down 
the  barrier  between  public  and  private  life;  and 
already  most  of  the  secrets  of  the  courts  of  George 
III.  and  IV.,  with  domestic  details  and  scandal, 
have  been  published.  We  have  had  the  Diaries  and 
\ Correspondence  of  the  Earl  of  Malmesbury , four 
volumes,  1843-44: ; the  Grenville  Papers , four 
volumes,  1852-53;  the  Memorials  and  Correspondence 
of  Charles  James  Fox,  edited  by  Lord  John  Russell, 
three  volumes,  1853-54 ; the  Correspondence  of  the 
Marquis  of  Cornwallis , three  volumes,  1859;  and 
Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  George  IV 1820-30,  by 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  two  volumes,  1859 ; &c. 
The  late  eminent  statesman,  Sir  Robert  Peel 
(1788-1850),  solicitous  concerning  his  reputation 
for  political  integrity,  left  behind  him  Memoirs , 
explanatory  of  his  views  and  conduct  on  the 
Roman  Catholic  question,  1828-29 ; the  govern- 
ment of  1834-35;  and  the  repeal  of  the  corn-laws, 
1845-46.  The  work  was  published,  in  two  volumes, 
710 

1856-57,  but  is  only  a meagre  collection  of  public 
papers  and  stale  arguments. 

The  History  of  the  Captivity  of  Napoleon  at  St 
Helena,  from  the  Letters  and  Journals  of  the  late  Sir 
Hudson  Lowe,  by  Mr  William  Forsyth,  barrister, 
three  volumes,  1853,  is  a painful  and  humiliating 
record.  The  conduct  of  the  exiled  military  chief  was 
marked  by  disingenuous  artifice  and  petty  misre- 
presentation— by  weakness  and  meanness  almost 
incredible.  But  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  was  not  the  fit 
person  to  act  as  governor : he  was  sensitive,  quick- 
tempered, and  of  a blunt,  unpleasing  address. 

Among  other  works  well  deserving  of  study  are 
the  Lectures  on  Modern  History,  from  the  Irruption  of 
the  Northern  Nations  to  the  Close  of  the  American 
Revolution , two  volumes,  1848,  by  William  Smyth 
(1764-1849),  some  time  Professor  of  Modern  History 
in  Cambridge.  The  successor  of  Mr  Smyth  as 
historical  lecturer  in  the  university  of  Cambridge, 
Sir  James  Stephen,  has  published  Lectures  on  the 
History  of  France,  two  volumes,  1851.  Sir  James 
is  well  known  from  his  long  connection  with  the 
Colonial  Office  as  under-secretary — which  office  he 
resigned  in  1848 — and  for  his  eloquent  critical  and 
historical  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
Some  of  these  he  has  collected  and  published  under 
the  title  of  Essays  on  Ecclesiastical  Biography , two 
volumes,  1853. 

The  writings  of  Mr  Thomas  Wright,  a distin- 
guished archaeologist,  in  illustration  of  early 
English  history,  are  valuable.  These  are  Biographia 
Britannica  Liter  aria,  or  biography  of  literary  char- 
acters of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  during  the 
Anglo-Norman  and  Anglo-Saxon  periods,  two 
volumes,  1842-46 ; and  The  Celt,  the  Roman,  and 
the  Saxon,  1852.  Other  short  contributions  con- 
nected with  the  middle  ages  have  been  produced  by 
Mr  Wright,  and  he  has  edited  the  Canterbury  Tales 
of  Chaucer,  and  the  Visions  of  Piers  Ploughman. 

The  Criminal  Trials  in  Scotland,  from  1428  to  1624, 
by  Robert  Pitcairn,  W.S. — who  died  in  1855 — 
form  also  a valuable  contribution  to  the  history  of 
domestic  life  and  manners.  Of  a different  char- 
acter, but  delightfully  minute  and  descriptive,  is  a 
volume  by  Mr  Robert  White,  Newcastle,  a 
History  of  the  Battle  of  Otterburn,  fought  in  1388, 
with  memoirs  of  the  chiefs  engaged  in  the  conflict. 
The  Archaeology  and  Pre-historic  Annals  of  Scotland, 
by  Mr  Daniel  Wilson,  Professor  of  English  Liter- 
ature in  Toronto  College,  Canada,  published  in 
1851  ; and  Caledonia  Romana,  a descriptive  account 
of  the  Roman  antiquities  of  Scotland,  published  in 
1845,  embody  the  results  of  long  and  careful  study. 
Mr  J.  J.  A.  Worsaae,  a Danish  archaeologist, 
has  given  an  Account  of  the  Danes  and  Norwegians 
in  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  1852.  Mr  Worsaae 
was  commissioned  by  the  king  of  Denmark  to 
investigate  the  memorials  of  the  ancient  Scandi- 
navians which  might  still  be  extant  in  this  country. 
The  Rev.  Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley,  the  bio- 
grapher of  Dr  Arnold,  has  brought  local  knowledge 
and  antiquarian  studies  to  bear  upon  general  history 
in  his  Memorials  of  Canterbury,  1855 ; in  which  we 
have  details  of  the  landing  of  Augustine,  the  murder 
of  Thomas-a-Becket,  the  Black  Prince,  and  Becket’s 
shrine. 

Family  histories  are  good  helps  to  the  general 
historian.  Sir  Walter  Scott  hung  with  delight  over 
the  quaint  pages  of  ‘ old  Pitscottie,’  or  the  History 
of  the  Houses  of  Douglas  and  Angus,  by  David  Hume 
of  Godscroft,  a venerable  folio  of  the  year  1644. 
The  great  novelist  edited  another  work  of  the 
same  kind,  the  Memorie  of  the  Somerviles,  written 
by  a Lord  Somerville  of  the  times  of  Charles  IL 

BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LOCKHART — ROGERS. 


But  the  most  interesting  and  complete  of  these 
domestic  annals  is  one  published  in  our  own  day, 
Lives  of  the  Lindsays , or  a Memoir  of  the  Houses 
of  Crawford  and  Balcarres,  by  Lord  Lindsay , four 
volumes,  1840.  The  Lindsays  were  of  the  race  of 
the  Normans  that  settled  in  England  under  the 
Conqueror,  and  two  brothers  of  the  family  estab- 
lished themselves  in  Scotland  in  the  twelfth  century. 

A History  of  Roman  Literature  has  been  written 
hy  John  Dunlop,  Esq.  From  the  earliest  period 
to  the  Augustan  age  is  comprised  in  two  volumes, 
and  a third  volume  is  devoted  to  the  Augustan  age. 
Mr  Dunlop  is  author  also  of  a History  of  Fiction , 
three  volumes,  1814 — a work  of  great  merit.  His 
latest  production  was  Memoirs  of  Spain  during  the 
Reigns  of  Philip  IV.  and  Charles  II.,  1621  to  1700, 
two  volumes,  1834.  Mr  Dunlop  was  a Scottish 
advocate,  sheriff  of  Renfrewshire ; he  died  in  1842. 


BIOGRAPHERS. 

Several  important  biographical  works  have  already 
been  noticed  in  connection  with  the  authors  whose 
lives  were  related.  The  number  of  new  works  in 
| this  department  of  our  literature  continues  daily 
j to  increase,  but  it  is  only  necessary  to  notice 
j such  as  have  an  original  character,  or  derive 
| special  interest  from  the  name  and  talents  of  the 
"biographer. 

LOCKHART — H.  ROGERS — A.  P.  STANLEY. 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.,  by 
J.  G.  Lockhart,  Esq.,  his  Literary  Executor , seven 
volumes,  1837,  makes  the  nearest  approach,  in 
fulness  of  detail,  literary  importance,  and  general 
interest,  to  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson.  The  near 
relationship  of  the  author  to  his  subject  might  have 
' blinded  his  judgment,  yet  the  Life  is  written  in  a 
) fair  and  manly  spirit,  without  either  suppressions  or 
misstatements  that  could  alter  its  essential  features, 
j Into  the  controversial  points  of  the  memoir  we  shall 
not  enter : the  author  has  certainly  paid  too  little 
i deference  and  regard  to  the  feelings  of  indivi- 
| duals ; and  in  most  of  his  conclusions  with  regard 
j to  the  Messrs  Ballantyne,  we  believe  him  to  have 
! been  wrong ; yet  far  more  than  enough  remains  to 
| enable  us  to  overlook  these  blemishes.  The  fearless 
j confidence  with  which  all  that  he  knew  and  believed 
j is  laid  before  the  public,  and  Scott  presented  to  the 
| world  exactly  as  he  was  in  life — in  his  schemes  of 
I worldly  ambition  as  in  his  vast  literary  under- 
| takings— is  greatly  to  be  admired,  and  will  in  time 
' gather  its  meed  of  praise.  The  book,  in  the  main, 
j exhibits  a sound  and  healthy  spirit,  calculated  to 
! exercise  a great  influence  on  contemporary  litera- 
j ture.  As  an  example  and  guide  in  real  life,  in  doing 
i and  in  suffering,  it  is  equally  valuable.  ‘ The  more,’ 
j says  Mr  Lockhart,  ‘ the  details  of  Scott’s  personal 
| history  are  revealed  and  studied,  the  more  power- 
i fully  will  that  be  found  to  inculcate  the  same  great 
j lessons  with  his  works.  Where  else  shall  we  be 
1 better  taught  how  prosperity  may  be  extended  by 
i beneficence,  and  adversity  confronted  by  exertion  ? 
i Where  can  we  see  the  “ follies  of  the  wise  ” more 
' strikingly  rebuked,  and  a character  more  beautifully 
purified  and  exalted  than  in  the  passage  through 
| affliction  to  death  ? His  character  seems  to  belong 
to  some  elder  and  stronger  period  than  ours ; and, 
indeed,  I cannot  help  likening  it  to  the  architectural 
fabrics  of  other  ages  which  he  most  delighted  in, 
where  there  is  such  a congregation  of  imagery  and 
tracery,  such  endless  indulgence  of  whim  and  fancy, 


the  sublime  blending  here  with  the  beautiful,  and 
there  contrasted  with  the  grotesque — half  perhaps 
seen  in  the  clear  daylight,  and  half  by  rays  tinged 
with  the  blazoned  forms  of  the  past — that  one  may 
be  apt  to  get  bewildered  among  the  variety  of 
particular  impressions,  and  not  feel  either  the  unity 
of  the  grand  design,  or  the  height  and  solidness  of 
the  structure,  until  the  door  has  been  closed  on  the 
labyrinth  of  aisles  and  shrines,  and  you  survey  it 
from  a distance,  but  still  within  its  shadow.’ 

Mr  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Burns,  originally  published 
in  1828,  made  a valuable  addition  to  the  biographical 
facts  in  Dr  Currie’s  memoir  of  the  poet.  It  is 
finely  written,  in  a candid  and  generous  spirit,  and 
contains  passages — that  describing  Burns’s  appear- 
ance among  the  savans  of  Edinburgh,  his  life  at 
Ellisland,  &c. — which  mark  the  hand  of  the  master. 
As  a reviewer,  Mr  Lockhart’s  critiques  were  princi- 
pally biographical;  and  his  notices  of  Campbell, 
Southey,  Theodore  Hook,  Jeffrey,  and  others,  will 
be  recollected  by  most  readers  of  the  Quarterly 
Review.  The  sharp,  clear,  incisive  style,  and  the 
mixture  of  scholastic  taste  with  the  tact  of  the  man 
of  the  world,  distinguish  them  all.  The  biography 
of  Burns,  has  since  received  minute  examination  ; 
and  additional  facts  from  the  pen  of  Mr  Robert  1 
Chambers. 

The  Life  of  John  Howe,  M.A.,  by  Henry  Rogers, 
1836,  affords  a good  view  of  the  state  of  religious 
parties  and  controversies  in  England  from  the  time 
of  the  Commonwealth  down  to  the  death  of  Howe 
in  1705.  This  able  and  amiable  Nonconformist 
divine  was  selected  by  Cromwell  in  1657  to  reside 
at  Whitehall  as  one  of  his  chaplains.  As  he  had 
not  coveted  the  office,  he  seems  never  to  have  liked 
it.  The  ‘ affected  disorderliness  ’ of  the  Protector’s 
family  as  to  religious  matters  made  him  despair  of 
doing  good  in  his  office  of  chaplain,  and  he  con- 
scientiously opposed  and  preached  against  a doctrine 
which  is  thus  stated  by  Mr  Rogers. 


[Fanaticism  of  Cromwell's  Court .] 

It  was  a very  prevalent  opinion  in  Cromwell’s  court, 
and  seems  to  have  been  entertained  by  Cromwell  him- 
self, that  whenever  the  ‘ special  favourites  ’ of  Heaven 
offered  up  their  supplications  for  themselves  or  others, 
secret  intimations  were  conveyed  to  the  mind,  that  the 
particular  blessings  they  implored  would  be  certainly 
bestowed,  and  even  indications  afforded  of  the  particular 
method  in  which  their  wishes  would  be  accomplished. 
Howe  himself  confessed  to  Calamy,  in  a private  con- 
versation on  this  subject,  that  the  prevalence  of  the 
notion  at  Whitehall,  at  the  time  he  lived  there,  was 
too  notorious  to  be  denied ; that  great  pains  were  taken 
to  cherish  and  diffuse  it ; and  that  he  himself  had  heard 
‘ a person  of  note  ’ preach  a sermon  with  the  avowed 
design  of  maintaining  and  defending  it.  To  point  out 
the  pernicious  consequences  of  such  an  opinion  would 
be  superfluous.  Of  course,  there  could  be  no  lack  of 
‘ special  favourites  of  Heaven  ’ in  an  age  and  court  like 
those  of  Cromwell ; and  all  the  daugerous  illusions 
which  a fanatical  imagination  might  inspire,  and  all 
the  consequent  horrors  -to  which  a fanatical  zeal  could 
prompt,  would  of  course  plead  the  sanction  of  an  express 
revelation. 

After  lie  had  escaped  from  his  uncongenial  situa- 
tion in  the  court  of  the  Protector,  the  life  of  IIowre 
was  sufficiently  checkered,  but  he  survived  the 
intolerance  aijd  persecution  of  the  Stuarts,  and 
found  leisure  to  write  those  admirable  works  of 
practical  divinity  which  have  placed  him  among 
the  most  gifted  and  eminent  of  the  Nonconformist 

711 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


divines  of  England.*  In  Mr  Eogers’s  memoir 
life  and  character  of  Howe  are  carefully  traced,  and 
an  analysis  is  given  of  his  writings. 

The  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Dr  Arnold,  by 
Arthur  P.  Stanley,  two  volumes,  1814,  is  valu- 
able as  affording  an  example  of  a man  of  noble, 
independent  nature,  and  also  as  furnishing  a great 
amount  of  most  interesting  information  relative  to 
the  public  schools  of  England  and  the  various  social 
and  political  questions  which  agitated  the  country 
from  1820  to  1840.  Whether  agreeing  with,  or 
dissenting  from,  the  views  of  Dr  Arnold,  it  is 
impossible  not  to  admire  his  love  of  truth  and 
perfect  integrity  of  character.  In  intellectual 
energy,  decision,  and  uprightness  he  resembled 
Johnson,  but  happily  his  constitutional  tempera- 
ment was  as  elastic  and  cheerful  as  that  of  Johnson 
was  desponding  and  melancholy.  We  add  a few 
scraps  from  Arnold’s  letters  and  diary,  which  form 
so  interesting  a portion  of  Mr  Stanley’s  memoir. 

[Few  Men  take  Life  in  Earnest.'] 

I meet  with  a great  many  persons  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  and  with  many  whom  I admire  and  like ; but 
what  I feel  daily  more  and  more  to  need,  as  life  every 
year  rises  more  and  more  before  me  in  its  true  reality, 
is  to  have  intercourse  with  those  who  take  life  in 
earnest.  It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  be  always  on  the 
surface  of  things;  and  I feel  that  literature,  science, 
politics,  many  topics  of  far  greater  interest  than  mere 
| gossip  or  talking  about  the  weather,  are  yet,  as  they 
are  generally  talked  about,  still  upon  the  surface — they 
do  not  touch  the  real  depths  of  life.  It  is  not  that  I 
want  much  of  what  is  called  religious  conversation — 
that,  I believe,  is  often  on  the  surface,  like  other  con- 
versation— but  I want  a sign  which  one  catches  as  by 
a sort  of  masonry,  that  a man  knows  what  he  is  about 
in  life,  whither  tending,  in  what  cause  engaged ; and 
when  I find  this,  it  seems  to  open  my  heart  as  thoroughly, 
and  with  as  fresh  a sympathy,  as  when  I was  twenty 
years  younger. 

[Home  and  Old  Friends .] 

These  are  times  when  I am  least  of  all  inclined  to 
loosen  the  links  which  bind  me  to  my  oldest  and  dearest 
friends ; for  I imagine  we  shall  all  want  the  union  of 
all  the  good  men  we  can  get  together ; and  the  want  of 
| sympathy  which  I cannot  but  feel  towards  many  of 
I those  whom  I meet  with,  makes  me  think  how  delight- 
: ful  it  would  be  to  have  daily  intercourse  with  those 
j with  whom  I ever  feel  it  thoroughly.  What  people  do 
; in  middle  life,  without  a wife  and  children  to  turn  to, 
I cannot  imagine;  for  I think  the  affections  must  be 
' sadly  checked  and  chilled,  even  in  the  best  men,  by 
; their  intercourse  with  people  such  as  one  usually  finds 
j them  in  the  world.  I do  not  mean  that  one  does  not 
meet  with  good  and  sensible  people ; but  then  their 
minds  are  set,  and  our  minds  are  set,  and  they  will 
j not,  in  mature  age,  grow  into  each  other ; but  with  a 
j home  filled  with  those  whom  we  entirely  love  and 

* The  principal  works  of  John  Howe  are  his  Living  Temple, 
i a treatise  on  Delighting  in  God,  The  Blessedness  of  the  Righteous, 
The  Vanity  of  Man  as  Mortal,  a Tractate  on  the  Divine  Presence, 
an  Inquiry  into  the  Doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  and  The  Redeemer's 
| Dominion  over  the  Invisible  World.  To  the  excellence  of  these 
works  all  theological  writers  and  critics  have  borne  testimony. 

I Robert  Hall  acknowledged  that  he  had  learned  more  from 
j John  Howe  than  from  any  other  author  he  ever  read,  and  he 
said  there  was  ‘ an  astonishing  magnificence  in  his  concep- 
tions.’ A collected  edition  of  Howe’s  works,  with  a life  by 
Dr  Edmund  Calamy,  was  published  in  1724.  Other  editions 
followed,  and  the  latest  we  have  seen  is  one  in  three  volumes, 
8vo,  1348,  with  life  by  Rev.  J.  P.  Hewlett. 


the  [ sympathise  with,  and  with  some  old  friends,  to  whom 
one  can  open  one’s  heart  fully  from  time  to  time,  the 
world’s  society  has  rather  a bracing  influence  to  make 
one  shake  off  mere  dreams  of  delight. 

[London  and  Mont  Blanc.] 

August  1,  1837. — We  passed  through  London,  with 
which  I was  once  so  familiar ; and  which  now  I almost 
gaze  at  with  the  wonder  of  a stranger.  That  enormous 
city,  grand  beyond  all  other  earthly  grandeur,  sublime 
with  the  sublimity  of  the  sea  or  of  mountains,  is  yet 
a place  that  I should  be  most  sorry  to  call  my  home. 
In  fact,  its  greatness  repels  the  notion  of  home  ; it  may 
be  a palace,  but  it  cannot  be  a home.  How  different 
from  the  mingled  greatness  and  sweetness  of  our  moun- 
tain valleys ! and  yet  he  who  were  strong  in  body  and 
mind  ought  to  desire  rather,  if  he  must  do  one,  to 
spend  all  his  life  in  London,  than  all  his  life  in  West- 
moreland. For  not  yet  can  energy  and  rest  be  united 
in  one,  and  this  is  not  our  time  and  place  for  rest,  but 
for  energy. 

August  2,  1839. — I am  come  out  alone,  my  dearest, 
to  this  spot,  to  see  the  morning  sun  on  Mont  Blanc  and 
on  the  lake,  and  to  look  with  more,  I trust,  than  out- 
ward eyes  on  this  glorious  scene.  It  is  overpowering, 
like  all  other  intense  beauty,  if  you  dwell  upon  it ; but 
I contrast  it  immediately  with  our  Rugby  horizon,  and 
our  life  of  duty  there,  and  our  cloudy  sky  of  England 
— clouded  socially,  alas ! far  more  darkly  than  physic- 
ally. But,  beautiful  as  this  is,  and  peaceful,  may  I 
never  breathe  a wish  to  retire  hither,  even  with  you 
and  our  darlings,  if  it  were  possible;  but  may  I be 
strengthened  to  labour,  and  to  do  and  to  suffer  in  our 
own  beloved  country  and  church,  and  to  give  my  life, 
if  so  called  upon,  for  Christ’s  cause  and  for  them.  And 
if — as  I trust  it  will — this  rambling,  and  this  beauty  of 
nature  in  foreign  lands,  shall  have  strengthened  me  for 
my  work  at  home,  then  we  may  both  rejoice  that  we 
have  had  this  little  parting. 

MARK  NAPIER  — LORD  CAMPBELL  — W.  H.  DIXON 
— JOHN  FORSTER — D.  MASSON. 

Two  biographies  by  Mr  Mark  Napier,  advocate, 
possess  a national  interest  and  value.  The  first 
is  Memoirs  of  John  Napier  of  Merchiston  (bom  1550, 
died  1617).  It  is  remarkable  that  so  eminent 
a man  as  the  inventor  of  logarithms  should  have 
been  without  a special  biographer  until  the  year 
1834,  the  date  of  Mr  Mark  Napier’s  book.  The 
strange  combination  it  presents  of  abstruse  theolo- 
gical studies,  a belief  in  the  art  of  divination  and 
other  superstitions,  and  great  scientific  acquire- 
ments, all  meeting  in  the  character  of  the  old 
Scottish  laird,  a solitary  student  in  fierce  tumul- 
tuous times,  gives  a picturesqueness  and  attraction 
to  the  story  of  his  life.  Mr  Napier’s  next  work, 
Memoirs  of  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  two  volumes, 
1856,  contains  original  letters  of  the  military  hero, 
and  other  documents  from  charter-rooms,  essential 
to  the  history  of  Montrose.  Mr  Napier  writes  in 
the  spirit  of  a keen  partisan,  ‘ with  no  attempt,’  he 
says,  ‘to  dress  by  the  purists  in  composition.’ 
Indeed  his  writing  is  just  such  as  we  should  expect 
the  Baron  of  Bradwardine  to  indite  if  he  took 
up  the  historic  pen.  But  Mr  Napier  is  eager  in 
pursuit  of  information,  and  gives  his  discoveries 
unmutilated. 

The  legal  biographies  of  Lord  Campbell  supply 
a blank  that  had  often  been  felt  in  the  record 
of  British  worthies,  and  they  convey  in  a very 
agreeable  manner  a general  knowledge  of  history, 
political  and  social,  and  of  constitutional  law  and 
principles.  The  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors  and 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LORD  CAMPBELL — W.  H.  DIXON. 


the  Keepers  of  the  Great  Seal  of  England,  from  the 
Earliest  Times  till  the  Reign  of  George  IV.,  extend 
to  seven  volumes,  published  in  1845-47 ; and  the 
Lives  of  the  Chief  Justices  of  England,  from  the 
Norman  Conquest  till  the  Death  of  Lord  Mansfield, 
form  two  volumes,  1849.  The  style  of  the  noble 
biographer  is  often  loose  and  careless,  and  there  are 
many  inaccuracies  in  dates  and  facts ; but  there  are 
few  more  pleasant  books  than  the  Lives  of  the 
Chancellors,  and  it  has  been  eminently  successful. 
In  his  later  biographies,  Lord  Campbell  had  the 
advantage  of  original  papers,  as  well  as  some  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  the  chancellors.  The  whole  of 
Lord  Loughborough’s  papers  were  communicated 
to  him  by  Lord  Rosslyn ; he  obtained  many  of 
Erskine’s  letters,  and  also  letters  of  Lord  Eldon. 
A love  of  anecdote  and  gossip  seasons  these  memoirs, 
while,  in  conclusion,  the  noble  author  sums  up  the 
merits  and  demerits  of  each  of  his  subjects  with 
judicial  impartiality  and  often  with  happy  discrimi- 
nation. Lord  Campbell  has  himself  succeeded  to 
the  woolsack — the  crowning  glory  of  a long  laborious 
life.  He  was  born  September  15,  1781,  the  son  of  a 
Scottish  minister,  Dr  George  Campbell  of  Cupar, 
Fife.  Having  received  his  education,  and  taken  his 
degree  of  A.M.  at  the  university  of  St  Andrews,  he 
repaired  to  London,  entered  himself  of  Lincoln’s 
Inn,  and  while  keeping  his  terms,  officiated  as 
reporter  and  critic  for  the  Morning  Chronicle.  He 
was  called  to  the  bar  in  1806,  and  though  retarded 
in  promotion  by  his  Whig  principles,  he  was  invested 
with  the  silk  gown  in  1827,  and  in  1830  was  returned 
to  parliament  for  the  borough  of  Stafford.  In  1834 
he  was  appointed  attorney-general ; in  1841,  lord 
chancellor  of  Ireland,  with  a peerage;  in  1850, 
chief-justice  of  England ; and  in  1859,  lord  chan- 
cellor. A fortunate  and  brilliant  career,  with  an 
old  age  of  physical  and  intellectual  vigour  rarely 
paralleled. 

The  lives  of  John  Howard,  1850 ; William  Penn , 
1851 ; and  Admiral  Blake,  1852,  by  Mr  William 
Hepworth  Dixon,  may  also  be  characterised  as 
original  biographies.  In  the  cases  of  Howard  and 
Blake  Mr  Dixon  had  access  to  family  papers,  and 
in  that  of  Penn  he  has  diligently  studied  the  records 
of  the  period  and  the  now  neglected  works  of  the 
Quaker  legislator.  In  this  memoir  Mr  Dixon  has 
combated  some  of  the  statements  of  Lord  Macaulay 
relative  to  Penn.  We  have  already  indicated  our 
impression  that  the  noble  historian  had  taken  too 
low  and  unfavourable  an  estimate  of  Penn’s  char- 
acter and  motives,  and  it  is  impossible,  we  think, 
to  read  Mr  Dixon’s  memoir  without  feeling  how 
greatly  Penn  transcended  most  of  the  public  men 
in  that  venal  period  of  English  history.  As  a 
specimen  of  the  biographer’s  style,  which  is  occa- 
sionally too  ornate,  we  extract  part  of  his  account 
of  the  death  of  Blake.  The  last  great  exploit  of  the 
admiral  had  been  his  punishing  the  Corsairs,  and 
freeing  the  Christian  captives  at  Salee,  on  the 
western  coast  of  Africa. 


[ The  Death  of  A dmirafr  Blake,  August  27,  1657.] 

This  crowning  act  of  a virtuous  and  honourable  life 
accomplished,  the  dying  admiral  turned  his  thoughts 
anxiously  towards  the  green  hills  of  his  native  land. 
The  letter  of  Cromwell,  the  thanks  of  parliament,  the 
jewelled  ring  sent  to  him  by  an  admiring  country,  all 
reached  him  together  out  at  sea.  These  tokens  of 
grateful  remembrance  caused  him  a profound  emotion. 
Without  after-thought,  without  selfish  impulse,  he  had 
served  the  Commonwealth  day  and  night,  earnestly, 
anxiously,  and  with  rare  devotion.  England  was  grateful 


to  her  hero.  With  the  letter  of  thanks  from  Cromwell, 
a new  set  of  instructions  arrived,  which  allowed  him 
to  return  with  part  of  his  fleet,  leaving  a squadron  of 
some  fifteen  or  twenty  frigates  to  ride  before  the  Bay 
of  Cadiz  and  intercept  its  traders;  with  their  usual' 
deference  to  his  judgment  and  experience,  the  Protector 
and  Board  of  Admiralty  left  the  appointment  of  the 
command  entirely  with  him  ; and  as  his  gallant  friend 
Stayner  was  gone  to  England,  where  he  received  a 
knighthood  and  other  well-won  honours  from  the 
government,  he  raised  Captain  Stoaks,  the  hero  of 
Porto  Ferino,  and  a commander  of  rare  promise,  to  the 
responsible  position  of  his  vice-admiral  in  the  Spanish 
seas.  Hoisting  his  pennon  on  his  old  flag-ship,  the  St 
George,  Blake  saw  for  the  last  time  the  spires  and 
cupolas,  the  masts  and  towers,  before  which  he  had 
kept  his  long  and  victorious  vigils.  While  he  put  in  for 
fresh  water  at  Cascaes  Road,  he  was  very  weak.  ‘I 
beseech  God  to  strengthen  him,’  was  the  fervent  prayer 
of  the  English  resident  at  Lisbon,  as  he  departed  on 
the  homeward  voyage.  While  the  ships  rolled  through 
the  tempestuous  waters  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  he  grew 
every  day  worse  and  worse.  Some  gleams  of  the  old 
spirit  broke  forth  as  they  approached  the  latitude  of 
England.  He  inquired  often  and  anxiously  if  the  white 
cliffs  were  yet  in  sight.  He  longed  to  behold  the  swell- 
ing downs,  the  free  cities,  the  goodly  churches  of  his 
native  land.  But  he  was  now  dying  beyond  all  doubt. 
Many  of  his  favourite  officers  silently  and  mournfully 
crowded  round  his  bed,  anxious  to  catch  the  last  tones 
of  a voice  which  had  so  often  called  them  to  glory  and 
victory.  Others  stood  at  the  poop  and  forecastle, 
eagerly  examining  every  speck  and  line  on  the  horizon, 
in  hope  of  being  first  to  catch  the  welcome  glimpse  of 
land.  Though  they  were  coming  home  crowned  with 
laurels,  gloom  and  pain  were  in  every  face.  At  last  the 
Lizard  was  announced.  Shortly  afterwards,  the  bold 
cliffs  and  bare  hills  of  Cornwall  loomed  out  grandly  in 
the  distance.  But  it  was  now  too  late  for  the  dying 
hero.  He  had  sent  for  the  captains  and  other  great 
officers  of  his  fleet  to  bid  them  farewell ; and  while 
they  were  yet  in  his  cabin,  the  undulating  hills  of 
Devonshire,  glowing  with  the  tints  of  early  autumn, 
came  full  in  view.  As  the  ships  rounded  Rame  Head, 
the  spires  and  masts  of  Plymouth,  the  woody  heights  of 
Mount  Edgecombe,  the  low  island  of  St  Nicholas,  the 
rocky  steeps  of  the  Hoe,  Mount  Batten,  the  citadel,  the 
many  picturesque  and  familiar  features  of  that  mag- 
nificent harbour  rose  one  by  one  to  sight.  But  the  eyes 
which  had  so  yearned  to  behold  this  scene  once  more 
were  at  that  very  instant  closing  in  death.  Foremost 
of  the  victorious  squadron,  the  St  George  rode  with  its 
precious  burden  into  the  Sound ; and  just  as  it  came 
into  full  view  of  the  eager  thousands  crowding  the 
beach,  the  pier-heads,  the  walls  of  the  citadel,  or  dart- 
ing in  countless  boats  over  the  smooth  waters  between 
St  Nicholas  and  the  docks,  ready  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  hero  of  Santa  Cruz,  and  salute  him  with 
a true  English  welcome,  he,  in  his  silent  cabin,  in  the 
midst  of  his  lion-hearted  comrades,  now  sobbing  like 
little  children,  yielded  up  his  soul  to  God. 

Mr  Dixon  is  a native  of  the  West  Riding  of 
Yorkshire,  born  in  1821.  He  was  entered  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  but  devoted  himself  to  literature, 
and  in  1853  became  editor  of  the  Athenaeum.  This 
weekly  literary  journal,  often  quoted  in  our  pages, 
was  established  about  the  year  1828,  and  has  cer- 
tainly done  more  for  literary  history  than  any  other 
work  of  this  century.  Its  present  proprietor,  Mr 
Charles  Wentworth  Dilke,  edited  Old  English 
Plays,  1814,  supplementary  to  Dodsley’s  collection, 
and  conducted  the  Athenaeum  for  some  years.  His 
papers  on  Junius,  Pope,  Burke,  &c.,  evince  great 
research  and  critical  acumen. 

Mr  John  Forster,  of  the  Inner  Temple  (born 

713 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


at  Newcastle  in  1812),  in  the  course  of  an  active  and 
laborious  literary  life  has  been  chiefly  distinguished 
as  a biographer.  In  the  Examiner  weekly  journal — 
with  which  he  was  connected  for  about  twenty-five 
years — Mr  Forster  wrote  many  admirable  critical 
papers ; but  his  name  is  known  principally  through 
his  biographical  works,  in  which  he  combines  dili- 
gent research  and  independent  thought,  with  literary 
qualifications  of  a high  order.  His  Statesmen  of  the 
Commonwealth  of  England , seven  volumes,  1840, 
form  a series  of  concise  and  interesting  biographies. 
Other  papers  of  a similar  kind  he  contributed  to  the 
Reviews,  including  memoirs  of  Churchill  and  Defoe, 
and  these  he  has  enlarged  and  reprinted  under  the 
title  of  Historical  and  Biographical  Essays,  two 
volumes,  1858.  But  the  most  important  and  valu- 
able of  his  works  is  his  Life  and  Times  of  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  two  volumes,  1854.  A former  edition  of 
this  memoir,  under  the  title  of  The  Life  and  Adven- 
tures of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  was  published  by  Mr 
Forster  in  1848,  but  the  second  edition  is  almost  a 
new  work,  and  is  rich  in  materials  illustrative  of 
the  literary  history  and  social  life  of  Goldsmith’s 
times.  A detailed  memoir  of  Goldsmith  had  pre- 
viously (1837)  been  written  by  Mr  (now  Sir  James) 
Prior;  and  on  the  appearance  of  Mr  Forster’s  work, 
in  1848,  Mr  Prior  charged  him  with  unfairly  appro- 
priating his  materials,  derived  from  original  sources. 
It  is  certain  that  Mr  Prior  had  been  an  industrious 
I gleaner ; he  had  gathered  together  many  new  facts, 
j including  Goldsmith’s  accounts  with  his  publisher 
j Newbery,  his  tailor’s  and  landlady’s  bills,  &c.,  and 
I these  gave  a peculiar  interest  and  zest  to  his  work, 
j But  Mr  Forster  had  acknowledged  his  obligations 
to  his  predecessor,  he  had  reset  Mr  Prior’s  anecdotes 
and  facts,  giving  them  fresh  light  and  brilliancy, 

1 and  he  had  also  contributed  many  new  biographical 
particulars.  The  charge  of  piracy  was,  therefore, 

| not  established,  and  the  doctrine  that  a biographer 
has  a vested  right  in  the  materials  he  publishes,  is 
one  that  cannot  be  sustained.  Dates,  facts,  and 
personal  details,  once  given  to  the  world,  become, 
as  Mr  Forster  argued,  public  property ; and  all  that 
can  be  required  of  subsequent  biographers  is,  that 
the  authority  for  each  statement  or  illustration  shall 
he  specifically  given. 


[The  Literary  Profession  and  Law  of  Copyright.] 

1 It  were  well,’  said  Goldsmith,  on  one  occasion,  with 
bitter  truth,  ‘if  none  but  the  dunces  of  society  were 
combined  to  render  the  profession  of  an  author  ridicu- 
lous or  unhappy.’  The  profession  themselves  have  yet 
to  learn  the  secret  of  co-operation;  they  have  to  put 
away  internal  jealousies ; they  have  to  claim  for  them- 
selves, as  poor  Goldsmith,  after  his  fashion  very  loudly 
did,  that  defined  position  from  which  greater  respect, 
and  more  frequent  consideration  in  public  life,  could 
not  long  be  withheld ; in  fine,  they  have  frankly  to  feel 
that  their  vocation,  properly  regarded,  ranks  with  the 
worthiest,  and  that,  on  all  occasions,  to  do  justice 
to  it,  and  to  each  other,  is  the  way  to  obtain  justice 
from  the  world.  If  writers  had  been  thus  true  to  them- 
selves, the  subject  of  copyright  might  have  been  equi- 
tably settled  when  attention  was  first  drawn  to  it ; but 
while  De  Foe  was  urging  the  author’s  claim,  Swift  was 
calling  De  Foe  a fellow  that  had  been  pilloried,  and  we 
have  still  to  discuss  as  in  formd  pauperis  the  rights  of 
the  English  author. 

Confiscation  is  a hard  word,  but  after  the  decision  of 
the  highest  English  court,  it  is  the  word  which  alone 
describes  fairly  the  statute  of  Anne,  for  encouragement 
of  literature.  That  is  now  superseded  by  another 
statute,  having  the  same  gorgeous  name,  and  the  same 
714 


inglorious  meaning ; for  even  this  last  enactment,  sorely 
resisted  as  it  was,  leaves  England  behind  any  other 
country  in  the  world,  in  the  amount  of  their  own  property 
secured  to  her  authors.  In  some  to  this  day,  perpetual 
copyright  exists ; and  though  it  may  be  reasonable, 
as  Dr  Johnson  argued  that  it  was,  to  surrender  a 
part  for  greater  efficiency  or  protection  to  the  rest, 
yet  the  commonest  dictates  of  natural  justice  might  at 
least  require  that  an  author’s  family  should  not  be 
beggared  of  their  inheritance  as  soon  as  his  own  capacity 
to  provide  for  them  may  have  ceased.  In  every  conti- 
nental country  this  is  cared  for,  the  lowest  term  secured 
by  the  most  niggardly  arrangement  being  twenty-five 
years ; whereas  in  England  it  is  the  munificent  number 
of  seven.  Yet  the  most  laborious  works,  and  often  the 
most  delightful,  are  for  the  most  part  of  a kind  which 
the  hereafter  only  can  repay.  The  poet,  the  historian, 
the  scientific  investigator,  do  indeed  find  readers  to-day ; 
but  if  they  have  laboured  with  success,  they  have  pro- 
duced books  whose  substantial  reward  is  not  the  large 
and  temporary,  but  the  limited  and  constant  nature  of 
their  sale.  No  consideration  of  moral  right  exists,  no 
principle  of  economical  science  can  be  stated,  which 
would  justify  the  seizure  of  such  books  by  the  public, 
before  they  had  the  chance  of  remunerating  the  genius 
and  the  labour  of  their  producers. 

But  though  parliament  can  easily  commit  this  wrong, 
it  is  not  in  such  case  the  quarter  to  look  to  for  redress. 
There  is  no  hope  of  a better  state  of  things  till  the 
author  shall  enlist  upon  his  side  the  power  of  which 
parliament  is  but  the  inferior  expression.  The  true 
remedy  for  literary  wrongs  must  flow  from  a higher 
sense  than  has  at  any  period  yet  prevailed  in  England 
of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  assumed  by  the  public 
writer,  and  of  the  social  consideration  and  respect  that 
their  effectual  discharge  should  have  undisputed  right 
to  claim.  The  world  will  be  greatly  the  gainer,  when 
such  time  shall  arrive,  and  when  the  biography  of  the 
man  of  genius  shall  no  longer  be  a picture  of  the  most 
harsh  struggles  and  mean  necessities  to  which  man’s 
life  is  subject,  exhibited  as  in  shameful  contrast  to  the 
calm  and  classic  glory  of  his  fame.  With  society  itself 
rests  the  advent  of  that  time.* 

* It  may  be  interesting  to  compare  Mr  Forster’s  view  of  Gold- 
smith and  the  supposed  neglect  of  authors  with  the  opinion  of 
Lord  Macaulay:  ‘Goldsmith  has  sometimes  been  represented 
as  a man  of  genius,  cruelly  treated  by  the  world,  and  doomed 
to  struggle  with  difficulties,  which  at  last  broke  his  heart. 
But  no  representation  can  be  more  remote  from  the  truth. 
He  did,  indeed,  go  through  much  sharp  misery  before  he  had 
done  anything  considerable  in  literature.  But  after  his  name 
had  appeared  on  the  title-page  of  The  Traveller , he  had  none 
but  himself  to  blame  for  his  distresses.  His  average  income, 
during  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life,  certainly  exceeded  £100 
a year;  and  £400  a year  ranked,  among  the  incomes  of  that  day, 
at  least  as  high  as  £800  a year  would  rank  at  present.  A 
single  man  living  in  the  Temple  with  £400  a year  might 
then  be  called  opulent.  Not  one  in  ten  of  the  young  gentlemen 
of  good  families  who  were  studying  the  law  there  had  so  much.  I 
But  all  the  wealth  which  Lord  Clive  had  brought  from  Bengal,  j 
and  Sir  Lawrence  Dundas  from  Germany,  joined  together,  | 
would  not  have  sufficed  for  Goldsmith.  He  spent  twice  as 
much  as  he  had.  He  wore  fine  clothes,  gave  dinners  of  several 
courses,  paid  court  to  venal  beauties.  He  had  also,  it  should  be 
remembered,  to  the  honour  of  his  heart,  though  not  of  his  head, 
a guinea,  or  five,  or  ten,  according  to  the  state  of  his  purse, 
ready  for  any  tale  of  distress,  true  or  false.  But  it  was  not  in 
dress  or  feasting,  in  promiscuous  amours  or  promiscuous 
charities,  that  his  chief  expense  lay'.  He  had  been  from 
boyhood  a gambler,  and  at  once  the  most  sanguine  and  the 
most  unskilful  of  gamblers.  For  a time  he  put  off  the 
day  of  inevitable  ruin  by  temporary  expedients.  He  obtained 
advances  from  booksellers,  by  promising  to  execute  works 
which  he  never  began.  But  at  length  this  source  of  supply 
failed.  He  owed  more  than  £2000;  and  he  saw  no  hope  of 
extrication  from  his  embarrassments.  His  spirits  and  health 
gave  way.’ 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  david  masson. 


The  Life  of  John  Milton , narrated  in  connection 
with  the  Political , Ecclesiastical , and  Literary  History 
of  his  Time,  volume  i.,  1608-1639,  by  Mr  David 
Masson,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Univer- 
sity College,  London,  promises  to  be  by  far  the 
most  accurate  as  well  as  the  fullest  memoir  of  the 
great  poet.  ‘As  if  to  oblige  biography  in  this 
instance  to  pass  into  history,  Milton’s  life  divides 
itself  with  almost  mechanical  exactness  into  three 
periods,  corresponding  with  those  of  the  contem- 
porary social  movement — the  first  extending  from 
1608  to  1640,  which  was  the  period  of  his  education 
and  of  his  minor  poems ; the  second  extending  from 
1640  to  1660,  or  from  the  beginning  of  the  civil 
wars  to  the  Restoration,  and  forming  the  middle 
period  of  his  polemical  activity  as  a prose-writer ; 
and  the  third  extending  from  1660  to  1674,  which 
was  the  period  of  his  later  muse  and  of  the  pub- 
lication of  Paradise  Lost.  It  is  the  plan  of  the 
present  work  to  devote  a volume  to  each  of  those 
periods.’  Such  is  the  herculean  task  Mr  Masson 
has  laid  out  for  himself.  In  this  first  volume  he 
has  cleared  up  many  doubtful  points  in  the  poet’s 
pedigree  and  academical  career,  and  given  a great 
mass  of  interesting  information,  literary,  historical, 
and  ecclesiastical,  conveyed  in  vigorous  and  often 
eloquent  language. 

[ Character  of  Archbishop  Laudi] 

What  with  one  means  of  influence,  what  with  another, 
Laud,  in  the  year  1632,  being  then  in  the  sixtieth  year 
of  his  age,  was  the  dominant  spirit  in  the  English 
church,  and  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  English  state. 
One  would  fain  think  and  speak  with  some  respect 
of  any  man  who  has  been  beheaded ; much  more  of 
one  who  was  beheaded  for  a cause  to  which  he  had 
conscientiously  devoted  his  life,  and  which  thousands 
of  his  countrymen,  two  centuries  after  his  death, 
still  adhere  to,  still  expound,  still  uphold,  albeit 
with  the  difference,  incalculable  to  themselves,  of  all 
that  time  has  flung  between.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
like  or  admire  Laud.  The  nearer  we  get  to  him,  the 
more  all  soft  illusion  falls  off,  and  the  more  distinctly 
we  have  before  us  the  hard  reality,  as  D’Ewes  and 
others  saw  it,  of  a ‘ little,  low,  red-faced  man,’  bustling 
by  the  side  of  that  king  of  the  narrow  forehead  and  the 
melancholy  Vandyck  air,  or  pressing  his  notions  with  a 
raspy  voice  at  the  council-board  till  Weston  became 
peevish  and  Cottington  wickedly  solemn,  or  bowing  his 
bead  in  churches  not  very  gracefully. 

When  we  examine  what  remains  of  his  mind  in 
writings,  the  estimate  is  not  enhanced.  The  texture 
of  his  writing  is  hard,  dry,  and  common ; sufficiently 
clear  as  to  the  meaning,  and  with  no  insincerity  oi 
superfluity,  but  without  sap,  radiance,  or  force.  Occa- 
sionally, when  one  of  his  fundamental  topics  is  touched, 
a kind  of  dull  heat  rises,  and  one  can  see  that  the  old 
man  was  in  earnest.  Of  anything  like  depth  or  com- 
prehensiveness of  intellect,  there  is  no  (evidence ; much 
less  of  what  is  understood  by  genius.  There  is  never  a 
stroke  of  original  insight ; never  a flash  of  intellectual 
generality.  In  Williams  there  is  genius ; not  in  Laud. 
Many  of  his  humble  clerical  contemporaries,  not  to 
speak  of  such  known  men  as  Fuller  and  Hacket,  must 
have  been  greatly  his  superiors  in  talent — more  dis- 
cerning men,  as  well  as  more  interesting  writers.  That 
very  ecclesiastical  cause  which  Laud  so  conspicuously 
defended,  has  had,  since  his  time,  and  has  at  this  day 
in  England,  far  abler  heads  among  its  adherents.  How 
was  it,  then,  that  Laud  became  what  he  did  become, 
and  that  slowly,  by  degrees,  and  against  opposition? 
how  was  it  that  his  precise  personality  and  no  other 
worked  its  way  upwards,  through  the  clerical  and 
academic  element  of  the  time,  to  the  very  top  of  all, 
and  there  fitted  itself  into  the  very  socket  where  the 


joints  of  things  met?  Pai'vo  regitur  mundus  intellects. 
A small  intellect,  once  in  the  position  of  government, 
may  suffice  for  the  official  forms  of  it;  and,  with  Laud’s 
laboriousness  and  tenacity  of  purpose,  his  power  of 
maintaining  his  place  of  minister,  under  such  a master 
as  Charles,  needs  be  no  mystery.  So  long  as  the  pro- 
prietor of  an  estate  is  satisfied,  the  tenants  must  endure 
the  bailiff,  whatever  the  amount  of  his  wisdom.  Then, 
again,  in  the  last  stages  of  Laud’s  ascent,  he  rose  through 
Buckingham  and  Charles,  to  both  of  whom  surely  his 
nature,  without  being  great,  may  have  recommended 
itself  by  adequate  affinities. 

Still,  that  Laud  impressed  these  men  when  he  did 
come  in  contact  with  them,  and  that,  from  his  original 
position  as  a poor  student  in  an  Oxford  college,  he  rose 
step  by  step  to  the  point  where  he  could  come  in  con- 
tact with  them,  are  facts  not  explicable  by  the  mere 
supposition  of  a series  of  external  accidents.  Perhaps 
it  is  that  a nature  does  not  always  or  necessarily  rise 
by  greatness,  or  intrinsic  superiority  to  the  element 
about  it,  but  may  rise  by  peculiarity , or  proper  capillary 
relation  to  the  element  about  it.  When  Lord  Macaulay 
speaks  of  Laud  as  intellectually  an  ‘ imbecile,’  and  calls 
him  ‘ a ridiculous  old  bigot,’  he  seems  to  omit  that 
peculiarity  which  gave  Laud’s  nature,  whatever  its 
measure  by  a modern  standard,  so  much  force  and 
pungency  among  his  contemporaries.  To  have  hold  of 
the  surrounding  sensations  of  men,  even  by  pain  and 
irritation,  is  a kind  of  power;  and  Laud  had  that 
kind  of  power  from  the  first.  He  affected  strongly,  if 
irritatingly,  each  successive  part  of  the  body-politic  in 
which  he  was  lodged.  As  a fellow  of  a college,  he  was 
more  felt  than  liked ; as  a master  of  a college,  he  was 
still  felt,  but  not  liked ; when  he  came  first  about  court, 
he  was  felt  still,  but  still  not  liked.  And  why  was  he 
felt?  Why,  in  each  successive  position  to  which  he 
attained,  did  he  affect  surrounding  sensation  so  as  to 
domineer?  For  one  thing,  he  was  a man  whose  views, 
if  few,  were  extraordinarily  definite.  His  nature,  if  not 
great,  was  very  tight.  Early  in  life  he  had  taken  up 
certain  propositions  as  to  the  proper  theology  of  the 
Anglican  Church,  and  had  combined  them  with  certain 
others  as  to  the  divine  right  of  Prelacy,  and  the  neces- 
sity and  possibility  of  uniformity  in  creed  and  worship. 
These  few  very  definite  propositions,  each  answering  to 
some  tendency  of  society  or  of  opinion  at  the  time  in 
England,  he  had  tied  and  knotted  round  him  as  his 
sufficient  doctrinal  outfit.  Wherever  he  went,  he  carried 
them  with  him  and  before  him,  acting  upon  them  with 
a brisk  and  incessant  perseverance,  without  regard  to 
circumstances,  or  even  to  establish  notices  of  what  was 
fair,  high-minded,  and  generous.  Thus,  seeing  that  the 
propositions  were  of  a kind  upon  which  some  conclusion 
or  other  was  or  might  be  made  socially  imperative,  he 
could  force  to  his  own  conclusions  all  laxer,  though 
s'arger  natures,  that  were  tending  lazily  the  same  way, 
and,  throwing  a continually  increasing  crowd  of  such 
and  of  others  behind  him  as  his  followers,  leave  only 
in  front  of  him  those  who  opposed  to  his  conclusions 
as  resolute  contraries.  His  indefatigable  official  activity 
contributed  to  the  result.  Beyond  all  this,  however, 
and  adding  secret  force  to  it  all,  there  was  something 
else  about  Laud.  Though  the  system  which  lie  wanted 
to  enforce  was  one  of  strict  secular  form,  the  man’s  own 
being  rested  on  a trembling  basis  of  the  fantastic  and 
unearthly.  Herein  lay  one  notable,  and  perhaps  com- 
pensating difference  between  his  narrow  intellect  and 
the  broad  but  secular  genius  of  Williams.  In  that 
strange  diary  of  Laud,  which  is  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  our  literature,  we  see  him  in  an  aspect  in  which  he 
probably  never  wished  that  the  public  should  know 
him.  His  hard  and  active  public  life  is  represented 
there  but  casually,  and  we  see  the  man  in  the  secrecy 
of  his  own  thoughts,  as  he  talked  to  himself  when  alone. 
We  hear  of  certain  sins,  or,  at  least,  ‘unfortunatenesses,’ 
of  his  early  and  past  life,  which  clung  about  his  memory, 


t 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1850. 


were  kept  there  Iby  anniversaries  of  sadness  or  penance, 
and  sometimes  intruded  grinning  faces  through  the 
gloom  of  the  chamber  when  all  the  house  was  asleep. 
We  see  that,  after  all,  whether  from  such  causes  or 
from  some  form  of  constitutional  melancholy,  the  old 
man,  who  walked  so  briskly  and  cheerily  about  the 
court,  and  was  so  sharp  and  unhesitating  in  all  his 
notions  of  what  was  to  he  done  in  secret,  carry  in  him 
some  sense  of  the  burden  of  life’s  mystery,  and  feel  the 
air  and  the  earth  to  some  depth  around  him  to  be  full 
of  sounds  and  agencies  unfeatured  and  unimaginable. 
At  any  moment  they  may  break  through ! The  twitter 
of  two  robin  redbreasts  in  his  room,  as  he  is  writing  a 
sermon,  sets  his  heart  beating;  a curtain  rustles — 
whose  hand  touched  it  ? Above  all,  he  has  a belief  in 
revelation  through  dreams  and  coincidences ; and  as  the 
very  definiteness  of  his  scheme  of  external  worship  may 
have  been  a refuge  to  him  from  that  total  mystery,  the 
skirts  of  which,  and  only  the  skirts,  were  ever  touching 
him,  so  in  his  dreams  and  small  omens  he  seems  to 
have  had,  in  his  daily  advocacy  of  that  scheme,  some 
petty  sense  of  near  metaphysical  aid.  Out  of  his  many 
dreams  we  are  fond  of  this  one : ‘ January  5 [1626-7]. 
Epiphany  Eve  and  Friday,  in  the  night  I dreamed,’ 
he  says,  ‘that  my  mother,  long  since  dead,  stood  by 
my  bed,  and  drawing  aside  the  clothes  a little,  looked 
pleasantly  upon  me,  and  that  I was  glad  to  see  her 
with  so  merry  an  aspect.  She  then  shewed  to  me  a 
certain  old  man,  long  since  deceased,  whom,  while  alive, 
I both  knew  and  loved.  He  seemed  to  lie  upon  the 
ground,  merry  enough,  but  with  a wrinkled  countenance. 
His  name  was  Grove.  While  I prepared  to  salute  him, 
I awoke.’  Were  one  to  adopt  what  seems  to  have  been 
Laud’s  own  theory,  might  not  one  suppose  that  this 
wrinkled  old  man  of  his  dream,  squat  on  the  super- 
natural ground  so  near  its  confines  with  the  natural, 
was  Laud’s  spiritual  genius,  and  so  that  what  of  the 
supernatural  there  was  in  his  policy  consisted  mainly 
of  monitions  from  Grove  of  Reading?  The  question 
would  still  remain — at  what  depth  back  among  the  dead 
Grove  was  permitted  to  roam  ? 

j.  p.  muirhead  (Life  of  Watt) — s.  smiles  (Life 
of  Stephenson). 

A relative  of  James  Watt,  Mr  James  Patrick 
Muirhead,  M.A.,  who  had  access  to  all  the  family- 
papers,  published  a volume  in  1854,  entitled  The 
Origin  and  Progress  of  the  Mechanical  Inventions  of 
James  Watt , three  volumes,  1858.  The  large  copper- 
plate engravings  of  machinery  by  which  it  was 
illustrated,  necessarily  raised  the  cost  of  this  work 
above  the  means  of  most  people,  while  the  minute 
descriptions  of  patents  and  their  relative  drawings 
were  more  desirable  for  the  use  of  the  scientific 
engineer  and  the  mechanical  philosopher  than  of 
the  general  reader.  To  meet  the  wishes  of  the  latter, 
Mr  Muirhead,  in  1858,  remodelled  and  reproduced, 
in  a form  at  once  more  comprehensive,  more  con- 
venient, and  less  costly,  the  biographical  memoir  of 
Watt,  incorporating  with  it  the  most  interesting 
passages  in  his  correspondence,  and,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, Watt’s  own  clear  and  forcible  descriptions  of 
his  inventions.  This  volume  furnishes  an  interest- 
ing account  of  the  career  of  the  great  inventor,  of 
whom  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  said  that  he  was  ‘ not 
only  the  most  profound  man  of  science,  the  most 
successful  combiner  of  powers  and  calculator  of 
numbers,  as  adapted  to  practical  purposes — was  not 
only  one  of  the  most  generally  well-informed,  but 
one  of  the  best  and  kindest  of  human  beings.’ 
James  Watt  was  born,  on  the  19th  of  January  1736, 
at  Greenock,  and  came  of  a family  that  for  more 
than  a hundred  years  had  more  or  less  professed 
mathematics  and  navigation.  Many  stories  are 


told  of  his  early  turn  for  science.  When  he  was 
six  years  of  age,  a gentleman,  calling  on  his  father, 
observed  the  child  bending  over  a marble  hearth 
with  a piece  of  coloured  chalk  in  his  hand.  ‘Mr 
Watt,’  said  he,  ‘you  ought  to  send  that  boy  to  a 
public  school,  and  not  allow  him  to  trifle  away  his 
time  at  home.’  ‘Look  how  my  child  is  occupied 
before  you  condemn  him,’  replied  the  father.  The 
gentleman  then  observed  that  the  hoy  had  drawn 
mathematical  lines  and  circles  on  the  marble  hearth, 
and  was  then  marking  in  letters  and  figures  the 
result  of  some  calculation  he  was  carrying  on ; he 
put  various  questions  to  him,  and  ended  by  remark- 
ing, ‘ he  is  no  common  child.’  Sitting  one  evening 
with  his  aunt,  Mrs  Muirhead,  at  the  tea-table,  she 
said : * James  Watt,  I never  saw  such  an  idle  boy : 
take  a book,  or  employ  yourself  usefully.  For  the 
last  hour,  you  have  not  spoken  one  word,  but 
taken  off  the  lid  of  that  kettle  and  put  it  on  again, 
holding  now  a cup  and  now  a silver  spoon  over  the 
steam.’  James  was  already  observing  the  process 
of  condensation.  Before  he  was  fifteen  years  of 
age,  he  had  made  for  himself  a small  electrical 
machine  with  -which  he  sometimes  startled  his 
young  friends  by  giving  them  sudden  shocks  from 
it.  This  must  have  been  only  a few  years  after  the 
Leyden  phial  was  invented.  His  father’s  store- 
rooms, in  which  he  kept  a stock  of  telescopes, 
quadrants,  and  optical  instruments  for  the  supply  j 
of  ships  at  Greenock,  was  a valuable  school  of  | 
observation  to  the  young  philosopher,  and  may  have  I 
tended  to  decide  the  profession  which  he  selected  j 
for  himself — that  of  mathematical  instrument-maker.  I 
At  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  removed  to  Glasgow  to 
learn  this  business,  and  a year  afterwards  repaired  | 
to  London  for  the  same  purpose.  But  bad  health — J 
‘a  gnawing  pain  in  his  back,  and  weariness  all  ■ 
over  his  body  ’ — obliged  him  to  quit  London  in  the  j 
year  1756,  and  after  investing  about  twenty  guiiieas  | 
in  tools  and  useful  books  on  his  trade,  he  returned  to 
Scotland.  In  1757  he  received  permission  to  occupy  , 
an  apartment  and  open  a shop  within  the  precincts  i 
of  the  college  of  Glasgow,  and  to  use  the  designation  : 
of  ‘ mathematical  instrument-maker  to  the  univer-  ! 
sity.’  And  now,  in  his  twenty-first  year,  may  be  ! 
said  to  have  commenced  the  wonderful  career  of  j 
James  Watt  as  a man  of  inventive  genius.  Business 
was  sufficiently  prosperous,  and  in  his  leisure  hours  | 
he  studied  without  intermission.  ‘ Observare  ’ was  ! 
the  motto  he  adopted,  and  his  object,  as  he  him-  j 
self  expressed  it,  was  ‘ to  find  out  the  weak  side  of  1 
nature,  and  to  vanquish  her;’  ‘for  nature,’  he  says  | 
again,  ‘has  a weak  side,  if  we  can  only  find  it  , 
out.’  Nothing  came  amiss.  Without  knowing  one 
musical  note  from  another,  he  undertook  to  build  ! 
an  organ  for  a mason-lodge  in  Glasgow.  He  had  j 
studied  the  philosophical  theory  of  music,  and  not  j 
only  did  he  make  the  organ,  but  in  the  process  a j 
thousand  things  occurred  to  him  which  no  organ-  : 
builder  ever  dreamed  of — nice  indicators  of  the  ' 
strength  of  the  blast,  regulators  of  it,  &c.  He 
afterwards  made  many  organs ; and  guitars,  flutes, 
and  violins  of  his  manufacture  are  still  in  existence. 
About  this  time  he  also  contrived  an  ingenious 
machine  for  drawing  in  perspective.  The  great 
discovery  which  led  to  the  ultimate  triumphs  of  the 
steam-engine  was  made  when  Watt  was  only  twenty- 
seven  or  twenty-eight  years  of  age — namely,  in 
1764  or  1765.  Dr  Black,  an  intimate  friend,  thus 
narrates  the  circumstance : 

[The  Steam-engine.'] 

A few  years  after  he  was  settled  at  Glasgow,  he  was  j 
employed  by  the  professor  of  natural  philosophy  to 


| biographers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  j.  p.  muirhead. 

examine  and  rectify  a small  workable  model  of  a steam- 
engine,  which  was  out  of  order.  This  turned  a part  of 
his  thoughts  and  fertile  invention  to  the  nature  and 
improvement  of  steam-engines,  to  the  perfection  of  their 
machinery,  and  to  the  different  means  by  which  their 
great  consumption  of  fuel  might  be  diminished.  He  soon 
acquired  such  a reputation  for  his  knowledge  on  this 
! subject,  that  he  was  employed  to  plan  and  erect  several 
j engines  in  different  places,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
1 was  frequently  making  new  experiments  to  lessen  the 
j waste  of  heat  from  the  external  surface  of  the  boiler, 
and  from  that  of  the  cylinder.  But,  after  he  had  been 
thus  employed  a considerable  time,  he  perceived  that  by 
far  the  greatest  waste  of  heat  proceeded  from  the  waste 
J of  steam  in  filling  the  cylinder  with  steam.  In  filling 
the  cylinder  with  steam,  for  every  stroke  of  the  common 
engine  a great  part  of  the  steam  is  chilled  and  condensed 
by  the  coldness  of  the  cylinder,  before  this  last  is 
heated  enough  to  qualify  it  for  being  filled  with  elastic 
1 vapour  or  perfect  steam ; he  perceived,  therefore,  that 
by  preventing  this  waste  of  steam,  an  incomparably 
' greater  saving  of  heat  and  fuel  would  be  attained  than 
by  any  other  contrivance.  It  was  thus  in  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1765,  that  the  fortunate  thought  occurred  to 
him  of  condensing  the  steam  by  cold  in  a separate  vessel 
or  apparatus,  between  which  and  the  cylinder  a com- 
munication was  to  be  opened  for  that  purpose  every 
time  the  steam  was  to  be  condensed  ; while  the  cylinder 
itself  might  be  preserved  perpetually  hot,  no  cold  water 
or  air  being  ever  admitted  into  its  cavity.  This 
capital  improvement  flashed  on  his  mind  at  once,  and 
filled  him  with  rapture. 

Here  was  the  weak  side  of  nature,  by  the  dis- 
covery of  which  he  vanquished  her.  Dr  Robison, 
also  an  intimate  friend,  assigns  the  discovery  to  the 
year  1764.  Dr  Robison  gives  an  account  of  an  inter- 
view with  Watt  at  this  time:  ‘I  came  into  Mr 
Watt’s  parlour  without  ceremony,  and  found  him 
sitting  before  the  fire,  having  lying  on  his  knee  a 
little  tin  cistern,  which  he  was  looking  at.  I entered 
into  conversation  on  what  we  had  been  speaking  of 
at  last  meeting— something  about  steam.  All  the 
while  Mr  Watt  kept  looking  at  the  fire,  and  laid 
down  the  cistern  at  the  foot  of  his  chair.  At  last  he 
looked  at  me,  and  said  briskly : “ You  need  not  fash 
yourself  any  more  about  that,  man;  I have  now 
made  an  engine  that  shall  not  waste  a particle  of 
steam.  It  shall  all  be  boiling  hot:  ay,  and  hot 
water  injected,  if  you  please.”  So  saying,  Mr  Watt 
looked  with  complacency  at  the  little  thing  at  his 
feet,  and,  seeing  that  I observed  him,  he  shoved  it 
away  under  a table  with  his  foot.  I put  a question 
about  the  nature  of  his  contrivance.  He  answered 
me  rather  drily.  I did  not  press  him  to  a further 
explanation.  * * I found  Mr  Alexander  Brown, 

a very  intimate  acquaintance  of  Mr  Watt’s,  and  he 
immediately  accosted  me  with,  “Well,  have  you 
seen  Jamie  Watt?”  “Ye3.”  “He’ll  be  in  high 
spirits  now  with  his  engine,  isn’t  he  ? ” “ Yes,”  said 

I,  “ very  fine  spirits.”  “ Ay,”  says  Mr  Brown,  “ the 
condenser ’s  the  thing ; keep  it  but  cold  enough,  and 
you  may  have  a perfect  vacuum,  whatever  be  the 
heat  of  the  cylinder.”  The  instant  he  said  this,  the 
whole  flashed  on  my  mind  at  once.’ 

The  first  experiment  was  made  with  a common 
anatomist’s  great  injection  syringe  for  a cylinder, 
but  the  contrivance  was  perfect  in  Mr  Watt’s 
mind,  and  fitted  the  engine  at  once  for  the  greatest 
and  most  powerful,  or  for  the  most  trifling  task. 
Dr  Robison  says  he  is  satisfied  that  when  he  left 
town  a fortnight  before  the  interview  above  quoted, 
Mr  Watt  had  not  thought  of  the  method  of  keeping 
the  cylinder  hot,  and  that  when  he  returned,  he 
had  completed  it,  and  confirmed  it  by  experiment. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  according  to  Mr  Lockhart,  never 
considered  any  amount  of  literary  distinction  as 
entitled  to  be  spoken  of  in  the  same  breath  with 
mastery  in  the  higher  departments  of  practical  life ; 
and  if  ever  a discovery  in  science  was  entitled  to 
this  exalted  position,  it  wras  surely  that  made  by 
James  Watt — an  invention  which  is  estimated  to 
have  added  to  the  available  labour  of  Great  Britain 
alone  a power  equivalent  to  that  of  four  hundred 
millions  of  men,  or  more  than  double  the  number 
of  males  supposed  to  inhabit  the  globe. 

To  reap  the  benefits  of  his  discovery  was  now 
the  great  object  to  which  Watt  directed  himself, 
but  it  was  eight  or  nine  years  before  it  turned  to 
the  advantage  of  the  public  or  to  the  benefit  of  the 
inventor.  For  a time  he  was  associated  with  an 
ingenious  but  unsuccessful  man,  Dr  Roebuck,  and 
neither  profited  much  by  the  connection.  The 
invention  was,  however,  patented  in  January  1769, 
and  Watt  continued  to  experiment  upon  and  to 
perfect  the  mechanism  of  his  ‘ fire-engine.’  He  had 
married  a cousin  of  his  own,  Miss  Miller,  in  July 
1763,  and  had  now  three  children;  ‘ but  unhappily,’ 
says  Mr  Muirhead,  ‘without  receiving  that  triple 
proportion  of  corn  which,  among  the  Romans,  the 
jus  triurn  liber  orum  brought  with  it.  Those  little 
voices,  “ whose  crying  was  a cry  for  gold,”  were  not 
to  be  stilled  by  the  baser  metal  of  a badly  cast 
Carron  cylinder,  or  the  “block-tin  and  hammered 
lead”  of  a Glasgow  condenser.’  We  find  Watt 
writing  thus  : ‘ I am  resolved,  unless  those  things  I 
have  brought  to  some  perfection  reward  me  for  the 
time  and  money  I have  lost  on  them,  if  I can  resist 
it,  to  invent  no  more.  Indeed,  I am  not  near  so 
capable  as  I once  was.  I find  that  I am  not  the  same 
person  I was  four  years  ago,  when  I invented  the 
fire-engine,  and  foresaw,  even  before  I made  a model, 
almost  every  circumstance  that  has  since  occurred.’ 
To  carry  on  the  affairs  of  his  household,  Watt 
undertook  many  occasional  commissions.  He  pro- 
jected a canal  for  carrying  coals  to  Glasgow,  and 
received  £200  a year  for  superintending  its  con- 
struction. His  mind  having  been  turned  to  canals, 
he  struck  out  the  idea  of  the  screw-propeller,  or 
‘ spiral  oar,’  as  he  called  it.  He  made  surveys  for 
various  canals  in  Scotland,  and  among  others,  by 
appointment  of  the  Court  of  Police  of  Glasgow,  the 
Caledonian  Canal,  which  was  afterwards  con- 
structed between  Inverness  and  Fort-William.  Mr 
Telford,  to  whom  this  great  work  was  principally 
intrusted,  throughout  his  lengthened  labours  in 
connection  with  it,  has  borne  testimony  to  the  par- 
ticular correctness  and  value  of  Watt’s  survey. 
The  inventive  genius  of  the  man  was  never  still: 
clocks,  micrometers,  dividing  screws,  surveying 
quadrants,  and  a hundred  other  inventions  flowed 
from  him  with  the  ease  that  a litterateur  dashes  off* 
an  article  for  a magazine.  ‘ You  might  live,’  said 
his  friend  Dr  Small,  ‘ by  inventing  only  an  hour  in 
a week  for  mathematica^instrument-makers.’ 

In  1773,  Mr  Watt  and  Dr  Roebuck  dissolved 
their  connection,  and  then  began  the  partnership 
with  Mr  Boulton  of  the  Soho  Works,  in  Birming- 
ham, which  laid  the  foundation  of  Watt’s  future 
prosperity.  Mr  Boulton  was  possessed  of  ample 
means  to  do  justice  to  the  magnitude  of  Watt’s 
inventions;  and  the  result  was,  that  both  realised 
an  ample  fortune,  and  the  Soho  Works  of  Bir- 
mingham are  still  among  the  great  establishments 
of  that  city.  Watt’s  inventions  continued  to  enrich 
the  world  almost  until  his  death,  at  the  patriarchal 
age  of  eighty-three.  Among  the  most  important 
of  these  not  mentioned  above,  were  the  rotative 
motion  and  parallel  motion,  the  throttle-valve,  the 

717 

from  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


steam-gauge,  the  indicator,  the  governor,  &c. : in  \ 
connection  with  the  steam-engine,  the  copying-  j 
press,  the  steam  tilt-hammer,  a smoke-consumer, 
the  discovery  of  the  composition  of  water,  &c. 
These  are  among  the  works  which  we  owe  to  the  ; 
great  inventor  and  perfecter  of  the  steam-engine,  j 
Lord  Brougham’s  beautiful  epitaph  on  Watt,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  should  never  he  omitted  from 
any  notice  of  his  life  and  character : 

Not  to  perpetuate  a name, 

"Which  must  endure  while  the  peaceful  arts  flourish, 

But  to  shew 

That  Mankind  have  learned  to  honour  those 
Who  best  deserve  their  gratitude, 

The  King, 

TTis  Ministers,  and  many  of  the  Nobles 
And  Commons  of  the  Realm, 

Raised  this  Monument  to 
JAMES  WATT, 

Who,  directing  the  force  of  an  original  genius, 

Early  exercised  in  philosophic  research, 

To  the  improvement  of 
The  Steam-engine, 

Enlarged  the  Resources  of  his  Country, 

Increased  the  Power  of  Man, 

And  rose  to  an  eminent  place 

Among  the  most  Illustrious  Followers  of  Science 
And  the  real  Benefactors  of  the  World. 

Born  at  Greenock,  mdccxxxvi.  ; 

Died  at  Heathfield,  in  Staffordshire,  mdcccxix. 


The  Life  of  George.  Stephenson , by  Samuel  Smiles, 
1857,  is  interesting  on  account  of  the  history  it 
gives  of  the  application  of  locomotives  to  railway 
travelling ; and  it  is  invaluable  as  affording  the 
example  of  a great  principle  triumphing  over  popu- 
lar prejudice,  ignorance,  and  the  strenuous  oppo- 
sition of ‘vested  interests.’  The  railway  engineer 
rose  from  very  small  beginnings.  He  was  the  son 
of  a labourer  in  Northumberland,  fireman  at  the 
pumping-engine  of  the  colliery  at  Wvlam,  near 
Newcastle.  George  was  born  in  1781.  While  a 
child  he  ran  errands,  herded  cows,  and  performed 
field-labour  until,  in  his  fourteenth  year,  he  was 
promoted  to  be  assistant  to  his  father  at  the  rate 
of  one  shilling  a day.  He  could  not  read,  but 
he  imitated  everything.  He  mended  clocks  and 
watches,  made  shoes,  and  otherwise  displayed  such 
ingenuity,  that  he  was  appointed  engine- wright  at 
Killingworth  Colliery  at  a salary  of  £100  a year. 
Here  he  inspired  such  confidence  in  his  sagacity 
and  skill,  that,  on  application,  he  at  once  obtained 
permission  from  Lord  Ravensworth,  the  proprietor, 
to  incur  the  outlay  for  constructing  what  he  called 
a ‘travelling  engine’  for  the  tram-roads  between 
the  colliery  and  the  shipping-port  nine  miles  off. 
With  the  imperfect  tools  and  unskilled  workmen 
at  Killingworth,  Stephenson  constructed  his  first 
locomotive.  He  called  it  ‘My  Lord,’  and  at  its 
first  trial,  on  an  ascending  gradient  of  1 in  450, 
the  engine  drew  eight  loaded  carriages,  of  about 
thirty  tons’  weight,  at  the  rate  of  four  miles  an 
hour.  This  was  on  the  25th  of  July  1814.  It  was 
not  until  1830  that  the  public  fully  recognised  the 
practicability  of  driving  locomotives  on  smooth 
rails ; and  it  was  then  recognised,  because  the  fact 
could  no  longer  be  denied.  Stephenson  convinced 
himself  of  the  two  great  principles — that  friction  is 
a constant  quantity  at  all  velocities,  and  that  iron 
is  capable  of  adhesion  upon  iron  without  roughness 
of  surface.  He  therefore  discarded  cog-wheels  on 
rails  and  the  idea  of  running  locomotives  on  com- 
mon roads,  and  laboured  to  adapt  the  locomotive 
and  the  rails  to  the  wants  of  each  other,  so  that,  as 
71S 


I 


he  said  himself,  they  might  be  like  ‘ man  and  wife.’ 
His  success  led  to  his  appointment  as  engineer  of 
the  Stockton  and  Darlington  Railway,  a line  pro- 
jected in  order  to  find  an  outlet  and  new  markets 
for  the  Bishop  Auckland  coals.  Here  he  succeeded 
in  establishing  the  first  railway  over  which  passen- 
gers and  goods  were  carried  by  a locomotive.  The 
opening  trial  took  place  27th  September  1827,  and 
a local  chronicler  thus  records  the  event: 

[ Starting  the  First  Railway  Locomotive .] 

The  signal  being  given,  the  engine  started  off  with 
this  immense  train  of  carriages ; and  such  was  its 
velocity,  that  in  some  parts  the  speed  was  frequently 
twelve  miles  an  hour ; and  at  that  time  the  number 
of  passengers  was  counted  to  be  450,  which,  together 
with  the  coal,  merchandise,  and  carriages,  would  amount 
to  near  ninety  tons.  The  engine  with  its  load  arrived 
at  Darlington,  a distance  of  8f  miles,  in  sixty-five 
minutes.  The  six  wagons,  loaded  with  coal  intended 
for  Darlington,  were  then  left  behind,  and  obtaining 
a fresh  supply  of  water,  and  arranging  the  procession 
to  accommodate  a band  of  music  and  numerous  pas- 
sengers from  Darlington,  the  engine  set  off  again,  and 
arrived  at  Stockton  in  three  hours  and  seven  minutes, 
including  stoppages,  the  distance  being  nearly  twelve 
miles.  By  the  time  the  train  reached  Stockton  there 
were  about  600  persons  in  the  train  or  hanging  on  to 
the  wagons,  which  must  have  gone  at  a safe  and  steady 
pace  of  from  four  to  six  miles  an  hour  from  Darlington. 
‘ The  arrival  at  Stockton,’  it  is  added,  ‘excited  a deep 
interest  and  admiration.’ 

A more  important  field  was,  however,  necessary, 
in  order  to  attract  public  attention,  and  to  test  the 
inherent  soundness  of  the  principle  propounded  by 
Mr  Stephenson.  This  was  found  in  Liverpool  and 
Manchester.  ’ The  means  of  transporting  goods 
between  these  great  cities  had  not  kept  pace  with 
the  development  of  the  traffic.  Cotton,  as  Mr 
Huskisson  observed  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
was  detained  a fortnight  at  Liverpool,  while  the 
Manchester  manufacturers  were  obliged  to  suspend 
their  labours ; and  goods  manufactured  at  Manches- 
ter for  foreign  markets  could  not  be  transmitted  in 
time,  in  consequence  of  the  tardy  conveyance.  In 
nine  years,  the  quantity  of  raw  cotton  alone  sent 
from  the  one  town  to  the  other  had  increased  by 
fifty  millions  pounds’  weight. 

A public  meeting  was  held  at  Liverpool,  and  it 
was  resolved  to  construct  a tram-road,  an  idea  which, 
under  George  Stephenson,  was  ultimately  extended 
to  a railway  suitable  for  either  fixed  or  locomotive 
engines.  At  this  time  the  Bridgewater  Canal  was 
yielding  a return  of  the  whole  original  investment 
about  once  in  two  years.  The  opposition  of  the 
proprietors  was  therefore  natural  enough,  but  the 
scheme  was  opposed  on  all  sides.  In  making  the 
survey,  Stephenson  was  refused  access  to  the  ground 
at  one  point,  turned  off  by  the  gamekeepers  at 
another,  and  on  one  occasion,  when  a clergyman 
was  violently  hostile,  he  had  to  slip  in  and  make 
his  survey  while  divine  service  was  going  on.  The 
survey  was  made,  however,  in  spite  of  all  opposition. 
The  next  difficulty  was  to  get  leave  to  make  the 
line.  A shower  of  pamphlets  warned  the  public 
against  the  locomotive:  it  would  keep  cows  from 
grazing,  and  hens  from  laying;  the  air  would  be 
poisoned,  and  birds  fall  dead  as  it  passed;  the 
preservation  of  pheasants  and  foxes  would  be 
impossible;  householders  would  be  ruined,  horses 
become  extinct,  and  oats  unsaleable  ; country 
inns  would  be  ruined ; travelling  rendered  dan- 
gerous, for  boilers  would  burst,  and  passengers 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  SMILES. 


be  blown  to  atoms.  But  there  was  always  this 
consolation  to  wind  up  with — the  weight  of  the 
locomotive  would  prevent  its  moving,  and  rail- 
ways could  never  be  worked  by  steam-power. 
The  bill  for  the  Liverpool  and  Manchester  Railway 
at  length  came  before  a committee  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  Privately,  Mr  Stephenson  talked  of 
driving  twenty  miles  an  hour ; but  the  counsel 
warned  him  of  such  folly,  and  in  evidence  he 
restricted  himself  to  ten  miles  an  hour.  ‘But 
assuming  this  speed,’  said  a member  of  the  com- 
mittee, ‘ suppose  that  a cow  were  to  stray  upon  the 
line  and  get  in  the  way  of  the  engine;  would  not 
that,  think  you,  be  a very  awkward  circumstance?’ 
‘ Yes,’  replied  the  witness,  with  his  strong  Northum- 
berland burr,  and  a merry  twinkle  in  his  eye — ‘yes, 
verry  awkward  indeed  for  the  coo  ! ’ 

Mr  Stephenson — ‘ that  unprofessional  person,’  as 
one  of  the  engineers  of  the  day  called  him — failed  to 
convince  the  committee,  and  the  bill  was  lost.  ‘We 
must  persevere,  sir,’  was  his  invariable  reply,  when 
friends  hinted  that  he  might  be  wrong ; and  a second 
bill  was  brought  in,  which,  as  the  new  line  carefully 
avoided  the  lands  of  a few  short-sighted  opponents, 
passed  the  House  of  Commons  by  88  to  41,  and  the 
House  of  Lords  with  the  opposition  of  only  Lord 
Derby  and  Lord  Wilton.  The  railway  Avas  com- 
menced ; and  though  told  by  the  first  engineers  of 
the  day  that  no  man  in  his  senses  would  attempt 
to  carry  it  through  Chat  Moss,  Mr  Stephenson 
did  so,  at  a cost  not  of  £270,000,  but  of  only 
£28,000,  and  he  completed  the  line  in  a substan- 
tial and  business-like  maimer.  But  the  adoption 
of  the  locomotive  was  still  an  open  question,  and 
he  stood  alone  among  the  engineers  of  the  day. 
The  most  advanced  professional  men  concurred  in 
recommending  fixed  engines.  ‘We  must  persevere, 
sir,’  was  still  George’s  motto.  He  persuaded  the 
directors  to  give  the  locomotive  a trial,  and  he  made 
an  engine  for  the  purpose.  The  trial  came  on,  6th 
October  1829.  The  engine  started  on  its  journey, 
dragging  after  it  about  thirteen  tons’  weight  in 
wagons,  and  made  the  first  ten  trips  backwards 
and  forwards  along  the  tAvo  miles  of  road,  run- 
ning the  thirty-five  miles,  including  stoppages, 
in  an  hour  and  forty-eight  minutes.  The  second 
ten  trips  were  in  like  manner  performed  in  two 
hours  and  three  minutes.  The  maximum  velocity 
attained  by  the  ‘Rocket’  during  the  trial-trip  was 
tAventy-nine  miles  an  hour,  or  about  three  times 
the  speed  that  one  of  the  judges  of  the  competition 
had  declared  to  be  the  limit  of  possibility.  ‘Now,’ 
cried  one  of  the  directors,  lifting  up  his  hands — 
‘ now  is  George  Stephenson  at  last  delivered.’  This 
decided  the  question  ; locomotives  were  imme- 
diately constructed  and  put  upon  the  line ; and  the 
public  opening  of  the  work  took  place  on  the  15th 
September  1830. 


[ Opening  of  the  Liverpool  and  Manchester  Railway .] 

The  completion  of  the  work  was  justly  regarded  as  a 
great  national  event,  and  was  celebrated  accordingly. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington,  then  prime-minister,  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  secretary  of  state,  Mr  Huskisson,  one  of 
the  members  for  Liverpool,  and  an  earnest  supporter 
of  the  project  from  its  commencement,  were  present, 
together  with  a large  number  of  distinguished  person- 
ages. The  ‘ Northumbrian  ’ engine  took  the  lead  of  the 
procession,  and  was  followed  by  the  other  locomotives 
and  their  trains,  which  accommodated  about  six  hundred 
persons.  Many  thousands  of  spectators  cheered  them 
on  their  way — through  the  deep  ravine  of  Olive  Mount ; 
up  the  Sutton  incline ; over  the  Sankey  viaduct,  beneath 


which  a multitude  of  persons  had  assembled — carriages 
filling  the  narrow  lanes,  and  barges  crowding  the  river. 
The  people  gazed  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  the 
trains  which  sped  along  the  line,  far  above  their  heads, 
at  the  rate  of  twenty-four  miles  an  hour.  At  Parkside, 
seventeen  miles  from  Liverpool,  the  engines  stopped  to 
take  in  water.  Here  a deplorable  accident  occurred  to 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  illustrious  visitors 
present,  which  threw  a deep  shadow  over  the  subsequent 
proceedings  of  the  day.  The  ‘Northumbrian’  engine, 
Avith  the  carriage  containing  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
was  drawn  up  on  one  line,  in  order  that  the  whole  of 
the  trains  might  pass  in  review  before  him  and  his 
party  on  the  other.  Mr  Huskisson  had,  unhappily, 
alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  was  standing  on  the 
opposite  road,  along  which  the  ‘Rocket’  engine  was 
observed  rapidly  coming  up.  At  this  moment  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  between  whom  and  Mr  Huskisson 
some  coolness  had  existed,  made  a sign  of  recognition, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  A hurried  but  friendly  grasp 
was  given ; and  before  it  was  loosened,  there  was  a 
general  cry  from  the  bystanders  of  ‘Get  in,  get  in  ! ’ 
Flurried  and  confused,  Mr  Huskisson  endeavoured  to 
get  round  the  open  door  of  the  carriage  which  projected 
over  the  opposite  rail,  but  in  so  doing  he  was  struck 
down  by  the  ‘ Rocket,’  and  falling  with  his  leg  doubled 
across  the  rail,  the  limb  was  instantly  crushed.  His 
first  words,  on  being  raised,  were,  ‘ I have  met  my 
death,’  which  unhappily  proved  too  true,  for  he  expired 
that  same  evening  in  the  neighbouring  parsonage  of 
Eccles.  It  was  cited  at  the  time,  as  a remarkable  fact, 
that  the  ‘Northumbrian’  engine  conveyed  the  wounded 
body  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman  a distance  of  about 
fifteen  miles  in  twenty-five  minutes,  or  at  the  rate  of 
thirty-six  miles  an  hour.  This  incredible  speed  burst 
upon  the  world  with  all  the  effect  of  a new  and 
unlooked-for  phenomenon. 

The  fortune  of  George  Stephenson  was  noAv  made. 
He  became  a great  man.  He  was  offered,  but 
refused,  a knighthood,  and  his  latter  days  were 
spent  as  those  of  a country  gentleman.  He  died  in 
1848,  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven. 

[ George  Stephenson  at  Sir  Robert  PeeVs  seat  of  Drayton .] 

Though  mainly  an  engineer,  he  was  also  a daring 
thinker  on  many  scientific  questions ; and  there  was 
scarcely  a subject  of  speculation,  or  a department  of 
recondite  science,  on  which  he  had  not  employed  his 
faculties  in  such  a way  as  to  have  formed  large  and 
original  views.  At  Drayton  the  conversation  often 
turned  upon  such  topics,  and  Mr  Stephenson  freely 
joined  in  it.  On  one  occasion,  an  animated  discussion 
took  place  between  himself  and  Dr  Buckland  on  one  of 
his  favourite  theories  as  to  the  formation  of  coal.  But 
the  result  was,  that  Dr  Buckland,  a much  greater  master 
of  tongue-fence  than  Stephenson,  completely  silenced 
him.  Next  morning  before  breakfast,  when  he  was 
walking  in  the  grounds  deeply  pondering,  Sir  William 
Follett  came  up  and  asked  what  he  was  thinking  about? 
‘Why,  Sir  William,  I am  thinking  over  that  argument 
I had  with  Buckland  last  night.  I know  I am  right, 
and  that  if  I had  only  the  command  of  words  which  he 
has,  I ’d  have  beaten  him.’  ‘ Let  me  knoAv  all  about  it,* 
said  Sir  William,  ‘ and  I ’ll  see  what  I can  do  for  you/ 
The  two  sat  down  in  an  arbour,  where  the  astute  lawyer 
made  himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  points  of 
the  case ; entering  into  it  with  all  the  zeal  of  an  advo- 
cate about  to  plead  the  dearest  interests  of  his  client. 
After  he  had  mastered  the  subject,  Sir  William  rose  up, 
rubbing  his  hands  with  glee,  and  said : ‘ Now  I am 
ready  for  him.’  Sir  Robert  Peel  was  made  acquainted 
Avith  the  plot,  and  adroitly  introduced  the  subject  of 
the  controversy  after  dinner.  The  result  was,  that  in 
the  argument  which  followed,  the  man  of  science  was 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


overcome  by  the  man  of  law ; and  Sir  William  Follett  had 
at  all  points  the  mastery  over  Dr  Buckland.  ‘ What  do 
you  say,  Mr  Stephenson?’  asked  Sir  Robert,  laughing. 
* Why,’  said  he,  ‘ I will  only  say  this,  that  of  all  the 
powers  above  and  under  the  earth,  there  seems  to  me  to 
be  no  power  so  great  as  the  gift  of  the  gab.’  One  day 
at  dinner,  duriug  the  same  visit,  a scientific  lady  asked 
him  the  question,  ‘ Mr  Stephenson,  what  do  you  consider 
the  most  powerful  force  in  nature?’  ‘Oh!’  said  he,  in 
a gallant  spirit,  ‘ I will  soon  answer  that  question  : it  is 
the  eye  of  a woman  for  the  man  who  loves  her ; for  if  a 
woman  look  with  affection  on  a young  man,  and  he 
should  go  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  the  recol- 
lection of  that  look  will  bring  him  back ; there  is  no 
other  force  in  nature  that  could  do  that.’  One  Sunday, 
when  the  party  had  just  returned  from  church,  they 
were  standing  together  on  the  terrace  near  the  hall,  and 
observed  in  the  distance  a railway  train  flashing  along, 
throwing  behind  it  a long  line  of  white  steam.  ‘ Now, 
Buckland,’  said  Mr  Stephenson,  ‘ I have  a poser  for  you. 
Can  you  tell  me  what  is  the  power  that  is  driving  that 
train?’  ‘Well,’  ^aid  the  other,  ‘I  suppose  it  is  one  of 
your  big  engines.’  ‘But  what  drives  the  engine?’  ‘ Oh, 
very  likely  a canny  Newcastle  driver.’  ‘ What  do  you 
say  to  the  light  of  the  sun?’  ‘How  can  that  be?’ 
asked  the  doctor.  ‘ It  is  nothing  else,’  said  the  engineer ; 
‘ it  is  light  bottled  up  in  the  earth  for  tens  of  thousands 
of  years — light,  absorbed  by  plants  and  vegetables,  being 
necessary  for  the  condensation  of  carbon  during  the 
process  of  their  growth,  if  it  be  not  carbon  in  another 
form — and  now,  after  being  buried  in  the  earth  for  long 
ages  in  fields  of  coal,  that  latent  light  is  again  brought 
forth  and  liberated,  made  to  work,  as  in  that  locomotive, 
for  great  human  purposes.’  The  idea  was  certainly  a 
most  striking  and  original  one : like  a flash  of  light, 
it  illuminated  in  an  instant  an  entire  field  of  science. 

Mr  Robert  Stephenson,  son  of  Mr  George 
Stephenson  (born  in  1803,  and  educated  partly  at 
the  University  of  Edinburgh),  has  laboured  success- 
fully to  bring  the  railway  locomotive  to  its  present 
perfection.  To  his  genius  and  perseverance,  aided 
by  the  practical  knowledge  of  Mr  Fairbairn,  Man- 
chester, we  also  owe  the  principle  of  the  tubular 
bridge,  characterised  by  Professor  Forbes  as  ‘ the 
greatest  discovery  in  construction  in  our  day.’  At 
the  Menai  Strait,  two  spaces  of  460  feet  in  width 
are  spanned  by  these  iron  tubes.  Telford’s  sus- 
pension Menai  Bridge — the  noblest  work  of  the  kind 
in  the  kingdom— spans  a space  of  580  feet. 

Other  valuable  scientific  biographies  may  be  here 
noticed.  The  Life  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy , by  his 
brother,  Dr  John  Davy,  has  already  been  men- 
tioned. It  accompanies  an  edition  of  Sir  Humphry’s 
works,  nine  volumes,  1839-40 ; and  an  edition  has 
recently  (1858)  been  made  to  the  memoir  by  Dr 
Davy,  in  a volume  of  Fragmentary  Remains , Literary 
and  Scientific , with  a new  sketch  of  the  life  and 
selections  from  the  correspondence  of  Sir  Humphry. 
This  work  shews  us  a little  more  of  the  interior  life 
of  the  great,  chemist,  but  is  unsatisfactory.  The 
Life  of  Cavendish , by  Dr  George  Wilson,  forms 
part  of  the  series  of  publications  of  the  Cavendish 
Society.  The  Hon.  Henry  Cavendish  (1731-1810) 
made  important  researches  in  chemistry  and  elec- 
tricity. ‘ To  him  we  are  mainly  or  entirely  indebted 
for  the  knowledge  of  hydrogen  as  a distinct  elastic 
fluid  or  gas ; of  the  exact  constitution  of  the 
atmosphere,  and  the  wonderful  constancy  of  its 
ingredients ; of  the  composition  of  nitric  acid ; and, 
finally,  according  to  the  opinion  of  most  persons — at 
least  till  lately — of  the  non-elementary  nature  of 
water  and  of  its  precise  ingredients.’ — (. Forbes .) 
Cavendish  was  a solitary,  incommunicative  man, 
shunning  society,  eschewing  all  the  luxuries  that 
720 


his  wealth  and  rank  could  have  commanded — ‘ a 
wonderful  piece  of  intellectual  clock-work,’  says  Dr 
Wilson ; ‘ and  as  he  lived  by  rule,  he  died  by  it, 
predicting  his  death  as  if  it  had  been  the  eclipse  of 
some  great  luminary,  and  counting  the  very  moment 
when  the  shadow  of  the  unseen  world  should 
enshroud  him  in  its  darkness.’  Dr  Wilson,  the 
biographer  of  Cavendish,  has  written  treatises  on 
chemistry  and  electricity,  colour  blindness,  &c. 
He  is  a native  of  Edinburgh  (born  in  1818),  and  has 
been  very  successful  as  a chemical  lecturer.  A Life 
of  Dr  John  Dalton,  by  Dr  Henry,  is  another  of  the 
valuable  publications  of  the  Cavendish  Society. 
Dalton  (1766-1844)  is  the  chief  author  of  the  theory 
of  chemical  equivalents,  or  the  atomic  theory — as 
he  preferred  to  call  it— and  of  many  important 
researches  on  the  constitution  of  elastic  fluids. 
‘ Poor,  and  hardly  winning  a well-earned  subsistence 
by  private  tuition,  from  the  time  he  was  himself  a 
child  until  near  the  close  of  his  long  career — with 
a few  friends,  a scanty  education,  and  a scantier 
library — attaining,  through  his  unaided  and  almost 
unheeded  efforts,  and  by  means  of  an  apparatus 
constructed  entirely  by  himself,  a position  in  the 
world  of  science  unquestionably  not  second  to  that 
of  either  of  his  more  highly  favoured  contemporaries, 
Black  or  Cavendish.’ — (Forbes.)  A Life  of  Dr 
Black,  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  University  of 
Edinburgh  (1728-1799),  forms  one  of  the  best  of 
Lord  Brougham’s  short  scientific  memoirs.  His 
chemical  discoveries  are  those  of  latent  and  specific 
heat,  the  former  of  which  was  so  successfully 
applied  by  Watt  in  his  improvement  of  the 
steam-engine. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

The  writings  of  Mr  Carlyle  are  so  various,  that 
he  challenges  attention  as  biographer,  translator, 
critic,  moralist,  and  political  satirist.  His  greatest 


Thomas  Carlyle. 


and  most  splendid  successes,  however,  have  been 
won  in  his  capacity  of  biographer.  Indeed,  the 
chief  interest  and  charm  of  his  historical  works 
and  essays  consist  in  the  individual  portraits  they 
contain  and  the  strong  personal  sympathies  or 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


I 


antipathies  they  awaken.  He  has  a clear  and 
penetrating  insight  into  human  nature;  he  notes 
every  fact  and  circumstance  that  can  elucidate 
character,  and  having  selected  his  subject,  he  works 
with  passionate  earnestness  till  he  reproduces  the 
individual  or  scene  before  the  reader,  exact  in  out- 
line according  to  his  preconceived  notion,  and  with 
marvellous  force  and  vividness  of  colouring.  Even 
as  a landscape-painter — a character  he  by  no  means 
affects — Mr  Carlyle  has  rarely  been  surpassed.  A 
Scotch  shipping  town,  an  English  fen,  or  a Welsh 
valley,  is  depicted  by  him  in  a few  words  with  the 
distinctness  and  reality  of  a photograph. 

Mr  Carlyle  is  a native  of  the  south  of  Scotland — 
born  December  4,  1795,  in  the  parish  of  Middlebie, 
Dumfriesshire,  where  also  Dr  Currie,  the  biographer 
of  Burns,  was  born.  His  father,  a farmer,  is  spoken 
of  as  a man  of  great  moral  worth  and  sagacity; 
his  mother  as  affectionate,  pious,  and  more  than 
ordinarily  intelligent ; and  thus,  accepting  his  own 
theory  that  ‘ the  history  of  a man’s  childhood  is 
the  description  of  his  parents  and  environment,’ 
Mr  Carlyle  entered  upon  ‘ the  mystery  of  life  ’ 
under  happy  and  enviable  circumstances.  As  a 
school-boy,  he  became  acquainted  with  Edward 
Irving,  the  once  celebrated  preacher,  whom  he  has 
commemorated  as  a man  of  the  noblest  nature.* 
From  Annan,  Carlyle  went  to  Edinburgh,  and 
studied  at  the  university  for  the  church ; but  before 
he  had  completed  his  academical  course,  his  views 
changed.  He  had  excelled  in  mathematics,  and  he 
accepted  a situation  as  mathematical  teacher  in  a 
school  in  Fifeshire.  Two  or  three  years  were  spent 
in  this  way , and  afterwards,  for  a shorter  period, 
Mr  Carlyle  officiated  as  tutor  to  the  late  Mr  Charles 
Buller,  Avhose  honourable  public  career  was  prema- 
turely terminated  by  his  death,  in  his  forty-second 
year,  in  1 848.  ‘ His  light  airy  brilliancy,’  said 

Carlyle,  ‘ has  suddenly  become  solemn,  fixed  in  the 
earnest  stillness  of  eternity.’ 

Mr  Carlyle’s  first  appearance  as  an  author  was 
made,  we  believe,  in  the  London  Magazine , in  1 823, 
when  he  contributed  to  that  periodical,  in  monthly 
portions,  his  Life  of  Schiller , which  he  enlarged  and 
published  in  a separate  form  in  1825.  Previous  to 
this  he  had  written  some  short  biographies  and 
other  articles  for  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia , 


conducted  by  Sir  David  Brewster,  and  translated 
Goethe’s  Wilhelm  Meister.  Mr  Carlyle’s  translation 
appeared  in  1824,  but  without  his  name.  Its  merits 
were  too  palpable  to  be  overlooked,  though  some 
critics  objected  to  the  strong  infusion  of  German 
phraseology  which  the  translator  had  imported  into 
his  English  version.  This  never  left  Mr  Carlyle 
even  in  his  original  works;  but  the  IJfe  of  Schiller 
has  none  of  the  peculiarity.  How  finely,  for 
example,  does  the  biographer  expatiate  on  that 
literary  life  which  he  had  now  fairly  adopted : 


[Men  of  Genius.] 

Among  these  men  are  to  be  found  the  brightest  speci- 
mens and  the  chief  benefactors  of  mankind.  It  is  they 
that  keep  awake  the  finer  parts  of  our  souls ; that  give 
us  better  aims  than  power  or  pleasure,  and  withstand 
the  total  sovereignty  of  Mammon  in  this  earth.  They 
are  the  vanguard  in  the  march  of  mind  ; the  intellectual 
backwoodsmen,  reclaiming  from  the  idle  wilderness  new 
territories  for  the  thought  and  the  activity  of  their  hap- 
pier brethren.  Pity  that,  from  all  their  conquests,  so 
rich  in  benefit  to  others,  themselves  should  reap  so  little  ! 
But  it  is  vain  to  murmur.  They  are  volunteers  in  this 
cause ; they  weighed  the  charms  of  it  against  the  perils ; 
and  they  must  abide  the  results  of  their  decision,  as  all 
must.  The  hardships  of  the  course  they  follow  are 
formidable,  but  not  all  inevitable ; and  to  such  as  pur- 
sue it  rightly,  it  is  not  without  its  great  rewards.  If 
an  author’s  life  is  more  agitated  and  more  painful  than 
that  of  others,  it  may  also  be  made  more  spirit-stirring 
and  exalted  : fortune  may  render  him  unhappy,  it  is 
only  himself  that  can  make  him  despicable.  The  history 
of  genius  has,  in  fact,  its  bright  side  as  well  as  its  dark. 
And  if  it  is  distressing  to  survey  the  misery,  and  what 
is  worse,  the  debasement,  of  so  many  gifted  men,  it  is 
doubly  cheering,  on  the  other  hand,  to  reflect  on  the  few 
who,  amid  the  temptations  and  sorrows  to  which  life  in 
all  its  provinces,  and  most  in  theirs,  is  liable,  have 
travelled  through  it  in  calm  and  virtuous  majesty,  and 
are  now  hallowed  in  our  memories  not  less  for  their  con- 
duct than  their  writings.  Such  men  are  the  flower  of 
this  lower  world  : to  such  alone  can  the  epithet  of  great 
be  applied  with  its  true  emphasis.  There  is  a congruity 
in  their  proceedings  which  one  loves  to  contemplate  : he 
who  would  write  heroic  poems,  should  make  his  whole 
life  a heroic  poem. 


* * The  first  time  I saw  Irving  was  six-and-twenty  years 
ago  [1809],  in  his  native  town,  Annan.  He  was  fresh  from 
Edinburgh,  with  college  prizes,  high  character,  and  promise  : 
he  had  come  to  see  our  schoolmaster,  who  had  also  been  his. 
We  heard  of  famed  professors,  of  high  matters  classical, 
mathematical— a whole  wonderland  of  knowledge  : nothing 
but  joy,  health,  hopefulness  without  end  looked  out  from  the 
blooming  young  man.  The  last  time  I saw  him  was  three 
months  ago,  in  London.  Friendliness  still  beamed  in  his  eyes, 
but  now  from  amid  unquiet  fire  ; his  face  was  flaccid,  wasted, 
unsound;  hoary  as  with  extreme  age  : he  was  trembling  over 
the  brink  of  the  grave.  Adieu,  thou  first  friend— adieu  while 
this  confused  twilight  of  existence  lasts ! Might  we  meet 
where  twilight  has  become  day  V— Carlyle’s  Miscell.,  v.  6. 
Mr  Irving,  as  minister  of  the  Scottish  church  in  London, 
was  highly  popular.  He  sat  at  the  feet  of  Coleridge,  as  was 
said,  and  imbibed  his  transcendental  philosophy.  At  length 
he  lapsed  into  doctrinpl  errors,  according  to  the  standards  of 
the  church— believed  in  the  miraculous  gift  of  tongues— the 
reappearance  of  the  day  of  Pentecost— and  was  deposed  from 
the  ministry  in  1833.  He  died  the  following  year,  aged  forty- 
three.  Irving  was  author  of  several  discourses  on  the 
prophecies,  two  volumes  of  Sermons,  and  Four  Orations  on 
tne  judgment  to  come.  Coleridge  said  of  theso  writings  of 
Irving : ‘ Sometimes  he  has  five  or  six  pages  together  of  the 
purest  eloquence,  and  then  an  outbreak  of  almost  madman’s 
gabble.’  The  whole  seem  to  have  fallen  completely  out 
of  view. 

98 


In  1825,  marriage  lessened  the  anxieties  attendant 
on  a literary  life,  while  it  added  permanently  to  Mr 
Carlyle’s  happiness.  He  now  removed  to  a small 
estate  he  had  acquired  in  his  native  county,  which 
he  has  described  in  a letter  addressed  to  Goethe. 


[Picture  of  a Retired , Happy  Literary  Life.] 

Cbaigenputtoch,  25 th  September  1828. 

You  inquire  with  such  warm  interest  respecting  our 
present  abode  and  occupations,  that  I am  obliged  to  say 
a few  words  about  both,  while  there  is  still  room  left. 
Dumfries  is  a pleasant  town,  containing  about  fifteen 
thousand  inhabitants,  and  to  be  considered  the  centre  of 
the  trade  and  judicial  system  of  a district  which  pos- 
sesses some  importance  in  the  sphere  of  Scottish  activity. 
Our  residence  is  not  in  the  town  itself,  but  fifteen  miles 
to  the  north-west  of  it,  among  the  granite  hills  and  the 
black  morasses  which  stretch  westward  through  Gallo- 
way, almost  to  the  Irish  Sea.  In  this  wilderness  of 
heath  and  rock,  our  estate  stands  forth  a green  oasis,  a 
tract  of  ploughed,  partly  enclosed  and  planted  ground, 
where  corn  ripens,  and  trees  afford  a shade,  although 
surrounded  by  sea-mews  and  rough  woolled  sheep. 
Here,  with  no  small  effort,  have  we  built  and  furnished 
a neat,  substantial  dwelling ; here,  in  the  absence  of  a 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


professional  or  other  office,  we  live  to  cultivate  literature 
according  to  our  strength,  and  in  our  own  peculiar  way. 
We  wish  a joyful  growth  to  the  rose  and  flowers  of  our  ! 
garden ; we  hope  for  health  and  peaceful  thoughts  to  j 
further  our  aims.  The  roses,  indeed,  are  still  in  part  to 
be  planted,  hut  they  blossom  already  in  anticipation. 
Two  ponies,  which  carry  us  everywhere,  and  the  moun- 
tain air,  are  the  best  medicines  for  weak  nerves.  This 
daily  exercise,  to  which  I am  much  devoted,  is  my  only 
recreation ; for  this  nook  of  ours  is  the  loneliest  in 
Britain — six  miles  removed  from  any  one  likely  to  visit 
me.  Here  Rousseau  would  have  been  as  happy  as  on  his. 
island  of  St  Pierre.  My  town  friends,  indeed,  ascribe 
my  sojourn  here  to  a similar  disposition,  and  forebode  me 
no  good  result.  But  I came  hither  solely  with  the 
design  to  simplify  my  way  of  life,  and  to  secure  the 
independence  through  which  I could  be  enabled  to 
remain  true  to  myself.  This  bit  of  earth  is  our  own: 
here  we  can  live,  write,  and  think,  as  best  pleases  our- 
selves, even  though  Zoilus  himself  were  to  be  crowned 
the  monarch  of  literature.  Nor  is  the  solitude  of  such 
great  importance : for  a stage-coach  takes  us  speedily  to 
Edinburgh,  which  we  look  upon  as  our  British  Weimar. 
And  have  I not,  too,  at  this  moment,  piled  upon  the 
table  of  my  little  library,  a whole  cart-load  of  French, 
German,  American,  and  English  journals  and  period- 
icals— whatever  may  be  their  worth?  Of  antiquarian 
studies,  too,  there  is  no  lack.  From  some  of  our  heights 
I can  descry,  about  a day’s  journey  to  the  west,  the  hill 
where  Agricola  and  his  Romans  left  a camp  behind  them. 
At  the  foot  of  it  I was  born,  and  there  both  father  and 
mother  still  live  to  love  me.  And  so  one  must  let  time 
work.  But  whither  am  I wandering?  Let  me  confess 
to  you,  I am  uncertain  about  my  future  literary  activity, 
and  would  gladly  learn  your  opinion  respecting  it;  at 
least  pray  write  to  me  again,  and  speedily,  that  I may 
ever  feel  myself  united  to  you.  * * The  only  piece  of 
any  importance  that  I have  written  since  I came  here, 
is  an  Essay  on  Bums.  Perhaps  you  never  heard  of 
him,  and  yet  he  is  a man  of  the  most  decided  genius ; 
but  born  in  the  lowest  rank  of  peasant  life,  and  through 
the  entanglements  of  his  peculiar  position,  was  at  length 
mournfully  wrecked,  so  that  what  he  effected  is  com- 
paratively unimportant.  He  died  in  the  middle  of  his 
career,  in  the  year  1796.  We  English,  especially  we 
Scotch,  love  Burns  more  than  any  poet  that  lived  for 
centuries.  I have  often  been  struck  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  bom  a few  months  before  Schiller,  in  the  year  1759, 
and  that  neither  of  them  ever  heard  the  other’s  name. 
They  shone  like  stars  in  opposite  hemispheres,  or,  if  you 
will,  the  thick  mist  of  earth  intercepted  their  reciprocal 
light. 

In  this  country  residence  Mr  Carlyle  wrote 
papers  for  the  Foreign  Review , and  his  Sartor 
Resartus,  which,  after  being  rejected  by  several 
publishers,  appeared  in  Fraser’s  Magazine , 1833-34. 
The  book  might  well  have  puzzled  the  ‘book- 
tasters’  who  decide  for  publishers  on  works  sub- 
mitted to  them  in  manuscript.  Sartor  professes  to 
be  a review  of  a German  treatise  on  dress,  and  the 
hero,  Diogenes  Teufelsdrockh,  is  made  to  illustrate 
by  his  life  and  character  the  transcendental  phil- 
osophy of  Fichte,  adopted  by  Mr  Carlyle,  which  is 
thus  explained : ‘ That  all  things  which  we  6ee  or 
work  with  in  this  earth,  especially  we  ourselves  and 
all  persons,  are  as  a kind  of  vesture  or  sensuous 
appearance : that  under  all  these  lies,  as  the  essence 
of  them,  what  he  calls  the  “Divine  Idea  of  the 
World ; ” this  is  the  reality  which  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  all  appearance.  To  the  mass  of  men  no  such 
divine  idea  is  recognisable  in  the  world ; they  live 
merely,  says  Fichte,  among  the  superficialities, 
practicalities,  and  shows  of  the  world,  not  dreaming 
that  there  is  anything  divine  under  them.’ — ( Hero 
722 


I Worship.)  Mr  Carlyle  works  out  this  theory — the 
clothes  philosophy — and  finds  the  world  false  and 
I hollow,  our  institutions  mere  worn-out  rags  or 
J disguises,  and  that  our  only  safety  lies  in  flying 
from  falsehood  to  truth,  and  becoming  in  harmony 
with  the  ‘divine  idea,’  There  is  much  fanciful, 
grotesque  description  in  Sartor , but  also  deep 
thought  and  beautiful  imagery.  The  hearty  love 
of  truth  seems  to  constitute  the  germ  of  Mr 
Carlyle’s  philosophy,  as  Milton  said  it  was  the 
foundation  of  eloquence.  Sartor,  however,  found 
comparatively  few  admirers.  Its  author  appears 
to  have  removed  to  London  before  1837,  as  in  that 
year  he  delivered  lectures  on  German  literature  in 
Willis’s  Rooms,  and  in  the  following  year  another 
course  in  Edward  Street,  Portman  Square,  on  the 
History  of  Literature , or  the  Successive  Periods  of 
European  Culture.  Two  other  courses  of  lectures 
—one  on  the  Revolutions  of  Modern  Europe,  1839, 
and  the  other  on  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship,  1840 
— added  to  the  popularity  of  Mr  Carlyle.  It 
appeared,  said  Leigh  Hunt,  ‘as  if  some  Puritan 
had  come  to  life  again,  liberalised  by  German 
philosophy  and  his  own  intense  reflections  and 
experience.’  This  vein  of  Puritanism  running 
through  the  speculations  of  the  lecturer  and  moral 
censor,  has  been  claimed  as  peculiarly  northern. 
‘ That  earnestness,’  says  Mr  Hannay,  ‘ that  grim 
humour— that  queer,  half-sarcastic,  half-sympa- 
thetic fun — is  quite  Scotch.  It  appears  in  Knox 
and  Buchanan,  and  it  appears  in  Burns.  I was 
not  surprised  when  a school-fellow  of  Carlyle’s  told 
me  that  his  favourite  poem  as  a boy  was  Death  and 
Dr  Hornbooh.  And  if  I were  asked  to  explain  this 
originality,  I should  say  that  he  was  a Covenanter 
coming  in  the  wake  of  the  eighteenth  century  and 
the  transcendental  philosophy.  He  has  gone  into 
the  hills  against  “ shams,”  as  they  did  against 
Prelacy,  Erastianism,  and  so  forth.  But  he  lives 
in  a quieter  age  and  in  a literary  position.  So  he 
can  give  play  to  the  humour  which  existed  in  them 
as  well,  and  he  overflows  with  a range  of  reading 
and  speculation  to  which  they  were  necessarily 
strangers.’  But  at  least  one-half  the  originality 
here  sketched,  style  as  well  as  sentiment,  must 
be  placed  to  the  account  of  German  studies.  In 
1837  appeared  The  French  Revolution,  a History  by 
Thomas  Carlyle.  This  is  the  ablest  of  all  the 
author’s  works,  and  is  indeed  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  books  of  the  age.  The  first  perusal  of 
it  forms  a sort  of  era  in  a man’s  life,  and  fixes  for 
ever  in  his  memory  the  ghastly  panorama  of  the 
Revolution,  its  scenes  and  actors.  In  1848  Mr 
Carlyle  collected  his  contributions  to  the  Reviews, 
and  published  them  under  the  title  of  Miscellanies, 
extending  to  five  volumes.  The  biographical  portion 
of  these  volumes — essays  on  Voltaire,  Mirabeau, 
Johnson  and  Boswell,  Burns,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  &c. 
— is  admirably  executed.  They  are  compact,  com- 
plete, and  at  once  highly  picturesque  and  sugges- 
tive. The  character  and  history  of  Burns  he  has 
drawn  with  a degree  of  insight,  true  wisdom,  and 
pathos  not  surpassed  in  any  biographical  or  critical 
production  of  the  present  century.  Mr  Thackeray’s 
essay  on  Swift  resembles  it  in  power,  but  it  is  more 
of  a sketch.  The  two  next  appearances  of  Mr 
Carlyle  were  political,  and  on  this  ground  he  seems 
shorn  of  his  strength.  Chartism,  1839,  and  Past 
and  Present,  1843,  contain  many  weighty  truths 
and  shrewd  observations,  directed  against  all  shams, 
cant,  formulas,  speciosities,  &c. ; but  when  we  look 
for  a remedy  for  existing  evils,  and  ask  how  we  are 
to  replace  the  forms  and  institutions  which  Mr 
Carlyle  would  have  extinguished,  we  find  little  to 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


guide  us  in  our  author’s  prelections.  The  only 
tangible  measures  he  proposes  are  education  and 
emigration,  with  a strict  enforcement  of  the  penal 
laws.  We  would  earnestly  desire  to  extend  still  more 
the  benefits  of  education;  but  when  Mr  Carlyle 
vituperates  the  present  age  in  comparison  with  the 
past,  he  should  recollect  how  much  has  been  done  of 
late  years  to  promote  the  instruction  of  the  people. 
The  next  work  of  our  author  was  a special  service 
to  history  and  to  the  memory  of  one  of  England’s 
historical  worthies.  His  collection  of  Oliver  Crom- 
well's Letters  and  Speeches,  with  Elucidations,  two 
volumes,  1845,  is  a good  work  well  done.  ‘The 
authentic  utterances  of  the  man  Oliver  himself,’ 
he  says,  ‘ I have  gathered  them  from  far  and  near ; 
fished  them  up  from  the  foul  Lethean  quagmires 
where  they  lay  buried ; I have  washed  or  endeav- 
oured to  wash  them  clean  from  foreign  stupidities 
— such  a job  of  buck- washing  as  I do  not  long  to 
repeat — and  the  world  shall  now  see  them  in  their 
own  shape.’  The  world  was  thankful  for  the  service, 
and  the  book,  though  large  and  expensive,  had  a 
rapid  sale.  The  speeches  and  letters  of  Cromwell 
thus  presented,  the  spelling  and  punctuation  recti- 
fied, and  a few  words  occasionally  added  for  the 
sake  of  perspicuity,  were  first  made  intelligible 
and  effective  by  Mr  Carlyle;  while  his  editorial 
‘elucidations,’  descriptive  and  historical,  are  often 
felicitous.  Here  is  his  picture  of  Oliver  in  1653 : 

[ Personal  Appearance  of  Cromwell.'] 

1 His  highness,’  says  Whitelocke,  ‘ was  in  a rich  but 
plain  suit — black  velvet,  with  cloak  of  the  same  ; about 
his  hat  a broad  band  of  gold.’  Does  the  reader  see 
him  ? A rather  likely  figure,  I think.  Stands  some 
five  feet  ten  or  more  ; a man  of  strong,  solid  stature, 
and  dignified,  now  partly  military  carriage  : the  expres- 
sion of  him  valour  and  devout  intelligence — energy  and 
delicacy  on  a basis  of  simplicity.  Fifty-four  years  old, 
gone  April  last ; brown  hair  'and  moustache  are  getting 
gray.  A figure  of  sufficient  impressiveness — not  lovely 
to  the  man-milliner  species,  nor  pretending  to  be 
so.  Massive  stature  ; big,  massive  head,  of  somewhat 
leonine  aspect ; wart  above  the  right  eyebrow ; nose 
of  considerable  blunt-aquiline  proportions ; strict  yet 
copious  lips,  full  of  all  tremulous  sensibilities,  and 
also,  if  need  were,  of  all  fiercenesses  and  rigours ; deep, 
loving  eyes — call  them  grave,  call  them  stern — looking 
from  under  those  craggy  brows  as  if  in  life-long  sorrow, 
and  yet  not  thinking  it  sorrow,  thinking  it  only  labour 
and  endeavour : on  the  whole,  a right  noble  lion-face 
and  hero-face  ; and  to  me  royal  enough. 

Another  series  of  political  tracts,  entitled  Latter- 
day  Pamphlets,  1850,  formed  Mr  Carlyle’s  next 
work.  In  these  the  censor  appeared  in  his  most 
irate  and  uncompromising  mood,  and  with  his 
peculiarities  of  style  and  expression  in  monstrous 
growth  and  deformity.  He  seemed  to  be  the 
worshipper  of  mere  brute  force,  the  advocate  of  all 
harsh,  coercive  measures.  Model  prisons  and  schools 
for  the  reform  of  criminals,  poor-laws,  churches,  as 
at  present  constituted,  the  aristocracy,  parliament, 
and  other  institutions  were  assailed  and  ridiculed 
in  unmeasured  terms,  and,  generally,  the  English 
public  was  set  down  as  composed  of  sham-heroes 
and  a valet  or  flunkey  world.  On  some  political 
questions  and  administrative  abuses,  bold  truths 
and  merited  satire  appear  in  the  pamphlets ; but, 
on  the  whole,  they  must  be  considered,  whether 
viewed  as  literary  or  philosophical  productions,  as 
wholly  unworthy  of  their  author.  The  Life  of  John 
Sterling,  1851,  was  an  affectionate  tribute  by  Mr 
Carlyle  to  the  memory  of  a friend.  Mr  Sterling, 


son  of  Captain  Sterling,  the  ‘Thunderer  of  the 
Times,’  had  written  some  few  volumes  in  prose  and 
verse,  which  cannot  be  said  to  have  possessed  any 
feature  of  originality ; but  he  was  amiable,  accom- 
plished, and  brilliant  in  conversation.  His  friends 
were  strongly  attached  to  him,  and  among  those 
friends  were  Archdeacon  Hare  and  Mr  Carlyle. 
The  former,  after  Sterling’s  death  in  1844  (in  his 
thirty-eighth  year),  published  a selection  of  his 
Tales  and  Essays,  with  a life  of  their  author.  Mr 
Carlyle  was  dissatisfied  with  this  life  of  Sterling. 
The  archdeacon  had  considered  the  deceased  too 
exclusively  as  a clergyman,  whereas  Sterling  had 
been  a curate  for  only  eight  months,  and  latterly 
had  lapsed  into  scepticism,  or  at  least  into  a belief 
different  from  that  of  the  church.  ‘True,’  says 
Mr  Carlyle,  ‘ he  had  his  religion  to  seek,  and  pain- 
fully shape  together  for  himself,  out  of  the  abysses 
of  conflicting  disbelief  and  sham-belief  and  bedlam 
delusion,  now  filling  the  world,  as  all  men  of  reflec- 
tion have ; and  in  this  respect,  too — more  especially 
as  his  lot  in  the  battle  appointed  for  us  all  was,  if 
you  can  understand  it,  victory  and  not  defeat — 
he  is  an  expressive  emblem  of  his  time,  and  an 
instruction  and  possession  to  his  contemporaries.’ 
The  tone  adopted  by  the  biographer  in  treating  of 
Sterling’s  religious  lapse,  exposed  him  to  consider- 
able censure.  Even  the  mild  and  liberal  George 
Brimley,  in  reviewing  Mr  Carlyle’s  book,  judged 
it  necessary  to  put  in  a disclaimer  against  the 
tendency  it  was  likely  to  have:  ‘Mr  Carlyle  has 
no  right,  no  man  has  any  right,  to  weaken  or 
destroy  a faith  which  he  cannot  or  will  not  replace 
with  a loftier.  He  ought  to  have  said  nothing,  or 
said  more.  Scraps  of  verse  from  Goethe,  and 
declamations,  however  brilliantly  they  may  be 
phrased,  are  but  a poor  compensation  for  the 
slightest  obscuring  of  the  hope  of  immortality 
brought  to  light  by  the  gospel,  and  by  it  conveyed 
to  the  hut  of  the  poorest  man,  to  awaken  his 
crushed  intelligence  and  lighten  the  load  of  his 
misery.’  As  a literary  work,  the  Life  of  Sterling 
is  a finished,  artistic  performance.  There  was 
little  in  the  hero  of  the  piece  to  demand  skilful 
portrait-painting ; but  we  have  the  great  Coleridge 
and  the  Times  Thunderer  placed  before  us  with  the 
clearness  of  a daguerreotype — the  former,  perhaps, 
a little  caricatured.  We  must  extract  a passage : 

[Portrait  of  Coleridge.] 

Coleridge  sat  on  the  brow  of  Ilighgate  Hill,  in  those- 
years,  looking  down  on  London  and  its  smoke-tumult, 
like  a sage  escaped  from  the  inanity  of  life’s  battle ; 
attracting  towards  him  the  thoughts  of  innumerable 
brave  souls  still  engaged  there.  His  express  contribu- 
tions to  poetry,  philosophy,  or  any  specific  province  of 
human  literature  or  enlightenment,  had  been  small  and 
sadly  intermittent ; but  he  had,  especially  among  young 
inquiring  men,  a higher  than  literary,  a kind  of  pro- 
phetic or  magician  character.  He  was  thought  to  hold, 
he  alone  in  England,  the  key  of  German  and  other 
transcendentalisms ; knew  the  sublime  secret  of  believing 
by  ‘the  reason’  what  ‘the  understanding’  had  been 
obliged  to  fling  out  as  incredible ; and  could  still,  after 
Hume  and  Voltaire  had  done  their  best  and  worst  with 
him,  profess  himself  an  orthodox  Christian,  and  say  and 
print  to  the  Church  of  England,  with  its  singular  old 
rubrics  and  surplices  at  Allhallowtide,  Esto  perpetua. 
A sublime  man ; who,  alone  in  those  dark  days,  had 
saved  his  crown  of  spiritual  manhood;  escaping  from 
the  black  materialisms,  and  revolutionary  deluges,  with 
‘ God,  Freedom,  Immortality  ’ still  his : a king  of 
men.  The  practical  intellects  of  the  world  did  not  much 
I heed  him,  or  carelessly  reckoned  him  a metaphysical 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


dreamer  : but  to  the  rising  spirits  of  the  young  genera- 
tion he  had  this  dusky  sublime  character ; and  sat  there 
as  a kind  of  Magus,  girt  in  mystery  and  enigma ; his 
| Dodona  oak-grove — Mr  Gilman’s  house  at  Highgate — 
! -whispering  strange  things,  uncertain  whether  oracles  or 
I jargon.  The  Gilmans  did  not  encourage  much  company, 

I or  excitation  of  any  sort,  round  their  sage  ; nevertheless, 
i access  to  him,  if  a youth  did  reverently  wish  it,  was  not 
! difficult.  He  would  stroll  about  the  pleasant  garden 
! with  you,  sit  in  the  pleasant  rooms  of  the  place — 

I perhaps  take  you  to  his  own  peculiar  room,  high  up, 
j with  a rearward  view,  which  was  the  chief  view  of  all. 

A really  charming  outlook,  in  fine  weather.  Close  at 
j hand,  wide  sweep  of  flowery  leafy  gardens,  their  few 
houses  mostly  hidden,  the  very  chimney-pots  veiled 
I under  blossomy  umbrage,  flowed  gloriously  down  hill ; 

! gloriously  issuing  in  wide-tuftecl  undulating  plain- 
i country,  rich  in  all  charms  of  field  and  town.  Waving 
j blooming  country  of  the  brightest  green ; dotted  all  over 
I with  handsome  villas,  handsome  groves ; crossed  by 
J roads  and  human  traffic,  here  inaudible  or  heard  only 
| as  a musical  hum ; and  behind  all  swam,  under  olive- 
tinted  haze,  the  illimitable  limitary  ocean  of  London, 

| with  its  domes  and  steeples  definite  in  the  sun,  big 
I Paul’s  and  the  many  memories  attached  to  it  hanging 
I high  over  all.  Nowhere,  of  its  kind,  could  you  see  a 
grander  prospect  on  a bright  summer  day,  with  the  set  of 
the  air  going  southward — southward,  and  so  draping 
with  the  city-smoke  not  you  but  the  city.  Here  for 
j hours  would  Coleridge  talk  concerning  all  conceivable 
or  inconceivable  things ; and  liked  nothing  better  than 
i to  have  an  intelligent,  or  failing  that,  even  a silent  and 
; patient  human  listener.  He  distinguished  himself  to 
i all  that  ever  heard  him  as  at  least  the  most  surprising 
talker  extant  in  this  world — and  to  some  small  minority, 
i by  no  means  to  all,  as  the  most  excellent.  * * Brow 

! and  head  were  round,  and  of  massive  weight,  but  the 
face  was  flabby  and  irresolute.  The  deep  eyes  of  a light 
hazel  were  as  full  of  sorrow  as  of  inspiration ; confused 
pain  looked  mildly  from  them,  as  in  a kind  of  mild 
astonishment.  The  whole  figure  and  air,  good  and 
amiable  otherwise,  might  be  called  flabby  and  irresolute ; 

! expressive  of  weakness  under  possibility  of  strength. 

’ He  hung  loosely  on  his  limbs,  with  knees  bent,  and 
I stooping  attitude ; in  walking,  he  rather  shuffled  than 
j decisively  stepped ; and  a lady  once  remarked,  he  never 
j could  fix  which  side  of  the  garden-walk  would  suit  him 
I best,  but  continually  shifted,  in  corkscrew  fashion,  and 
| kept  trying  both.  A heavy-laden,  high-aspiring,  and 
! surely  much-suffering  man.  His  voice,  naturally  soft  and 
good,  had  contracted  itself  into  a plaintive  snuffle  and 
sing-song ; he  spoke  as  if  preaching — you  would  have 
said  preaching  earnestly  and  also  hopelessly  the 
weightiest  things.  I still  recollect  his  ‘object’  and 
* subject,’  terms  of  continual  recurrence  in  the  Kantean 
province;  and  how  he  sung  and  snuffled  them  into 
‘om-m-mject’  and  ‘ sum-m-mject,’  with  a kind  of 
solemn  shake  or  quaver,  as  he  rolled  along.  No 
! talk,  in  his  century,  or  in  any  other,  could  be  more 
[ surprising. 

In  1858  appeared  the  first  portion  of  Mr  Carlyle’s 
long-expected  work,  the  History  of  Friedrich  II., 
called  Frederick  the  Great , volumes  i.  and  ii.  These 
volumes  bring  down  the  history  of  Frederick’s  life 
to  the  period  of  his  accession  to  the  throne  in  1740. 
A considerable  part  of  the  first  volume  is  devoted 
to  ‘ clearing  the  way  ’ for  the  approach  of  the  hero, 
and  tracing  the  houses  of  Brandenburg  and  Hohen- 
zollern.  Frederick,  as  Mr  Carlyle  admits,  was  rather 
a questionable  hero.  But  he  was  a reality,  and  had 
‘nothing  whatever  of  the  hypocrite  or  phantasm.’ 
This  -was  the  biographer’s  inducement  and  encour- 
agement to  study  his  life.  ‘ How  this  man,  officially 
a king  withal,  comported  himself  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  managed  not  to  be  a liar  and  charlatan 
724 


as  his  century  was,  deserves  to  he  seen  a little  by 
men  and  kings,  and  may  silently  have  didactic  mean- 
ings in  it.’  And  the  eighteenth  century  is  cordially 
abused  as  a period  of  worthlessness  and  inanity. 

‘ What  little  it  did,  we  must  call  Friedrich ; what 
little  it  thought,  Voltaire.’  But  as  the  eighteenth 
century  had  also  David  Hume,  Adam  Smith,  Samuel 
Johnson,  Henry  Fielding,  and  Robert  Burns — to  say 
nothing  of  Chatham  and  Burke,  we  must  demur 
to  such  extravagant  and  wholesale  condemnation. 
These  idiosyncrasies  and  prejudices  of  Mr  Carlyle 
must  be  taken,  like  his  peculiar  style,  because  they 
are  accompanied  by  better  things — by  patient  his- 
torical research,  vivid  pictures  of  the  past,  humour, 
pathos,  and  eloquence. 

[. Frederick  the  Gi'cat.'] 

About  fourscore  years  ago,  there  used  to  be  seen 
sauntering  on  the  terraces  of  Sans-Souci,  for  a short 
time  in  the  afternoon,  or  you  might  have  met  him  else- 
where at  an  earlier  hour,  riding  or  driving  in  a rapid 
business  manner,  on  the  open  roads  or  through  the 
scraggy  woods  and  avenues  of  that  intricate  amphibious 
Potsdam  region,  a highly  interesting  lean  little  old  man, 
of  alert  though  slightly  stooping  figure ; whose  name 
among  strangers  was  King  Friedrich  the  Second,  or 
Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia,  and  at  home  among  the 
common  people,  who  much  loved  and  esteemed  him,  was 
Voter  Fritz — Father  Fred — a name  of  familiarity  which 
had  not  bred  contempt  in  that  instance.  He  is  a king 
every  inch  of  him,  though  without  the  trappings  of  a 
king.  Presents  himself  in  a Spartan  simplicity  of  vesture : 
no  crown,  but  an  old  military  cocked-hat — generally 
old,  or  trampled  and  kneaded  into  absolute  softness, 
if  new ; no  sceptre  but  one  like  Agamemnon’s,  a walking- 
stick  cut  from  the  woods,  which  serves  also  as  a riding- 
stick  (with  which  he  hits  the  horse  ‘ between  the  ears,’ 
say  authors) ; and  for  royal  robes,  a mere  soldier’ s ' blue  j 
coat  with  red  facings — coat  likely  to  be  old,  and  sure  to  ( 
have  a good  deal  of  Spanish  snuff  on  the  breast  of  it;  I 
rest  of  the  apparel  dim,  unobtrusive  in  colour  or  cut,  i 
ending  in  high  over-knee  military  boots,  which  may  be 
brushed  (and,  I hope,  kept  soft  with  an  underhand  sus- 
picion of  oil),  but  are  not  permitted  to  be  blackened  or 
varnished;  Day  and  Martin  with  their  soot-pots  for- 
bidden to  approach.  The  man  is  not  of  god-like  physi- 
ognomy, any  more  than  of  imposing  stature  or  costume ; 
close-shut  mouth  with  thin  lips,  prominent  jaws  and 
nose,  receding  brow,  by  no  means  of  Olympian  height ; 
head,  however,  is  of  long  form,  and  has  superlative  gray 
eyes  in  it.  Not  what  is  called  a beautiful  man ; nor 
yet,  by  all  appearance,  what  is  called  a happy.  On  the 
contrary,  the  face  bears  evidence  of  many  sorrows,  as 
they  are  termed,  of  much  hard  labour  done  in  this 
world ; and  seems  to  anticipate  nothing  but  more  still 
coming.  Quiet  stoicism,  capable  enough  of  what  joy 
there  were,  but  not  expecting  any  worth  mention ; great 
unconscious  and  some  conscious  pride,  well  tempered 
with  a cheery  mockery  of  humour,  are  written  on  that 
old  face,  which  carries  its  chin  well  forward,  in  spite  of 
the  slight  stoop  about  the  neck;  snuffy  nose,  rather 
flung  into  the  air,  under  its  old  cocked-hat,  like  an  old 
snuffy  lion  on  the  watch ; and  such  a pair  of  eyes  as  no 
man,  or  lion,  or  lynx  of  that  century  bore  elsewhere, 
according  to  all  the  testimony  we  have.  ‘ Those  eyes,’ 
says  Mirabeau,  ‘ which,  at  the  bidding  of  his  great  soul, 
fascinated  you  with  seduction  or  with  terror  ( portaient 
au  gre  de  son  dine  heroique,  la  seduction  ou  la  terreur). 
Most  excellent,  potent,  brilliant  eyes,  swift-darting  as 
the  stars,  steadfast  as  the  sun ; gray,  we  said,  of  the 
azure-gray  colour ; large  enough,  not  of  glaring  size ; the 
habitual  expression  of  them  vigilance  and  penetrating 
sense,  rapidity  resting  on  depth.  Which  is  an  excellent 
combination ; and  gives  us  the  notion  of  a lambent  outer 
radiance  springing  from  some  great  inner  sea  of  light 


biographers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  Carlyle,  j 

and  fire  in  the  man.  The  voice,  if  he  speak  to  you,  is  of 
similar  physiognomy  : clear,  melodious,  and  sonorous; 
all  tones  are  in  it,  from  that  of  ingenuous  inquiry,  grace- 
ful sociality,  light-flowing  banter  (rather  prickly  for 
most  part),  up  to  definite  word  of  command,  up  to  deso- 
lating word  of  rebuke  and  reprobation : a voice  ‘ the 
clearest  and  most  agreeable  in  conversation  I ever  heard,’ 
says  witty  Dr  Moore.  ‘ He  speaks  a great  deal,’  con- 
tinues the  doctor ; ‘ yet  those  who  hear  him,  regret  that 
he  does  not  speak  a good  deal  more.  His  observations 
are  always  lively,  very  often  just;  and  few  men  possess 
the  talent  of  repartee  in  greater  perfection.’  * * The 
French  Revolution  may  be  said  to  have,  for  about  half  a 
century,  quite  submerged  Friedrich,  abolished  him  from 
the  memories  of  men;  and  now  on  coming  to  light 
again,  he  is  found  defaced  under  strange  mud-incrusta- 
tions, and  the  eyes  of  mankind  look  at  him  from  a 
singularly  changed,  what  we  must  call  oblique  and  per- 
verse point  of  vision.  This  is  one  of  the  difficulties  in 
dealing  with  his  history — especially  if  you  happen  to 
believe  both  in  the  French  Revolution  and  in  him ; that 
is  to  say,  both  that  Real  Kingship  is  eternally  indis- 
pensable, and  also  that  the  Destruction  of  Sham  King- 
ship  (a  frightful  process)  is  occasionally  so. 

On  the  breaking  out  of  that  formidable  Explosion  and 
Suicide  of  his  Century,  Friedrich  sank  into  comparative 
obscurity  ; eclipsed  amid  the  ruins  of  that  universal 
earthquake,  the  very  dust  of  which  darkened  all  the  air, 
and  made  of  day  a disastrous  midnight.  Black  mid- 
night, broken  only  by  the  blaze  of  conflagrations ; where- 
in, to  our  terrified  imaginations,  were  seen,  not  men, 
French  and  other,  but  ghastly  portents,  stalking  wrath- 
ful, and  shapes  of  avenging  gods.  It  must  be  owned 
the  figure  of  Napoleon  was  titanic — especially  to  the 
generation  that  looked  on  him,  and  that  waited  shud- 
dering to  be  devoured  by  him.  In  general,  in  that 
French  Revolution,  all  was  on  a huge  scale ; if  not 
greater  than  anything  in  human  experience,  at  least 
more  grandiose.  All  was  recorded  in  bulletins,  too, 
addressed  to  the  shilling-gallery;  and  there  were  fel- 
lows on  the  stage  with  such  a breadth  of  sabre,  extent 
of  whiskerage,  strength  of  windpipe,  and  command  of 
| men  and  gunpowder,  as  had  never  been  seen  before, 
i How  they  bellowed,  stalked,  and  flourished  about ; 
j counterfeiting  Jove’s  thunder  to  an  amazing  degree  ! 

Terrific  Drawcansir  figures,  of  enormous  whiskerage, 
i unlimited  command  of  gunpowder;  not  without  suffi- 
cient ferocity,  and  even  a certain  heroism,  stage-heroism 
1 in  them ; compared  with  whom,  to  the  shilling-gallery, 
and  frightened  excited  theatre  at  large,  it  seemed  as  if 
there  had  been  no  generals  or  sovereigns  before ; as  if 
Friedrich,  Gustavus,  Cromwell,  William  Conqueror,  and 
Alexander  the  Great  were  not  worth  speaking  of  hence- 
j forth. 

[Death  of  Marie  Antoinette.] 

Is  there  a man’s  heart  that  thinks  without  pity  of 
those  long  months  and  years  of  slow-wasting  ignominy; 
of  thy  birth,  self-cradled  in  imperial  Schbnbrunn,  the 
winds  of  heaven  not  to  visit  thy  face  too  roughly,  thy 
i foot  to  light  on  softness,  thy  eye  on  splendour;  and 
j then  of  thy  death,  or  hundred  deaths,  to  which  the 
guillotine  and  Fouquier  Tinville’s  judgment-bar  was  but 
the  merciful  end  ! Look  there,  0 man  born  of  woman  ! 
The  bloom  of  that  fair  face  is  wasted,  the  hair  is  gray 
with  care ; the  brightness  of  those  eyes  is  quenched, 
their  lids  hang  drooping,  the  face  is  stony  pale,  as  of 
one  living  in  death.  Mean  weeds,  which  her  own  hand 
has  mended,  attire  the  Queen  of  the  World.  The  death- 
hurdle  where  thou  sittest  pale,  motionless,  which  only 
curses  environ,  has  to  stop ; a people,  drunk  with 
vengeance,  will  drink  it  again  in  full  draught,  looking 
at  thee  there.  Far  as  the  eye  reaches,  a multitudinous 
sea  of  maniac  heads,  the  air  deaf  with  their  triumph- 
yell  ! The  living-dead  must  shudder  with  yet  one 
other  pang;  her  startled  blood  yet  again  suffuses  with 
1 

the  hue  of  agony  that  pale  face,  which  she  hides  with 
her  hands.  There  is  there  no  heart  to  say,  God  pity 
thee  ! 0 think  not  of  these ; think  of  Him  whom  thou 

worshippest,  the  crucified — who  also  treading  the  wine- 
press alone,  fronted  sorrow  still  deeper ; and  triumphed 
over  it  and  made  it  holy,  and  built  of  it  a ‘ sanctuary 
of  sorrow’  for  thee  and  all  the  wretched  ! Thy  path  of 
thorns  is  nigh  ended,  one  long  last  look  at  the  Tuileries, 
where  thy  step  was  once  so  light — where  thy  children 
shall  not  dwell.  The  head  is  on  the  block;  the  axe 
rushes — dumb  lies  the  world;  that  wild-yelling  world, 
and  all  its  madness,  is  behind  thee. 

[Await  the  Issue .] 

In  this  God’s  world,  with  its  wild  whirling  eddies  . 
and  mad  foam  oceans,  where  men  and  nations  perish  , 
as  if  without  law,  and  judgment  for  an  unjust  thing  j 
is  sternly  delayed,  dost  thou  think  that  there  is  there- 
fore no  justice?  It  is  what  the  fool  hath  said  in  his  j 
heart.  It  is  what  the  wise,  in  all  times,  were  wise  j 
because  they  denied,  and  knew  for  ever  not  to  be.  I 1 
tell  thee  again,  there  is  nothing  else  but  justice.  One 
strong  thing  I find  here  below : the  just  thing,  the  true  i 
thing.  My  friend,  5 thou  hadst  all  the  artillery  of  l 
Woolwich  trundling  at  thy  back  in  support  of  an 
unjust  thing ; and  infinite  bonfires  visibly  waiting  ahead 
of  thee,  to  blaze  centuries  long  for  thy  victory  on  behalf  j 
of  it,  I would  advise  thee  to  call  halt,  to  fling  down  thy  j 
baton,  and  say : ‘ In  God’s  name,  No !’  Thy  ‘ success  V ! 
Poor  devil,  what  will  thy  success  amount  to?  If  the  | 
thing  is  unjust,  thou  hast  not  succeeded ; no,  not  though 
bonfires  blazed  from  north  to  south,  and  bells  rang, 
and  editors  wrote  leading  articles,  and  the  just  things  i 
lay  trampled  out  of  sight,  to  all  mortal  eyes  an  abolished  ! 
and  annihilated  thing.  Success?  In  few  years,  thou 
wilt  be  dead  and  dark — all  cold,  eyeless,  deaf ; no  blaze  j 
of  bonfires,  ding-dong  of  bells,  or  leading  articles  visible  j 
or  audible  to  thee  again  at  all  for  ever.  What  kind  of  j 
success  is  that?  It  is  true  all  goes  by  approximation  in 
this  world ; with  any  not  insupportable  approximation  j 
we  must  be  patient.  There  is  a noble  Conservatism  as  j 
well  as  an  ignoble.  Would  to  Heaven,  for  the  sake  of 
Conservatism  itself,  the  noble  alone  were  left,  and  the 
ignoble,  by  some  kind  severe  hand,  were  ruthlessly  lopped  j 
away,  forbidden  ever  more  to  shew  itself ! For  it  is 
the  right  and  noble  alone  that  will  have  victory  in  this 
struggle ; the  rest  is  wholly  an  obstruction,  a postpone-  | 
ment  and  fearful  imperilment  of  the  victory.  Towards  j 
an  eternal  centre  of  right  and  nobleness,  and  of  that  ; 
only,  is  all  this  confusion  tending.  We  already  know 
whither  it  is  all  tending ; what  will  have  victory,  what 
will  have  none  ! The  Heaviest  will  reach  the  centre. 
The  Heaviest,  sinking  through  complex  fluctuating  ; 
media  and  vortices,  has  its  deflections,  its  obstructions, 
nay,  at  times  its  resiliences,  its  reboundings ; whereupon 
some  blockhead  shall  be  heard  jubilating:  ‘See,  your 
Heaviest  ascends!’  but  at  all  moments  it  is  moving 
centreward,  fast  as  is  convenient  for  it  ; sinking,  j 
sinking;  and,  by  laws  older  thhn  the  world,  old  as 
the  Maker’s  first  plan  of  the  world,  it  has  to  arrive  ! 
there. 

Await  the  issue.  In  all  battles,  if  you  await  the  j 
issue,  each  fighter  has  prospered  according  to  his  right. 
His  right  and  his  might,  at  the  close  of  the  account,  j 
wTere  one  and  the  same.  He  has  fought  with  all  his  1 
might,  and  in  exact  proportion  to  all  his  right  he  has  j 
prevailed.  His  very  death  is  no  victory  over  him.  He  j 
dies  indeed ; but  his  work  lives,  very  truly  lives.  A 
heroic  Wallace,  quartered  on  the  scaffold,  cannot  hinder 
that  his  Scotland  become,  one  day,  a part  of  England ; I 
but  he  does  hinder  that  it  become,  on  tyrannous,  unfair  1 
terms,  a part  of  it;  commands  still,  as  with  a god’s  | 
voice,  from  his  old  Valhalla  and  Temple  of  the  Brave,  ! 
that  there  be  a just  real  union  as  of  brother  and  brother, 
not  a false  and  merely  semblant  one  as  of  slave  and  1 

725 

FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


master.  If  the  union  with  England  be  in  fact  one  of 
Scotland’s  chief  blessings,  we  thank  Wallace  withal  that 
it  was  not  the  chief  curse.  Scotland  is  not  Ireland : no, 
because  brave  men  rose  there,  and  said : ‘ Behold,  ye 
must  not  tread  us  down  like  slaves ; and  ye  shall  not, 
and  cannot ! ’ Fight  on,  thou  brave  true  heart,  and 
I falter  not,  through  dark  fortune  and  through  bright. 

! The  cause  thou  lightest  for,  so  far  as  it  is  true,  no 
I further,  yet  precisely  so  far,  is  very  sure  of  victory. 

! The  falsehood  alone  of  it  will  be  conquered,  will  be 
; abolished,  as  it  ought  to  be : but  the  truth  of  it  is  part 
i of  Nature’s  own  laws,  co-operates  with  the  world’s 
| eternal  tendencies,  and  cannot  be  conquered. 


W.  STIRLING. 

The  Cloister  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  (1852), 
by  William  Stirling,  Esq.,  of  Keir,  supplies  defi- 
ciencies and  corrects  errors  in  the  popular  account 
of  the  emperor  in  Robertson’s  History.  He  had 
access  to  documents  unknown  to  Robertson,  and  was, 
besides,  more  familiar  with  Spanish  literature.  Mr 
Stirling’s  work,  it  must  he  confessed,  destroys  part 
of  the  romance  of  the  life  of  Charles,  while  it  adds 
materially  to  our  knowledge  of  it.  For  example, 
Robertson  states  that  the  table  of  the  emperor  w as 
‘neat  and  plain,’  but  Mr  Stirling  drawrs  a very 
different  picture  of  the  cuisine : 


[Epicurean  Habits  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.] 

In  this  matter  of  eating,  as  in  many  other  habits,  the 
emperor  was  himself  a true  Fleming.  His  early  tendency 
to  gout  was  increased  by  his  indulgences  at  table,  which 
generally  far  exceeded  his  feeble  powers  of  digestion. 
Roger  Ascham,  standing  ‘ hard  by  the  imperial  table  at 
the  feast  of  golden  fleece,’  watched  with  wonder  the 
emperor’s  progress  through  ‘sod  beef,  roast  mutton, 
baked  hare,’  after  which  ‘ he  fed  well  off  a capon,’  drink- 
ing also,  says  the  Fellow  of  St  John’s,  ‘the  best  that 
ever  I saw ; he  had  his  head  in  the  glass  five  times  as 
long  as  any  of  them,  and  never  drank  less  than  a good 
quart  at  once  of  Rhenish  wine.’  Eating  was  now  the 
only  physical  gratification  which  he  could  still  enjoy,  or 
was  unable  to  resist.  He  continued,  therefore,  to  dine 
to  the  last  upon  the  rich  dishes,  against  which  his 
ancient  and  trusty  confessor,  Cardinal  Loaysa,  had  pro- 
tested a quarter  of  a century  before.  The  supply  of  his 
table  was  a main  subject  of  the  correspondence  between 
the  mayordomo  and  the  secretary  of  state.  The  weekly 
courier  from  Valladolid  to  Lisbon  was  ordered  to  change 
his  route  that  he  might  bring,  every  Thursday,  a pro- 
vision of  eels  and  other  rich  fish  ( pescado  grueso)  for 
Friday’s  fast.  There  was  a constant  demand  for 
anchovies,  tunny,  and  other  potted  fish,  and  sometimes 
a complaint  that  the  trouts  of  the  country  were  too 
small ; the  olives,  on  the  other  hand,  were  too  large,  and 
the  emperor  wished,  instead,  for  olives  of  Perejon.  One 
day,  the  secretary  of  state  was  asked  for  some  partridges 
from  Gama,  a place  from  whence  the  emperor  remembers 
that  the  Count  of  Orson  o once  sent  him,  into  Flanders, 
some  of  the  best  partridges  in  the  world.  Another  day, 
sausages  were  wanted  ‘ of  the  kind  which  the  queen 
Juana,  now  in  glory,  used  to  pride  herself  in  making,  in 
the  Flemish  fashion,  at  Tordesillas,’  and  for  the  receipt 
for  which  the  secretary  is  referred  to  the  Marquess  of 
Benia.  Both  orders  were  punctually  executed.  The 
sausages,  although  sent  to  a land  supreme  in  that  manu- 
facture, gave  great  satisfaction.  Of  the  partridges,  the 
emperor  said  that  they  used  to  be  better,  ordering,  how- 
ever, the  remainder  to  be  pickled.  The  emperor’s  weak- 
ness being  generally  known  or  soon  discovered,  dainties 
of  all  kinds  were  sent  to  him  as  presents.  Mutton, 
pork,  and  game  were  the  provisions  most  easily  obtained 
at  Xarandilla;  but  they  were  dear.  The  bread  was 
726 


indifferent,  and  nothing  was  good  and  abundant  but 
chestnuts,  the  staple  food  of  the  people.  But  in  a very 
few  days  the  castle  larder  wanted  for  nothing.  One  day 
the  Count  of  Oropesa  sent  an  offering  of  game ; another 
day  a pair  of  fat  calves  arrived  from  the  archbishop  of 
Zaragoza ; the  archbishop  of  Toledo  and  the  Duchess  of 
Frias  were  constant  and  magnificent  in  their  gifts  of 
venison,  fruit,  and  preserves ; and  supplies  of  all  kinds 
came  at  regular  intervals  from  Seville  and  from  Portugal. 
Luis  Quixada,  who  knew  the  emperor’s  habits  and  con- 
stitution well,  beheld  with  dismay  these  long  trains  of 
mules  laden,  as  it  were,  with  gout  and  bile.  He  never 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  good  things  from 
i Valladolid  without  adding  some  dismal  forebodings  of 
: consequent  mischief ; and  along  with  an  order  he  some- 
I times  conveyed  a hint  that  it  would  be  much  better  if 
I no  means  were  found  of  executing  it.  If  the  emperor 
made  a hearty  meal  without  being  the  worse  for  it,  the 
mayordomo  noted  the  fact  with  exultation;  and  he 
remarked  with  complacency  his  majesty’s  fondness  for 
plovers,  which  he  considered  harmless.  But  his  office  of 
purveyor  was  more  commonly  exercised  under  protest ; 
and  he  interposed  between  his  master  and  an  eel-pie  as, 
in  other  days,  he  would  have  thrown  himself  between 
the  imperial  person  and  the  point  of  a Moorish  lance. 

The  retirement  of  the  emperor  took  place  on  the 
3d  of  February  1557.  He  carried  with  him  to  his 
cloister  sixty  attendants — not  twelve,  as  'stated  by 
Robertson ; and  in  his  retreat  at  Yuste  he  wielded 
the  royal  power  as  firmly  as  he  had  done  at 
Augsburg  or  Toledo.  His  regular  life,  however, 
had  something  in  it  of  monastic  quiet — his  time  was 
measured  out  with  punctual  attention  to  his  various 
employments ; he  fed  his  pet  birds  or  sauntered 
among  his  trees  and  flowers,  and  joined  earnestly 
in  the  religious  observances  of  the  monks.  The 
subjoined  scene  is  less  strikingly  painted  than  in 
Robertson’s  narrative,  but  is  more  correct : 


[The  Emperor  performs  the  Funeral  Service  for 
Himself. ] 

About  this  time  [August  1558],  according  to  the  his- 
torian of  St  Jerome,  his  thoughts  seemed  to  turn  more 
than  usual  to  religion  and  its  rites.  Whenever  during 
his  stay  at  Yuste  any  of  his  friends,  of  the  degree  of 
princes  or  knights  of  the  fleece,  had  died,  he  had  ever 
been  punctual  in  doing  honour  to  their  memory,  by 
causing  their  obsequies  to  be  performed  by  the  friars ; 
and  these  lugubrious  services  may  be  said  to  have 
formed  the  festivals  of  the  gloomy  life  of  the  cloister. 
The  daily  masses  said  for  his  own  soul  were  always 
accompanied  by  others  for  the  souls  of  his  father,  mother, 
and  wife.  But  now  he  ordered  further  solemnities  of 
the  funeral  kind  to  be  performed  in  behalf  of  these 
relations,  each  on  a different  day,  and  attended  them 
himself,  preceded  by  a page  bearing  a taper,  and  joining 
in  the  chant,  in  a very  devout  and  audible  manner, 
out  of  a tattered  prayer-book.  These  rites  ended,  he 
asked  his  confessor  whether  he  might  not  now  perform 
his  own  funeral,  and  so  do  for  himself  what  would  soon 
have  to  be  done  for  him  by  others.  Regia  replied  that 
his  majesty,  please  God,  might  live  many  years,  and 
that  when  his  time  came  these  services  would  be  grate- 
fully rendered,  without  his  taking  any  thought  about 
the  matter.  ‘ But,’  persisted  Charles,  ‘ would  it  not  be 
good  for  my  soul?’  The  monk  said  that  certainly  it 
would ; pious  works  done  during  life  being  far  more 
efficacious  than  when  postponed  till  after  death.  Pre- 
parations were  therefore  at  once  set  on  foot ; a catafalque, 
which  had  served  before  on  similar  occasions,  was  erected ; 
and  on  the  following  day,  the  30th  of  August,  as  the 
monkish  historian  relates,  this  celebrated  service  was 
actually  performed.  The  high  altar,  the  catafalque,  and 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


W.  STIRLING — G.  H.  LEWES. 


the  whole  church  shone  with  a blaze  of  wax-lights ; the 
friars  were  all  in  their  places,  at  the  altars,  and  in  the 
choir,  and  the  household  of  the  emperor  attended  in 
deep  mourning.  ‘ The  pious  monarch  himself  was  there, 
attired  in  sable  weeds,  and  bearing  a taper,  to  see  himself 
interred  and  to  celebrate  his  own  obsequies.’  While  the 
solemn  mass  for  the  dead  .was  sung,  he  came  forward 
and  gave  his  taper  into  the  hands  of  the  officiating 
priest,  in  token  of  his  desire  to  yield  his  soul  into  the 
hands  of  his  Maker.  High  above,  over  the  kneeling 
throne  and  the  gorgeous  vestments,  the  flowers,  the 
curling  incense,  and  the  glittering  altar,  the  same  idea 
shone  forth  in  that  splendid  canvas  whereon  Titian 
had  pictured  Charles  kneeling  on  the  threshold  of  the 
heavenly  mansions  prepared  for  the  blessed.  * * The 
funeral-rites  ended,  the  emperor  dined  in  his  western 
alcove.  He  ate  little,  but  he  remained  for  a great  part 
of  the  afternoon  sitting  in  the  open  air,  and  basking  in 
the  sun,  -which,  as  it  descended  to  the  horizon,  beat 
strongly  upon  the  white  walls.  Feeling  a violent  pain 
in  his  head,  he  returned  to  his  chamber  and  lay  down. 
Mathisio,  whom  he  had  sent  in  the  morning  to  Xaran- 
drilla  to  attend  the  Count  of  Oropesa  in  his  illness, 
found  him  when  he  returned  still  suffering  considerably, 
and  attributed  the  pain  to  his  having  remained  too  long 
in  the  hot  sunshine.  Next  morning  he  was  somewhat 
better,  and  was  able  to  get  up  and  go  to  mass,  but  still 
felt  oppressed,  and  complained  much  of  thirst.  He  told 
his  confessor,  however,  that  the  service  of  the  day  before 
had  done  him  good.  The  sunshine  again  tempted  him 
into  his  open  gallery.  As  he  sat  there,  he  sent  for  a 
portrait  of  the  empress,  and  hung  for  some  time,  lost  in 
thought,  over  the  gentle  face,  -which,  with  its  blue  eyes, 
auburn  hair,  and  pensive  beauty,  somewhat  resembled 
the  noble  countenance  of  that  other  Isabella,  the  great 
qpeen  of  Castile.  He  next  called  for  a picture  of  Our 
Lord  Praying  in  the  Garden,  and  then  for  a sketch  of 
the  Last  Judgment,  by  Titian.  Having  looked  his  last 
upon  the  image  of  the  wife  of  his  youth,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  were  now  bidding  farewell,  in  the  contemplation  of 
these  other  favourite  pictures,  to  the  noble  art  which  he 
had  loved  with  a love  which  cares,  and  years,  and 
sickness  could  not  quench,  and  that  will  ever  be  remem- 
bered with  his  better  fame.  Thus  occupied,  he  remained 
so  long  abstracted  and  motionless,  that  Mathisio,  who 
was  on  the  watch,  thought  it  right  to  awake  him  from 
his  reverie.  On  being  spoken  to,  he  turned  round  and 
complained  that  he  was  ill.  The  doctor  felt  his  pulse, 
and  pronounced  him  in  a fever.  Again  the  afternoon 
sun  was  shining  over  the  great  walnut-tree,  full  into 
the  gallery.  From  this  pleasant  spot,  filled  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  garden  and  the  murmur  of  the  fountain, 
and  bright  with  glimpses  of  the  golden  Vera,  they  carried 
him  to  the  gloomy  chamber  of  his  sleepless  nights, 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed  from  which  he  was  to  rise 
no  more. 

The  emperor  died  in  three  weeks  after  this  time 
— on  the  21st  of  September  1558.  Mr  Stirling’s 
narrative,  we  need  hardly  add,  is  at  once  graceful 
and  exact ; the  historian  and  the  biographer  are 
happily  united.  Mr  Stirling  has  written  another 
Spanish  memoir — Velasquez  and  his  Works , 1855. 
There  was  little  to  tell  of  the  great  Spanish  painter, 
whose  life  was  uniformly  prosperous  ; but  Mr  Stirling 
gives  sketches  of  Philip  IV.  and  his  circle,  and  adds 
many  critical  remarks  and  comparisons.  He  prefers 
Velasquez  to  Murillo  or  Rubens — an  opinion  in 
which  few  -will  concur.  The  following  is  one  of  the 
numerous  happy  illustrative  sketches  introduced  by 
the  biographer. 

[ Velasquez ’ Faithful  Colour-grinder.] 

Juan  de  Pareja,  one  of  the  ablest,  and  better  known 
to  fame  as  the  sla  <o  of  Velasquez,  was  born  at  Seville 


in  1606.  His  parents  belonged  to  the  class  of  slaves 
then  numerous  in  Andalusia,  the  descendants  of  negroes 
imported  in  large  numbers  into  Spain  by  the  Moriscos 
in  the  sixteenth  century ; and  in  the  African  hue  and 
features  of  their  son,  there  is  evidence  that  they  were 
mulattoes,  or  that  one  or  other  of  them  was  a black. 
It  is  not  known  whether  he  came  into  the  possession  of 
Velasquez  by  purchase  or  by  inheritance,  but  he  was  in 
his  service  as  early  as  1623,  when  he  accompanied  him 
to  Madrid.  Being  employed  to  clean  the  brushes,  grind 
the  colours,  prepare  the  palettes,  and  do  the  other 
menial  work  of  the  studio,  and  living  amongst  pictures 
and  painters,  he  early  acquired  an  acquaintance  with  the 
implements  of  art,  and  an  ambition  to  use  them.  He 
therefore  watched  the  proceedings  of  his  master,  and 
privately  copied  his  works  with  the  eagerness  of  a lover 
and  the  secrecy  of  a conspirator.  In  the  Italian  journeys 
in  which  he  accompanied  Velasquez,  he  seized  every 
opportunity  of  improvement ; and  in  the  end  he  became 
an  artist  of  no  mean  skill.  But  his  nature  was  so 
reserved,  and  his  candle  so  jealously  concealed  under  its 
bushel,  that  he  had  returned  from  his  second  visit  to 
Rome,  and  had  reached  the  mature  age  of  forty-five, 
before  his  master  became  aware  that  he  could  use  the 
brushes  which  he  washed.  When  at  last  he  determined 
on  laying  aside  the  mask,  he  contrived  that  it  should  be 
removed  by  the  hand  of  the  king.  Finishing  a small 
picture  with  peculiar  care,  he  deposited  it  in  his  master’s 
studio,  with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall.  A picture  so 
placed  arouses  curiosity,  and  is  perhaps  more  certain  to 
attract  the  eye  of  the  loitering  visitor  than  if  it  were 
hung  up  for  the  purpose  of  being  seen.  When  Philip  IV. 
visited  Velasquez,  he  never  failed  to  cause  the  daub 
or  the  masterpiece  that  happened  to  occupy  such  a 
position  to  be  paraded  for  his  inspection.  He  therefore 
fell  at  once  into  the  trap,  and  being  pleased  with  the 
work,  asked  for  the  author.  Pareja,  who  took  care  to 
be  at  the  royal  elbow,  immediately  fell  on  his  knees, 
owning  his  guilt,  and  praying  for  his  majesty’s  protection. 
The  good-natured  king,  turning  to  Velasquez,  said  : ‘ You 
see  that  a painter  like  this  ought  not  to  remain  a slave.’ 
Pareja,  kissing  the  royal  hand,  rose  from  the  ground  a 
free  man.  His  master  gave  him  a formal  deed  of  manu- 
mission, and  received  the  colour-grinder  as  a scholar. 
The  attached  follower,  however,  remained  with  him 
till  he  died ; and  continued  in  the  service  of  his 
daughter,  the  wife  of  Mazo  Martinez,  until  his  own 
death,  in  1670. 

a h.  lewes  {Life  of  Goethe). 

English  readers  are  now  becoming  familiar  with 
both  the  life  and  writings  of  the  great  German, 
Goethe.  Mr  Carlyle  first  awakened  attention  in 
this  country  to  the  poet’s  personal  history,  as  well 
as  to  the  just  appreciation  of  his  genius.  Since 
then,  Mr  Oxenford  has  translated  the  Autobio- 
graphy and  Eckermann’s  Conversations ; Mrs  Austin 
has  given  us  Goethe  a\id  his  Contemporaries , of  which 
Falk’s  Reminiscences  form  the  nucleus ; and  now 
Mr  Lewes  has  presented  the  public  with  the  labour 
of  about  ten  years  in  his  Life  and  Works  of  Goethe , 
with  Sketches  of  his  Age  and  Contemporaries , two 
volumes,  1855.  We  have  the  man  and  all  his 
‘ environments  ’ before  us.  His  mother  seems  to 
have  given  him  everything,  as  Mr  Lewes  remarks, 
which  bore  the  stamp  of  distinctive  individuality. 
She  was  a lively,  joyous,  little  woman.  ‘ Order  and 
quiet,’  she  said,  ‘are  my  principal  characteristics. 
Hence  I despatch  at  once  whatever  I have  to  do, 
the  most  disagreeable  always  first,  and  I gulp  down 
the  devil  without  looking  at  him.  When  all  has 
returned  to  its  proper  state,  I defy  any  one  to 
surpass  me  in  good-humour.’  On  this  maternal 
question  Mr  Lewes  philosophises  a little. 

727 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


[The  Hereditary  Transmission  of  Qualities .] 

The  maternal  influence  is  popularly  credited  with  the 
preponderance.  ‘ All  remarkable  men  have  remarkable 
mothers,’  is  a current  saying.  But  this  hasty  and 
empirical  generalisation  is  no  truer  than  such  generali- 
sations usually  are.  It  is  disproved  by  fact.  It  is  dis- 
proved by  what  is  known  of  hereditary  transmission. 
It  leads  also  to  this  fatal  conclusion — namely,  that  if 
the  mother  had  the  preponderating  influence  over  the 
organisation  of  the  child,  the  race  would  be  in  perpetual 
degeneration;  just  as  the  white  man’s  superior  organi- 
sation is  gradually  lost  when  a few  white  men  inter- 
marry with  a preponderating  black  race.  The  whole 
question  of  hereditary  transmission  is  at  present  beyond 
the  scope  of  science.  We  know  that  form,  feature, 
temperament,  idiosyncrasy,  acquired  habit,  diseases, 

I anomalies  of  structure,  and  duration  of  life,  are  trans- 
mitted to  offspring ; but  the  law  of  transmission  is  still 
hidden  from  us.  Certain  qualities  are  transmitted  from 
parents  to  children  in  so  direct  a manner  as  to  strike 
the  least  observant  eye ; on  the  other  hand,  it  often 
happens  that  the  transmitted  quality  is  mashed  by  the 
presence  of  some  different  quality,  and  only  reappears 
in  the  second  or  third  generation.  New  combinations 
also  take  place.  Still,  we  can  say  with  safety  that 
whenever  a child  exhibits  any  remarkable  aptitude,  we 
may  detect  that  aptitude  in  one  or  both  of  his  parents, 
or  grand-parents.  Thus  it  is  that  observation  detects 
families  illustrious  through  several  generations ; and 
families  also  which,  through  many  generations,  transmit 
idiocy  and  imbecility.  That  ‘ talent  runs  in  families  ’ 
we  are  taught  by  examples,  such  as  the  ‘ wit  of  the 
j Sheridans,’  and  the  ‘ esprit  des  Mortemarts.’  Nor  am  I 
| aware  of  any  musical  genius  springing  from  a family  in 
which,  during  two  generations,  musical  aptitude  was 
not  remarkable.  It  is  necessary  to  include  two  genera- 
tions, because  among  the  curious  phenomena  of  heredi- 
tariness  there  is  the  phenomenon  of  atavism,  in  which 
children  resemble  their  ancestors,  but  do  not  resemble 
their  progenitors. 

Goethe’s  mother  was  just  eighteen  when  he  was 
I born.  ‘ I and  my  Wolfgang,’  she  said,  ‘have  always 
| held  fast  to  each  other,  because  we  were  both  young 
| together.’  It  is  pleasing  to  know  that  she  lived  to 
| hail  him  the  greatest  citizen  of  Weimar  and  the 
i most  popular  author  of  Germany.  The  father,  a 
councillor  of  Frankfort,  was  somewhat  cold  and 
formal,  but  he  appears  to  have  been  indulgent 
; enough  to  the  wayward  genius,  his  son.  Mr  Lewes 
| enters  at  length  into  the  poet’s  college  life  at 
! Leipsic  and  Strasburg,  and  has  had  access  to 
various  unpublished  sources  of  information.  The 
first  literary  work  of  Goethe,  his  drama  of  Gotz  von 
Berlichengen — written  in  1771,  but  not  published  till 
1773 — is  a vivid  picture  of  wild  robber  life  and 
feudal  times.  It  caught  the  fancy  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  became  its  translator;  but  though  highly 
popular  in  its  day,  this  tragedy  gives  but  faint  indi- 
cation of  the  depth  or  delicacy  of  feeling  and  the 
! subtle  imagination  that  ‘interpenetrates’  Werther. 
i The  poet,  it  is  well  known,  wrote  from  genuine 
' impulses.  He  was,  or  fancied  himself,  desperately 
in  love  with  Charlotte  Buff.  Charlotte,  however, 
was  betrothed  to  a friend  of  the  poet,  Kestner,  and  a 
complication  of  passion  and  disappointment  agitated 
the  affectionate  trio.  Charlotte  and  Kestner  were 
married,  and  Goethe  sought  relief  in  his  own  peculiar 
way  by  embodying  the  story  of  their  love  and  his 
I own  feelings,  with  the  addition  of  ideal  circumstances, 
in  his  ‘ philosophical  romance  ’ of  Werther.  The 
! romance  was  published  in  1774,  and  Mr  Lewes  says  : 
‘Perhaps  there  never  was  a fiction  which  so  startled 
and  enraptured  the  world.  Men  of  all  kinds  and 
728 


classes  were  moved  by  it.  It  was  the  companion  of 
Napoleon,  when  in  Egypt ; it  penetrated  into  China. 
To  convey  in  a sentence  its  wondrous  popularity, 
we  may  state  that  in  Germany  it  became  a people’s 
-book,  hawked  about  the  streets,  printed  on  miserable 
paper,  like  an  ancient  ballad ; and  in  the  Chinese 
empire,  Charlotte  and  Werther  were  modelled  in 
porcelain.’  In  this  country  also,  despite  its  ques- 
tionable morality  and  sentimentalism,  it  had  an 
immense  popularity  in  an  English  version.  Carlyle 
touches  on  one  cause  of  this  success : * That  nameless 
unrest,  the  blind  struggle  of  a soul  in  bondage,  that 
high,  sad,  longing  discontent  which  was  agitating 
every  bosom  had  driven  Goethe  almost  to  despair. 
All  felt  it ; he  alone  could  give  it  voice,  and  here  lies 
the  secret  of  his  popularity.’  A spirit  of  speculation 
was  abroad,  men  were  disgusted  with  the  political 
institution  of  the  age,  and  had  begun  to  indulge  in 
those  visions  of  emancipation  and  freedom  which,  in 
part,  led  to  the  French  Revolution.  Like  Ossian’s 
Poems — which  were  at  first  as  rapturously  received 
— the  Son'ows  of  Werther  find  little  acceptance 
now  in  this  country.*  In  the  original  it  is  a 
master-piece  of  style.  ‘We  may  look  through 
German  literature  in  vain  for  such  clear  sunny 
pictures,  fulness  of  life,  and  delicately  managed 
simplicity:  its  style  is  one  continuous  strain  of 
music.’  The  real  and  the  ideal  had  been  happily 
blended.  Goethe  was  now  a literary  lion  ; and  the 
Duke  of  Weimar— the  reigning  prince — visiting 
Frankfort,  insisted  on  his  spending  a few  weeks  at 
his  court.  ‘On  the  7th  of  November  1775,  Goethe, 
aged  twenty-six,  arrived  at  the  little  city  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ilm  [Weimar],  where  his  long  residence 
was  to  confer  on  an  insignificant  duchy  the  immortal 
renown  of  a German  Athens.’  Mr  Lewes  describes 
Weimar  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

[Picture  of  Weimar.] 

Weimar  is  an  ancient  city  on  the  Ilm,  a small  stream 
rising  in  the  Thuringian  forests,  and  losing  itself  in  the 
Saal,  at  Jena,  a stream  on  which  the  sole  navigation 
seems  to  be  that  of  ducks,  and  which  meanders  peace- 
fully through  pleasant  valleys,  except  during  the  rainy 
season,  when  mountain  torrents  swell  its  current  and 
overflow  its  banks.  The  Trent,  between  Trentham  and 
Stafford — ‘the  smug  and  silver  Trent,’  as  Shakspeare 
calls  it — will  give  you  an  idea  of  this  stream.  The 
town  is  charmingly  placed  in  the  Ilm  valley,  and  stands 
some  eight  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea. 
‘Weimar,’  says  the  old  topographer  Mathew  Merian, 
‘is  Weinmar,  because  it  was  the  wine-market  for  Jena 
and  its  environs.  Others  say  it  was  because  some  one 
here  in  ancient  days  began  to  plant  the  vine,  who  was 

* Thackeray’s  ballad  on  the  story  is  more  popular : 

Sorrows  of  Wertha\ 

"Werther  had  a love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 

She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a married  lady, 

And  a moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed,  and  pined,  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled. 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out,  * 

And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a shutter. 

Like  a well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


BIOGRAPHERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


G.  H.  LEWES. 


hence  called  Weinmayer.  But  of  this  each  reader  may 
believe  just  what  he  pleases.’ 

On  a first  acquaintance,  Weimar  seems  more  like  a 
village  bordering  a park,  than  a capital  with  a court, 
and  having  all  courtly  environments.  It  is  so  quiet, 
so  simple ; and  although  ancient  in  its  architecture, 
has  none  of  the  picturesqueness  which  delights  the 
eye  in  most  old  German  cities.  The  stone-coloured, 
light-brown,  and  apple-green  houses  have  high-peaked, 
slanting  roofs,  but  no  quaint  gables,  no  caprices  of 
architectural  fancy,  none  of  the  mingling  of  varied  styles 
which  elsewhere  charm  the  traveller.  One  learns  to 
love  its  quiet,  simple  streets,  and  pleasant  paths,  fit 
theatre  for  the  simple  actors  moving  across  the  scene ; 
but  one  must  live  there  some  time  to  discover  its 
charm.  The  aspect  it  presented  when  Goethe  arrived 
was  of  course  very  different  from  that  presented  now ; 
but  by  diligent  inquiry  we  may  get  some  rough  image 
of  the  place  restored.  First  be  it  noted  that  the  city 
walls  were  still  erect;  gates  and  portcullis  still  spoke 
of  days  of  warfare.  Within  these  walls  were  six  or 
seven  hundred  houses,  not  more,  most  of  them  very 
ancient.  Under  these  roofs  were  about  seven  thousand 
inhabitants — for  the  most  part  not  handsome.  The 
city  gates  were  strictly  guarded.  No  one  could  pass 
through  them  in  cart  or  carriage  without  leaving  his 
name  in  the  sentinel’s  book;  even  Goethe,  minister  and 
favourite,  could  not  escape  this  tiresome  formality,  as 
we  gather  from  one  of  his  letters  to  the  Frau  von  Stein, 
directing  her  to  go  out  alone,  and  meet  him  beyond  the 
gates,  lest  their  exit  together  should  be  known.  During 
Sunday  service  a chain  was  thrown  across  the  streets 
leading  to  the  church  to  bar  out  all  passengers — a practice 
to  this  day  partially  retained : the  chain  is  fastened, 
but  the  passengers  step  over  it  without  ceremony.  There 
was  little  safety  at  night  in  those  silent  streets ; for  if 
you  were  in  no  great  danger  from  mai’auders,  you  were 
in  constant  danger  of  breaking  a limb  in  some  hole  or 
other,  the  idea  of  lighting  streets  not  having  presented 
itself  to  the  Thuringian  mind.  In  the  year  1685,  the 
streets  of  London  were  first  lighted  with  lamps;  and 
Germany,  in  most  things  a century  behind  England,  had 
not  yet  ventured  on  that  experiment.  If  in  this  1854 
Weimar  is  still  innocent  of  gas,  and  perplexes  its  inha- 
bitants with  the  dim  obscurity  of  an  occasional  oil-lamp 
slung  on  a cord  across  the  streets,  we  may  imagine  that 
in  1775  they  had  not  even  advanced  so  far.  And  our 
supposition  is  exact.  * * 

A century  earlier,  stage-coaches  were  known  in 
England ; but  in  Germany,  public  conveyances,  very 
rude  to  this  day  in  places  where  no  railway  exists,  were 
few  and  miserable,  nothing  but  open  carts  with  un- 
stuffed seats.  Diligences  on  springs  were  unknown 
before  1800,  and  what  they  were  even  twenty  years 
ago  many  readers  doubtless  remember.  Then  as  to 
speed  : if  you  travelled  post,  it  was  said  with  pride  that 
seldom  more  than  an  hour’s  waiting  was  necessary  before 
the  horses  were  got  ready,  at  least  on  frequented  routes. 
Mail  travelling  was  at  the  rate  of  five  English  miles  in 
an  hour  and  a quarter.  Letters  took  nine  days  from 
Berlin  to  Frankfort,  which  in  1854  require  only  twenty- 
four  hours.  So  slow  was  the  communication  of  news, 
that,  as  we  learn  from  the  Stein  correspondence,  so 
great  an  event  as  the  death  of  Frederick  the  Great  was 
only  known  as  a rumour  a week  afterwards  in  Carlsbad. 
‘By  this  time,’  writes  Goethe,  ‘you  must  know  in 
Weimar  if  it  be  true.’  With  these  facilities  it  was 
natural  that  men  travelled  but  rarely,  and  mostly  on 
horseback.  What  the  inns  were  may  be  imagined  from 
the  unfrequency  of  travellers,  and  the  general  state  of 
domestic  comfort. 

The  absence  of  comfort  and  luxury — luxury  as  distin- 
guished from  ornament — may  be  gathered  from  the 
memoirs  of  the  time,  and  from  such  works  as  Bertuch’s 
Mode  Journal.  Such  necessities  as  good  locks,  doors 
that  shut,  drawers  opening  easily,  tolerable  knives,  carts 


on  springs,  or  beds  fit  for  a Christian  of  any  other  than 
the  ‘ German  persuasion,’  are  still  rarities  in  Thuringia ; 
but  in  those  days,  when  sewers  were  undreamed  of, 
and  a post-office  was  a chimera,  all  that  we  moderns 
consider  comfort  was  necessarily  fabulous.  The  furni- 
ture, even  of  palaces,  was  extremely  simple.  In  the 
houses  of  wealthy  bourgeois,  chairs  and  tables  were  of 
common  fir ; not  until  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  did  mahogany  make  its  appearance.  Looking- 
glasses  followed.  The  chairs  were  covered  with  a coarse 
green  cloth ; the  tables  likewise ; and  carpets  are  only 
now  beginning  to  loom  upon  the  national  mind  as  a 
possible  luxury.  The  windows  were  hung  with  woollen 
curtains,  when  the  extravagance  of  curtains  was  ventured 
on.  Easy-chairs  were  unknown  ; the  only  arm-chair 
allowed  was  the  so-called  Grandfather's  chair , which 
was  reserved  for  the  dignity  of  gray  hairs,  or  the 
feebleness  of  age. 

The  salon  de  reception , or  drawing-room,  into  which 
greatly  honoured  visitors  were  shewn,  had  of  course  a 
kind  of  Sunday  splendour,  not  dimmed  by  week-day 
familiarity.  There  hung  the  curtains ; the  walls  were 
adorned  with  family  portraits  or  some  work  of  extremely 
‘ native  talent ; ’ the  tables  alluring  the  eye  with  china, 
in  guise  of  cups,  vases,  impossible  shepherds,  and  very 
allegorical  dogs.  Into  this  room  the  honoured  visitor 
was  ushered ; and  there,  no  matter  what  the  hour,  he 
was  handed  refreshment  of  some  kind.  This  custom 
— a compound  product  of  hospitality  and  bad  inns — 
lingered  until  lately  in  England,  and  perhaps  is  still 
not  unknown  in  provincial  towns. 

On  eating  and  drinking  was  spent  the  surplus  now 
devoted  to  finery.  No  one  then,  except  gentlemen  of 
the  first  water,  boasted  of  a gold  snuff-box ; even  a 
gold-headed  cane  was  an  unusual  elegance.  The  dandy 
contented  himself  with  a silver  watch.  The  fine  lady 
blazoned  herself  with  a gold  watch  and  heavy  chain ; 
but  it  was  an  heirloom ! To  see  a modern  dinner 
service  glittering  with  silver,  glass,  and  china,  and  to 
think  that  even  the  nobility  in  those  days  ate  off  pewter, 
is  enough  to  make  the  lapse  of  time  very  vivid  to  us. 
A silver  tea-pot  and  tea-tray  were  held  as  princely 
magnificence. 

The  manners  were  rough  and  simple.  The  journeymen 
ate  at  the  same  table  with  their  masters,  and  joined  in 
the  coarse  jokes  which  then  passed  for  hilarity.  Filial 
obedience  was  rigidly  enforced,  the  stick  or  strap  not 
unfrequently  aiding  parental  authority.  Even  the 
brothers  exercised  an  almost  paternal  authority  over 
their  sisters.  Indeed,  the  ‘ position  of  women  ’ was 
by  no  means  such  as  our  women  can  conceive  with 
patience ; not  only  were  they  kept  under  the  paternal, 
marital,  and  fraternal  yoke,  but  society  limited  their 
actions  by  its  prejudices  still  more  than  it  does  now. 
No  woman,  for  instance,  of  the  better  class  of  citizens 
could  go  out  alone;  the  servant-girl  followed  her  to 
church,  to  a shop,  or  even  to  the  promenade.  * * 

The  foregoing  survey  would  be  incomplete  without 
some  notice  of  the  prices  of  things,  the  more  so  as  we 
shall  learn  hereafter  that  the  pension  Karl  August  gave 
Schiller  was  200  thalers — about  £60  of  our  money — 
and  that  the  salary  Goethe  received,  as  Councillor  of 
Legation,  was  only  1200  thalers — about  £200  per 
annum.  On  reading  this,  Mr  Smith  jingles  the  loose 
silver  in  his  pockets,  and,  with  that  superb  British 
pride,  redolent  of  consols,  which  makes  the  family  of 
Smith  so  accurate  a judge  of  all  social  positions, 
exclaims : ‘ These  beggarly  Germans ; I give  my  head 
clerk  twice  the  sum  ! ’ 

At  the  little  court,  Goethe  "was  all  but  idolised. 
He  dressed  in  the  costume  which  he  had  assigned 
to  his  Wcrther , and  the  dress  was  adopted  by  the 
duke  and  the  courtiers.  It  was  not  very  senti- 
mental, as  Mr  Lewes  suggests,  being  composed  of 
blue  coat  and  brass  buttons,  top-boots  and  leather 

729 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


breeches,  surmounted  by  powder  and  pig-tail ! The 
duke,  Karl  August,  though  patronising  literature 
in  the  person  of  Goethe,  seems  to  have  been  some- 
what idle  and  dissipated;  the  Dowager-duchess 
Amalia  was  more  intellectual.  There  was  also  a 
Baroness  von  Stein,  wife  of  the  Master  of  the 
Horse,  who  captivated  Goethe,  and  the  attachment 
lapsed  into  a liaison , not  uncommon  in  that  court, 
but  which  Mr  Lewes  passes  over  too  slightly,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  The  poet,  however,  applied 
himself  to  business,  was  made  President  of  the 
Chamber,  Minister  of  the  War  Department,  and, 
finally,  elevated  to  the  nobility.  Henceforth  he  is 
Von  Goethe.  He  gets  tired,  however,  of  public  life ; 
travels  into  Italy ; and,  by  consent  of  the  duke,  is 
released,  after  his  return  to  Weimar,  from  official 
duties.  His  passion  for  the  Frau  von  Stein  now 
cooled — all  his  love-scenes  are  dissolving- views ; 
but  in  the  autumn  of  1788,  Goethe,  ‘walking  in 
the  much-loved  park,  was  accosted  by  a fresh, 
young,  bright-looking  girl,  who,  with  many  rever- 
ences, handed  him  a petition.’  The  petition  con- 
tained a request  that  the  great  poet  would  exert  his 
influence  to  procure  a post  for  a young  author,  the 
brother  of  the  maiden  who  then  addressed  him,  and 
whose  name  was  Christiane  Yulpius.  Christiane 
was  humble  in  rank,  clever,  but  not  highly  gifted — 
‘ not  a Frau  von  Stein.’  She  was,  however,  elevated 
to  the  same  bad  eminence  in  the  poet’s  regard,  and, 
fifteen  years  afterwards,  when  a son  had  been  born 
to  them — when  Wilhelm  Meister , the  Faust,  and 
Lyrics  had  placed  Goethe  at  the  head  of  German 
authors — he  married  Christiane  Yulpius.  The 
‘ sunset,’  which  Mr  Lewes  puts  at  the  head  of 
‘ Book  the  Seventh,’  had  then  commenced.  But 
stirring  incidents  still  remained — the  battle  of 
Jena  and  sack  of  Weimar,  and,  subsequently,  the 
gratifying  interview  with  Napoleon.  Love-pas- 
sages also  were  interposed,  and  the  sexagenarian 
poet  ‘ deposited  with  deep  emotion  many  a sad 
experience’  in  his  fiction  and  poetry.  All  this 
German  sentimentalism  seems  as  unlike  real  life 
as  the  scenes  in  the  sparkling  comedies  of  Con- 
greve or  Wycherley.  Goethe  at  seventy  was 
younger,  Mr  Lewes  says,  than  many  men  at  fifty. 
The  second  part  of  Faust  was  completed  in  his 
eighty-first  year,  and  at  eighty-two  he  wrote  a 
scientific  paper  on  philosophic  zoology.  In  his 
latter  years  his  daughter-in-law  kept  house  for 
him,  Christiane  having  died  in  1816.  The  poet 
survived  her  nearly  sixteen  years.  Mr  Lewes  thus 
describes  the  last  scene : 

[Death  of  Goethe .] 

The  following  morning — it  was  the  22d  March  1832 
—he  tried  to  walk  a little  up  and  down  the  room,  but, 
after  a turn,  he  found  himself  too  feeble  to  continue. 
Reseating  himself  in  the  easy-chair,  he  chatted  cheer- 
fully with  Ottilie  [his  daughter-in-law]  on  the  approach- 
ing spring,  which  would  be  sure  to  restore  him.  He 
had  no  idea  of  his  end  being  so  near.  The  name  of 
Ottilie  was  frequently  on  his  lips.  She  sat  beside  him, 
holding  his  hand  in  both  of  hers.  It  was  now  observed 
that  his  thoughts  began  to  wander  incoherently.  ‘ See,’ 
he  exclaimed,  ‘the  lovely  woman’s  head,  with  black 
curls,  in  splendid  colours — a dark  background  !’  Pre- 
sently he  saw  a piece  of  paper  on  the  floor,  and  asked 
them  how  they  could  leave  Schiller’s  letters  so  carelessly 
lying  about.  Then  he  slept  softly,  and,  on  awakening, 
asked  for  the  sketches  he  had  just  seen — the  sketches 
of  his  dream.  In  silent  anguish  they  awaited  the  close 
now  so  surely  approaching.  His  speech  was  becoming 
less  and  less  distinct.  The  last  words  audible  were, 
More  light!  The  final  darkness  grew  apace,  and  he 
730 


whose  eternal  longings  had  been  for  more  light,  gave 
a parting  cry  for  it  as  he  was  passing  under  the  shadow 
of  death.  He  continued  to  express  himself  by  signs, 
drawing  letters  with  his  forefinger  in  the  air  while  he 
had  strength ; and  finally,  as  life  ebbed,  drawing  figures 
slowly  on  the  shawl  which  covered  his  legs.  At  half- 
past twelve  he  composed  himself  in  the  corner  of  the 
chair.  The  watcher  placed  a finger  on  her  lip  to  inti- 
mate that  he  was  asleep.  If  sleep  it  was,  it  was  a sleep 
in  which  a life  glided  from  the  world.  He  woke  no 
more. 

The  influence  which  Goethe’s  writings  exercised 
on  all  the  literature  of  Europe  has  been  noticed  by 
Carlyle,  and  is  fully  traced  by  Mr  Lewes.  He 
gives  copious  analyses  of  the  principal  works — 
especially  the  Faust — and  on  all  points  of  the 
poet’s  history  and  his  ‘ romances  of  the  heart  ’ 
(more  properly  of  the  imagination)  we  have  ample 
details.  No  more  original  or  exhaustive  memoir 
has  appeared  since  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Scott.  We 
subjoin  one  further  extract : 

[Goethe's  Daily  Life  at  Weimar .] 

Passing  through  an  ante-chamber,  where,  in  cupboards, 
stand  his  mineralogical  collections,  we  enter  the  study, 
a low-roofed,  narrow  room,  somewhat  dark,  for  it  is 
lighted  only  through  two  tiny  windows,  and  furnished 
with  a simplicity  quite  touching  to  behold.  In  the 
centre  stands  a plain  oval  table  of  unpolished  oak.  No 
arm-chair  is  to  be  seen,  no  sofa,  nothing  which  speaks 
of  ease.  A plain  hard  chair  has  beside  it  the  basket  in 
which  he  used  to  place  his  handkerchief.  Against  the 
wall,  on  the  right,  is  a long  pear-tree  table,  with  book- 
shelves, on  which  stand  lexicons  and  manuals.  Here 
hangs  a pincushion,  venerable  in  dust,  with  the  visiting- 
cards,  and  other  trifles  which  death  has  made  sacred. 
Here,  also,  a medallion  of  Napoleon,  with  this  circum- 
scription : ‘ Scilicet  immenso  superest  ex  nomine 

multum.’  On  the  side-wall,  again,  a bookcase,  with 
some  works  of  poets.  On  the  wall  to  the  left  is  a 
long  desk  of  soft  wood,  at  which  he  was  wonkto  write. 
A sheet  of  paper  with  notes  of  contemporary  history  is 
fastened  near  the  door,  and  behind  this  door  schematic 
tables  of  music  and  geology.  The  same  door  leads  into 
a bedroom : it  is  a closet  with  a window.  A simple 
bed,  an  arm-chair  by  its  side,  and  a tiny  washing-table, 
with  a small  white  basin  on  it  and  a sponge,  is  all  the 
furniture.  * * From  the  other  side  of  the  study  we 
enter  the  library,  which  should  rather  be  called  a 
lumber-room  of  books.  Rough  deal-shelves  hold  the 
books,  with  bits  of  paper,  on  which  are  written 
‘ philosophy,’  ‘ history,’  ‘ poetry,’  &c.,  to  mark  the 
classification.  He  rose  at  seven,  sometimes  earlier,  after 
a sound  and  prolonged  sleep ; for,  like  Thorwaldsen, 
he  had  a ‘talent  for  sleeping’  only  surpassed  by  his 
talent  for  continuous  work.  Till  eleven  he  worked 
without  interruption.  A cup  of  chocolate  was  then 
brought,  and  he  resumed  work  till  one.  At  two  he 
dined.  This  meal  was  the  important  meal  of  the 
day.  His  appetite  was  immense.  Even  on  the  days 
when  he  complained  of  not  being  hungry,  he  ate  much 
more  than  most  men.  Puddings,  sweets,  and  cakes 
were  always  welcome.  He  sat  a long  while  over  his 
wine,  chatting  gaily  to  some  friend  or  other — for  he 
never  dined  alone — or  to  one  of  the  actors,  whom  he 
often  had  with  him,  after  dinner,  to  read  over  their 
parts,  and  to  take  his  instructions.  He  was  fond  of 
wine,  and  drank  daily  his  two  or  three  bottles.  Lest 
this  statement  should  convey  a false  impression,  I 
hasten  to  recall  to  the  reader’s  recollection  the  very 
different  habits  of  our  fathers  in  respect  of  drinking. 
It  was  no  unusual  thing  to  be  a * three-bottle  man  ’ in 
those  days  in  England,  when  the  three  bottles  were  of  port 
or  Burgundy;  and  Goethe,  a Rhinelander,  accustomed 


theologians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  pusey — e.  bickersteth. 


from  boyhood  to  wine,  drank  a wine  which  his  Eng- 
lish contemporaries  would  have  called  water.  The 
amount  he  drank  never  did  more  than  exhilarate  him  ; 
never  made  him  unfit  for  work  or  for  society.  Over 
his  wine,  then,  he  sat  some  hours;  no  such  thing  as 
dessert  was  seen  upon  his  table  in  those  days;  not 
even  the  customary  coffee  after  dinner.  His  mode  of 
living  was  extremely  simple;  and  even  when  persons 
of  very  modest  circumstances  burned  wax,  two  poor 
tallow  candles  were  all  that  could  be  seen  in  his  rooms. 
In  the  evening  he  went  often  to  the  theatre,  and  there 
his  customary  glass  of  punch  was  brought  at  six  o’clock. 
If  not  at  the  theatre,  he  received  friends  at  home. 
Between  eight  and  nine  a frugal  supper  was  laid,  but  he 
never  took  anything  except  a little  salad  or  preserves. 
By  ten  o’clock  he  was  usually  in  bed. 


THEOLOGIANS. 

DR  P U S E Y — D R NEWMAN. 

The  publication  of  the  Tracts  for  the  Times , by 
Members  of  the  University  of  Oxford , four  volumes, 
1832-37,  forms  an  era  in  the  history  of  the  Church 
of  England.  The  leading  contributors  were  the 
Rev.  Dr  Pusey,  Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew  and 
Canon  of  Christ  Church ; the  Rev.  J.  H.  Newman, 
Eellow  of  Oriel  and  Vicar  of  St  Mary’s ; the  Rev. 
J.  Keble,  Professor  of  Poetry ; and  the  Rev.  J. 
Williams,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College.  The  tenets 
of  this  party  are  judgment  by  works  equally  as  by 
faith,  baptismal  regeneration,  the  supreme  authority 
of  the  church,  and  the  apostolical  succession  of  the 
clergy.  At  the  same  time  the  Tractarian  preachers 
adopted  certain  peculiarities  in  the  performance  of 
divine  service — as  abjuring  the  black  Geneva  gown 
and  preaching  in  the  white  surplice,  bowing  to  the 
altar  and  turning  their  backs  to  the  people,  arraying 
the  altar  with  tippet  and  flowers  and  mediseval 
embellishments,  placing  lighted  candles  on  the 
altars,  &c.  One  effect  of  these  innovations  was  to 
stir  up  a violent  controversy,  in  which  High  and 
Low  and  Broad  Church  all  mingled ; while  a few, 
like  Dr  Arnold,  proposed  that  the  Established 
Church  should  be  so  comprehensive  as  to  include 
not  merely  the  churches  of  England  and  Scotland, 
but  nearly  all  the  bodies  of  Dissenters.  Another 
effect  of  the  innovations  was  to  drive  many  sup- 
porters of  the  establishment  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Dissenters,  and  some  into  the  Church  of  Rome. 
Mr  Newman  published  a work,  Remains  of  the  late 
Rev.  Richard  H.  Froude , a Fellow  of  Oriel  College, 
who  died  young ; and  in  these  remains  Mr  Froude 
— ‘ who  was  not  a man,’  observed  his  editor,  Mr 
Newman,  ‘who  said  anything  at  random’ — spoke 
of  ‘unprotestantising  the  church,’  and  called  the 
Reformation  ‘a  limb  badly  set,  which  required  to 
be  broken  again,’  &c.  The  serious  and  peaceable 
heads  of  the  church  became  alarmed.  The  tracts 
were  stopped  by  recommendation  of  the  bishop 
of  Oxford,  and  the  last  of  the  series,  written  by  Mr 
Newman,  was  condemned  by  many  of  the  bishops 
and  censured  by  the  Hebdomadal  Board.  The  con- 
troversy is  not  yet  at  an  end — books,  sermons, 
reviews,  charges,  memoirs,  novels,  and  poems,  con- 
tinue to  be  issued  by  the  opposing  parties,  and 
church  vestries  are  occasionally  in  commotion.  Of 
the  18,000  clergymen  in  the  Church  of  England, 
7000,  it  is  calculated,  belong  to  the  High  Church 
party,  6500  to  the  Low  Church,  3500  to  the  Broad 
Church,  and  about  1000  are  peasant  clergy  in  the 
mountain  districts.* 

* Edinburgh  Review,  October  1853. 


The  Rev.  Edward  Bouverie  Pusey  is  the 
second  son  of  the  late  Hon.  Philip  Pusey,  a Berk- 
shire landowner,  and  son  of  the  Earl  of  Radnor. 
He  was  born  in  1800,  studied  at  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  and  became  afterwards  a Fellow  of  Oriel. 
Some  sermons  by  Dr  Pusey  have  been  published — 
Patience  and  Confidence  the  Strength  of  the  Church , 
1837 ; Letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford , i839  ; &c.  A 
sermon  preached  by  him  before  the  university,  was 
said  to  contain  an  avowal  of  his  belief  in  the 
doctrine  of  transubstantiation;  an  examination  took 
place  on  the  part  of  judges  appointed  by  the  univer- 
sity, and  the  result  was  a censure  and  sentence  of 
suspension  from  the  duties  of  a preacher  within  the 
precincts  of  the  university. 

The  Rev.  John  Henry  Newman,  son  of  a banker 
in  London,  after  his  Tractarian  manifestations 
passed  over  to  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  is  now 
priest  of  the  Oratory  of  St  Philip  Neri.  His  first 
publication  after  his  secession  was  An  Essay  on 
the  Development  of  Christian  Doctrine , 1845.  Into 
this  and  other  controversial  works  we  need  not 
enter.  In  1854,  Mr  Newman  published  a treatise, 
The  Office  and  Work  of  Universities ; and  a sketch  of 
the  third  century,  entitled  Callista , published  the 
same  year,  is  ascribed  to  him.  He  was  one  of  the 
writers  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Metropolitana  on  Greek 
and  Roman  philosophy  and  science. 

Mr  Francis  William  Newman,  brother  of  the 
priest,  is  a distinguished  scholar  and  author  of 
various  works.  In  1824  he  was  admitted  a Fellow 
of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  but  resigned  his  fellow- 
ship, as  he  could  not  subscribe  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  for  his  Master’s  degree.  He  is  now  Latin 
Professor  in  University  College,  London.  A History 
of  the  Hebrew  Monarchy , and  Lectures  on  History , were 
published  by  him  in  1847 ; in  1849,  The  Soul,  her 
Sorrows  and  Aspirations ; in  1850,  Phases  of  Faith — 
a work  avowing  the  author’s  infidelity,  but  pervaded 
by  a kind  of  mystical  spiritualism;  Lectures  on 
Political  Economy , 1851 ; Regal  Rome,  1852 ; The 
Crimes  of  the  House  of  Hapsburg,  1853.  In  this 
year,  also,  Professor  Newman  published  The  Odes 
of  Horace,  translated  into  Unrhymed  Metres , but  the 
effort  is  described  as  not  successful. 


DR  BURTON — EDWARD  BICKERSTETH. 

Dr  Edward  Burton  (1794-1836),  a native  of 
Shrewsbury,  was  Regius  Professor  of  Divinity  in 
the  university  of  Oxford,  and  Bampton  lecturer  in 
1829.  His  first  work  was  Observations  on  the 
Antiquities  of  Rome,  which  gave  evidence  of  that 
research  which  afterwards  characterised  his  theo- 
logical works.  His  most  valuable  publications  are 
— Testimonies  of  the  Anti-Nicene  Fathers  to  the 
Divinity  of  Christ,  1826,  and  to  the  Doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  1831 ; Inquiry  into  the  Heresies  of  the  Apos- 
tolic Age;  the  Chronology  of  the  Apostles  and  St  Paul's 
Epistles,  1830;  Lectures  on  the  Ecclesiastical  History 
of  the  First  Three  Centuries,  from  the  Crucifixion  to 
313  a.d.,  two  volumes,  1831-33;  History  of  the 
Christian  Church  to  the  Conversion  of  Constantine, 
1836;  &c.  Besides  these  works,  which  stamped 
him  as  the  most  profound  patristic  scholar  of  his 
age,  Dr  Burton  published  an  edition  of  the  Greek 
Testament  with  notes,  two  volumes,  1831. 

The  Rev.  Edward  Bickersteth  (1786-1850), 
rector  of  Walton,  was  a voluminous  writer;  his 
collected  works,  published  in  1853,  fill  seventeen 
volumes,  and  there  are  five  more  of  his  smaller 
publications.  His  views  were  Low  Church  or 
Evangelical.  The  most  popular  of  Mr  Biekersteth’s 
writings  are — The  Scripture  Help,  a practical  intro- 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


duction  to  the  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  of  which 
Mr  Horne,  in  his  Introduction , says  that  160,000 
copies  have  been  sold:  a Practical  Guide  to  the 
Prophecies,  1839;  The  Christian  Student;  Discourses 
on  Justification , on  the  Lord's  Supper , &c. 

REV.  A.  P.  STANLEY. 

We  have  already  noticed  Mr  Stanley’s  contribu- 
tions to  biography  and  history.  His  work,  The 
Epistles  of  St  Paul  to  the  Corinthians,  with  critical 
notes  and  dissertations,  1855,  is  a no  less  valuable 
addition  to  Biblical  literature.  It  contains  the 
Greek  text,  with  a critical  and  exegetical  com- 
mentary on  every  verse,  doctrinal  essays,  a para- 
phrastic translation,  and  a corrected  edition  of  the 
authorised  version.  In  the  midst  of  criticism  and 
analysis,  striking  passages  are  interposed  with 
artistic  effect — as  this  allusion  to  the  early  celebration 
of  the  Eucharist : 

It  has  been  truly  said,  though  with  some  exagger- 
j ation,  that  for  many  centuries  the  history  of  the 
I Eucharist  might  be  considered  as  a history  of  the 
j Christian  Church.  And  certainly  this  passage  may  be 
regarded  as  occupying  in  that  history,  whether  in  its 
narrower  or  larger  sphere,  a point  of  remarkable  signi- 
ficance. On  the  one  hand,  we  may  take  our  stand  upon 
it,  and  look  back,  through  its  medium,  on  some  of  the 
institutions  and  feelings  most  peculiar  to  the  apostolic 
age.  We  see  the  most  sacred  ordinance  of  the  Christian 
religion  as  it  was  celebrated  by  those  in  whose  minds 
the  earthly  and  the  heavenly,  the  social  and  the 
religious  aspect  of  life,  were  indistinguishably  blended. 
We  see  the  banquet  spread  in  the  late  evening,  after  the 
sun  had  set  behind  the  western  ridge  of  the  hills  of 
i Achaia ; we  see  the  many  torches  blazing,  as  at  Troas, 

1 to  light  up  the  darkness  of  the  upper  room,  where,  as  | 
j was  their  wont,  the  Christian  community  assembled ; 1 
I we  see  the  couches  laid  and  the  walls  hung,  after  the 
i manner  of  the  East,  as  on  the  night  of  the  betrayal; 

we  see  the  sacred  loaf  representing,  in  its  compact  unity, 

| the  harmony  of  the  whole  society ; we  hear  the  blessing 
i or  thanksgiving  on  the  cup  responded  to  by  the  joint 
‘ Amen,’  such  as  even  three  centuries  later  is  described 
I as  like  a peal  of  thunder;  we  witness  the  complete 
J realisation,  in  outward  form,  of  the  apostle’s  words, 

! suggested  doubtless  by  the  sight  of  the  meal  and  the 
sacrament  blended  thus  together,  ‘ Whether  ye  eat  or 
drink,  or  whatsoever  ye  do,  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God.’  ! 
‘ Whatsoever  ye  do  in  word  or  deed,  do  all  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord  Jesus,  giving  thanks  to  God  and  the  Father 
by  him.’ — Corinthians,  vol.  i.  p.  248. 

And  of  St  Paul’s  manual  labour  : 

On  the  one  hand,  the  scene  of  the  tent-maker’s  trade 
at  Corinth,  -where  the  few  hours  of  leisure,  after  the 
long  arguments  in  the  synagogue  and  the  market-place, 
i were  consumed  with  Aquila  and  Priscilla  in  the  uncon - 
; genial  labour  of  weaving  the  long  goats’  hair  of  his 
native  hills  into  the  sackcloth  or  the  tent-cover,  for  the 
1 Greek  fisherman  or  wandering  Arab.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  dogged  stupidity,  or  the  implacable  animosity 
of  his  adversaries,  who  were  ready  with  their  cold 
insinuations  to  contrast,  as  they  supposed,  the  enforced 
meanness  and  degradation  of  Paul  of  Tarsus  with  the 
| conscious  dignity  and  calm  repose  of  the  apostles  at 
Jerusalem,  or  of  those  who  claimed  to  be  their  legiti- 
mate representatives  at  Corinth. — Corinthians,  voL  i. 
p.  167. 

[The  Oldest  Obelisk  in  the  World — The  Temple  of  the 
Sun  at  Heliopolis. 

[From  Stanley’s  Sinai  and  Palestine.] 

Rising  -wild  amidst  garden  shrubs  is  the  solitary  obe- 
lisk which  stood  in  front  of  the  temple,  then  in  company 


with  another,  whose  base  alone  now  remains.  This  is 
the  first  obelisk  I have  seen  standing  in  its  proper  place, 
and  there  it  has  stood  for  nearly  four  thousand  years. 
It  is  the  oldest  known  in  Egypt,  and  therefore  in  the 
world — the  father  of  all  that  have  arisen  since.  It  was 
raised  about  a century  before  the  coming  of  Joseph  ; it 
has  looked  down  on  his  marriage  with  Asenath  ; it  has 
seen  the  growth  of  Moses ; it  is  mentioned  by  Herodo- 
tus ; Plato  sat  under  its  shadow  : of  all  the  obelisks 
which  sprang  up  around  it,  it  alone  has  kept  its  first 
position.  One  by  one,  it  has  seen  its  sons  and  brothers 
depart  to  great  destinies  elsewhere.  From  these  gardens 
came  the  obelisks  of  the  Lateran,  of  the  Vatican,  and  of 
the  Porta  del  Popolo  ; and  this  venerable  pillar  (for 
so  it  looks  from  a distance)  is  now  almost  the  only 
landmark  of  the  great  seat  of  the  wisdom  of  Egypt. 

[The  Children  of  the  Desert .] 

The  relation  of  the  Desert  to  its  modern  inhabitants 
is  still  illustrative  of  its  ancient  history.  The  general 
name  by  which  the  Hebrews  called  ‘the  wilderness,’ 
including  always  that  of  Sinai,  was  ‘ the  pasture.’  Bare 
as  the  surface  of  the  Desert  is,  yet  the  thin  clothing  of 
vegetation,  which  is  seldom  entirely  withdrawn,  espe- 
cially the  aromatic  shrubs  on  the  high  hillsides,  furnish 
sufficient  sustenance  for  the  herds  of  the  six  thousand 
Bedouins  who  constitute  the  present  population  of  the 
peninsula. 

Along  the  mountain  ledges  green, 

The  scattered  sheep  at  will  may  glean 

The  Desert’s  spicy  stores. 

So  were  they  seen  following  the  daughters  or  the  shep- 
herd-slaves of  Jethro.  So  may  they  be  seen  climbing 
the  rocks,  or  gathered  round  the  pools  and  springs  of 
the  valleys,  under  the  charge  of  the  black -veiled 
Bedouin  women  of  the  present  day.  And  in  the 
Tiyaha,  Towara,  or  Alouin  tribes,  with  their  chiefs 
and  followers,  their  dress,  and  manners,  and  habi- 
tations, we  probably  see  the  likeness  of  the  Midianites, 
the  Amalekites,  and  the  Israelites  themselves  in  this 
their  earliest  stage  of  existence.  The  long  straight 
lines  of  black  tents  which  cluster  round  the  Desert 
springs,  present  to  us,  on  a small  scale,  the  image  of 
the  vast  encampment  gathered  round  the  one  sacred 
tent  which,  with  its  coverings  of  dyed  skins,  stood 
conspicuous  in  the  midst,  and  which  recalled  the  period 
of  their  nomadic  life  long  after  their  settlement  in 
Palestine.  The  deserted  villages,  marked  by  rude 
enclosures  of  stone,  ave  doubtless  such  as  those  to 
which  the  Hebrew  wanderers  gave  the  name  of 
‘ Hazeroth,’  and  which  afterwards  furnished  the  type 
of  the  primitive  sanctuary  at  Shiloh.  The  rude  burial- 
grounds,  with  the  many  nameless  headstones,  far  away 
from  human  habitation,  are  such  as  the  host  of  Israel 
must  have  left  behind  them  at  the  different  stages  of 
their  progress — at  Massah,  at  Sinai,  at  Kibroth-hattaa- 
vah,  ‘ the  graves  of  desire.’  The  salutations  of  the 
chiefs,  in  their  bright  scarlet  robes,  the  one  ‘ going  out 
to  meet  the  other,’  the  ‘obeisance,’  the  ‘kiss’  on  each 
side  the  head,  the  silent  entrance  into  the  tent  for 
consultations,  are  all  graphically  described  in  the 
encounter  between  Moses  and  Jethro.  The  constitution 
of  the  tribes,  with  the  subordinate  degrees  of  sheiks, 
recommended  by  Jethro  to  Moses,  is  the  very  same 
which  still  exists  amongst  those  who  are  possibly  his 
lineal  descendants — the  gentle  race  of  the  Towara. 

DRS  HAWKINS — HINDS — HAMPDEN — ETC. 

Among  the  Oxford  divines  may  be  mentioned  Dr 
Edward  Hawkins,  Provost  of  Oriel  College,  who 
has  written  Unauthor itative  Tradition , 1819  ; several 
volumes  of  Sermons  and  Discourses;  and  the  Bampton 
Lectures  (on  Christian  Truth ) for  1840.  Dr  Samuel 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


A.  W.  HARE— W.  J.  CONYBEARE. 


Hinds,  Vice-principal  of  St  Alban’s  Hall  and 
Bishop  of  Norwich,  has  written,  with  other  works, 
a History  of  Christianity , two  volumes,  1829,  part 
of  which  appeared  originally  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Metropolilana,  and  is  characterised  by  erudite 
research  and  literary  ability.  Another  theological 
contributor  to  the  Encyclopaedia  Metropolitana  was 
the  present  bishop  of  Hereford,  Dr  Renn  Dickson 
Hampden,  who  had  previous  to  his  elevation  to  the 
bench  been  Principal  of  St  Mary’s  Hall  and  Regius 
Professor  of  Divinity.  Dr  Hampden  was  Bampton 
lecturer  in  1832,  and  his  appointment  as  Regius 
Professor  was  violently  opposed  by  one  party  in 
the  church  on  account  of  alleged  unsoundness  of 
doctrine.  The  controversy  on  this  subject  raged 
for  some  time,  but  it  was  as  much  political  as 
ecclesiastical,  and  Lord  Melbourne  evinced  his 
disregard  of  it  by  promoting  Dr  Hampden  to  the 
see  of  Hereford,  1847.  The  most  important  of  the 
works  of  this  divine  are — Philosophical  Evidence  of 
Christianity , 1827;  the  Bampton  Lectures ; Lectures 
on  Moral  Philosophy ; Sermons  before  the  University 
of  Oxford,  1836-47 ; a Review  of  the  Writings  of 
Thomas  Aquinas  in  the  Encyclopedia  Metropolitana ; 
and  the  articles  Socrates , Plato , and  Aristotle  in  the 
Encyclopedia  Brilannica.  Mr  Hallam  has  charac- 
terised Dr  Hampden  as  4 the  only  Englishman  who, 
since  the  revival  of  letters,  has  penetrated  into  the 
wilderness  of  scholasticism.’  The  Rev.  Edward 
Greswell,  Fellow  of  Corpus  Christi  College,  has 
written  a valuable  Exposition  of  the  Parables  and 
other  Parts  of  the  Gospels,  five  volumes,  1834-35; 
Harmonia  Evangelica,  1835-40 ; Harmony  of  the 
Gospels,  four  volumes,  1830-34 ; Fasti  Tempori 
Catholici,  five  volumes,  1852.  The  father  of  Mr 
Greswell — who  was  incumbent  of  Denton,  Man- 
chester— wrote  a very  elegant  work,  Annals  of 
Parisian  Typography,  1818;  also  a View  of  the 
Early  Parisian  Greek  Press,  1833.  Drs  Hussey, 
Jowett,  Mansell,  and  Mr  Macbride — though  a 
layman— also  reflect  credit  on  the  University  of 
Oxford. 

AUGUSTUS  w.  HARE — JULIUS  C.  HARE — 
DEAN  MILMAN. 

The  brothers  Hare,  accomplished  clergymen, 
were  joint  authors  of  the  work  entitled  Guesses  at 
Truth  by  Two  Brothers , the  first  portion  of  which 
appeared  in  1827,  and  a revised  edition  in  1847-48, 
in  two  volumes.  Augustus  William  Hare  was  a 
Fellow  of  New  College,  Oxford,  and  rector  of  Alton 
Barnes.  He  was  author  of  Sermons  to  a Country 
Congregation,  two  volumes,  1837.  These  sermons 
have  been  much  admired  for  the  purity  of  their 
style,  and  as  affording  ‘ a striking  proof  of  the  effect 
which  a refined  and  cultivated  mind  may  have  in 
directing  the  devotions  and  lives  of  the  simple  and 
ignorant  population.’  Mr  Hare  died  at  Rome  in 
1834,  aged  forty.  Julius  Charles  Hare  was 
rector  of  Hurstmonceaux  and  archdeacon  of  Lewes. 
He  was  an  able  scholar  and  distinguished  member 
of  what  has  been  called  the  Broad  Church  party. 
Part  of  his  youth  was  spent  abroad.  ‘In  1811,’  he 
said,  ‘I  saw  the  mark  of  Luther’s  ink  on  the  walls 
of  the  castle  of  Wartburg,  and  there  I first  learned 
to  throw  inkstands  at  the  devil.’  In  1818  he  was 
elected  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and 
he  was  afterwards  assistant-tutor  of  the  college. 
In  conjunction  with  Mr  Thirlwall,  now  bishop  of 
St  David’s,  he  translated  Niebuhr’s  History  of  Rome, 
two  volumes,  1828-32.  Two  courses  of  sermons  by 
Mr  Hare  on  the  Victory  of  Faith,  and  The  Mission 
of  the  Comforter , 1847,  have  been  much  admired.  In 


1848  he  wrote  the  life  of  his  college  friend,  John 
Sterling.  He  was  also  author  of  Parish  Sermons, 
several  Charges  as  archdeacon,  and  a spirited  Vindi- 
cation of  Luther  against  his  English  Assailants,  1855. 
Mr  Hare  died  at  Hurstmonceaux  in  1855,  aged 
sixty.  The  dean  of  St  Paul’s,  Dr  Milman,  already 
noticed  as  a poet,  has  written  some  elaborate  eccle- 
siastical histories — The  History  of  the  Jews,  three 
volumes,  1830;  the  History  of  Christianity,  from  the 
Birth  of  Christ  to  the  Abolition  of  Paganism  in  the 
Roman  Empire,  three  volumes,  1840;  and  the  History 
of  Latin  Christianity,  six  volumes,  1854-55.  The 
last  is  a very  valuable  work.  For  a considerable 
part  of  the  first  three  centuries,  according  to  the 
dean,  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  most,  if  not  all  the 
churches  of  the  West,  were  in  some  measure  Greek 
colonies.  Their  language,  organisation,  writers, 
and  Scriptures  were  Greek.  Greek  was  the  com- 
mercial language  throughout  the  empire,  by  which 
the  Jews,  before  the  destruction  of  their  city,  carried 
on  their  affairs.  Pope  Leo  I.  was  the  first  celebrated 
Latin  preacher. 

THE  REV.  W.  J.  CONYBEARE. 

A complete  guide  to  the  knowledge  of  St  Paul’s 
life  and  writings  has  been  furnished  by  the  large 
work,  The  Life  and  Epistles  of  St  Paul,  by  the  Rev. 
W.  J.  Conybeare,  M.A.,  late  Fellow  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  and  the  Rev.  J.  S.  IIowson, 
Principal  of  the  Collegiate  Institution,  Liverpool, 
two  volumes  quarto,  1852.  The  purpose  of  this 
work  is  described  to  be  to  give  ‘ a living  picture  of 
St  Paul  himself,  and  of  the  circumstances  by  which 
he  was  surrounded.’  The  biography  of  the  apostle 
must  be  compiled  from  two  sources— his  own  letters 
and  the  narrative  in  the  Acts.  Mr  Conybeare 
translates  the  epistles  and  speeches  of  the  apostle, 
and  his  coadjutor,  Mr  Howson,  contributes  the 
narrative,  archaeological,  and  geographical  portions. 
The  difficulties  of  the  task  are  thus  stated  by  Mr 
Conybeare : 

[ The  Varied  Life  of  St  Paid.'] 

To  comprehend  the  influences  under  which  he  grew 
to  manhood,  we  must  realise  the  position  of  a Jewish 
family  in  Tarsus,  ‘ the  chief  city  in  Cilicia ; ’ we  must 
understand  the  kind  of  education  which  the  son  of  such 
a family  would  receive  as  a boy  in  his  Hebrew  home,  or 
in  the  schools  of  his  native  city,  and  in  his  riper  youth 
‘at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel’  in  Jerusalem;  we  must  be 
acquainted  with  the  profession  for  which  he  was  to  be 
prepared  by  this  training,  and  appreciate  the  station 
and  duties  of  an  expounder  of  the  law.  And  that  we 
may  be  fully  qualified  to  do  all  this,  we  should  have  a 
clear  view  of  the  state  of  the  Roman  empire  at  the  time, 
and  especially  of  its  system  in  the  provinces ; we  ghould 
also  understand  the  political  position  of  the  Jews  of  the 
‘ dispersion,’  we  should  be,  so  to  speak,  hearers  in  their 
synagogues — we  should  be  students  of  their  rabbinical 
theology.  And  in  like  manner,  as  we  follow  the  apostle 
in  the  different  stages  of  his  varied  and  adventurous 
career,  we  must  strive  continually  to  bring  out  in  their 
true  brightness  the  half-effaced  forms  and  colouring  of 
the  scene  in  which  he  acts ; and  while  he  ‘ becomes  all 
things  to  all  men,  that  he  might  by  all  means  save 
some,’  we  must  form  to  ourselves  a living  likeness  of 
the  things  and  of  the  men  among  whom,  he  moved,  if 
we  would  rightly  estimate  his  work.  Thus  we  must 
study  Christianity  rising  in  the  midst  of  Judaism ; we 
must  realise  the  position  of  its  early  churches  with  their 
mixed  society,  to  which  Jews,  proselytes,  and  heathens 
had  each  contributed  a characteristic  element ; we  must 
qualify  ourselves  to  be  umpires,  if  we  may  so  speak,  in 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


their  violent  internal  divisions ; we  must  listen  to  the  | world  doth  acknowledge  God,  there  Paul  of  Tarsus  is 
strifes  of  their  schismatic  parties,  when  one  said,  ‘ I am  j revered,  as  the  great  teacher  of  a universal  redemption 
of  Paul — and  another,  I am  of  Apollos :’  we  must  study  ! and  a catholic  religion — the  herald  of  glad  tidings  to  all 
the  true  character  of  those  early  heresies  which  even  mankind, 
denied  the  resurrection,  and  advocated  impurity  and  I 

lawlessness,  claiming  the  right  to  sin  ‘ that  grace  might  | Mr  Conybeare,  in  1855,  published  a volume  of 
abound,’  ‘ defiling  the  mind  and  conscience  ’ of  their  | Essays , Ecclesiastical  and  Social,  reprinted  with 
followers,  and  ‘ making  them  abominable  and  disobe-  j additions  from  the  Edinburgh  Review.  In  these  he 
dient,  and  to  every  good  work  reprobate;’  we  must  treats  of  the  Mormons,  the  Welsh  Clergy,  Church 
trace  the  extent  to  which  Greek  philosophy,  Judaising  ! Parties,  Temperance,  &c.  His  views  on  church 
formalism,  and  Eastern  superstition,  blended  their  ! parties,  and  on  the  different  phases  of  infidelity, 


tainting  influence  with  the  pure  fermentation  of  the 
new  leaven  which  was  at  last  to  leaven  the  whole  mass 
of  civilised  society. 

To  this  formidable  list  of  requirements  must  be 
added  some  knowledge  of  the  various  countries  and 


are  further  displayed  in  a novel — Perversion,  three 
volumes,  1856 — a very  interesting  and  clever  ‘ tale  of 
the  times.’  The  ingenious  author  died  prematurely 
in  1857.  The  family  of  Mr  Conybeare  had  been 
distinguished  for  two  generations.  His  grandfather, 
John  Josias  Conybeare  (1779-1824),  was  succes- 


places  visited  by  Paul ; and  as  relating  to  the  wide  sively  Professor  of  Anglo-Saxon  and  of  Poetry  in 
range  of  illustration,  Mr  Howson  mentions  a cir-  the  university  of  Oxford,  and  wrote  a work  on  the 
cumstance  connected  with  our  naval  hero  Nelson,  j Interpretation  of  Scripture  for  the  Bampton  Lectures. 
In  the  account  of  the  apostle’s  voyage  to  Italy,  j His  father,  William  Daniel  Contbeare  (1787- 
when  overtaken  by  the  storm  (Acts  xxvii.),  it  is  j 1857),  the  dean  of  Llandaff,  was  one  of  the  earliest 
mentioned  that  the  ship  was  anchored  by  the  stern  ; promoters  of  the  Geological  Society,  and  a frequent 
Air  Howson  cites  some  cases  in  which  this  has  ; and  valuable  contributor  to  its  published  Transac- 
been  done  in  modern  times,  adding : ‘ There  is  ; tions.  To  the  Bampton  Lectures  he  was  also  a 
still  greater  interest  in  quoting  the  instance  of  j contributor,  having  written  a work  On  the  Fathers 
Copenhagen,  not  only  from  the  accounts  we  have  1 during  the  Anti-Nicene  Period,  1839;  with  a series 
of  the  precision  with  which  each  ship  let  go  her  j of  Theological  Lectures,  1834. 
anchors  astern  as  she  arrived  nearly  opposite  her 
appointed  station,  but  because  it  is  said  that  Nelson 

stated  after  the  battle,  that  he  had  that  morning  1 drr.c.  trench. 


been  reading  the  twenty-seventh  chapter  of  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles.’ 

[The  Martyrdom  of  Paid.] 

As  the  martyr  and  his  executioners  passed  on,  their 
way  was  crowded  with  a motley  multitude  of  goers  and  i — 
comers  between  the  metropolis  and  its  harbour — mer-  I the 
chants  hastening  to  superintend  the  unloading  of  their 
cargoes — sailors  eager  to  squander  the  profits  of  their 
last  voyage  in  the  dissipations  of  the  capital — officials 
of  the  government,  charged  with  the  administration 
of  the  provinces,  or  the  command  of  the  legions  on 
the  Euphrates  or  the  Rhine — Chaldean  astrologers — 

Phrygian  eunuchs — dancing-girls  from  Syria,  with  their 
painted  turbans — mendicant  priests  from  Egypt  howling 
for  Osiris— Greek  adventurers,  eager  to  coin  their  I on  the  Mount,  with  Introductory  Essay ; a volume  of 
national  cunning  into  Roman  gold— representatives  of  j his  Hulsean  Lectures ; Synonyms  of  the  New  Testa - 
the  avarice  and  ambition,  the  fraud  and  lust,  the  super-  j ment;  &c.  The  last  of  these  works  evinced  extensive 
stition  and  intelligence,  of  the  imperial  world.  Through  j learning  as  well  as  acute  philological  observation, 
the  dust  and  tumult  of  that  busy  throng,  the  small  and  the  dean  has  also  critically  examined  the 
troop  of  soldiers  threaded  their  way  silently,  under  the  English  language.  His  treatises  on  the  Study  of 
bright  sky  of  an  Italian  midsummer.  They  were  march-  Words,  and  on  ‘ English  ’ Past  and  Present , are  full 
ing,  though  they  knew  it  not,  in  a procession  more  truly  j 
triumphal  than  any  they  had  ever  followed,  in  the  train 


The  dean  of  Westminster,  Dr  Richard  Chenevix 
Trench  (born  in  1807),  first  earned  distinction,  as 
already  stated,  by  his  Justin  Martyr,  and  other 
poems,  some  of  which  have  gone  through  several 
editions.  He  graduated  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1829,  and  was  some  years  a curate 
in  Hampshire.  Lord  Ashburton  presented  him  to 
rectory  of  Itchin  Stoke,  and  the  bishop  of 
Oxford  appointed  him  his  examining  chaplain.  In 
1845-46,  he  was  Hulsean  Lecturer  at  Cambridge; 
then  Theological  Professor  of  King’s  College, 
London;  and  on  the  death  of  Dr  Buckland,  in  1856, 
Dean  of  Westminster.  The  theological  works  of 
Dr  Trench  are — Notes  on  the  Parables  and  Miracles; 
Five  Sermons  Preached  before  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, 1856;  St  Augustine's  Exposition  of  the  Sermon 


of  curious  information.  Such  remarks  as  the  follow- 
ing evince  the  author’s  study  of  our  language  and 


of  general  or  emperor,  along  the  Sacred  Way.  Their  literature : 
prisoner,  now  at  last  and  for  ever  delivered  from  his  j 
captivity,  rejoiced  to  follow  his  Lord  ‘ without  the  gate.’  j [ The  Word  ‘/fc.’] 

The  place  of  execution  was  not  far  distant;  and  there  0ne  ig  surprised  to  discover  of  how  late  introduction 
the  sword  of  the  headsman  ended  his  long  course  of  j the  word  <its>  proves  to  be  into  the  language.  Through 
sufferings,  and  released  that  heroic  soul  from  that  feeble  j the  whole  of  our  authorised  version  of  the  Bible  ‘its’ 


body.  Weeping  friends  took  up  his  corpse,  and  carried 
it  for  burial  to  those  subterranean  labyrinths,  where, 
through  many  ages  of  oppression,  the  persecuted  church 
found  refuge  for  the  living  and  sepulchres  for  the  dead. 

Thus  died  the  apostle,  the  prophet,  and  the  martyr ; 
bequeathing  to  the  church,  in  her  government  and  her 
discipline,  the  legacy  of  his  apostolic  labours;  leaving 
his  prophetic  words  to  be  her  living  oracles;  pouring 
forth  his  blood  to  be  the  seed  of  a thousand  martyrdoms. 
Thenceforth,  among  the  glorious  company  of  the  apostles, 
among  the  goodly  fellowship  of  the  prophets,  among  the 
noble  army  of  martyrs,  his  name  has  stood  pre-eminent. 
And  wheresoever  the  holy  church  throughout  all  the 


does  not  once  occur ; the  work  which  it  now  performs 
being  acccomplished,  as  our  rustics  would  now  accom- 
plish it,  by  ‘his’  or  ‘ her,’  applied  as  freely  to  inanimate 
things  as  to  persons,  or  else  by  ‘ thereof  ’ or  ‘ of  it’  ‘ Its  ’ 
occurs,  I believe,  only  three  times  in  all  Shakspeare, 
and  I doubt  whether  Milton  has  once  admitted  it  into 
Paradise  Lost,  although,  when  that  was  composed, 
others  freely  allowed  it.*  How  soon  all  this  was 
forgotten  we  have  striking  evidence  in  the  fact  that 

* In  illustration  of  Dr  Trench’s  remark,  we  may  note  the  use 
of  the  word  her  by  Milton  in  describing  the  form  of  Satan  : 
‘ His  form  had  not  yet  lost  all  her  original  brightness.’ 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  TRENCH — C.  HARDWICK. 


Dryden,  when,  in  one  of  his  fault-finding  moods  with 
the  great  men  of  the  preceding  generation,  he  is  taking 
Ben  Jonson  to  task  for  general  inaccuracy  in  his  English 
diction,  quotes  this  line  from  Catiline : 

Though  heaven  should  speak  with  all  his  wrath  at  once, 

and  proceeds,  ‘ heaven  is  ill  syntax  with  his;'  while,  in 
fact,  up  to  within  forty  or  fifty  years  of  the  time  when 
Dryden  began  to  write,  no  other  syntax  was  known. 
Curious,  also,  is  it  to  note  that  in  the  long  controversy 
which  followed  on  the  publication,  by  Chatterton,  of 
the  poems  which  he  ascribed  to  a monk  Rowley,  living 
in  the  fifteenth  century,  no  one  appealed  at  the  time  to 
such  lines  as  the  following : 

Life  and  all  its  goods  I scorn, 

as  at  once  decisive  of  the  fact  that  the  poems  were  not 
of  the  age  which  they  pretended. 

From  words  to  proverbs  is  a short  step,  and  Dr 
Trench  has  given  us  a volume  entitled,  On  the 
Lessons  in  Proverbs , 1855.  He  treats  of  the  form 
and  generation  of  proverbs,  and  of  the  poetry,  wit, 
or  wisdom  contained  in  them.  Lord  J ohn  Russell, 
we  may  remark,  is  said  to  have  given  a happy 
definition  of  the  term  proverb : ‘ The  wit  of  one 
man  and  the  wisdom  of  many.’  The  dean  vindicates 
the  importance  of  proverbs : 

[On  Proverbs .] 

The  fact  that  they  please  the  people,  and  have  pleased 
them  for  ages — that  they  possess  so  vigorous  a principle 
of  life,  as  to  have  maintained  their  ground,  ever  new 
and  ever  young,  through  all  the  centuries  of  a nation’s 
existence — nay,  that  many  of  them  have  pleased  not  one 
nation  only,  but  many,  so  that  they  have  made  them- 
selves a home  in  the  most  different  lands — and  further, 
that  they  have,  not  a few  of  them,  come  down  to  us 
from  remotest  antiquity,  borne  safely  upon  the  waters 
of  that  great  stream  of  time,  which  has  swallowed  so 
much  beneath  its  waves — all  this,  I think,  may  well 
make  us  pause  should  we  be  tempted  to  turn  away 
from  them  with  anything  of  indifference  or  disdain. 

And  then,  further,  there  is  this  to  be  considered,  that 
some  of  the  greatest  poets,  the  profoundest  philosophers, 
the  most  learned  scholars,  the  most  genial  writers  in 
every  kind,  have  delighted  in  them,  have  made  large  and 
frequent  use  of  them,  have  bestowed  infinite  labour  on 
the  gathering  and  elucidating  of  them.  In  a fastidious 
age,  indeed,  and  one  of  false  refinement,  they  may  go 
nearly  or  quite  out  of  use  among  the  so-called  upper 
classes.  No  gentleman,  says  Lord  Chesterfield,  or  ‘ No 
man  of  fashion,’  as  I think  is  his  exact  word,  ‘ ever  uses 
a proverb.’  And  with  how  fine  a touch  of  nature 
Shakspeare  makes  Coriolanus,  the  man  who  with  all  his 
greatness  is  entirely  devoid  of  all  sympathy  for  the 
people,  to  utter  his  scorn  of  them  in  scorn  of  their 
proverbs,  and  of  their  frequent  employment  of  these  : 

‘ Hang  ’em ! 

They  said  they  were  an  hungry,  sighed  forth  proverbs; 

That,  hunger  broke  stone  walls ; that,  dogs  must  eat; 

That,  meat  was  made  for  mouths;  that,  the  gods  sent  not 

Corn  for  the  rich  men  only;— with  these  shreds 

They  vented  their  complainings.' 

Coriolanus,  Act.  I.,  Sc.  1. 

But  that  they  have  been  always  dear  to  the  true 
intellectual  aristocracy  of  a nation,  there  is  abundant 
evidence  to  prove.  Take  but  these  three  names  in 
evidence,  which,  though  few,  are  in  themselves  a host. 
Aristotle  made  a collection  of  proverbs;  nor  did  he 
count  that  he  was  herein  doing  ought  unworthy  of  his 
great  reputation,  however  some  of  his  adversaries  may 
have  made  this  a charge  against  him.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  the  first  who  did  so,  though  many  afterwards 


followed  in  the  same  path.  Shakspeare  loves  them  so 
well,  that  besides  often  citing  them,  and  innumerable 
covert  allusions,  rapid  side  glances  at  them,  which  we 
are  in  danger  of  missing  unless  at  home  in  the  proverbs 
of  England,  several  of  his  plays,  as  Measure  for  Measure , 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  have  popular  proverbs  for 
their  titles.  And  Cervantes,  a name  only  inferior  to 
Shakspeare,  has  not  left  us  in  doubt  in  respect  of  the 
affection  with  which  he  regarded  them.  Every  reader 
of  Don  Quixote  will  remember  his  squire,  who  some- 
times cannot  open  his  mouth  but  there  drop  from  it 
almost  as  many  proverbs  as  words.  I might  name 
others  who  held  the  proverb  in  honour — men,  who 
though  they  may  not  attain  to  these  first  three,  are 
yet  deservedly  accounted  great;  as  Plautus,  the  most 
genial  of  Latin  poets ; Rabelais  and  Montaigne,  the  two 
most  original  of  French  authors ; and  how  often  Fuller, 
whom  Coleridge  has  styled  the  wittiest  of  writers,  justi- 
fies this  praise  in  his  witty  employment  of  some  old 
proverb ; nor  can  any  thoroughly  understand  and  enjoy 
Hudibras , no  one  but  will  miss  a multitude  of  its 
keenest  allusions,  who  is  not  thoroughly  familiar  with 
the  proverbial  literature  of  England. 

Their  habitat , or  native  place,  he  thinks,  is  easily 
perceived : 

Thus  our  own  Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  is 
truly  English,  and  could  have  had  its  birth  only  under 
such  variable  skies  as  ours— not  certainly  in  those 
southern  lands  where,  during  the  summer  time  at  least, 
the  sun  always  shines.  In  the  same  way  there  is  a fine 
Cornish  proverb  in  regard  of  obstinate  wrongheads,  who 
will  take  no  counsel  except  from  calamities,  who  dash 
themselves  to  pieces  against  obstacles,  which  with  a 
little  prudence  and  foresight  they  might  have  avoided. 
It  is  this : He  who  will  not  be  ruled  by  the  rudder 
must  be  ruled  by  the  rock.  It  sets  us  at  once  upon 
some  rocky  and  wreck-strewn  coast;  we  feel  that  it 
could  never  have  been  the  proverb  of  an  inland  people. 
Do  not  talk  Arabic  in  the  house  of  a Moor — that  is, 
because  there  thy  imperfect  knowledge  will  be  detected 
at  once — this  we  should  confidently  affirm  to  be  Spanish, 
wherever  we  met  it.  Big  and  empty,  like  the  Heidel- 
berg tun,  could  have  its  home  only  in  Germany;  that 
enormous  vessel,  known  as  the  Heidelberg  tun,  con- 
structed to  contain  nearly  300,000  flasks,  having  now 
stood  empty  for  hundreds  of  years.  As  regards,  too, 
the  following,  Not  every  parish  priest  can  wear  Dr 
Luther's  shoes,  we  could  be  in  no  doubt  to  what  people 
it  appertains.  Neither  could  there  be  any  mistake 
about  this  solemn  Turkish  proverb,  Death  is  a black 
camel  which  kneels  at  every  man's  gate,  in  so  far  at  least 
as  that  it  would  be  at  once  ascribed  to  the  East. 

BISHOP  BLOMFIELD  AND  OTHER  CAMBRIDGE  DIVINES. 

The  scholarship  of  Cambridge  has  been  well  sup- 
ported by  the  late  bishop  of  London,  Dr  Charles 
James  Blomfield  (1786-1857),  and  Dr  S.  T. 
Bloomfield,  vicar  of  Bisbrooke.  The  former  edited 
JEschylus  and  Callimachus,  and  wrote  some  theo- 
logical treatises,  including  Lectures  on  the  Gospel  of 
St  John.  Dr  Bloomfield’s  Greek  Testament,  with 
copious  Notes,  1832,  is  now  in  its  ninth  edition,  and 
his  College  and  School  Greek  Testament  supplied  a 
desideratum  in  scholastic  literature. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Alford,  of  Trinity,  vicar  of 
Wimeswould,  Leicestershire,  like  Dr  Trench,  com- 
menced author  as  a poet — Poems  and  Poetical  Frag- 
ments, 1831  ; The  School  of  the  Heart;  &c. — but  his 
Ilulsean  Lectures,  1841,  liis  various  collections  of 
Sermons,  Greek  Testament,  with  notes,  &c.,  have  given 
him  a reputation  as  a divine  and  a scholar.  The 
Rev.  Charles  Hardwick,  of  St  Catherine’s  Hall, 
has  written  a valuable  • History  of  the  Christian 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


Church , 1853 ; a History  of  the  Thirty-nine  Articles, 
1851 ; and  Sermons,  1853.  Dr  E.  Harold  Browne, 
the  Norrisian  Professor  of  Divinity  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge,  has  also  given  an  Exposition  of 
the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  1850 ; a work  on  the  Pro- 
phecies, 1836;  &c.  Dr  John  James  Blust  (1794- 
1855),  Margaret  Professor  of  Divinity,  was  a volum- 
inous and  popular  writer — his  chief  works  being 
arguments  on  the  Veracity  of  the  Books  of  Moses,  the 
Gospel  and  Acts,  &c. ; a History  of  the  Church  during 
the  Three  First  Centuries , Sermons,  &c.  The  Bet. 
William  Goode,  rector  of  Allhallows,  London, 
has  been  a vigorous  opponent  of  the  Oxford 
Tractarians,  and  author  of  other  theological  works 
— The  Gifts  of  the  Spirit,  1834 ; The  Established 
Church,  1834 ; The  Divine  Rule  of  Faith  and  Practice, 
1842;  &c. 

DR  KITTO. 

Dr  John  Kitto  (1804-1854)  devoted  himself, 
amidst  many  discouragements,  to  the  illustration 
of  the  sacred  Scriptures.  He  was  a native  of 


Plymouth,  the  son  of  humble  parents,  and  a fall 
from  the  roof  of  a house,  a few  days  after  he  had 
completed  his  twelfth  year,  deprived  him  of  the 
sense  of  hearing.  His  description  of  the  calamity 
is  simple  and  touching : 

I was  very  slow  in  learning  that  my  hearing  was 
entirely  gone.  The  unusual  stillness  of  all  things  was  ' 
grateful  to  me  in  my  utter  exhaustion ; and  if  in  this 
half-awakened  state,  a thought  of  the  matter  entered 
my  mind,  I ascribed  it  to  the  unusual  care  and  success 
of  my  friends  in  preserving  silence  around  me.  I saw 
them  talking,  indeed,  to  one  another,  and  thought  that 
out  of  regard  to  my  feeble  condition  they  spoke  in 
whispers,  because  I heard  them  not.  The"  truth  was 
revealed  to  me  in  consequence  of  my  solicitude  about 


the  book  which  had  so  much  interested  me  in  the  day 
of  my  fall.  It  had,  it  seems,  been  reclaimed  by  the 
good  old  man  who  had  sent  it  to  me,  and  who  doubtless 
concluded  that  I should  have  no  more  need  of  books  in 
this  life.  He  was  wrong;  for  there  has  been  nothing 
in  this  life  which  I have  needed  more.  I asked  for 
this  book  with  much  earnestness,  and  was  answered  by 
I signs  which  I could  not  comprehend. 

‘ Why  do  you  not  speak  ? ’ I cried.  4 Pray  let  me  have 
the  book.’  This  seemed  to  create  some  confusion  ; and 
at  length  some  one,  more  clever  than  the  rest,  hit  upon 
the  happy  expedient  of  writing  upon  a slate,  that  the 
book  had  been  reclaimed  by  the  owner,  and  that  I 
could  not  in  my  weak  state  be  allowed  to  read.  ‘But,’ 
I said  in  great  astonishment,  ‘ why  do  you  write  to  me ; 
why  not  speak  ? Speak,  speak ! ’ 

Those  who  stood  around  the  bed  exchanged  signifi- 
cant looks  of  concern,  and  the  writer  soon  displayed 
upon  his  slate  the  awful  words — ‘You  are  deaf  ! ’ Did 
not  this  utterly  crush  me  ? By  no  means.  In  my  then 
weakened  condition  nothing  like  this  could  affect  me. 
Besides,  I was  a child ; and  to  a child  the  full  extent 
of  such  a calamity  could  not  be  at  once  apparent. 
However,  I knew  not  the  future — it  was  well  I did 
not ; and  there  was  nothing  to  shew  me  that  I suffered 
under  more  than  a temporary  deafness,  which  in  a few 
days  might  pass  away.  It  was  left  for  time  to  shew 
me  the  sad  realities  of  the  condition  to  which  I was 
reduced. 

The  deaf  boy,  after  his  recovery,  was  placed  in 
the  workhouse,  until  some  employment  could  be 
found  for  him.  He  was  put  apprentice  to  a shoe- 
maker, who  used  him  with  great  cruelty,  but  an 
appeal  to  the  magistrates  procured  his  release  from 
this  tyranny;  and  being  assisted,  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  to  publish  a volume  of  essays  and  letters, 
friends  came  forward,  and  he  was  enabled  to  follow 
out  his  strong  bias  for  theological  literature.  He 
spent  ten  years  in  travelling  and  residing  abroad, 
the  result  of  which  appeared  in  his  Biblical  criti- 
cism and  illustrations,  and  in  his  account  of  the 
Scripture  Lands,  1850.  On  his  return  to  England, 
in  1833,  he  wrote  for  the  Penny  Magazine  a series 
of  papers  called  The  Deaf  Traveller , and  ever  after- 
wards was  actively  engaged  in  literature.  He  edited 
The  Pictorial  Bible,  the  Journal  of  Sacred  Literature , 
and  the  Cyclopcedia  of  Biblical  Literature ; also  a 
valuable  work,  Daily  Bible  Illustrations.  Two  small 
volumes,  entitled  The  Lost  Senses , one  on  deafness 
and  the  other  on  blindness,  were  produced  by  Dr 
Kitto,  and  are  interesting  from  the  facts  and  anec- 
dotes they  contain.  He  concludes  that  the  blind  are 
not  so  badly  off  as  the  deaf.  4 It  is  indeed  possible 
that,  so  far  as  regards  merely  animal  sensation,  the 
blind  man  is  in  a worse  condition  than  the  deaf ; but 
in  all  that  regards  the  culture  of  the  mind,  he  has 
infinitely  the  advantage,  while  his  full  enjoyment  of 
society,  from  which  the  other  is  excluded,  keeps  up 
a healthy  exercise  of  his  mental  faculties,  and  main- 
tains him  in  that  cheerful  frame  of  mind,  which  is  as 
generally  observed  among  the  blind,  as  the  want  of 
it  is  among  the  deaf.’  A pension  of  £100  was  settled 
upon  Dr  Kitto  by  the  government.  He  went  abroad 
to  recruit  his  health,  which  had  been  injured  by 
too  close  application,  but  died  at  Canstadt,  near 
Stuttgard,  in  his  fifty-first  year. 

HENRY  ROGERS. 

Few  books  of  religious  controversy  have  been  so 
popular  as  The  Eclipse  of  Faith,  or  a Visit  to  a 
Religious  Sceptic,  1852.  This  work  went  through 
five  editions  within  two  years.  Though  the  name 
of  the  author  is  not  prefixed,  The  Eclipse  is  known 
to  be  the  production  of  Mr  Henry  Bogers,  one  of 


theologians.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  henry  Rogers— isaao  taylor. 

the  professors  at  the  Independent  College,  Birming- 
ham. Mr  Rogers  officiated  for  some  time  as  minister 
of  an  Independent  congregation,  but  was  forced  to 
relinquish  his  charge  on  account  of  ill  health.  He 
has  been  a contributor  to  the  Edinburgh  Review , 
and  a collection  of  his  various  papers  has  been 
published  under  the  title  of  Essays:  Contributions 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review , three  volumes,  1850-55. 
In  1856,  Mr  Rogers  published  an  Essay  on  the  Life 
and  Genius  of  Thomas  Fuller , with  Selections  from 
his  Writings.  He  has  also  contributed  some  short 
biographies  to  the  new  edition  of  the  Encyclopcedia 
Britannica.  Learned,  eloquent,  and  liberal  in  sen- 
timent, Mr  Rogers  is  an  honour  to  the  Dissenting 
body.  The  Eclipse  was  written  in  reply  to  Mr  E. 
W.  Newman’s  Phases  of  Faith,  noticed  in  a previous 
page.  Mr  Rogers  adopts  the  plan  of  sending  to  a 
missionary  in  the  Pacific  Ocean  an  account  of  the 
religious  distractions  in  this  country.  All  the 
controversies  and  new  theological  opinions,  English 
and  German,  which  have  been  agitated  within  the 
last  twenty  years  are  discussed,  and  a considerable 
part  of  the  reasoning  is  in  the  form  of  dialogue. 
The  various  interlocutors  state  their  opinions  fully, 
and  are  answered  by  other  parties.  Deism  is  repre- 
sented by  a disciple  of  Professor  Newman,  who 
draws  most  of  his  arguments  from  the  Phases 
of  Faith.  A new  edition  of  this  work  being 
called  for,  Mr  Newman  added  to  it  a Reply  to  the 
Eclipse  of  Faith , 1851,  and  Mr  Rogers  rejoined 
with  A Defence  of  the  Eclipse  of  Faith.  There  is 
a good  deal  of  vigorous  thought  and  sarcasm  in 
Mr  Rogers’s  Eclipse  and  Defence , while  in  logical 
acuteness  he  is  vastly  superior  to  his  opponent. 
Occasionally  he  rises  into  a strain  of  pure  eloquence, 
as  in  the  following  passage : 

[ The  Character  of  the  Saviour .] 

And  now  what,  after  all,  does  the  carping  criticism 
of  this  chapter  amount  to  ? Little  as  it  is  in  itself,  it 
absolutely  vanishes  ; it  is  felt  that  the  Christ  thus 
portrayed  cannot  be  the  right  interpretation  of  the 
| history,  in  the  face  of  all  those  glorious  scenes  with 
which  the  evangelical  narrative  abounds,  but  of  which 
there  is  here  an  entire  oblivion.  But  humanity  will 
not  forget  them  ; men  still  wonder  at  the  ‘ gracious 
words  which  proceeded  out  of  Christ’s  mouth,’  and 
persist  in  saying,  ‘Never  man  spake  like  this  man.’ 
The  brightness  of  the  brightest  names  pales  and  wanes 
before  the  radiance  which  shines  from  the  person  of 
•Christ.  The  scenes  at  the  tomb  of  Lazarus,  at  the  gate 
of  Nain,  in  the  happy  family  at  Bethany,  in  the  ‘ upper 
room’  where  He  instituted  the  feast  which  should  for 
ever  consecrate  His  memory,  and  bequeathed  to  his  dis- 
ciples the  legacy  of  His  love  ; the  scenes  in  the  Garden 
of  Gethsemane,  on  the  summit  of  Calvary,  and  at  the 
sepulchre  ; the  sweet  remembrance  of  the  patience  with 
which  He  bore  wrong,  the  gentleness  with  which  he 
rebuked  it,  and  the  love  with  which  he  forgave  it ; the 
thousand  acts  of  benign  condescension  by  which  He  well 
earned  for  himself,  from  self-righteous  pride  and  cen- 
sorious hypocrisy,  the  name  of  the  ‘ friend  of  publicans 
and  sinners  ;’  these,  and  a hundred  things  more,  which 
crowd  those  concise  memorials  of  love  and  sorrow  with 
such  prodigality  of  beauty  and  of  pathos,  will  still  con- 
tinue to  charm  and  attract  the  soul  of  humanity,  and 
on  these  the  highest  genius,  as  well  as  the  humblest 
mediocrity,  will  love  to  dwell.  These  things  lisping 
infancy  loves  to  hear  on  its  mother’s  knees,  and  over 
them  age,  with  its  gray  locks,  bends  in  devoutest 
reverence.  No ; before  the  infidel  can  prevent  the 
influence  of  these  compositions,  he  must  get  rid  of  the 
gospels  themselves,  or  he  must  supplant  them  by 
fictions  yet  more  wonderful ! Ah,  what  bitter  irony  has 
99 

involuntarily  escaped  me  ! But  if  the  last  be  impossible, 
at  least  the  gospels  must  cease  to  exist  before  infidelity 
can  succeed.  Yes,  before  infidels  can  prevent  men  from 
thinking  as  they  have  ever  done  of  Christ,  they  must 
blot  out  the  gentle  words  with  which,  in  the  presence 
of  austere  hypocrisy,  the  Saviour  welcomed  that  timid 
guilt  that  could  only  express  its  silent  love  in  an  agony 
of  tears  ; they  must  blot  out  the  words  addressed  to 
the  dying  penitent,  who,  softened  by  the  majestic 
patience  of  the  mighty  sufferer,  detected  at  last  the 
Monarch  under  the  veil  of  sorrow,  and  cast  an  imploring 
glance  to  be  ‘ remembered  by  Him  when  He  came  into 
His  kingdom ; ’ they  must  blot  out  the  scene  in  which 
the  demoniacs  sat  listening  at  His  feet,  and  ‘ in  then- 
right  mind ; ’ they  must  blot  out  the  remembrance  of 
the  tears  which  He  shed  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus — not 
surely  for  him  whom  He  was  about  to  raise,  but  in  pure 
sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of  humanity — for  the  myriad 
myriads  of  desolate  mourners,  who  could  not,  with 
Mary,  fly  to  him,  and  say : ‘ Lord,  if  thou  hadst  been 
here,  my  mother,  brother,  sister,  had  not  died ! ’ they 
must  blot  out  the  record  of  those  miracles  which  charm 
us,  not  only  as  the  proof  of  His  mission,  and  guarantees 
of  the  truth  of  His  doctrine,  but  as  they  illustrate  the 
benevolence  of  His  character  and  are  types  of  the 
spiritual  cures  His  gospel  can  yet  perform ; they  must 
blot  out  the  scenes  of  the  sepulchre,  where  love  and 
veneration  lingered,  and  saw  what  was  never  seen 
before,  but  shall  henceforth  be  seen  to  the  end  of  time 
— the  tomb  itself  irradiated  with  angelic  forms,  and 
bright  with  the  presence  of  Him  ‘ who  brought  life  and 
immortality  to  light;’  they  must  blot  out  the  scene 
where  deep  and  grateful  love  wept  so  passionately,  and 
found  Him  unbidden  at  her*  side,  type  of  ten  thousand 
times  ten  thousand,  who  have  ‘ sought  the  grave  to  weep 
there,’  and  found  joy  and  consolation  in  Him  ‘whom, 
though  unseen,  they  loved;’  they  must  blot  out  the 
discourses  in  which  He  took  leave  of  his  disciples,  the 
majestic  accents  of  which  have  filled  so  many  departing 
souls  with  patience  and  with  triumph ; they  must  blot 
out  the  yet  sublimer  words  in  which  He  declares  him- 
self ‘ the  resurrection  and  the  life  ’ — words  which  have 
led  so  many  millions  more  to  breathe  out  their  spirits 
with  childlike  trust,  and  to  believe,  as  the  gate  of 
death  closed  behind  them,  that  they  would  see  Him  who 
is  invested  with  the  ‘ keys  of  the  invisible  world,’  ‘ who 
opens  and  no  man  shuts,  and  shuts  and  no  man  opens,’ 
letting  in  through  the  portal  which  leads  to  immortality 
the  radiance  of  the  skies;  they  must  blot  out,  they 
must  destroy  these  and  a thousand  other  such  things, 
before  they  can  prevent  Him  having  the  pre-eminence 
who  loved,  because  He  loved  us,  to  call  himself  the 
‘ Son  of  Man,’  though  angels  called  him  the  ‘ Son  of 
God.’  It  is  in  vain  to  tell  men  it  is  an  illusion.  If 
it  be  an  illusion,  every  variety  of  experiment  proves  it 
to  be  inveterate,  and  it  will  not  be  dissipated  by  a 
million  of  Strausses  and  Newmans ! Probatum  est. 
At  His  feet  guilty  humanity,  of  diverse  races  and 
nations,  for  eighteen  hundred  years,  has  come  to  pour 
forth  in  faith  and  love  its  sorrows,  and  finds  there  ‘ the 
peace  which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away.’ 
Myriads  of  aching  heads  and  weary  hearts  have  found, 
and  will  find,  repose  there,  and  have  invested  Him  with 
veneration,  love,  and  gratitude,  which  will  never,  never 
be  paid  to  any  other  name  than  His.’ 

ISAAC  TAYLOR. 

A long  series  of  works  on  theology  and  mental 
philosophy — ingenious  in  argument,  and  often  elo- 
quent though  peculiar  in  style — have  proceeded 
from  the  pen  of  Mr  Isaac  Taylor,  a retired 
student  residing  at  Stanford  Rivers,  near  Ongar, 
Essex.  Mr  Taylor’s  father  was  preacher  in  an 
Independent  chapel  at  Ongar,  and  there  the  essayist 
was  born  about  the  year  1789.  The  first,  and  perhaps 

737 

FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


the  best  of  his  works,  is  The  Natural  History  of 
Enthusiasm , 1829.  At  that  time  the  belief  that  a 
bright  era  of  renovation,  union,  and  extension,  pre- 
sently awaited  the  Christian  Church  was  generally 
entertained.  Mr  Taylor  participated,  he  says,  in 
the  cheering  hope,  and  his  glowing  language  and 
unsectarian  zeal  found  many  admirers.  The  tenth 
edition  of  the  volume  (1845)  is  now  before  us. 
Discord,  however,  soon  sprung  up  in  Oxford;  and 
Mr  Taylor,  in  some  papers  on  Ancient  Christianity, 
published  periodically,  combated  the  arguments  of 
the  Tractarians,  and  produced  a number  of  works 
all  of  a kindred  character,  illustrating  Christian 
faith  or  morals.  These  are  Spiritual  Despotism, 
1835;  Physical  Theory  of  Another  Life,  1839; 
Lectures  on  Spiritual  Christianity,  1841 ; Saturday 
Evening,  1842 ; History  of  Fanaticism , 1843  ; Ele- 
ments of  Thought,  1843 ; Loyola  and  Jesuitism,  1849  ; 
Wesley  and  Methodism,  1851  ; Home  Education,  1852  ; 
The  Restoration  of  Belief,  1853 ; &c.  In  1856,  Mr 
Taylor  wrote  for  the  North  British  Review  a long 
critical  analysis  of  the  works  of  Dr  Chalmers,  which 
gave  great  offence  to  many  of  the  leading  supporters 
of  the  Review,  and  led  to  its  suspension  for  some  time. 
With  cordial  admiration  of  the  character  and  exer- 
tions of  our  great  countryman,  Mr  Taylor  questioned 
if  much  of  his  writing  would  live.  The  works  of 
Dr  Chalmers,  he  said,  were  deficient  in  method,  in 
condensation,  and  style;  his  reasoning  was  also 
frequently  inconsistent,  and  his  opinions  were 
hampered  and  restricted  by  adherence  to  creed,  or 
to  the  polemical  and  systematic  theology  of  Scot- 
land. We  shall  not  enter  into  the  illustrations 
brought  forward  by  Mr  Taylor ; hut  the  following 
passage,  of  a more  general  description,  appears  to 
he  as  correct  as  it  is  forcibly  expressed : 

[ Character  of  Dr  Chalmers .] 

Chalmers,  if  it  were  required  of  us  to  characterise 
him  in  a word,  was  the  man — great  in  action  : he  was 
the  man  to  give  a needed  and  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
whatever  he  applied  his  herculean  shoulder.  The  world, 
or  that  world  wherewith  he  concerned  himself,  he  would 
not,  and  could  not,  and  he  did  not  leave  just  what  and 
where  it  was  when  first  he  looked  about  upon  it;  for 
that  first  glance  moved  his  soul  to  its  depths;  moved 
it,  not  with  scorn — not  with  malign  antagonism — not 
with  a wild,  unknowing  enthusiasm — not  with  despond- 
ency ; but  with  a hopeful  and  a reasoning  confidence — 
a calculated  trust  in  the  efficacy  of  those  forces — those 
energies  of  renovation  which,  if  well  employed,  and 
manfully  worked,  will  not  fail  to  bring  about  a better 
state  of  things,  more  or  less  complete.  Chalmers  was 
the  man  to  give  a healthful  impulse  to  all  things  around 
him ; but  he  was  not  the  man  to  give  them  altogether  a 
new  direction.  He  was  just  so  far  the  philosopher  as 
an  accomplished  man  must  be  who  concerns  himself  at 
all  with  the  things  of  philosophy;  but  he  was  not  (as 
we  presume  to  think)  a philosopher  in  any  higher  sense ; 
or  in  any  sense  that  should  give  him  a place  of  his  own 
among  those  who  have  wrought  out  a scheme  of  thought 
for  themselves,  and  for  their  times.  The  thought  of 
this  present  age  has  not  pivoted  itself  upon  Chalmers’s 
mind.  He  was  the  philanthropist,  eminently  so ; and 
his  understanding  was  of  that  robust  order  which 
utterly  forbade  his  giving  himself  up  to  any  of  those 
vapouring  modes  of  enthusiasm  which  so  often  bring 
all  philanthropy  into  contempt.  By  an  instinct  quicker 
and  surer  than  the  guidance  of  reason — although  reason 
never  failed  to  come  up  to  his  aid — he  rejected  whatever 
was  visionary  and  impracticable,  or  not  at  the  moment 
practical ; and  by  the  same  instinct,  duly  sustained  as 
it  was  by  the  force  of  the  dialectic  faculty,  he  seized 
upon  whatever  was  good  and  right  in  the  main,  and  also 

73ft 


sound  in  principle,  among  things  actually  existing  and  [ 
constituted,  and  which  may  be  made  available  for  I 
immediate  purposes : these  he  took  up,  and  upcn  these  j 
he  worked  with  a prodigious  energy,  and  with  an  indus-  } 
try — rare  excellence — commensurate  with  that  energy,  j 
Decisively  conservative  in  temper,  and  reverential  toe  j 
in  feeling,  his  aim  was  to  bring  up  the  things  that  are  I 
as  near  as  possible  to  their  normal  state  of  effectiveness  : 
he  laboured  to  reinstate — to  invigorate — to  quicken  the  | 
languid  pulse  of  the  social  body ; to  redress — to  clear  I 
away  from  it  encumbering  accumulations.  But  there  j 
he  stopped. 

Wanting  almost  entirely  the  analytic  faculty — want-  ! 
ing  also  the  severe  critical  faculty — and  wholly  wanting  j 
that  melancholic  element  which  leads  minds  severely  ; 
reflective  to  distrust  obvious  conclusions,  and  to  scrutinise  I 
all  things  that  are  offered  to  their  assent — Chalmers  sent 
down  his  line  into  no  abyss ; he  himself,  as  to  the  dim 
world  of  painful  speculation,  had  never  trodden  a path, 
like  that  of  Bunyan’s  Christian,  through  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death.  As  a most  kind-hearted  man, 
his  sympathies  were  awake  toward  all  kinds  of  trouble, 
whether  of  mind,  body,  or  estate;  but  specially  and 
intellectually  he  had  no  sympathy  with  minds  deeper 
rooted  than  his  own,  or  more  discriminative,  or  more 
exact,  or  more  analytic,  or  more  scrupulously  honest 
toward  their  own  misgivings.  Such  minds,  in  approach- 
ing his,  would  quickly  discover  that  from  him  they  would 
not  receive  the  aid  they  needed.  And  thus  it  is  as  to 
his  philosophic  writings.  Admirably  adapted  as  they 
were  to  effect  their  immediate  purpose — a purpose 
conservative  and  confirmatory,  as  related  to  the  diffuse 
intellectuality  of  the  times  when  they  appeared,  and 
well  adapted  too,  as  they  may  still  be,  to  meet  the  same 
order  of  intellectuality  at  this  time,  or  in  any  time 
future,  they  wholly  fail  to  satisfy  the  conditions  of 
philosophic  discussion,  such  as  it  has  of  late  years 
become.  It  may  seem  unfair  to  require  of  a man — 
of  a teacher — that  he  should  forecast  the  progress  of 
opinion  for  half  a century  in  advance  of  his  own  times ; 
but  this  at  least  may  be  said,  that  while  a writer  whe 
touches  the  boundaries  of  thought  in  all  directions 
is  likely  to  anticipate  the  recurrent  theories  of  times 
future,  he  who  stops  far  short  of  those  limits  is  likely 
to  be  numbered  with  the  antiquated  at  the  very  next 
coming  on  of  a crisis  in  speculative  philosophy. 

[Dangers  of  Religion  of  the  Imagination .] 

Unless  a perpetual  miracle  were  to  intercept  the 
natural  operation  of  common  causes,  religion,  not  less 
than  philosophy  or  poetry,  will  draw  enthusiasts  within 
its  precincts.  Nor,  if  we  recollect,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
fitness  of  the  vast  objects  revealed  in  the  Scriptures  to 
affect  the  imagination,  and  on  the  other,  the  wide  diffu- 
sion of  religious  ideas,  can  it  seem  strange  if  it  be  found, 
in  fact,  that  religious  enthusiasts  outnumber  any  other 
class.  It  is  also  quite  natural  that  enthusiastic  and 
genuine  religious  emotions  should  be  intermingled  with 
peculiar  intricacy ; since  the  revelations  which  give  them 
scope  combine,  in  a peculiar  manner,  elements  of  gran- 
deur, of  power,  and  of  sublimity  (fitted  to  kindle  the 
imagination)  with  those  ideas  that  furnish  excitement 
to  the  moral  sentiments.  The  religion  of  the  heart, 
it  is  manifest,  may  be  supplanted  by  a religion  of  the 
imagination,  just  in  the  same  way  that  the  social  affec- 
tions are  often  dislodged  or  corrupted  by  factitious  sensi- 
bilities. Every  one  knows  that  an  artificial  excitement 
of  the  kind  and  tender  emotions  of  our  nature  may  take 
place  through  the  medium  of  the  imagination.  Hence 
the  power  of  poetry  and  the  drama.  But  every  one  must 
also  know  that  these  feelings,  how  vivid  soever,  and  ( 
seemingly  pure  and  salutary  they  may  be,  and  however 
nearly  they  may  resemble  the  genuine  workings  of  the 
soul,  are  so  far  from  producing  the  same  softening  effect 
upon  the  character,  that  they  tend  rather  to  indurate 


THEOLOGIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


T.  DALE — R.  S.  CANDLISH. 


the  heart.  Whenever  excitements  of  any  kind  are 
regarded  distinctly  as  a source  of  luxurious  pleasure, 
then,  instead  of  expanding  the  bosom  with  beneficent 
energy,  instead  of  dispelling  the  sinister  purposes  of  sel- 
fishness, instead  of  shedding  the  softness  and  warmth  of 
generous  love  through  the  moral  system,  they  become  a 
freezing  centre  of  solitary  and  unsocial  indulgence,  and 
at  length  displace  every  emotion  that  deserves  to  be 
called  virtuous.  No  cloak  of  selfishness  is,  in  fact,  more 
impenetrable  ihan  that  which  usually  envelops  a 
pampered  imagination.  The  reality  of  woe  is  the  very 
circumstance  that  paralyses  sympathy ; and  the  eye  that 
can  pour  forth  its  flood  of  commiseration  for  the  sor- 
rows of  the  romance  or  the  drama,  grudges  a tear  to  the 
substantial  wretchedness  of  the  unhappy.  Much  more 
often  than  not,  this  kind  of  luxurious  sensitiveness  to 
fiction  is  conjoined  with  a callousness  that  enables  the 
subject  of  it  to  pass  through  the  affecting  occasions  of 
domestic  life  in  immovable  apathy  : the  heart  has 
become,  like  that  of  leviathan,  ‘firm  as  a stone,  yea, 
hard  as  a piece  of  the  nether  millstone.’  This  process 
of  perversion  and  of  induration  may  as  readily  have 
place  among  the  religious  emotions  as  among  those  of 
any  other  class ; for  the  laws  of  human  nature  are  uni- 
form, whatever  may  be  the  immediate  cause  which  puts 
them  in  action  ; and  a fictitious  piety  corrupts  or  petri- 
fies the  heart  not  less  certainly  than  does  a romantic 
sentimentality.  The  danger  attending  enthusiasm  in 
religion  is  not,  then,  of  a trivial  sort ; and  whoever  dis- 
affects  the  substantial  matters  of  Christianity,  and  seeks 
to  derive  from  it  merely,  or  chiefly,  the  gratifications  of 
excited  feeling — whoever  combines  from  its  materials  a 
paradise  of  abstract  contemplation,  or  of  poetic  imagery, 
where  he  may  take  refuge  from  the  annoyances  and  the 
importunate  claims  of  common  life — whoever  thus 
delights  himself  with  dreams,  and  is  insensible  to  reali- 
ties, lives  in  peril  of  awaking  from  his  illusions  when 
truth  comes  too  late.  The  religious  idealist  sincerely 
believes  himself,  perhaps,  to  be  eminently  devout ; and 
those  who  witness  his  abstraction,  his  elevation,  his 
enjoyments,  may  reverence  his  piety ; meanwhile,  this 
fictitious  happiness  creeps  as  a lethargy  through  the 
moral  system,  and  is  rendering  him  continually  less  and 
less  susceptible  of  those  emotions  in  which  true  religion 
consists. 


REV.  T.  DALE — REV.  H.  MELVILL,  ETC. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Dale,  canon  of  St  Paul’s,  and 
vicar  of  St  Pancras,  is  author  of  two  volumes  of 
Sermons,  the  first  preached  at  St  Bride,  1830,  and  the 
second  before  the  University  of  Cambridge,  1832-36. 
The  other  publications  of  Mr  Dale  are — The  Sabbath 
Companion,  1844 ; Commentary  on  the  Twenty-third 
Psalm,  1845;  The  Domestic  Liturgy  and  Family  Chap- 
lain, 1846 ; &c.  Mr  Dale,  while  at  college  in 
Cambridge,  published  some  poetical  narratives,  The 
Widow  of  Nain,  The  Outlaw  of  Tarsus,  and  Trad  and 
Adah,  since  collected  into  one  volume,  1842.  Mr 
Dale  is  a native  of  London,  born  in  1797.  He  was 
for  some  time  Professor  of  English  Literature  at 
the  London  University,  and  subsequently  at  King’s 
College. 

Another  canon  of  St  Paul’s,  and  popular  metro- 
politan preacher,  is  the  Rev.  Henry  Melvill, 
author  of  several  volumes  of  Sermons,  and  a volume 
of  Lectures  delivered  at  St  Margaret’s,  Lothbury, 
1850-52.  The  latter  formed  part  of  the  Jones 
Lectureship,  commonly  called  ‘ The  Golden  Lecture,’ 
which  was  founded  by  a London  citizen  in  1614. 
The  annual  income  of  the  Golden  Lectureship 
amounts  to  £416  a year;  the  patrons  are  the 
Haberdashers’  Company. 

The  Bridgewater  Treatises  form  a valuable  series 
of  works  on  the  theology  of  natural  history.  The 


Earl  of  Bridgewater  (1758-1829)  bequeathed  a sum 
of  £8000  to  be  invested  in  the  public  funds,  and 
paid  to  persons  appointed  by  the  President  of  the 
Royal  Society  to  write  and  publish  works  on  the 
Power,  Wisdom,  and  Goodness  of  God  as  manifested 
in  the  Creation.  The  works  so  produced  are — The 
Hand,  its  Mechanism  and  Endowments  as  evincing 
Design,  by  Sir  Charles  Bell,  Professor  of  Sur- 
gery in  the  University  of  Edinburgh  (1774-1842); 
Geology  and  Mineralogy  considered  with  Reference  to 
Natural  Theology,  by  Dr  William  Buckland,  Dean 
of  Westminster  (1784-1856);  The  Moral  and  Intel- 
lectual Constitution  of  Man,  by  Dr  Thomas  Chalmers 
(1780-1847)  ; The  Physical  Condition  of  Man,  by  Dr 
J ohn  Kidd  ; The  Habits  and  Instincts  of  Animals,  by 
the  Rev.  W.  Kirby  (1759-1851);  Chemistry  and 
Meteorology,  by  Dr  W.  Prout;  Animal  and  Vegetable 
Physiology,  by  Dr  P.  M.  Roget;  Astronomy  and 
General  Physics,  by  Dr  W.  Whewell,  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy.  The  jiames  here  given  afford 
sufficient  evidence  of  the  judicious  administration  of 
the  trust.  The  President  of  the  Royal  Society 
called  in  to  his  aid,  in  selecting  the  writers,  the 
archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  bishop  of  London, 
and  it  is  creditable  to  their  liberality  and  taste  that 
the  first  of  the  treatises  was  assigned  to  a Presby- 
terian minister — Dr  Chalmers. 

DRS  BROWN,  WARDLAW,  GUTHRIE,  CAIRD,  CANDLISH, 
CUMMING,  AND  TULLOCH. 

The  Scottish  divines,  though  enjoying  compara- 
tively little  leisure  from  their  pastoral  duties,  have 
made  some  contributions  to  our  modern  theological 
literature.  Dr  John  Brown  (1785-1859),  of  the 
United  Presbyterian  Church,  Theological  Professor, 
&c.,  was  a good  Biblical  critic  and  practical 
theologian.  Amidst  numerous  religious  treatises 
published  between  1821  and  1852,  his  Expository  Dis- 
courses on  the  Epistles  to  the  Romans  and  Galatians, 
the  Epistle  of  Peter,  Discourses  and  Sayings  of  our 
Lord,  the  Sufferings  of  the  Messiah,  &c.,  are  warmly 
commended.  Dr  Ralph  Wardlaw  (1779-1853), 
of  .the  Independent  Church,  Glasgow,  was  author  of 
Discourses  on  the  Socinian  Controversy,  1814,  which 
have  been  frequently  reprinted,  and  which  Robert 
Hall  said  completely  exhausted  the  subject.  Dr 
Wardlaw  published  various  sermons  and  theological 
essays,  and  was  a learned,  able  divine,  and  a very 
impressive  preacher.  A life  of  Dr  Wardlaw  was 
published  in  1856  by  Dr  W.  L.  Alexander.  Among 
the  most  popular  of  sermons  lately  published  are 
those  of  Dr  Guthrie  and  Dr  Caird.  Thomas 
Guthrie  (born  at  Brechin,  Forfarshire,  in  1800)  is 
author  of  a volume  of  Discourses  from  Ezekiel,  1855  ; 
Discourses  from  the  Epistle  to  the  Colossians , 1859; 
Pleas  for  Ragged  Schools;  and  several  tracts  against 
intemperance.  Dr  Guthrie  is  the  most  eloquent  of 
the  Free  Church  preachers.  His  sermons  are 
marked  by  poetic  imagery  and  illustration — perhaps 
too  profusely,  but  often  striking,  pathetic,  and 
impressive.  Dr  John  Caird,  one  of  the  ministers  of 
Glasgow,  has  published  Religion  in  Common  Life,  a 
sermon  preached  before  the  Court  at  Balmoral  in 
1856,  and  a volume  of  Sermons,  1858 ; these  are 
distinguished  for  their  practical  tendency  and 
earnestness,  and  for  a beautiful  simplicity  and 
clearness  of  style.  Dr  Robert  S.  Candlisii,  one  of 
the  Free  Church  ministers  of  Edinburgh— son  of  an 
early  friend  and  correspondent  of  the  poet  Burns — 
is  author  of  an  Exposition  of  the  Book  of  Genesis , 
1852  ; Discourses  on  the  Resurrection,  1858  ; and  other 
professional  treatises,  all  evincing  acuteness  and 
research — a subtle  and  penetrating  intellect.  Dr 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


FROM  1830 


J ohs  Cumming,  of  the  Scotch  Church,  London 
] (born  in  Aberdeenshire  in  1809),  has  written  a great 
number  of  religious  works — Apocalyptic  Sketches, 
Jo  ices  of  the  Night,  Voices  of  the  Day,  Voices  of  the 
Dead,  Expository  Readings  on  the  Old  and  New 
Testament,  and  various  controversial  tracts.  He  is 
in  theology  what  Mr  G.  P.  R.  James  is  in  fiction — 
as  fluent  and  as  voluminous,  but  with  a larger  body  of 
readers  and  admirers. 

Dr  John  Tulloch,  Principal  of  St  Mary’s  College, 
St  Andrews,  in  1855  received  one  of  the  Burnett 
prizes  for  a treatise  on  Theism,  the  I Vitness  of  Reason 
and  Nature  to  an  All-wise  and  All-beneficent  Creator. 

I The  Burnett  Prize  Essays  are  published  under  the 
bequest  of  an  Aberdeen  merchant,  John  Burnett 
I (1739-1784),  who  left  £1600  to  be  applied  every 
forty  years  to  the  foundation  of  two  premiums  for 
essays  on  the  Being  and  Character  of  God  from 
Reason  and  Revelation.  Dr  Tulloch,  in  1859, 

| published  a volume  of  four  lectures,  delivered  at 
the  Philosophical  Institution,  Edinburgh,  Leaders 
of  the  Reformation,  or  sketches  of  Luther,  Calvin, 
Latimer,  and  Knox. 

[ Decadence  of  the  Ancient  Portion  of  Edinburgh.] 
[From  Guthrie's  Sermons .] 

There  is  a remarkable  phenomenon  to  be  seen  on 
, certain  parts  of  our  coast.  Strange  to  say,  it  proves, 
j notwithstanding  such  expressions  as  ‘ the  stable  and  solid 
land,’  that  it  is  not  the  land  but  the  sea  which  is  the 
stable  element.  On  some  summer  day,  when  there  is 
not  a wave  to  rock  her,  nor  breath  of  wind  to  fill  her  sail 
! or  fan  a cheek,  you  launch  your  boat  upon  the  waters, 
and,  pulling  out  beyond  lowest  tide-mark,  you  idly  lie 
upon  her  bows  to  catch  the  silvery  glance  of  a passing 
fish,  or  watch  the  movements  of  the  many  curious  crea- 
tures that  travel  the  sea’s  sandy  bed,  or  creeping  out  of 
their  rocky  homes,  wander  its  tangled  mazes.  If  the 
traveller  is  surprised  to  find  a deep-sea  shell  imbedded 
in  the  marbles  of  a mountain-peak,  how  great  is  your 
surprise  to  see  beneath  you  a vegetation  foreign  to  the 
deep  ! Below  your  boat,  submerged  many  feet  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  lowest  tide,  away  down  in  these  green 
crystal  depths,  you  see  no  rusting  anchor,  no  mouldering 
remains  of  some  shipwrecked  one,  but  in  the  standing 
stumps  of  trees,  the  mouldering  vestiges  of  a forest,  where 
once  the  wild  cat  prowled,  and  the  birds  of  heaven, 
singing  their  loves,  had  nestled  and  nursed  their  young. 
In  counterpart  to  those  portions  of  our  coast  where  sea- 
hollowed  caves,  with  sides  the  waves  have  polished,  and 
floors  still  strewed  with  shells  and  sand,  now  stand  high 
above  the  level  of  strongest  stream-tides,  there  stand 
these  dead,  decaying  trees — entombed  in  the  deep.  A 
strange  phenomenon,  which  admits  of  no  other  explana- 
tion than  this,  that  there  the  coast-line  has  sunk  beneath 
its  ancient  level. 

Many  of  our  cities  present  a phenomenon  as  melan- 
j choly  to  the  eye  of  a philanthropist,  as  the  other  is 
interesting  to  a philosopher  or  geologist.  In  their 
economical,  educational,  moral,  and  religious  aspects, 
certain  parts  of  this  city  bear  palpable  evidence  of  a 
corresponding  subsidence.  Not  a single  house,  nor  a 
j block  of  houses,  but  whole  streets,  once  from  end  to  end 
the  homes  of  decency,  and  industry,  and  wealth,  and 
rank,  and  piety,  have  been  engulphed.  A flood  of  ignor- 
ance, and  misery,  and  sin,  now  breaks  and  roars  above 
the  top  of  their  highest  tenements.  Nor  do  the  old 
stumps  of  a forest,  still  standing  up  erect  beneath  the 
sea- wave,  indicate  a greater  change,  a deeper  subsidence, 
than  the  relics  of  ancient  grandeur,  and  the  touching 
| memorials  of  piety  which  yet  linger  about  these 
wretched  dwellings,  like  evening  twilight  on  the  hills — 
like  some  traces  of  beauty  on  a corpse.  The  unfurnished 
floor,  the  begrimed  and  naked  walls,  the  stifling,  sickening 
740 


atmosphere,  the  patched  and  dusty  window — through 
which  a sunbeam,  like  hope,  is  faintly  stealing — the 
ragged,  hunger-bitten,  and  sad-faced  children,  the  ruffian 
man,  the  heap  of  straw  where  some  wretched  mother,  in 
muttering  dreams,  sleeps  off  last  night’s  debauch,  or  lies 
unshrouded  and  uncoffined  in  the  ghastliness  of  a hope- 
less death,  are  sad  scenes.  We  have  often  looked  on 
them.  And  they  appear  all  the  sadder  for  the  restless 
play  of  fancy.  Excited  by  some  vestiges  of  a fresco- 
painting that  still  looks  out  from  the  foul  and  broken 
plaster,  the  massive  marble  rising  over  the  cold  and 
cracked  hearth-stone,  an  elaborately  carved  cornice  too 
high  for  shivering  cold  to  pull  it  down  for  fuel,  some 
stucco  flowers  or  fruit  yet  pendant  on  the  crumbling 
ceiling,  fancy,  kindled  by  these,  calls  up  the  gay  scenes 
and  actors  of  other  days — when  beauty,  elegance,  and 
fashion  graced  these  lonely  halls,  and  plenty  smoked  on 
groaning  tables,  and  where  these  few  cinders,  gathered 
from  the  city  dust-heap,  are  feebly  smouldering,  hospit- 
able fires  roared  up  the  chimney. 

But  there  is  that  in  and  about  these  houses  which 
bears  witness  of  a deeper  subsidence,  a yet  sadder 
change.  Bent  on  some  mission  of  mercy,  you  stand  at 
the  foot  of  a dark  and  filthy  stair.  It  conducts  you  to 
the  crowded  rooms  of  a tenement,  where — with  the 
exception  of  some  old  decent  widow  who  has  seen 
better  days,  and  when  her  family  are  all  dead,  and  her 
friends  all  gone,  still  clings  to  God  and  her  faith  in 
the  dark  hour  of  adversity  and  amid  the  wreck  of  for- 
tune— from  the  cellar-dens  below  to  the  cold  garrets 
beneath  the  roof- tree,  you  shall  find  none  either  read- 
ing their  Bible,  or  even  with  a Bible  to  read.  Alas ! of 
prayer,  of  morning  or  evening  psalms,  of  earthly  or 
heavenly  peace,  it  may  be  said  the  place  that  once  knew 
them,  knows  them  no  more.  But  before  you  enter  the 
doorway,  raise  your  eyes  to  the  lintel-stone.  Dumb,  it 
yet  speaks  of  other  and  better  times.  Carved  in  Greek 
or  Latin,  or  our  own  mother-tongue,  you  decipher  such 
texts  as  these:  ‘Peace  be  to  this  house.’  ‘Except, the 
Lord  build  the  house,  they  labour  in  vain  that  build  it.’ 
‘We  have  a building  of  God,  an  house  not  made  with 
hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens.’  ‘ Fear  God  ; ’ or  this, 
‘ Love  your  neighbour.’  Like  the  mouldering  remnants 
of  a forest  that  once  resounded  with,  the  melody  of 
birds,  but  hears  nought  now  save  the  angry  dash  or 
melancholy  moan  of  breaking  waves,  these  vestiges  of 
piety  furnish  a gauge  which  enables  us  to  measure  how 
low  in  these  dark  localities  the  whole  stratum  of  society 
has  sunk. 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 

The  progress  of  physical  and  mental  science  has 
been  traced  with  eminent  ability  in  the  series  of 
dissertations  written  for  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 
The  various  discoveries  and  distinctions  are  related 
with  admirable  perspicuity,  and  additional  interest 
is  imparted  to  them  by  the  biographical  sketches 
accompanying  each  department.  Ethical  philosophy 
has  been  treated  by  Dugald  Stewart  and  Mackin- 
tosh, as  already  stated ; and  latterly  a third  disser- 
tation has  been  added  by  Archbishop  Whately, 
exhibiting  a general  view  of  the  rise,  progress,  and 
corruptions  of  Christianity.  Mathematical  and 
physical  science  was  taken  up  by  Professor  John 
Playfair  (1748-1819),  distinguished  for  his  illus- 
trations of  the  Huttonian  theory,  and  for  his  bio- 
graphies of  Hutton  and  Robison.  Playfair  treated 
of  the  period  which  closed  with  Newton  and  Leib- 
nitz, aud  the  subject  was  continued  through  the 
course  of  the  eighteenth  century  by  Sir  John 
Leslie,  who  succeeded  to  Playfair  in  the  chair  of 
Natural  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 
Sir  John  (1766-1832)  was  celebrated  for  his  ardour 


scientific  writers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sir  John  herschel. 

in  physical  research,  and  for  his  work,  an  Experi- 
mental Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Propagation  of 
Heat , 1804.  A sixth  dissertation  was  added  in  1856 
by  the  present  Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy, 
James  David  Forbes,  who  continued  the  general 
view  of  the  progress  of  mathematical  and  physical 
science  principally  from  1755  to  1850. 

* If  we  look  for  the  distinguishing  characteristic 
of  the  centenary  period  just  elapsed  [1750-1850], 
we  find  it,’  says  Professor  Forbes,  ‘in  this,  that  it 
has  drawn  far  more  largely  upon  experiment  as  a 
means  of  arriving  at  truth  than  had  previously  been 
done.  By  a natural  conversion  of  the  process,  the 
knowledge  thus  acquired  has  been  applied  with 
more  freedom  and  boldness  to  the  exigencies  of 
mankind,  and  to  the  further  investigation  of  the 
secrets  of  nature.  If  we  compare  the  now  exten- 
sive subjects  of  heat,  electricity,  and  magnetism, 
with  the  mere  rudiments  of  these  sciences  as 
understood  in  1750 ; or  if  we  think  of  the  aston- 
ishing revival  of  physical  and  experimental  optics 
— which  had  well-nigh  slumbered  for  more  than 
a century — during  the  too  short  lives  of  Young 
and  Fresnel,  we  shall  be  disposed  to  admit 
the  former  part  of  the  statement;  and  when  we 
recollect  that  the  same  period  has  given  birth  to 
the  steam-engine  of  Watt,  with  its  application  to 
shipping  and  railways — to  the  gigantic  telescopes 
of  Herschel  and  Lord  Rosse,  wonderful  as  works  of 
art  as  well  as  instruments  of  sublime  discovery — to 
the  electric  telegraph,  and  to  the  tubular  bridge 
— we  shall  be  ready  to  grant  the  last  part  of 
the  proposition,  that  science  and  art  have  been 
more  indissolubly  united  than  at  any  previous 
period.’ 

Those  recent  discoveries  in  science  and  art  are 
popularly  described  by  Professor  Forbes  in  his 
interesting  dissertation.  He  is  also  known  as  the 
author  of  some  valuable  works — Travels  through 
the  Alps  of  Savoy,  1843;  Norway  audits  Glaciers , 
visited  in  1851 ; The  Tour  of  Mont  Blanc  and  Monte 
Rosa,  1855  ; &c.  He  has  well  supported  the  scien- 
tific reputation  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 
has  still,  we  trust,  many  years — he  was  born  in 
1808 — of  honourable  and  useful  exertion  before  him. 

There  has  been  no  continuation  of  the  disser- 
tations on  the  progress  of  metaphysical  and  ethical 
philosophy,  but  a work  by  Mr  J.  D.  Morell, 
Inspector  of  Schools,  England,  in  some  measure 
supplies  the  deficiency.  This  work  is  entitled 
An  Historical  and  Critical  View  of  the  Speculative 
Philosophy  of  Europe  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  two 
volumes,  1846.  Mr  Morell  has  also  published  four 
lectures  on  the  Philosophical  Tendencies  of  the  Age, 
1848;  The  Philosophy  of  Religion,  1849;  and  Elements 
of  Psychology,  1853.  Referring  to  the  above  works 
for  full  information,  we  can  only  notice  a few  of 
the  leading  scientific  writers. 

SIR  JOHN  HERSCHEL. 

The  more  popular  treatises  of  this  eminent 
astronomer — the  Preliminary  Discourse  on  Natural 
Philosophy,  1830,  and  Treatise  on  Astronomy , 1833, 
have  already  been  mentioned  as  forming  part  of 
Lardner’s  Cyclopaedia.  Sir  John  has  since  collected 
a series  of  Essays  which  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh 
and  Quarterly  Reviews , with  Addresses  and  other 
Pieces,  1857.  Profoundly  versed  in  almost  every 
branch  of  physics,  Sir  John  Herschel  has  occasionally 
sported  with  the  Muses,  but  in  the  garb  of  the 
ancients — in  hexameter  and  pentameter  verses.  The 
following  stanzas  are  at  least  equal  to  Southey’s 
hexameters,  and  the  first  was  made  in  a dream 

in  1841,  and  written  down  immediately  on 
waking: 

Throw  thyself  on  thy  God,  nor  mock  him  with  feeble 
denial ; 

Sure  of  his  love,  and  oh  ! sure  of  his  mercy  at  last, 

Bitter  and  deep  though  the  draught,  yet  shun  not  the 
cup  of  thy  trial, 

But  in  its  healing  effect,  smile  at  its  bitterness  past. 

Pray  for  that  holier  cup  while  sweet  with  bitter  lies 
blending, 

Tears  in  the  cheerful  eye,  smiles  on  the  sorrowing; 
cheek, 

Death  expiring  in  life,  when  the  long-drawn  struggle- 
is  ending ; 

Triumph  and  joy  to  the  strong,  strength  to  the  weary 
and  weak. 

The  abstruse  studies  and  triumphs  of  Sir  John. 
Herschel — his  work  on  the  Differential  Calculus, 
his  Catalogues  of  Stars  and  Nebulae,  and  his  Treatises 
on  Sound  and  Light  are  well  known ; but  perhaps 
the  most  striking  instance  of  his  pure  devotion  to 
science  was  his  expedition  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  his  sojourn  there  for  four  years,  solely 
at  his  own  expense,  with  the  view  of  examining 
under  the  most  favourable  circumstances  the 
southern  hemisphere.  This  completed  a telescopic 
survey  of  the  whole  surface  of  the  visible  heavens, 
commenced  by  Sir  William  Herschel  above  seventy 
years  ago,  assisted  by  his  sister  Caroline  and  his 
brother  Alexander,  and  continued  by  him  almost 
down  to  the  close  of  a very  long  life.*  Sir  William  died 
in  1822,  aged  eighty-four.  In  1825  it  was  resumed  by 
his  son,  Sir  John,  who  published  the  results  in  1847. 
On  his  return  from  the  Cape,  the  successful  astron- 
omer was  honoured  with  a baronetcy,  the  university 
of  Oxford  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  D.C.L., 
and  the  Astronomical  Society — of  which  he  was 
president — voted  him  a testimonial  for  his  work  on 

* * Herschel,  a musician  residing  at  Bath,  though  a native  of 
Hanover,  which  he  had  left  in  early  youth,  devoted  his  leisure 
to  the  construction  and  improvement  of  reflecting  telescopes, 
with  which  he  continued  ardently  to  survey  the  heavens.  His 
zeal  and  assiduity  had  already  drawn  the  notice  of  astron- 
omers, when  he  announced  to  Dr  Maskelyne,  that,  on  the 
night  of  the  13th  of  March  1781,  he  observed  a shifting  star, 
which,  from  its  smallness,  he  judged  to  be  a comet,  though  it 
was  distinguished  neither  by  a nebulosity  nor  a tail.  The 
motion  of  the  star,  however,  was  so  slow  as  to  require  distant 
observations  to  ascertain  its  path.  The  president  Saron,  an 
expert  and  obliging  calculator,  was  the  first  who  conceived  it 
to  be  a planet,  having  inferred,  from  the  few  observations 
communicated  to  him,  that  it  described  a circle  with  a radius 
of  about  twelve  times  the  mean  distance  of  the  earth  from  the 
sun.  Lexell  removed  all  doubt,  and  before  the  close  of  the 
year,  he  computed  the  elements  of  the  new  planet  with  con- 
siderable accuracy,  making  the  great  axis  of  its  orbit  nineteen 
times  greater  than  that  of  the  earth,  and  the  period  of  its 
revolution  eighty-four  years.  Herschel  proposed,  out  of  grati- 
tude to  his  royal  patron  [George  III.],  to  call  the  planet  he 
had  found  by  the  barbarous  appellation  of  Georgium  Sidus  ; 
but  the  classical  name  of  Uranus,  which  Bode  afterwards, 
applied,  is  almost  universally  adopted.  Animated  by  this 
happy  omen,  he  prosecuted  his  astronomical  observations 
with  unwearied  zeal  and  ardour,  and  continued,  during  th» 
remainder  of  a long  life,  to  enrich  science  with  a succession  of 
splendid  discoveries.’— Sir  John  Leslie.  Ilerschel’s  discoveries 
were  chiefly  made  by  means  of  his  forty-feet  reflector,  to  con- 
struct which  funds  were  advanced  by  the  king.  This  instru- 
ment is  still  preserved  at  Slough  by  the  filial  care  of  Sir  John 
Herschel.  An  Irish  nobleman,  tho  Earl  of  Rosse,  after  many 
years’  labour  to  improve  tho  telescope,  completed  in  1844,  and 
erected  at  Parsonstown,  a telescope  of  six  feet  aperture  and 
fifty-three  or  fifty-four  feet  of  focal  length.  Tho  result  of' 
Lord  Itosse’s  observations  with  his  six-feet  speculum  has  been 
to  resolve  many  nebulae  into  stars. 

741 

FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


the  Southern  Hemisphere.  In  1850  he  was  appointed 
Master  of  the  Mint,  but  he  was  obliged  to  resign  the 
office  from  ill  health.  Besides  the  works  to  which 
we  have  referred,  Sir  John  Herschel  has  published 


Outlines  of  Astronomy , 1849,  of  which  a fifth  edition, 
corrected  to  the  existing  state  of  astronomical  science, 
was  published  in  1858 ; and  he  edited  A Manual  of 
Scientific  Inquiry , 1849,  prepared  by  authority  of  j 
the  Admiralty  for  the  use  of  the  navy.  Sir  John 
Herschel  was  born  at  Slough,  near  Windsor,  in 
1790,  and  studied  at  St  John’s  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  was  senior  wrangler  in  1813. 

[Tendency  and  Effect  of  Philosophical  Studies.'] 

Nothing  can  be  more  unfounded  than  the  objection 
which  has  been  taken,  in  limine , by  persons,  well  mean- 
ing perhaps,  certainly  narrow  minded,  against  the  study 
of  natural  philosophy — that  it  fosters  in  its  cultivators 
an  undue  and  overweening  self-conceit,  leads  them  to 
doubt  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  to  scoff  at 
revealed  religion.  Its  natural  effect,  we  may  confidently 
assert,  on  every  well-constituted  mind,  is,  and  must 
be,  the  direct  contrary.  No  doubt,  the  testimony  of 
natural  reason,  on  whatever  exercised,  must  of  necessity 
stop  short  of  those  truths  which  it  is  the  object  of 
revelation  to  make  known;  but  while  it  places  the 
existence  and  principal  attributes  of  a Deity  on  such 
grounds  as  to  render  doubt  absurd  and  atheism  ridicu- 
lous, it  unquestionably  opposes  no  natural  or  necessary 
obstacle  to  further  progress : on  the  contrary,  by 
cherishing  as  a vital  principle  an  unbounded  spirit 
of  inquiry  and  ardency  of  expectation,  it  unfetters  the 
mind  from  prejudices  of  every  kind,  and  leaves  it  open 
and  free  to  every  impression  of  a higher  nature  which 
it  is  susceptible  of  receiving,  guarding  only  against 
enthusiasm  and  self-deception  by  a habit  of  strict 
investigation,  but  encouraging,  rather  than  suppressing, 
everything  that  can  offer  a prospect  or  a hope  beyond 
the  present  obscure  and  unsatisfactory  state.  The 
742 


character  of  the  true  philosopher  is  to  hope  all  things 
not  unreasonable.  He  who  has  seen  obscurities  which 
appealed  impenetrable  in  physical  and  mathematical 
! science  suddenly  dispelled,  and  the  most  barren  and 
unpromising  fields  of  inquiry  converted,  as  if  by  inspir- 
ation, into  rich  and  inexhaustible  springs  of  knowledge 
and  power,  on  a simple  change  of  our  point  of  view,  or 
; by  merely  bringing  them  to  bear  on  some  principle 
j which  it  never  occurred  before  to  try,  will  surely  be  the 
very  last  to  acquiesce  in  any  dispiriting  prospects  of 
either  the  present  or  the  future  destinies  of  mankind ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  boundless  views  of 
intellectual  and  moral,  as  well  as  material  relations 
which  open  on  him  on  all  hands  in  the  course  of  these 
pursuits,  the  knowledge  of  the  trivial  place  he  occupies 
in  the  scale  of  creation,  and  the  sense  continually 
pressed  upon  him  of  his  own  weakness  and  incapacity 
to  suspend  or  modify  the  slightest  movement  of  the  vast 
machinery  he  sees  in  action  around  him,  must  effectu- 
ally convince  him  that  humility  of  pretension,  no  less 
than  confidence  of  hope,  is  what  best  becomes  his 
character.  * * 

The  question  ‘ cui  hono  ’ to  what  practical  end  and 
advantage  do  your  researches  tend?  is  one  which  the 
speculative  philosopher  who  loves  knowledge  for  its 
own  sake,  and  enjoys,  as  a rational  being  should  enjoy, 
the  mere  contemplation  of  harmonious  and  mutually 
dependent  truths,  can  seldom  hear  without  a sense  of 
humiliation.  He  feels  that  there  is  a lofty  and  disinter- 
ested pleasure  in  his  speculations  which  ought  to  exempt 
them  from  such  questioning;  communicating  as  they 
do  to  his  own  mind  the  purest  happiness  (after  the 
exercise  of  the  benevolent  and  moral  feelings)  of  which 
j human  nature  is  susceptible,  and  tending  to  the  injury 
of  no  one,  he  might  surely  allege  this  as  a sufficient  and 
direct  reply  to  those  who,  having  themselves  little 
capacity,  and  less  relish  for  intellectual  pursuits,  are 
constantly  repeating  upon  him  this  inquiry. 

MRS  SOMERVILLE. 

Similar  testimony  to  the  intrinsic  worth  of 
scientific  pursuits  has  been  borne  by  Mrs  Mary 
Somerville,  regarded  as  ‘ the  most  profoundly 
I scientific  lady  of  the  age.’ 

‘Science,’  she  says,  ‘regarded  as  the  pursuit  of 
truth,  which  can  only  be  attained  by  patient  and 
unprejudiced  investigation,  wherein  nothing  is  too 
great  to  be  attempted,  nothing  so  minute  as  to  be 
justly  disregarded,  must  ever  afford  occupation  of 
consummate  interest  and  subject  of  elevated  medi- 
tation. The  contemplation  of  the  works  of  creation 
elevates  the  mind  to  the  admiration  of  whatever  is 
great  and  noble,  accomplishing  the  object  of  all 
study,  which,  in  the  elegant  language  of  Sir  J. 
Mackintosh,  is  “to  inspire  the  love  of  truth,  of 
wisdom,  of  beauty,  especially  of  goodness,  the 
highest  beauty,”  and  of  that  supreme  and  eternal 
Mind  which  contains  all  truth  and  wisdom,  all 
beauty  and  goodness.  By  the  love  or  delightful 
contemplation  of  these  transcendent  aims,  for  their 
own  sake  only,  the  mind  of  man  is  raised  from  low 
and  perishable  objects,  and  prepared  for  those  high 
destinies  which  are  appointed  for  all  those  who  are 
capable  of  them.’ 

In  1832,  Mrs  Somerville  published  the  Mechanism 
of  the  Heavens , a work  originally  undertaken  at  the 
instance  of  Lord  Brougham,  for  publication  by  the 
Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge  ; but 
which  proved  too  voluminous  for  its  first  destina- 
tion. The  authoress  had  previously  written  a 
treatise  on  the  magnetising  influence  of  the  violet 
rays  of  the  solar  spectrum,  and  both  works  are 
remarkable  for  their  clear  and  lucid  exposition,  and 
for  the  absence  of  all  pretension.  In  1834,  Airs 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


AIRY — WHEWELL. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Somerville  issued  a more  popular  scientific  work, 
On  the  Connection  of  the  Physical  Sciences.  In  a 
dedication  to  the  Queen,  she  says : ‘ If  I have  suc- 
ceeded in  my  endeavour  to  make  the  laws  by  which 
the  material  world  is  governed  more  familiar  to  my 
countrywomen,  I shall  have  the  gratification  of 
thinking  that  the  gracious  permission  to  dedicate 
my  book  to  your  Majesty  has  not  been  misplaced.’ 
This  object  was  more  than  attained,  for  it  was 
remarked  that  ‘ there  were  few  individuals  even  of 
that  gender  which  plumes  itself  upon  the  exclusive 
possession  of  exact  science,  who  might  not  learn 
much  that  is  both  novel  and  curious  in  the  recent 
progress  of  physics  from  Mrs  Somerville’s  little 
volume.’  In  1848,  Mrs  Somerville  published  Physical 
Geography , two  volumes — a history  of  the  earth  in 
its  whole  material  organisation,  and  of  animal  and 
vegetable  life.  This  lady  is  a native  of  Scotland, 
born  about  the  year  1796.  She  was  first  married 
to  an  officer  of  the  Royal  Navy,  who,  it  is  said, 
took  great  pleasure  in  assisting  her  in  her  mathe- 
matical studies.  Her  present  husband  is  a Scottish 
minister. 

AIRY — HIND — ADAMS — R.  GRANT — BABBAGE — 
NICHOL — POWELL. 

In  the  progress  of  astronomical  discovery,  the 
astronomer-royal,  Mr  George  Biddell  Airy 
(born  at  Alnwick  in  1801),  has  done  valuable  ser- 
vice by  his  lectures  on  experimental  philosophy, 
and  his  published  Observations.  He  is  author  of 
the  treatise  on  Gravitation  in  the  Penny  Cyclo- 
paedia, and  of  various  communications  in  scientific 
journals. 

Mr  John  Russell  Hind,  Eoreign  Secretary  of 
the  Royal  Astronomical  Society,  and  superintendent 
of  the  Nautical  Almanac , has  discovered  ten  small 
planets,  for  which  the  Astronomical  Society  awarded 
him  their  gold  medal,  and  a pension  of  £200  a year 
has  been  granted  to  him  by  royal  warrant.  Any 
new  discovery  or  observation  is  chronicled  by  Mr 
Hind  in  the  Times  newspaper,  and  his  brief  notes 
are  always  welcome. 

The  discoverer  of  the  planet  Neptune,  Mr  John 
■Couch  Adams,  mathematical  tutor  in  St  John’s 
College,  Cambridge,  is  an  instance  of  persevering 
original  genius.  He  was  intended  by  his  father,  a 
farmer,  to  follow  the  paternal  occupation,  but  was 
constantly  absorbed  in  mathematical  studies.  He 
entered  St  John’s  College,  became  senior  wrangler, 
and  in  1844  made  the  discovery  whence  he  derives 
his  chief  fame.  Certain  irregularities  in  the  planet 
Uranus  being  unaccounted  for,  Mr  Adams  conceived 
that  they  might  be  occasioned  by  an  undiscovered 
planet  beyond  it.  He  made  experiments  for  this 
purpose ; and  at  the  same  time  a French  astronomer, 
M.  Le  Verrier,  had  arrived  at  the  same  result, 
assigning  the  place  of  the  disturbing  planet  to 
within  one  degree  of  that  given  by  Mr  Adams. 
The  honour  was  thus  divided,  but  both  were 
independent  discoverers. 

A History  of  Physical  Astronomy,  by  Robert 
Grant,  is  a work  of  great  research  and  complete- 
ness, bringing  the  history  of  astronomical  progress 
down  to  1852.  In  conjunction  with  Admiral  Smyth, 
Mr  Grant  has  also  translated  Arago’s  Popular 
Astronomy , and  he  was  conjoined  with  the  Rev.  B. 
Powell  in  translating  Arago’s  Eminent  Men,  1857. 
Mr  Grant  is  in  a great  measure  a self-educated 
man  of  science,  a native  of  Grantown,  in  Inverness- 
shire. 

Mr  Charles  Babbage  (born  in  1790)  is  popu- 
larly celebrated  for  his  calculating-machine.  lie 


is  also  well  known  for  his  Economy  of  Manufactures 
and  Machinery,  1833 — a volume  that  has  been 
translated  into  most  foreign  languages.  Mr  Bab- 
bage’s most  original  work  is  one  entitled  A Ninth 
Bridgewater  Treatise,  a most  ingenious  attempt  to 
bring  mathematics  into  the  range  of  sciences  which 
afford  proof  of  Divine  design  in  the  constitution  of 
the  world. 

Professor  J.  P.  Nichol,  Glasgow,  has  done 
much  to  popularise  astronomy  by  various  works  at 
once  ingenious  and  eloquent — as  Views  of  the 
Architecture  of  the  Heavens,  1837  ; Contemplations  on 
the  Solar  System , 1844 ; Thoughts  on  the  System  of 
the  World,  1848  ; The  Planet  Neptune,  an  Exposition 
and  History,  1848 ; The  Stellar  Universe , 1848  ; The 
Planetary  System,  1850. 

The  Rev.  Baden  Powell,  Savilian  Professor  of 
Geometry,  Oxford,  has  written  a History  of  Natural 
Philosophy,  1842 ; a series  of  three  Essays  on  the 
Spirit  of  the  Inductive  Philosophy,  the  Unity  of 
Worlds,  and  the  Philosophy  of  Creation , 1855  ; and  a 
work  entitled  The  Order  of  Nature,  1859.  In  some 
of  these  treatises,  he  discusses  matters  on  the  border- 
land between  religion  and  science  in  a more  liberal 
spirit  than  many  of  his  contemporaries. 


REV.  DR  WILLIAM  WHEWELL, 

The  Master  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  was 
born  at  Lancaster  in  1795.  His  history  affords 
another  example  of  talent  and  perseverance  over- 
coming difficulties.  His  father,  a carpenter,  intended 
bringing  up  his  son  to  his  own  trade ; but  the  master 
of  the  Free  Grammar  School  at  Lancaster  had  been 
struck  with  the  boy’s  aptitude  for  mathematical 
studies,  and  he  succeeded  in  getting  him  entered  of 
Trinity  College,  where  in  due  time  he  took  his 
degree,  and  afterwards  became  a Fellow  and  tutor. 
For  four  years,  from  1828  till  1832,  he  was  Professor 
of  Mineralogy  ; from  1838  to  1855,  he  was  Professor 
of  Moral  Theology  or  Casuistry  ; and  from  1841  to 
the  present  time,  he  has  been  Master  of  Trinity 
College.  These  accumulated  university  honours 
sufficiently  indicate  the  high  estimation  in  which 
Mr  Whewell’s  talents  were  held.  In  the  Cambridge 
Philosophical  Society,  the  Royal  Society,  and  British 
Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science  he  has 
been  no  less  distinguished,  while  his  scientific  works 
have  given  him  a European  fame.  The  most  import- 
ant of  these  are — Astronomy  and  General  Physics 
considered  with  Reference  to  Natural  Theology,  1833  ; 
History  of  the  Inductive  Sciences  from  the  Earliest  to 
the  Present  Times,  three  volumes,  1837 ; The  Phil- 
osophy of  the  Inductive  Sciences,  two  volumes,  1840  ; 
The  Elements  of  Morality,  including  Polity,  two 
volumes,  1855.  The  second  part  of  The  Philosophy 
of  the  Inductive  Sciences  has  recently  (1859)  been 
republished,  with  large  additions,  under  the  title 
of  Novum  Organum  Renovatum.  Professor  James 
Forbes,  in  the  dissertation  contributed  to  the  new 
edition  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  says  of 
Dr  Whewell : ‘ One  attempt — a bold  and  success- 
ful one— has  been  made,  in  our  own  day,  to  unite 
the  history  of  science  and  the  logic  of  inductive 
discovery — I mean  the  History  and  Philosophy 
of  the  Inductive  Sciences.  An  English  philosopher 
of  wonderful  versatility,  industry,  and  power  has 
erected  a permanent  monument  to  his  reputation, 
in  a voluminous  work  bearing  the  preceding 
title.’  Sir  John  Herscliel  has  borne  testimony 
no  less  favourable  to  the  attainments  of  the 
Master  of  Trinity,  in  an  essay  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  1840,  and  since  republished  in  his  volume 
of  essays. 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1850. 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELT. 

In  intellectual  activity,  power,  and  influence,  few 
men  of  the  present  generation  have  exceeded  the 
learned  archbishop  of  Dublin,  Dr  Richard  Whatelt. 
This  eminent  prelate  is  a native  of  London,  born  in 
1787,  fourth  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr  Whately  of  Nonsuch 
Park,  Surrey.  He  was  educated  at  Oriel  College, 
Oxford,  where  he  graduated  in  1808,  took  a second 
class  in  classics  and  mathematics,  and  gained  the 
university  prize  for  an  English  essay.  .Having 
taken  his  M.A.  degree  in  1812,  Whately  entered 
the  church,  was  Bampton  lecturer  in  Oxford  in 
1822,*  and  appointed  the  same  year  to  the  rectory 
of  Halesworth,  Suffolk.  In  1825  he  received  the 
degree  of  D.D.,  and  was  chosen  Principal  of  St 
Alban’s  Hall,  Oxford;  in  1830,  he  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Political  Economy,  Oxford ; and  in 
1831  he  was  consecrated  Archbishop  of  Dublin 
and  Bishop  of  Glendalagh,  to  which  has  since 
been  added  the  bishopric  of  Kildare.  The  literary 
career  of  Archbishop  Whately  seems  to  have 
commenced  in  1821,  when  he  was  in  his  thirty- 
fourth  year.  Previous  to  this,  however,  he  was 
conspicuous  in  the  university  for  his  opposition 
to  the  High  Church  views  of  Dr  Pusey  and  Dr 
Newman.  In  1821  he  published  The  Christian's 
Duty  with  respect  to  the  Established  Government  and 
the  Laws , Considered  in  three  Sermons  ; and  the  same 
year  he  issued  anonymously  his  tract,  Historic  Doubts 
Relative  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte — a grave  logical 
satire  on  scepticism.  The  subject  of  his  Bampton 
lectures  was  The  Use  and  Abuse  of  Party  Feeling  in 
Religion , and  he  treated  it  with  distinguished  ability 
and  liberality.  His  next  two  works  were  The 
Elements  of  Logic,  1826,  and  The  Elements  of  Rhetoric , 
1828.  The  former  treatise  gave  a new  life  to  the 
study  of  logic,  as  was  admitted  by  Sir  William 
Hamilton,  who  combated  some  of  its  doctrines,  and 
it  has  long  since  taken  its  place  as  a standard  in 
the  library  of  mental  science.  Essays  on  Some  of  the 
Difficulties  in  the  Writings  of  St  Paul,  and  in  other 
parts  of  the  New  Testament,  1828 ; Thoughts  on  the 
Sabbath,  1830 ; and  Errors  of  Romanism,  1830.  On 
the  subject  of  Sabbath  observance,  which  has  since 
been  keenly  controverted,  Whately  agrees  with 
Paley,  that  the  Jewish  Sabbath  and  the  Sunday  or 
Lord’s  Day,  are  two  separate  institutions  ; with  the 
former,  the  members  of  the  Church  of  England  have 
nothing  to  do,  but  the  Lord’s  Day  ought  to  be 
observed  by  them,  in  obedience  to  the  authority 
of  the  church  even  independent  of  apostolic 
example  and  ancient  usage.  Introductory  Lectures 
to  Political  Economy,  an  Essay  on  the  Omission  of 
Creeds,  Liturgies,  §~c.,  in  the  New  Testament,  and 
several  Sermons,  were  the  product  of  1831.  Next 
year  the  prelate  appears  to  have  been  chiefly  atten- 
tive to  social  and  political  questions,  induced  by  his 
elevation  to  the  archiepiscopal' chair.  He  published 
Evidence  before  the  House  of  Lords  respecting  Irish 
Tithes,  Thoughts  on  Secondary  Punishment , Reply  to 
the  Address  of  the  Clergy  on  National  Education  in 
Ireland,  and  an  Introduction  to  Political  Economy. 
Speeches  or  printed  remarks  on  the  question  of 
Jewish  disabilities,  and  the  transportation  of 
criminals,  and  Sermons  on  Various  Subjects,  were 
produced  between  1833  and  1836.  Some  religious 
treatises,  the  most  important  being  Lectures  on  St 

* The  Rev.  John  Bampton,  canon  of  Salisbury  (1690-1751), 
left  a sum  of  money— producing  about  £120  per  annum — for 
founding  a series  of  eight  lectures  each  year  on  subjects  con- 
nected with  the  Christian  faith.  The  lecturer  is  appointed  by 
the  heads  of  colleges  in  Oxford. 

744 


Pauls  Epistles,  1849,  were  subsequently  produced ; 
after  which  appeared  a collection  of  English 
Synonyms,  1851,  and  addresses  delivered  at  various 
institutions  in  Cork,  Manchester,  and  London, 
1852-55.  In  1856  the  archbishop  published  an 
edition  of  Bacon's  Essays,  with  Annotations — the 
discursive  nature  of  the  essays,  no  less  than  their 
pregnancy  of  meaning  and  illustration,  affording 
scope  for  abundance  of  moral  lessons  and  arguments. 
Of  these  the  commentator  has  perhaps  been  too 
profuse,  for  there  are  about  three  hundred  and  fifty 
pages  of  annotation  to  one  hundred  of  text,  and 
a good  many  are  from  the  archbishop’s  previous 
works.  The  collection,  however,  forms  a pleasant 
readable  volume.  We  give  one  or  two  of  the 
commentator’s  anecdotical  contributions. 

[ First  Impressions.'] 

In  the  days  when  travelling  by  post-chaise  was  com- 
mon, there  were  usually  certain  lines  of  inns  on  all  the 
principal  roads — a series  of  good,  and  a series  of 
inferior  ones,  each  in  connection  all  the  way  along ; so 
that  if  you  once  got  into  the  worst  line,  you  could  not 
easily  get  out  of  it  to  the  journey’s  end.  The  ‘White 
Hart’  of  one  town  would  drive  you — almost  literally — - 
to  the  ‘ White  Lion  ’ of  the  next,  and  so  on  all  the 
way  ; so  that  of  two  travellers  by  post  from  London  to 
Exeter  or  York,  the  one  would  have  had  nothing  but 
bad  horses,  bad  dinners,  and  bad  beds,  and  the  other 
very  good.  This  is  analogous  to  what  befalls  a traveller 
in  any  new  country,  with  respect  to  the  impressions  he 
receives,  if  he  falls  into  the  hands  of  a party.  They 
consign  him,  as  it  were,  to  those  allied  with  them,  and 
pass  him  on,  from  one  to  another,  all  in  the  same  con- 
nection, each  shewing  him  and  telling  him  just  what 
suits  the  party,  and  concealing  from  him  everything 
else. 

[A  Hint  to  Anonymous  Winters.] 

A well-known  author  once  received  a letter  from  a 
peer  with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted,  asking  him 
whether  he  was  the  author  .of  a certain  article  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  He  replied  that  he  never  made 
communications  of  that  kind,  except  to  intimate 
friends,  selected  by  himself  for  the  purpose,  when  he. 
saw  fit.  His  refusal  to  answer,  however,  pointed  him 
out — which,  as  it  happened,  he  did  not  care  for — as  the 
author.  But  a case  might  occur,  in  which  the  revela- 
tion of  the  authorship  might  involve  a friend  in  some 
serious  difficulties.  In  any  such  case,  he  might  have 
answered  something  in  this  style : ‘ I have  received  a 
letter  purporting  to  be  from  your  lordship,  but  the 
matter  of  it  induces  me  to  suspect  that  it  is  a forgery 
by  some  mischievous  trickster.  The  writer  asks  whether 
I am  the  author  of  a certain  article.  It  is  a sort  of 
question  which  no  one  has  a right  to  ask  ; and  I think, 
therefore,  that  every  one  is  bound  to  discourage  such 
inquiries  by  answering  them — whether  one  is  or  is  not 
the  author — with  a rebuke  for  asking  impertinent 
questions  about  private  matters.  I say  “ private,” 
because,  if  an  article  be  libellous  or  seditious,  the 
law  is  open,  and  any  one  may  proceed  against  the 
publisher,  and  compel  him  either  to  give  up  the  author, 
or  to  bear  the  penalty.  If,  again,  it  contains  false 
statements,  these,  coming  from  an  anonymous  pen, 
may  be  simply  contradicted.  And  if  the  arguments  be 
unsound,  the  obvious  course  is  to  refute  them  ; but  who 
wrote  it,  is  a question  of  idle  or  of  mischievous  curiosity, 
as  it  relates  to  the  private  concerns  of  an  individual. 
If  I were  to  ask  your  lordship,  “ Do  you  spend  your 
income  ? or  lay  by  ? or  outrun  ? Do  you  and  your  lady 
ever  have  an  altercation  ? Was  she  your  first  love  ? or 
were  you  attached  to  some  one  else  before?”  If  I were 
to  ask  such  questions,  your  lordship’s  answer  would 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELT. 


probably  be,  to  desire  the  footman  to  shew  me  out. 
Now,  the  present  inquiry  I regard  as  no  less  unjusti- 
fiable, and  relating  to  private  concerns  ; and,  therefore, 
I think  every  one  bound,  when  so  questioned,  always, 
whether  he  is  the  author  or  not,  to  meet  the  inquiry 
with  a rebuke.  , Hoping  that  my  conjecture  is  right,  of 
the  letter’s  being  a forgery,  I remain,’  &c.  In  any  case, 
however,  in  which  a refusal  to  answer  does  not  convey 
any  information,  the  best  way,  perhaps,  of  meeting  imper- 
tinent inquiries,  is  by  saying,  ‘ Can  you  keep  a secret  ? * 
and  when  the  other  answers  that  he  can,  you  may  reply, 

‘ Well,  so  can  I.’ 

In  1859,  Dr  Whately  continued  this  light  labour 
of  annotation,  selecting  for  his  second  subject, 
Paley’s  Moral  Philosophy.  This  afforded  a much 
less  varied  field  for  remark  and  illustration  than 
Bacon’s  Essays,  but  it  was  one  as  congenial  to  the 
taste  and  studies  of  the  commentator.  The  low 
ground  or  fallacy  upon  which  Paley  built  his 
ethical  system — namely,  that  self-interest  is  the 
rule  of  virtue — has  been  often  attacked,  and  is 
again  assailed  by  Dr  Whately.  ‘Men,’  says  the 
commentator,  ‘ never  do,  and  apparently  never  did, 
account  any  conduct  virtuous  which  they  believe  to 
have  proceeded  entirely  from  calculations  of  self - 
interest , even  though  the  external  act  itself  be  such 
as  they  conceive  would  have  been  done  by  a virtu- 
ous man.’  Paley’s  fault  as  a moralist,  as  Dr 
Whately  remarks,  is  chiefly  one  of  omission,  and  it  is 
probable  that  this  argument  of  self-interest  appears 
much  stronger  to  the  reader  than  it  did  to  the  author, 
who  aimed  only  at  popular  leading  definitions.  Even 
in  this  case,  he  includes  the  future  world  in  his 
view  of  self-interest.  The  following  is  Dr  Whately’s 
note  on  a subject  concerning  which  Paley  talked 
loosely  and  suffered  accordingly: 

[Subscription  to  Articles  of  Religion .] 

It  is  undoubtedly  a great  evil,  on  many  accounts,  to 
have  articles  and  other  formularies  unnecessarily  rigid 
and  exclusive.  But  something  of  the  nature  of  a test, 
framed  by  the  rulers  of  a church,  is  indispensable  ; and 
the  pretensions  sometimes  put  forth  of  dispensing  with 
everything  of  the  kind  are  altogether  delusive.  To 
have  (as  some  have  wildly  proposed)  no  test  or  terms  of 
communion  at  all,  would  be  to  renounce  entirely  the 
character  of  a Christian  church ; since,  of  such  a body, 
it  is  plain  that  a Jew,  a polytheist,  or  an  atheist  might, 
quite  as  consistently  as  a Christian,  be  a member,  or 
even  a governor.  And  to  have  (as  some  have  as  wildly 
proposed)  no  test  but  the  very  words  of  Scripture,  would 
be  scarcely  less  extravagant,  since  there  is  no  one  pro- 
fessing Christianity  who  does  not  maintain  that  his 
sentiments  are  in  accordance  with  the  true  meaning  of 
Scripture,  however  absurd  or  pernicious  those  sentiments 
may  really  be  ; for  it  is  notorious  that  Scripture  itself 
is  at  least  as  liable  as  human  formularies  (and,  indeed, 
more  so)  to  have  forced  interpretations  put  on  its 
language. 

Accordingly,  there  is  no  Christian  community  which 
does  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  apply  some  other  test 
besides  the  very  words  of  Scripture.  Some  churches, 
indeed,  do  not  reduce  any  such  tests  to  writing,  or 
express  it  in  any  fixed  form,  so  as  to  enable  every  one 
to  know  beforehand  precisely  how  much  he  will  be 
required  to  bind  himself  to.  But,  nevertheless,  those 
churches  do  apply  a test,  and  very  often  a much  more 
stringent,  elaborate,  and  minute  test  than  our  Liturgy 
and  Articles.  In  such  communities,  the  candidate- 
pastor  of  a congregation  is  not,  to  be  sure,  called  on  to 
subscribe  in  writing  a definite  Confession  of  Faith, 
drawn  up  by  learned  and  pious  persons  after  mature 
deliberation,  and  publicly  set  forth  by  common  authority ; 


but  he  is  called  upon  to  converse  with  the  leading  mem- 
bers of  the  congregation,  and  satisfy  them  as  to  the 
soundness  of  his  views ; not,  of  course,  by  merely  repeat- 
ing texts  of  Scripture — which  a man  of  any  views  might 
do,  and  do  honestly — but  by  explaining  the  sense  in 
which  he  understands  the  Scriptures.  Thus,  instead  of 
subscribing  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  he  subscribes  the 
sentiments  of  the  leading  members,  for  the  time  being, 
of  that  particular  congregation  over  which  he  is  to  be 
placed  as  teacher. 

And  thus  it  is  that  tests  of  some  kind  or  other, 
written  or  unwritten — that  is,  transmitted  by  oral  tradi- 
tion— fixed  for  the  whole  body,  or  variable  according  to 
the  discretion  of  particular  governors,  are,  and  must  be, 
used  in  every  Christian  Church.  Now  the  legitimate 
object  of  such  formularies  is  equally  clefeated  by  making 
them  standards  for  the  interpretation  of  Scripture,  or 
by  making  what  we  take  to  be  the  sense  of  Scripture 
the  standard  for  interpreting  them. 

For  the  object  of  the  church  in  imposing  these  formu- 
laries is  to  ascertain  whether  the  result  of  our  inquiries 
into  the  sense  of  Scripture  has  been  the  same  as  hers  ; 
and  this  object  is  equally  defeated  by  our  forcing  the 
church’s  words  to  square  with  our  notion  of  the  sense 
of  Scripture,  or  by  forcing  our  notion  of  the  sense  of 
Scripture  into  accordance  with  the  declarations  of  the 
church. 

[Science  and  Scripture.'] 

Some  persons  have  imagined  that  we  are  bound  to 
take  our  notions  of  astronomy,  and  of  all  other  physical 
sciences,  from  the  Bible.  And  accordingly,  when  astro- 
nomers discovered  and  proved  that  the  earth  turns  round 
on  its  axis,  and  that  the  sun  does  not  move  round  the 
earth,  some  cried  out  against  this  as  profane,  because 
Scripture  speaks  of  the  sun’s  rising  and  setting.  And 
this  probably  led  some  astronomers  to  reject  the  Bible, 
because  they  were  taught  that  if  they  received  that  as  a 
divine  revelation,  they  must  disbelieve  truths  which 
they  had  demonstrated.  So,  also,  some  have  thought 
themselves  bound  to  believe,  if  they  receive  Scripture 
at  all,  that  the  earth,  and  all  the  plants  and  animals 
that  ever  existed  on  it,  must  have  been  created  within 
six  days,  of  exactly  the  same  length  as  our  present 
days.  And  this,  even  before  the  sun,  by  which  we 
measure  our  days,  is  recorded  to  have  been  created. 
Hence  the  discoveries  made  by  geologists,  which  seem 
to  prove  that  the  earth  and  various  races  of  animals 
must  have  existed  a very  long  time  before  man  existed, 
have  been  represented  as  completely  inconsistent  with 
any  belief  in  Scripture. 

We  may  not  stop  to  discuss  the  various  objections — 
some  of  them  more  or  less  plausible,  and  others  very 
weak — that  have  been  brought — on  grounds  of  science, 
or  supposed  science — against  the  Mosaic  accounts  of  the 
creation,  of  the  state  of  the  early  world,  and  of  the 
flood,  and  to  bring  forward  the  several  answers  that 
have  been  given  to  those  objections.  But  it  is  import- 
ant to  lay  down  the  Principle  on  which  either  the 
Bible  or  any  other  writing  or  speech  ought  to  be  studied 
and  understood — namely,  with  a reference  to  the  object 
proposed  by  the  writer  or  speaker. 

For  example,  if  we  bid  any  one  proceed  in  a straight 
line  from  one  place  to  another,  and  to  take  care  to 
arrive  before  the  sun  goes  down,  he  will  rightly  and 
fully  understand  us,  in  reference  to  the  practical  object 
which  alone  we  had  in  view.  Now,  we  know  that 
there  cannot  really  be  a straight  line  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth ; and  that  the  sun  does  not  really  go  down , 
only  one  portion  of  the  earth  is  turned  away  from  it. 
But  whether  the  other  party  knows  all  this  or  not, 
matters  nothing  to  our  present  object,  which  was  not  to 
teach  him  mathematics  or  astronomy,  but  to  make  him 
conform  to  our  directions,  which  are  equally  intelligible 
to  the  learned  and  the  unlearned. 

Now,  the  object  of  the  Scripture  revelation  is  to 

745 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


from  1830 


teach  men,  not  astronomy  or  geology,  or  any  other 
physical  science,  hut  religion.  Its  design  was  to  inform 
men,  not  in  what  manner  the  world  was  made,  but  Who 
made  it,  and  to  lead  them  to  worship  Him,  the  Creator 
of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  instead  of  worshipping 
His  creatures,  the  heavens  and  earth  themselves,  as 
gods ; which  is  what  the  ancient  heathen  actually  did. 

Although,  therefore,  Scripture  gives  very  scanty  and 
imperfect  information  respecting  the  earth  and  the 
heavenly  bodies,  and  speaks  of  them  in  the  language 
and  according  to  the  notions  of  the  people  of  a rude 
age,  still  it  fully  effects  the  object  for  which  it  was 
given,  when  it  teaches  that  the  heavens  and  the  earth 
are  not  gods  to  be  worshipped,  but  that  ‘ God  created 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,'  and  that  it  is  He  who  made 
the  various  tribes  of  animals,  and  also  man.  But  as  for 
astronomy,  and  geology,  and  other  sciences,  men  were 
left,  when  once  sufficiently  civilised  to  be  capable  of 
improving  themselves,  to  make  discoveries  in  them  by 
the  exercise  of  their  own  faculties. 

[Irony.] 

It  is  in  some  respects  a recommendation  of  this 
method,  and  in  others  an  objection  to  it,  that  the 
sophistry  of  an  adversary  will  often  be  exposed  by  it  in 
a ludicrous  point  of  view ; and  this  even  when  no  such 
effect  is  designed ; the  very  essence  of  jest  being  its 
mimic  sophistry.  This  will  often  give  additional  force 
to  the  argument  by  the  vivid  impression  which  ludicrous 
images  produce ; but,  again,  it  will  not  unfrequently 
have  this  disadvantage,  that  weak  men,  perceiving  the 
wit,  are  apt  to  conclude  that  nothing  but  wit  is  designed, 
and  lose  sight  perhaps  of  a solid  and  convincing  argu- 
ment, which  they  regard  as  no  more  than  a good  joke. 
Having  been  warned  that  ‘ ridicule  is  not  the  test  of 
truth,’  and  that  ‘wisdom  and  wit’  are  not  the  same 
thing,  they  distrust  everything  that  can  possibly  be 
regarded  as  witty;  not  having  judgment  to  perceive 
the  combination,  when  it  occurs,  of  wit  with  sound 
reasoning.  The  ivy-wreath  completely  conceals  from 
their  view  the  point  of  the  Thyrsus  : and,  moreover,  if 
such  a mode  of  argument  be  employed  on  serious  sub- 
jects, the  ‘ weak  brethren  ’ are  sometimes  scandalised 
by  what  appears  to  them  a profanation;  not  having 
discernment  to  perceive  when  it  is  that  the  ridicule 
does,  and  when  it  does  not,  affect  the  solemn  subject 
itself.  But  for  the  respect  paid  to  Holy  Writ,  the  taunt 
of  Elijah  against  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  probably 
appear  to  such  persons  irreverent.  And  the  caution 
now  implied  will  appear  the  more  important  when  it  is 
considered  how  large  a majority  they  are  who,  in  this 
point,  come  under  the  description  of  ‘ weak  brethren.’ 
He  that  can  laugh  at  what  is  ludicrous,  and  at  the  same 
time  preserve  a clear  discernment  of  sound  and  unsound 
reasoning,  is  no  ordinary  man. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

Among  the  day-dreams  of  Coleridge,  as  we  have 
already  mentioned,  was  the  hope  of  producing  a 
great  philosophical  work,  which  he  conceived  would 
ultimately  effect  a revolution  in  what  has  been 
called  philosophy  or  metaphysics  in  England  and 
France.  The  only  completed  philosophical  attempt 
of  the  poet  was  a slight  introduction  to  the  Ency- 
clopaedia Metropolitana,  a preliminary  treatise  on 
Method,  from  which  we  subjoin  an  extract. 

[Principles  of  the  Science  of  Method .] 

The  habit  of  method  should  always  be  present  and 
effective ; but  in  order  to  render  it  so,  a certain  train- 
ing or  education  of  the  mind  is  indispensably  neces- 
sary. Events  and  images,  the  lively  and  spirit-stirring 
machinery  of  the  external  world,  are  like  light,  and  air, 
746 


and  moisture  to  the  seed  of  the  mind,  which  would  else 
rot  and  perish.  In  all  processes  of  mental  evolution  the 
objects  of  the  senses  must  stimulate  the  mind ; and  the 
mind  must  in  turn  assimilate  and  digest  the  food  which 
it  thus  receives  from  without.  Method,  therefore,  must 
result  from  the  due  mean  or  balance  between  our  passive 
impressions  and  the  mind’s  reaction  on  them.  So  in 
the  healthful  state  of  the  human  body,  waking  and 
sleeping,  rest  and  labour,  reciprocally  succeed  each  other, 
and  mutually  contribute  to  liveliness,  and  activity,  and 
strength.  There  are  certain  stores  proper,  and,  as  it 
were,  indigenous  to  the  mind — such  as  the  ideas  of 
number  and  figure,  and  the  logical  forms  and  combina- 
tions of  conception  or  thought.  The  mind  that  is  rich 
and  exuberant  in  this  intellectual  wealth  is  apt,  like  a 
miser,  to  dwell  upon  the  vain  contemplation  of  its 
riches,  is  disposed  to  generalise  and  methodise  to  excess, 
ever  philosophising,  and  never  descending  to  action ; 
spreading  its  wings  high  in  the  air  above  some  beloved 
spot,  but  never  flying  far  and  wide  over  earth  and  sea, 
to  seek  food,  or  to  enjoy  the  endless  beauties  of  nature ; 
the  fresh  morning,  and  the  warm  noon,  and  the  dewy 
eve.  On  the  other  hand,  still  less  is  to  be  expected, 
toward  the  methodising  of  science,  from  the  man  who 
flutters  about  in  blindness  like  the  bat ; or  is  carried 
hither  and  thither,  like  the  turtle  sleeping  on  the  wave, 
and  fancying,  because  he  moves,  that  he  is  in  progress. 
* * It  is  not  solely  in  the  formation  of  the  human 

understanding,  and  in  the  constructions  of  science  and 
literature,  that  the  employment  of  method  is  indispens- 
ably necessary;  but  its  importance  is  equally  felt,  and 
equally  acknowledged,  in  the  whole  business  and  economy 
of  active  and  domestic  life.  From  the  cottager’s  hearth 
or  the  workshop  of  the  artisan,  to  the  palace  or  the 
arsenal,  the  first  merit — that  which  admits  neither 
substitute  nor  equivalent — is,  that  everything  is  in  its 
place.  Where  this  charm  is  wanting,  every  other  merit 
either  loses  its  name,  or  becomes  an  additional  ground 
of  accusation  and  regret.  Of  one,  by  whom  it  is 
eminently  possessed,  we  say  proverbially,  that  he  is 
like  clock-work.  The  resemblance  extends  beyond  the 
point  of  regularity,  and  yet  falls  far  short  of  the  truth. 
Both  do,  indeed,  at  once  divide  and  announce  the  silent 
and  otherwise  indistinguishable  lapse  of  time ; but  the 
man  of  methodical  industry  and  honourable  pursuits 
does  more;  he  realises  its  ideal  divisions,  and  gives 
a character  and  individuality  to  its  moments.  If  the 
idle  are  described  as  killing  time,  he  may  be  justly 
said  to  call  it  into  life  and  moral  being,  while  he  makes 
it  the  distinct  object  not  only  of  the  consciousness,  but 
of  the  conscience.  He  organises  the  hours,  and  gives 
them  a soul ; and  to  that,  the  very  essence  of  which  is 
to  fleet  and  to  have  been,  he  communicates  an  imperish- 
able and  a spiritual  nature.  Of  the  good  and  faithful 
servant,  whose  energies,  thus  directed,  are  thus  method- 
ised, it  is  less  truly  affirmed  that  he  lives  in  time,  than 
that  time  lives  in  him.  His  days,  months,  and  years, 
as  the  stops  and  punctual  marks  in  the  records  of 
duties  performed,  will  survive  the  wreck  of  worlds, 
and  remain  extant  when  time  itself  shall  be  no  more. 

The  following  is  from  Coleridge’s  Literary  Remains: 
[Definition  of  Poetry.] 

Poetry  is  not  the  proper  antithesis  to  prose,  but  to 
science.  Poetry  is  opposed  to  science,  and  prose  to 
metre.  The  proper  and  immediate  object  of  science 
is  the  acquirement  or  communication  of  truth ; the 
proper  and  immediate  object  of  poetry  is  the  communi- 
cation of  immediate  pleasure.  This  definition  is  useful ; 
but  as  it  would  include  novels  and  other  works  of  fiction, 
which  yet  we  do  not  call  poems,  there  must  be  some 
additional  character  by  which  poetry  is  not  only  divided 
from  opposites,  but  likewise  distinguished  from  dis- 
parate, though  similar,  modes  of  composition.  Now, 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


how  is  this  to  be  effected?  In  animated  prose,  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  the  passions  and  accidents  of 
human  nature,  are  often  expressed  in  that  natural  lan- 
guage which  the  contemplation  of  them  would  suggest 
to  a pure  and  benevolent  mind ; yet  still  neither  we  nor 
the  writers  call  such  a work  a poem,  though  no  work 
could  deserve  that  name  which  did  not  include  all  this, 
together  with  something  else.  What  is  this?  It  is 
that  pleasurable  emotion,  that  peculiar  state  and  degree 
of  excitement,  which  arises  in  the  poet  himself  in  the 
act  of  composition ; and  in  order  to  understand  this,  we 
must  combine  a more  than  ordinary  sympathy  with  the 
objects,  emotions,  or  incidents  contemplated  by  the  poet, 
consequent  on  a more  than  common  sensibility,  with  a 
more  than  ordinary  activity  of  the  mind  in  respect  of 
the  fancy  and  the  imagination.  Hence  is  produced  a 
more  vivid  reflection  of  the  truths  of  nature  and  of  the 
human  heart,  united  with  a constant  activity  modifying 
and  correcting  these  truths  by  that  sort  of  pleasurable 
emotion,  which  the  exertion  of  all  our  faculties  gives  in 
a,  certain  degree,  but  which  can  only  be  felt  in  perfection 
under  the  full  play  of  those  powers  of  mind,  which  are 
spontaneous  rather  than  voluntary,  and  in  which  the 
effort  required  bears  no  proportion  to  the  activity  enjoyed. 
This  is  the  state  which  permits  the  production  of  a 
highly  pleasurable  whole,  of  which  each  part  shall  also 
communicate  for  itself  a distinct  and  conscious  pleasure ; 
and  hence  arises  the  definition,  which,  I trust,  is  now 
intelligible,  that  poetry,  or  rather  a poem,  is  a species  of 
composition,  opposed  to  science,  as  having  intellectual 
pleasure  for  its  object,  and  as  attaining  its  end  by  the 
use  of  language  natural  to  us  in  a state  of  excitement, 
but  distinguished  from  other  species  of  composition, 
not  excluded  by  the  former  criterion,  by  permitting  a 
pleasure  from  the  whole  consistent  with  a consciousness 
of  pleasure  from  the  component  parts ; and  the  perfec- 
tion of  which  is,  to  communicate  from  each  part  the 
greatest  immediate  pleasure  compatible  with  the  largest 
sum  of  pleasure  on  the  whole.  This,  of  course,  will  vary 
with  the  different  modes  of  poetry ; and  that  splendour 
of  particular  lines,  which  would  be  worthy  of  admir- 
ation in  an  impassioned  elegy,  or  a short  indignant 
satire,  would  be  a blemish  and  vile  taste  in  a tragedy 
or  an  epic  poem. 

It  is  remarkable,  by  the  way,  that  Milton,  in  three 
incidental  words,  has  implied  all.  Speaking  of  poetry, 
he  says,  as  in  a parenthesis,  ‘ which  is  simple,  sensuous, 
passionate.’  * * For  the  first  condition,  simplicity 

— while,  on  the  one  hand,  it  distinguishes  poetry  from 
the  arduous  processes  of  science,  labouring  towards  an 
-end  not  yet  arrived  at,  and  supposes  a smooth  and 
finished  road,  on  which  the  reader  is  to  walk  onward 
easily,  with  streams  murmuring  by  his  side,  and  trees, 
and  flowers,  and  human  dwellings  to  make  his  journey 
as  delightful  as  the  object  of  it  is  desirable,  instead  of 
having  to  toil  with  the  pioneers,  and  painfully  make 
the  road  on  which  others  are  to  travel — precludes,  on 
the  other  hand,  every  affectation  and  morbid  peculiarity ; 
the  second  condition,  sensuousness,  insures  that  frame- 
work of  objectivity,  that  definiteness  and  articulation 
of  imagery,  and  that  modification  of  the  images  them- 
selves, without  which  poetry  becomes  flattened  into 
mere  didactics  of  practice,  or  evaporated  into  a hazy, 
unthoughtful  day-dreaming ; and  the  third  condition, 
passion,  provides  that  neither  thought  nor  imagery 
shall  be  simply  objective,  but  that  the  passio  vera  of 
humanity  shall  warm  and  animate  both. 

SIR  WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

This  eminent  metaphysician  sustained,  until  a 
very  recent  period,  the  fame  of  the  Scottish 
colleges  for  the  study  of  the  human  mind.  He 
was  a native  of  Glasgow,  son  of  Dr  Hamilton, 
Professor  of  Anatomy.  He  was,  like  Mr  J.  G. 
Lockhart,  sent  to  Oxford  on  the  Snell  Foundation, 


SIR  WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 


and  during  his  academical  career  was  distinguished 
for  the  extent  and  accuracy  of  his  knowledge.  He 
afterwards  studied  law,  and  was  called  to  the  bar 
in  1813.  In  1821,  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Universal  History  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
and  in  1836,  Professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics. 
The  latter  chair  he  retained  until  his  death,  May 
6,  1856,  at  which  time  he  had  reached  the  age 
of  sixty-eight.  Sir  William  was  regarded  as 
the  most  profound  philosophical  scholar  of  his 
day — a man  of  immense  erudition  and  attain- 
ments. His  principal  works  were  contributions  to 
the  Edinburgh  Review , which  he  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  1852,  in  a large  volume,  entitled  Discus- 
sions on  Philosophy  and  Literature , Education  and 
University  Reform.  He  edited  the  works  of  Dr 
Thomas  Reid,  1846,  adding  preface,  notes,  and 
supplementary  dissertations ; and  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  was  engaged  on  the  works  of  Professor  Dugald 
Stewart.  He  contemplated  a memoir  of  Stewart, 
but  did  not  live  to  accomplish  the  task.  This,  how- 
ever, has  since  been  done  by  one  of  his  pupils,  Mr 
John  Yeitch,  1858.  The  most  celebrated  of  Sir 
William  Hamilton’s  essays  are  those  against  phre- 
nology, on  Cousin  and  the  philosophy  of  the 
unconditioned,  on  perception,  and  on  Whately  and 
logic.  ‘His  philosophy,’  says  a Scottish  metaphysi- 
cian in  the  North  British  Review , ‘is  a determined 
recoil  against  the  method  and  systems  of  Mylne  and 
Brown,  the  two  professors  who,  in  Hamilton’s 
younger  years,  were  exercising  the  greatest  influence 
on  the  opinions  of  Scottish  students.  So  far  as  he 
felt  attractions,  they  were  towards  Reid,  the  great 
metaphysician  of  his  native  college ; Aristotle,  the 
favourite  at  Oxford,  where  he  completed  his  educa- 
tion ; and  Kant,  whose  sun  was  rising  from  the 
German  Ocean  on  Britain,  and  this,  in  spite  of  all 
opposing  clouds,  about  the  time  when  Hamilton  was 
forming  his  philosophic  creed.  Professor  Perrier 
thinks  that  the  “dedication  of  his  powers  to  the 
service  of  Reid”  was  the  “one  mistake  in  his 
career;”  to  us  it  appears  that  it  must  rather  have 
been  the  means  of  saving  one  possessed  of  so  specu- 
lative a spirit  from  numberless  aberrations.  But 
Kant  exercised  as  great  an  influence  over  Hamilton 
as  even  Reid  did.  His  whole  philosophy  turns  round 
those  topics  which  are  discussed  in  the  Kritick  of 
Pure  Reason , and  he  can  never  get  out  of  those 
“ forms  ” in  which  Kant  sets  all  our  ideas  so  method- 
ically, nor  lose  sight  of  those  terrible  antinomies, 
or  contradictions  of  reason,  which  Kant  expounded 
in  order  to  shew  that  the  laws  of  reason  can  have 
no  application  to  objects,  and  which  Hegel  gloried 
in,  and  was  employing  as  the  ground-principle  of 
his  speculations,  at  the  very  time  when  Hamilton 
aspired  to  be  a philosopher.  From  Kant  he  got  the 
principle  that  the  mind  begins  with  phenomena  and 
builds  thereon  by  forms  or  laws  of  thought ; and  it 
was  as  he  pondered  on  the  Sphinx  enigmas  of  Kant 
and  Hegel,  that  he  evolved  his  famous  axiom  about 
all  positive  thought  lying  in  the  proper  conditioning 
of  one  or  other  of  two  contradictory  propositions, 
one  of  which,  by  the  rule  of  excluded  middle,  must 
be  true.  Ilis  pupils  have  ever  since  been  standing 
before  this  Sphinx  proposing,  under  terrible  threats, 
its  supposed  contradictions,  and  arc  wondering 
whether  their  master  has  resolved  the  riddle.’  To 
those  who  delight  in  ‘ the  shadowy  tribes  of  mind,’ 
must  be  left  the  determination  of  the  questio 
vexata.  The  general  reader  will  find  many  acute 
and  suggestive  remarks  in  Sir  William’s  essays  on 
education,  logic,  and  the  influence  of  mathematical 
studies.  Against  the  latter,  as  a mental  exercise, 
he  waged  incessant  war. 

747 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


[On  Mathematics.] 

Some  knowledge  of  their  object-matter  and  method 
is  requisite  to  the  philosopher ; but  their  study  should 
be  followed  out  temperately,  and  with  due  caution.  A 
mathematician  in  contingent  matter  is  like  an  owl  in 
daylight  Here,  the  wren  pecks  at  the  bird  of  Pallas, 
without  anxiety  for  beak  or  talon  ; and  there,  the 
feeblest  reasoner  feels  no  inferiority  to  the  strongest 
calculator.  It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that  a power  of 
mathematical  and  a power  of  philosophical,  of  general 
logic,  may  sometimes  be  combined ; but  the  individual 
who  unites  both,  reasons  well  out  of  necessary  matter, 
from  a still  resisting  vigour  of  intellect,  and  in  spite, 
not  in  consequence,  of  his  geometric  or  algebraic  dex- 
terity. He  is  naturally  strong — not  a mere  cipherer,  a 
mere  demonstrator ; and  this  is  the  explanation  why 
Mr  De  Morgan,  among  other  mathematicians,  so  often 
argues  right.  Still,  had  Mr  De  Morgan  been  less  of  a 
mathematician,  he  might  have  been  more  of  a philoso- 
pher ; and  be  it  remembered  that  mathematics  and 
dram-drinking  tell,  especially  in  the  long-run.  For  a 
season,  I admit  Toby  Philpot  may  be  the  champion  of 
England ; and  Warburton  testifies,  ‘It  is  a thing  noto- 
rious that  the  oldest  mathematician  in  England  is  the 
worst  reasoner  in  it.’ 

Sir  William’s  favourite  study  of  logic  has  been 
well  treated  in  An  Introduction  to  Logical  Science,  by 
Professor  Spalding  of  St  Andrews,  which  forms 
an  excellent  text-book  as  to  the  progress  of  the 
science,  1858.  Mr  Spalding  is  also  author  of  Italy 
and  the  Italians , an  historical  and  literary  summary, 
1845,  and  The  History  of  English  Literature , 1853, 
a very  carefully  and  ably  written  little  manual. 
Another  Professor  of  St  Andrews,  Mr  James 
Perrier  (who  possesses  the  chair  of  Moral  Philos- 
ophy and  Political  Economy),  has  published  Insti- 
tutes of  Metaphysics , the  Theory  of  Knowing  and 
Being , 1854. 

JOHN  STUART  MILL. 

This  gentleman  (son  of  the  late  historian  of 
British  India,  ante  page  520)  has  professed  to 
supersede  the  Baconian  principle  of  induction, 
without  which,  according  to  Beid.  ‘ experience 
is  as  blind  as  a mole.’  In  1 846,  Mr  Mill  published 
A System  of  Logic,  Ratiocinative  and  Inductive , 
being  a Connected  View  of  the  Principles  of  Evidence 
and  the  Methods  of  Scientific  Investigation,  two 
volumes.  He  is  author,  also,  of  Essays  on  some 
Unsettled  Questions  of  Political  Economy , 1844,  and 
The  Principles  of  Political  Economy , two  volumes, 
1848.  The  metaphysical  opinions  of  Mr  Mill  have 
warped  his  judgment  as  to  the  Baconian  system, 
but  he  expounds  his  views  with  clearness  and 
candour,  and  is  a profound  as  well  as  independent 
thinker.  This  was  still  further  evinced  in  his 
recent  work  On  Liberty,  1859,  in  which  he  describes 
and  denounces  that  ‘ strong  permanent  leaven  of 
intolerance  which  at  all  times  abides  in  the  middle 
classes  of  this  country,’  and  which,  he  thinks, 
subjects  society  to  an  intolerable  tyranny. 

[Social  Intolerance] 

Though  we  do  not  inflict  so  much  evil  on  those  who 
think  differently  from  us  as  it  was  formerly  our  custom 
to  do,  it  may  be  that  we  do  ourselves  as  much  evil  as  ever 
by  our  treatment  of  them.  Socrates  was  put  to  death, 
but  the  Socratic  philosophy  rose  like  the  sun  in  heaven, 
and  spread  its  illumination  over  the  whole  intellectual 
firmament.  Christians  were  cast  to  the  lions,  but  the 
Christian  Church  grew  up  a stately  and  spreading  tree, 
overtopping  the  older  and  less  vigorous  growths,  and 
748  1 


stifling  them  by  its  shade.  Our  merely  social  intolerance 
kills  no  one,  roots  out  no  opinions,  but  induces  men  to 
disguise  them,  or  to  abstain  from  any  active  effort  for 
their  diffusion.  With  us,  heretical  opinions  do  not 
perceptibly  gain  or  even  lose  ground  in  each  decade  or  j 
generation.  They  never  blaze,  out  far  and  wide,  but 
continue  to  smoulder  in  the  narrow  circles  of  thinking  and  i 
studious  persons,  among  whom  they  originate,  without 
ever  lighting  up  the  general  affairs  of  mankind  with 
either  a true  or  a deceptive  light.  * * A convenient  plan  ' 
for  having  peace  in  the  intellectual  world,  and  keeping  ; 
all  things  going  on  therein  very  much  as  they  do  already. 
But  the  price  paid  for  this  sort  of  intellectual  pacifica-  1 
tion  is  the  sacrifice  of  the  entire  moral  courage  of  the  \ 
human  mind.  A state  of  things  in  which  a large  portion  j 
of  the  most  active  and  inquiring  intellects  find  it  advis-  j 
able  to  keep  the  genuine  principles  and  groands  of  their  j 
convictions  within  their  own  breasts,  and  attempt,  in  i 
what  they  address  to  the  public,  to  fit  as  much  as  they  i 
can  of  their  own  conclusions  to  premises  which  they 
have  internally  renounced,  cannot  send  forth  the  open, 
fearless  characters,  and  logical  consistent  intellects  who 
once  adorned  the  thinking  world. 

The  sort  of  men  who  can  be  looked  for  under  it  are  ; 
either  mere  conformers  to  commonplace  or  time-servers  ' 
for  truth,  whose  arguments  on  all  great  subjects  are  j 
meant  for  their  hearers,  and  are  not  those  which  have  j 
convinced  themselves.  Those  who  avoid  this  alternative  j 
do  so  by  narrowing  their  thoughts  and  interest  to  things  j 
which  can  be  spoken  of  without  venturing  within  the  ! 
region  of  principles — that  is,  to  small  practical  matters  j 
which  would  come  right  of  themselves  if  but  the  minds 
of  mankind  were  strengthened  and  enlarged,  and  which 
will  never  be  made  effectually  right  until  then — while 
that  which  would  strengthen  and  enlarge  men’s  minds, 
free  and  daring  speculation  on  the  highest  subjects,  is 
abandoned. 

[On  the  Laws  against  Intemperance .] 

Under  the  name  of  preventing  intemperance,  the 
people  of  one  English  colony,  and  of  nearly  half  the 
United  States,  have  been  interdicted  by  law  from 
making  any  use  whatever  of  fermented  drinks,  except 
for  medical  purposes ; for  prohibition  of  their  sale  is,  in 
fact,  as  it  is  intended  to  be,  prohibition  of  their  use. 
And  though  the  impracticability  of  executing  the  law 
has  caused  its  repeal  in  several  of  the  states  which  had 
adopted  it,  including  the  one  from  which  it  derives  its 
name,  an  attempt  has  notwithstanding  been  commenced, 
and  is  prosecuted  with  considerable  zeal  by  many  of  the  | 
professed  philanthropists,  to  agitate  for  a similar  law  in 
this  country.  The  association,  or  * Alliance,’  as  it  terms 
itself,  which  has  been  formed  for  this  purpose,  has 
acquired  some  notoriety  through  the  publicity  given  to 
a correspondence  between  its  secretary  and  one  of  the 
very  few  English  public  men  who  hold  that  a politician’s 
opinions  ought  to  be  founded  on  principles.  Lord 
Stanley’s  share  in  this  correspondence  is  calculated  to 
strengthen  the  hopes  already  built  on  him,  by  those  who 
know  how  rare  such  qualities  as  are  manifested  in  some 
of  his  public  appearances,  unhappily  are  among  those 
who  figure  in  political  life.  The  organ  of  the  Alliance, 
who  would  * deeply  deplore  the  recognition  of  any  prin- 
ciple which  could  be  wrested  to  justify  bigotry  and 
persecution.’  undertakes  to  point  out  the  ‘ broad  and. 
impassable  barrier’  which  divides  such  principles  from 
those  of  the  association.  ‘ All  matters  relating  to 
thought,  opinion,  conscience,  appear  to  me,’  he  says,  * to 
be  without  the  sphere  of  legislation  ; all  pertaining  to 
social  act,  habit,  relation,  subject  only  to  a discretionary 
power  vested  in  the  state  itself,  and  not  in  the  indi- 
vidual to  be  within  it.’  No  mention  is  made  of  a third 
class,  different  from  either  of  these — namely,  acts  and 
habits  which  are  not  social,  but  individual — although  it  ; 
is  to  this  class,  surely,  that  the  act  of  drinking  fermented 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


liquors  belongs.  Selling  fermented  liquors,  however,  is 
trading,  and  trading  is  a social  act.  But  the  infringe- 
ment complained  of  is  not  on  the  liberty  of  the  seller, 
but  on  that  of  the  buyer  and  consumer  ; since  the  state 
might  just  as  well  forbid  him  to  drink  wine,  as  purposely 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  obtain  it.  The  secretary, 
however,  says : ‘ I claim,  as  a citizen,  a right  to  legislate 
whenever  my  social  rights  are  invaded  by  the  social  act 
of  another.’  And  now  for  the  definition  of  these  ‘ social 
rights.’  ‘ If  anything  invades  my  social  rights,  certainly 
the  traffic  in  strong  drink  does.  It  destroys  my  primary 
right  of  security,  by  constantly  creating  and  stimulating 
social  disorder.  It  invades  my  right  of  equality,  by 
deriving  a profit  from  the  creation  of  a misery  I am 
taxed  to  support.  It  impedes  my  right  to  free  moral 
and  intellectual  development,  by  surrounding  my  path 
with  dangers,  and  by  weakening  and  demoralising  society, 
from  which  I have  a right  to  claim  mutual  aid  and 
intercourse.’  A theory  of  ‘social  rights,’  the  like  of 
which  probably  never  before  found  its  way  into  distinct 
language;  being  nothing  short  of  this — that  it  is  the 
absolute  social  right  of  every  individual,  that  every 
other  individual  shall  act  in  every  respect  exactly  as  he 
ought  ; that  whosoever  fails  thereof  in  the  smallest 
particular,  violates  my  social  right,  and  entitles  me  to 
demand  from  the  legislature  the  removal  of  the  griev- 
ance. So  monstrous  a principle  is  far  more  dangerous 
than  any  single  interference  with  liberty ; there  is  no 
violation  of  liberty  which  it  would  not  justify  ; it 
acknowledges  no  right  to  any  freedom  whatever,  except, 
j perhaps,  to  that  of  holding  opinions  in  secret,  without 
j ever  disclosing  them  ; for  the  moment  an  opinion,  which 
! I consider  noxious,  passes  any  one’s  lips,  it  invades  all 
the  ‘social  rights’  attributed  to  me  by  the  Alliance. 
The  doctrine  ascribes  to  all  mankind  a vested  interest 
in  each  other’s  moral,  intellectual,  and  even  physical 
perfection,  to  be  defined  by  each  claimant  according  to 
his  own  standard. 

Mr  Mill  held  the  office  long  possessed  by  his 
father,  that  of  Examiner  of  Indian  Correspondence,. 
India  House.  On  the  dissolution  of  the  East  India 
Company,  1859,  he  retired  with  a liberal  provision, 
and,  we  may  add,  with  universal  respect. 


REV.  J.  F.  D.  MAURICE,  ETC. 

In  metaphysics  and  theology,  and  in  practical 
efforts  for  the  education  of  the  working-classes,  the 
Rev.  John  Frederick  Denison  Maurice  has  been 
■conspicuous.  He  was  born  in  1805,  the  son  of  a 
Unitarian  minister,  and  was  educated  at  Trinity 
Hall,  Cambridge.  He  declined  a Fellowship,  not 
being  able  to  declare  himself  a member  of  the 
Church  of  England ; but  he  afterwards  entered  the 
church,  and  became  Chaplain  of  Lincoln’s  Inn  and 
Professor  of  Divinity  in  King’s  College,  London. 
In  consequence  of  what  were  considered  heterodox 
opinions,  Mr  Maurice  has  had  to  vacate  his  profes- 
sorial chair,  but  without  forfeiting  his  popularity. 
Among  the  works  of  this  author  are — Lectures 
delivered  at  Queen’s  College , London,  published  in 
1849  ; The  Religions  of  the  World  and  their  Relations 
to  Christianity,  being  the  Boyle  Lecture  Sermons, 
1846-47 ; Moral  and  Metaphysical  Philosophy, 
reprinted  from  the  Encyclopaedia  Metropolitan 'a, 
three  volumes,  1850-56 ; Christian  Socialism,  tracts 
and  lectures  by  Maurice,  Kingsley,  and  others, 
1851 ; The  Prophets  and  Kings  of  the  Old  Testament, 
1853  ; The  Word  ‘ Eternal’  and  the  Punishment  of  the 
Wicked,  a pamphlet,  1853  ; Lectures  on  Ecclesiastical 
History,  and  The  Doctrine  of  Sacrifice,  1854;  Learn- 
ing and  Working , six  lectures,  and  The  Religion  of 
Rome,  four  lectures,  1855;  Administrative  Reform,  a 
pamphlet,  1855  ; Plan  of  a Female  College , 1 855  ; 


MAURICE— BREWSTER. 


with  Theological  Essays , and  several  volumes  of 
Sermons. 

The  History  of  Civilisation  in  England , by  H.  T. 
Buckle,  vol.  i.,  1858,  is  a speculative  work,  on  a 
voluminous  plan,  exhibiting  the  results  of  a wide 
range  of  reading,  and  aiming  to  shew  that  the 
greatest  advances  in  civilisation  have  been  during 
periods  not  marked  by  religious  zeal. 


SIR  DAVID  BREWSTER. 

The  writings  of  Sir  David  Brewster  present  a 
remarkable  union  of  scientific  acquirements  with 
the  grace  and  spirit  of  a first-rate  litterateur.  The 
experimental  philosopher  is  seldom  a master  of 
rhetoric ; but  Sir  David,  even  beyond  the  appointed 
period  of  threescore-and-ten,  is  full  of  fancy  and 
imagination,  and  has  a copious  and  flowing  style. 
This  eminent  man  is  a native  of  Jedburgh,  born  in 
1781.  He  was  educated  for  the  Scottish  Church, 


but  devoted  himself  to  science.  In  his  twenty- 
fourth  year  he  edited  Ferguson’s  Lectures  on 
Astronomy ; and  five  years  afterwards,  in  1810,  he 
commenced  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia,  which  was 
continued  at  intervals  until  1828,  when  it  had 
reached  eighteen  volumes.  In  1813,  ho  published 
a treatise  on  New  Philosophical  Instruments,  and  he 
afterwards  commenced  the  Edinburgh  Philosophical 
Journal  and  the  Edinburgh  Journal  of  Science. 
Among  his  other  works  are — A Treatise  on  the 
Kaleidoscope,  1819;  Notes  to  Robison’s  System  of 
Mechanical  Philosophy,  1822 ; Euler’s  Lectures  and 
Life , 1823;  a Treatise  on  Optics,  1831;  Letters  on 
Natural  Magic,  1831 ; The  Martyrs  of  Science  (lives 
of  Galileo,  Tycho  Brahe,  and  Kepler) ; Treatise  on 
the  Microscope;  More  Worlds  than  One,  1854;  &c. 
The  contributions  of  Sir  David  Brewster  to  scientific 
and  literary  journals  would  fill  at  least  a score  of 
volumes.  Ilis  Moit  Worlds  than  One  is  a reply  to 

749 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1850. 


the  treatise  ascribed  to  Professor  Whewell,  on  the 
Plurality  of  Worlds.  This  subject  had  been  fanci- 
fully treated  by  Fontenelle,  and  was  a favourite 
source  of  speculation  during  the  last  century.  That 
‘ other  planets  circle  other  suns  ’ was  a popular 
belief,  but  one  evidently  destitute  of  scientific  proof. 
Inductive  philosophy  disowned  it,  and  it  belonged 
only  to  the  region  of  speculation.  Dr  Chalmers 
conceived  that  there  were  strong  analogies  in  favour 
of  such  an  opinion,  while  Mr  Whewell,  on  the  other 
hand,  laboured  to  reduce  such  analogies  to  their 
true  value.  We  cannot  materialise  them,  or  con- 
ceive of  beings  differing  from  our  own  knowledge 
and  experience.  ‘ Truth  and  falsehood,  right  and 
wrong,  law  and  transgression,  happiness  and  misery, 
reward  and  punishment,  are  the  necessary  elements 
of  all  that  can  interest  us — of  all  that  we  can  call 
government.  To  transfer  these  to  Jupiter  or  to 
Sirius,  is  merely  to  imagine  those  bodies  to  he  a 
sort  of  island  of  Formosa,  or  New  Atlantis,  or 
Utopia,  or  Platonic  polity,  or  something  of  the 
kind.5  Sir  David  Brewster  took  the  opposite  side 
of  this  question,  maintaining  that  even  the  sun  may 
be  inhabited  by  beings  having  pursuits  and  occupa- 
tions similar  to  those  on  earth.  The  following  is 
part  of  his  argument  respecting  another  planet : 

[7s  the  Planet  Jupiter  Inhabited?] 

In  studying  this  subject,  persons  who  have  only  a 
superficial  knowledge  of  astronomy,  though  firmly  believ- 
ing in  a plurality  of  worlds,  have  felt  the  force  of  certain 
objections,  or  rather  difficulties,  which  naturally  present 
themselves  to  the  inquirer.  The  distance  of  Jupiter 
from  the  sun  is  so  great,  that  the  light  and  heat  which 
he  receives  from  that  luminary  are  supposed  to  be 
incapable  of  sustaining  the  same  animal  and  vegetable 
life  which  exists  on  the  earth.  If  we  consider  the  heat 
upon  any  planet  as  arising  solely  from  the  direct  rays  of 
the  sun,  the  cold  upon  Jupiter  must  be  very  intense, 
and  water  could  not  exist  upon  its  surface  in  a fluid 
state.  Its  rivers  and  its  seas  must  be  tracks  and  fields 
of  ice.  But  the  temperature  of  a planet  depends  upon 
other  causes — upon  the  condition  of  its  atmosphere,  and 
upon  the  internal  heat  of  its  mass.  The  temperature  of 
our  own  globe  decreases  as  we  rise  in  the  atmosphere 
and  approach  the  sun,  and  it  increases  as  we  descend 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  and  go  further  from  the 
sun.  In  the  first  of  these  cases,  the  increase  of  heat 
as  we  approach  the  surface  of  the  earth  from  a great 
height  in  a balloon,  or  from  the  summit  of  a lofty 
mountain  is  produced  by  its  atmosphere ; and  in  Jupiter 
the  atmosphere  may  be  so  formed  as  to  compensate  to 
a certain  extent  the  diminution  in  the  direct  heat  of 
the  sun  arising  from  the  great  distance  of  the  planet. 
In  the  second  case,  the  internal  heat  of  Jupiter  may  be 
such  as  to  keep  its  rivers  and  seas  in  a fluid  state,  and 
maintain  a temperature  sufficiently  genial  to  sustain  the 
same  animal  and  vegetable  life  which  exists  upon  our 
own  globe.  These  arrangements,  however,  if  they  are 
required,  and  have  been  adopted,  cannot  contribute  to 
increase  the  feeble  light  which  Jupiter  receives  from 
the  sun;  but  in  so  far  as  the  purposes  of  vision  are 
concerned,  an  enlargement  of  the  pupil  of  the  eye,  and 
an  increased  sensibility  of  the  retina,  would  be  amply 
sufficient  to  make  the  sun’s  light  as  brilliant  as  it  is 
to  us.  The  feeble  light  reflected  from  the  moons  of 
Jupiter  would  then  be  equal  to  that  which  we  derive 
from  our  own,  even  if  we  do  not  adopt  the  hypothesis, 
which  we  shall  afterwards  have  occasion  to  mention, 
that  a brilliant  phosphorescent  light  may  be  excited  in 
the  satellites  by  the  action  of  the  solar  rays.  Another 
difficulty  has  presented  itself,  though  very  unnecessarily, 
in  reference  to  the  shortness  of  the  day  in  Jupiter.  A 
day  of  ten  hours  has  been  supposed  insufficient  to  afford 
750 


that  period  of  rest  which  is  requisite  for  the  renewal  of 
our  physical  functions  when  exhausted  with  the  labours 
of  the  day.  This  objection,  however,  has  no  force. 
Five  hours  of  rest  is  surely  sufficient  for  five  hours  of 
labour;  and  when  the  inhabitants  of  the  temperate 
zone  of  our  own  globe  reside,  as  many  of  them  have 
done,  for  years  in  the  arctic  regions,  where  the  length 
of  the  days  and  nights  are  so  unusual,  they  have  been 
able  to  perform  their  usual  functions  as  well  as  in  their 
native  climates.  A difficulty,  however,  of  a more  serious 
kind  is  presented  by  the  great  force  of  gravity  upon  so 
gigantic  a planet  as  Jupiter.  The  stems  of  plants,  the 
materials  of  buildings,  the  human  body  itself,  would,  it 
is  imagined,  be  crushed  by  their  own  enormous  weight. 
This  apparently  £|rmidable  objection  will  be  removed 
by  an  accurate  calculation  of  the  force  of  gravity  upon 
Jupiter,  or  of  the  relative  weight  of  bodies  on  its  surface. 
The  mass  of  Jupiter  is  1230  times  greater  than  that  of 
the  earth,  so  that  if  both  planets  consisted  of  the  same 
kind  of  matter,  a man  weighing  150  pounds  on  the 
surface  of  the  earth  would  weigh  150  x 1200,  or 
180,000  pounds  at  a distance  from  Jupiter’s  centre 
equal  to  the  earth’s  radius.  But  as  Jupiter’s  radius 
is  eleven  times  greater  than  • that  of  the  earth,  the 
weight  of  bodies  on  his  surface  will  be  diminished  in 
the  ratio  of  the  square  of  his  radius — that  is,  in  the 
ratio  of  11  x 11,  or  121  to  1.  Consequently,  if  we 
divide  180,000  pounds  by  121,  we  shall  have  1487 
pounds  as  the  weight  of  a man  of  150  pounds  on  the 
surface  of  Jupiter — that  is,  less  than  ten  times  his 
weight  on  the  earth.  But  the  matter  of  Jupiter  is 
much  lighter  than  the  matter  of  our  earth,  in  the 
ratio  of  24  to  100,  the  numbers  which  represent  the 
densities  of  the  two  planets,  so  that  if  we  diminish 
1487  pounds  in  the  ratio  of  24  to  100,  or  divide  it 
by  4T7,  we  shall  have  312  pounds’  as  the  weight  of 
a man  on  Jupiter,  who  weighs  on  the  earth  only  150 
pounds — that  is,  only  double  his  weight — a difference 
which  actually  exists  between  many  individuals  on  our 
own  planet.  A man,  therefore,  constituted  like  our- 
selves, could  exist  without  inconvenience  upon  Jupiter ; 
and  plants,  and  trees,  and  buildings,  such  as  occur  on 
our  own  earth,  could  grow  and  stand  secure  in  so  far 
as  the  force  of  gravity  is  concerned. 

Researches  into  the  Physical  History  of  Manlcind7 
by  Dr  James  C.  Prichard,  five  volumes,  1836-47, 
and  The  Natural  History  of  Man , one  volume,  1843, 
open  up  a subject  of  interest  and  importance.  Dr 
Prichard’s  investigations  tend  to  confirm  the  belief 
that  ‘ man  is  one  in  species,  and  to  render  it  highly 
probable  that  all  the  varieties  of  this  species  are 
derived  from  one  pair  and  a single  locality  on  the 
earth.’  He  conceives  that  the  negro  must  be  con- 
sidered the  primitive  type  of  the  human  race — an 
idea  that  contrasts  curiously  with  Milton’s  poetical 
conception  of  Adam,  his  ‘ fair,  large  front,’  and  ‘ eye 
sublime,’  and  ‘ hyacinthine  locks,’  and  of  Eve  with 
her  ‘ unadorned  golden  tresses.’  Dr  Prichard  rests 
his  theory  on  the  following  grounds : 1st,  That  in 
inferior  species  of  animals  any  variations  of  colour 
are  chiefly  from  dark  to  lighter,  and  this  generally 
as  an  effect  of  domesticity  and  cultivation;  2dly, 
That  we  have  instances  of  light  varieties,  as  of  the 
Albino  among  negroes,  but  never  anything  like  the 
negro  among  Europeans  ; 3dly,  That  the  dark  races 
are  better  fitted  by  their  organisation  for  the  wild 
or  natural  state  of  life ; and  4tlily,  That  the  nations 
or  tribes  lowest  in  the  scale  of  actual  civilisation 
have  all  kindred  with  the  negro  race.  Of  course, 
this  conclusion  must  be  conjectural:  there  is  no 
possibility  of  arriving  at  any  certainty  on  the 
subject. 

In  electricity  and  magnetism  valuable  discoveries 
have  been  made  by  Professor  Michael  Faraday, 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WHEATSTONE — LYELL. 


born  in  1791.  Mr  Faraday  was  a bookseller’s 
apprentice,  ‘very  fond  of  experiment,  and  very 
averse  to  trade.’  He  had  attended  Sir  Humphry 
Davy’s  lectures  and  taken  notes,  which  he  trans- 
mitted to  Sir  Humphry,  desiring  his  assistance  to 
‘escape  from  trade  and  enter  into  the  service  of 
science.’  Through  Davy’s  exertions,  he  was  ap- 
pointed chemical  assistant  in  the  Royal  Institution, 
1813.  His  Researches  on  Electricity  were  published 
in  1831 

In  the  application  of  electricity  to  the  arts,  Mr 
Charles  Wheatstone — born  at  Gloucester  in  1802 
— has  been  highly  distinguished.  The  idea  of  the 
electric  telegraph  had  been  propounded  in  the  last 
century,  but  it  was  not  practically  realised  until 
the  year  1837.  The  three  independent  inventors 
are  Mr  Morse  of  the  United  States,  M.  Steinheil  of 
Munich,  and  Mr  Wheatstone.  Of  these,  the  last 
has  shewn  the  greatest  perseverance  and  skill  in 
overcoming  difficulties.  To  Mr  Wheatstone  we  also 
owe  the  invention  of  the  stereoscope — that  beauti- 
ful accompaniment  to  art  and  nature.  Professor 
Forbes  says:  ‘Although  Mr  Wheatstone’s  paper  was 
published  in  the  Philosophical  Transactions  for  1838, 
and  the  stereoscope  became  at  that  time  known  to 
men  of  science,  it  by  no  means  attracted  for  a 
good  many  years  the  attention  which  it  deserves. 
It  is  only  since  it  received  a convenient  alteration  of 
form — due,  I believe,  to  Sir  David  Brewster— by 
the  substitution  of  lenses  for  mirrors,  that  it  has 
become  the  popular  instrument  which  we  now  see 
it,  but  it  is  not  more  suggestive  than  it  always  was 
of  the  wonderful  adaptations  of  the  sense  of  sight.’ 


DR  BUCKLAND — SIR  CHARLES  LYELL,  ETC. 

Geology  has  had  a host  of  discoverers  and  illustra- 
tors. One  of  the  earliest  of  English  geologists  was 
Mr  William  Smith,  who  published  his  Tabular 
View  of  the  British  Strata  in  1790,  and  constructed 
a geological  map  of  England  in  1815.  He  had 
explored  the  whole  country  on  foot.  The  first  of 
the  prize-medals  of  the  Geological  Society  was 
awarded  to  that  gentleman  in  1831,  ‘in  considera- 
tion,’ as  stated,  ‘ of  his  being  a great  original  dis- 
coverer in  English  geology,  and  especially  for  his 
having  been  the  first  in  this  country  to  discover 
and  to  teach  the  identification  of  strata,  and  to 
determine  their  succession  by  means  of  their  im- 
bedded fossils.’*  The  Rev.  Dr  Buckland  (1784- 
1856),  by  his  Vindicice  Geologicce,  1820,  and  Reliquiae 
Diluviance , 1823,  and  by  various  contributions  to 
the  Geological  Society,  awakened  public  interest  to 
the  claims  of  this  science,  although  he  adhered  to 
the  old  hypothesis  of  the  universality  of  the  deluge, 
which  he  abandoned  in  his  Bridgewater  Treatise  of 
1836.  His  Geology  and  Mineralogy  was  reprinted 
in  1858,  with  additions  by  Professors  Owen  and 
Phillips,  and  a memoir  of  the  author  by  his  son, 

* This,  however,  had  been  clearly  indicated  more  than  a 
century  before  by  the  mathematician  and  natural  philosopher, 
Dr  Robert  Hooke  (1635-1703).  In  a lecture  dated  1688,  and 
published  in  Hooke’s  posthumous  works,  there  occurs  this 
striking  prophetic/ passage : ‘However  trivial  a thing  a rotten 
shell  may  appear  to  some,  yet  these  monuments  of  nature  are 
more  certain  tokens  of  antiquity  than  coins  or  medals,  sinco 
the  best  of  those  may  be  counterfeited  or  made  by  art  and 
design ; * * and  though  it  must  be  granted  that  it  is  very 
difficult  to  read  them — the  records  of  nature— and  to  raise  a 
chronology  out  of  them , and  to  state  the  intervals  of  time 
wherein  such  or  such  catastrophe  and  mutations  have  hap- 
pened, yet  it  is  not  impossible.’— See  Lyell’s  Principles , vol.  i., 
in  which  the  history  of  geological  science  is  traced.  Also 
Conybeare’s  Outlines  of  the  Geology  of  England  and  Wales. 


Mr  Francis  T.  Buckland.  The  indomitable  energy 
of  Buckland,  in  pursuing  his  researches  and  collect- 
ing specimens  of  organic  remains,  is  brought  out 
fully  in  this  memoir,  with  an  account  of  his  exer- 
tions to  procure  the  endowment  of  a Readership  in 
Geology  at  Oxford,  which  he  accomplished  in  1819. 


His  invaluable  museum  he  bequeathed  to  the  uni- 
versity. It  may  be  noted,  also,  that  the  glacial 
theory,  illustrated  by  Agassiz  and  Professor  James 
Forbes,  was  first  promulgated  by  Dr  Buckland, 
who  travelled  over  the  north  of  England  and  the 
wilds  of  Scotland  for  proofs  of  glacial  action.  Sir 
Robert  Peel  rewarded  the  labours  of  this  ardent 
man  of  science  by  procuring  his  appointment  to  the 
deanery  of  Westminster.  In  its  now  revised  and 
improved  form,  with  additional  plates  of  organic 
remains,  Buckland’s  Geology  and  Mineralogy  is  the 
best  general  work  on  this  interesting  study. 
Previous  to  its  first  publication,  Mr,  now  Sir 
Charles  Lyell,  had  published  Principles  of  Geo- 
logy, being  an  Attempt  to  Explain  the  former  Changes 
of  the  Earth's  Surface  by  a Reference  to  Causes  now  in 
Operation , two  volumes,  1830-32.  Additions  and 
corrections  have  been  made  from  time  to  time,  and 
the  eighth  edition  of  the  Principles , entirely  revised, 
1850,  is  a very  complete  and  interesting  work.  But 
though  introducing  recent  facts,  Sir  Charles  still 
adheres  to  his  original  theory,  that  the  forces  now 
operating  upon  and  beneath  the  earth’s  surface,  are 
the  same  both  in  kind  and  degree  with  those  which, 
at  remote  epochs,  have  worked  out  geological  revo- 
lutions ; or,  in  other  words,  that  we  may  dispense 
with  sudden,  violent,  and  general  catastrophes,  and 
regard  the  ancient  and  present  fluctuations  of  the 
organic  and  inorganic  world  as  belonging  to  one 
continuous  and  uniform  series  of  events.  In  1838 
Sir  Charles  published  his  Elements  of  Geology,  since 
enlarged  to  two  volumes.  He  is  author  also  of 
rTravels  in  North  America,  with  Geological  Obser- 
vations on  the  United  States,  Canada,  and  Nova 
Scotia,  two  volumes,  1845,  and  Second  Visit  to  the 
United  States  of  America  in  1845,  two  Volumes,  1849. 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


These  are  agreeable  as  -well  as  instructive  volumes, 
for  Sir  Charles  is  an  accomplished  literary  artist, 
without  betraying  art  in  his  composition. 

[ Geology  Compared  to  History .] 

"We  often  discover  with  surprise,  on  looking  hack  into 
the  chronicles  of  nations,  how  the  fortune  of  some 
battle  has  influenced  the  fate  of  millions  of  our  con- 
temporaries, when  it  has  long  been  forgotten  by  the 
mass  of  the  population.  With  this  remote  event,  we 
may  find  inseparably  connected  the  geographical  bound- 
aries of  a great  state,  the  language  now  spoken  by  the 
inhabitants,  their  peculiar  manners,  laws,  and  religious 
opinions.  But  far  more  astonishing  and  unexpected  are 
the  connections  brought  to  light,  when  we  carry  back 
our  researches  into  the  history  of  nature.  The  form  of 
a coast,  the  configuration  of  the  interior  of  a country, 
the  existence  and  extent  of  lakes,  valleys,  and  mountains 
can  often  be  traced  to  the  former  prevalence  of  earth- 
quakes and  volcanoes  in  regions  which  have  long  been 
undisturbed.  To  these  remote  convulsions,  the  present 
fertility  of  some  districts,  the  sterile  character  of  others, 
-the  elevation  of  land  above  the  sea,  the  climate,  and 
various  peculiarities,  may  be  distinctly  referred.  On  the 
other  hand,  many  distinguishing  features  of  the  surface 
may  often  be  ascribed  to  the  operation,  at  a remote  era, 
of  slow  and  tranquil  causes — to  the  gradual  deposition 
of  sediment  in  a lake  or  in  the  ocean,  or  to  the  prolific 
increase  of  testacea  and  corals. 

To  select  another  example ; we  find  in  certain  locali- 
ties subterranean  deposits  of  coal,  consisting  of  veget- 
able matter  formerly  drifted  into  seas  and  lakes.  These 
seas  and  lakes  have  since  been  filled  up;  the  lands 
whereon  the  forests  grew  have  disappeared  or  changed 
their  form ; the  rivers  and  currents  which  floated  the 
vegetable  masses  can  no  longer  be  traced ; and  the  plants 
belonged  to  species  which  for  ages  have  passed  away 
from  the  surface  of  our  planet.  Yet  the  commercial 
prosperity  and  numerical  strength  of  a nation  may  now 
be  mainly  dependent  on  the  local  distribution  of  fuel 
determined  by  that  ancient  state  of  things. 

Geology  is  intimately  related  to  almost  all  the 
physical  sciences,  as  history  is  to  the  moral.  A historian 
should,  if  possible,  be  at  once  profoundly  acquainted 
with  ethics,  politics,  jurisprudence,  the  military  art,  theo- 
logy ; in  a word,  with  all  branches  of  knowledge  by  which 
any  insight  into  human  affairs,  or  into  the  moral  and 
intellectual  nature  of  man,  can  be  obtained.  It  would  be 
no  less  desirable  that  a geologist  should  be  well  versed 
in  chemistry,  natural  philosophy,  mineralogy,  zoology, 
comparative  anatomy,  botany ; in  short,  in  every  science 
relating  to  organic  and  inorganic  nature.  With  these 
accomplishments,  the  historian  and  geologist  would  rarely 
fail  to  draw  correct  philosophical  conclusions  from  the 
various  monuments  transmitted  to  them  of  former  occur- 
rences. They  would  know  to  what  combination  of  causes 
analogous  effects  were  referrible,  and  they  would  often 
be  enabled  to  supply,  by  inference,  information  concern- 
ing many  events  unrecorded  in  the  defective  archives  of 
former  ages.  But  as  such  extensive  acquisitions  are 
scarcely  within  the  reach  of  any  individual,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  men  who  have  devoted  their  lives  to  different 
departments  should  unite  their  efforts ; and  as  the 
historian  receives  assistance  from  the  antiquary,  and 
from  those  who  have  cultivated  different  branches  of 
moral  and  political  science,  so  the  geologist  should  avail 
; himself  of  the  aid  of  many  naturalists,  and  particularly 
of  those  who  have  studied  the  fossil  remains  of  lost 
: species  of  animals  and  plants. 

The  analogy,  however,  of  the  monuments  consulted 
' in  geology,  and  those  available  in  history,  extends  no 
further  than  to  one  class  of  historical  monuments — those 
which  may  be  said  to  be  undesignedly  commemorative 
of  former  events.  The  canoes,  for  example,  and  stone 
hatchets  found  in  our  peat-bogs,  afford  an  insight  into 
752 


the  rude  arts  and  manners  of  the  earliest  inhabitants 
of  our  island ; the  buried  coin  fixes  the  date  of  the 
reign  of  some  Roman  emperor ; the  ancient  encampment 
indicates  the  districts  once  occupied  by  invading  armies, 
and  the  former  method  of  constructing  military  defences ; 
the  Egyptian  mummies  throw  light  on  the  art  of 
embalming,  the  rites  of  sepulture,  or  the  average  stature 
of  the  human  race  in  ancient  Egypt.  This  class  of 
memorials  yields  to  no  other  in  authenticity,  but  it  con- 
stitutes a small  part  only  of  the  resources  on  which  the 
historian  relies,  whereas  in  geology  it  forms  the  only 
kind  of  evidence  which  is  at  our  command.  For  this 
reason  we  must  not  expect  to  obtain  a full  and  con- 
nected account  of  any  series  of  events  beyond  the  reach 
of  history.  But  the  testimony  of  geological  monuments, 
if  frequently  imperfect,  possesses  at  least  the  advantage 
of  being  free  from  all  suspicion  of  misrepresentation. 
We  may  be  deceived  in  the  inferences  which  we  draw, 
in  the  same  manner  as  we  often  mistake  the  nature  and 
import  of  phenomena  observed  in  the  daily  course  of 
nature,  but  our  liability  to  err  is  confined  to  the  inter- 
pretation, and,  if  this  be  correct,  our  information  is 
certain. 

[The  Great  Earthquake  of  Lisbon  in  1755.] 

In  no  part  of  the  volcanic  region  of  Southern  Europe 
has  so  tremendous  an  earthquake  occurred  in  modem 
times  as  that  which  began  on  the  1st  of  November  1755 
at  Lisbon.  A sound  of  thunder  was  heard  underground, 
and  immediately  afterwards  a violent  shock  threw  down 
the  greater  part  of  that  city.  In  the  course  of  about 
six  minutes,  sixty  thousand  persons  perished.  The  sea 
first  retired  and  laid  the  bar  dry;  it  then  rolled  in, 
rising  fifty  feet  above  its  ordinary  level.  The  mountains 
of  Arrabida,  Estrella,  Julio,  Marvan,  and  Cintra,  being 
some  of  the  largest  in  Portugal,  were  impetuously 
shaken,  as  it  were,  from  their  very  foundations;  and 
some  of  them  opened  at  their  summits,  which  were 
split  and  rent  in  a wonderful  manner,  huge  masses 
of  them  being  thrown  down  into  the  subjacent  valleys. 
Flames  are  related  to  have  issued  from  these  mountains, 
which  are  supposed  to  have  been  electric  ; they  are  also 
said  to  have  smoked  ; but  vast  clouds  of  dust  may  have 
given  rise  to  this  appearance. 

The  most  extraordinary  circumstance  which  occurred 
at  Lisbon  during  the  catastrophe,  was  the  subsidence  of 
a new  quay,  built  entirely  of  marble  at  an  immense 
expense.  A great  concourse  of  people  had  collected 
there  for  safety,  as  a spot  where  they  might  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  falling  ruins  ; but  suddenly  the  quay  sank 
down  with  all  the  people  on  it,  and  not  one  of  the  dead 
bodies  ever  floated  to  the  surface.  A great  number 
of  boats  and  small  vessels  anchored  near  it,  all  full  of 
people,  were  swallowed  up  as  in  a whirlpool.  No  frag- 
ments of  these  wrecks  ever  rose  again  to  the  surface, 
and  the  water  in  the  place  where  the  quay  had  stood 
is  stated,  in  many  accounts,  to  be  unfathomable  ; but 
Whitehurst  says  he  ascertained  it  to  be  one  hundred 
fathoms. 

In  this  case,  we  must  either  suppose  that  a certain 
tract  sank  down  into  a subterranean  hollow,  which 
would  cause  a ‘fault’  in  the  strata  to  the  depth  of  six 
hundred  feet,  or  we  may  infer,  as  some  have  done,  from 
the  entire  disappearance  of  the  substances  engulfed, 
that  a chasm  opened  and  closed  again.  Yet  in  adopting 
this  latter  hypothesis,  we  must  suppose  that  the  upper 
part  of  the  chasm,  to  the  depth  of  one  hundred  fathoms, 
remained  open  after  the  shock.  According  to  the 
observations  made  at  Lisbon,  in  1837,  by  Mr  Sharpe, 
the  destroying  effects  of  this  earthquake  were  confined 
to  the  tertiary  strata,  and  were  most  violent  on  the 
blue  clay,  on  which  the  lower  part  of  the  city  is  con- 
structed. Not  a building,  he  says,  on  the  secondary 
limestone  or  the  basalt  was  injured. 

The  great  area  over  which  this  Lisbon  earthquake 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


1YELL — MURCHISON. 


extended,  is  very  remarkable.  The  movement  was 
most  violent  in  Spain,  Portugal,  and  the  north  of 
Africa  ; but  nearly  the  whole  of  Europe,  and  even  the 
West  Indies,  felt  the  shock  on  the  same  day.  A sea- 
port called  St  Ubes,  about  twenty  miles  south  of  Lisbon, 
was  engulfed.  At  Algiers  and  Fez,  in  Africa,  the 
agitation  of  the  earth  was  equally  violent ; and  at  the 
distance  of  eight  leagues  from  Morocco,  a village  with 
the  inhabitants,  to  the  number  of  about  eight  or  ten 
thousand  persons,  together  with  all  their  cattle,  were 
swallowed  up.  Soon  after,  the  earth  closed  again  over 
them. 

The  shock  was  felt  at  sea,  on  the  deck  of  a ship  to 
the  west  of  Lisbon,  and  produced  very  much  the  same 
sensation  as  on  dry  land.  Off  St  Lucar,  the  captain  of 
the  ship  Nancy  felt  his  vessel  so  violently  shaken,  that 
he  thought  she  had  struck  the  ground,  but,  on  heaving 
the  lead,  found  a great  depth  of  water.  Captain  Clark, 
from  Denia,  in  latitude  36°  24'  N.,  between  nine  and 
ten  in  the  morning,  had  his  ship  shaken  and  strained 
as  if  she  had  struck  upon  a rock.  Another  ship,  forty 
leagues  west  of  St  Vincent,  experienced  so  violent  a 
concussion,  that  the  men  were  thrown  a foot  and  a half 
perpendicularly  up  from  the  deck.  In  Antigua  and 
Barbadoes,  as  also  in  Norway,  Sweden,  Germany,  Hol- 
land, Corsica,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  tremors  and  slight 
oscillations  of  the  ground  were  felt. 

The  agitation  of  lakes,  rivers,  and  springs  in  Great 
Britain  was  remarkable.  At  Loch  Lomond,  in  Scot- 
land, for  example,  the  water,  without  the  least  apparent 
cause,  rose  against  its  banks,  and  then  subsided  below 
its  usual  level.  The  greatest  perpendicular  height  of 
this  swell  was  two  feet  four  inches.  It  is  said  that  the 
movement  of  this  earthquake  was  undulatory,  and  that 
it  travelled  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  a minute.  A 
great  wave  swept  over  the  coast  of  Spain,  and  is  said  to 
have  been  sixty  feet  high  at  Cadiz.  At  Tangier,  in 
Africa,  it  rose  and  fell  eighteen  times  on  the  coast ; at 
Funchal,  in  Madeira,  it  rose  full  fifteen  feet  perpendicu- 
lar above  high-water  mark,  although  the  tide,  which 
ebbs  and  flows  there  seven  feet,  was  then  at  half-ebb. 
Besides  entering  the  city  and  committing  great  havoc, 
it  overflowed  other  seaports  in  the  island.  At  Kinsale, 
in  Ireland,  a body  of  water  rushed  into  the  harbour, 
whirled  round  several  vessels,  and  poured  into  the 
market-place. 

It  was  before  stated  that  the  sea  first  retired  at 
Lisbon  ; and  this  retreat  of  the  ocean  from  the  shore 
at  the  commencement  of  an  earthquake,  and  its 
subsequent  return  in  a violent  wave,  is  a common 
occurrence.  In  order  to  account  for  the  phenomenon, 
Michell  imagined  a subsidence  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  from  the  giving  way  of  the  roof  of  some  cavity,  in 
consequence  of  a vacuum  produced  by  the  condensation 
of  steam.  Such  condensation,  he  observes,  might  be 
the  first  effect  of  the  introduction  of  a large  body  of 
water  into  fissures  and  cavities  already  filled  with 
steam,  before  there  had  been  sufficient  time  for  the 
heat  of  the  incandescent  lava  to  turn  so  large  a 
supply  of  water  into  steam,  which,  being  soon 
accomplished,  causes  a greater  explosion. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell  is  a native  of  the  county  of 
Eorfar,  son  of  a landed  proprietor  there,  and  was 
born  in  1797.  He  studied  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford, 
and  afterwards  was  called  to  the  bar.  In  1836  he 
was  elected  President  of  the  Geological  Society,  and 
the  same  honour  was  again  conferred  upon  him  in 
1850-51.  He  was  knighted  in  1848.  \ 

Geological  Notes  aud  Sections  were  published  in 
1830  by  Sir  Henry  Tiiomas  De  La  Beciie  (179G- 
1855),  and  in  1832  a Manual  of  Geology.  But  his 
most  valuable  work  is  How  to  Observe:  Geology , 1835. 
In  1851  Sir  Henry  published  another  work  of  the 
same  kind,  The  Geological  Observer.  Dr  Gideon 
Algernon  Mantell  (1788-1852),  an  English 


physician,  in  1832  published  The  Fossils  of  the  South 
Downs,  which  appeared  simultaneously  with  the 


great  work  of  Cuvier  and  Brongniart  on  the  Geology 
of  the  Environs  of  Paris,  and  described  also  many 
of  the  organic  remains  of  the  chalk:  Dr  Mantell 
was  the  original  demonstrator  of  the  fresli-water 
origin  of  the  mass  of  Wealden  beds,  and  the  dis- 
coverer of  the  monster  reptile  Iguanodon,  and  other 
colossal  allies.  This  eminent  palaeontologist  was 
author  of  two  popular  works — The  Medals  of  Creation , 
and  The  Wonders  of  Geology.  Dr  John  Pye  Smith 
(1774-1857),  in  his  work  On  the  Relation  between  the 
Holy  Scriptures  and  some  parts  of  Geological  Science, 
1839,  and  the  distinguished  American  geologist,  Dr 
Edward  Hitchcock,  in  his  Elementary  Geology , 
1841,  anticipated  the  views  of  Hugh  Miller  and 
others  as  to  the  interpretation  of  the  Mosaic  account 
of  the  creation  and  deluge — the  latter  being  local, 
not  universal.  With  respect  to  the  deluge,  Dr  Pye 
Smith  forcibly  remarks : ‘ All  land-animals  having 
their  geographical  regions,  to  which  their  constitu- 
tional natures  are  congenial — many  of  them  being 
unable  to  live  in  any  other  situation — we  cannot 
represent  to  ourselves  the  idea  of  their  being 
brought  into  one  small  spot  from  the  polar  regions, 
the  torrid  zone,  and  all  the  other  climates  of 
Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  and  America,  Australia  and 
the  thousands  of  islands — their  preservation  and 
provision,  and  the  final  disposal  of  them — without 
bringing  up  the  idea  of  miracles  more  stupendous 
than  any  that  are  recorded  in  Scripture.’ 

SIR  RODERICK  I.  MURCHISON. 

Sir  Roderick  Impey  Murchison  has  simplified 
and  consolidated  the  science  of  geology,  and  proved 
one  of  its  most  indefatigable  explorers.  In  the 
districts  of  Hereford,  Radnor,  and  Shropshire, 
large  masses  of  gray-coloured  strata  rise  out  from 
beneath  the  Old  Red  Sandstone ; and  these  rocks 
contain  fossils  differing  from  any  which  were  known 
in  the  upper  deposits.  Sir  Roderick  began  to 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1850. 


classify  these  rocks,  and  after  four  years’  labour,  he 
assigned  to  them  (1835)  the  name  of  the  Silurian 
System,  as  occupying  the  ancient  Roman  province 
of  Siluria.  ‘Having  first,  in  the  year  1833,’  says 
Sir  Roderick,  ‘ separated  these  deposits  into  four 
formations,  and  shewn  that  each  is  characterised 
by  peculiar  organic  remains,  I next  divided  them 
(1834-35)  into  a lower  and  upper  group,  both  of 
which,  I hoped,  would  he  found  applicable  to  wide 
regions  of  the  earth.  After  eight  years  of  labour 
I in  the  field  and  the  closet,  the  proofs  of  the  truth 
of  these  views  were  more  fully  published  in  the 
j work  entitled  The  Silurian  System , 1839.’  A 
j further  explanation  of  this  system,  embodying 
| later  researches,  was  published  by  the  author  in 
| 1854,  entitled  Siluria,  the  History  of  the  Oldest 
j Known  Bocks  containing  Organic  Remains. 

[ The  Lower  Silurian  Bocks.] 

The  geologist  appeals  to  the  book  of  nature,  where 
its  leaves  have  undergone  no  great  alteration.  He  sees 
before  him  an  enormous  pile  or  series  of  early  sub- 
aqueous sediment  originally  composed  of  mud,  sand,  or 
pebbles,  the  successive  bottoms  of  a former  sea,  all  of 
which  have  been  derived  from  pre-existing  rocks ; and 
in  these  lower  beds,  even  where  they  are  little  altered, 
he  can  detect  no  remains  of  former  creatures.  But 
lying  upon  them,  and  therefore  evolved  after,  other 
strata  succeed,  in  which  some  few  relics  of  a primeval 
ocean  are  discernible,  and  these  again  are  everywhere 
succeeded  by  newer  deposits  in  which  many  fossils  occur. 
In  this  way  evidences  have  been  fairly  obtained,  to  shew 
that  the  sediments  which  underlie  the  strata  containing 
the  lowest  fossil  remains  constitute,  in  all  countries  which 
have  been  examined,  the  natural  base  or  bottom  rocks 
of  the  deposits  termed  Silurian. 

In  France,  Germany,  Spain,  and  the  Mediter- 
ranean, in  Scandinavia  and  Russia,  the  same  basis 
has  been  found  for  higher  fossiliferous  rocks. 
Many  years  were  spent  by  Sir  Roderick,  accom- 
panied part  of  the  time  by  Professor  Sedgwick, 
in  Russia  and  other  countries  in  geologic  explor- 
ations ; and  in  1846  he  published  The  Geology 
of  Russia  in  Europe  and  the  Ural  Mountains , in 
which  he  was  assisted  by  E.  de  Verneuil  and 
Count  A.  von  Keyserling.  Sir  Roderick  is  author 
of  about  a hundred  separate  memoirs,  presented 
to  scientific  societies,  and  he  had  the  merit  of 
pointing  out  the  important  fact  that  gold  must 
exist  in  Australia.  This  was  in  1844,  after  inspect- 
ing some  specimens  of  Australian  rocks  brought  to 
this  country  by  Count  Streleczki,  and  comparing 
them  with  those  of  the  auriferous  Ural  Mountains 
with  which  he  was  personally  well  acquainted.  His 
observations  were  printed  the  same  year  (1844)  in 
the  journal  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society. 
Two  years  afterwards,  at  a geological  meeting  in 
Penzance,  Sir  Roderick  urged  the  superabundant 
Cornish  tin-miners  to  emigrate  to  the  colony  of 
Hew  South  Wales,  and  there  obtain  gold  from  the 
alluvial  soil  in  the  same  manner  as  they  extracted 
tin  from  the  gravel  of  their  native  country.  Again, 
in  the  year  1846,  when  some  specimens  of  Austra- 
lian gold  ore  were  sent  to  him,  he  addressed  a letter 
to  Earl  Grey,  then  secretary  for  the  colonies,  stating 
his  views  as  to  the  existence  of  rich  gold-fields  in 
the  colony.*  Sir  Roderick  also  predicts  (1854) 
that  ‘ the  present  large  flow  of  gold  into 
Europe  from  those  tracts  will  begin  to  diminish 
within  a comparatively  short  period’ — a result  of 
which  we  have  as  yet  no  indication. 

* Hargrave’s  Australia  and  its  Gold-fields , 1855. 


[The  Relative  Value  of  Gold  and  Silver.] 

The  fear  that  gold  may  be  greatly  depreciated  in  value- 
relatively  to  silver — a fear  which  may  have  seized  upon 
the  minds  of  some  of  my  readers — is  unwarranted  by 
the  data  registered  in  the  crust  of  the  earth.  Gold  is, 
after  all,  by  far  the  most  restricted — in  its  native  dis- 
tribution— of  the  precious  metals.  Silver  and  argen- 
tiferous lead,  on  the  contrary,  expand  so  largely  down- 
wards into  the  bowels  of  the  rocks,  as  to  lead  us  to 
believe  that  they  must  yield  enormous  profits  to  the 
skilful  miner  for  ages  to  come ; and  the  more  so  in  pro- 
portion as  better  machinery  and  new  inventions  shall 
lessen  the  difficulty  of  subterranean  mining.  It  may, 
indeed,  well  be  doubted  whether  the  quantities  of  gold 
and  silver,  procurable  from  regions  unknown  to  our  pro- 
genitors, will  prove  more  than  sufficient  to  meet  the- 
exigencies  of  an  enormously  increased  population  and 
our  augmenting  commerce  and  luxury.  But  this  is  not 
a theme  for  a geologist ; and  I would  simply  say,  that 
Providence  seems  to  have  originally  adjusted  the  relative 
value  of  these  two  precious  metals,  and  that  their 
relations,  having  remained  the  same  for  ages,  will  long 
survive  all  theories.  Modern  science,  instead  of  contra- 
dicting, only  confirms  the  truth  of  the  aphorism  of  the- 
patriarch  Job,  which  thus  shadowed  forth  the  downward 
persistence  of  the  one  and  the  superficial  distribution  of 
the  other : ‘ Surely  there  is  a vein  for  the  silver.  * * 
The  earth  hath  dust  of  gold.' 

Sir  Roderick  Murchison  is  by  birth  a Scottish 
Highlander,  bom  at  Tarradale,  Ross-shire — of  which 
his  father,  Dr  Murchison,  was  proprietor — in  1792. 
He  served  from  1807  to  1816  in  the  army,  latterly 
as  captain  in  the  6 th  Dragoons.  He  was  knighted 
in  1846,  and  the  emperor  of  Russia  conferred  upon 
him  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Order  of  St  Stanislaus, 
with  other  marks  of  distinction. 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK. 

The  Rev.  Adam  Sedgwick  has  endeavoured  to 
substantiate  a lower  and  still  older  section  of  rocks 
than  the  Silurian — a slaty  formation,  in  part  fossilifer- 
ous, and  of  enormous  thickness.  He  applies  to  this 
the  term  ‘ Cambrian.’  The  system  has,  however,  met 
with  a dubious  acceptance,  Sir  Roderick  Murchison 
contending  that  the  Cambrian  rocks  are  not  inferior 
in  position  to  the  lowest  stratified  rocks-  of  his 
Silurian  region  of  Shropshire  and  the  adjacent  parts 
of  Montgomeryshire,  but  are  merely  extensions  of 
the  same  strata.  Mr  Sedgwick  was  bom  at  Dent, 
Yorkshire,  about  the  year  1787 ; in  1809  he  was 
admitted  to  a Fellowship  in  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  in  1818  was  appointed  Wood wardian 
Professor  of  Geology.  He  is  author  of  A Synopsis 
of  the  Classification  of  the  British  Palaeozoic  Rocksr 
&c.,  two  volumes,  quarto,  and  A Discourse  on  the 
Studies  of  the  University  of  Cambridge , 1850,  besides 
numerous  contributions  to  scientific  and  literary 
journals. 

PROFESSOR  OWEN — DR  CARPENTER — 

DR  ELLIOTSON. 

One  of  the  greatest  of  modem  scientific  names, 
associated  also  with  public  services  for  sanitary 
reform,  is  that  of  Mr  Richard  Owen,  well  known 
as  the  Hunterian  Professor  in  the  Royal  College  of 
Surgeons,  and  now  superintendent  of  the  depart- 
ment of  natural  history  in  the  British  Museum.  In 
physiology  and  comparative  anatomy,  Professor 
Owen’s  works  and  contributions  to  journals  and 
societies  are  very  numerous.  Among  them  are— 
Odontography , two  volumes,  1840 ; History  of  British 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  carpenter — hugh  miller. 


Fossil  Mammals  and  Birds , 1846 ; British  Fossil 
Reptiles,  1849-51  ; Lectures  on  the  Comparative 
Anatomy  of  Vertebrate  and  Invertebrate  Animals; 
Nature  of  Limbs , 1849 ; &c.  Professor  Owen  is  a 
native  of  Lancaster,  born  about  1803 ; he  was 
appointed  Hunterian  Professor  in  1835,  and  drew 
up  elaborate  catalogues  of  the  physiological  speci- 
mens and  fossil  organic,  remains  preserved  in  the 
museum. 

In  physiology,  Dr  William  Benjamin  Carpen- 
ter has  also  earned  distinction.  His  chief  works 
are — Principles  of  General  and  Comparative  Phy- 
siology, Principles  of  Human  Physiology,  Vegetable 
Physiology  and  Botany,  Zoology  and  Instinct  in 
Animals,  Popular  Cyclopaedia  of  Natural  Science, 
seven  volumes,  Mechanical  Philosophy,  On  the  Micro- 
scope, &c.  These  works  were  produced  between 
1839  and  1854,  and  most  of  them  have  gone  through 
several  editions.  Mr  Morell,  in  his  History  of 
Modern  Philosophy,  has  said  that  Dr  Carpenter’s 
works  ‘ manifest  some  of  the  best  qualities  both  of 
the  thinker  and  the  observer.’  The  father  of  the 
physiologist,  Dr  Lant  Carpenter  (1780-1840),  was 
a well-known  Unitarian  minister,  and  writer  on 
education  and  theology.  Dr  John  Elliotson,  a 
London  physician,  in  1840  published  Human  Physi- 
ology, and  afterwards  attracted  attention  by  lectures 
on  phrenology  and  mesmerism.  He  procured  the 
establishment  of  a mesmeric  hospital,  ancj.  set  up 
a periodical,  The  Zoist,  in  support  of  his  physio- 
logical opinions.  Mr  Thackeray  dedicates  his  novel 
of  Pendennis  to  Dr  Elliotson,  in  acknowledgment 
of  his  medical  skill,  ‘ great  goodness,  and  kindness,’ 
for  which  the  physician  would  take  no  other  fee 
but  thanks. 

HUGH  MILLER. 

As  a popular  illustrator  of  geology,  no  author 
approaches  Hugh  Miller,  the  self-taught  man  of 
science  and  genius.  He  was,  as  is  well  known,  a 
native  of  Cromarty,  born  October  10,  1802.  He 
was  of  a race  of  sea-faring  men  well  to  do  in  the 
world,  who  owned  coasting-vessels,  and  built  houses 
in  the  town  of  Cromarty.  One  of  them  had  done  a 
little  in  the  way  of  bucaneering  on  the  Spanish 
main.  Most  of  them  perished  at  sea,  including 
Hugh’s  father,  who  was  lost  in  a storm  in  1807.  By 
the  aid  of  two  maternal  uncles,  Hugh  received  the 
common  education  of  a Scottish  country-school,  and 
was  put  apprentice,  by  his  own  desire,  to  a stone- 
mason. His  sensations  and  geological  discoveries 
while  toiling  in  the  Cromarty  quarries  are  beau- 
tifully told  in  the  opening  chapters  of  his  work  on 
the  Old  Red  Sandstone.  A life  of  toil,  however, 
in  such  a sphere  as  this  has  its  temptations,  and 
the  drinking  usages  of  the  masons  were  at  that 
time  carried  to  some  excess.  Hugh  learned  to 
regard  the  ardent  spirits  of  the  dram-shop  as  high 
luxuries ; they  gave  lightness  and  energy  to  both 
body  and  mind.  ‘Usquebaugh,’  he  says,  ‘was 
simply  happiness  doled  out  by  the  glass  and  sold  by 
the  gill.’  Soon,  however,  his  better  genius  prevailed. 

[ The  Turning-point  in  Hugh  Miller's  Life.’] 

In  laying  down  the  foundation-stone  of  one  of  the 
larger  houses  built  this  year  by  Uncle  David  and  his 
partner,  the  workmen  had  a royal  ‘ founding  pint,’  and 
two  whole  glasses  of  the  whisky  came  to  my  share.  A 
full-grown  man  would  not  have  deemed  a gill  of  usque- 
baugh an  overdose,  but  it  was  considerably  too  much 
for  me ; and  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  I got  home 
to  my  books,  I found,  as  I opened  the  pages  of  a favour- 
ite authoi*,  the  letters  dancing  before  my  eyes,  and  that 
I could  no  longer  master  the  sense.  I have  the  volume 


at  present  before  me — a small  edition  of  the  Essays  of 
Bacon,  a good  deal  worn  at  the  corners  by  the  friction 
of  the  pocket — for  of  Bacon  I never  tired.  The  con- 
dition into  which  I had  brought  myself  was,  I felt,  one 
of  degradation.  I had  sunk,  by  my  own  act,  for  the 
time,  to  a lower  level  of  intelligence  than  that  on  which 
it  was  my  privilege  to  be  placed ; and  though  the  state 
could  have  been  no  very  favourable  one  for  forming  a 
resolution,  I in  that  hour  determined  that  I should 
never  again  sacrifice  my  capacity  of  intellectual  enjoy- 
ment to  a drinking  usage ; and,  with  God’s  help,  I was 
enabled  to  hold  by  the  determination.  * * I see,  in 

looking  back  on  this  my  first  year  of  labour,  a danger- 
ous point,  at  which,  in  the  attempt  to  escape  from  the 
sense  of  depression  and  fatigue,  the  craving  appetite  of 
the  confirmed  tippler  might  have  been  formed. 

This  may  be  considered  a grand  era  in  the  life  of 
Miller.  He  had  laid  the  foundation  of  a habit  of 
virtuous  self-denial  and  decision  of  character,  that 
was  certain  to  bear  precious  fruits.  Removing  to 


Edinburgh  for  employment,  he  saw  more  of  the 
habits  of  the  working-men,  and  had  to  fight  his 
way  among  rather  noisy  and  intemperate  associates. 
He  found  that  mere  intelligence  formed  no  guard 
amongst  them  against  intemperance  or  licentious- 
ness, but  it  did  form  a not  ineffectual  protection 
against  what  are  peculiarly  the  mean  vices,  such 
as  theft,  and  the  grosser  and  more  creeping  forms 
of  untruthfulness  and  dishonesty.  The  following 
is  another  of  his  experiences : 

Burns  tells  us  that  he  ‘ often  courted  the  acquaintance 
of  the  part  of  mankind  commonly  known  by  the  ordinary 
phrase  of  blackguards and  that  ‘ though  disgraced  by 
follies,  nay,  sometimes  stained  with  guilt,  he  had  yet 
found  amongst  them,  in  not  a few  instances,  some  of 
the  noblest  virtues — magnanimity,  generosity,  disin- 
terested friendship,  and  even  modesty.’  I cannot  say 
with  the  poet  that  I ever  courted  the  acquaintance  of 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 

blackguards  ; but  though  the  labouring-man  may  select 
his  friends,  he  cannot  choose  his  work-fellows  ; and  so 
I have  not  unfrequently  come  in  contact  with  black- 
guards, and  have  had  opportunities  of  pretty  thoroughly 
knowing  them.  And  my  experience  of  this  class  has 
been  very  much  the  reverse  of  that  of  Burns.  I have 
usually  found  their  virtues  of  a merely  theatric  cast, 
and  their  vices  real ; much  assumed  generosity  in  some 
instances,  but  a callousness  of  feeling  and  meanness  of 
spirit  lying  concealed  beneath. 

Most  men,  we  believe,  will  agree  with  the  com- 
ment rather  than  the  text,  high  as  Burns’s  authority 
is  on  questions  of  life  and  conduct.  No  man  saw 
more  clearly  or  judged  more  rightly  than  Burns, 
when  his  passions  were  not  present  as  a disturbing 
element ; but  in  this  case  the  poet’s  use  of  the  term 
‘blackguard,’  like  Dr  Johnson’s  use  of  the  term 
‘ scoundrel,’  was  perhaps  comprehensive  enough  to 
include  men  worthy  of  a better  designation.  His 
experience  was  then  limited  and  confined  to  a few 
companions.  Men  of  the  stamp  alluded  to  are  often 
ready  to  part  with  money  if  it  does  not  directly 
interfere  with  their  immediate  gratification,  and 
have  an  impulsive  generosity  of  sentiment.  But 
‘ noble  virtues  ’ require  prudence,  self-control,  regard 
for  the  feelings  of  others,  and  steady  intellectual 
culture;  and  these  cannot  long  co-exist  with  folly 
and  sensuality.  One  must  overpower  the  other — 
as  in  the  forest  the  oak  and  tjie  brushwood  rise 
together,  and  either  the  tree  or  the  parasite  soon 
asserts  the  superiority.  Returning  to  the  north, 
Hugh  Miller  ventured  on  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  Poems , Written  in  the  Leisure  Hours  of  a 
Journeyman  Mason,  1829.  The  pieces  occasionally 
rise  above  mediocrity,  and  are  always  informed  with 
fine  feeling ; but  there  is  much  more  real  poetry  in 
his  prose  works — infinitely  more  originality,  fancy, 
and  picturesqueness  of  language.  He  next  wrote 
some  letters  on  the  Herring  Fishing,  descriptive  of 
the  fisher’s  life  at  sea,  and  they  shew  his  happy, 
observant  faculty,  and  his  fine  Addisonian  English. 
He  had  been  a diligent  student  of  the  best  English 
authors,  and  was  critically  exact  and  nice  in  his 
choice  of  language.  Mr  Miller  was  iioav  too  con- 
spicuous to  be  much  longer  employed  in  hewing 
Jambs  or  lintels,  or  even  cutting  inscriptions  on 
tombstones,  in  which  (like  Telford  the  engineer 
in  his  early  days)  he  greatly  excelled.  He  carried 
on  his  geological  studies  and  researches  on  the 
coast-lines  of  the  Moray  Firth. 

[ The  Antiquity  of  the  Globe.] 

I found  that  the  caves  hollowed  by  the  surf,  when 
the  sea  had  stood  from  fifteen  to  five-and-twenty  feet 
above  its  present  level,  or,  as  I should  perhaps  say, 
when  the  land  had  stood  that  much  lower,  were  deeper, 
on  the  average,  by  about  one-third,  than  those  caves  of 
the  present  coast-line  that  are  still  in  the  course  of  being 
hollowed  by  the  waves.  And  yet  the  waves  have  been 
breaking  against  the  present  coast-line  during  the  whole 
of  the  historic  period.  The  ancient  wall  of  Antoninus, 
which  stretched  between  the  Firths  of  Forth  and  Clyde, 
was  built  at  its  terminations  with  reference  to  the 
existing  levels  ; and  ere  Cassar  landed  in  Britain,  St 
Michael’s  Mount  was  connected  with  the  mainland  as 
now,  by  a narrow  neck  of  beach,  laid  bare  by  the  ebb, 
across  which,  according  to  Diodorus  Siculus,  the  Cornish 
miners  used  to  drive  at  low-water  their  carts  laden 
with  tin.  If  the  sea  has  stood  for  two  thousand  six 
hundred  years  against  the  present  coast-line — and  no 
geologist  would  fix  his  estimate  of  the  term  lower — then 
must  it  have  stood  against  the  old  line,  ere  it  could  have 
excavated  caves  one-third  deeper  than  the  modem  ones, 
756 

three  thousand  nine  hundred  years  ; and  both  sums 
united  more  than  exhaust  the  Hebrew  chronology. 
Yet  what  a mere  beginning  of  geologic  history  does  not 
the  epoch  of  the  old  coast-line  form ! It  is  but  a start- 
ing-point from  the  recent  period.  Not  a single  shell 
seems  to  have  become  extinct  during  the  last  six  thou- 
sand years. 

The  ancient  deposits  of  the  lias,  with  their  mol- 
lusca,  belemnites,  ammonites,  and  nautili,  had  by 
this  time  overrun  the  province  of  the  muses,  and  a 
nomenclature  very  different  from  poetical  diction 
had  to  be  studied.  Theological  controversy  also 
broke  in;  and  as  Miller  was  always  stout  on  the 
score  of  polemics,  and  withal  sufficiently  pugnaci- 
ous, he  mingled  freely  in  local  church  disputes,  the 
forerunners  of  a national  ecclesiastical  struggle,  in 
which  he  was  also  to  take  a prominent  part.  The 
Reform  Bill  gave  fresh  scope  for  activity,  and  Miller 
was  zealous  on  the  popular  side.  He  was  elected 
a member  of  the  town-council  of  Cromarty,  and 
attended  at  least  one  meeting,  at  which,  he  says, 
the  only  serious  piece  of  business  was  the  councillors 
clubbing  pennies  apiece  in  order  to  defray,  in  the 
utter  lack  of  town  funds,  the  expense  of  a ninepenny 
postage.  Perhaps  Miller’s  interest  in  burgh  politics 
was  a little  cooled  at  this  time  by  a new  influence 
that  began  to  gain  ground  upon  him.  When  work- 
ing in  the  churchyard,  chiseling  his  In  Memoriam, 
he  used  to  have  occasional  visitors,  and  among  them 
several  accomplished  intellectual  ladies,  whom  he 
also  met  occasionally  at  tea-parties,  and  conducted 
through  the  Avild  scenes  and  fossiliferous  treasures 
of  the  romantic  burn  of  Eathie.  Meditations 
among  the  tombs  led  to  love  among  the  rocks,  and 
geology  itself  had  n-o  discoveries  or  deposits  hard 
enough  to  shut  out  the  neAV  and  tender  formation. 
Miller  Avas  overpowered,  and  circumstances  ulti- 
mately sanctioned  his  union  with  the  youngest,  the 
fairest,  and  most  accomplished  of  his  lady-visitors. 
He  next  became  accountant  in  a banking  establish- 
ment in  Cromarty,  and  in  1834  he  published  Scenes 
and  Legends  in  the  North  of  Scotland,  or  the  Tradi- 
tional History  of  Cromarty — a Avork  remarkable  for 
the  variety  of  its  traditional  lore,  and  the  elegance 
of  its  style.  Fifteen  years  a stone-mason,  and  about 
six  years  a bank-accountant,  Miller’s  next  move 
Avas  into  that  position  for  which  he  Avas  best 
adapted,  and  in  Avhich  he  spent  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  The  ecclesiastical  party  in  Scotland,  then 
knoAvn  as  the  ‘Non-Intrusionists’  — supporters  of 
the  doctrine  that  no  clergyman  should  be  intruded 
by  the  laAv  of  patronage  into  a parish  against  the 
wishes  of  the  parishioners — projected  a neAvspaper 
to  advocate  their  views ; all  Mr  Miller’s  feelings  and 
predilections  ran  in  the  same  direction ; he  had  suffi- 
ciently evinced  his  literary  talents  and  his  zeal  in 
the  cause — especially  by  two  able  pamphlets  on  the 
subject  ; and  accordingly,  in  1840,  he  entered  upon 
his  duties  as  editor  of  The  Witness,  a twice-a-Aveek 
paper.  We  well  remember  his  fareAvell  dinner  at 
Cromarty — the  complacent  smiles  of  old  Uncle 
Sandy,  proud  of  his  nepheAV — the  lively  earnestness 
of  the  minister,  Mr  SteAvart,  varied  by  inextinguish- 
able peals  of  laughter,  for  which  he  Avas  famous — 
and  Hugh  Miller’s  grave  speech,  brimful  of  geology 
and  of  choice  figurative  expression — and  the  cordial 
affectionate  feeling  Avith  Avhicli  the  friends  of  his 
youth  and  manhood  bade  ‘ God-speed  ’ to  their 
toAvnsman  and  historian.  Life  has  few  things  better 
than  such  a meeting  even  to  a spectator,  and  Avhat 
must  it  have  been  to  the  prime  actor  in  the  little 
drama  ? The  scene  Avas  about  to  be  shifted — new 
characters  introduced,  new  machinery,  new  duties, 
and  a Avider  theatre  of  action.  Opinions,  thoughts, 

SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HUGH  MILLER. 


and  language,  gathered  and  fashioned  in  obscurity, 
were  now  to  he  submitted  to  the  public  glare,  and 
tested  by  severe  standards.  But  early  trials,  disci- 
pline, and  study,  had  braced  and  elevated  the  mind 
— a mind  naturally  copious,  vigorous,  and  buoyant ; 
and  Hugh  Miller  had  been  taught  what  he  now  set 
about  teaching  others,  that  ‘ life’  itself  is  a school, 
and  nature  always  a fresh  study,  and  that  the  man 
who  keeps  his  eyes  and  his  mind  open,  will  always 
find  fitting,  though  it  may  be  hard  schoolmasters,  to 
speed  him  on  his  life-long  education.’  During  the 
remaining  fifteen  years  of  his  life,  besides  contribut- 
ing largely  to  his  paper,  Mr  Miller  wrote  his  work 
on  The  Old  Red  Sandstone , 1841,  part  of  which 
appeared  originally  in  Chambers’s  Journal,  and  part 
in  the  Witness;  his  First  Impressions  of  England 
and  its  People,  1847;  Footprints  of  the  Creator,  or  the 
Asterolepis  of  Stromness,  1850 ; My  Schools  and  School- 
masters, an  autobiography,  1854;  and  The  Testimony 
of  the  Rocks,  a work  completed,  but  not  published 
till  after  his  death.  Two  other  posthumous  works 
have  since  appeared — The  Cruise  of  the  Betsey,  or  a 
Summer  Ramble  among  the  Fossiliferous  Deposits  of 
the  Hebrides,  1858 ; and  Sketch-Book  of  Popular 
Geology,  being  a Series  of  Lectures  delivered  before 
the  Philosophical  Institution  of  Edinburgh,  with  an 
introduction  by  Mrs  Miller,  giving  a resume  of  the 
progress  of  geological  science  within  the  last  two 
years,  published  in  March  1859.  The  death  of  Mr 
Miller  took  place  on  the  24th  of  December  1856.  He 
had  overtasked  his  brain,  and  for  some  time  suffered 
from  visions  and  delusions,  combined  with  paroxysms 
of  acute  physical  pain.  In  one  of  those  moments 
of  disordered  reason,  awaking  from  a hideous  dream, 
he  shot  himself  in  the  heart,  and  must  in- 
stantly have  expired — a sad  and  awful  termina- 
tion to  a life  of  noble  exertion  and  high  hopes! 
Mr  Miller’s  first  geological  work,  the  treatise  on 
The  Old  Red  Sandstone,  is  perhaps  the  most  valu- 
able. On  that  field  he  was  a discoverer,  adding  to 
our  knowledge  of  organic  remains,  various  members 
of  a great  family  of  fishes  existing  only  in  a deposit 
of  the  highest  antiquity.  One  of  these  bears  now 
the  name  of  Pterichthys  Milleri.  He  illustrated  also 
the  less  known  floras  of  Scotland — those  of  the  Old 
Red  Sandstone  and  the  Oolite,  giving  figured  illus- 
trations of  the  most  peculiar.  But  the  great  dis- 
tinguishing merit  of  Miller  is  his  power  of  vivid 
description,  which  throws  a sort  of  splendour  over 
the  fossil  remains,  and  gives  life  and  beauty  to  the 
geological  landscape.  His  enthusiasm  and  word- 
painting  were  irresistible.  There  was  scarce  a 
decent  cottage  in  Scotland  that  had  not  heard  of 
the  Palaeozoic,  the  Secondary,  and  the  Tertiary,  and 
every  dominie  became  a palaeontologist.  Such  popu- 
larity gave  a vast  impulse  to  the  study  of  geology, 
which  none  of  his  more  profound  contemporaries — 
not  even  Lyell  or  Murchison— could  ever  have 
accomplished.  He  was  in  geology  what  Carlyle 
is  in  history,  both  possessing  the  power  of  genius 
to  vivify  the  past  and  stir  at  once  the  heart  and 
the  imagination.  In  his  Footprints  of  the  Creator, 
Miller  combated  the  development  theory,  or  the 
doctrine  of  an  infinite  series  in  creation.  He  held 
that  the  fossils  disprove  this  doctrine.  In  his  last 
work,  The  Testimony  of  the  Rocks  (1857),  he  goes  at 
great  length  into  the  question  of  the  antiquity  of 
the  globe,  endeavouring  to  reconcile  it  with  the 
Mosaic  account  of  the  creation.  Astronomers  do 
not  attempt  any  such  reconciliation,  and  the  geolo- 
gists can  never  attain  to  certainty.  Miller  once 
believed  with  Buckland  and  Chalmers  that  the  six 
days  of  the  Mosaic  narrative  were  simply  natural 
days  of  twenty-four  hours  each,  but  he  was 


compelled  by  further  study  to  believe  that  the  days 
of  creation  were  not  natural  but  prophetic  ■ days — 
unmeasured  eras  of  time  stretching  far  back  into 
the  bygone  eternity.  The  revelation  to  Moses  he 
supposes  to  have  been  optical— a series  of  visions 
seen  in  a recess  of  the  Midian  desert,  and  described 
by  the  prophet  in  language  fitted  to  the  ideas  of  his 
times.  The  hypothesis  of  the  Mosaic  vision  is  old 
— as  old  as  the  time  of  Whiston,  who  propounded 
it  a century  and  a half  since  ; but  in  Miller’s  hands 
the  vision  becomes  a splendid  piece  of  sacred  poetry, 
a description  quite  Miltonic  in  conception,  and 
wanting  only  the  dignity  of  blank  verse  to  be 
Miltonic  also  in  execution.  We  question  if  any 
person  who  peruses  this  vision  of  creation  will  ever 
again  read  the  narrative  of  Moses  without  recalling 
Hugh  Miller’s  gorgeous  colouring  and  sublime 
imagination. 

[The  Mosaic  Vision  of  Creation.'] 

Such  a description  of  the  creative  vision  of  Moses  as 
the  one  given  by  Milton  of  that  vision  of  the  future 
which  he  represents  as  conjured  up  before  Adam  by 
the  archangel,  would  be  a task  rather  for  the  scientific 
poet  than  for  the  mere  practical  geologist  or  sober 
theologian.  Let  us  suppose  that  it  took  place  far  from 
man,  in  an  untrodden  recess  of  the  Midian  desert,  ere 
yet  the  vision  of  the  burning  bush  had  been  vouchsafed ; 
and  that,  as  in  the  vision  of  St  John  in  Patmos,  voices 
were  mingled  with  scenes,  and  the  ear  as  certainly 
addressed  as  the  eye.  A ‘great  darkness’  first  falls 
upon  the  prophet,  like  that  which  in  an  earlier  age  fell 
upon  Abraham,  but  without  the  ‘horror;’  and  as  the 
Divine  Spirit  moves  on  the  face  ,of  the  wildly  troubled 
waters,  as  a visible  aurora  enveloped  by  the  pitchy 
cloud,  the  great  doctrine  is  orally  enunciated,  that  ‘ in 
the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth.’ 
Unreckoned  ages,  condensed  in  the  vision  into  a few 
brief  moments,  pass  away ; the  creative  voice  is  again 
heard,  ‘ Let  there  be  light,’  and  straightway  a gray 
diffused  light  springs  up  in  the  east,  and,  casting  its 
sickly  gleam  over  a cloud-limited  expanse  of  steaming 
vaporous  sea,  journeys  through  the  heavens  towards  the 
west.  One  heavy,  sunless  day  is  made  the  representa- 
tive of  myriads;  the  faint  light  waxes  fainter — it  sinks 
beneath  the  dim  undefined  horizon ; the  first  scene  of 
the  drama  closes  upon  the  seer ; and  he  sits  awhile  on 
his  hill-top  in  darkness,  solitary  but  not  sad,  in  what 
seems  to  be  a calm  and  starless  night. 

The  light  again  brightens — it  is  day ; and  over  an 
expanse  of  ocean  without  visible  bound  the  horizon  has 
become  wider  and  sharper  of  outline  than  before. 
There  is  life  in  that  great  sea — invertebrate,  mayhap 
also  ichthyic,  life ; but,  from  the  comparative  distance 
of  the  point  of  view  occupied  by  the  prophet,  only  the 
slow  roll  of  its  waves  can  be  discerned,  as  they  l'ise  and 
fall  in  long  undulations  before  a gentle  gale ; and  what 
most  strongly  impresses  the  eye  is  the  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  atmospheric  scenery.  That 
lower  stratum  of  the  heavens  occupied  in  the  previous 
vision  by  seething  steam,  or  gray,  smoke-like  fog,  is 
clear  and  transparent;  and  only  in  an  upper  region, 
where  the  previously  invisible  vapour  of  the  tepid  sea 
has  thickened  in  the  cold,  do  the  clouds  appear.  But 
there,  in  the  higher  strata  of  the  atmosphere,  they  lie, 
thick  and  manifold — an  upper  sea  of  great  waves,, 
separated  from  those  beneath  by  the  transparent  firma- 
ment, and,  like  them  too,  impelled  in  rolling  masses 
by  the  wind.  A mighty  advance  has  taken  place  in 
creation  ; but  its  most  conspicuous  optical  sign  is  the 
existence  of  a transparent  atmosphere — of  a firmament 
stretched  out  over  the  earth,  that  separates  the  waters 
above  from  the  waters  below.  But  darkness  descends 
for  the  third  time  upon  the  seer,  for  the  evening  and 
the  morning  have  completed  the  second  day. 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Yet,  again,  the  light  rises  under  a canopy  of  cloud ; 
but  the  scene  has  changed,  and  there  is  no  longer  an 
unbroken  expanse  of  sea.  The  white  surf  breaks,  at 
the  distant  horizon,  on  an  insulated  reef,  formed  mayhap 
by  the  Silurian  or  Old  Red  coral  zoophytes  ages  before, 
during  the  bygone  yesterday  ; and  beats  in  long  lines 
of  foam,  nearer  at  hand,  against  a low,  winding  shore, 
the  seaward  barrier  of  a widely  spread  country.  For 
at  the  Divine  command  the  land  has  arisen  from  the 
deep — not  inconspicuously  and  in  scattered  islets,  as 
at  an  earlier  time,  but  in  extensive  though  flat  and 
marshy  continents,  little  raised  over  the  sea-level ; and 
a yet  further  fiat  has  covered  them  with  the  great 
carboniferous  flora.  The  scene  is  one  of  mighty  forests 
j of  cone-bearing  trees — of  palms,  and  tree-ferns,  and 
| gigantic  club-mosses,  on  the  opener  slopes,  and  of  great 
reeds  clustering  by  the  sides  of  quiet  lakes  and  dark 
rolling  rivers.  There  is  deep  gloom  in  the  recesses  of 
the  thicker  woods,  and  low  thick  mists  creep  along  the 
dank  marsh  or  sluggish  stream.  But  there  is  a general 
lightening  of  the  sky  overhead;  as  the  day  declines, 
a redder  flush  than  had  hitherto  lighted  up  the  pros- 
pect falls  athwart  fern-covered  bank  and  long  with- 
drawing glade.  And  while  the  fourth  evening  has 
fallen  on  the  prophet,  he  becomes  sensible,  as  it  wears 
on,  and  the  fourth  dawn  approaches,  that  yet  another 
change  has  taken  place.  The  Creator  Las  spoken,  and 
the  stars  look  out  from  openings  of  deep  unclouded 
blue ; and  as  day  rises,  and  the  planet  of  morning  pales 
in  the  east,  the  broken  cloudlets  are  transmuted  from 
bronze  into  gold,  and  anon  the  gold  becomes  fire,  and 
at  length  the  glorious  sun  arises  out  of  the  sea,  and 
enters  on  his  course  rejoicing.  It  is  a brilliant  day; 
the  waves,  of  a deeper  and  softer  blue  than  before, 
dance  and  sparkle  in  the  light ; the  earth,  with  little 
else  to  attract  the  gaze,  has  assumed  a garb  of  brighter 
green ; and  as  the  sun  declines  amid  even  richer  glories 
than  those  which  had  encircled  his  rising,  the  moon 
appears  full-orbed  in  the  east — to  the  human  eye  the 
second  great  luminary  of  the  heavens — and  climbs 
slowly  to  the  zenith  as  night  advances,  shedding  its 
mild  radiance  on  land  and  sea. 

Again  the  day  breaks;  the  prospect  consists,  as 
before,  of  land  and  ocean.  There  are  great  pine- 
woods,  reed-covered  swamps,  wide  plains,  winding 
rivers,  and  broad  lakes;  and  a bright  sun  shines  over 
all.  But  the  landscape  derives  its  interest  and  novelty 
from  a feature  unmarked  before.  Gigantic  birds  stalk 
along  the  sands,  or  wade  far  into  the  water  in  quest  of 
their  ichthyic  food  ; while  birds  of  lesser  size  float  upon 
the  lakes,  or  scream  discordant  in  hovering  flocks,  thick 
as  insects  in  the  calm  of  a summer  evening,  over  the 
narrower  seas,  or  brighten  with  the  sunlit  gleam  of 
their  wings  the  thick  woods.  And  ocean  has  its 
monsters : great  tanninim  tempest  the  deep,  as  they 
heave  their  huge  bulk  over  the  surface,  to  inhale  the 
life-sustaining  air;  and  out  of  their  nostrils  goeth 
smoke,  as  out  of  a ‘seething  pot  or  caldron.’  Monstrous 
creatures,  armed  in  massive  scales,  haunt  the  rivers,  or 
scour  the  flat  rank  meadows ; earth,  air,  and  water  are 
charged  with  animal  life ; and  the  sun  sets  on  a busy 
scene,  in  which  unerring  instinct  pursues  unremittingly 
its  few  simple  ends — the  support  and  preservation  of 
the  individual,  the  propagation  of  the  species,  and  the 
protection  and  maintenance  of  the  young. 

Again  the  night  descends,  for  the  fifth  day  has 
closed ; and  morning  breaks  on  the  sixth  and  last 
day  of  creation.  Cattle  and  beasts  of  the  field  graze 
on  the  plains ; the  thick-skinned  rhinoceros  wallows 
in  the  marshes ; the  squat  hippopotamus  rustles  among 
the  reeds,  or  plunges  sullenly  into  the  river ; great 
herds  of  elephants  seek  their  food  amid  the  young 
herbage  of  the  woods ; while  animals  of  fiercer  nature 
— the  lion,  the  leopard,  and  the  bear — harbour  in  deep 
caves  till  the  evening,  or  lie  in  wait  for  their  prey 
amid  tangled  thickets,  or  beneath  some  broken  bank. 


At  length,  as  the  day  wanes  and  the  shadows  lengthen, 
man,  the  responsible  lord  of  creation,  formed  in  God’s 
own  image,  is  introduced  upon  the  scene,  and  the  work 
of  creation  ceases  for  ever  upon  the  earth.  The  night 
falls  once  more  upon  the  prospect,  and  there  dawns 
yet  another  morrow — the  morrow  of  God’s  rest — that 
Divine  Sabbath  in  which  there  is  no  more  creative 
labour,  and  which,  ‘ blessed  and  sanctified  ’ beyond  all 
the  days  that  had  gone  before,  has  as  its  special  object 
the  moral  elevation  and  final  redemption  of  man.  And 
over  it  no  evening  is  represented  in  the  record  as  fall- 
ing, for  its  special  work  is  not  yet  complete.  Such 
seems  to  have  been  the  sublime  panorama  of  creation 
exhibited  in  vision  of  old  to 

The  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 

In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  chaos ; 

and,  rightly  understood,  I know  not  a single  scientific 
truth  that  militates  against  even  the  minutest  or  least 
prominent  of  its  details. 

The  subject  of  the  Noachian  deluge  is  discussed 
at  length,  Miller  holding  with  Stillingfleet,  Poole, 
and  modern  authorities,  that  the  deluge  was  partial 
as  to  the  earth,  but  universal  as  to  the  human 
race.  There  was  no  novelty  in  this  portion  of  his 
argument,  and  he  sometimes  misconstrues  the 
opinions  of  those  he  opposes.  His  earnestness  and 
fertility  of  illustration  enchain  the  reader’s  atten- 
tion, but  a reperusal  only  the  more  convinces  us 
that  Mr  Miller’s  great  power  lay  in  description — 
not  in  grappling  with  the  difficulties  of  speculative 
philosophy.  We  give  a few  more  specimens  of  his 
exquisite  composition. 

[The  Fossil  Pine-tree.] 

But  let  us  trace  the  history  of  a single  pine-tree  of 
the  Oolite,  as  indicated  by  its  petrified  remains.  This 
gnarled  and  twisted  trunk  once  anchored  its  roots  amid 
the  crannies  of  a precipice  of  dark-gray  sandstone,  that 
rose  over  some  nameless  stream  of  the  Oolite,  in  what  is 
now  the  north  of  Scotland.  The  rock,  which,  notwith- 
standing its  dingy  colour,  was  a deposit  of  the  Lower 
Old  Red  Sandstone,  formed  a member  of  the  fish-beds 
of  that  system — beds  that  were  charged  then,  as  now, 
with  numerous  fossils,  as  strange  and  obsolete  in  the 
creation  of  the  Oolite  as  in  the  creation  which  at 
present  exists.  It  was  a firm,  indestructible  stone, 
covered  by  a thin,  barren  soil ; and  the  twisted  rootlets 
of  the  pine,  rejected  and  thrown  backwards  from  its 
more  solid  planes,  had  to  penetrate  into  its  narrow 
fissures  for  a straitened  and  meagre  subsistence.  The 
tree  grew  but  slowly : in  considerably  more  than  half  a 
century  it  had  attained  to  a diameter  of  little  more 
than  ten  inches  a foot  over  the  soil ; and  its  bent  and 
twisted  form  gave  evidence  of  the  life  of  hardship  to 
which  it  was  exposed.  It  was,  in  truth,  a picturesque 
rag  of  a tree,  that  for  the  first  few  feet  twisted  itself 
round  like  an  overborne  wrestler  struggling  to  escape 
from  under  his  enemy,  and  then  struck  out  at  an 
abrupt  angle,  and  stretched  itself  like  a bent  arm  over 
the  stream.  It  must  have  resembled,  on  its  bald  emi- 
nence, that  pine-tree  of  a later  time  described  by  Scott, 
that  high  above  ‘ ash  and  oak’ 

Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock. 

And  o’er  the  giddy  chasm  hung 

His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 

Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high. 

His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky. 

The  seasons  passed  over  it : every  opening  spring  gave 
its  fringe  of  tenderer  green  to  its  spiky  foliage,  and 
every  returning  autumn  saw  it  shed  its  cones  into  the 
stream  below.  Many  a delicate  fern  sprang  up  and 


SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HUGH  MILLER. 


decayed  around  its  gnarled  and  fantastic  root,  single- 
leaved and  simple  of  form,  like  the  Scolopendria  of 
our  caverns  and  rock  recesses,  or  fretted  into  many  a 
slim  pinnate  leaflet,  like  the  minute  maiden-hair  or 
the  graceful  lady-fern.  Flying  reptiles  have  perched 
amid  its  boughs ; the  light  winged  dragon-fly  has  darted 
on  wings  of  gauze  through  the  openings  of  its  lesser 
twigs ; the  tortoise  and  the  lizard  have  hybernated 
during  the  chills  of  winter  amid  the  hollows  of  its 
roots;  for  many  years  it  formed  one  of  the  minor 
features  in  a wild  picturesque  scene,  on  which  human 
■eye  never  looked ; and  at  length,  touched  by  decay,  its 
upper  branches  began  to  wither  and  bleach  white  in  the 
winds  of  heaven ; when  shaken  by  a sudden  hurricane 
that  came  roaring  adown  the  ravine,  the  mass  of  rock 
in  which  it  had  been  anchored  at  once  gave  way,  and, 
bearing  fast  jammed  among  its  roots  a fragment  of  the 
mass  which  we  still  find  there,  and  from  which  we  read 
a portion  of  its  story,  it  was  precipitated  into  the  foam- 
ing torrent.  Dancing  on  the  eddies,  or  lingering  amid 
the  pools,  or  shooting,  arrow-like,  adown  the  rapids,  it 
at  length  finds  its  way  to  the  sea;  and  after  sailing 
over  beds  of  massive  coral — the  ponderous  Isastrea 
and  more  delicate  Thamnastrea — and  after  disturbing 
the  Enaliosaur  and  Belemnite  in  their  deep  green 
haunts,  it  sinks,  saturated  with  water,  into  a bed  of 
arenaceous  mud,  to  make  its  appearance,  after  long 
ages,  in  the  world  of  man — a marble  mummy  of  the 
1 old  Oolite  forest — and  to  be  curiously  interrogated 
i regarding  its  character  and  history. 

[ Glaciers  in  Scotland .] 

The  glaciers  of  Scotland  have,  like  its  icebergs, 
•contributed  their  distinctive  quota  to  the  scenery  of 
the  country.  The  smoothed  and  rounded  prominences 
of  the  hills,  bare  and  gray  amid  the  scanty  heath,  and 
that  often,  after  a sudden  shower,  gleam  bright  to  the 
sun,  like  the  sides  and  bows  of  windward-beating  vessels 
wet  by  the  spray  of  a summer  gale,  form  well-marked 
features  in  the  landscapes  of  the  north-western  parts  of 
i Sutherland  and  Ross,  especially  in  the  gneiss  and 
\ quartz-rock  districts.  The  lesser  islets,  too,  of  these 
: tracts,  whether  they  rise  in  some  solitary  lochan  among 
the  hills,  or  in  some  arm  of  the  sea  that  deeply  indents 
the  coast,  still  bear  the  rounded  form  originally  commu- 
nicated by  the  ice,  and  in  some  instances  remind  the 
traveller  of  huge  whales  heaving  their  smooth  backs 
over  the  brine.  Further,  we  not  unfrequently  see  the 
general  outline  of  the  mountains  affected ; all  their  peaks 
and  precipices  curved  backwards  in  the  direction  whence 
the  glacier  descended,  and  more  angular  and  abrupt  in 
the  direction  towards  which  it  descended.  But  it  is  in 
' those  groups  of  miniature  hills,  composed  of  glacial 
i debris,  which  so  frequently  throng  the  openings  of  our 
Highland  valleys,  and  which  Burns  so  graphically 
j describes  in  a single  line  as 

Hillocks  dropt  in  Nature’s  careless  haste, 

1 that  perhaps  the  most  pleasing  remains  of  our  ancient 
; glaciers  are  to  be  found.  They  seem  to  be  modified 
moraines,  and  usually  affect  regular  forms,  resembling 
in  some  instances  the  roofs  of  houses,  and  in  some  the 
bottoms  of  upturned  ships ; and,  grouped  thick  together, 
and  when  umbrageous  with  the  graceful  birch,  or  waving 
: from  top  to  base  with  the  light  fronds  of  the  lady-fern 
; and  the  bracken,  they  often  compose  scenes  of  a soft 
and  yet  wild  loveliness,  from  which  the  landscape- 
gardener  might  be  content  to  borrow,  and  which  seem 
to  have  impressed  in  a very  early  age  the  Celtic  imagi- 
nation. They  constitute  the  fairy  Tomhans  of  Highland 
j mythology ; and  many  a curious  legend  still  survives,  to 
i tell  of  benighted  travellers  who,  on  one  certain  night  of 
the  year,  of  ghostly  celebrity,  have  seen  open  doors  in 
their  green  sides,  whence  gleams  of  dazzling  light  fell 
on  the  thick  foliage  beyond,  and  have  heard  voices  of 


merriment  and  music  resounding  from  within ; or  who, 
mayhap,  incautiously  entering,  have  listened  entranced 
to  the  song,  or  stood  witnessing  the  dance,  until,  return- 
ing to  the  open  air,  they  have  found  that,  in  what  seemed 
a brief  half-hour,  half  a lifetime  had  passed  away. 
There  are  few  of  the  remoter  valleys  of  the  Highlands 
that  have  not  their  groups  of  fairy  Tomhans — memorials 
of  the  age  of  ice. 

[ The  National  Intellect  of  England  and  Scotland .] 

There  is  an  order  of  English  mind  to  which  Scotland 
has  not  attained:  our  first  men  stand  in  the  second 
rank,  not  a foot-breadth  behind  the  foremost  of  Eng- 
land’s second-rank  men ; but  there  is  a front  rank  of 
British  intellect  in  which  there  stands  no  Scotchman. 
Like  that  class  of  the  mighty  men  of  David,  to  which 
Abishai  and  Benaiah  belonged — great  captains,  who 
went  down  into  pits  in  the  time  of  snow  and  slew  lions, 
or  * who  lifted  up  the  spear  against  three  hundred  men 
at  once,  and  prevailed’ — they  attained  not,  with  all  their 
greatness,  to  the  might  of  the  first  class.  Scotland  has 
produced  no  Shakspeare ; Burns  and  Sir  Walter  Scott 
united  would  fall  short  of  the  stature  of  the  giant  of 
Avon.  Of  Milton  we  have  not  even  a representative. 
A Scotch  poet  has  been  injudiciously  named  as  not 
greatly  inferior,  but  I shall  not  do  wrong  to  the  memory 
of  an  ingenious  young  man  [Pollok],  cut  off  just  as  he 
had  mastered  his  powers,  by  naming  him  again  in  a 
connection  so  perilous.  He  at  least  was  guiltless  of  the 
comparison;  and  it  would  be  cruel  to  involve  him  in 
the  ridicule  which  it  is  suited  to  excite.  Bacon  is  as 
exclusively  unique  as  Milton,  and  as  exclusively  English ; 
and  though  the  grandfather  of  Newton  was  a Scotchman, 
we  have  certainly  no  Scotch  Sir  Isaac.  I question, 
indeed,  whether  any  Scotchman  attains  to  the  powers 
of  Locke  : there  is  as  much  solid  thinking  in  the  Essay 
on  the  Human  Understanding , greatly  as  it  has  become 
the  fashion  of  the  age  to  depreciate  it,  and  notwith- 
standing his  fundamental  error,  as  in  the  works  of  all 
our  Scotch  metaphysicians  put  together.  It  is,  however, 
a curious  fact,  and  worthy,  certainly,  of  careful  examin- 
ation, as  bearing  on  the  question  of  development  purely 
through  the  force  of  circumstances,  that  all  the  very 
great  men  of  England — all  its  first-class  men — belong 
to  ages  during  which  the  grinding  persecutions  of  the 
Stuarts  repressed  Scottish  energy,  and  crushed  the 
opening  mind  of  the  country ; and  that  no  sooner  was 
the  weight  removed,  like  a pavement  slab  from  over  a 
flower-bed,  than  straightway  Scottish  intellect  sprung 
up,  and  attained  to  the  utmost  height  to  which  English 
intellect  was  rising  at  the  time.  The  English  philos- 
ophers and  literati  of  the  eighteenth  century  were 
of  a greatly  lower  stature  than  the  Miltons  and 
Shakspeares,  Bacons  and  Newtons,  of  the  two  previous 
centuries;  they  were  second-class  men — the  tallest, 
however,  of  their  age  anywhere ; and  among  these  the 
men  of  Scotland  take  no  subordinate  place.  Though 
absent  from  the  competition  in  the  previous  century, 
through  the  operation  of  causes  palpable  in  the  history 
of  the  time,  we  find  them  quite  up  to  the  mark  for  the 
age  in  which  they  appear.  No  English  philosopher  for 
the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years  produced  a greater 
revolution  in  human  affairs  than  Adam  Smith ; or 
exerted  a more  powerful  influence  on  opinion  than 
David  Hume;  or  did  more  to  change  the  face  of  the 
mechanical  world  than  James  Watt.  The  History  of 
England  produced  by  a Scotchman  is  still  emphatically 
the  ‘English  History;’  nor,  with  all  its  defects,  is  it 
likely  to  be  soon  superseded.  Robertson,  if  inferior  in 
the  untaught  felicities  of  narration  to  his  illustrious 
countryman,  is  at  least  inferior  to  none  of  his  English 
contemporaries.  The  prose  fictions  of  Smollett  have 
kept  their  ground  quite  as  well  as  those  of  Fielding, 
and  better  than  those  of  Richardson.  Nor  does  England 
during  the  century  exhibit  higher  manifestations  of  the 

759 


poetic  spirit  than  those  exhibited  by  Thomson  and  by 
Barns.  To  use  a homely  but  expressive  Scotticism, 
Scotland  seems  to  have  lost  her  bairn-time  of  the 
giants;  but  in  the  after  bairn-time  of  merely  tall 
men,  her  children  were  quite  as  tall  as  any  of  their 
contemporaries. 

Mr  David  Thomas  Ansted  (born  in  London 
in  1812),  Professor  of  Geology  at  King’s  College, 
London,  has  written  several  valuable  works  on  his 
favourite  science.  The  most  popular  of  these  is  his 
Geology , Introductory,  Descriptive,  and  Practical,  two 
volumes,  1844 ; The  Ancient  World,  or  Picturesque 
Sketches  of  Great  Britain,  1847 ; also  several  geolo- 
gical manuals. 

The  late  Professor  John  Teeming,  Edinburgh 
(1785-1857),  did  much  to  advance  natural  science 
in  Scotland.  His  principal  works  are — The  Philos- 
ophy of  Zoology , two  volumes,  1822 ; The  History  of 
British  Animals,  1828  ; Molluscous  Animals,  including 
Shell  Fish,  1837 ; The  Temperature  of  the  Seasons, 
1851 ; On  the  Different  Branches  of  Natural  History 
(Address  at  the  meeting  of  the  British  Association), 
1855  ; The  Lithology  of  Edinburgh,  1858  ; and  various 
papers  in  the  scientific  journals.  Dr  Fleming  was 
born  at  Kirkroads,  near  Bathgate,  Linlithgowshire. 
He  entered  the  Scottish  church,  and  was  succes- 
sively minister  of  Bressay  in  Shetland,  Flisk  in 
Fifeshire,  and  Clackmannan.  He  afterwards  was 
Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy  in  King’s  College, 
Aberdeen ; and  from  1845  till  his  death,  Professor 
of  Natural  Science  in  the  New  Free  Church  College, 
Edinburgh.  The  most  valuable  of  his  works  is  the 
History  of  British  Animals,  which  embraces  a palae- 
ontological history  of  animals,  as  well  as  an  account 
of  the  present  existing  races.  In  his  geological 
views,  Dr  Fleming  was  opposed  to  the  theory  of 
Sir  Charles  Lyell.  Another  early  student  of 
geology  in  Scotland  was  Mr  Charles  Maclarex, 
Edinburgh,  who  has  published  an  account  of  the 
Geology  of  Fife  and  the  Lothians,  1839.  Before  this, 
he  had  contributed  to  various  scientific  journals, 
and  written  a Dissertation  on  the  Topography  of  the 
Plain  of  Troy,  1822.  Mr  Maclaren  was  the  original 
1 editor  of  The  Scotsman,  Edinburgh  newspaper,  com- 
mencing in  1817,  and  he  still  enriches  its  columns 
with  notes  and  remarks  on  scientific  subjects. 

Popular  views  of  physical  science  in  almost  every 
, department  will  be  found  in  the  works  of  Dr 
Dioxysius  Lardxer  (1793-1859).  These  are— 
Hand-book  of  Natural  Philosophy  and  Astronomy,  three 
' volumes,  1851-53  ; Museum  of  Science  and  Art,  twelve 
volumes,  1854-56 ; Railway  Economy,  1850 ; with 
treatises  on  Hydrostatics  and  Pneumatics,  Heat,  &c. 

The  Bev.  Hexrt  Duxcax  (1774-1846)  of  Ruth- 
well,  in  Dumfriesshire,  published  a series  of  readings 
in  natural  history  and  science,  entitled  The  Sacred 
Philosophy  of  the  Seasons.  Though  chiefly  a compil- 
j ation,  this  work  is  pervaded  by  a fine  benevolent 
spirit  and  love  of  nature,  and  embodies  the  results 
of  most  recent  discoveries  and  striking  scientific 
facts.  The  author  is  known  as  the  founder  of 
savings’  banks  in  this  country.  He  was  also  the 
first  to  discover  the  footprints  of  animals,  supposed 
to  be  tortoises,  on  sandstone  rocks  in  a quarry  in 
Dumfriesshire.  Dr  Buckland,  who  followed  up  the 
search  for  fossil  remains  with  so  much  ardour, 
beautifully  remarks  of  these  ‘footsteps  before  the 
Flood : ’ ‘ The  historian  may  have  pursued  the  line 
of  march  of  triumphant  conquerors  whose  armies 
trampled  down  the  most  mighty  kingdoms  of  the 
world.  The  winds  and  storms  have  utterly  obliter- 
ated the  ephemeral  impressions  of  their  course.  Not 
a track  remains  of  a single  foot,  or  a single  hoof  of 
all  the  countless  millions  of  men  and  beasts  whose 
760 


to  1859. 


progress  spread  desolation  over  the  earth.  But  the 
reptiles  that  crawled  upon  the  half-finished  surface 
of  our  infant  planet,  have  left  memorials  of  their 
passage  enduring  and  indelible.’ 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

SIR  HUMPHRY  DAVY. 

In  the  first  year  of  this  section  appeared  Consola- 
tions in  Travel,  or  the  Last  Days  of  a Philosopher,  • 
by  Sir  Humphry  Davy  (1778-1829).  The  cele- 
brated chemist  united  the  fancy  of  a poet  to  the 
ardour  for  science  which  pre-eminently  distinguished 
him,  and  this  posthumous  volume  contains  some 
finely  written  speculations  on  moral  and  ethical 
questions,  with  descriptions  of  Italian  scenery.  The 
work  is  in  the  form  of  dialogues  between  a liberal 
and  accomplished  Roman  Catholic  and  an  English 
patrician,  poetical  and  discursive,  whose  views  on 
religion  entered  the  verge  of  scepticism.  The  former 
he  calls  Ambrosio  ; the  latter,  Onuphrio.  Another 
interlocutor  is  named  Philalethes.  We  subjoin  part 
of  their  dialogues. 

[The  Future  State  of  Human  Beings.] 

Ambrosio.  Revelation  has  not  disclosed  to  us  the 
nature  of  this  state,  but  only  fixed  its  certainty.  We 
are  sure  from  geological  facts,  as  well  as  from  sacred 
history,  that  man  is  a recent  animal  on  the  globe,  and 
that  this  globe  has  undergone  one  considerable  revolu- 
tion, since  the  creation,  by  water ; and  we  are  taught 
that  it  is  to  undergo  another,  by  fire,  preparatory  to  a 
new  and  glorified  state  of  existence  of  man ; but  this  is 
all  we  are  permitted  to  know,  and  as  this  state  is  to  be 
entirely  different  from  the  present  one  of  misery  and 
probation,  any  knowledge  respecting  it  would  be  useless, 
and  indeed  almost  impossible. 

Philalethes.  My  genius  has  placed  the  more  exalted 
spiritual  natures  in  cometary  worlds,  and  this  last  fiery 
revolution  may  be  produced  by  the  appulse  of  a comet. 

Arab.  Human  fancy  may  imagine  a thousand  ways 
in  which  it  may  be  produced ; but  upon  such  notions  it  j 
is  absurd  to  dwell.  I will  not  allow  your  genius  the  I 
slightest  approach  to  inspiration,  and  I can  admit  no  j 
verisimility  in  a reverie  which  is  fixed  on  a foundation  i 
you  now  allow  to  be  so  weak.  But  see,  the  twilight  is  i 
beginning  to  appear  in  the  orient  sky,  and  there  are  j 
some  dark  clouds  on  the  horizon  opposite  to  the  crater  j 
of  Vesuvius,  the  lower  edges  of  which  transmit  a bright  1 
fight,  shewing  the  sun  is  already  risen  in  the  country 
beneath  them.  I would  say  that  they  may  serve  as  an 
image  of  the  hopes  of  immortality  derived  from  revela-  1 
tion ; for  we  are  sure  from  the  fight  reflected  in  those  j 
clouds  that  the  lands  below  us  are  in  the  brightest  sun- 
shine, but  we  are  entirely  ignorant  of  the  surface  and  j 
the  scenery ; so,  by  revelation,  the  fight  of  an  imperish- 
able and  glorious  world  is  disclosed  to  us ; but  it  is  in  ; 
eternity,  and  its  objects  cannot  be  seen  by  mortal  eye  or  | 
imaged  by  mortal  imagination. 

Phil.  I am  not  so  well  read  in  the  Scriptures  as  I 
hope  I shall  be  at  no  very  distant  time ; but  I believe  ' 
the  pleasures  of  heaven  are  mentioned  more  distinctly 
than  you  allow  in  the  sacred  writings.  I think  I 
remember  that  the  saints  are  said  to  be  crowned  with 
palms  and  amaranths,  and  that  they  are  described  as 
perpetually  hymning  and  praising  God. 

Amb.  This  is  evidently  only  metaphorical;  music  is 
the  sensual  pleasure  which  approaches  nearest  to  an 
intellectual  one,  and  probably  may  represent  the  delight 
resulting  from  the  perception  of  the  harmony  of  things 
and  of  truth  seen  in  God.  The  palm  as  an  evergreen  j 
tree,  and  the  amaranth  a perdurable  flower,  are  emblems 
of  immortality.  If  I am  allowed  to  give  a metaphorical 
allusion  to  the  future  state  of  the  blest,  I should 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  H.  DAVY— R.  SHARP. 


image  it  by  the  orange-grove  in  that  sheltered  glen,  on 
which  the  sun  is  now  beginning  to  shine,  and  of  which 
the  trees  are  at  the  same  time  loaded  with  sweet  golden 
fruit  and  balmy  silver  flowers.  Such  objects  may  well 
portray  a state  in  which  hope  and  fruition  become  one 
eternal  feeling. 

[The  Influence  of  Religion,'] 

Religion,  whether  natural  or  revealed,  has  always  the 
same  beneficial  influence  on  the  mind.  In  youth,  in 
health  and  prosperity,  it  awakens  feelings  of  gratitude 
and  sublime  love,  and  purifies  at  the  same  time  that  it 
exalts.  But  it  is  in  misfortune,  in  sickness,  in  age, 
that  its  effects  are  most  truly  and  beneficially  felt; 
when  submission  in  faith  and  humble  trust  in  the 
divine  will,  from  duties  become  pleasures,  undecaying 
sources  of  consolation.  Then,  it  creates  powers  which 
were  believed  to  be  extinct;  and  gives  a freshness  to 
the  mind,  which  was  supposed  to  have  passed  away  for 
ever,  but  which  is  now  renovated  as  an  immortal  hope. 
Then  it  is  the  Pharos,  guiding  the  wave-tossed  mariner 
to  his  home — as  the  calm  and  beautiful  still  basins 
or  fiords,  surrounded  by  tranquil  groves  and  pastoral 
meadows,  to  the  Norwegian  pilot  escaping  from  a heavy 
storm  in  the  North  Sea — or  as  the  green  and  dewy  spot, 
gushing  with  fountains,  to  the  exhausted  and  thirsty 
traveller  in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  Its  influence  out- 
lives all  earthly  enjoyments,  and  becomes  stronger  as 
the  organs  decay  and  the  frame  dissolves.  It  appears  as 
that  evening-star  of  light  in  the  horizon  of  life,  which, 
we  are  sure,  is  to  become,  in  another  season,  a morning- 
star  ; and  it  throws  its  radiance  through  the  gloom  and 
shadow  of  death. 

Sir  Humphry  had  previously  published  a volume 
in  the  same  conversational  manner  and  discursive 
style — Salmonia,  or  Dags  of  Fly-fishing , 1828.  He 
was  an  enthusiastic  angler,  and  his  habits  of  inquiry 
led  him  to  investigate  the  nature  of  fish,  and  indeed 
of  all  objects  and  phenomena  which  came  under 
his  observation.  ‘ His  was  an  ardent  boyhood,’  says 
Professor  Forbes.  ‘Educated  in  a manner  some- 
what irregular,  and  with  only  the  advantages  of  a 
remote  country  town  [Penzance,  in  Cornwall],  his 
talents  appeared  in  the  earnestness  with  which  he 
cultivated  at  once  the  most  various  branches  of 
knowledge  and  speculation.  He  was  fond  of  meta- 
physics ; he  was  fond  of  experiment ; he  was  an 
ardent  student  of  nature ; and  he  possessed  at  an 
early  age  poetic  powers  which,  had  they  been  culti- 
vated, would,  in  the  opinion  of  competent  judges, 
have  made  him  as  eminent  in  literature  as  he  became 
in  science.  All  these  tastes  endured  throughout 
life.  Business  could  not  stifle  them — even  the 
approach  of  death  was  unable  to  extinguish  them. 
The  reveries  of  his  boyhood  on  the  sea-worn  cliffs 
of  Mount’s  Bay  may  yet  be  traced  in  many  of  the 
pages  dictated  during  the  last  year  of  his  life  amidst 
the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum.  But  the  physical  sciences 
— those  more  emphatically  called  at  that  time 
chemical — speedily  attracted  and  absorbed  his  most 
earnest  attention.  The  philosophy  of  the  impon- 
derables— of  light,  heat,  and  electricity — was  the 
subject  of  his  earliest,  and  also  that  of  his  happiest 
essays.’  Of  his  splendid  discoveries,  the  most 
useful  to  mankind  have  been  his  experiments  on 
breathing  the  gases,  his  lectures  on  agricultural 
chemistry,  his  invention  of  the  safety-lamp,  and  his 
protectors  for  ships.  For  his  invention  of  the  safety- 
lamp,  he  was  rewarded  with  a baronetcy  by  the 
prince  regent  in  1818,  and  the  coal-owners  of  the 
north  of  England  presented  him  with  a service  of 
plate  worth  £2000.  It  is  mortifying  to  think  that 
this  great  man,  captivated  by  the  flatteries  of  the 


fashionable  world,  and  having  married  a rich  Scottish 
lady,  Mrs  Apreece,  lost  much  of  the  winning  sim- 
plicity of  his  early  manner  and  of  his  devotion  to 
science.  There  was  always,  however,  more  in  him 
to  admire  than  to  condemn,  and  he  must  be  recog- 
nised as  the  greatest  chemist  the  world  has  ever 
seen. 

RICHARD  SHARP. 

This  gentleman,  commonly  called  ‘Conversation 
Sharp,’  after  mingling  in  all  the  distinguished  society 
of  London,  from  the  days  of  Johnson  and  Burke 
to  those  of  Byron,  Rogers,  and  Moore,  in  1834 
published— at  first  anonymously — a small  volume  of 
Letters  and  Essays  in  Prose  and  Verse.  Rogers 
thought  the  volume  hardly  equal  to  Sharp’s  repu- 
tation ; but  his  reputation  was  founded  on  his  con- 
versational powers,  and  the  higher  order  of  genius 
is  not — as  Sir  Walter  Scott  observed — favourable 
to  this  talent.  ‘For  forming  a good  converser,’ 
adds  Scott,  ‘good  taste,  and  extensive  information, 
and  accomplishment  are  the  principal  requisites,  to 
which  must  be  added  an  easy  and  elegant  delivery, 
and  a well-toned  voice.’  Mackintosh,  however, 
termed  Sharp  the  best  critic  he  had  ever  known, 
and^Byron  also  bears  testimony  to  his  ability.  From 
commercial  concerns  Mr  Sharp  had  realised  a large 
fortune — he  left  £250,000 — and  had  a seat  in  parlia- 
ment. He  died  at  a very  advanced  age  in  1835. 
The  Essays  evince  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
sound  sense. 

A few  of  his  maxims  and  reflections  are  subjoined: 

Satirical  writers  and  talkers  are  not  half  so  clever  as 
they  think  themselves,  nor  as  they  ought  to  be.  They 
do  winnow  the  corn,  ’tis  true,  but  ’tis  to  feed  upon  the 
chaff.  I am  sorry  to  add  that  they  who  are  always 
speaking  ill  of  others,  are  also  very  apt  to  be  doing  ill 
to  them.  It  requires  some  talent  and  some  generosity 
to  find  out  talent  and  generosity  in  others ; though 
nothing  but  self-conceit  and  malice  are  needed  to  dis- 
cover or  to  imagine  faults.  The  most  gifted  men  that 
I have  known  have  been  the  least  addicted  to  depreciate 
either  friends  or  foes.  Dr  Johnson,  Mr  Burke,  and  Mr 
Fox  were  always  more  inclined  to  overrate  them.  Your 
shrewd,  sly,  evil-speaking  fellow  is  generally  a shallow 
personage,  and  frequently  he  is  as  venomous  and  as  false 
when  he  flatters  as  when  he  reviles — he  seldom  praises 
John  but  to  vex  Thomas. 

Trifling  precautions  will  often  prevent  great  mischiefs; 
as  a slight  turn  of  the  wrist  parries  a mortal  thrust. 

Untoward  accidents  will  sometimes  happen ; but 
after  many,  many  years  of  thoughtful  experience,  I can 
truly  say,  that  nearly  all  those  who  began  life  with  me 
have  succeeded  or  failed  as  they  deserved. 

Even  sensible  men  are  too  commonly  satisfied  with 
tracing  their  thoughts  a little  way  backwards ; and  they 
are,  of  course,  soon  perplexed  by  a profounder  adversary. 
In  this  respect,  most  people’s  minds  are  too  like  a 
child’s  garden,  where  the  flowers  are  planted  without 
their  roots.  It  may  be  said  of  morals  and  of  literature, 
as  truly  as  of  sculpture  and  painting,  that  to  under- 
stand the  outside  of  human  nature,  we  should  be  well 
acquainted  with  the  inside. 

It  appears  to  me  indisputable  that  benevolent  inten- 
tion and  beneficial  tendency  must  combine  to  constitute 
the  moral  goodness  of  an  action.  To  do  as  much  good 
and  as  little  evil  as  we  can,  is  the  brief  and  intelligible 
principle  that  comprehends  all  subordinate  maxims. 
Both  good  tendency  and  good  will  are  indispensable;  for 
conscience  may  be  erroneous  as  well  as  callous,  may 
blunder  as  well  as  sleep.  Perhaps  a man  cannot  be 
thoroughly  mischievous  unless  he  is  honest.  In  truth. 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


practice  is  also  necessary,  since  it  is  one  thing  to  see 
•that  a line  is  crooked,  and  another  thing  to  be  able  to 
draw  a straight  one.  It  is  not  quite  so  easy  to  do  good 
as  those  may  imagine  who  never  try. 


WILLIAM  MAGINN. 

This  gentleman,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
periodical  writers  of  his  day,  a scholar  and  wit,  has 
left  scarcely  any  permanent  memorial  of  his  genius  or 
acquirements.  He  was  born  at  Cork  in  1794,  and  at  an 
early  period  of  life  assisted  his  father  in  conducting 
an  academy  in  that  city.  He  received  his  degree  of 
LL.D.  in  his  twenty-fourth  year.  In  1819  Maginn 
commenced  contributing  to  Blackwood' s Magazine. 
His  papers  were  lively,  learned,  and  libellous— an 
alliterative  enumeration  which  may  he  applied  to 
nearly  all  he  wrote.  He  was  a keen  political  partisan, 
a Tory  of  the  old  Orange  stamp,  who  gave  no  quarter 
to  an  opponent.  At  the  same  time  there  was  so 
much  scholarly  wit  and  literary  power  about 
I Maginn’s  contributions,  that  all  parties  read  and 
: admired  him.  For  nine  years  he  was  one  of  the 
! most  constant  writers  in  Blackwood.  He  had 
| removed  to  London  in  1823,  and  adopted  literature 
; as  a profession.  In  1824  Mr  Murray  the  publisher 
I commenced  a daily  newspaper,  The  Representative. 

Mr  Disraeli  was  editor,  and  Maginn  was  engaged 
1 as  foreign  or  Paris  correspondent.  His  residence 
in  France,  however,  was  short ; the  Representative 
: soon  went  down,  and  Maginn  returned  to  London 
| to  ‘ spin  his  daily  bread  out  of  his  brains.’  He  was 
1 associated  with  Dr  Giffard  in  conducting  the  Standard 
j newspaper,  and  when  Fraser's  Magazine  was  estab- 
i lished  in  1830,  he  became  one  of  its  chief  literary 
supporters.  One  article  in  this  periodical,  a review 
of  Berkeley  Castle , led  to  a hostile  meeting  between 
Maginn  and  the  Hon.  Grantley  Berkeley.  Mr 
Berkeley  had  assaulted  Fraser,  the  publisher  of  the 
offensive  criticism,  when  Maginn  wrote  to  him,  stating 
that  he  was  the  author.  Hence  the  challenge  and 
the  duel.  The  parties  exchanged  shots  three  several 
times,  but  without  any  serious  result.  Happily,  such 
scenes  and  such  literary  personalities  have  passed 
away.  The  remainder  of  Maginn’s  literary  career 
i was  irregular.  Habits  of  intemperance  gained  ground 
■ upon  him ; he  was  often  arrested  and  in  jail ; but 
his  good-humour  seems  never  to  have  forsaken  him. 
He  wrote  a series  of  admirable  Shakspeare  papers  for 
Blackwood  in  1837,  and  in  the  following  year  he  com- 
menced a series  of  Homeric  ballads,  which  extended 
to  sixteen  in  number.  In  1842  he  was  again  in 
prison;  his  embarrassments  increased,  and  his  health 
gave  way.  One  of  his  friends  wrote  to  Sir  Bobert 
Peel,  acquainting  him  with  the  lamentable  condi- 
tion of  Dr  Maginn,  and  the  minister  took  steps  for 
the  relief  of  the  poor  author,  at  the  same  time  trans- 
mitting what  has  been  termed  a ‘splendid  gift.’ 
Maginn  died  on  the  29th  of  August  1842.  The 
sort  of  estimation  in  which  he  was  held  by  his 
contemporaries  may  be  gathered  from  the  following 
rhyming  epitaph  on  him  by  Lockhart : 

Here,  early  to  bed,  lies  kind  William  Maginn, 

Who,  with  genius,  wit,  learning,  life’s  trophies  to  win, 
Had  neither  great  lord  nor  rich  cit  of  his  kin, 

Nor  discretion  to  set  himself  up  as  to  tin ; 

So  his  portion  soon  spent — like  the  poor  heir  of  Lynn — 
He  turned  author  ere  yet  there  was  beard  on  his  chin, 
And,  whoever  was  out,  or  whoever  was  in, 

For  your  Tories  his  fine  Irish  brains  he  would  spin, 
Who  received  prose  and  rhyme  with  a promising  grin — 
‘ Go  ahead,  you  queer  fish,  and  more  power  to  your  fin,’ 
But  to  save  from  starvation  stirred  never  a pin. 

762 


Light  for  long  was  his  heart,  though  his  breeches 
were  thin, 

Else  his  acting  for  certain  was  equal  to  Quin ; 

But  at  last  he  was  beat,  and  sought  help  of  the  bin — 

All  the  same  to  the  doctor  from  claret  to  gin — 

Which  led  swiftly  to  jail  and  consumption  therein. 

It  was  much  when  the  bones  rattled  loose  in  the  skin, 

He  got  leave  to  die  here  out  of  Babylon’s  din. 

Barring  drink  and  the  girls,  I ne’er  heard  a sin  : 

Many  worse,  better  few,  than  bright,  broken  Maginn. 

ALEXANDER  AND  JOHN  BETHUNE. 

These  humble  but  noble-minded  brothers,  sons  of 
a farm-labourer  in  Fifeshire,  cultivated  literature 
under  circumstances  the  most  discouraging,  and 
with  a spirit  of  independence  and  virtuous  self- 
reliance  above  all  praise.  Alexander  Bethune 
(1804-1843)  commenced  his  career  as  an  author  by 
contributing  to  Chambers's  Edinburgh  Journal  in  the 
year  1835.  In  1838  he  published  a volume  of 
Tales  and  Sketches  of  the  Scottish  Peasantry.  John 
Bethune  (1810-1839)  wrote  a small  portion  of  the 
work,  and  in  1839  appeared  another  joint-pro- 
duction, a treatise  on  Practiced  Economy.  After 
John’s  death,  Alexander  collected  a volume  of 
poetical  pieces,  and  published  them  (1840)  with  an 
interesting  and  affecting  memoir  of  his  brother’s 
life.  In  1843,  Alexander  published  a second  volume 
of  tales,  The  Scottish  Peasants  Fireside;  and  in  the 
same  year  he  was  offered  the  editorship  of  a weekly 
newspaper*  The  Dumfries  Standard , but  his  health 
was  now  gone,  and  he  died  on  the  13th  of  June 
1843.  The  education  of  those  remarkable  men  was 
confined  to  a few  months’  schooling ; they  had  both 
wrought  as  labourers,  working  in  quarries  or  break- 
ing stones  on  the  highway,  and  though  they  had 
occasionally  short  glimpses  of  prosperity,  they  never 
rose  above  the  humblest  condition.  Out  of  their 
scanty  wages  they  maintained  their  parents  and 
built  a house  for  them,  mostly  with  their  own  hands. 
Alexander  was  offered  pecuniary  assistance,  but 
declined  it.  His  parents  and  brother  were  then 
gone,  and  he  had  saved  sufficient  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  his  illness  and  his  funeral.  The  prose 
and  poetry  of  the  Bethunes  bear  no  tokens  of  their 
imperfect  education;  all  is  simple,  truthful,  and 
correct — often  elegant. 

SIR  GEORGE  AND  SIR  FRANCIS  BOND  HEAD. 

The  elder  of  these  brothers — sons  of  an  English 
gentleman,  James  Roper  Head,  Esq. — was  author 
of  Forest  Scenes  in  North  America,  1829,  and  Home 
Tours  in  England,  1835-37.  The  Home  Tours  were 
made  in  the  manufacturing  districts,  through  which 
the  author  travelled  as  a Poor-law  Commissioner, 
and  were  written  in  a light,  pleasing  style.  He 
afterwards  applied  himself  to  a laborious  topo- 
graphical and  antiquarian  account  of  Rome,  in  three 
volumes,  1849,  and  he  translated  Cardinal  Pacca’s 
Memoirs  and  Apuleius'  Metamorphoses.  He  died  in 
1855,  aged  seventy-three. 

His  brother,  Francis  Bond  Head  (born  January 
1,  1793),  has  had  more  vivacity  and  spirit  as  an 
author,  though  retaining  many  of  the  family  charac- 
teristics. While  a captain  in  the  army,  he  published 
Rough  Notes  taken  during  some  Rapid  Journeys  Across 
the  Pampas  and  among  the  Andes,  1826.  The  work 
was  exceedingly  popular,  and  the  reputation  of 
‘Galloping  Head,’  as  the  gay  captain  was  termed, 
was  increased  by  his  Bubbles  from  the  Brunnen  of 
Nassau.  He  was  appointed  governor  of  Upper 
Canada  in  1835,  and  created  a baronet  in  1837 ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  SIR  g.  and  sir  f.  b.  head. 


but  his  administrative  was  not  equal  to  his  literary- 
talent,  and  he  was  forced  to  resign  in  1838.  He 
published  a Narrative  of  his  Administration,  which 
was  more  amusing  than  convincing.  Turning  again 
to  purely  literary  pursuits,  Sir  Erancis  wrote  The 
Emigrant,  1852,  and  essays  in  the  Quarterly  Review , 
afterwards  republished  in  a collected  form  with  the 
title  of  Stokers  and  Pokers — Highways  and  Byways. 
The  national  defences  of  this  country  appearing  to 
Sir  Francis  lamentably  deficient,  he  issued  a note 
of  warning,  The  Defenceless  State  of  Great  Britain, 
1850.  Visits  to  Paris  and  Ireland  produced  A 
Faggot  of  French  Sticks,  or  Paris  in  1851,  and  A 
Fortnight  in  Ireland,  1852.  All  these  works  are  lively 
and  entertaining.  The  judgments  and  opinions  of 
the  author  are  often  rash  and  prejudiced,  but  he 
is  seldom  dull,  and  common-place  incidents  are 
related  in  a picturesque  and  attractive  manner. 

[Description  of  the  Pampas .] 

The  great  plain,  or  pampas,  on  the  east  of  the 
Cordillera,  is  about  nine  hundred  miles  in  breadth, 
and  the  part  which  I have  visited,  though  under  the 
same  latitude,  is  divided  into  regions  of  different  climate 
and  produce.  On  leaving  Buenos  Ayres,  the  first  of 
these  regions  is  covered  for  one  hundred  and  eighty 
miles  with  clover  and  thistles ; the  second  region,  which 
extends  for  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  produces 
long  grass ; and  the  third  region,  which  reaches  the  base 
of  the  Cordillera,  is  a grove  of  low  trees  and  shrubs. 
The  second  and  third  of  these  regions  have  nearly  the 
same  appearance  throughout  the  year,  for  the  trees  and 
shrubs  are  evergreens,  and  the  immense  plain  of  grass 
only  changes  its  colour  from  green  to  brown ; but  the 
first  region  varies  with  the  four  seasons  of  the  year  in  a 
most  extraordinary  manner.  In  winter  the  leaves  of 
the  thistles  are  large  and  luxuriant,  and  the  whole 
surface  of  the  country  has  the  rough  appearance  of  a 
turnip-field.  The  clover  in  this  season  is  extremely 
rich  and  strong ; and  the  sight  of  the  wild  cattle  grazing 
in  full  liberty  on  such  pasture  is  very  beautiful.  In 
spring  the  clover  has  vanished,  the  leaves  of  the  thistles 
have  extended  along  the  ground,  and  the  country  still 
looks  like  a rough  crop  of  turnips.  In  less  than  a month 
the  change  is  most  extraordinary:  the  whole  region 
becomes  a luxuriant  wood  of  enormous  thistles,  which 
have  suddenly  shot  up  to  a height  of  ten  or  eleven  feet, 
and  are  all  in  full  bloom.  The  road  or  path  is  hemmed 
in  on  both  sides ; the  view  is  completely  obstructed  ; not 
an  animal  is  to  be  seen ; and  the  stems  of  the  thistles 
are  so  close  to  each  other,  and  so  strong,  that,  inde- 
| pendent  of  the  prickles  with  which  they  are  armed,  they 
I form  an  impenetrable  barrier.  The  sudden  growth  of 
these  plants  is  quite  astonishing ; and  though  it  would 
be  an  unusual  misfortune  in  military  history,  yet  it  is 
really  possible  that  an  invading  army,  unacquainted 
l with  this  country,  might  be  imprisoned  by  these  thistles 
before  it  had  time  to  escape  from  them.  The  summer 
is  not  over  before  the  scene  undergoes  another  rapid 
change : the  thistles  suddenly  lose  their  sap  and  verdure, 
their  heads  droop,  the  leaves  shrink  and  fade,  the  stems 
become  black  and  dead,  and  they  remain  rattling  with 
the  breeze  one  against  another,  untiLthe  violence  of  the 
pampero  or  hurricane  levels  them  with  the  ground,  where 
they  rapidly  decompose  and  disappear — the  clover  rushes 
up,  and  the  scene  is  again  verdant. 

[A  French  Commissionaire.'] 

In  Paris  this  social  luxury  has  been  so  admirably 
supplied,  that,  like  iced  water  at  Naples,  the  community 
could  now  hardly  exist  without  it.  Accordingly,  at  the 
intersection  of  almost  all  the  principal  streets,  there  is 
posted  by  the  police  an  intelligent,  respectable-looking 


man — there  are  about  twelve  thousand  of  them — 
cleanly  dressed  in  blue  velveteen  trousers,  and  a blue 
corduroy  jacket,  on  the  breast  of  which  is  affixed  a brass 
ticket,  invariably  forfeited  by  misconduct,  bearing  his 
occupation  and  number.  The  duties  of  this  commis- 
sionnaire  are  not  only  at  various  fixed  prices  to  go 
messages  in  any  direction,  and  at  determined  rates  to 
perform  innumerable  other  useful  services,  but  he  is 
especially  directed  to  assist  aged  and  infirm  people  of 
both  sexes  in  crossing  streets  crowded  with  carriages, 
and  to  give  to  strangers,  who  may  inquire  their  way, 
every  possible  assistance.  The  luxury  of  living, 
wherever  you  may  happen  to  lodge,  within  reach  of  a 
person  of  this  description,  is  very  great.  For  instance, 
within  fifty  yards  of  my  lodgings,  there  was  an  active, 
honest,  intelligent  dark-blue  fellow,  who  was  to  me  a 
living  book  of  useful  knowledge.  Crumpling  up  the 
newspaper  he  was  usually  reading,  he  could  in  the 
middle  of  a paragraph,  and  at  a moment’s  notice,  get  me 
any  sort  of  carriage — recommend  me  to  every  description 
of  shop — tell  me  the  colour  of  the  omnibus  I wanted — 
where  I was  to  find  it — where  I was  to  leave  it — how  I 
ought  to  dress  to  go  here,  there,  or  anywhere  : what  was 
done  in  the  House  of  Assembly  last  night — who  spoke 
best — what  was  said  of  his  speech — and  what  the  world 
thought  of  things  in  general. 

[The  Electric  Wires,  and  Tawell  the  Murderer.] 

Whatever  may  have  been  his  fears — his  hopes — his 
fancies — or  his  thoughts — there  suddenly  flashed  along 
the  wires  of  the  electric  telegraph,  which  were  stretched 
close  beside  him,  the  following  words : ‘ A murder  has 
just  been  committed  at  Salthill,  and  the  suspected 
murderer  was  seen  to  take  a first-class  ticket  for  London 
by  the  train  which  left  Slough  at  7 h.  42  m.  p.m.  He  is 
in  the  garb  of  a Quaker,  with  a brown  greatcoat  on, 
which  reaches  nearly  down  to  his  feet.  He  is  in  the 
last  compartment  of  the  second  first-class  carriage.’ 

And  yet,  fast  as  these  words  flew  like  lightning  past 
him,  the  information  they  contained,  with  all  its  details, 
as  well  as  every  secret  thought  that  had  preceded  them, 
had  already  consecutively  flown  millions  of  times  faster ; 
indeed,  at  the  very  instant  that,  within  the  walls  of  the 
little  cottage  at  Slough,  there  had  been  uttered  that 
dreadful  scream,  it  had  simultaneously  reached  the 
judgment-seat  of  Heaven ! 

On  arriving  at  the  Paddington  station,  after  mingling 
for  some  moments  with  the  crowd,  he  got  into  an  omni- 
bus, and  as  it  rumbled  along,  taking  up  one  passenger  and 
putting  down  another,  he  probably  felt  that  his  identity 
was  every  minute  becoming  confounded  and  confused  by 
the  exchange  of  fellow-passengers  for  strangers  that  was 
constantly  taking  place.  But  all  the  time  he  was  think- 
ing, the  cad  of  the  omnibus — a policeman  in  disguise — 
knew  that  he  held  his  victim  like  a rat  in  a cage. 
Without,  however,  apparently  taking  the  slightest 
notice  of  him,  he  took  one  sixpence,  gave  change  for  a 
shilling,  handed  out  this  lady,  stuffed  in  that  one,  until, 
arriving  at  the  bank,  the  guilty  man,  stooping  as  he 
walked  towards  the  carriage-door,  descended  the  steps ; 
paid  his  fare ; crossed  over  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington’s 
statue,  where  pausing  for  a few  moments,  anxiously  to 
gaze  around  him,  he  proceeded  to  the  Jerusalem  Coffee- 
house, thence  over  London  Bridge  to  the  Leopard  Coffee- 
house in  the  Borough,  and  finally  to  a lodging-house  in 
Scott’s  Yard,  Cannon  Street. 

He  probably  fancied  that,  by  making  so  many  turns 
and  doubles,  he  had  not  only  effectually  puzzled  all 
pursuit,  but  that  his  appearance  at  so  many  coffee-houses 
would  assist  him,  if  necessary,  in  proving  an  alibi;  but, 
whatever  may  have  been  his  motives  or  his  thoughts,  he 
had  scarcely  entered  the  lodging  when  the  policeman — 
who,  like  a wolf,  had  followed  him  every  step  of  the  way 
— opening  his  door,  very  calmly  said  to  him — the  words 
no  doubt  were  infinitely  more  appalling  to  him  even 

763 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


than  the  scream  that  had  been  haunting  him — ‘ Haven’t 
you  just  come  from  Slough?’  The  monosyllable  ‘No/ 
confusedly  uttered  in  reply,  substantiated  his  guilt. 

The  policeman  made  him  his  prisoner ; he  was  thrown 
into  jail;  tried;  found  guilty  of  wilful  murder;  and 
hanged. 

A few  months  afterwards,  we  happened  to  be 
travelling  by  rail  from  Paddington  to  Slough,  in  a 
carriage  filled  with  people  all  strangers  to  one  another. 
Like  English  travellers,  they  were  all  mute.  For  nearly 
fifteen  miles  no  one  had  uttered  a single  word,  until 
a short-bodied,  short-necked,  short-nosed,  exceedingly 
respectable-looking  man  in  the  corner,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  apparently  fleeting  posts  and  rails  of  the  electric 
telegraph,  significantly  nodded  to  us  as  he  muttered 
aloud  : ‘ Them ’s  the  cords  that  hung  J ohn  Tawell ! ’ 

WILLIAM  AND  MARY  HOWITT. 

A love  of  natural  history  and  poetry,  great 
industry,  and  a happy  talent  for  description,  dis- 
tinguish these  popular  writers,  originally  members 
of  the  Society  of  Friends.  Mary  Botham  was  a 
native  of  Uttoxeter,  county  of  Stafford ; William 
Howitt  was  horn  in  1795,  at  Heanor,  in  Derbyshire. 
They  were  married  in  1823,  and  the  same  year  they 
published,  in  conjunction,  The  Forest  Minstrel,  a 
series  of  poems.  In  the  preface  is  the  following 
statement : ‘ The  history  of  our  poetical  bias  is 
simply  what  we  believe,  in  reality,  to  be  that  of 
many  others.  Poetry  has  been  our  youthful  amuse- 
ment, and  our  increasing  daily  enjoyment  in  happy, 
and  our  solace  in  sorrowful  hours.  Amidst  the  vast 
and  delicious  treasures  of  our  national  literature, 
we  have  revelled  with  growing  and  unsatiated 
delight ; and  at  the  same  time,  living  chiefly  in 
the  quietness  of  the  country,  we  have  watched  the 
changing  features  of  nature ; we  have  felt  the  secret 
charm  of  those  sweet  but  unostentatious  images 
which  she  is  perpetually  presenting,  and  given  full 
scope  to  those  workings  of  the  imagination  and  of 
the  heart,  which  natural  beauty  and  solitude 
prompt  and  promote.  The  natural  result  was  the 
transcription  of  those  images  and  scenes.’ 

A poem  in  this  volume  serves  to  complete  a 
happy  picture  of  studies  pursued  by  a married  pair 
in  concert : 

Away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken ! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta’en  : 

I love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 
On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

When  we  sit  by  the  fire  that  so  cheerily  blazes 
On  our  cozy  hearthstone,  with  its  innocent  glee, 

Oh  ! how  my  soul  warms,  while  my  eye  fondly  gazes, 
To  see  my  delight  is  partaken  by  thee  ! 

And  when,  as  how  often,  I eagerly  listen 

To  stories  thou  read’st  of  the  dear  olden  day, 

How  delightful  to  see  our  eyes  mutually  glisten, 

And  feel  that  affection  has  sweetened  the  lay. 

Yes,  love — and  when  wandering  at  even  or  morning, 
Through  forest  or  wild,  or  by  waves  foaming  white, 

I have  fancied  new  beauties  the  landscape  adorning, 
Because  I have  seen  thou  wast  glad  in  the  sight. 

And  how  often  in  crowds,  where  a whisper  offendeth, 
And  we  fain  would  express  what  there  might  not 
be  said, 

How  dear  is  the  glance  that  none  else  comprehendeth, 
And  how  sweet  is  the  thought  that  is  secretly  read  ! 

Then  away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken ! 
There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta’en  : 

I love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 
On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

764 


Mrs  Howitt  has  since  published  a great  variety 
of  works — The  Seven  Temptations,  a dramatic  poem, 
1834;  Wood  Leighton,  a novel;  The  Heir  of  West 
Wayland;  and  several  volumes  both  in  prose  and  ! 
verse  for  children.  The  attention  of  Mr  and  Mrs 
Howitt  having  been  drawn  to  the  Swedish  lan- 
guage, they  studied  it  with  avidity,  and  Mrs 
Howitt  has  translated  the  tales  of  Frederika  Bremer  : 
and  the  Improvisatore  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen, 
all  of  which  have  been  exceedingly  popular,  and  j 
now  circulate  extensively  both  in  England  and  I 
America.  Mr  _Howitt  has  been  a still  more  i 
voluminous  writer.  His  happiest  works  are  those  i 
devoted  to  rural  description.  The  Book  of  the  ! 
Seasons,  1831,  delineates  the  picturesque  and  j 
poetical  features  of  the  months,  and  all  the  objects  [ 
and  appearances  which  the  year  presents  in  the 
garden,  the  field,  and  the  waters.  An  enthusiastic 
lover  of  his  subject,  Mr  Howitt  is  remarkable  for 
the  fulness  and  variety  of  his  pictorial  sketches,  the 
richness  and  purity  of  his  fancy,  and  the  occasional 
force  and  eloquence  of  his  language. 

[Love  of  the  Beautiful.'] 

If  I could  but  arouse  in  other  minds  (he  says)  that 
ardent  and  ever-growing  love  of  the  beautiful  works  of 
God  in  the  creation,  which  I feel  in  myself — if  I could 
but  make  it  in  others  what  it  has  been  to  me — 

The  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being — 

if  I could  open  to  any  the  mental  eye  which  can  never  j 
be  again  closed,  but  which  finds  more  and  more  clearly  ; 
revealed  before  it  beauty,  wisdom,  and  peace  in  the  j 
splendours  of  the  heavens,  in  the  majesty  of  seas  ! 
and  mountains,  in  the  freshness  of  winds,  the  ever-  i 
changing  lights  and  shadows  of  fair  landscapes,  the  | 
solitude  of  heaths,  the  radiant  face  of  bright  lakes,  • 
and  the  solemn  depths  of  woods,  then,  indeed,  should  I ; 
rejoice.  Oh  that  I could  but  touch  a thousand  bosoms  ! 
with  that  melancholy  which  often  visits  mine,  when  I ! 
behold  little  children  endeavouring  to  extract  amuse-  | 
ment  from  the  very  dust,  and  straws,  and  pebbles  of  j 
squalid  alleys,  shut  out  from  the  free  and  glorious  i 
countenance  of  nature,  and  think  how  differently  the 
children  of  the  peasantry  are  passing  the  golden  hours 
of  childhood,  wandering  with  bare  heads  and  unshod 
feet,  perhaps,  but  singing  a ‘ childish,  wordless  melody’ 
through  vernal  lanes,  or  prying  into  a thousand  sylvan 
leafy  nooks,  by  the  liquid  music  of  running  waters,  amidst 
the  fragrant  heath,  or  on  the  flowery  lap  of  the  meadow, 
occupied  with  winged  wonders  without  end.  Oh  that 
I could  but  baptise  every  heart  with  the  sympathetic 
feeling  of  what  the  city-pent  child  is  condemned  to 
lose  ; how  blank,  and  poor,  and  joyless  must  be  the 
images  which  fill  its  infant  bosom,  to  that  of  the 
country  one,  whose  mind 

Will  be  a mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

His  memory  be  a dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ! 

I feel,  however,  an  animating  assurance  that  nature 
will  exert  a perpetually  increasing  influence,  not  only 
as  a most  fertile  source  of  pure  and  substantial  plea- 
sures— pleasures  which,  unlike  many  others,  produce, 
instead  of  satiety,  desire,  but  also  as  a great  moral 
agent : and  what  effects  I anticipate  from  this  growing 
taste  may  be  readily  inferred,  when  I avow  it  as  one  of 
the  most  fearless  articles  of  my  creed,  that  it  is  scarcely 
possible  for  a man  in  whom  its  power  is  once  firmly 
established,  to  become  utterly  debased  in  sentiment  or 
abandoned  in  principle.  His  soul  may  be  said  to  be 
brought  into  habitual  union  with  the  Author  of 
Nature- 

Haunted  for  ever  by  the  Eternal  Mind. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


W.  AND  M.  HOWITT. 


In  this  spirit  Mr  Howitt  has  written  The  Rural 
Life  of  England , two  volumes,  1838 ; The  Bog’s 
Country  Book ; and  Visits  to  Remarkable  Places , two 
volumes ; the  latter  work  giving  an  account  of  old 
English  halls,  battle-fields,  and  the  scenes  of 
striking  passages  in  English  history  and  poetry. 
Another  Avork  of  the  same  kind,  The  Homes  and 
| Haunts  of  the  Poets,  1847,  is  greatly  inferior, 

1 being  disfigured  by  inaccuracies  and  rash  dogmatic 
j assertions.  Mr  Howitt  was  for  some  years  in 
i business  in  the  town  of  Nottingham,  and  a work 
J from  his  fertile  pen,  the  nature  of  which  is  indi- 
| cated  by  its  name,  the  History  of  Priestcraft, 

! 1834,  so  recommended  him  to  the  Dissenters  and 
j reformers  of  that  town,  that  he  was  made  one  of 
their  aldermen.  Disliking  the  bustle  of  public 
j life,  Mr  Howitt  retired  from  Nottingham,  and 
; resided  for  thsee  years  at  Esher,  in  Surrey.  Mr 
i and  Mrs  Howitt  then  removed  to  Germany,  and 
after  three  years’  residence  in  that  country,  the 
I former  published  a work  on  the  Social  and  Rural 
j Life  of  Germany,  which  the  natives  admitted  to 
: be  the  best  account  of  that  country  ever  written 
j by  a foreigner.  Our  industrious  author  has  also 
j translated  a work  written  expressly  for  him,  The 
j Student  Life  of  Germany.  After  his  return,  Mr 
j Howitt  embarked  in  periodical  literature  as  a 
proprietor,  but  neither  The  People’s  Journal  nor 
J Howitt’s  Journal  was  a successful  speculation. 

| He  then  sailed  for  Australia,  and  a two  years’ 
i residence  in  that  colony  enabled  him  to  publish 
an  interesting  and  comprehensive  work,  in  two 
volumes,  entitled  Land,  Labour,  and  Gold,  or  Two 
Years  in  Victoria,  with  Visits  to  Sydney  and  Van 
Diemen’s  Land.  Few  writers  have  displayed 
greater  intellectual  activity  than  Mary  and  William 
Howitt,  and  to  the  young  they  have  been  special 
benefactors. 

Mountain  Children. 

[By  Mary  Howitt.] 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill ! 

Merry  companions  of  the  bird  and  bee  ! 

Go  gladly  forth  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill, 

With  unconstrained  step  and  spirits  free  ! 

No  crowd  impedes  your  way, 

No  city  wall  impedes  your  further  bounds ; 

Where  the  wild  flock  can  wander,  ye  may  stray 
The  long  day  through,  ’mid  summer  sights  and  sounds. 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 

And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a solemn  shade ; 

The  pleasant  evening,  the  fresh  dewy  hours, 

And  the  green  hills  whereon  your  fathers  played. 

The  gray  and  ancient  peaks 
Round  which  the  silent  clouds  hang  day  and  night ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  water  as  it  makes, 

Like  a glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight. 

These  are  your  joys ! Go  forth— =- 
Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power; 

For  in  his  spirit  God  has  clothed  the  earth, 

And  speaketh  solemnly  from  tree  and  flower. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rill3 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirits  finds ; 

And  awfully  the  everlasting  hills 
Address  you  in  their  many-toned  winds. 

Ye  sit  upon  the  earth 

Twining  its  flowers,  and  shouting  full  of  glee ; 

And  a pure  mighty  influence,  ’mid  your  mirth, 
Moulds  your  unconscious  spirits  silently. 


Hence  is  it  that  the  lands 
Of  storm  and  mountain  have  the  noblest  sons ; 

Whom  the  world  reverences.  The  patriot  bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  ones  ! 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Are  taught  within  the  mountain  solitudes ; 

For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong, 

And  yours  are  haunts  where  inspiration  broods. 

Then  go  forth — earth  and  sky 
To  you  are  tributary ; joys  are  spread 

Profusely,  like  the  summer  flowers  that  lie 
In  the  green  path,  beneath  your  gamesome  tread ! 

[. Mountains — From  1 The  Book  of  the  /Seasons.’] 

There  is  a charm  connected  with  mountains,  so 
powerful  that  the  merest  mention  of  them,  the  merest 
sketch  of  their  magnificent  features,  kindles  the  imagi- 
nation, and  carries  the  spirit  at  once  into  the  bosom 
of  their  enchanted  regions.  How  the  mind  is  filled 
with  their  vast  solitude ! how  the  inward  eye  is  fixed 
on  their  silent,  their  sublime,  their  everlasting  peaks ! 
How  our  heart  bounds  to  the  music  of  their  solitary 
cries,  to  the  tinkle  of  their  gushing  rills,  to  the  sound  of 
their  cataracts ! How  inspiriting  are  the  odours  that 
breathe  from  the  upland  turf,  from  the  rock-hung 
flower,  from  the  hoary  and  solemn  pine  ! how  beautiful 
are  those  lights  and  shadows  thrown  abroad,  and  that 
fine,  transparent  haze  which  is  diffused  over  the  valleys 
and  lower  slopes,  as  over  a vast,  inimitable  picture  ! 

At  this  season  of  the  year  [autumn]  the  ascents  of 
our  own  mountains  are  most  practicable.  The  heat  of 
summer  has  dried  up  the  moisture  with  which  winter 
rains  saturate  the  spongy  turf  of  the  hollows ; and  the 
atmosphere,  clear  and  settled,  admits  of  the  most 
extensive  prospects.  Whoever  has  not  ascended  our 
mountains  knows  little  of  the  beauties  of  this  beautiful 
island.  Whoever  has  not  climbed  their  long  and  heathy 
ascents,  and  seen  the  trembling  mountain-flowers,  the 
glowing  moss,  the  richly  tinted  lichens  at  his  feet ; and 
scented  the  fresh  aroma  of  the  uncultivated  sod,  and  of 
the  spicy  shrubs ; and  heard  the  bleat  of  the  flock  across 
their  solitary  expanses,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  mountain- 
plover,  the  raven,  or  the  eagle;  and  seen  the  rich  and 
russet  hues  of  distant  slopes  and  eminences,  the  livid 
gashes  of  ravines  and  precipices,  the  white  glittering 
line  of  falling  waters,  and  the  cloud  tumultuously  whirl- 
ing round  the  lofty  summit ; and  then  stood  panting  on 
that  summit,  and  beheld  the  clouds  alternately  gather 
and  break  over  a thousand  giant  peaks  and  ridges  of  every 
varied  hue,  but  all  silent  as  images  of  eternity;  and 
cast  his  gaze  over  lakes  and  forests,  and  smoking  towns, 
and  wide  lands  to  the  very  ocean,  in  all  their  gleaming 
and  reposing  beauty,  knows  nothing  of  the  treasures  of 
pictorial  wealth  which  his  own  country  possesses. 

But  when  we  let  loose  the  imagination  from  even 
these  splendid  scenes,  and  give  it  free  charter  to  range 
through  the  far  more  glorious  ridges  of  continental 
mountains,  through  Alps,  Apennines,  or  Andes,  how  is 
it  possessed  and  absorbed  by  all  the  awful  magnificence 
of  their  scenery  and  character ! The  skyward  and 
inaccessible  pinnacles,  the 

Palaces  where  Nature  thrones 
Sublimity  in  icy  halls  ! 

the  dark  Alpine  forests,  the  savage  rocks  and  precipices, 
the  fearful  and  unfathomable  chasms  filled  with  the 
sound  of  ever-precipitating  waters ; the  cloud,  the  silence, 
the  avalanche,  the  cavernous  gloom,  the  terrible  visita- 
tions of  Heaven’s  concentrated  lightning,  darkness,  and 
thunder;  or  the  sweeter  features  of  living,  rushing 
streams,  spicy  odours  of  flower  and  shrub,  fresh  spirit- 
elating  breezes  sounding  through  the  dark  pine-grove; 
the  ever-varying  lights  and  shadows,  and  aerial  hues; 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


the  wide  prospects,  and,  above  all,  the  simple 
inhabitants ! 

We  delight  to  think  of  the  people  of  monntainons 
regions ; we  please  onr  imaginations  with  their 
picturesque  and  quiet  abodes ; with  their  peaceful 
secluded  lives,  striking  and  unvarying  costumes,  and 
primitive  manners.  We  involuntarily  give  to  the 
mountaineer  heroic  and  elevated  qualities.  He  lives 
amongst  noble  objects,  and  must  imbibe  some  of  their 
nobility ; he  lives  amongst  the  elements  of  poetry,  and 
must  be  poetical ; he  lives  where  his  fellow-beings  are 
far,  far  separated  from  their  kind,  and  surrounded  by 
the  sternness  and  the  perils  of  savage  nature ; his  social 
affections  must  therefore  be  proportionably  concentrated, 
his  home-ties  lively  and  strong ; but,  more  than  all,  he 
lives  within  the  barriers,  the  strongholds,  the  very  last 
refuge  which  Nature  herself  has  reared  to  preserve  alive 
liberty  in  the  earth,  to  preserve  to  man  his  highest 
hopes,  his  noblest  emotions,  his  dearest  treasures,  his 
faith,  his  freedom,  his  hearth,  and  his  home.  How 
glorious  do  those  mountain-ridges  appear  when  we  look 
upon  them  as  the  unconquerable  abodes  of  free  hearts ; 
as  the  stem,  heaven-built  walls  from  which  the  few,  the 
feeble,  the  persecuted,  the  despised,  the  helpless  child, 
the  delicate  woman,  have  from  age  to  age,  in  their  last 
perils,  in  all  their  weaknesses  and  emergencies,  when 
power  and  cruelty  were  ready  to  swallow  them  up, 
looked  down  and  beheld  the  million  waves  of  despotism 
break  at  their  feet;  have  seen  the  rage  of  murderous 
armies,  and  tyrants,  the  blasting  spirit  of  ambition, 
fanaticism,  and  crushing  domination  recoil  from  their 
bases  in  despair.  ‘Thanks  be  to  God  for  mountains!’ 
is  often  the  exclamation  of  my  heart  as  I trace  the 
history  of  the  world.  From  age  to  age  they  have  been 
the  last  friends  of  man.  In  a thousand  extremities 
they  have  saved  him.  What  great  hearts  have  throbbed 
in  their  defiles  from  the  days  of  Leonidas  to  those  of 
Andreas  Hofer ! What  lofty  souls,  what  tender  hearts, 
what  poor  and  persecuted  creatures  have  they  sheltered 
in  their  stony  bosoms  from  the  weapons  and  tortures  of 
their  fellow-men ! 

Avenge,  O Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ! 

was  the  burning  exclamation  of  Milton’s  agonised  and 
indignant  spirit,  as  he  beheld  those  sacred  bulwarks  of 
freedom  for  once  violated  by  the  disturbing  demons  of 
the  earth ; and  the  sound  of  his  fiery  and  lamenting 
appeal  to  Heaven  will  be  echoed  in  every  generous  soul 
to  the  end  of  time. 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  mountains!  The  variety  which 
they  impart  to  the  glorious  bosom  of  our  planet  were  no 
small  advantage ; the  beauty  which  they  spread  out  to 
our  vision  in  their  woods  and  waters,  their  crags  and 
slopes,  their  clouds  and  atmospheric  hues,  were  a 
splendid  gift ; the  sublimity  which  they  pour  into  our 
deepest  souls  from  their  majestic  aspects;  the  poetry 
which  breathes  from  their  streams,  and  dells,  and  airy 
heights,  from  the  sweet  abodes,  the  garbs  and  manners 
of  their  inhabitants,  the  songs  and  legends  which  have 
awoke  in  them,  were  a proud  heritage  to  imaginative 
minds ; but  what  are  all  these  when  the  thought  comes, 
that  without  mountains  the  spirit  of  man  must  have 
bowed  to  the  brutal  and  the  base,  and  probably  have 
sunk  to  the  monotonous  level  of  the  unvaried  plain. 

When  I turn  my  eyes  upon  the  map  of  the  world,  and 
behold  how  wonderfully  the  countries  where  our  faith 
was  nurtured,  where  our  liberties  were  generated,  where 
our  philosophy  and  literature,  the  fountains  of  our 
intellectual  grace  and  beauty,  sprang  up,  were  as 
distinctly  walled  out  by  God’s  hand  with  mountain 
ramparts  from  the  eruptions  and  interruptions  of 
barbarism,  as  if  at  the  especial  prayer  of  the  early 
fathers  of  man’s  destinies,  I am  lost  in  an  exulting 
admiration.  Look  at  the  bold  barriers  of  Palestine ! 
see  how  the  infant  liberties  of  Greece  were  sheltered 
766 


from  the  vast  tribes  of  the  uncivilised  North  by  the 
heights  of  Hasmus  and  Rhodope ! behold  how  the  Alps 
describe  their  magnificent  crescent,  inclining  their 
opposite  extremities  to  the  Adriatic  and  Tyrrhene  Seas, 
locking  up  Italy  from  the  Gallic  and  Teutonic  hordes 
till  the  power  and  spirit  of  Rome  had  reached  their 
maturity,  and  she  had  opened  the  wide  forest  of  Europe 
to  the  light,  spread  far  her  laws  and  language,  and 
planted  the  seeds  of  many  mighty  nations ! 

Thanks  to  God  for  mountains ! Their  colossal 
firmness  seems  almost  to  break  the  current  of  time 
itself  ; the  geologist  in  them  searches  for  traces  of  the 
earlier  world ; and  it  is  there,  too,  that  man,  resisting  the 
revolutions  of  lower  regions,  retains  through  innumerable 
years  his  habits  and  his  rights.  "While  a multitude  of 
changes  has  remoulded  the  people  of  Europe,  while 
languages,  and  laws,  and  dynasties,  and  creeds,  have 
passed  over  it  like  shadows  over  the  landscape,  the 
children  of  the  Celt  and  the  Goth,  who  fled  to  the 
mountains  a thousand  years  ago,  are  found  there  now, 
and  shew  us  in  face  and  figure,  in  language  and  garb, 
what  their  fathers  were ; shew  us  a fine  contrast  with 
the  modem  tribes  dwelling  below  and  around  them; 
and  shew  us,  moreover,  how  adverse  is  the  spirit  of  the- 
mountain  to  mutability,  and  that  there  the  fiery  heart 
of  freedom  is  found  for  ever. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  dramatic  works  of  Mr  Douglas  Jerrold  have 
already  been  noticed.  His  miscellaneous  writings 
consist  of  tales  and  sketches  of  character,  in  which 
humour,  fancy,  and  satire  are  blended.  The  most 
popular  of  these  were  contributed  to  Punch,  or  the 
London  Charivari,  which  was  commenced  July  17, 
1841.  Jerrold  was  born  in  London  in  January  1803. 
His  father  was  an  actor,  lessee  of  the  Sheerness 
theatre,  and  the  early  years  of  Douglas  were  spent 
in  Sheemess.  But  before  he  had  completed  his-  j 
tenth  year,  he  was  transferred  to  the  guard-ship 
Namur , then  lying  at  the  mouth  of  the  river — ‘a 
first-class  volunteer  in  his  majesty’s  service,  and  ; 
not  a little  proud  of  his  uniform.’  Two  years  were 
spent  at  sea,  after  which  Douglas,  with  his  parents,, 
removed  to  London.  He  became  apprentice  to  a 
printer — worked  diligently  during  the  usual  busi- 
ness hours — and  seized  upon  every  spare  moment  for 
solitary  self-instruction.  The  lfttle,  eager,  intel- 
lectual boy  was  sure  to  rise  in  the  world.  He  had, 
however,  a sharp  novitiate.  His  great  friend  at 
this  time  was  Mr  Laman  Blanchard  (1803-1845), 
who  was  engaged  in  periodical  literature,  and  author 
of  numerous  tales  and  essays,  collected  after  his 
premature  death,  and  published  with  a memoir  of 
the  author  by  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.  Douglas 
Jerrold  took  early  to  dramatic  writing,  and  in  his 
eighteenth  year  he  was  engaged  at  a salary  of  ‘ a 
few  pounds  weekly  ’ to  write  pieces  for  the  Coburg 
theatre.  About  1831  he  became  a contributor  to- 
the  magazines,  and  in  1840  he  was  editor  of  a series 
of  sketches  illustrated  by  Kenny  Meadows,  to  which 
Thackeray,  R.  H.  Horne,  Laman  Blanchard,  Peake, 
and  others  contributed,  and  which  bore  the  title  of 
Heads  of  the  People.  Some  of  the  best  of  Jerrold’s 
essays  appeared  in  this  periodical.  Afterwards 
Punch  absorbed  the  greater  part  of  his  time,  though 
he  stiil  continued  to  write  occasionally  for  the  stage. 
Henceforward  his  life  was  that  of  a professional 
litterateur,  steadily  rising  in  public  estimation  and 
in  worldly  prosperity — famous  for  his  sarcasm,  his 
witty  sayings,  and  general  conversational  brilliancy 
— famous  also  for  his  genuine  kindliness  and  bene- 
volence of  heart.  In  1852  a large  addition  was  made 
to  his  income — £1000  per  annum — by  his  becom- 
ing editor  of  Lloyd’s  Weekly  Newspaper.  He  was  a 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 


zealous  advocate  of  social  reform  ; a passionate  hater 
of  all  cant,  pretence,  and  affectation ; and  though 
on  some  grave  questions  he  wrote  without  sufficient 
consideration,  his  career  was  that  of  an  honest  jour- 
nalist and  lover  of  truth.  Of  his  personal  gener- 
osity of  character  many  memorials  remain.  Mr 
Dickens  relates  one  instance : ‘ There  had  been  an 
estrangement  between  us — not  on  any  personal 
subject,  and  not  involving  an  angry  word— and  a 
good  many  months  had  passed  without  my  even 
seeing  him  in  the  street,  when  it  fell  out  that  we 
dined  each  with  his  own  separate  party  in  the 
strangers’  room  of  a club.  Our  chairs  were  almost 
back  to  back,  and  I took  mine  after  he  was  seated, 
and  at  dinner.  I said  not  a word — I am  sorry  to 
remember — and  did  not  look  that  way.  Before  we 
had  sat  so  long,  he  openly  wheeled  his  chair  round, 
stretched  out  both  his  hands,  and  said  aloud,  with 
a bright  and  loving  face  that  I can  see  as  I write  to 
you : “ Eor  God’s  sake,  let  us  be  friends  again ! A 
life ’s  not  long  enough  for  this.”  ’*  Another  friend, 
Mr  Hannay,  writes : ‘ He  was  getting  up  in  years, 
but  still  there  seemed  many  to  be  hoped  for  him 
yet.  Though  not  so  active  in  schemes  as  formerly, 
he  still  talked  of  works  to  be  done,  and  at  “Our  Club,” 
and  such-like  friendly  little  associations,  the  wit 
was  all  himself,  and  came  to  our  stated  meetings  as 
punctually  as  a star  to  its  place  in  the  sky.  He 
had  suffered  severely  from  illness,  especially  from 
rheumatism,  at  various  periods  of  life,  and  he  had 
lived  freely  and  joyously,  as  was  natural  to  a man 
of  his  peculiar  gifts.  But,  death  ! We  never  thought 
of  the  brilliant  radiant  Douglas  in  connection  with 
the  black  river.  He  would  have  sunk  Charon’s 
boat  with  a shower  of  epigrams,  one  would  have 
fancied,  if  the  old  fellow,  with  his  squalid  beard, 
had  dared  to  ask  him  into  the  stern-sheets.’  He 
died,  after  a short  illness,  on  the  8th  of  June  1857, 
and  was  interred  in  Norwood  Cemetery — followed  to 
the  grave  by  all  his  literary  confreres , who  nobly 
raised  a memorial  fund  of  £2000  for  the  benefit  of 
his  family.  The  collected  miscellaneous  writings 
of  Douglas  Jerrold  fill  six  duodecimo  volumes.  The 
longest  is  a story  of  town-life,  St  Giles  and  St  James , 
by  no  means  his  happiest  production.  He  was  best 
in  short  satirical  and  descriptive  sketches — spon- 
taneous bursts  of  fancy  or  feeling.  His  Caudle 
Lectures , Story  of  a Feather , Men  of  Character , and 
Sketches  of  the  English  were  highly  popular.  The 
style  is  concise  and  pungent — too  much,  perhaps, 
in  the  manner  of  dramatic  dialogue,  but  lightened 
up  by  poetic  feeling  and  imagery.  His  satire  was 
always  winged  with  fancy.  Some  brilliant  or 
pointed  saying  carried  home  his  argument  or  senti- 
ment, and  fixed  it  firmly  in  the  mind.  Like  Charles 
Lamb  and  most  humorists,  he  had  tenderness  and 
pathos.  ‘After  all,’  he  said,  ‘life  has  something 
serious  in  it — it  cannot  be  all  a comic  history  of 
humanity.’  Hence,  amidst  all  the  quips  and  turns  of 
his  fancy,  the  real  mingles  with  the  ideal,  and 
shrewd,  kindly  observation,  and  active  sympathy 
are  at  the  bottom  of  his  picturesque  sketches  and 
portraits.  When  his  indignation  is  fairly  roused, 
his  short  sentences  have  the  force  and  scorching 
fire  of  thunderbolts.  Such  flashes  were  momentary, 
but  the  desire  to  benefit  his  fellow-men  was  per- 
manent. He  was  often  wrong,  often  one-sided — 
an  ardent,  impulsive  man — but  high-principled, 
sincere,  and  generous.  In  witty  repartee  he  was 
unequalled  among  his  contemporaries. 

* The  Life  and  Remains  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  by  his  Son, 
Blanchard  Jerrold,  1859.  Mr  Blanchard  Jerrold  succeeded 
his  father  as  editor  of  Lloyd's  Weekly  Newspaper,  and  is  author 
of  Imperial  Paris,  The  Disgrace  of  the  Family,  &c. 


[ Winter  in  London .] 

The  streets  were  empty.  Pitiless  cold  had  driven  all 
who  had  the  shelter  of  a roof  to  their  homes ; and  the 
north-east  blast  seemed  to  howl  in  triumph  above  the 
untrodden  snow.  Winter  was  at  the  heart  of  all  things. 
The  wretched,  dumb  with  excessive  misery,  suffered,  in 
stupid  resignation,  the  tyranny  of  the  season.  Human 
blood  stagnated  in  the  breast  of  want;  and  death  in 
that  despairing  hour,  losing  its  terrors,  looked  in  the 
eyes  of  many  a wretch  a sweet  deliverer.  It  was  a 
time  when  the  very  poor,  barred  from  the  commonest 
things  of  earth,  take  strange  counsel  with  themselves, 
and,  in  the  deep  humility  of  destitution,  believe  they 
are  the  burden  and  the  offal  of  the  world. 

It  was  a time  when  the  easy,  comfortable  man, 
touched  with  finest  sense  of  human  suffering,  gives  from 
his  abundance  ; and,  whilst  bestowing,  feels  almost 
ashamed  that,  with  such  wide-spread  misery  circled 
round  him,  he  has  all  things  fitting ; all  things  grateful. 
The  smitten  spirit  asks  wherefore  he  is  not  of  the 
multitude  of  wretchedness;  demands  to  know  for  what 
especial  excellence  he  is  promoted  above  the  thousand, 
thousand  starving  creatures  : in  his  very  tenderness  for 
misery,  tests  his  privilege  of  exemption  from  a woe  that 
withers  manhood  in  man,  bowing  him  downward  to  the 
brute.  And  so  questioned,  this  man  gives  in  modesty 
of  spirit — in  very  thankfulness  of  soul.  His  alms  are 
not  cold,  formal  charities ; but  reverent  sacrifices  to  his. 
suffering  brother. 

It  was  a time  when  selfishness  hugs  itself  in  its  own- 
warmth;  with  no  other  thoughts  than  of  its  pleasant 
possessions ; all  made  pleasanter,  sweeter,  by  the  desola- 
tion around.  When  the  mere  worldling  rejoices  the  morn 
in  his  warm  chamber,  because  it  is  so  bitter  cold  without ; 
when  he  eats  and  drinks  with  whetted  appetite,  because  he- 
hears  of  destitution,  prowling  like  a wolf  around  his  well- 
barred  house ; when,  in  fine,  he  bears  his  every  comfort 
about  him  with  the  pride  of  a conqueror.  A time  when 
such  a man  sees  in  the  misery  of  his  fellow-beings- 
nothing  save  his  own  victory  of  fortune — his  own 
successes  in  a suffering  world.  To  such  a man,  the  poor 
are  but  the  tattered  slaves  that  grace  his  triumph. 

It  was  a time,  too,  when  human  nature  often  shews 
its  true  divinity,  and  with  misery  like  a garment 
clinging  to  it,  forgets  its  wretchedness  in  sympathy  with 
suffering.  A time,  when  in  the  cellars  and  garrets  of 
the  poor  are  acted  scenes  which  make  the  noblest 
heroism  of  life;  which  prove  the  immortal  texture  of 
the  human  heart,  not  wholly  seared  by  the  branding- 
iron  of  the  torturing  hours.  A time  when  in  want,  in 
anguish,  in  throes  of  mortal  agony,  some  seed  is  sown 
that  bears  a flower  in  heaven. 

[ The  Emigrant  Ship.] 

Some  dozen  folks,  with  gay,  dull,  earnest,  careless, 
hopeful,  wearied  looks,  spy  about  the  ship,  their  future 
abiding-place  upon  the  deep  for  many  a day.  Some 
dozen,  with  different  feelings,  shewn  in  different  emotions, 
enter  cabins,  dip  below,  emerge  on  deck,  and  weave 
their  way  among  packages  and  casks,  merchandise  and 
food,  lying  in  labyrinth  about.  The  ship  is  in  most 
seemly  confusion.  The  landsman  thinks  it  impossible 
she  can  be  all  taut  upon  the  wave  in  a week.  Her 
yards  are  all  so  up  and  down,  and  her  rigging  in  such 
a tangle,  such  disorder,  like  a wench’s  locks  after  a mad 
game  at  romps.  Nevertheless,  Captain  Goodbody’s  word 
is  as  true  as  oak.  On  the  appointed  day,  the  skies 
permitting,  the  frigate-built  Halcyon , with  her  white 
wings  spread,  will  drop  down  the  Thames — down  te 
the  illimitable  sea. 

She  carries  a glorious  freightage  to  the  antipodes — 
English  hearts  and  English  sinews — hope  and  strength 
to  conquer  and  control  the  waste,  turning  it  to  use- 
fulness and  beauty.  She  carries  in  her  the  seeds  of 

767 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  - T0  1859. 


English  cities,  with  English  laws  to  crown  them  free. 
She  carries  with  her  the  strong,  deep,  earnest  music  of 
the  English  tongue — a music  soon  to  be  universal  as 
the  winds  of  heaven.  What  should  fancy  do  in  a 
London  dock?  All  is  so  hard,  material,  positive.  Yet 
there,  amid  the  tangled  ropes,  fancy  will  behold — 
clustered  like  birds — poets  and  philosophers,  history- 
men  and  story-men,  annalists  and  legalists — English 
all — bound  for  the  other  side  of  the  world,  to  rejoice  it 
with  their  voices.  Put  fancy  to  the  task,  and  fancy 
will  detect  Milton  in  the  shrouds,  and  Shakspeare 
looking  sweetly  seriously  down,  pedestaled  upon  yon 
main-block.  Spenser,  like  one  of  his  own  fairies,  swings 
on  a brace ; and  Bacon,  as  if  in  philosophic  chair,  sits 
soberly  upon  a yard.  Poetic  heads  of  every  generation, 
from  the  half-cowled  brow  of  Chaucer  to  the  periwigged 
pate  of  Dryden,  from  bonneted  Pope  to  night-capped 
Cowper — fancy  sees  them  all — all ; ay,  from  the  long- 
dead  day  of  Edward  to  the  living  hour  of  Victoria; 
sees  them  all  gathered  aloft,  and  with  fine  ear  lists  the 
rustling  of  their  bays. 

[ Dedications .] 

A mere  high  title  at  the  head  of  a dedication  is  a 
piece  of  pompous  lumber.  In  the  shallowness  of  our 
judgment,  we  bestow  a humiliating  pity  on  the  forlorn 
savage  who  lays  his  offering  of  fruits  and  flowers  before 
his  wooden  idol  with  a formidable  name — an  idol 
certainly  with  gold-rings  in  its  nose  and  ears,  and 
perhaps  an  uncut  diamond  in  its  forehead ; but,  never- 
theless, an  insensible  block.  The  fruits  shrivel  and  rot 
— the  flowers  die  a death  of  profitless  sweetness;  for 
the  idol  has  no  gustatory  sense,  no  expanding  nostril. 
I say,  we  pity  the  poor  darkened  fool  who  may  have 
risked  his  limbs  for  cocoa-nuts,  who  may  have  tempted 
the  whole  family  of  mortal  snakes,  groping  his  way 
through  woods,  scrambling  up  ravines  to  gather  flowers, 
and  only  to  lay  the  hard  winnings  of  his  toil  before  a 
stock,  a stone,  that  cannot  even  so  much  as  wink  a 
thankfulness  for  such  desperate  duty  done.  And  what 
shall  we  say  of  the  author  who,  choosing  a patron  merely 
for  his  titles — for  the  gold-rings  in  his  nose  and  ears, 
and  certainly  not  for  the  diamond  in  his  head — lays 
before  him  a book  for  which  the  poor  creature  has  not 
the  slightest  relish  ? 

[Puns  and  Sayings  of  Jerrold.] 

Dogmatism  is  the  maturity  of  puppyism. 

Unremitting  Kindness. — ‘ Call  that  a kind  man,’  said 
an  actor,  speaking  of  an  absent  acquaintance ; ‘ a man 
who  is  away  from  his  family,  and  never  sends  them  a 
farthing!  Call  that  kindness!’  ‘Yes,  unremitting 
kindness,’  Jerrold  replied. 

The  Retort  Direct. — Some  member  of  * Our  Club,’ 
hearing  an  air  mentioned,  exclaimed : ‘ That  always 
carries  me  away  when  I hear  it.’  ‘ Can  nobody  whistle 
it?’  exclaimed  Jerrold. 

Australia. — Earth  is  so  kindly  there  that,  tickle  her 
with  a hoe,  and  she  laughs  with  a harvest. 

The  Sharp  Attorney. — A friend  of  an  unfortunate 
lawyer  met  Jerrold,  and  said  : ‘ Have  you  heard  about 

poor  R ? His  business  is  going  to  the  devil.’ 

Jerrold : ‘ That ’s  all  right : then  he  is  sure  to  get  it 
back  again.’ 

The  Reason  Why. — One  evening  at  the  Museum  Club 
a member  very  ostentatiously  said  in  a loud  voice: 

‘ Isn’t  it  strange ; we  had  no  fish  at  the  marquis’s  last 
night?  That  has  happened  twice  lately — I can’t 
account  for  it.’  ‘Nor  I,’  replied  Jerrold,  ‘unless  they 
ate  it  all  up  stairs.’ 

Ostentatious  Grief. — Reading  the  pompous  and  fulsome 
inscription  which  Soyer  the  cook  put  on  his  wife’s  tomb 
in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery,  Jerrold  shook  his  head  and 
said : ‘ Mock  turtle.’ 

A Filial  Smile. — In  a railway- carriage  one  day,  a 
768 


gentleman  expatiated  on  the  beauty  of  nature.  Cows 
were  grazing  in  the  fields.  ‘ In  reading  in  the  fields,’ 
said  he,  ‘sometimes  a cow  comes  and  bends  its  head 
over  me.  I look  up  benignantly  at  it.’  ‘ With  a filial 
smile,’  rejoined  Jerrold. 

The  Anglo-French  Alliance. — A Frenchman  said  he 
was  proud  to  see  the  English  and  French  such  good 
friends  at  last.  J err  old : ‘ Tut ! the  best  thing  I know 
between  France  and  England  is— the  sea.’ 

THOMAS  MILLER — W.  HONE — MISS  COSTELLO. 

Among  the  litterateurs  inspired — perhaps  equally 
— by  the  love  of  nature  and  admiration  of  the 
writings  of  Miss  Mitford  and  the  Howitts,  is 
Thomas  Miller,  one  of  the  humble,  happy,  indus- 
trious self-taught  sons  of  genius.  He  was  brought 
up  to  the  trade  of  a basket-maker,  and  while  thus 
obscurely  labouring  ‘ to  consort  with  the  muse  and 
support  a family,’  he  attracted  attention,  first  by 
his  poetical  effusions,  and  subsequently  by  a series 
of  prose  narratives  and  fictions  remarkable  for  the 
freshness  of  their  descriptions  of  rural  life  and 
English  scenery.  Through  the  kindness  of  Mr 
Rogers,  our  author  was'  placed  in  the  more  con- 
genial situation  of  a bookseller,  and  has  had  the 
gratification  of  publishing  and  selling  his  own 
writings.  Mr  Miller  is  author  of  various  works : A 
Day  in  the  Woods,  Royston  Gower,  Fair  Rosamond, 
Lady  J ane  Grey,  and  other  novels.  Several  volumes 
of  rural  descriptions  and  poetical  effusions  have 
also  proceeded  from  his  pen.  All  afford  evidence, 
as  one  of  Mr  Miller’s  critics  remarks,  ‘ that  creative 
power  is  like  the  air  and  the  sunshine — visiting 
alike  the  cottage  and  the  mansion,  the  basket- 
maker’s  shop  and  the  literary  gentleman’s  sanctum .* 
The  correct  taste  and  feeling  of  Mr  Miller  are, 
however,  more  remarkable  than  his  creative  power. 

The  Every-day  Book,  Table  Book,  and  Year  Book, 
by  William  Hone  (1779-1842),  published  in  1833, 
in  four  large  volumes,  with  above  five  hundred 
wood-cut  illustrations,  form  a calendar  of  popular 
English  amusements,  sports,  pastimes,  ceremonies, 
manners,  customs,  and  events  incident  to  every  day 
in  the  year.  Mr  Southey  has  said  of  these  works : 
‘I  may  take  the  opportunity  of  recommending 
the  Every-day  Book  and  Table  Book  to  those  who 
are  interested  in  the  preservation  of  our  national 
and  local  customs:  by  these  very  curious  publi- 
cations their  compiler  has  rendered  good  service  in 
an  important  department  of  literature.’  Charles 
Lamb  was  no  less  eulogistic.  Some  political  paro- 
dies written  by  Hone  led  to  his  prosecution  by 
the  government  of  the  day ; he  was  acquitted  and 
became  popular;  the  parodies  are  now  forgotten, 
but  the  above  works  will  preserve  his  name. 

A number  of  interesting  narratives  of  foreign 
travel  have  been  published  by  Miss  Louisa  Stuart 
Costello,  who  commenced  her  literary  career  in 
1835  with  Specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of  France. 
Her  principal  works  are — A Summer  among  the 
Bocages  and  Vines,  1840:  A Pilgrimage  to  Auvergne , 
from  Picardy  to  Le  Velay,  Beam  and  the  Pyrenees, 
1844 ; The  Falls,  Lakes,  and  J fountains  of  North 
Wales,  1845;  A Tour  to  and  from  Venice  by  the 
Vaudois  and  the  Tyrol,  1846;  &c.  Miss  Costello 
is  also  one  of  the  band  of  lady-novelists,  having 
written  The  Queen  Mother,  Clara  Fane,  &c. ; and  in 
1840  she  published  a series  of  Memoirs  of  Emi- 
nent Englishwomen,  commencing  with  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth. 

T.  C.  HALIBURTON. 

Thomas  Chandler  Haliburton,  long  a judge  in 
Nova  Scotia,  is  author  of  a series  of  amusing  works 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


T.  C.  HALIBURTON. 


illustrative  of  American  and  colonial  manners, 
marked  by  shrewd,  sarcastic  remarks  on  political 
questions,  the  colonies,  slavery,  domestic  institu- 
tions and  customs,  and  almost  every  familiar  topic 
of  the  day.  The  first  series— which  had  previously 


Thomas  Chandler  Haliburton. 


been  inserted  as  letters  in  a Nova  Scotia  paper — 
appeared  in  a collected  form  under  the  title  of  The 
Clockmaker , or  the  Sayings  and  Doings  of  Samuel 
Slick  of  Slickville.  A second  series  was  published 
in  1838,  and  a third  in  1840.  ‘Sam  Slick’  was  a 
universal  favourite,  and  in  1S43  the  author  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  bringing  him  to  England.  The 
Attache,  or  Sam  Slick  in  England,  gives  an  account 
of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  clockmaker  when 
elevated  to  the  dignity  of  the  ‘Honourable  Mr 
Slick,  Attache  of  the  American  Legation  to  the 
court  of  St  James’s.’  There  is  the  same  quaint 
humour,  acute  observation,  and  laughable  exagger- 
ation in  these  volumes  as  in  the  former,  hut,  on  the 
whole,  Sam  is  most  amusing  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic.  Mr  Haliburton  has  also  written  an 
Account  of  Nova  Scotia,  1828;  Bubbles  of  Canada, 
1839  ; The  Old  Judge,  or  Life  in  a Colony,  and  Letter- 
bag  of  the  Great  Western , 1839  ; Rule  and  Misrule  of 
the  English  in  America,  1851 ; Yankee  Stories,  and 
Traits  of  American  Humour , 1852 ; Nature  and 
Human  Nature,  1855. 

We  must  do  our  publishers  the  justice  to  say,  that 
the  first  periodical  in  Great  Britain  which  noticed 
Mr  Haliburton’s  works  was  Chambers’s  Journal. 

[ Soft  Sawder  and  Human  Natur.] 

In  the  course  of  a journey  which  Mr  Slick  performs 
in  company  with  the  reporter  of  his  humours,  the 
latter  asks  him  how,  in  a country  so  poor  as  Nova 
Scotia  he  contrives  to  sell  so  many  clocks.  ‘ Mr  Slick 
paused,’  continues  the  author,  ‘ as  if  considering  the 
propriety  of  answering  the  question,  and  looking  me 
in  the  face,  said,  in  a confidential  tone  : “ Why,  I don’t 
care  if  I do  tell  you,  for  the  market  is  glutted,  and  I 
shall  quit  this  circuit.  It  is  done  by  a knowledge  of 
soft  sawder  and  human  natur.  But  here  is  Deacon 
Flint’s,”  said  he : “I  have  but  one  clock  left,  and  I guess 
101 


I will  sell  it  to  him.”  At  the  gate  of  a most  comfort- 
able-looking farmhouse  stood  Deacon  Flint,  a respect- 
able old  man,  who  had  understood  the  value  of  time 
better  than  most  of  his  neighbours,  if  one  might  judge 
from  the  appearance  of  everything  about  him.  After 
the  usual  salutation,  an  invitation  to  alight  was  accepted 
by  Mr  Slick,  who  said  “ he  wished  to  take  leave  of  Mrs 
Flint  before  he  left  Colchester.”  We  had  hardly  entered 
the  house,  before  the  Clockmaker  pointed  to  the  view 
from  the  window,  and,  addressing  himself  to  me,  said  : 
“ If  I was  to  tell  them  in  Connecticut  there  was  such  a 
I farm  as  this  away  down  east  here  in  Nova  Scotia,  they 
wouldn’t  believe  me — why,  there  ain’t  such  a location 
in  all  New  England.  The  deacon  has  a hundred  acres 

of  dike  ” * “ Seventy,”  said  the  deacon — “ only 

seventy.”  “Well,  seventy;  but  then  there  is  your  fine 
deep  bottom ; why,  I could  run  a ramrod  into  it.  Then 
there  is  that  water-privilege,  worth  three  or  four 
thousand  dollars,  twice  as  good  as  what  Governor  Cass 
paid  fifteen  thousand  for.  I wonder,  deacon,  you  don’t 
put  up  a carding-mill  on  it : the  same  works  would 
carry  a turning-lathe,  a shingle  machine,  a circular  saw, 

grind  bark,  and  ” “ Too  old,”  said  the  deacon — 

“ too  old  for  all  those  speculations.”  “ Old  ! ” repeated 
the  Clockmaker — “ not  you ; why,  you  are  worth  half  a 
dozen  of  the  young  men  we  see  now-a-days.”  The  deacon 
was  pleased.  “ Your  beasts,  dear  me,  your  beasts  must 
be  put  in  and  have  a feed ; ” saying  which,  he  went  out 
to  order  them  to  be  taken  to  the  stable.  As  the  old 
gentleman  closed  the  door  after  'him,  Mr  Slick  drew 
near  to  me,  and  said  in  an  under-tone  : “ That  is  what  I 
call  soft  sawder.  An  Englishman  would  pass  that  man 
as  a sheep  passes  a hog  in  a pasture — without  looking 

at  him.  Now  I find” Here  his  lecture  on  soft 

sawder  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs  Flint. 
“ Jist  come  to  say  good-bye,  Mrs  Flint.”  “What ! have 
you  sold  all  your  clocks?”  “Yes,  and  very  low,  too, 
for  money  is  scarce,  and  I wished  to  close  the  consarn ; 
no,  I am  wrong  in  saying  all,  for  I have  just  one  left. 
Neighbour  Steel’s  wife  asked  to  have  the  refusal  of  it, 
but  I guess  I won’t  sell  it.  I had  but  two  of  them,  this 
one  and  the  feller  of  it,  that  I sold  Governor  Lincoln. 
General  Green,  secretary  of  state  for  Maine,  said  he’d 
give  me  fifty  dollars  for  this  here  one — it  has  composi- 
tion wheels  and  patent  axles ; it  is  a beautiful  article — 
a real  first  chop — no  mistake,  genuine  superfine ; but  I 
guess  I ’ll  take  it  back ; and,  beside,  Squire  Hawk  might 
think  it  hard  that  I did  not  give  him  the  offer.”  “ Dear 
me,”  said  Mrs  Flint,  “ I should  like  to  see  it ; where  is 
it?”  “It  is  in  a chest  of  mine  over  the  way,  at  Tom 
Tape’s  store ; I guess  he  can  ship  it  on  to  Eastport.” 
“That’s  a good  man,”  said  Mrs  Flint,  “jist  let’s  look 
at  it.”  Mr  Slick,  willing  to  oblige,  yielded  to  these 
entreaties,  and  soon  produced  the  clock — a gaudy,  highly 
varnished,  trumpery-looking  affair.  He  placed  it  on  the 
chimney-piece,  where  its  beauties  were  pointed  out  and 
duly  appreciated  by  Mrs  Flint,  whose  admiration  was 
about  ending  in  a proposal,  when  Mr  Flint  returned  from 
giving  his  directions  about  the  care  of  the  horses.  The 
deacon  praised  the  clock ; he,  too,  thought  it  a handsome 
one  ; but  the  deacon  was  a prudent  man  : he  had  a 
watch,  he  was  sorry,  but  he  had  no  occasion  for  a clock. 
“ I guess  you  ’re  in  the  wrong  furrow  this  time,  deacon ; 
it  an’t  for  sale,”  said  Mr  Slick  ; “and  if  it  wras,  I reckon 
neighbour  Steel’s  wife  would  have  it,  for  she  gives  me 
no  peace  about  it.”  Mrs  Flint  said  that  Mr  Steel  had 
enough  to  do,  poor  man,  to  pay  his  interest,  without 
buying  clocks  for  his  wife.  “It’s  no  consarn  of  mine,” 
said  Mr  Slick,  “ as  long  as  he  pays  me,  what  he  has  to  do  ; 
but  I guess  I don’t  want  to  sell  it ; and,  beside,  it  comes 
too  high  ; that  clock  can’t  be  made  at  Rhode  Island 
under  forty  dollars.  Why,  it  an’t  possible!”  said  the 
Clockmaker,  in  apparent  surprise,  looking  at  his  watch  ; 
“why,  as  I’m  alive,  it  is  four  o’clock,  and  if  I haven’t 

* F.'at  rich  land  diked  in  from  tho  sea. 

769 


from  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


been  two  hours  here — how  on  airth  shall  I reach  River 
Philip  to-night?  I’ll  tell  you  what,  Mrs  Flint:  I’ll 
leave  the  clock  in  your  care  till  I return  on  my  way  to 
the  States — I ’ll  set  it  agoing,  and  put  it  to  the  right 
time.”  As  soon  as  this  operation  was  performed,  he 
delivered  the  key  to  the  deacon  with  a sort  of  serio- 
comic injunction  to  wind  up  the  clock  every  Saturday 
night,  which  Mrs  Flint  said  she  would  take  care  should 
be  done,  and  promised  to  remind  her  husband  of  it,  in 
case  he  should  chance  to  forget  it. 

“That,”  said  the  Clockmaker,  as  soon  as  we  were 
mounted,  “that  I call  human  natur ! Now,  that  clock 
is  sold  for  forty  dollars — it  cost  me  just  six  dollars  and 
fifty  cents.  Sirs  Flint  will  never  let  Mrs  Steel  have  the 
refusal — nor  will  the  deacon  learn  until  I call  for  the 
clock,  that  having  once  indulged  in  the  use  of  a super- 
fluity, it  is  difficult  to  give  it  up.  We  can  do  without 
any  article  of  luxury  we  have  never  had,  but  when  once 
obtained,  it  is  not  in  human  natur  to  surrender  it 
voluntarily.  Of  fifteen  thousand  sold  by  myself  and 
partners  in  this  province,  twelve  thousand  were  left  in 
this  manner,  and  only  ten  clocks  were  ever  returned — 
when  we  called  for  them,  they  invariably  bought  them. 
We  trust  to  soft  sawder  to  get  them  into  the  house,  and 
to  human  natur  that  they  never  come  out  of  it.”  ’ 

REV.  GEORGE  GILFILLAN. 

This  gentleman  (horn  at  Comrie,  in  Perthshire,  in 
1813)  is  author  of  a number  of  works,  critical  and 
biographical.  The  best  known  of  these  is  his 
Gallery  of  Literary  Portraits , the  first  portion  pub- 
lished in  1815,  a second  in  1819,  and  a third  in 
1855.  In  the  interval  between  the  successive 
appearance  of  these  volumes,  3Ir  Gilfillan  published 
The  Bards  of  the  Bible,  1850 ; The  Book  of  British 
Poesy , 1851 ; The  Martyrs , Heroes , and  Bards  of  the 
Scottish  Covenant,  1852 ; &c.  In  1856  he  published 
The  History  of  a Man — a singular  melange  of  fancy- 
sketches  and  biographical  facts ; and  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  Christianity  and  our  Era.  Mr  Gilfillan  has 
also  been  a large  contributor  to  periodical  works, 
and  is  engaged  on  an  edition  of  the  British  Poets. 
At  the  same  time  he  discharges  the  duties  of  a 
pastor  of  the  United  Presbyterian  Church  in  Dundee. 
The  industry  of  Mr  Gilfillan  is  a remarkable  and 
honourable  feature  in  his  character ; and  his  writ- 
ings, though  too  often  disfigured  by  rash  judgments 
and  a gaudy  rhetorical  style,  have  an  honest  warmth 
and  glow  of  expression  which  attest  the  writer’s 
sincerity,  while  they  occasionally  present  striking 
and  happy  illustrations.  Prom  his  very  unequal 
pages,  many'  felicitous  images  and  metaphors  might 
be.  selected. 

[Lochnagar  and  Byron. ] 

We  remember  a pilgrimage  we  made  some  years  ago 
to  Lochnagar.  As  we  ascended,  a mist  came  down  over 
the  hill,  like  a veil  dropped  by  some  jealous  beauty 
over  her  own  fair  face.  At  length  the  summit  was 
reached,  though  the  prospect  was  denied  us.  It  was  a 
proud  and  thrilling  moment  What  though  darkness 
was  all  around?  It  was  the  very  atmosphere  that 
suited  the  scene.  It  was  ‘ dark  Lochnagar.’  And  only 
think  how  fine  it  was  to  climb  up  and  clasp  its  cairn — 
to  lift  a stone  from  it,  to  be  in  after-time  a memorial  of 
our  journey — to  sing  the  song  which  made  it  terrible 
and  dear,  in  its  own  proud  drawing-room,  with  those 
great  fog-curtains  floating  around — to  pass  along  the 
brink  of  its  precipices — to  snatch  a fearful  joy,  as  we 
leaned  over,  and  hung  down,  and  saw  from  beneath  the 
gleam  of  eternal  snow  shining  up  from  its  hollows,  and 
columns,  or  rather  perpendicular  seas  of  mist,  streaming 
up  upon  the  wind — 

770 


Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  hell, 

Where  every  wave  breaks  on  a living  shore. 

Heaped  with  the  damned,  like  pebbles — 

tinged,  too,  here  and  there,  on  their  tops,  by  gleams  of 
sunshine,  the  farewell  beams  of  the  dying  day.  It  was 
the  grandest  moment  in  our  lives.  We  had  stood  upon 
many  hills — in  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  mist  and  in 
thunder — but  never  had  before,  nor  hope  to  have  again, 
such  a feeling  of  the  grandeur  of  this  lower  universe — 
such  a sense  of  horrible  sublimity.  Nay,  we  question 
if  there  be  a mountain  in  the  empire,  whieh,  though  seen 
in  similar  circumstances,  could  awaken  the  same  emo- 
tions in  our  minds.  It  is  not  its  loftiness,  though  that 
be  great — nor  its  bold  outline,  nor  its  savage  loneliness, 
nor  its  mist-loving  precipices,  but  the  associations  which 
crown  its  crags  with  a ‘ peculiar  diadem ; ’ its  identi- 
fication with  the  image  of  a poet,  who,  amid  all  his 
fearful  errors,  had  perhaps  more  than  any  of  the  age's 
bards  the  power  of  investing  all  his  career — yea,  to  every 
comer  which  his  fierce  foot  ever  touched,  or  whieh  his 
genius  ever  sung — with  profound  and  melancholy  interest. 
We  saw  the  name  Byron  written  in  the  cloud-characters 
above  us.  We  saw  his  genius  sadly  smiling  in  those 
gleams  of  stray  sunshine  which  gilded  the  darkness 
they  could  not  dispeL  We  found  an  emblem  of  his 
poetry  in  that  flying  rack,  and  of  his  character  in  those 
lowering  precipices.  We  seemed  to  hear  the  wail  of  his 
restless  spirit  in  the  wild  sob  of  the  wind,  fainting  and 
struggling  up  under  its  burden  of  darkness.  Nay,  we 
could  faney  that  this  hill  was  designed  as  an  eternal 
monument  to  his  name,  and  to  image  all  those  pecu- 
liarities which  make  that  name  for  ever  illustrious. 
Not  the  loftiest  of  his  country’s  poets,  he  is  the  most 
sharply  and  terribly  defined.  In  magnitude  and  round 
completeness,  he  yields  to  many — in  jagged,  abrupt,  and 
passionate  projection  of  his  own  shadow,  over  the  world 
of  literature,  to  none.  The  genius  of  convulsion,  a dire 
attraction,  dwells  around  him,  which  leads  many  to 
hang  over,  and  some  to  leap  down  his  precipices. 
Yolcanic  as  he  is,  the  coldness  of  wintry  selfishness  too 
often  collects  in  the  hollows  of  his  verse.  He  loves,  too, 
the  cloud  and  the  thick  darkness,  and  comes  ‘veiling 
all  the  lightnings  of  his  song  in  sorrow.’  So,  like 
Byron  beside  Scott  and  Wordsworth,  does  Lochnagar 
stand  in  the  presence  of  his  neighbour  giants,  Ben-mae- 
Dhui,  and  Ben-y-boord,  less  lofty,  but  more  fiercely 
eloquent  in  its  jagged  outline,  reminding  us  of  the  via 
of  the  forked  lightning,  which  it  seems  dumbly  to 
mimic,  projecting  its  cliffs  like  quenched  batteries 
against  earth  and  heaven,  with  the  cold  of  snow  in 
its  heart,  and  with  a coronet  of  mist  round  its  gloomy 
brow. 

No  poet  since  Homer  and  Ida  has  thns,  everlastingly, 
shot  his  genius  into  the  heart  of  one  great  mountain, 
identifying  himself  and  his  song  with  it.  Not  Horace 
with  Soracte — not  Wordsworth  with  Helvellyn — hot 
Coleridge  with  Mount  Blanc — not  Wilson  with  the 
Black  Mount — not  even  Scott  with  the  Eildons — all 
these  are  still  common  property,  but  Lochnagar  is 
Byron’s  own — no  poet  will  ever  venture  to  sing  it 
again.  In  its  dread  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he. 
His  allusions  to  it  are  not  numerous,  but  its  peaks  stood 
often  before  his  eye:  a recollection  of  its  grandeur 
served  more  to  colour  his  line  than  the  glaciers  of  the 
Alps,  the  cliffs  of  Jura,  or  the  thunder  hills  of  fear, 
which  he  heard  in  Chimari ; even  from  the  mountains 
of  Greece  he  was  carried  back  to  Morven  and 

Lochnagar,  with  Ida,  looked  o’er  Troy. 


MRS  JAMESON. 

On  subjects  of  art  and  taste,  and  generally  in 
what  may  be  termed  elegant  literature,  the  writings 
of  Mrs  Anna  Jameson  occupy  a prominent  place. 
They  are  very  numerous,  including — The  Diary  of 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  JAMESON. 


an  Ennuyee  (memoranda  made  during  a tour  in 
France  and  Italy),  1826;  Loves  of  the  Poets,  two 
volumes,  1829 ; Lives  of  Celebrated  Female  Sove- 
reigns, two  volumes,  1831 ; Characteristics  of  Women, 
two  volumes,  1832  ; Beauties  of  the  Court  of  Charles  II. 
(memoirs  accompanying  engravings  from  Lely’s 
portraits),  two  volumes,  1833 ; Visits  and  Sketches 
at  Home  and  Abroad,  two  volumes,  1834;  Winter 
Studies  and  Summer  Rambles  in  Canada,  three 
volumes,  1838 ; Rubens,  his  Life  and  Genius,  trans- 
lated from  the  German  of  Dr  Waagen,  1840; 
Pictures  of  the  Social  Life  of  Germany,  as  represented 
in  the  Dramas  of  the  Princess  Amelia  of  Saxony,  1840 ; 
Hand-book  to  the  Public  Galleries  of  Art,  two  volumes, 
1842 ; Companion  to  Private  Galleries  of  Art  in  and 
near  London , 1844;  Memoirs  of  the  Early  Italian 
Painters,  two  volumes,  1845 ; Memoirs  and  Essays 
on  Art,  Literature , and  Social  Morals,  1846 ; Sacred 
and  Legendary  Art,  two  volumes,  1848 ; Legends  of 
the  Monastic  Orders,  1850 ; Legends  of  the  Madonna, 

1 852  ; Commonplace  Book  of  Thoughts,  Memories,  and 
Fancies,  1854 ; Sisters  of  Charity,  a lecture,  1855 ; 
The  Communion  of  Labour,  a lecture,  1856 ; with 
various  communications  to  literary  journals.  In 
such  a variety  of  works,  all,  of  course,  cannot  be 
equal— some  bear  the  appearance  of  task-work ; but 
generally  we  may  apply  to  Mrs  J ameson  the  warm 
eulogium  of  Professor  Wilson : she  is  4 one  of  the 
most  eloquent  of  our  female  writers ; full  of  feeling 
and  fancy ; a true  enthusiast  with  a glowing  soul.’ 
On  the  subject  of  art,  her  writing  is  next  to  that 
of  Ruskin:  to  intense  love  of  the  beautiful,  she 
adds  a fine  discriminating  and  cultivated  taste, 
with  rich  stores  of  knowledge.  A few  extracts 
will  afford  some  idea  of  her  style. 

[Counsel  to  Young  Ladies — An  Eastern  Apologue .] 

It  is  a common  observation,  that  girls  of  lively  talents 
are  apt  to  grow  pert  and  satirical.  I fell  into  this 
danger  when  about  ten  years  old.  Sallies  at  the  expense 
of  certain  people.,  ill-looking,  or  ill-dressed,  or  ridiculous, 
or  foolish,  had  been  laughed  at  and  applauded  in  com- 
pany, until,  without  being  naturally  malignant,  I ran 
some  risk  of  becoming  so  from  sheer  vanity. 

The  fables  which  appeal  to  our  high  moral  sympathies 
may  sometimes  do  as  much  for  us  as  the  truths  of 
science.  So  thought  our  Saviour  when  he  taught  the 
multitude  in  parables.  A good  clergyman  who  lived 
near  us,  a famous  Persian  scholar,  took  it  into  his  head 
to  teach  me  Persian — I was  then  about  seven  years  old — 
and  I set  to  work  with  infinite  delight  and  earnestness. 
All  I learned  was  soon  forgotten ; but  a few  years  after- 
wards, happening  to  stumble  on  a volume  of  Sir  William 
Jones’s  works — his  Persian  Grammar — it  revived  my  I 
orientalism,  and  I began  to  study  it  eagerly.  Among 
the  exercises  given  was  a Persian  fable  or  poem — one 
of  those  traditions  of  our  Lord  which  are  preserved  in 
the  East.  The  beautiful  apologue  of  St  Peter  and  the 
Cherries,  which  Goethe  has  versified  or  imitated,  is  a 
well-known  example.  This  fable  I allude  to  was  some- 
thing similar,  but  I have  not  met  with  the  original 
these  forty  years,  and  must  give  it  here  from  memory. 

‘Jesus,’  says  the  story,  ‘arrived  one  evening  at  the 
gates  of  a certain  city,  and  he  sent  his  disciples  forward 
to  prepare  supper,  while  he  himself,  intent  on  doing 
good,  walked  through  the  streets  into  the  market-place. 
And  he  saw  at  the  corner  of  the  market  some  people 
gathered  together  looking  at  an  object  on  the  ground ; 
and  he  drew  near  to  see  what  it  might  be.  It  was  a 
dead  dog,  with  a halter  round  his  neck,  by  which  he 
appeared  to  have  been  dragged  through  the  dirt ; and  a 
viler,  a more  abject,  a more  unclean  thing,  never  met 
the  eyes  of  man.  And  those  who  stood  by  looked  on 
with  abhorrence.  “Faugh!”  said  one,  stopping  his 


nose ; “ it  pollutes  the  air.”  “ How  long,”  said  another, 

“ shall  this  foul  beast  offend  our  sight  ? ” “ Look  at  his 

torn  hide,”  said  a third;  “one  could  not  even  cut  a 
shoe  out  of  it.”  “And  his  ears,”  said  a fourth,  “all 
draggled  and  bleeding !”  “No  doubt,”  said  a fifth,  “he 
hath  been  hanged  for  thieving!”  And  Jesus  heard 
them,  and  looking  down  compassionately  on  the  dead 
creature,  he  said : “ Pearls  are  not  equal  to  the  white- 
ness of  his  teeth !”  Then  “the  people  turned  towards 
him  with  amazement,  and  said  .among  themselves: 
“ Who  is  this  ? this  must  be  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  for  only 
He  could  find  something  to  pity  and  approve  even  in 
a dead  dog;”  and,  being  ashamed,  they  bowed  their 
heads  before  him,  and  went  each  on  his  way.’ 

I can  recall,  at  this  hour,  the  vivid,  yet  softening  and 
pathetic  impression  left  on  my  fancy  by  this  old  Eastern 
story.  It  struck  me  as  exquisitely  humorous,  as  well  as 
exquisitely  beautiful.  It  gave  me  a pain  in  my  con- 
science, for  it  seemed  thenceforward  so  easy  and  so 
vulgar  to  say  satirical  things,  and  so  much  nobler  to  be 
benign  and  merciful,  and  I took  the  lesson  so  home, 
that  I was  in  great  danger  of  falling  into  the  opposite 
extreme — of  seeking  the  beautiful  even  in  the  midst  of 
the  corrupt  and  the  repulsive. 

[Pictures  of  the  Madonna .] 

Of  the  pictures  in  our  galleries,  public  or  private — of 
the  architectural  adornments  of  those  majestic  edifices 
which  sprung  up  in  the  middle  ages  (where  they  have 
not  been  despoiled  or  desecrated  by  a zeal  as  fervent  as 
that  which  reared  them),  the  largest  and  most  beau- 
tiful portion  have  reference  to  the  Madonna — her  char- 
acter, her  person,  her  history.  It  was  a theme  which 
never  tired  her  votaries — whether,  as  in  the  hands  of 
great  and  sincere  artists,  it  became  one  of  the  noblest 
and  loveliest,  or,  as  in  the  hands  of  superficial,  unbeliev- 
ing, time-serving  artists,  one  of  the  most  degraded. 
All  that  human  genius,  inspired  by  faith,  could  achieve 
best — all  that  fanaticism,  sensualism,  atheism,  could 
perpetuate  of  worst,  do  we  find  in  the  cycle  of  those 
representations  which  have  been  dedicated  to  the  glory 
oi  the  Virgin.  And,  indeed,  the  ethics  of  the  Madonna 
worship,  as  evolved  in  art,  might  be  not  unaptly  likened 
to  the  ethics  of  human  love : so  long  as  the  object  of 
sense  remained  in  subjection  to  the  moral  idea — so  long 
as  the  appeal  was  to  the  best  of  our  faculties  and  affec- 
tions— so  long  was  the  image  grand  or  refined,  and 
the  influences  to  be  ranked  with  those  which  have 
helped  to  humanise  and  civilise  our  race ; but  so  soon 
as  the  object  became  a mere  idol,  then  worship  and 
worshippers,  art  and  artists,  were  together  degraded. 

[The  Loves  of  the  Poets .] 

The  theory  which  I wish  to  illustrate,  as  far  as 
my  limited  powers  permit,  is  this,  that  where  a 
woman  has  been  exalted  above  the  rest  of  her  sex  by 
the  talents  of  a lover,  and  consigned  to  enduring 
fame  and  perpetuity  of  praise,  the  passion  was  real, 
and  was  merited ; that  no  deep  or  lasting  interest 
was  ever  founded  in  fancy  or  in  fiction ; that  truth,  in 
short,  is  the  basis  of  all  excellence  in  amatory  poetry 
as  in  everything  else ; for  where  truth  is,  there  is  good 
of  some  sort,  and  where  there  is  truth  and  good,  there 
must  be  beauty,  there  must  be  durability  of  fame.  Truth 
is  the  golden  chain  which  links  the  terrestrial  with  the 
celestial,  which  sets  the  seal  of  Heaven  on  the  things  of 
this  earth,  and  stamps  them  to  immortality.  Poets 
have  risen  up  and  been  the  mere  fashion  of  a day,  and 
have  set  up  idols  which  have  been  the  idols  of  a day. 
If  the  worship  be  out  of  date,  and  the  idols  cast  down, 
if  is  because  those  adorers  wanted  sincerity  of  purpose 
and  feeling ; their  raptures  were  feigned ; their  incense 
was  bought  or  adulterate.  In  the  brain  or  in  the  fancy, 
one  beauty  may  eclipse  another — one  coquette  may 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


drive  out  another,  and,  tricked  off  in  airy  verse,  they 
float  away  unregarded  like  morning  vapours,  which  the 
beam  of  genius  has  tinged  with  a transient  brightness  : 


your  soul  the  very  soul  and  inward  life  and  spirit  of 
Venice — breathe  the  same  air — go  do  Titian ; there  is 
more  of  Venice  in  his  ‘Cornaro  Familv,’  or  his  ‘Pesaro 


but  let  the  heart  be  once  touched,  and  it  is  not  only  i Madonna,’  than  in  all  the  Canalettis  in  the  corridor  at 
wakened  but  inspired ; the  lover  kindled  into  the  poet  [ Windsor.  Beautiful  they  are,  I must  needs  say  it ; but 
presents  to  her  he  loves  his  cup  of  ambrosial  praise ; she  I when  I think  of  enchanting  Venice,  the  most  beautiful 
tastes — and  the  woman  is  transmuted  into  a divinity.  | are  to  me  like  prose  translations  of  poetry — petrifac- 
When  the  Grecian  sculptor  carved  out  his  deities  in  J tions,  materialities  : ‘We  start,  for  life  is  wanting 

marble,  and  left  us  wondrous  and  godlike  shapes,  J there  !’  I know  not  how  it  is,  but  certainly  things  that 


would  elsewhere  displease,  delight  us  at  Venice.  It  has 
heen  said,  for  instance,  ‘put  down  the  church  of  St 
Mark  anywhere  but  in  the  Piazza,  it  is  barbarous here, 
where  east  and  west  have  met  to  blend  together,  it  is 
glorious.  And  again,  with  regard  to  the  sepulchral 
effigies  in  our  churches — I have  always  been  of  Mr 
Westmacott’s  principles  and  party;  always  on  the  side 
of  those  who  denounce  the  intrusion  of  monuments  of 
human  pride  insolently  paraded  in  God’s  temple ; and 
surely  cavaliers  on  prancing  horses  in  a church  should 
seem  the  very  acme  of  such  irreverence  and  impropriety 
in  taste;  but  here  the  impression  is  far  different  0 
those  awful,  grim,  mounted  warriors  and  doges,  high 
over  our  heads  against  the  walls  of  the  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo  and  the  Frari ! — man  and  horse  in  panopoly  of 
state,  colossal,  lifelike — suspended,  as  it  were,  so  far 


impersonations  of  ideal  grace  unapproachable  by  modem 
skill,  was  it  through  such  mechanical  superiority  ? No ; 
it  was  the  spirit  of  faith  within  which  shadowed  to  his 
imagination  what  he  would  represent.  In  the  same 
manner,  no  woman  has  ever  been  truly,  lastingly  deified 
in  poetry,  but  in  the  spirit  of  truth  and  love. 

[The  Studious  Monies  of  the  Middle  Ages .] 

But  for  the  monks,  the  light  of  liberty,  and  literature, 
and  science,  had  been  for  ever  extinguished ; and  that, 
for  six  centuries,  there  existed  for  the  thoughtful,  the 
gentle,  the  inquiring,  the  devout  spirit,  no  peace,  no 
security,  no  home  but  the  cloister.  There,  Learning 
trimmed  her  lamp ; there,  Contemplation  ‘ pruned  her 
wings ; ’ there,  the  traditions  of  art,  preserved  from  age 
to  age  by  lonely  studious  men,  kept  alive,  in  form  and  j above  us,  that  we  cannot  conceive  how  they  came  there, 
colour,  the  idea  of  a beauty  beyond  that  of  earth — of  a ; or  are  kept  there,  by  human  means  alone.  It  seems  as 
might  beyond  that  of  the  spear  and  the  shield — of  a ! though  they  had  been  lifted  up  and  fixed  on  their  airy 
Divine  sympathy  with  suffering  humanity.  To  this  we  I pedestals  as  by  a spelL  At  whatever  hour  I visited 
may  add  another  and  a stronger  claim  to  our  respect  those  churches,  and  that  was  almost  daily,  whether  at 
and  moral  sympathies.  The  protection  and  the  better  I morn,  or  noon,  or  in  the  deepening  twilight,  still  did 
education  given  to  women  in  these  early  communities ; I those  marvellous  effigies — man  and  steed,  and  trampled 
the  venerable  and  distinguished  rank  assigned  to  them  j Turk;  or  mitred  doge,  upright  and  stiff  in  his  saddle — 
when,  as  governesses  of  their  order,  they  became  in  a j fix  me  as  if  fascinated ; and  still  I looked  up  at  them, 
manner  dignitaries  of  the  church ; the  introduction  of  j wondering  every  day  with  a new  wonder,  and  scarce 
their  beautiful  and  saintly  effigies,  clothed  with  all  the  ! repressing  the  startled  exclamation,  ‘ Good  Heavens ! 
insignia  of  sanctity  and  authority,  into  the  decoration  of  j how  came  they  there?’  And  not  to  forget  the  great 
places  of  worship  and  books  of  devotion — did  more,  wonder  of  modem  times — I hear  people  talking  of  a 
perhaps,  for  the  general  cause  of  womanhood  than  all  J railway  across  the  Lagune,  as  if  it  were  to  unpoetise 
the  boasted  institutions  of  Chivalry.  Venice ; as  if  this  new  approach  were  a malignant 

invention  to  bring  the  syren  of  the  Adriatic  into  the 
‘ dull  catalogue  of  common  things ; ’ and  they  call  on  me 
to  join  the  outcry,  to  echo  sentimental  denunciations, 

It  is  this  all-pervading  presence  of  light,  and  this  quoted  out  of  Murray’s  Hand-book ; but  I cannot — I 
suffusion  of  rich  colour  glowing  through  the  deepest  ! have  no  sympathy  with  them.  To  me,  that  tremendous 
shadows,  which  make  the  very  life  and  soul  of  Venice ; bridge,  spanning  the  sea,  only  adds  to  the  wonderful 
but  not  all  who  have  dwelt  in  Venice,  and  breathed  her  j one  wonder  more ; to  great  sources  of  thought  one  yet 
air  and  lived  in  her  life,  have  felt  their  influences ; it  is  greater.  Those  persons,  methinks,  must  be  strangely 
the  want  of  them  which  renders  so  many  of  Canaletti’s  ! prosaic  au  fond  who  can  see  poetry  in  a Gothic  pinnacle, 
pictures  false  and  unsatisfactory — to  me  at  least.  All  or  a crumbling  temple,  or  a gladiator’s  circus,  and  in 
the  time  I was  at  Venice  I was  in  a rage  with  Canaletti.  this  gigantic  causeway  and  its  seventy-five  arches, 
I could  not  come  upon  a palace,  or  a church,  or  a comer  traversed  with  fiery  speed  by  dragons,  brazen-winged,  to 
of  a canal  which  I had  not  seen  in  one  or  other  of  his  which  neither  alp  nor  ocean  can  oppose  a barrier — 
pictures.  At  every  moment  I was  reminded  of  him.  nothing  but  a commonplace.  I must  say  I pity  them. 
But  how  has  he  painted  Venice ! Just  as  we  have  the  j 7 see  a future  fraught  with  hopes  for  Venice — 
face  of  a beloved  friend  reproduced  by  the  daguerreotype, 
or  by  some  bad  conscientious  painter — some  fellow  who 


[ Venice — Canaletti  and  Turner .] 


gives  us  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  by  measure  of  compass, 
and  leaves  out  all  sentiment,  all  countenance ; we  can- 
not deny  the  identity,  and  we  cannot  endure  it.  Where 
in  Canaletti  are  the  glowing  evening  skies — the  trans- 
parent gleaming  waters — the  bright  green  of  the  vine- 
shadowed  Traghetto — the  freshness  and  the  glory — the 
dreamy, 


Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime ! 


MR  RUSKIN. 

John  Kuskin,  author  of  several  remarkable  works 
on  art,  was  born  in  London  in  1819.  His  father 
aerial,  fantastic  splendour  of  this  city  of  the  I 'v‘?s  connected  with  the  firm  of  Kuskin,  Telfer,  & Co., 
Look  at  one  of  his  pictures — all  is  real,  opaque,  wine-merchants,  agents  for  the  famous  sherry 
solid,  stony,  formal;  even  his  skies  and  water — and  is  of  Peter  Domecq.  Mr  Kuskin  was  entered  at 
that  Venice?  ‘ But,’  says  my  friend,  ‘if  you  would  have  | Christ  s Church  College,  Oxford,  where  he  gradu- 
Yenice,  seek  it  in  Turners  pictures!’  True,  I may  I ated,  and  in  1839  took  the  Newdegate  prize  for 
seek  it,  but  shah  I find  it?  Venice  is  like  a dream— but  English  poetry.  Impressed  with  the  idea  that  art 
this  dream  upon  the  canvas,  do  you  call  this  Venice?  'vvas  his  vocation  in  life,  he  studied  painting  under 
The  exquisite  precision  of  form,  the  wondrous  beauty  of  Copley  Fielding  and  J.  D.  Harding;  but  the  pencil 
detail,  the  clear,  delicate  lines  of  the  flying  perspective  I has  long  since  become  merely  the  auxiliary  of  the 
— so  sharp  and  defined  in  the  midst  of  a flood  of  bright-  j pen.  In  1843  appeared  the  first  portion  of  his 
ness — where  are  they?  Canaletti  gives  us  the  forms  I Modern,  Painters , by  an  Oxford  Graduate,  which, 
without  the  colour  or  light.  Turner,  the  colour  and  though  published  when  the  author  was  only  twenty- 
light  without  the  forms.  But  if  you  would  take  into  | four  years  of  age,  bears  the  impress  of  deep  thought. 


miscellaneous  writers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MR  RUSKIN. 


and  is  written  with  rare  eloquence  and  in  choice 
English.  The  second  part  was  published  in  1846, 
and  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  ten  years  later, 
in  1856.  Many  other  works  appeared  in  the 
interval.  Indeed,  Mr  Ruskin  is  now  one  of  the 
most  voluminous  writers  of  the  day;  hut  it  may 
be  questioned  if  he  has  ever  risen  to  the  level  of 
the  first  two  volumes  of  the  Modern  Painters. 
Latterly,  his  works  have  been  little  more  than 
hurriedly  written  pamphlets,  reviews,  and  revisals 
of  popular  lectures,  which,  though  often  rising  into 
passages  of  vivid  description  and  eloquence,  and 
possessing  the  merit  of  great  clearness,  are  gener- 
ally loose  and  colloquial  in  style.  The  Seven  Lamps 
of  Architecture , 1849,  and  the  Stones  of  Venice , three 
volumes,  1851-53,  are  the  principal  of  Mr  Ruskin’s 
works,  besides  the  Modern  Painters;  but  we  may 
also  mention  the  following — Letters  in  Defence  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelites , published  at  various  times  since 
1851 ; The  Construction  of  Sheepfolds  (the  discipline 
of  the  church),  1851;  The  Opening  of  the  Crystal 
Palace , 1854 ; Notes  on  the  Academy  Exhibitions , 
published  in  the  month  of  May  for  the  last  few 
years  ; The  Elements  of  Drawing , 1857 ; The  Politi- 
cal Economy  of  Art , 1858;  The  Two  Paths,  1859; 
besides  contributions  to  the  Quarterly  Review , the 
Art  Journal,  the  Scotsman , &c. 

Mr  Ruskin’s  influence  upon  art  and  art  literature 
has  been  remarkable.  The  subject  bas  received  a 
degree  of  consideration  among  general  readers  that 
it  had  not  previously  enjoyed  in  our  day,  or  perhaps 
in  any  period  of  our  history  ; and  to  Mr  Ruskin’s 
veneration  for  every  work  of  creation,  inculcated 
in  all  his  writings,  may  be  ascribed  the  origin  of 
the  society  of  young  artists,  known  as  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites.  Protesting  against  what  they  con- 
ceived to  be  lax  conventionalism  in  the  style  of 
most  modern  painters,  the  innovators  -went  back, 
as  they  said,  to  nature,  preferring  her  in  all  her 
moods  and  phases,  to  ideal  visions  of  what  she 
occasionally  might,  or  ought  to  appear.  Mr  Ruskin 
seems  often  to  contradict  himself ; but  on  this  point 
his  own  mind  is  easy.  ‘I  never  met  with  a question 
yet,’  he  says  in  the  inaugural  address  to  the  Cam- 
bridge School  of  Art,  ‘ which  did  not  need,  for  the 
right  solution  of  it,  at  least  one  positive  and  one 
negative  answer,  like  an  equation  of  the  second 
degree.  Mostly,  matters  of  any  consequence  are 
three-sided,  or  four-sided,  or  polygonal ; and  the 
trotting  round  a polygon  is  severe  work  for  people 
any  way  stiff  in  their  opinions.  For  myself,  I am 
never  satisfied  that  I have  handled  a subject  pro- 
perly till  I have  contradicted  myself  at  least  three 
times.’  With  this  clever  apology  we  may  pass  over 
apparent  incongruities  in  the  details  of  his  system, 
and  rest  satisfied  with  the  great  principles  which  he 
so  eloquently  inculcates.  These  are  singularly  pure 
and  lofty.  The  aim  and  object  of  his  teaching,  he 
says,  is  to  declare  that  ‘ whatever  is  great  in  human 
art  is  the  expression  of  man’s  delight  in  God’s 
work,’  and  he  insists  upon  a pure  heart  and  earnest 
mind  as  essential  to  success. 


[ The  Two  Paths.] 

Ask  yourselves  what  is  the  leading  motive  which 
actuates  you  while  you  are  at  work.  I do  not  ask 
what  your  leading  motive  is  for  working — that  is  a 
different  thing  ; you  may  have  families  to  support — 
parents  to  help — brides  to  win  ; you  may  have  all  these, 
or  other  such  sacred  and  pre-eminent  motives,  to  press 
the  morning’s  labour  and  prompt  the  twilight  thought. 
But  when  you  are  fairly  at  the  work,  what  is  the  motive 
which  tells  upon  every  touch  of  it  ? If  it  is  the  love  of 


that  which  your  work  represents — if,  being  a landscape 
painter,  it  is  love  of  hills  and  trees  that  moves  you — if, 
being  a figure  painter,  it  is  love  of  human  beauty  and 
human  soul  that  moves  you — if,  being  a flower  or  animal 
painter,  it  is  love,  and  wonder,  and  delight  in  petal  and 
in  limb  that  move  you,  then  the  spirit  is  upon  you,  and 
the  earth  is  yours,  and  the  fulness  thereof.  But  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  petty  self-complacency  in  your  own 
skill,  trust  in  precepts  and  laws,  hope  for  academical  or 
popular  approbation,  or  avarice  of  wealth — it  is  quite 
possible  that  by  steady  industry,  or  even  by  fortunate 
chance,  you  may  win  the  applause,  the  position,  the 
fortune,  that  you  desire  ; but  one  touch  of  true  art 
you  will  never  lay  on  canvas  or  on  stone  as  long  as  you 
live. 

The  following  eloquent  passage  is  from  Modern 
Painters : 

[ The  Dangers  of  National  Secunty.] 

That  is  to  everything  created  pre-eminently  useful 
which  enables  it  rightly  and  fully  to  perform  the  func- 
tions appointed  to  it  by  its  Creator.  Therefore,  that  we 
may  determine  what  is  chiefly  useful  to  man,  it  is  neces- 
sary first  to  determine  the  use  of  man  himself.  Man’s 
use  and  function  (and  let  him  who  will  not  grant  me 
this,  follow  me  no  further ; for  this  I purpose  always  to 
assume)  is  to  be  the  witness  of  the  glory  of  God,  and  to 
advance  that  glory  by  his  reasonable  obedience  and 
resultant  happiness. 

Whatever  enables  us  to  fulfil  this  function  is  in  the 
pure  and  first  sense  of  the  word  useful  to  us.  Pre- 
eminently, therefore,  whatever  sets  the  glory  of  God 
more  brightly  before  us.  But  things  that  only  help  us 
to  exist  are  in  a secondary  and  mean  sense  useful ; or 
rather  if  they  be  looked  for  alone,  they  are  useless  and 
worse  ; for  it  would  be  better  that  we  should  not  exist 
than  that  we  should  guiltily  disappoint  the  purposes. of 
existence.  And  yet  people  speak  in  this  working-age, 
when  they  speak  from  their  hearts,  as  if  houses  and 
lands,  and  food  and  raiment,  were  alone  useful,  and  as 
if  sight,  thought,  and  admiration  were  all  profitless ; so 
that  men  insolently  call  themselves  utilitarians,  who 
would  turn,  if  they  had  their  way,  themselves  and  their 
race  into  vegetables.  Men  who  think,  as  far  as  such 
can  be  said  to  think,  that  the  meat  is  more  than  the 
life  and  the  raiment  than  the  body,  who  look  to  this 
earth  as  a stable  and  to  its  fruit  as  fodder ; vine- 
dressers and  husbandmen  who  love  the  corn  they  grind, 
and  the  grapes  they  crush,  better  than  the  gardens  of 
the  angels  upon  the  slopes  of  Eden ; hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water,  who  think  that  the  wood  they  hew, 
and  the  water  they  draw,  are  better  than  the  pine- 
forests  that  cover  the  mountain  like  the  shadow  of  God, 
and  than  the  great  rivers  that  move  like  His  eternity. 
And  so  comes  upon  us  that  woe  of  the  Preacher,  that 
though  God  ‘hath  made  everything  beautiful  in  His 
time : also  he  hath  set  the  world  in  their  heart,  so  that 
no  man  can  find  out  the  work  that  God  maketh  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end.’  This  Nebuchadnezzar  curse, 
that  sends  us  to  grass  like  oxen,  seems  to  follow  but  too 
closely  on  the  excess  or  continuance  of  national  power 
and  peace.  In  the  perplexities  of  nations  in  their 
struggles  for  existence,  in  their  infancy,  their  impotence, 
or  even  their  disorganisation,  they  have  higher  hopes 
and  nobler  passions.  Out  of  the  suffering  comes  the 
serious  mind  ; out  of  the  salvation,  the  grateful  heart ; 
out  of  the  deliverance,  the  faith.  But  now  when  they 
have  learned  to  live  under  providence  of  laws,  and  with 
decency  and  justice  of  regard  for  each  other  ; and  when 
they  have  done  away  with  violent  and  external  sources 
of  suffering,  worse  evils  seem  arising  out  of  their  rest — 
evils  that  vex  less  and  mortify  more,  that  suck  the  blood, 
though  they  do  not  shed  it,  and  ossify  the  heart,  though 
they  do  not  torture  it.  And  deep  though  the  causes 
of  thankfulness  must  be  to  every  people  at  peace  with 

773 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


others,  and  at  unity  in  itself,  there  are  causes  of  fear 
also — a fear  greater  than  that  of  sword  and  sedition — 
that  dependence  on  Grod  may  he  forgotten  because  the 
bread  is  given  and  the  water  sure,  that  gratitude  to 
Him  may  cease  because  His  constancy  of  protection  has 
taken  the  semblance  of  a natural  law,  that  heavenly 
hope  may  grow  faint  amidst  the  full  fruition  of  the 
world,  that  selfishness  may  take  place  of  undemanded 
devotion  ; compassion  be  lost  in  vainglory,  and  love  in 
dissimulation ; that  enervation  may  succeed  to  strength, 
apathy  to  strength,  and  the  noise  of  jesting  words  and 
foulness  of  dark  thoughts  to  the  earnest  purity  of  the 
girded  loins  and  the  burning  lamp.  About  the  river  of 
human  life  there  is  a wintry  wind,  though  a heavenly 
sunshine ; the  iris  colours  its  agitation,  the  frost  fixes 
upon  its  repose.  Let  us  beware  that  our  rest  become 
not  the  rest  of  stones,  which  so  long  as  they  are  torrent- 
tossed  and  thunder-stricken  maintain  their  majesty; 
but  when  the  stream  is  silent  and  the  storm  passed, 
suffer  the  grass  to  cover  them,  and  the  lichen  to  feed 
upon  them,  and  are  ploughed  down  into  dust. 

And  though  I believe  we  have  salt  enough  of  ardent 
and  holy  mind  amongst  us  to  keep  us  in  some  measure 
from  this  moral  decay,  yet  the  signs  of  it  must  be 
watched  with  anxiety  in  all  matters  however  trivial,  in 
all  directions  however  distant.  And  at  this  time  * * 
there  is  need,  bitter  need,  to  bring  back,  if  we  may,  into 
men’s  minds,  that  to  live  is  nothing  unless  to  live  be  to 
know  Him  by  whom  we  liye,  and  that  He  is  not  to  be 
known  by  naming  His  fair  works,  and  blotting  out  the 
evidence  of  His  influence  upon  His  creatures,  not  amidst 
the  hurry  of  crowds  and  crash  of  innovation,  but  in 
solitary  places,  and  out  of  the  glowing  intelligence  which 
He  gave  to  men  of  old.  He  did  not  teach  them  how  to 
build  for  glory  and  for  beauty ; He  did  not  give  them 
the  fearless,  faithful,  inherited  energies  that  worked  on 
and  down  from  death  to  death,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, that  we,  foul  and  sensual  as  we  are,  might  give  the 
carved  work  of  their  poured-out  spirit  to  the  axe  and 
the  hammer  ; He  has  not  cloven  the  earth  with  rivers, 
that  their  white  wild  waves  might  turn  wheels  and 
push  paddles  ; nor  turned  it  up  under,  as  it  were,  fire 
that  it  might  heat  wells  and  cure  diseases ; He  brings 
not  up  His  quails  by  the  east  wind  only  to  let  them  fall 
in  flesh  about  the  camp  of  men ; He  has  not  heaped  the 
rocks  of  the  mountain  only  for  the  quarry,  nor  clothed 
the  grass  of  the  field  only  for  the  oven. 

We  give  another  extract  from  the  same  work : 

[What  is  Truly  Practical.'] 

All  science  and  all  art  may  be  divided  into  that 
which  is  subservient  to  life  and  which  is  the  object  of 

it  H , practical  — , or  theoretical  -f  +.  Yet  the 

step  between  practical  and  theoretic  science  is  the  step 
between  the  miner  and  the  geologist,  the  apothecary 
and  the  chemist,  and  the  step  between  practical  and 
theoretic  art  is  that  between  the  bricklayer  and  the 
architect,  between  the  plumber  and  the  artist ; and  this 
is  a step  allowed  on  all  hands  to  be  from  less  to  greater, 
so  that  the  so-called  useless  part  of  each  profession  does 
by  the  authoritative  and  right  instinct  of  mankind 
assume  the  superior  and  more  noble  place.  Only  it  is 
ordained  that,  for  our  encouragement,  every  step  we 
make  in  the  more  exalted  range  of  science,  adds  some- 
thing also  to  its  practical  applicabilities;  that  all  the 
great  phenomena  of  nature,  the  knowledge  of  which  is 
desired  by  the  angels  only,  by  us  partly  as  it  reveals  to 
further  vision  the  being  and  the  glory  of  Him  in  whom 
they  rejoice  and  we  live,  dispense  yet  such  kind 
influences  and  so  much  of  material  blessing  as  to  be 
joyfully  felt  by  all  inferior  creatures,  and  to  be  desired 
by  them  with  such  single  desire  as  the  imperfection  of 
their  nature  may  admit ; that  the  strong  torrents  which 
in  their  own  gladness  fill  the  hills  with  hollow  thunder 
774 


and  the  vales  with  winding  light,  have  yet  their  bounden 
charge  of  field  to  feed  and  barge  to  bear ; that  the  fierce 
flames  to  which  the  Alps  owes  its  upheaval  and  the 
volcano  its  terror,  temper  for  us  the  metal  vein  and 
quickening  spring ; and  that  for  our  incitement,  I say 
not  our  reward,  for  knowledge  is  its  own  reward, 
herbs  have  their  healing,  stones  their  preciousness,  and 
stars  their  times. 

It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  those  pursuits  which 
are  altogether  theoretic,  whose  results  are  desirable  or 
admirable  in  themselves,  and  for  their  own  sake,  and 
in  which  no  further  end  to  which  their  productions  or 
discoveries  are  referred,  can  interrupt  the  contemplation 
of  things  as  they  are,  by  the  endeavour  to  discover  of 
what  selfish  uses  they  are  capable  (and  of  this  order 
are  painting  and  sculpture),  ought  to  take  rank  above 
all  pursuits  which  have  any  taint  in  them  of  subser- 
viency to  life,  in  so  far  as  all  such  tendency  is  the  sign 
of  less  eternal  and  less  holy  function. 

Mr  Charles  Ksight  (born  at  Windsor  in  1790), 
both  as  publisher  and  author,  has  done  good  service 
to  the  cause  of  cheap  popular  literature.  His  Etonian, 
and  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine , drew  forth  many 
accomplished  young  scholars  as  contributors — in- 
cluding Macaulay — and  his  Pictorial  England,  the 
Bible,  London,  shilling  volumes,  and  other  serial 
works,  supplied  a fund  of  excellent  reading  and 
information.  As  editor  of  Shakspeare,  Mr  Knight 
took  higher  ground,  and  acquitted  himself  with 
distinction.  A collection  of  his  essays  has  been 
published  under  the  title  of  Once  Upon  a Time , and 
another  is  named  The  Old  Printer  and  the  Modern 
Press. 

The  Biographical  and  Critical  Essays  of  Mr 
Abraham  Hayward,  Queen’s  Counsel,  published 
in  1858,  are  lively,  interesting  papers,  originally 
communicated  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Mr  Hay- 
ward has  also  translated  Goethe’s  Faust,  and  is 
author  of  a number  of  professional  treatises. 


HARRIET  MARTIXEAU. 

The  following  notice  of  Miss  Martineau  appears 
in  Horne’s  Spirit  of  the  Age:  ‘Harriet  Martineau 
was  born  in  the  year  1802,  one  of  the  youngest 
among  a family  of  eight  children.  Her  father  was 
a proprietor  of  one  of  the  manufactories  in  Norwich, 
in  which  place  his  family,  originally  of  French 
origin,  had  resided  since  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict 
of  Nantes.  She  has  herself  ascribed  her  taste  for 
literary  pursuits  to  the  extreme  delicacy  of  her 
health  in  childhood ; to  the  infirmity  (deafness) 
with  which  she  has  been  afflicted  ever  since,  which, 
without  being  so  complete  as  to  deprive  her  abso- 
lutely of  all  intercourse  with  the  world,  yet  obliged 
her  to  seek  occupations  and  pleasures  within  herself; 
and  to  the  affection  which  subsisted  between  her 
and  the  brother  nearest  her  own  age,  the  Rev. 
James  Martineau,  whose  fine  mind  and  talents  are 
well  known.  The  occupation  of  writing,  first  begun 
to  gratify  her  own  taste  and  inclination,  became 
afterwards  to  her  a source  of  honourable  independ- 
ence, when,  by  one  of  the  disasters  so  common  in 
trade,  her  family  became  involved  in  misfortunes. 
She  was  then  enabled  to  reverse  the  common  lot  of 
unmarried  daughters  in  such  circumstances,  and 
cease  to  be  in  any  respect  a burden.  She  realised 
an  income  sufficient  for  her  simple  habits,  but  still 
so  small  as  to  enhance  the  integrity  of  the  sacrifice 
which  she  made  to  principle  in  refusing  the  pension 
offered  to  her  by  government  in  1840.  Her  motive 
for  refusing  it  was,  that  she  considered  herself  in  the 
light  of  a political  writer,  and  that  the  offer  did  not 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISCELLANEOUS  'WRITERS. 


HARRIET  MARTINEAU. 


proceed  from  the  people,  hut  from  the  government, 
which  did  not  represent  the  people.’ 

The  literary  career  of  Miss  Martineau  displays 
unwearied  application,  as  well  as  great  versatility 
of  talent  and  variety  of  information.  It  commenced 


Harriet  Martineau. 


in  1823,  when  she  published  Devotional  Exercises  for 
Young  Persons.  From  this  time  till  1831  she  issued 
a number  of  tracts  and  short  moral  tales,  and  wrote 
some  prize  essays,  which  were  published  by  the 
Unitarian  Association,  to  which  body  the  authoress 
belongs.  In  1832-31  she  produced  Illustrations  of 
Political  Economy , Taxation , and  Poor  Laws.  A 
visit  to  America  next  led  to  a more  elaborate  work, 
Society  in  America , 1837,  and  Retrospect  of  Western 
Travel,  1838.  In  the  same  year  she  published  a 
Letter  to  the  Deaf,  and  two  small  Guides  to  Service,  to 
which  she  afterwards  added  two  more  of  similar 
domestic  manuals.  To  1838  also  belongs  a small 
tract,  How  to  Observe.  In  1839  appeared  Deerhroolc, 
a novel,  containing  striking  and  eloquent  passages, 
one  of  which  we  subjoin. 

[Effects  of  Love  and  Happiness  on  the  Mind.'] 

There  needs  no  other  proof  that  happiness  is  the 
most  wholesome  moral  atmosphere,  and  that  in  which 
the  immortality  of  man  is  destined  ultimately  to  thrive, 
than  the  elevation  of  soul,  the  religious  aspiration, 
which  attends  the  first  assurance,  the  first  sober 
certainty  of  true  love.  There  is  much  of  this  religious 
aspiration  amidst  all  warmth  ot  virtuous  affections. 
There  is  a vivid  love  of  God  in  the  child  that  lays 
it3  cheek  against  the  cheek  of  its  mother,  and  clasps  its 
arms  about  her  neck.  God  is  thanked — perhaps  uncon- 
sciously— for  the  brightness  of  his  earth,  on  summer 
evenings,  when  a brother  and  sister,  who  have  long  been 
parted,  pour  out  their  heart-stores  to  each  other,  and 
feel  their  course  of  thought  brightening  as  it  runs. 
When  the  aged  parent  hears  of  the  honours  his  children 
have  won,  or  looks  round  upon  their  innocent  faces  a3 
the  glory  of  his  decline,  his  mind  reverts  to  Him  who  fu 
them  prescribed  the  purpose  of  his  life,  and  bestowed 
its  grace.  But  religious  as  is  the  mood  of  every  good 


affection,  none  is  so  devotional  as  that  of  love,  especially 
so  called.  The  soul  is  then  the  very  temple  of  adoration, 
of  faith,  of  holy*  purity,  of  heroism,  of  charity.  At 
such  a moment  the  human  creature  shoots  up  into 
the  angel ; there  is  nothing  on  earth  too  defiled  for  its 
charity — nothing  in  hell  too  appalling  for  its  heroism 
— nothing  in  heaven  too  glorious  for  its  sympathy. 
Strengthened,  sustained,  vivified  by  that  most  mysterious 
power,  union  with  another  spirit,  it  feels  itself  set  well 
forth  on  the  way  of  victory  over  evil,  sent  out  conquering 
and  to  conquer.  There  is  no  other  such  crisis  in  human 
life.  The  philosopher  may  experience  uncontrollable 
agitation  in  verifying  his  principle  of  balancing  systems 
of  worlds,  feeling,  perhaps,  as  if  he  actually  saw  the 
creative  hand  in  the  act  of  sending  the  planets  forth  on 
their  everlasting  way;  but  this  philosopher,  solitary 
seraph  as  he  may  be  regarded  amidst  a myriad  of  men, 
knows  at  such  a moment  no  emotions  so  divine  as  those 
of  the  spirit  becoming  conscious  that  it  is  beloved — be 
it  the  peasant-girl  in  the  meadow,  or  the  daughter  of 
the  sage  reposing  in  her  father’s  confidence,  or  the 
artisan  beside  his  loom,  or  the  man  of  letters  musing 
by  his  fireside.  The  warrior  about  to  strike  the 
decisive  blow  for  the  liberties  of  a nation,  however 
impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  the  hour,  is  not  in  a 
state  of  such  lofty  resolution  as  those  who,  by  joining 
hearts,  are  laying  their  joint  hands  on  the  whole  wide 
realm  of  futurity  for  their  own.  The  statesman  who,  in 
the  moment  of  success,  feels  that  an  entire  class  of  social 
sins  and  woes  is  annihilated  by  his  hand,  is  not  con- 
scious of  so  holy  and  so  intimate  a thankfulness  as  they 
who  are  aware  that  their  redemption  is  come  in  the 
presence  of  a new  and  sovereign  affection.  And  these 
are  many — they  are  in  all  corners  of  every  land.  The 
statesman  is  the  leader  of  a nation,  the  warrior  is  the 
grace  of  an  age,  the  philosopher  is  the  birth  of  a thou- 
sand years  ; but  the  lover,  where  is  he  not  ? Wherever 
parents  look  round  upon  their  children,  there  be  has 
been ; wherever  children  are  at  play  together,  there 
he  will  soon  be ; wherever  there  are  roofs  under  which 
men  dwell,  wherever  there  is  an  atmosphere  vibrating 
with  human  voices,  there  is  the  lover,  and  there  is  his 
lofty  worship  going  on,  unspeakable,  but  revealed  in  the 
brightness  of  the  eye,  the  majesty  of  the  presence,  and 
the  high  temper  of  the  discourse. 

The  democratic  opinions  of  the  authoress — for  in 
all  but  her  anti-Malthusian  doctrines  Miss  Martineau 
is  a sort  of  female  Godwin — are  strikingly  brought 
forward,  and  the  characters  are  well  drawn.  Deer- 
brook  is  a story  of  English  domestic-life.  The  next 
effort  of  Miss  Martineau  was  in  the  historical 
romance.  The  Hour  and  the  Man,  1840,  is  a novel 
or  romance  founded  on  the  history  of  the  brave 
Toussaint  L’Ouverture ; and  with  this  man  as  hero, 
Miss.  Martineau  exhibits  as  the  hour  of  action  the 
period  when  the  slaves  of  St  Domingo  threw  off  the 
yoke  of  slavery.  There  is  much  passionate  as  well 
as  graceful  writing  in  this  tale ; its  greatest  defect 
is,  tliat  there  is  too  much  disquisition,  and  too  little 
connected  or  regular  fable.  Among  the  other  works 
of  Miss  Martineau  are  several  for  children,  as  The 
Peasant  and  the  Prince,  The  Settlers  at-  Home,  Feats 
on  the  Fiord,  and  The  Crofton  Boys — all  pleasing  and 
instructive  little  tales.  Her  next  work,  Life  in  the 
Side- Room,  or  Essays  by  an  Invalid , 1844,  presents 
many  interesting  and  pleasing  sketches,  full  of 
acute  and  delicate  thought  and  elegant  description. 

[(Sea  View  from  the  Window  of  the  Sick-Room  at 
Tynemouth.] 

Think  of  the  difference  to  us  between  seeing  from 
our  sofas  the  width  of  a street,  even  if  it  be  Saclcville 
Street,  Dublin,  or  Portland  Place,  in  London,  and  thirty 


FR03I  1880 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


miles  of  sea  view,  with  its  long  boundary  of  rocks,  and 
the  power  of  sweeping  our  glance  over  half  a county,  by 
means  of  a telescope ! But  the  chief  ground  of  prefer- 
ence of  the  sea  is  less  its  space  than  its  motion,  and  the 
perpetual  shifting  of  objects  caused  by  it.  There  can 
be  nothing  in  inland  scenery  which  can  give  the  sense 
of  life  and  motion  and  connection  with  the  world  like 
sea  changes.  The  motion  of  a water-fall  is  too  continuous 
— too  little  varied — as  the  breaking  of  the  waves  would 
be,  if  that  were  all  the  sea  could  afford.  The  fitful 
action  of  a wind-mill,  the  waving  of  trees,  the  ever- 
changing  aspects  of  mountains  are  good  and  beautiful ; 
but  there  is  something  more  lifelike  in  the  going  forth 
and  return  of  ships,  in  the  passage  of  fleets,  and  in  the 
never-ending  variety  of  a fishery.  But,  then,  there  must 
not  be  too  much  sea.  The  strongest  eyes  and  nerves 
could  not  support  the  glare  and  oppressive  vastness  of 
an  unrelieved  expanse  of  waters.  I was  aware  of  this 
in  time,  and  fixed  myself  where  the  view  of  the  sea 
was  inferior  to  what  I should  have  preferred  if  I had 
come  to  the  coast  for  a summer  visit.  Between  my 
window  and  the  sea  is  a green  down,  as  green  as  any 
field  in  Ireland ; and  on  the  nearer  half  of  this  down, 
haymaking  goes  forward  in  its  season.  It  slopes  down 
to  a hollow,  where  the  Prior  of  old  preserved  his  fish, 
there  being  sluices  formerly  at  either  end,  the  one  open- 
ing upon  the  river,  and  the  other  upon  the  little  haven 
below  the  Priory,  whose  ruins  still  crown  the  rock. 
From  the  Prior’s  fishpond,  the  green  down  slopes  up- 
wards again  to  a ridge;  and  on  the  slope  are  cows 
grazing  all  summer,  and  half-way  into  the  winter. 
Over  the  ridge,  I survey  the  harbour  and  all  its  traffic, 
the  view  extending  from  the  light-houses  far  to  the 
right,  to  a horizon  of  sea  to  the  left.  Beyond  the 
harbour  lies  another  county,  with,  first,  its  sandy  beach, 
where  there  are  frequent  wrecks — too  interesting  to  an 
invalid — and  a fine  stretch  of  rocky  shore  to  the  left ; 
and  above  the  rocks,  a spreading  heath,  where  I watch 
troops  of  boys  flying  their  kites;  lovers  and  friends 
taking  their  breezy  walk  on  Sundays ; the  sportsman 
with  his  gun  and  dog;  and  the  washerwomen  converg- 
ing from  the  farmhouses  on  Saturday  evenings,  to  carry 
their  loads,  in  company,  to  the  village  on  the  yet  further 
height.  I see  them,  now  talking  in  a cluster,  as  they 
walk  each  with  her  white  burden  on  her  head,  and 
now  in  file,  as  they  pass  through  the  narrow  lane ; and, 
finally,  they  part  off  on  the  village-green,  each  to  some 
neighbouring  house  of  the  gentry.  Behind  the  village 
and  the  heath  stretches  the  railway ; and  I watch  the 
train  triumphantly  careering  along  the  level  road,  and 
puffing  forth  its  steam  above  hedges  and  groups  of 
trees,  and  then  labouring  and  panting  up  the  ascent, 
till  it  is  lost  between  two  heights,  which  at  last  bound 
my  view.  But  on  these  heights  are  more  objects ; a 
! wind-mill,  now  in  motion,  and  now  at  rest ; a limekiln, 
in  a picturesque  rocky  field ; an  ancient  church  tower, 

: barely  visible  in  the  morning,  but  conspicuous  when  the 
I setting  sun  shines  upon  it ; a colliery,  with  its  lofty 
| wagon-way  and  the  self-moving  wagons  running  hither 
] and  thither,  as  if  in  pure  wilfulness;  and  three  or 
I four  farms,  at  various  degrees  of  ascent,  whose  yards, 

■ paddocks,  and  dairies  I am  better  acquainted  with  than 
! their  inhabitants  would  believe  possible.  I know  every 
I stack  of  the  one  on  the  heights.  Against  the  sky  I see 
the  stacking  of  com  and  hay  in  the  season,  and  can 
j detect  the  slicing  away  of  the  provender,  with  an  accu- 
rate eye,  at  the  distance  of  several  miles.  I can  follow 
the  sociable  farmer  in  his  summer  evening  ride,  prick- 
ing on  in  the  lane  where  he  is  alone,  in  order  to  have 
i more  time  for  the  unconscionable  gossip  at  the  gate  of 
! the  next  farmhouse,  and  for  the  second  talk  over  the 
paddock-fence  of  the  next,  or  for  the  third  or  fourth 
: before  the  porch,  or  over  the  wall,  when  the  resident 

farmer  comes  out,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  puffs  away  amidst 
his  chat,  till  the  wife  appears,  with  a shawl  over  her 
cap,  to  see  what  can  detain  him  so  long;  and  the 
776 


| daughter  follows,  with  her  gown  turned  over  head — 
for  it  is  now  chill  evening — and  at  last  the  sociable 
1 horseman  finds  he  must  be  going,  looks  at  his  watch, 
and,  with  a gesture  of  surprise,  turns  his  steed  down 
a steep  broken  way  to  the  beach,  and  canters  home 
! over  the  sands,  left  hard  and  wet  by  the  ebbing  tide, 
| the  white  horse  making  his  progress  visible  to  me 
through  the  dusk.  Then,  if  the  question  arises  which 
I has  most  of  the  gossip  spirit,  he  or  I,  there  is  no  shame 
I in  the  answer.  Any  such  small  amusement  is  better 
j than  harmless — is  salutary — which  carries  the  sick 
! prisoner  abroad  into  the  open  air,  among  country 
people.  When  I shut  down  my  window,  I feel  that 
mv  mind  has  had  an  airing. 


A series  of  tales,  illustrative  of  the  evils  springing 
from  the  Game  Laws  (1845),  are  marked  by  Miss 
Martineau’s  acuteness  and  fine  clear  style,  but  are 
overcoloured  in  tone  and  sentiment.  Another  short 
tale.  The  Billow  and  the  Rock , 1846,  founded  on  the 
1 incidents  of  Lady  Grange’s  captivity,  is  interesting, 
without  any  attempt  at  conveying  a political  lesson. 
In  1848  appeared  Eastern  Life,  Past  and  Present , 
three  volumes — a very  interesting  book  of  travels, 
but  disfigured  by  the  wild  speculative  opinions  of 
' the  authoress  on  Scripture  history  and  character, 
and  on  mesmerism  and  clairvoyance.  A volume 
on  Household  Education  appeared  in  1849,  and  the 
History  of  England  from  1816  to  1846,  in  1850.  In 
1851  Miss  Martineau  published  a collection  of 
letters  between  herself  and  Mr  H.  G.  Atkinson, 
On  the  Laws  of  Mans  Nature  and  Development — a 
work  which  met  with  universal  condemnation,  on 
\ account  of  its  advocacy  of  atheism.  Miss  Mar- 
I tineau’s  friend,  Charlotte  Bronte,  grieved  sadly  over 
' this  declension  on  the  part  of  one  whom  she  admired 
as  combining  the  highest  mental  culture  with  the 
nicest  discharge  of  feminine  duties.  The  book,  she 
■ said,  was  ‘ the  first  exposition  of  avowed  atheism 
and  materialism  she  had  ever  read — the  first  une- 
, quivocal  declaration  of  disbelief  of  God  or  a future 
| life.’  Hundreds,  she  said,  had  deserted  Miss  Mar- 
tineau on  account  of  this  book,  but  this  the  authoress 
lias  denied.  T am  not  aware,’  says  Miss  Martineau, 

! ‘ of  having  lost  any  friends  whatever  by  that  book, 
j while  I have  gained  a new  world  of  sympathy .’  In 
' fact,  most  persons  regarded  this  singular  lady  as 
' sui  generis , and  would  never  dream  of  binding  her  by 
j the  * fixed  and  settled  rules.’  Her  next  performance 
i was  a translation  and  condensation  of  the  Positive 
\ Philosophy  of  Augustus  Comte,  two  volumes,  1853. 

| M.  Comte’s  work  is  a complete  account  of  science  and 
j scientific  method,  as  developed  at  the  time  he  wrote, 

\ beginning  with  mathematics,  and  ending  with  social 
| physics  or  sociology ; but  it  is  also,  says  Mr  Brimley, 

I * a fierce  polemic  against  theology  and  metaphysics, 

! with  all  the  notions  and  sentiments  that  have  their 
| root  in  them’ — a ‘strict  limitation  of  the  human 
i faculties  fo  phenomenal  knowledge.’  Hence  the  sys- 
I tern  ‘ not  only  fails  to  provide  an  aim  for  the  action 
of  man  and  of  society;  but  if  an  aim  were  con- 
ceded to  it,  has  no  moral  force  to  keep  men  steady, 
no  counteracting  power  to  the  notorious  selfishness 
and  sensuality  against  which  we  have  to  be  ever  on 
our  guard.’  In  1854  Miss  Martineau  published  a 
Complete  Guide  to  the  Lakes.  Many  years  since  she 
fixed  her  residence— to  the  great  horror  of  Words- 
worth— in  the  beautiful  Lake  country,  at  Ambteside, 
where  she  manages  her  little  farm  of  two  acres 
with  the  skill  of  a practical  agriculturist,  and  is 
esteemed  as  an  affectionate  friend  and  good  neigh- 
bour. She  is  also  a regular  contributor  of  political 
and  social  articles  to  the  Daily  News  and  other 
journals. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WATERTON — WARBURTON. 


CHARLES  WATERTON. 

The  Wanderings  and  Essays  of  Charles  Water- 
ton,  a Yorkshire  squire,  now  in  his  seventy-seventh 
year,  form  very  interesting  and  delightful  reading. 
Mr  Waterton  set  out  from  his  seat  of  Walton  Hall 
in  1812  to  wander  ‘through  the  wilds  of  Demerara 
and  Essequibo,  with  the  view  to  reach  the  inland 
frontier  fort  of  Portuguese  Guiana;  to  collect  a 
quantity  of  the  strongest  Wourali  poison ; and  to 
catch  and  stuff  the  beautiful  birds  which  abound 
in  that  part  of  South  America.’  He  made  two  more 
journeys  to  the  same  territories— in  1816  and  1820 
— and  in  1825  published  his  Wanderings  in  South 
America , the  North-west  of  the  United  States,  and  the 
Antilles.  His  fatigues  and  dangers  were  numerous. 

‘ In  order  to  pick  up  matter  for  natural  history,  I 
have  wandered  through  the  wildest  parts  of  South 
America’s  equinoctial  regions.  I have  attacked  and 
slain  a modern  python,  and  rode  on  the  back  of  a 
cayman  close  to  the  water’s  edge ; a very  different 
situation  from  that  of  a Hyde -Park  dandy  on  his 
Sunday  prancer  before  the  ladies.  Alone  and  bare- 
foot I have  pulled  poisonous  snakes  opt  of  their 
lurking-places ; climbed  up  trees  to  peep  into 
holes  for  bats  and  vampires ; and  for  days  together 
hastened  through  sun  and  rain  to  the  thickest  parts 
of  the  forest  to  procure  specimens  I had  never  seen 
before.’ 

The  adventures  of  the  python  and  cayman — or 
the  snake  and  crocodile — made  much  noise  and 
amusement  at  the  time,  and  the  latter  feat  formed 
the  subject  of  a caricature.  Mr  Waterton  had  long 
wished  to  obtain  one  of  those  enormous  snakes 
called  Coulacanara,  and  at  length  he  saw  one  coiled 
up  in  his  den.  He  advanced  towards  it  stealthily, 
and  with  his  lance  struck  him  behind  the  neck 
and  fixed  it  to  the  ground. 

[Adventure  with  the  Snalce.] 

That  moment  the  negro  next  to  me  seized  the  lance 
and  held  it  firm  in  its  place,  while  I dashed  head  fore- 
most into  the  den  to  grapple  with  the  snake,  and  to  get 
hold  of  his  tail  before  he  could  do  any  mischief. 

On  pinning  him  to  the  ground  with  the  lance,  he 
gave  a tremendous  loud  hiss,  and  the  little  dog  ran 
away,  howling  as  he  went.  We  had  a sharp  fray  in  the 
den,  the  rotten  sticks  flying  on  all  sides,  and  each  party 
struggling  for  the  superiority.  I called  out  to  the 
second  negro  to  throw  himself  upon  me,  as  I found  I 
was  not  heavy  enough.  He  did  so,  and  his  additional 
weight  was  of  great  service.  I had  now  got  firm  hold  of 
his  tail,  and  after  a violent  struggle  or  two  he  gave  in, 
finding  himself  overpowered.  This  was  the  moment  to 
secure  him.  So  while  the  first  negro  continued  to  hold 
the  lance  firm  to  the  ground,  and  the  other  was  helping 
me,  I contrived  to  unloose  my  braces,  and  with  them 
tied  up  the  snake’s  mouth. 

The  snake,  now  finding  himself  in  an  unpleasant 
situation,  tried  to  better  himself,  and  set  resolutely  to 
work,  but  we  overpowered  him.  [It  measured  fourteen 
feet,  and  was  of  great  thickness.]  We  contrived  to  make 
him  twist  himself  round  the  shaft  of  the  lance,  and 
then  prepared  to  convey  him  out  of  the  forest.  I stood 
at  his  head  and  held  it  firm  under  my  arm,  one  negro 
supported  the  belly,  and  the  other  the  tail.  In  this 
order  we  began  to  move  slowly  towards  home,  and 
reached  it  after  resting  ten  times. 

On  the  following  day,  Mr  Waterton  killed  the 
animal,  securing  its  skin  for  Walton  Hall.  The 
crocodile  was  seized  on  the  Essequibo.  He  had  been 
tantalised  for  three  days  with  the  hope  of  secur- 
ing one  of  the  animals.  He  baited  a shark-hook 


with  a large  fish,  and  at  last  was  successful.  The 
difficulty  was  to  pull  him  up.  The  Indians  pro- 
posed shooting  him  with  arrows ; but  this  the 
‘Wanderer’  resisted.  ‘I  had  come  above  three 
hundred  miles  on  purpose  to  catch  a cayman  unin- 
jured, and  not  to  carry  back  a mutilated  specimen.’ 
The  men  pulled,  and  out  he  came — Mr  Waterton 
standing  armed  with  the  mast  of  the  canoe,  which 
he  proposed  to  force  down  the  animal’s  throat. 

[Riding  on  a Crocodile .] 

By  the  time  the  cayman  was  within  two  yards  of  me, 
I saw  he  was  in  a state  of  fear  and  perturbation ; I 
instantly  dropped  the  mast,  sprung  up  and  jumped  on 
his  back,  turning  half  round  as  I vaulted,  so  that  I 
gained  my  seat  with  my  face  in  a right  position.  I 
immediately  seized  his  fore-legs,  and  by  main  force 
twisted  them  on  his  back ; thus  they  served  me  for  a 
bridle.  He  now  seemed  to  have  recovered  from  his 
surprise,  and,  probably  fancying  himself  in  hostile  com- 
pany, he  began  to  plunge  furiously,  and  lashed  the  sand 
with  his  long  and  powerful  tail.  I was  out  of  reach  of 
the  strokes  of  it,  by  being  near  his  head.  He  continued 
to  plunge  and  strike,  and  made  my  seat  very  uncomfort- 
able. It  must  have  been  a fine  sight  for  an  unoccupied 
spectator.  The  people  roared  out  in  triumph,  and  were 
so  vociferous,  that  it  was  sometime  before  they  heard  me 
tell  them  to  pull  me  and  my  beast  of  burden  further  in 
land.  I was  apprehensive  the  rope  might  break,  and 
then  there  would  have  been  every  chance  of  going  down 
to  the  regions  under  water  with  the  cayman.  That 
would  have  been  more  perilous  than  Arion’s  marine 
morning  ride — 

Delphini  insidens,  vada  casurula  sulcat  Arion. 

The  people  now  dragged  us  above  forty  yards  on  the 
sand : it  was  the  first  and  last  time  I was  ever  on  a 
cayman’s  back.  Should  it  be  asked  how  I managed  to 
keep  my  seat,  I would  answer,  I hunted  some  years  with 
Lord  Darlington’s  fox-hounds. 

The  cayman,  killed  and  stuffed,  was  also  added 
to  the  curiosities  of  Walton  Hall.  Mr  Waterton’s 
next  work  was  Essays  on  Natural  History , chiefly 
Ornithology,  with  an  Autobiography  of  the  Author  and 
a View  of  Walton  Hall,  1838 — reprinted  with 
additions  in  1851.  His  account  of  his  family — an 
old  Roman  Catholic  family  that  had  suffered  perse- 
cution from  the  days  of  Henry  VIII.  downwards — 
is  a quaint,  amusing  chronicle ; and  the  notes  on 
the  habits  of  birds  shew  minute  observation,  as 
well  as  a kindly  genial  spirit  on  the  part  of  the 
eccentric  squire. 

ELIOT  WARBURTON. 

As  a traveller,  novelist,  and  historical  writer,  Mr 
Eliot  Warburton,  an  English  barrister  (1810- 
1852),  was  a popular  though  incorrect  author.  He 
had  a lively  imagination  and  considerable  power  of 
description,  but  these  were  not  always  under  the 
regulation  of  taste  or  judgment.  His  first  work, 
The  Crescent  and  the  Cross,  or  Romance  and  Realities 
of  Eastern  Travel,  1844,  is  the  best  of  his  produc- 
tions. To  ride  on  a crocodile  was  Mr  Waterton’s 
unparalleled  feat,  and  Mr  Warburton  thus  describes 
his  first  shot  at  a crocodile,  which,  he  said,  was  an 
epoch  in  his  life. 

[Crocodile  Shooting  in  the  Nile.] 

We  had  only  now  arrived  in  the  waters  where  they 
abound,  for  it  is  a curious  fact  that  none  are  ever  seen 
below  Mineyeh,  though  Herodotus  speaks  of  them  as 
fighting  with  the  dolphins  at  the  mouths  of  the  Nile. 

777 


prom  1830  CYCLOPjiEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


A prize  had  been  offered  for  the  first  man  'who  detected 
a crocodile,  and  the  crew  had  now  been  for  two  days  on 
the  alert  in  search  of  them.  Buoyed  np  with  the 
expectation  of  such  game,  we  had  latterly  reserved  our 
fire  for  them  exclusively,  and  the  wild  duck  and  turtle, 
nay,  even  the  vulture  and  the  eagle,  had  swept  past  or 
soared  above  us  in  security.  At  length,  the  cry  of  , 
‘ Timseach,  timseach  ! ’ was  heard  from  half-a-dozen  j 
claimants  of  the  proffered  prize,  and  half-a-dozen  black  I 
fingers  were  eagerly  pointed  to  a spit  of  sand,  on  which  I 
were  strewn  apparently  some  logs  of  trees.  It  was  a 
covey  of  crocodiles ! Hastily  and  silently  the  boat  was 

run  in-shore.  R was  ill,  so  I had  the  enterprise  to 

myself,  and  clambered  up  the  steep  bank  with  a quicker 
pulse  than  when  I first  levelled  a rifle  at  a Highland 
deer.  My  intended  victims  might  have  prided  them- 
selves on  their  superior  nonchalance ; and,  indeed,  as  I 
approached  them,  there  seemed  to  be  a sneer  on  their 
ghastly  mouths  and  winking  eyes.  Slowly  they  rose, 
one  after  the  other,  and  waddled  to  the  water,  all  but 
one,  the  most  gallant  or  most  gorged  of  the  party.  He 
lay  still  until  I was  within  a hundred  yards  of  him ; 
then  slowly  rising  on  his  finlike  legs,  he  lumbered 
towards  the  river,  looking  askance  at  me  with  an 
expression  of  countenance  that  seemed  to  say : ‘ He  can 
do  me  no  harm  ; however,  I may  as  well  have  a swim.’ 

I took  aim  at  the  throat  of  this  supercilious  brute,  and, 
as  soon  as  my  hand  steadied,  the  very  pulsation  of  my 
finger  pulled  the  trigger.  Bang ! went  the  gun ; whizz ! 
flew  the  bullet;  and  my  excited  ear  could  catch  the 
thud  with  which  it  plunged  into  the  scaly  leather  of  his 
neck.  His  waddle  became  a plunge,  the  waves  closed 
over  him,  and  the  sun  shone  on  the  calm  water,  as  I 
reached  the  brink  of  the  shore,  that  was  still  indented 
by  the  waving  of  his  gigantic  tail.  But  there  is  blood 
upon  the  water,  and  he  rises  for  a moment  to  the  surface. 

‘ A hundred  piasters  for  the  timseach  !’  I exclaimed,  and 
half-a-dozen  Arabs  plunged  into  the  stream.  There ! 
he  rises  again,  and  the  blacks  dash  at  him  as  if  he 
hadn’t  a tooth  in  his  head.  Now  he  is  gone,  the  waters 
close  over  him,  and  I never  saw  him  since.  From  that 
time  we  saw  hundreds  of  crocodiles  of  all  sizes,  and  fired 
shots  enough  at  them  for  a Spanish  revolution ; but  we 
never  could  get  possession  of  any,  even  if  we  hit  them, 
which  to  this  day  remains  uncertain.  I believe  each 
traveller,  who  is  honest  enough,  will  make  the  same 
confession. 

In  the  same  work  is  a striking  incident  illus- 
trative of  savage  life : 

[Nubian  Revenge .] 

There  appears  to  be  a wild  caprice  amongst  the 
institutions,  if  such  they  may  be  called,  of  all  these 
tropical  nations.  In  a neighbouring  state  to  that  of 
Abyssinia,  the  king,  when  appointed  to  the  regal  dignity, 
retires  into  an  island,  and  is  never  again  visible  to  the 
eyes  of  men  but  once — when  his  ministers  come  to 
strangle  him  ; for  it  may  not  be  that  the  proud  monarch 
of  Behr  should  die  a natural  death.  No  men,  with  this 
fatal  exception,  are  ever  allowed  even  to  set  foot  upon 
the  island,  which  is  guarded  by  a band  of  Amazons. 
In  another  border  country,  called  Habeesh,  the  monarch 
is  dignified  with  the  title  of  Tiger.  He  was  formerly 
Malek  of  Shendy,  when  it  was  invaded  by  Ismael  Pasha, 
and  was  even  then  designated  by  this  fierce  cognomen. 
Ismael,  Mehemet  Ali’s  second  son,  advanced  through 
Nubia,  claiming  tribute  and  submission  from  all  the 
tribes.  Nemmir — which  signifies  Tiger — the  king  of 
Shendy,  received  him  hospitably,  as  Mahmoud,  our 
dragoman,  informed  us,  and,  when  he  was  seated  in 
his  tent,  waited  on  him  to  learn  his  pleasure.  ‘My 
pleasure  is,’  replied  the  invader,  ‘that  you  forthwith 
furnish  me  with  slaves,  cattle,  and  money  to  the  value 
of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.’  ‘Pooh!’  said 
778 


Nemmir,  ‘you  jest;  all  my  country  could  not  produce 
what  you  require  in  one  hundred  moons.’  ‘ Ha ! 
Wallah  ! ’ was  the  young  pasha’s  reply,  and  he  struck 
the  Tiger  across  the  face  with  his  pipe.  If  he  had  done 
so  to  his  namesake  of  the  jungle,  the  insult  could  not 
have  roused  fiercer  feelings  of  revenge,  but  the  human 
animal  did  not  shew  his  wrath  at  once.  ‘ It  is  well,’  he 
replied;  ‘let  the  pasha  rest,  to-mon’ow  he  shall  have 
nothing  more  to  ask .’  The  Egyptian,  and  the  few 
Mameluke  officers  of  his  staff,  were  tranquilly  smoking 
towards  evening,  entertained  by  some  dancing-girls, 
whom  the  Tiger  had  sent  to  amuse  them;  when  they 
observed  that  a huge  pile  of  dried  stacks  of  Indian  com 
was  rising  rapidly  round  the  tent.  ‘ What  means  this?’ 
inquired  Ismael  angrily;  ‘am  not  I pasha?’  ‘It  is 
but  forage  for  your  highness's  horses,’  replied  the 
Nubian,  for,  were  your  troops  once  arrived,  the  people 
would  fear  to  approach  the  camp.’  Suddenly,  the  space 
is  filled  with  smoke,  the  tent  curtains  shrivel  up  in 
flames,  and  the  pasha  and  his  comrades  find  themselves 
encircled  in  what  they  well  know  is  their  funeral  pyre. 
Vainly  the  invader  implores  mercy,  and  assures  the 
Tiger  of  his  warm  regard  for  him  and  all  his  family ; 
vainly  he  endeavours  to  break  through  the  fiery  fence 
that  girds  him  round ; a thousand  spears  bore  him  back 
into  the  flames,  and  the  Tigers  triumphant  yell  and 
bitter  mockery  mingle  with  his  dying  screams.  The 
Egyptians  perished  to  a man.  Nemmir  escaped  up  the 
country,  crowned  with  savage  glory,  and  married  the 
daughter  of  a king,  who  soon  left  him  his  successor,  and 
the  Tiger  still  defies  the  old  pasha’s  power.  The  latter, 
however,  took  a terrible  revenge  upon  his  people  : he 
burned  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  nearest  to  the 
scene  of  his  son’s  slaughter,  and  cut  off  the  right  hands 
of  five  hundred  men  besides.  So  much  for  African 
warfare. 

The  other  works  of  Mr  Eliot  Warburton  are — 
Hochelaga,  cr  England  in  the  New  World,  1S46 
[Hochelaga  is  an  aboriginal  Indian  name  for  Canada] ; 
Memoirs  of  Prince  Rupert  and  the  Cavaliers,  1 849  ; 
Reginald  Hastings  and  Darien,  novels,  and  a Manoir 
of  the  Earl  of  Peterborough — the  famous  earl,  1658- 
1735.  The  last  was  a posthumous  work,  published 
in  1853.  Mr  Warburton  had  been  deputed  by  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  Junction  Company  to  visit  the 
tribes  of  Indians  who  inhabit  the  Isthmus  of  Darien, 
with  a view  to  effect  a friendly  understanding  with 
them,  and  to  make  himself  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  their  country.  He  sailed  in  the  Amazon 
steamer,  and  was  among  the  passengers  who 
perished  by  fire  on  board  that  ill-fated  ship.  That 
awful  catastrophe  carried  grief  into  many  families,  , 
and  none  of  its  victims  were  more  lamented  than 
Mr  Eliot  Warburton. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

The'  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater,  origin- 
ally printed  in  the  London  Magazine , and  pub- 
lished in  a separate 'form  In  1822,  is  a singular  and 
striking  work,  detailing  the  personal  experience  of 
an  individual  who  had,  like  Coleridge,  become  a 
slave  to  the  use  of  opium.  To  such  an  extent  had 
the  author  carried  this  habit,  that  he  was  accus-  , 
tomed  to  take  three  hundred  and  twenty  grains  ' 
a day.  He  finally  emancipated  himself,  but  not  ■ 
without  a severe  struggle  and  the  deepest  suffer-  ! 
ing.  The  Confessions  are  written  by  Thomas  de  ( 
Quincey,  a gentleman  of  extensive  acquirements, 
literary  and  scholastic,  son  of  an  English  merchant,  , 
born  at  Manchester  in  1786,  and  educated  at  Eton  ; 
and  Oxford.  Mr  De  Quincey  has  contributed  largely  i 
to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day,  and  is  author  j 
of  the  admirable  memoirs  of  Shakspeare  and  Pope  in  i 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  de  quincey. 


the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica.  The  following  is  part 
of  the  melancholy  yet  fascinating  Confessions : 

[Dreams  of  the  Opium  Eater. ] 

May  1818. 

I have  been  every  night  of  late  transported  into 
Asiatic  scenes.  I know  not  whether  others  share  in 
my  feelings  on  this  point,  but  I have  often  thought 
that  if  I were  compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to 
live  in  China,  and  among  Chinese  manners  and  modes 
of  life  and  scenery,  I should  go  mad.  The  causes  of 
my  horror  lie  deep,  and  some  of  them  must  be  common 
to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in  general,  is  the  seat  of  awful 
images  and  associations.  As  the  cradle  of  the  human 
race,  it  would  have  a dim  and  reverential  feeling  con- 
nected with  it.  But  there  are  other  reasons.  No  man 
can  pretend  that  the  wild,  barbarous,  and  capricious 
superstitions  of  Africa,  or  of  savage  tribes  elsewhere, 
affect  in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the  ancient, 
monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate  religions  of  Indostan, 
&c.  The  mere  antiquity  of  Asiatic  things,  of  their 
institutions,  history,  modes  of  faith,  &c.,  is  so  impres- 
sive, that  to  me  the  vast  age  of  the  race  and  name 
overpowers  the  sense  of  youth  in  the  individual.  A 
young  Chinese  seems  to  me  an  antediluvian  man 
renewed.  Even  Englishmen,  though  not  bred  in  any 
knowledge  of  such  institutions,  cannot  but  shudder  at 
the  mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  have  flowed  apart, 
and  refused  to  mix,  through  such  immemorial  tracts  of 
time ; nor  can  any  man  fail  to  be  awed  by  the  names 
of  the  Ganges  or  the  Euphrates.  It  contributes  much 
to  these  feelings,  that  Southern  Asia  is,  and  has  been 
for  thousands  of  years,  the  part  of  the  earth  most 
swarming  with  human  life ; the  great  officina  gentium. 
Man  is  a weed  in  those  regions.  The  vast  empires, 
also,  into  which  the  enormous  population  of  Asia  has 
always  been  cast,  give  a further  sublimity  to  the  feel- 
ings associated  with  all  Oriental  names  or  images.  In 
China,  over  and  above  what  it  has  in  common  with  the 
rest  of  Southern  Asia,  I am  terrified  by  the  modes  of 
life,  by  the  manners,  and  the  barrier  of  utter  abhorrence 
and  want  of  sympathy  placed  between  us  by  feelings 
deeper  than  I can  analyse.  I could  sooner  live  with 
lunatics  or  brute  animals.  All  this,  and  much  more 
than  I can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  must 
enter  into  before  he  can  comprehend  the  unimaginable 
horror  which  these  dreams  of  Oriental  imagery  and 
mythological  tortures  impressed  upon  me.  Under  the 
connecting  feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights 
I brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts,  reptiles, 
all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and  appearances,  that  are 
to  be  found  in  all  tropical  regions,  and  assembled  them 
together  in  China  or  Indostan.  From  kindred  feelings 
I soon  brought  Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under  the  same 
law.  I was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned  at,  chattered 
at,  by  monkeys,  by  parroquets,  by  cockatoos.  I ran  into 
pagodas,  and  was  fixed  for  centuries  at  the  summit,  or 
in  secret  rooms;  I was  the  idol;  I was  the  priest;  I 
was  worshipped;  I was  sacrificed.  I fled  from  the 
wrath  of  Brahma  through  all  the  forests  of  Asia; 
Vishnu  hated  me ; Seeva  laid  wait  for  me.  I came 
suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris ; I had  done  a deed, 
they  said,  w hich  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled  at. 
I was  buried  for  a thousand  years,  in  stone  coffins,  with 
mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  chambers  at  the 
heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  * * 

As  a final  specimen,  I cite  one  of  a different  character, 
from  1820. 

The  dream  commenced  with  a music  which  now  I 
often  hear  in  dreams — a music  of  preparation  aiul  of 
awakening  suspense ; a music  like  the  opening  of  the 
Coronation  Anthem,  and  which,  like  that,  gave  the 
feeling  of  a vast  march — of  infinite  cavalcades  filing 
off — and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armies.  The  morn- 
ing was  come  of  a mighty  day — a day  of  crisis  and 


of  final  hope  for 'human  nature,  then  suffering  some 
mysterious  eclipse,  and  labouring  in  some  dread 
extremity.  Somewhere,  I knew  not  where — somehow, 
I knew  not  how — by  some  beings,  I knew  not  whom — 
a battle,  a strife,  an  agony  was  conducting — was 
evolving  like  a great  drama  or  piece  of  music;  with 
which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  insupportable  from 
my  confusion  as  to  its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and 
its  possible  issue.  I,  as  is  usual  in  dreams — where,  of 
necessity,  we  make  ourselves  central  to  every  move- 
ment— had  the  powrer,  and  yet  had  not  the  power  to 
decide  it.  I had  the  power,  if  I could  raise  myself,  to 
will  it ; and  yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight 
of  twenty  Atlantes  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of 
inexpiable  guilt.  ‘ Deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded,’ 
I lay  inactive.  Then,iike  a chorus,  the  passion  deepened. 
Some  greater  interest  was  at  stake ; some  mightier 
cause  than  ever  yet  the  sword  had  pleaded  or  trumpet 
had  proclaimed.  Then  came  sudden  alarms,  hurrying 
to  and  fro  ; trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives,  I 
knew  not  whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad; 
darkness  and  lights;  tempest  and  human  faces;  and 
at  last,  with  the  sense 'that  all  was  lost,  female  forms, 
and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the  world  to 
me,  and  but  a moment  allowed — and  clasped  hands, 
and  heart-breaking  partings,  and  then — everlasting 
farewells ! and  with  a sigh,  such  as  the  caves  of  hell 
sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the  abhorred 
name  of  Death,  the  sound  was  reverberated — everlasting 
farewells ! and  again,  and  yet  again  reverberated— 
everlasting  farewells ! 

And  I awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud : ‘ I will 
sleep  no  more  ! ’ 

In  the  London  Magazine  Mr  De  Quincey  also 
published  the  Dialogues  of  Three  Templars  on 
Political  Economy , 1824 ; and  twenty  years  later, 
he  produced  a volume  on  the  same  science — The 
Logic  of  Political  Economy,  1844.  The  highest 
authority  on  political  economy — Mr  M‘Culloch — 
has  eulogised  these  treatises  of  Mr  De  Quincey  as 
completely  successful  in  exposing  the  errors  of 
Malthus  and  others  in  applying  Ricardo’s  theory 
of  value.  A collected  edition  of  the  works  of  Mr  De 
Quincey  has  been  published  in  nine  volumes,  distri- 
buted in  the  main,  he  says,  into  three  classes : first, 
papers  whose  chief  purpose  is  to  interest  and  amuse 
(autobiographic  sketches,  reminiscences  of  distin- 
guished contemporaries,  biographical  memoirs,  whim- 
sical narratives,  and  such  like) ; secondly,  essays, 
of  a speculative,  critical,  or  philosophical  character, 
addressing  the  understanding  as  an  insulated  faculty 
(of  these  there  are  many) ; and,  thirdly,  papers 
belonging  to  the  order  of  what  may  be  called  prose- 
poetry — that  is,  fantasies  or  imaginations  in  prose 
— including  the  Suspiria  de  Profundis,  originally 
published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine — and  which  are 
remarkable  for  pathos  and  eloquence.  In  all  depart- 
ments, Mr  De  Quincey  must  rank  high,  but  he 
•would  have  been  more  popular  had  he  practised  the 
art  of  condensation.  His  episodical  digressions 
and  diffuseness  sometimes  overrun  all  limits — espe- 
cially when,  like  Southey  (in  the  Doctor ),  he  takes 
up  some  favourite  philosophical  theory  or  scholastic 
illustration,  and  presents  it  in  every  possible  shape 
and  colour.  The  exquisite  conversation  of  Mr  De 
Quincey  is  of  the  same  character — in  ‘ linked  sweet- 
ness long  drawn  out,’  but  rich  and  various  in  an 
extraordinary  degree. 

[The  Worldly  and  Unworldly  in  Literature.] 

It  seems  little  to  be  perceived,  how  much  of  the  great 
scriptural  idea  of  the  ivorldly  and  the  unworldly  is 
found  to  emerge  in  literature  as  well  as  in  life.  In 

779 


Ffc.lM  1S30 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859.  [ 


( 


reality,  the  very  same  combinations  of  moral  qualities, 
infinitely  varied,  which  compose  the  harsh  physiognomy 
of  what  we  call  worldliness  in  the  living  groups  of  life, 
must  unavoidably  present  themselves  in  books.  A 
library  divides  into  sections  of  worldly  and  unworldly, 
even  as  a crowd  of  men  divides  into  that  same  majority 
and  minority.  The  world  has  an  instinct  for  recognising 
its  own  ; and  recoils  from  certain  qualities  when  exem- 
plified in  books,  with  the  same  disgust  or  defective 
sympathy  as  would  have  governed  it  in  real  life.  From 
qualities,  for  instance,  of  childlike  simplicity,  of  shy 
profundity,  or  of  inspired  self-communion,  the  world 
does  and  must  turn  away  its  face  towards  grosser,  bolder, 
more  determined,  or  more  intelligible  expressions  of 
character  and  intellect ; and  not  otherwise  in  literature, 
nor  at  all  less  in  literature,  than  it  does  in  the  realities 
of  life.  Charles  Lamb,  if  any  ever  was,  is  amongst  the 
class  here  contemplated ; he,  if  any  ever  has,  ranks 
amongst  writers  whose  works  are  destined  to  be  for  ever 
unpopular,  and  yet  for  ever  interesting;  interesting, 
moreover,  by  means  of  those  very  qualities  which 
guarantee  their  non-popularity.  The  same  qualities 
which  will  be  found  forbidding  to  the  worldly  and  the 
thoughtless,  which  will  be  found  insipid  to  many  even 
amongst  robust  and  powerful  minds,  are  exactly  those 
which  will  continue  to  command  a select  audience  in 
every  generation.  The  prose  essays,  under  the  signature 
of  Elia,  form  the  most  delightful  section  amongst  Lamb’s 
works.  They  traverse  a peculiar  field  of  observation, 
sequestered  from  general  interest;  and  they  are  com- 
posed in  a spirit  too  delicate  and  unobtrusive  to  catch 
the  ear  of  the  noisy  crowd,  clamouring  for  strong 
sensations.  But  this  retiring  delicacy  itself,  the  pen- 
siveness checkered  by  gleams  of  the  fanciful,  and  the 
humour  that  is  touched  with  cross-lights  of  pathos, 
together  with  the  picturesque  quaintness  of  the  objects 
casually  described,  whether  men  or  things,  or  usages, 
and,  in  the  rear  of  all  this,  the  constant  recurrence  to 
ancient  recollections  and  to  decaying  forms  of  household 
life,  as  things  retiring  before  the  tumult  of  new  and 
tumultuary  generations  ; these  traits  in  combination 
communicate  to  the  papers  a grace  and  strength  of 
originality  which  nothing  in  any  literature  approaches, 
whether  for  degree  or  kind  of  excellence,  except  the 
most  felicitous  papers  of  Addison,  such  as  those  on  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,  and  some  others  in  the  same  vein  of 
composition. 

[Joan  of  Arc.] 

"What  is  to  be  thought  of  her ? What  is  to  be 
thought  of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  from  the  hills  and 
forests  of  Lorraine,  that — like  the  Hebrew  .shepherd- 
boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Judea — rose  suddenly 
out  of  the  quiet,  out  of  the  safety,  out  of  the  religious 
inspiration,  rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a 
station  in  the  van  of  armies,  and  to  the  more  perilous 
station  at  the  right  hand  of  kings  ? The  Hebrew  boy 
inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission  by  an  act,  by  a 
victorious  act,  such  as  no  man  could  deny.  But  so  did 
the  girl  of  Lorraine,  if  we  read  her  story  as  it  wras  read 
by  those  who  saw  her  nearest.  Adverse  armies  bore 
witness  to  the  boy  as  no  pretender : but  so  they  did  to 
the  gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  w ho  saw 
them  from  a station  of  good-will,  both  were  found  true 
and  loyal  to  any  promises  involved  in  their  first  acts. 
Enemies  it  was  that  made  the  difference  between  their 
subsequent  fortunes.  The  boy  rose — to  a splendour  and 
a noonday  prosperity,  both  personal  and  public,  that 
rang  through  the  records  of  his  people,  and  became  a 
by-word  amongst  his  posterity  for  a thousand  years, 
until  the  sceptre  was  departing  from  Judah.  The  poor, 
forsaken  girl,  on  the  contrary,  drank  not  herself  from 
that  cup  of  rest  which  she  had  secured  for  France.  She 
never  sang  together  with  the  songs  that  rose  in  her 
native  Domremy,  as  echoes  to  the  departing  steps  of 
invaders.  She  mingled  not  in  the  festal  dances  at 
780 


Yaucouleurs  which  celebrated  in  rapture  the  redemption 
of  France.  No  ! for  her  voice  was  then  silent.  No  ! 
for  her  feet  were  dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble-hearted 
girl ! whom,  from  earliest  youth,  ever  I believed  in  as 
full  of  truth  and  self-sacrifice,  this  was  amongst  the 
strongest  pledges  for  thy  side,  that  never  once — no,  not 
for  a moment  of  weakness — didst  thou  revel  in  the 
vision  of  coronets  and  honour  from  man.  Coronets  for 
thee  ! Oh,  no ! Honours,  if  they  come  when  all  is 
over,  are  for  those  that  share  thy  blood.  Daughter  of 
Domremy,  when  the  gratitude  of  thy  king  shall  awaken, 
thou  wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead.  Call  her, 
king  of  France,  but  she  will  not  hear  thee ! Cite  her 
by  thy  apparitors  to  come  and  receive  a robe  of  honour, 
but  she  will  be  found  en  contumace.  When  the  thunders 
of  universal  France,  as  even  yet  may  happen,  shall  pro- 
claim the  grandeur  of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  that  gave 
up  all  for  her  country — thy  ear,  young  shepherd-girl, 
will  have  been  deaf  for  five  centuries.  To  suffer  and  to 
do,  that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life ; to  do— never  for 
thyself,  always  for  others;  to  suffer — never  in  the 
persons  of  generous  champions,  always  in  thy  own  : that 
was  thy  destiny ; and  not  for  a moment  was  it  hidden 
from  thyself.  ‘ Life,’  thou  saidst,  ‘ is  short,  and  the  sleep 
which  is  in  the  grave  is  long.  Let  me  use  that  life,  so 
transitory,  for  the  glory  of  those  heavenly  dreams 
destined  to  comfort  the  sleep  which  is  so  long.’  This 
pure  creature — pure  from  every  suspicion  of  even  a 
visionary  self-interest,  even  as  she  was  pure  in  senses 
more  obvious — never  once  did  this  holy  child,  as  regarded 
herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in  the  darkness  that  was 
travelling  to  meet  her.  She  might  not  prefigure  the 
very  manner  of  her  death ; she  saw  not  in  vision, 
perhaps,  the  aerial  altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold,  the 
spectators  without  end  on  every  road  pouring  into 
Rouen  as  to  a coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the 
volleying  flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around,  the  pity- 
ing eye  that  lurked  but  here  .and  there  until  nature  and 
imperishable  truth  broke  loose  from  artificial  restraifits ; 
these  might  not  be  apparent  through  the  mists  of  the 
hurrying  future.  But  the  voice  that  called  her  to  death, 
that  she  heard  for  ever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those  days, 
and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  but  well  Joanna 
knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he  that  sat  upon  it, 
was  for  her;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  she  was  for 
them;  not  she  by  them,  but  they  by  her,  should  rise 
from  the  dust.  Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France, 
and  for  centuries  had  the  privilege  to  spread  their 
beauty  over  land  and  sea,  until,  in  another  century,  the 
wrath  of  God  and  man  combined  to  wither  them ; but 
well  Joanna  knew,  early  at  Domremy  she  had  read  that 
bitter  truth,  that  the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no 
garland  for  her.  Flower  nor  bud,  bell  nor  blossom  would 
ever  bloom  for  her. 


ARTHUR  HELPS. 

Several  works  of  a thoughtful  and  earnest 
character,  written  in  what  Mr  Euskin  has  termed 
4 beautiful  and  quiet  English,’  are  ascribed  to  an 
Oxford  scholar,  Mr  Arthur  Helps.  These  are 
—Thoughts  in  the  Cloister  and  the  Crowd , 1S35 ; 
Essays  Written  in  the  Intervals  of  Business,  1841 ; 
King  Henry  II.,  a historical  drama,  and  Catherine 
Douglas,  a tragedy,  1843;  the  Claims  of  Labour , 
1844 ; Friends  in  Council,  a Series  of  Readings  and 
Discourses , 1847  ; Companions  of  my  Solitude,  1851 ; 
Conquerors  of  the  New  World,  and  their  Bondsmen , 
two  volumes,  1848-52  ; History  of  the  Spanish  Con - 
quest  of  America,  1855;  and  a second  series  of 
Friends  in  Council,  1859.  The  essays  and  dialogues 
of  Mr  Helps  evince  a fine  moral  feeling  and  dis- 
j criminating  taste.  They  have  all  gone  through 
| numerous  editions,  and  their  purity  of  expression, 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ARTHUR  HELPS. 


as  -well  as  justness  of  thought,  must  have  had  a 
beneficial  effect  on  many  minds. 

[Advantages  of  Foreign  Travel .] 

This,  then,  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  travel,  that  we 
come  upon  new  ground,  which  we  tread  lightly,  which 
is  free  from  associations  that  claim  too  deep  and 
constant  an  interest  from  us;  and  not  resting  long  in 
any  one  place,  but  travelling  onwards,  we  maintain  that 
desirable  lightness  of  mind : we  are  spectators,  having 
for  the  time  no  duties,  no  ties,  no  associations,  no 
responsibilities ; nothing  to  do  but  to  look  on,  and  look 
fairly.  Another  of  the  great  advantages  of  travel  lies 
in  what  you  learn  from  your  companions;  not  merely 
from  those  you  set  out  with,  or  so  much  from  them  as 
from  those  whom  you  are  thrown  together  with  on  the 
journey.  I reckon  this  advantage  to  be  so  great,  that  I 
should  be  inclined  to  say,  that  you  often  get  more  from 
your  companions  in  travel  than  from  all  you  come  to 
see.  People  imagine  they  are  not  known,  and  that  they 
shall  never  meet  again  with  the  same  company — which 
is  very  likely  so — they  are  free  for  the  time  from  the 
trammels  of  their  business,  profession,  or  calling ; the 
marks  of  the  harness  begin  to  wear  out ; and  altogether 
they  talk  more  like  men  than  slaves  with  their  several 
functions  hanging  like  collars  round  their  necks.  An 
ordinary  man  on  travel  will  sometimes  talk  like  a great 
imaginative  man  at  home,  for  such  are  never  utterly 
enslaved  by  their  functions.  Then  the  diversities  of 
character  you  meet  with  instruct  and  delight  you.  The 
variety  in  language,  dress,  behaviour,  religious  cere- 
monies, mode  of  life,  amusements,  arts,  climate,  govern- 
ment, lays  hold  of  your  attention  and  takes  you  out  of 
the  wheel-tracks  of  your  everyday  cares.  He  must, 
indeed,  be  either  an  angel  of  constancy  and  perseverance, 
or  a wonderfully  obtuse  Caliban  of  a man,  who,  amidst 
all  this  change,  can  maintain  his  private  griefs  or  vexa- 
tions exactly  in  the  same  place  they  held  in  his  heart 
while  he  was  packing  for  his  journey.  The  change  of  lan- 
guage is  alone  a great  delight.  You  pass  along,  living  only 
with  gentlemen  and  scholars,  for  you  rarely  detect  what 
is  vulgar  or  inept  in  the  talk  around  you.  Children’s 
talk  in  another  language  is  not  childish  to  you,  and 
indeed  everything  is  literature,  from  the  announcement 
at  a railway-station  to  the  advertisements  in  a news- 
paper. Read  the  Bible  in  another  tongue,  and  you 
will  perhaps  find  a beauty  in  it  you  have  not  thoroughly 
appreciated  for  years  before. 

[The  Course  of  History .] 

The  course  of  history  is  like  that  of  a great  river 
wandering  through  various  countries;  now,  in  the 
infancy  of  its  current,  collecting  its  waters  from  obscure 
small  springs  in  splashy  meadows,  and  from  uncon- 
sidered rivulets  which  the  neighbouring  rustics  do  not 
know  the  name  of  ; now,  in  its  boisterous  youth,  forcing 
its  way  straight  through  mountains ; now,  in  middle 
life,  going  with  equable  current  busily  by  great  towns, 
its  waters  sullied  yet  enriched  with  commerce ; and 
now,  in  its  burdened  old  age,  making  its  slow  and 
difficult  way  with  great  broad  surface,  over  which  the 
declining  sun  looms  grandly  to  the  sea.  The  uninstructed 
or  careless  traveller  generally  finds  but  one  form  of 
beauty  or  of  meaning  in  the  river : the  romantic  gorge 
or  wild  cascade  is,  perhaps,  the  only  kind  of  scenery 
which  delights  him.  And  so  it  has  often  been  in  our 
estimate  of  history.  Well-fought  battles,  or  the  doings 
of  gay  courts,  or  bloody  revolutions,  have  been  the  chief 
sources  of  attraction  ; while  less  dressed  events,  but  not 
of  less  real  interest  or  import,  have  often  escaped  all 
notice. 

[Discovery  of  the  Pacific  Ocean  by  Vasco  Nunez.] 

Early  in  September  1513  he  set  out  on  his  renowned 
expedition  for  finding  ‘ the  other  sea,’  accompanied  by  a 


hundred  and  ninety  men  well  armed,  and  by  dogs,  which 
were  of  more  avail  than  men,  and  by  Indian  slaves  to  carry 
the  burdens.  He  went  by  sea  to  the  territory  of  his 
father-in-law,  King  Careta,  by  whom  he  was  well  received, 
and,  accompanied  by  whose  Indians,  he  moved  on  into 
Poncha’s  territory.  This  cacique  took  flight,  as  he  had 
done  before,  seeking  refuge  amongst  his  mountains ; but 
Vasco  Nuiiez,  whose  first  thought  in  his  present  under- 
taking was  discovery  and  not  conquest,  sent  messengers 
to  Poncha,  promising  not  to  hurt  him.  The  Indian 
chief  listened  to  these  overtures,  and  came  to  Vasco 
Nunez  with  gold  in  his  hands.  It  was  the  policy 
of  the  Spanish  commander  on  this  occasion  to  keep  his 
word  : we  have  seen  how  treacherous  he  could  be  when 
it  was  not  his  policy ; but  he  now  did  no  harm  to  Poncha, 
and,  on  the  contrary,  he  secured  his  friendship  by  pre- 
senting him  with  looking-glasses,  hatchets,  and  hawk- 
bells,  in  return  for  which  he  obtained  guides  and 
porters  from  among  this  cacique’s  people,  which  enabled 
him  to  prosecute  his  journey.  Following  Poncha’s  guides, 
Vasco  Nunez  and  his  men  commenced  the  ascent  of  the 
mountains,  until  he  entered  the  country  of  an  Indian 
chief  called  Quarequa,  whom  they  found  fully  prepared 
to  resist  them.  The  brave  Indian  advanced  at  the  head 
of  his  troops,  meaning  to  make  a vigorous  attack ; but 
they  could  not  withstand  the  discharge  of  the  firearms ; 
indeed  they  believed  the  Spaniards  to  have  thunder 
and  lightning  in  their  hands — not  an  unreasonable  fancy 
— and,  flying  in  the  utmost  terror  from  the  place  of 
battle,  a total  rout  ensued.  The  rout  was  a bloody  one, 
and  is  described  by  an  author,  who  gained  his  infor- 
mation from  those  who  were  present  at  it,  as  a scene  to 
remind  one  of  the  shambles.  The  king  and  his  prin- 
cipal men  were  slain,  to  the  number  of  six  hundred. 
In  speaking  of  these  people,  Peter  Martyr  makes  mention 
of  the  sweetness  of  their  language,  and  how  all  the 
words  might  be  written  in  Latin  letters,  as  was  also  to 
be  remarked  in  that  of  the  inhabitants  of  Hispaniola. 
This  writer  also  mentions,  and  there  is  reason  for  think- 
ing that  he  was  rightly  informed,  that  there  was  a 
region  not  two  days’  journey  from  Quarequa’s  territory, 
in  which  Vasco  Nunez  found  a race  of  black  men,  who 
were  conjectured  to  have  come  from  Africa,  and  to  have 
been  shipwrecked  on  this  coast.  Leaving  several  of 
his  men,  who  were  ill,  or  overweary,  in  Quarequa’s 
chief  town,  and  taking  with  him  guides  from  this 
country,  the  Spanish  commander  pursued  his  way  up 
the  most  lofty  sierras  there,  until,  on  the  25th  of  Sep- 
tember 1513,  he  came  near  to  the  top  of  a mountain 
from  whence  the  South  Sea  was  visible.  The  distance 
from  Poncha’s  chief  town  to  this  point  was  forty  leagues, 
reckoned  then  six  days’  journey,  but  Vasco  Nunez  and 
his  men  took  twenty-five  days  to  do  it  in,  suffering  much 
from  the  roughness  of  the  ways  and  from  the  want  of 
provisions.  A little  before  Vasco  Nunez  reached  the 
height,  Quarequa’s  Indians  informed  him  of  his  near 
approach  to  it.  It  was  a sight  which  any  man  would 
wish  to  be  alone  to  see.  Vasco  Nunez  bade  his  men 
sit  down  while  he  alone  ascended  and  looked  down 
upon  the  vast  Pacific,  the  first  man  of  the  Old  World,  so 
far  as  we  know,  who  had  done  so.  Falling  on  his  knees, 
he  gave  thanks  to  God  for  the  favour  shewn  to  hirq  in 
his  being  the  first  man  to  discover  and  behold  this  sea ; 
then  with  his  hand  he  beckoned  to  his  men  to  come  up. 
When  they  had  come,  both  he  and  they  knelt  down  and 
poured  forth  their  thanks  to  God.  He  then  addressed 
them  in  these  words:  ‘You  see  here,  gentlemen  and 
children  mine,  how  our  desires  are  being  accomplished, 
and  the  end  of  our  labours.  Of  that  we  ought  to  be 
certain,  for  as  it  has  turned  out  true  what  King 
Comogre’s  son  told  of  this  sea  to  us,  who  never  thought 
to  see  it,  so  I hold  for  certain  that  what  he  told  us  of 
there  being  incomparable  treasures  in  it  will  be  fulfilled. 
God  and  his  blessed  mother  who  have  assisted  us,  so 
that  we  should  arrive  here  and  behold  this  sea,  will 
favour  us  that  we  may  enjoy  all  that  there  is  in  it.’ 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


Every  great  and  original  action  has  a prospective  great- 
ness, not  alone  from  the  thoughts  of  the  man  who 
achieves  it,  hut  from  the  various  aspects  and  high 
thoughts  which  the  same  action  will  continue  to  present 
^and  call  up  in  the  minds  of  others  to  the  end,  it  may 
he,  of  all  time.  And  so  a remarkable  event  may  go 
on  acquiring  more  and  more  significance.  In  this  case, 
our  knowledge  that  the  Pacific,  which  Yasco  Nunez 
then  beheld,  occupies  more  than  one-half  of  the  earth’s 
surface,  is  an  element  of  thought  which  in  our  minds 
lightens  up  and  gives  an  awe  to  this  first  gaze  of  his  upon 
those  mighty  waters.  To  him  the  scene  might  not  at 
that  moment  have  suggested  much  more  than  it  would 
have  done  to  a mere  conqueror ; indeed,  Peter  Martyr 
likens  Yasco  Nunez  to  Hannibal  shewing  Italy  to  his 
soldiers. 

JOHN  WILSON  CROKER. 

The  last  and  most  indefatigable  of  the  original 
corps  of  the  Quarterly  Review  was  Mr  John  "Wilson 
Croker  (1780-1857).  He  was  a native  of  Galway, 
his  father  being  surveyor-general  of  Ireland,  and  he 
was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  His  first 
literary  attempts  were  satirical — Familiar  Epistles 
on  the  Irish  Stage , 1803  ; and  an  Intercepted  Letter 
from  Canton , or  a satire  on  the  city  of  Dublin,  1805. 
These  local  productions  were  followed  by  Songs  of 
Trafalgar,  1806,  and  a pamphlet,  entitled  A Sketch 
of  Ireland,  Past  and  Present,  1807.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  his  Life  of  Swift,  has  copied  one  passage 
from  this  Sketch,  which  appears  to  be  an  imitation 
of  the  style  of  Grattan. 

[ Character  of  Swift.] 

On  this  gloom  one  luminary  rose,  and  Ireland 
worshipped  it  with  Persian  idolatry ; her  true  patriot — 
her  first — almost  her  last.  Sagacious  and  intrepid,  he 
saw — he  dared ; above  suspicion,  he  was  trusted ; above 
envy,  he  was  beloved;  above  rivalry,  he  was  obeyed. 
His  wisdom  was  practical  and  prophetic — remedial  for 
the  present,  warning  for  the  future.  He  first  taught 
Ireland  that  she  might  become  a nation,  and  England 
that  she  must  cease  to  be  a despot.  But  he  was  a 
churchman;  his  gown  impeded  his  course,  and  entangled, 
his  efforts.  Guiding  a senate,  or  heading  an  army,  he 
had  been  more  than  Cromwell,  and  Ireland  not  less 
than  England.  As  it  was,  he  saved  her  by  his  courage, 
improved  her  by  his  authority,  adorned  her  by  his 
talents,  and  exalted  her  by  his  fame.  His  mission  was 
but  of  ten  years,  and  for  ten  years  only  did  his  personal 
power  mitigate  the  government ; but  though  no  longer 
feared  by  the  great,  he  was  not  forgotten  by  the  wise ; 
his  influence,  like  his  writings,  has  survived  a century ; 
and  the  foundations  of  whatever  prosperity  we  have 
since  erected  are  laid  in  the  disinterested  and  magnani- 
mous patriotism  of  Swift. 

Mr  Croker  studied  law  at  Lincoln’s  Inn,  but 
getting  into  parliament  for  the  borough  of  Down- 
patrick (1807),  he  struck  into  that  path  of  public 
life  which  he  was  fitted  to  turn  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. In  1809  he  took  a prominent  part  in  defend- 
ing the  Duke  of  York  during  the  parliamentary 
investigation  into  the  conduct  of  his  Royal  Highness, 
and  shortly  afterwards  he  was  made  Secretary  to 
the  Admiralty,  an  office  which  he  held  until  1830, 
when  he  retired  with  a pension  of  £1500  per  annum. 
In  1809  he  published  anonymously  The  Battles  of 
Talavera,  a poem  in  the  style  of  Scott,  and  which 
Sir  Walter  reviewed  in  the  second  volume  of  the 
Quarterly  Review.  In  the  same  style  Mr  Croker 
commemorated  the  Battle  of  Albuera,  1811.  This 
seems  to  have  been  the  last  of  his  poetical  efforts. 
He  was  now  busy  •with  the  Quarterly  Review. 

782 


Criticism,  properly  so  called,  he  never  attempted. 
His  articles  were  all  personal  or  historical,  confined 
to  attacks  on  Whigs  and  Jacohins,  or  to  the  recti- 
fication of  dates  and  facts  regarding  public  char- 
acters and  events.  He  was  the  reviewer  of  Keats’s 
Endymion  in  1818,  to  'which  Byron  playfully 
alluded : 

Who  killed  John  Keats? 

I,  says  the  Quarterly, 

So  savage  and  Tartarly, 

’Twas  one  of  my  feats. 

But  this  deadly  article  is  only  a piece  of  abuse  of 
three  pages,  in  which  Keats  is  styled  a copyist  of 
Leigh  Hunt,  ‘ more  unintelligible,  almost  as  rugged, 
twice  as  diffuse,  and  ten  times  more  tiresome  and 
absurd  than  his  prototype.’  Lady  Morgan’s  Italy 
is  despatched  in  the  same  trenchant  style.  But 
one  of  Mr  Croker’s  greatest  ‘ feats  ’ in  this  way  was 
mortifying  the  vanity  of  Fanny  Burney  or  Madame 
D’Arblay,  who  wished  to  have  it  believed  that  she 
was  only  seventeen  when  her  novel  of  Evelina  was 
published.  She  kept  up  the  delusion  without 
exactly  giving  the  date ; but  the  reviewer,  knowing 
that  she  was  born  at  Lynn,  in  Norfolk,  had  the 
parish-register  examined,  and  found  that  the  fair 
novelist  was  baptised  in  June  1752,  and  conse- 
quently was  between  twenty-five  and  twenty-six 
years  of  age  when  Evelina  appeared,  instead  of 
being  a prodigy  of  seventeen.  Mr  Croker’s  success 
in  this  species  of  literary  statistics  led  him  after- 
wards to  apply  it  to  the  case  of  the  Empress 
Josephine  and  Napoleon;  he  had  the  French 
registers  examined,  and  from  them  proved  that 
both  Josephine  and  Napoleon  had  falsified  their 
ages.  This  fact,  with  other  disparaging  details,  the 
reviewer  brought  out  in  a paper  which  appeared 
on  the  occasion  of  the  present  emperor’s  visit  to 
England — no  doubt  to  mortify  the  new  Napoleon 
dynasty.  In  the  same  spirit  he  assailed  Soult  when 
he  visited  this  country — recounting  all  his  military 
errors  and  defeats,  and  reminding  him  that  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  had  deprived  him  of  his  dinner 
at  Oporto  in  1809  and  at  Waterloo  in  1815.  The 
duke  is  said  to  have  been  seriously  displeased  with 
the  reviewer  on  account  of  this  mistimed  article. 
Two  of  the  later  contributions  to  the  Review  by 
Mr  Croker  made  considerable  noise.  We  refer  to 
those  on  Macaulay’s  History  and  Moore’s  Memoirs. 
In  the  case  of  the  former,  Mr  Rogers  said  Croker 
‘attempted  murder,  but  only  committed  suicide.’ 
With  Moore  the  reviewer  had  been  on  friendly 
terms.  They  were  countrymen  and  college  acquaint- 
ances ; and  when  Lord  John  Russell  published  the 
poet’s  journals  for  the  benefit  of  his  widow,  a gener- 
ous man,  who  had  known  the  deceased,  would  have 
abstained  from  harsh  comments.  Croker  applied 
the  scalpel  without  mercy ; -Lord  J ohn  ventured  a 
remark  on  the  critic’s  ‘ safe  malignity ; ’ and  Croker 
retaliated  by  shewing  that  Moore  had  been  record- 
ing unfavourable  notices  of  him  in  his  journal  at 
the  very  time  that  he  was  cultivating  his  acquaint- 
ance by  letters,  and  soliciting  favours  at  his  hands. 
Lord  John’s  faults  as  an  editor  were  also  unspar- 
ingly exposed ; and  on  the  whole,  in  all  but  good 
feeling,  Croker  was  triumphant  in  this  passage-at- 
arms.  With  Mr  Disraeli  he  had  also  some  differ- 
ence, and  the  former  satirised  him  under  the  name 
of  ‘ Rigby  ’ in  his  novel  of  Coningsby.  Mr  Croker, 
however,  did  good  service  to  literature  by  his 
annotated  edition  of  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson,  and 
his  publication  of  the  Suffolk  Papers,  the  Letters 
of  Lady  Hervey,  and  Lord  Hervey’s  Memoirs  of  the 
Court  of  George  II.  He  wrote  Stories  from  the 
History  of  England  for  Children , which  had  the 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


merit  of  serving  as  a model  for  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 
Tales  of  a Grandfather , and  he  collected  some  of  his 
contributions  to  the  Review , and  published  them 
under  the  title  of  Essays  on  the  Early  Period  of  the 
French  Revolution.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was 
engaged  in  preparing  an  edition  of  Pope’s  works. 


DR  DORAN. 

In  the  department  of  light  parlour-books  or  Ana, 
the  works  of  Dr  John  Doran  have  had  great 
success.  His  Table  Traits , and  Something  on  Them , 
1854,  is  chiefly  on  the  art  of  dining,  and  evinces  a 
great  extent  of  curious  reading  and  observation. 
His  next  work,  Habits  and  Men , with  Remnants  of 
Record  touching  the  Makers  of  both  (also  1854),  is 
full  of  anecdotes,  illustrative  of  eminent  persons, 
customs,  manners,  dress,  &c.  Next  year  the  author 
produced  Lives  of  the  Queens  of  England  of  the  House 
of  Hanover , two  volumes.  This  work  is  also  chiefly 
anecdotical,  and  presents  interior  pictures  of  the 
courts  of  the  three  Georges — the  last  happily  forming 
a strong  contrast  to  the  coarseness  and  licentiousness 
of  George  I.  and  George  II.  Knights  and  their  Days, 
1856,  is  a chronicle  of  knighthood  from  Falstaff 
downwards,  with  anecdotes,  quaint  stories,  whimsical 
comments,  and  episodes  of  all  kinds.  Monarchs 
Retired  from  Business , two  volumes,  1 857,  is  a work 
of  the  same  complexion,  relating  to  kings  and  rulers 
who  voluntarily  or  involuntarily — Louis-Philippe 
among  the  latter — abandoned  the  cares  and  state 
of  government.  The  History  of  Court  Fools,  1858, 
embraces  a good  deal  of  historical  anecdote  and 
illustration ; and  a few  months  afterwards  the  inde- 
fatigable doctor  was  ready  with  New  Pictures  and 
Old  Panels , another  collection  of  Ana,  relating  to 
authors,  actors,  actresses,  preachers,  and  vanities 
of  all  sorts.  Dr  Doran’s  next  appearance  was  as  an 
editor:  Journal  of  the  Reign  of  King  George  III., 
from  the  year  1771  to  1783,  by  Horace  Walpole; 
being  a Supplement  to  his  Memoirs,  now  first  published 
from  the  Original  Manuscripts ; edited  with  Notes  ; by 
Dr  Doran,  two  volumes,  1859.  As  an  historian, 
Horace  Walpole  was  not  to  be  trusted ; he  was 
rather  a brilliant  gossip  with  strong  prejudices ; but 
he  could  not  have  had  a better  editor  than  Dr  Doran, 
who  could  trace  him  into  all  his  recesses  and  books, 
and  was  familiar  with  the  characters  and  events  of 
which  he  treated.  The  editor’s  notes,  indeed,  are 
very  much  like  the  author’s  text,  and  he  had  applied 
himself  assiduously  to  his  task.  We  extract  a few 
scraps  from  the  doctor’s  various  gleanings. 

[ The  Style  Royal  and  Critical — the  Plural ‘ Wei] 

With  respect  to  the  style  and  title  of  kings,  it  may 
j be  here  stated  that  the  royal  ‘We’  represents,  or  was 
supposed  originally  to  represent,  the  source  of  the 
| national  power,  glory,  and  intellect,  in  the  august  power 
of  the  sovereign.  ‘ Le  Roi  le  veut  ’ — the  King  will 
[ have  it  so — sounded  as  arrogantly  as  it  -was  meant  to 
sound  in  the  royal  Norman  mouth.  It  is  a mere  form, 
now  that  royalty  in  England  has  been  relieved  of  respon- 
sibilify.  In  haughtiness  of  expression  it  was  matched 
by  the  old  French  formula  at  the  end  of  a decree  : ‘ For 
such  is  our  good  pleasure.’  The  royal  subscription  in 
Spain,  ‘ Yo,  el  Re’ — I,  the  King — has  a thundering  sort 
of  echo  about  it  too.  The  only  gallant  expression  to  be 
found  in  royal  addresses  was  made  by  the  kings  of 
France— that  is,  by  the  mairied  kings.  Thus,  when  the 
French  monarch  summoned  a council  to  meet  upon 
affairs  of  importance,  and  desired  to  have  around  him 
the  princes  of  the  blood  and  the  wiser  nobility  of  the 
realm,  his  majesty  invariably  commenced  his  address 


DR  DORAN. 


with  the  words,  ‘Having  previously  consulted  on  this 
matter  with  the  queen,’  &c.  It  is  very  probable,  almost 
certain,  that  the  king  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort  ; 
but  the  assurance  that  he  had,  seemed  to  give  a certain 
sort  of  dignity  to  the  consort  in  the  eyes  of  the  grandees 
and  the  people  at  large.  Old  Michel  de  Marolles  was 
proud  of  this  display  of  gallantry  on  the  part  of  the 
kings  of  France.  ‘ According  to  my  thinking,’  says  the 
garrulous  old  abbe  of  Villeloin,  ‘ this  is  a matter  highly 
worthy  of  notice,  although  few  persons  have  condescended 
to  make  remarks  thereon  down  to  this  present  time.’ 
It  may  here  be  added,  with  respect  to  English  kings, 
'that  the  first  ‘king’s  speech’  ever  delivered  was  by 
Henry  I.  in  1107.  Exactly  a century  later,  King  John 
first  assumed  the  royal  ‘ We : ’ it  had  never  before  been 
employed  in  England.  The  same  monarch  has  the 
credit  of  having  been  the  first  English  king  who  claimed 
for  England  the  sovereignty  of  the  seas.  ‘ Grace,’  and 
‘ My  Liege,’  were  the  ordinary  titles  by  which  our  Henry 
IV.  was  addressed.  ‘ Excellent  Grace  ’ was  given  to 
Henry  VI.,  who  was  not  the  one,  nor  yet  had  the  other ; 
Edward  IV.  was  ‘ Most  High  and  Mighty  Prince ; ’ 
Henry  VII.  was  the  first  English  ‘ Highness ; ’ Henry 
VIII.  was  the  first  complimented  by  the  title  of  ‘ Majesty ; ’ 
and  James  I.  prefixed  to  the  last  title  ‘Sacred  and  Most 
Excellent.’ 

[ Visit  of  George  III.  and  Queen  Charlotte  to  the  City 
of  London.] 

The  queen  was  introduced  to  the  citizens  of  London 
on  Lord-Mayor’s  Day ; on  which  occasion  they  may  be 
said  emphatically  to  have  ‘ made  a day  of  it.’  They 
left  St  James’s  Palace  at  noon,  and  in  great  state, 
accompanied  by  all  the  royal  family,  escorted  by  guards, 
and  cheered  by  the  pedple,  whose  particular  holiday 
was  thus  shared  in  common.  There  was  the  usual 
ceremony  at  Temple  Bar  of  opening  the  gates  to  royalty, 
and  giving  it  welcome;  and  there  was  the  once  usual 
address  made  at  the  east  end  of  St  Paul’s  Churchyard, 
by  the  senior  scholar  of  Christ’s  Hospital  school. 
Having  survived  the  cumbrous  formalities  of  the 
first,  and  smiled  at  the  flowery  figures  of  the  second,  the 
royal  party  proceeded  on  their  way,  not  to  Guildhall, 
but  to  the  house  of  Mr  Barclay,  the  patent  medicine- 
vendor,  an  honest  Quaker  whom  the  king  respected,  and 
ancestor  to  the  head  of  the  firm  whose  name  is  not 
unmusical  to  Volscian  ears — Barclay,  Perkins,  & Co. 
Robert  Barclay,  the  only  surviving  son  of  the  author  of 
the  same  name,  who  wrote  the  celebrated  Apology  for 
the  Quakers,  and  who  was  now  the  king’s  entertainer, 
was  an  octogenarian,  who  had  entertained  in  the  same 
house  two  Georges  before  he  had  given  welcome  to  the 
third  George  and  his  Queen  Charlotte.  The  hearty 
old  man,  without  abandoning  Quaker  simplicity,  went 
a little  beyond  it,  in  order  to  do  honour  to  the  young 
queen ; and  he  hung  his  balcony  and  rooms  with  a 
brilliant  crimson  damask,  that  must  have  scattered 
blushes  on  all  who  stood  near — particularly  on  the 
cheeks  of  the  crowds  of  ‘ Friends’  who  had  assembled 
within  the  house  to  do  honour  to  their  sovereigns.  * * 

Queen  Charlotte  and  George  III.  were  the  last  of  our 
sovereigns  who  thus  honoured  a Lord-Mayor’s  show. 
And  as  it  ivas  the  last  occasion,  and  that  the  young 
Queen  Charlotte  was  the  heroine  of  the  day,  the  oppor- 
tunity may  be  profited  by  to  shew  how  that  royal  lady 
looked  and  bore  herself  in  the  estimation  of  one  of  the 
Miss  Barclays,  whose  letter,  descriptive  of  the  scene, 
appeared  forty-seven  years  subsequently,  in  1808.  The 
following  extracts  are  very  much  to  our  purpose:  ‘About 
one  o’clock  papa  and  mamma,  with  sister  Western  to 
attend  them,  took  their  stand  at  the  street-door,  where 
my  two  brothers  had  long  been  to  receive  the  nobility, 
more  than  a hundred  of  whom  were  then  waiting  in  the 
warehouse.  As  the  royal  family  came,  they  were  con- 
ducted into  one  of  the  counting-houses,  which  was 


to  1859.  i 


transformed  into  a very  pretty  parlour.  At  half -past  two 
their  majesties  came,  which  was  two  hours  later  than 
they  intended.  On  the  second  pair  of  stairs  was  placed 
our  own  company,  about  forty  in  number,  the  chief  of  ' 
whom  were  of  the  Puritan  order,  and  all  in  their  orthodox  1 
habits.  Next  to  the  drawing-room  doors  were  placed 
our  own  selves,  I mean  papa’s  children,  none  else,  to  the 
great  mortification  of  visitors,  being  allowed  to  enter ; 
for  as  kissing  the  king’s  hand  without  kneeling  was  an 
unexampled  honour,  the  king  confined  that  privilege  to 
our  own  family,  as  a return  for  the  trouble  we  had  been  : 
at.  After  the  royal  pair  had  shewn  themselves  at  the  ; 
balcony,  we  were  all  introduced,  and  you  may  believe,  i 
at  that  juncture,  we  felt  no  small  palpitations.  The  1 
king  met  us  at  the  door— a condescension  I did  I 
not  expect — at  which  place  he  saluted  us  with  great  ■ 
politeness.  Advancing  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  ! 
we  kissed  the  queen’s  hand,  at  the  sight  of  whom  we 
were  all  in  raptures,  not  only  from  the  brilliancy  of  her 
appearance,  which  was  pleasing  beyond  description,  but  j 
being  throughout  her  whole  person  possessed  of  that  ! 
inexpressible  something  that  is  beyond  a set  of  features, 
and  equally  claims  our  attention.  To  be  sure,  she  has 
not  a fine  face,  but  a most  agreeable  countenance,  and  is 
vastly  genteel,  with  an  air,  notwithstanding  her  being  a 
little  woman,  truly  majestic ; and  I really  think,  by  her  ; 
manner  is  expressed  that  complacency  of  disposition 
which  is  truly  amiable:  and  though  I could  never 
perceive  that  she  deviated  from  that  dignity  which 
belongs  to  a crowned  head,  yet  on  the  most  trifling 
occasions  she  displayed  all  that  easy  behaviour  that 
negligence  can  bestow.  Her  hair,  which  is  of  a light 
colour,  hung  in  what  is  called  coronation-ringlets, 
encircled  in  a band  of  diamonds,  so  beautiful  in  them- 
selves, and  so  prettily  disposed,  as  will  admit  of  no 
description.  Her  clothes,  which  were  as  rich  as  gold, 
silver,  and  silk  could  make  them,  was  a suit  from  which 
fell  a train  supported  by  a little  page  in  scarlet  and 
silver.  The  lustre  of  her  stomacher  was  inconceivable. 
The  king  I think  a very  personable  man.  All  the 
princes  followed  the  king’s  example  in  complimenting 
each  of  us  with  a kiss.  The  queen  was  up  stairs  three 
times,  and  my  little  darling,  with  Patty  Barclay,  and 
Priscilla  Ball,  were  introduced  to  her.  I was  present, 
and  not  a little  anxious  on  account  of  my  girl,  who 
kissed  the  queen's  hand  with  so  much  grace  that  I 
thought  the  princess-dowager  would  have  smothered 
her  with  kisses.  Such  a report  was  made  of  her  to  the 
king,  that  Miss  was  sent  for,  and  afforded  him  great 
amusement  by  saying,  * that  she  loved  the  king,  though 
she  must  not  love  fine  things,  and  her  grandpapa  would 
not  allow  her  to  make  a curtsey.’  Her  sweet  face  made 
such  an  impression  on  the  Duke  of  York,  that  I rejoiced 
she  was  only  five  instead  of  fifteen.  When  he  first  met 
her,  he  tried  to  persuade  Miss  to  let  him  introduce  her 
to  the  queen  ; but  she  would  by  no  means  consent  till 
I informed  her  he  was  a prince,  upon  which  her  little 
female  heart  relented,  and  she  gave  him  her  hand — a 
true  copy  of  the  sex.  The  king  never  sat  down,  nor  did 
he  taste  anything  during  the  whole  time.  Her  majesty 
drank  tea,  which  was  brought  her  on  a silver  waiter  by 
brother  John,  who  delivered  it  to  the  lady-in-waiting, 
and  she  presented  it  kneeling.  The  leave  they  took  of 
us  was  such  as  we  might  expect  from  our  equals ; full 
of  apologies  for  our  trouble  for  their  entertainment — 
which  they  were  so  anxious  to  have  explained,  that  the 
queen  came  up  to  us,  as  we  stood  on  one  side  of  the 
door,  and  had  every  word  interpreted.  My  brothers  1 
had  the  honour  of  assisting  the  queen  into  her  coach,  j 
Some  of  us  sat  up  to  see  them  return,  and  the  king  and 
queen  took  especial  notice  of  us  as  they  passed.  The  king  j 
ordered  twenty-four  of  his  guard  to  be  placed  opposite  ■ 
our  door  all  night,  lest  any  of  the  canopy  should  be  j 
pulled  down  by  the  mob,  in  which  [the  canopy,  it  is  i 
to  be  presumed]  there  were  one  hundred  yards  of  silk  j 
damask.’ 

784 


In  Allibone's  Dictionary  of  British  and  American 
| Authors,  1859,  we  find  the  following  biographical 
J particulars  relative  to  the  above  author : ‘ John 
Doran,  LL.D.,  bom  1807  in  London— family  ori- 
ginally of  Drogheda,  in  Ireland.  He  was  educated 
chiefly  hv  his  father.  His  literary  bent  was  mani- 
; fested  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  when  he  produced  the 
melodrama  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  which  was  first 
! played  at  the  Surrey  Theatre  in  1822  for  Tom 
Blanchard’s  benefit.  His  early  years  were  spent  in 
[ France.  He  was  successively  tutor  in  four  of  the 
^noblest  families  in  Great  Britain.’ 

EMEU  SOS,  LOUDON,  ETC. 

Among  the  American  authors  well  known  in  this 
country  is  Me  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  formerly  a 
Unitarian  preacher  at  Boston,  and  born  in  1803. 

; His  principal  works  are — Nature,  ah  Essay,  1815  ; 
Essays , two  series,  1S46 ; Poems , 1817 ; Represen  t- 
! ative  Jj fen,  1850 ; English  Traits,  1856.  The  ethical 
writings  of  Mr  Emerson  are  of  little  value,  but  his 
essays  display  original  thought  and  observation. 
His  style — apparently  modelled  after  that  of  Carlyle 
— is  marred  by  affectation  and  conceits. 

John  Claudius  Loudon  (1783-1S43)  stands  at 
the  head  of  all  the  writers  of  his  day  upon  subjects 
connected  with  horticulture.  He  was  a native  of 
Cambuslang,  in  Lanarkshire : and  having  been 
brought  up  as  a landscape-gardener  and  farmer, 
he  settled  in  London  as  a writer  on  his  favourite 
pursuits.  His  chief  productions  are  an  Encyclo- 
paedia of  Gardening,  1822 ; Encyclopaedia  of  Agri- 
culture, 1825  ; Encyclopaedia  of  Plants,  1829 ; Ency- 
clopaedia of  Cottage,  Villa,  and  Farm  Architecture, 
1832 ; and  Arboretum  Britannicum,  eight  volumes, 
1838.  The  Arboretum  consists  of  four  volumes  of 
close  letterpress  and  four  of  pictorial  illustrations, 
and  presents  such  a mass  of  information  and  reading 
as  might  apparently  have  been  the  work  of  a life- 
time. In  1830  Mr  Loudon  married  a lady,  Miss 
Webb,  of  kindred  taste  and  talent,  who  entered 
with  great  spirit  into  his  literary  schemes,  and  was 
authoress  of  The  Lady’s  Flower  Companion,  Garden- 
ing for  Ladies,  Philanthropic  Economy,  &c.  After 
the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs  Loudon  received  a 
pension  of  £100  per  annum,  which  she  enjoyed  till 
her  death  in  1858. 

Mr  Edward  Jesse,  surveyor  of  Her  Majesty’s 
parks  and  palaces,  is  author  of  An  Angler’s  Rambles, 
1S36  ; Gleanings  in  Natural  History,  1838  ; Favourite 
Haunts  and  Rural  Studies,  1847  ; Scenes  and  Occupa- 
tions of  Country  Life,  1853 ; &c.  These  works  of  Mr 
J esse  are  very  pleasingly  written,  and  are  excellent 
companions  in  the  country.  Sketches  from  Nature, 
1830,  by  John  MDiarmid  (1789-1852),  describes 
Scottish  scenes  and  studies  by  a man  of  genial  spirit 
and  observation,  who*  as  editor  of  the  Dumfries 
Couriei',  did  much  to  spread  a taste  for  natural 
history  and  agricultural  improvement  over  the  south 
of  Scotland.  A series  of  tours  by  Mr  Walter 
White  are  interesting  works  of  this  class.  These 
are — A Londoner's  WaVc  to  Land's  End,  1854 ; On 
Foot  through  the  Tyrol,  1856 ; A July  Holiday  in 
Saxony;  A Month  in  Yorkshire;  &c.  An  eminent 
physician.  Sir  John  Forbes,  has  shewn  what  may 
be  done  in  a four  weeks’  ramble : his  Physician's 
Holiday,  or  a Month  in  Switzerland  in  the  Summer  of 
1848,  is  a clear  and  animated  narrative.  A vast 
number  of  interesting  descriptive  works  of  this  kind 
have  been  published  within  the  last  twenty  years. 
The  increased  study  of  natural  history  and  geology, 
and  the  facilities  which  have  been  opened  up  for 
cheap  travelling,  tempt  students  and  literary  tourists 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


REV.  H.  SOUTHGATE. 


abroad,  and  good  works  of  this  class  find  ready 
publishers  and  readers. 


TRAVELLERS. 

Every  season  adds  to  our  library  of  foreign 
travels  and  adventures.  Dr  Edward  Clarke  saw 
and  described  more  of  the  East,  as  Byron  said,  than 
any  of  his  predecessors,  but  a numerous  tribe  of 
followers  has  succeeded.  Travels  in  the  East,  by 
the  Rev.  Horatio  Southgate,  1840,  describe  the 
traveller’s  route  through  Greece,  Turkey,  Armenia, 
Koordistan,  Persia,  and  Mesopotamia,  and  give  a 
good  account  of  the  Mohammedan  religion  and  its 
rites  and  ceremonies.  The  following  is  a correction 
of  a vulgar  error : 

[. Religious  Status  of  Women  in  the  Mohammedan 
System.] 

The  place  which  the  Mohammedan  system  assigns  to 
woman  in  the  other  world  has  often  been  wrongfully 
represented.  It  is  not  true,  as  has  sometimes  been 
reported,  that  Mohammedan  teachers  deny  her  admis- 
sion to  the  felicities  of  Paradise.  The  doctrine  of  the 
Koran  is,  most  plainly,  that  her  destiny  is  to  be  deter- 
mined in  like  manner  with  that  of  every  accountable 
being  ; and  according  to  the  judgment  passed  upon  her 
is  her  reward,  although  nothing  definite  is  said  of  the 
place  which  she  is  to  occupy  in  Paradise.  Mohammed 
speaks  repeatedly  of  ‘ believing  women,’  commends 
them,  and  promises  them  the  recompense  which  their 
good  deeds  deserve. 

The  regulations  of  the  Sunneh  are  in  accordance 
with  the  precepts  of  the  Koran.  So  far  is  woman  from 
being  regarded  in  these  institutions  as  a creature  with- 
out a soul,  that  special  allusion  is  frequently  made  to 
her,  and  particular  directions  given  for  her  religious 
conduct.  Respecting  her  observance  of  Ramazan,  her 
ablutions,  and  many  other  matters,  her  duty  is  taught 
with  a minuteness  that  borders  on  indecorous  precision. 
She  repeats  the  creed  in  dying,  and,  like  other  Mussul- 
mans, says : ‘ In  this  faith  I have  lived,  in  this  faith  I 
die,  and  in  this  faith  I hope  to  rise  again.’  She  is 
required  to  do  everything  of  religious  obligation  equally 
with  men.  The  command  to  perform  the  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca  extends  to  her.  In  my  journeys,  I often  met 
with  women  on  their  way  to  the  Holy  City.  They  may 
even  undertake  this  journey  without  the  consent  of 
their  husbands,  whose  authority  in  religious  matters 
extends  only  to  those  acts  of  devotion  which  are  not 
obligatory. 

Women  are  not,  indeed,  allowed  to  be  present  in  the 
mosques  at  the  time  of  public  prayers ; but  the  reason 
is  not  that  they  are  regarded,  like  pagan  females,  as 
unsusceptible  of  religious  sentiments,  but  because  the 
meeting  of  the  two  sexes  in  a sacred  place  is  supposed 
to  be  unfavourable  to  devotion.  This,  however,  is  an 
Oriental,  not  a Mohammedan  prejudice.  The  custom  is 
nearly  the  same  among  the  Christians  as  among  the 
Mussulmans.  In  the  Greek  churches  the  females  are 
separated  from  the  males,  and  concealed  behind  a lattice ; 
and  something  of  the  same  kind  I have  observed  among 
the  Christians  of  Mesopotamia. 

Letters  from  the  South , two  volumes,  1837,  by  Mr 
Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet,  give  an  account  of  a 
voyage  made  by  that  gentleman  to  Algiers.  The 
letters  are  descriptive,  without  any  political  or 
colonial  views,  but  full  of  entertaining  gossip  and 
poetical  sketches  of  striking  and  picturesque  objects. 
The  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  mountain  scenery 
seems  to  have  astonished  Campbell.  ‘The  African 
highlands,’  he  says,  ‘spring  up  to  the  sight  not  only 


with  a sterner  boldness  than  our  own,  but  they 
borrow  colours  from  the  sun  unknown  to  our 
climate,  and  they  are  marked  in  clouds  of  richer 
dye.  The  furthest  off  summits  appeared  in  their  ! 
snow  like  the  turbans  of  gigantic  Moors,  whilst  I 
the  nearer  masses  glared  in  crimson  and  gold  under 
the  light  of  morning.’ 

Six  Years'  Residence  in  Algiers , by  Mrs  Brough- 
ton, published  in  1839,  is  an  interesting  domestic 
chronicle.  The  authoress  was  daughter  to  Mr 
Blanckley,  the  British  consul-general  at  Algiers; 
and  the  work  is  composed  of  a journal  kept  by  Mrs 
Blanckley,  with  reminiscences  by  her  daughter,  Mrs 
Broughton.  The  vivacity,  minute  description,  and 
kindly  feeling  everywhere  apparent  in  this  book 
render  it  highly  attractive. 

Discoveries  in  the  Interior  of  Africa,  by  Sir  James 
Alexander,  two  volumes,  1838,  describe  a journey 
from  Cape  Town,  of  about  four  thousand  miles,  and 
occupying  above  a year,  towards  the  tracts  of 
country  inhabited  by  the  Damaras,  a nation  of 
which  very  little  was  known,  and  generally  the 
country  to  the  north  of  the  Orange  River,  on  the 
west  coast.  The  author’s  personal  adventures  are 
interesting,  and  it  appears  that  the  aborigines  are  a 
kind  and  friendly  tribe  of  people,  with  whom  Sir 
James  Alexander  thinks  that  an  extended  inter- 
course may  be  maintained  for  the  mutual  benefit  of 
the  colonists  and  the  natives. 

Captain  Richard  Francis  Burton,  of  the 
Bombay  army,  is  author  of  a Personal  Narrative  of  a 
Pilgrimage  to  El  Medinah  and  Meccah,  three  volumes, 
1856-57.  This  is  a highly  interesting  work.  Cap- 
tain Burton  travelled  as  an  Afghan  pilgrim  to  the 
Holy  Places  in  Arabia.  He  has  also  explored  a vast 
region  of  Eastern  and  Central  Africa,  never  before 
traversed  by  any  geographer,  and  discovered  the 
great  internal  lake  of  Tanganyika,  300  miles  long 
and  30  broad. 

A Journal  Written  during  an  Excursion  in  Asia 
Minor  in  1838,  by  Charles  Fellows,  is  valuable 
from  the  author’s  discoveries  in  Pamphylia.  Mr 
Fellows  has  also  written  a second  work,  Ancient 
Lycia,  an  Account  of  Discoveries  made  during  a Second 
Excursion  to  Asia  Minor  in  1840.  Lieut.  J.  R. 
Wellsted,  author  of  Travels  in  Arabia,  the  Penin- 
sula of  Sinai,  and  along  the  Shores  of  the  Red  Sea 
(1838),  and  Lord  Lindsay,  in  his  Letters  on  Egypt, 
Edom,  and  the  Holy  Land  (1838),  supply  some 
additional  details.  The  scene  of  the  encampment 
of  the  Israelites,  after  crossing  the  Red  Sea,  is  thus 
described  by  Lord  Lindsay : 

[The  Red  Sea.] 

The  bright  sea  suddenly  burst  on  us,  a sail  in  the 
distance,  and  the  blue  mountains  of  Africa  beyond  it — 
a lovely  vista.  But  when  we  had  fairly  issued  into  the 
plain  on  the  sea-shore,  beautiful  indeed,  most  beautiful 
was  the  view — the  whole  African  coast,  from  Gebel 
Ataka  to  Gebel  Krarreb,  lay  before  us,  washed  by  the 
Red  Sea — a vast  amphitheatre  of  mountains,  except  the 
space  where  the  waters  were  lost  in  distance  between 
the  Asiatic  and  Libyan  promontories.  It  was  the  stillest 
hour  of  day  ; the  sun  shone  brightly,  descending  to  ‘ his 
palace  in  the  Occident;’  the  tide  was  coming  in  with 
its  peaceful  pensive  murmurs,  wave  after  wave.  It  was 
in  this  plain,  broad  and  perfectly  smooth  from  the 
mountains  to  the  sea,  that  the  children  of  Israel 
encamped  after  leaving  Elim.  What  a glorious  scene 
it  must  then  have  presented  ! and  how  nobly  those 
rocks,  now  so  silent,  must  have  re-echoed  the  Song  of 
Moses  and  its  ever-returning  chorus — ‘Sing  ye  to  the 
Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously ; the  horse  and 
his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea  ! ’ 

785 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  in  1854,  published  an 
interesting,  unpretending  volume,  entitled  A Diary 
in  Turkish  and  Greek  Waters.  His  lordship  is  also 
author  of  a lecture  on  Pope,  and  of  a paraphrase  in 
verse,  The  Second  Vision  of  Daniel , 1858. 

A narrative  of  Eastern  travels,  entitled  Eothen, 
by  Mr  Alexander  William  Kinglake,  M.P.,  has 
been  justly  admired  for  its  vivid  description  and 
eloquent  expression  of  sentiment.  In  the  discursive 
style  of  Sterne,  Mr  Kinglake  rambles  over  the  East, 
setting  down,  as  he  says,  not  those  impressions 
} which  ought  to  have  been  produced  upon  any 
‘ well-constituted  mind,’  but  those  which  were 
really  and  truly  received  at  the  time.  We 
subjoin  his  account  of 

[ The  Sphynxi] 

And  near  the  Pyramids,  more  wondrous  and  more 
awful  than  all  else  in  the  land  of  Egypt,  there  sits  the 
lonely  Sphynx.  Comely  the  creature  is,  but  the  come- 
liness is  not  of  this  world ; the  once  worshipped  beast 
is  a deformity  and  a monster  to  this  generation,  and  yet 
you  can  see  that  those  lips,  so  thick  and  heavy,  were 
fashioned  according  to  some  ancient  mould  of  beauty 
— some  mould  of  beauty  now  forgotten — forgotten 
because  that  Greece  drew  forth  Cytherea  from  the 
flashing  foam  of  the  iEgean,  and  in  her  image  created 
new  forms  of  beauty,  and  made  it  a law  among  men 
that  the  short  and  proudly  wreathed  lip  should  stand 
for  the  sign  and  the  main  condition  of  loveliness  through 
all  generations  to  come.  Yet  still  there  lives  on  the 
race  of  those  who  -were  beautiful  in  the  fashion  of  the 
elder  world,  and  Christian  girls  of  Coptic  blood  will 
look  on  you  with  the  sad,  serious  gaze,  and  kiss  you 
your  charitable  hand  with  the  big  pouting  lips  of  the 
very  Sphynx 

Laugh  and  mock  if  you  will  at  the  worship  of  stone 
idols ; but  mark  ye  this,  ye  breakers  of  images,  that  in 
one  regard  the  stone  idol  bears  awful  semblance  of 
Deity — unchangefulness  in  the  midst  of  change — the 
same  seeming  will,  and  intent  for  ever  and  ever  inexor- 
able ! Upon  ancient  dynasties  of  Ethiopian  and 
Egyptian  kings — upon  Greek  and  Roman,  upon  Arab 
and  Ottoman  conquerors — upon  Napoleon  dreaming  of 
an  Eastern  empire — upon  battle  and  pestilence — upon 
the  ceaseless  misery  of  the  Egyptian  race — upon  keen- 
eyed travellers— Herodotus  yesterday,  and  Warburton 
to-day — upon  all  and  more  this  unworldly  Sphynx  has 
watched,  and  watched  like  a Providence  with  the  same 
earnest  eyes,  and  the  same  sad,  tranquil  mien.  And 
we,  we  shall  die,  and  Islam  will  wither  away,  and  the 
Englishman  straining  far  over  to  hold  his  loved  India, 
will  plant  a firm  foot  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  and  sit 
in  the  seats  of  the  Faithful,  and  still  that  sleepless 
rock  will  lie  watching  and  watching  the  works  of  the 
new  busy  race,  with  those  same  sad,  earnest  eyes,  and 
the  same  tranquil  mien  everlasting.  You  dare  not 
mock  at  the  Sphynx ! 

Mr  Kinglake  is  a native  of  Taunton,  born  in 
1802.  After  studying  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
he  entered  as  a student  in  Lincoln’s  Inn,  and  was 
called  to  the  bar.  His  Eothen , published  in  1850, 
was  eminently  successful,  yet  several  publishers,  it 
is  said,  had  previously  declined  the  work. 

As  a guide  and  pleasant  companion  over  another 
Eastern  route,  we  may  note  the  Overland  Journey  to 
the  North  of  India  from.  England , by  Lieutenant 
Arthur  Conolly,  two  volumes,  1834.  Lieutenant 
Conolly’s  journey  was  through  Russia,  Persia,  and 
Afghanistan.  Miss  Emma  Roberts,  in  the  following 
year,  gave  a lively  and  entertaining  series  of  Scenes 
and  Characteristics  of  Hindostan,  with  Sketches  of 
Anglo-Indian  Society.  This  lady  went  out  again  to 


India  in  1839,  and  was  engaged  to  conduct  a 
Bombay  newspaper ; but  she  died  in  1840.  Her 
Notes  of  an  Overland  Journey  through  France  and 
Egypt  to  Bombay  were  published  after  her  death. 
Another  lady,  Mrs  Postans,  has  published  (1839) 
Cutch,  or  Random  Sketches  taken  during  a Residence 
in  one  of  the  Northern  Provinces  of  Western  India. 
The  authoress  resided  some  years  in  the  province 
of  Cutch,  and  gives  a minute  account  of  the  feudal 
government  and  customs,  the  religious  sects  and 
superstitions  of  the  people.  The  aristocratic  dis- 
tinctions of  caste  are  rigidly  preserved,  and  the 
chiefs  are  haughty,  debauched,  and  cruel. 

[Sacrifice  of  a Hindoo  Widow.'] 

[From  Mrs  Postans’s  Cutch,  or  Random  Sketches,  &c.] 

News  of  the  widow’s  intentions  having  spread,  a great 
concourse  of  people  of  both  sexes,  the  women  clad  in 
their  gala  costumes,  assembled  round  the  pyre.  In  a 
short  time  after  their  arrival  the  fated  victim  appeared, 
accompanied  by  the  Brahmins,  her  relatives,  and  the 
body  of  the  deceased.  The  spectators  showered  chap- 
lets of  mogree  on  her  head,  and  greeted  her  appearance 
with  laudatory  exclamations  at  her  constancy  and 
virtue.  The  women  especially  pressed  forward  to 
touch  her  garments — an  act  which  is  considered 
meritorious,  and  highly  desirable  for  absolution  and 
protection  from  the  ‘ evil  eye.’ 

The  widow  was  a remarkably  handsome  woman, 
apparently  about  thirty,  and  most  superbly  attired. 
Her  manner  was  marked  by  great  apathy  to  all  around 
her,  and  by  a complete  indifference  to  the  preparations 
which  for  the  first  time  met  her  eye.  From  this  cir- 
cumstance an  impression  was  given  that  she  might  be 
under  the  influence  of  opium ; and  in  conformity  with 
the  declared  intention  of  the  European  officers  present 
to  interfere  should  any  coercive  measures  be  adopted  by 
the  Brahmins  or  relatives,  two  medical  officers  were 
requested  to  give  their  opinion  on  the  subject.  They 
both  agreed  that  she  was  quite  free  from  any  influence 
calculated  to  induce  torpor  or  intoxication. 

Captain  Burnes  then  addressed  the  woman,  desiring 
to  know  whether  the  act  she  was  about  to  perform  were 
voluntary  or  enforced,  and  assuring  her  that,  should 
she  entertain  the  slightest  reluctance  to  the  fulfilment 
of  her  vow,  he,  on  the  part  of  the  British  government, 
would  guarantee  the  protection  of  her  life  and  pro- 
perty. Her  answer  was  calm,  heroic,  and  constant 
to  her  purpose  : ‘ I die  of  my  own  free-will ; give  me 
back  my  husband,  and  I will  consent  to  live  ; if  I die 
not  with  him,  the  souls  of  seven  husbands  will  condemn 
me!’  * * 

Ere  the  renewal  of  the  horrid  ceremonies  of  death 
were  permitted,  again  the  voice  of  mercy,  of  expostu- 
lation, and  even  of  entreaty  was  heard  ; but  the  trial 
was  vain,  and  the  cool  and  collected  manner  with  which 
the  woman  still  declared  her  determination  unalterable, 
chilled  and  startled  the  most  courageous.  Physical 
pangs  evidently  excited  no  fears  in  her ; her  singular 
creed,  the  customs  of  her  country,  and  her  sense  of 
conjugal  duty,  excluded  from  her  mind  the  natural 
emotions  of  personal  dread  ; and  never  did  martyr  to  a 
true  cause  go  to  the  stake  with  more  constancy  and 
firmness,  than  did  this  delicate  and  gentle  woman  pre- 
pare to  become  the  victim  of  a deliberate  sacrifice  to 
the  demoniacal  tenets  of  her  heathen  creed.  Accom- 
panied by  the  officiating  Brahmin,  the  widow  walked 
seven  times  round  the  pyre,  repeating  the  usual  man- 
tras or  prayers,  strewing  rice  and  coories  on  the 
ground,  and  sprinkling  water  from  her  hand  over  the 
bystanders,  who  believe  this  to  be  efficacious  in  pre- 
venting disease  and  in  expiating  committed  sins.  She 
then  removed  her  jewels,  and  presented  them  to  her 
relations,  saying  a few  words  to  each  with  a calm  soft 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BACON— BOWRING. 


smile  of  encouragement  and  hope.  The  Brahmins  then 
presented  her  with  a lighted  torch,  hearing  which — 

Fresh  as  a flower  just  blown, 

And  warm  with  life  her  youthful  pulses  playing, 

she  stepped  through  the  fatal  door,  and  sat  within  the 
pile.  The  body  of  her  husband,  wrapped  in  rich  kin- 
kaub,  was  then  carried  seven  times  round  the  pile,  and 
finally  laid  across  her  knees.  Thoms  and  grass  were 
piled  over  the  door ; and  again  it  was  insisted  that 
free  space  should  be  left,  as  it  was  hoped  the  poor  victim 
might  yet  relent,  and  rush  from  her  fiery  prison  to  the 
protection  so  freely  offered.  The  command  was  readily 
obeyed  ; the  strength  of  a child  would  have  sufficed  to 
burst  the  frail  barrier  which  confined  her,  and  a breath- 
less pause  succeeded;  but  the  woman’s  constancy  was 
faithful  to  the  last.  Not  a sigh  broke  the  deathlike 
silence  of  the  crowd,  until  a slight  smoke,  curling  from 
the  summit  of  the  pyre,  and  then  a tongue  of  flame 
darting  with  bright  and  lightning-like  rapidity  into  the 
clear  blue  sky,  told  us  that  the  sacrifice  was  completed. 
Fearlessly  had  this  courageous  woman  fired  the  pile,  and 
not  a groan  had  betrayed  to  us  the  moment  when  her 
spirit  fled.  At  sight  of  the  flame  a fiendish  shout  of 
exultation  rent  the  air ; the  tom-toms  sounded,  the 
people  clapped  their  hands  with  delight  as  the  evidence 
of  their  murderous  work  burst  on  their  view,  whilst  the 
English  spectators  of  this  sad  scene  withdrew,  bearing 
deep  compassion  in  their  hearts,  to  philosophise  as  best 
they  might  on  a custom  so  fraught  with  horror,  so  incom- 
patible with  reason,  and  so  revolting  to  human  sympathy. 
The  pile  continued  to  burn  for  three  hours ; but,  from 
its  form,  it  is  supposed  that  almost  immediate  suffoca- 
tion must  have  terminated  the  sufferings  of  the  unhappy 
victim. 

First  Impressions  and  Studies  from  Nature  in  Hin- 
dostan,  by  Lieutenant  Thomas  Bacon,  two  volumes, 
1837,  is  a more  lively  but  carelessly  written  work, 
with  good  sketches  of  scenery,  buildings,  pageants, 
&c.  The  Hon.  Mountstuart  Elphin  stone,  in 
1842,  gave  an  account  of  the  kingdom  of  Cabul, 
and  its  dependencies  in  Persia,  Tatary,  and  India; 
and  A Narrative  of  Various  Journeys  in  Beloochistan, 
Afghanistan , and  the  Punjaub,  by  Charles  Masson, 
Esq.,  describes  with  considerable  animation  the 
author’s  residence  in  those  countries,  the  native 
chiefs,  and  personal  adventures  with  the  various 
tribes  from  1826  to  1838.  Mr  C.  R.  Baynes,  a 
gentleman  in  the  Madras  civil  service,  published  in 
1843  Notes  and  Re flections  during  a Ramble  in  the 
East , an  Overland  Journey  to  India , &c.  His  remarks 
are  just  and  spirited,  and  his  anecdotes  and  descrip- 
tions lively  and  entertaining. 

[Remark  by  an  Arab  Chief 

An  Arab  chieftain,  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the 
princes  of  the  desert,  had  come  to  behold  for  the  first 
time  a steam-ship.  Much  attention  was  paid  to  him, 
and  every  facility  afforded  for  his  inspection  of  every 
part  of  the  vessel.  What  impression  the  sight  made 
on  him  it  was  impossible  to  judge.  No  indications  of 
surprise  escaped  him ; every  muscle  preserved  its  wonted 
calmness  of  expression  ; and  on  quitting,  he  merely 
observed,  ‘ It  is  well ; but  you  have  not  brought  a man 
to  life  yet !’ 

[Legend  of  the  Mosque  of  the  Bloody  Baptism  at  Cairo .] 

Sultan  Hassan,  wishing  to  see  the  world,  and  lay 
aside  for  a time  the  anxieties  and  cares  of  royalty,  com- 
mitted the  charge  of  his  kingdom  to  his  favourite 
minister,  and  taking  with  him  a large  amount  of 
treasure  in  money  and  jewels,  visited  several  foreign 


countries  in  the  character  of  a wealthy  merchant. 
Pleased  with  his  tour,  and  becoming  interested  in  the 
occupation  he  had  assumed  as  a disguise,  he  was  absent 
much  longer  than  he  originally  intended,  and  in  the 
course  of  a few  years  greatly  increased  his  already  large 
stock  of  wealth.  His  protracted  absence,  however, 
proved  a temptation  too  strong  for  the  virtue  of  the 
viceroy,  who,  gradually  forming  for  himself  a party 
among  the  leading  men  of  the  country,  at  length  com- 
municated to  the  common  people  the  intelligence  that 
Sultan  Hassan  was  no  more,  and  quietly  seated  himself 
on  the  vacant  throne.  Sultan  Hassan  returning  shortly 
afterwards  from  his  pilgrimage,  and,  fortunately  for 
himself,  still  in  disguise,  learned,  as  he  approached  his 
capital,  the  news  of  his  own  death  and  the  usurpation 
of  his  minister ; finding,  on  further  inquiry,  the  party 
of  the  usurper  to  be  too  strong  to  render  an  immediate 
disclosure  prudent,  he  preserved  his  incognito,  and  soon 
became  known  in  Cairo  as  the  wealthiest  of  her  mer- 
chants; nor  did  it  excite  any  surprise  when  he 
announced  his  pious  intention  of  devoting  a portion  of 
his  gains  to  the  erection  of  a spacious  mosque.  The 
work  proceeded  rapidly  under  the  spur  of  the  great 
merchant’s  gold,  and,  on  its  completion,  he  solicited  the 
honour  of  the  sultan’s  presence  at  the  ceremony  of 
naming  it.  Anticipating  the  gratification  of  hearing 
his  own  name  bestowed  upon  it,  the  usurper  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  the  building 
was  filled  by  him  and  his  most  attached  adherents. 
The  ceremonies  had  duly  proceeded  to  the  time  when 
it  became  necessary  to  give  the  name.  The  chief  Moolah, 
turning  to  the  supposed  merchant,  inquired  what  should 
be  its  name.  ‘ Call  it,’  he  replied,  ‘ the  Mosque  of 
Sultan  Hassan.’  All  started  at  the  mention  of  this 
name ; and  the  questioner,  as  though  not  believing  he 
could  have  heard  aright,  or  to  afford  an  opportunity  of 
correcting  what  might  be  a mistake,  repeated  his  demand. 
‘Call  it,’  again  cried  he,  ‘the  mosque  of  me,  Sultan 
Hassan  !’  and  throwing  off  his  disguise,  the  legitimate 
sultan  stood  revealed  before  his  traitorous  servant.  He 
had  no  time  for  reflection  : simultaneously  with  the  dis- 
covery, numerous  trap-doors,  leading  to  extensive  vaults, 
which  had  been  prepared  for  the  purpose,  were  flung 
open,  and  a multitude  of  armed  men  issuing  from  them, 
terminated  at  once  the  reign  and  life  of  the  usurper. 
His  followers  were  mingled  in  the  slaughter,  and  Sultan 
Hassan  was  once  more  in  possession  of  the  throne  of  his 
fathers. 

The  war  in  Afghanistan,  and  the  occupation  of 
the  Scinde  territory  by  the  British,  gave  occasion  to 
various  publications,  among  which  are — a History  of 
the  War  in  Afghanistan , by  Mr  C.  Nash;  Five 
Years  in  India , by  H.  G.  Fane,  Esq.,  late  aide-de- 
camp  to  the  commander-in-chief ; Narrative  of  the 
Campaign  of  the  Army  of  the  Indus  in  Scinde  and 
Cabul,  by  Mr  R.  H.  Kennedy  ; Scenes  and  Adven- 
tures in  Afghanistan,  by  Mr  W.  Taylor  ; Letters,  by 
Colonel  Dennie  ; Personal  Observations  on  Scinde, 
by  Captain  T.  Fostans  ; Military  Operations  at 
Cabul,  with  a Journal  of  Imprisonment  in  Afghanistan, 
by  Lieutenant  Vincent  Eyre  ; A Journal  of  the 
JUisasters  in  Afghanistan,  by  Lady  Sale,  &c.  These 
works  were  ail  published  in  1842  or  1843,  and 
illustrate  a calamitous  portion  of  British  history. 

Sir  John  Bowring  has  written  an  entertaining 
and  instructive  account  of  The  Kingdom  and  People 
of  Siam,  two  volumes,  1857.  Sir  John  had  been 
deputed,  as  governor  of  Hong  Kong,  to  visit  Siam ; 
and  he  describes  at  length  the  history,  physical 
geography,  manners  and  customs,  government  and 
religion  of  that  Asiatic  empire.  Siam,  it  appears, 
contains  a population  of  about  six  millions,  a revenue 
of  three  millions  sterling,  and  a government  vested 
in  two  kings. 


FB0M  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


{State  and  Ceremonial  of  the  Siamese.'] 

April  16,  1855. — How  can  I describe  the  barbaric 
grandeur,  the  parade,  the  show,  the  glitter,  the  real 
magnificence,  the  profuse  decorations  of  to-day’s  royal 
audience  ! We  went,  as  usual,  in  the  state-barges ; mine 
had  scarlet  and  gold  curtains,  the  others  had  none. 
Parkes  sent  them  back,  and  they  all  returned  with  the 
needful  appendages ; he  understands  the  art  of  manag- 
ing Orientals  marvellously  well.  When  we  landed, 
chairs  were  brought,  and  multitudes  of  guards  escorted 
us.  From  the  moment  we  entered  the  precincts  of  the 
palace,  an  unbroken  line  of  soldiery,  dressed  in  a great 
variety  of  costumes,  and  bearing  every  species  of  weapon 
— many  singularly  grotesque  and  rude — spears,  shields, 
swords,  bucklers,  battle-axes,  bows,  quivers,  in  every 
form,  and  uniforms  of  every  colour  and  shape,  fantastical, 
farcical,  fierce,  and  amusing ; the  rudest  forms  of  ancient 
, warfare,  mingled  with  sepoy-dressed  regulars — ancient 
j European  court  costumes  amidst  the  light  and  golden 
garments,  and,  sometimes,  the  nakedness  above  the  waist 
of  nobles  of  the  highest  distinction.  I was  carried  in  a 
gaudy  gilded  chair,  with  a scarlet  umbrella  over  me, 
j borne  by  eight  bearers,  with  a crowd  of  attendants. 

; My  suite  followed  me  in  less  decorated  seats ; but 
i crowds  of  men,  women,  and  children  pressed  around  us, 
j who  were  beaten  away  with  canes  by  the  police.  We 
passed  through  rows  of  caparisoned  ponies  and  elephants 
i mounted  for  war.  The  ruder  troops  of  the  wilder 
i countries  were  broken  by  small  bodies  of  soldiers  dressed 
in  European  style,  who  ‘ presented  arms,’  and  had  fifes 
and  drums;  but  much  of  the  music  was  of  tom-toms 
and  Siamese  instruments.  We  were  all  conducted  to 
a building  to  await  the  royal  summons,  where  coffee  and 
cigars  were  brought  in,  and  gold  and  silver  vessels,  con- 
taining pure  water,  covered  the  table,  at  -the  head  of 
which  I was  placed.  The  spittoon  at  my  feet  was  of 
silver,  inlaid  with  gold,  and  about  fourteen  inches  in 
diameter.  Soon  a messenger  came,  and  we  proceeded  on 
foot  to  the  hall  of  reception.  Soft  and  exceedingly 
' pleasing  music  welcomed  our  arrival,  and  it  thundered 
; forth  a loud  peal  as  we  approached  the  grand  hall  of 
audience.  On  entering  the  hall,  we  found  it  crowded 
: with  nobles,  all  prostrate,  and  with  their  faces  bent  to 
| the  ground.  I walked  forward  through  the  centre  of 
! the  hall  to  a cushion  provided  for  me  in  a line  with  the 
I very  highest  nobles  not  of  royal  blood  : the  prime- 
' minister  and  his  brother  were  close  to  me  on  my  right 
| hand.  The  king  came  in  and  seated  himself  on  an 
j elevated  and  gorgeous  throne  like  the  curtained  box 
| of  a theatre.  He  was  clad  in  golden  garments,  his 
j crown  at  his  side;  but  he  wore  on  his  head  a cap 
j decorated  with  large  diamonds,  and  enormous  diamond 
j rings  were  on  his  fingers.  At  my  left,  nearer  the  throne, 

! were  the  king’s  brothers  and  his  sons  ; at  the  right,  the 
; princes  of  the  blood,  the  Somdetches,  and  the  higher 
nobles.  The  nobility  crowded  the  hall,  all  on  their 
knees ; and  on  the  entrance  of  the  king,  his  throne, 

! being  raised  about  ten  feet  from  the  floor,  they  all  bent 
: their  foreheads  to  the  ground,  and  we  sat  down  as 
j gracefully  as  we  could,  while  the  prostrations  were 
j repeated  again  and  again. 

China  has  received  a flood  of  new  illustration. 

! and  the  intercourse  which  has  recently  been  opened 
j up  with  that  immense  and  mysterious  empire,  will 
still  further  augment  the  amount  of  our  knowledge. 
Me  John"  Francis  Davis,  late  chief  superintendent 
in  China,  has  published  two  interesting  works: 
Sketches  of  China , partly  during  an  Inland  Journey 
t of  Four  Months  between  Pekin , Nankin,  and  Canton ; 
and  The  Chinese,  a General  Description  of  the  Empire 
of  China  and  its  Inhabitants.  The  latter  work  was 
published  in  1836,  but  has  since  been  enlarged,  and 
the  history  of  British  intercourse  brought  down  to 
the  events  which  produced  the  dissolution  of  1857. 

7S8 


Mr  Davis  resided  twenty  years  at  Canton,  is  perfect 
in  the  peculiar  language  of  China,  and  has  certainly  I 
seen  more  of  its  inhabitants  than  any  other  English  j 
author.  The  Journal  of  Three  Voyages  along  the 
Coast  of  China,  in  1831,  1832,  and  1833,  by  Mr 
Gutzlaff,  a German,  is  also  a valuable  work. 
The  contraband  trade  in  opium  formed  a memorable 
era  in  the  history  of  Chinese  commerce.  It  was 
carried  on  to  a great  extent  with  the  Hong  mer- 
chants : but  in  1834,  after  the  monopoly  of  the  East 
India  Company  had  been  abolished,  our  government, 
appointed  Lord  Napier  to  proceed  to  Canton  as 
special  superintendent,  to  adjust  all  disputed  ques- 
tions among  the  merchants,  and  to  form  regulations 
with  the  provincial  authorities.  The  Chinese,  always 
jealous  of  foreigners,  and  looking  upon  mercantile 
employments  as  degrading,  insulted  our  superin- 
tendent ; hostilities  took  place,  and  trade  was  sus- 
pended. Lord  Napier  took  his  departure  amidst 
circumstances  of  insult  and  confusion,  and  died  on 
the  11th  of  October  1834.  The  functions  of  super- 
intendent devolved  on  Mr  Davis.  ‘The  Chinese, 
emboldened  by  the  pacific  temperament  of  our 
government,  proceeded  at  length  to  the  utmost 
extent ; and  not  satisfied  with  imprisoning  and 
threatening  the  lives  of  the  whole  foreign  commu- 
nity, laid  also  violent  hands  on  the  British  repre- 
sentative himself,  claiming,  as  the  purchase  of  his 
freedom,  the  delivery  of  the  whole  of  the  opium 
then  in  the  Chinese  waters — property  to  the  amount 
of  upwards  of  two  millions  sterling.  After  a close 
imprisonment  of  two  months’  duration,  during  which 
period  our  countrymen  were  deprived  of  many  of 
the  necessaries  of  life,  and  exposed  repeatedly,  as 
I in  a pillory,  to  the  gaze  and  abuse  of  the  mob,  no 
i resource  was  left  but  to  yield  to  the  bold  demands 
of  the  Chinese,  relying  with  confidence  on  their 
nation  for  support  and  redress : nor  did  they  rely 
in  vain ; for  immediately  the  accounts  of  the  aggres- 
sion reached  London,  preparations  commenced  for 
the  Chinese  expedition.’  * After  two  years  of  irre- 
gular warfare,  a treaty  of  peace  and  friendship 
between  the  two  empires  was  signed  on  board  Her 
Majesty’s  ship  Cornwallis  on  the  29th  of  August 
1842.  This  expedition  gave  rise  to  various  publi- 
cations. Lord  Jocelyn  wrote  a lively  and  inter- 
esting narrative,  entitled  Six  Months  icith  the 
Chinese  Expedition ; and  Commander  J.  Elliot 
Bingham,  R.N.,  a Narrative  of  the  Expedition  to 
China.  Two  Years  in  China,  by  D.  Macpherson, 
M.D.,  relates  the  events  of  the  campaign  from  its 
formation  in  April  1840  to  the  treaty  of  peace  in 
1842.  Doings  in  China,  by  Lieutenant  Alexander 
Murray,  illustrates  the  social  habits  of  the  Chinese. 
The  Last  Year  in  China,  to  the  Peace  of  Nankin,  by 
a Field  Officer,  consists  of  extracts  from  letters 
written  to  the  author’s  private  friends.  The  Closing 
Events  of  the  Campaign  in  China,  by  Captain  G.  G. 
Loch,  R.N.,  is  one  of  the  best  books  which  the 
expedition  called  forth. 

[Chinese  Ladies'  Feet.] 

[From  Captain  Bingham’s  Narrative .] 

During  our  stay  we  made  constant  trips  to  the  sur- 
rounding islands,  in  one  of  which — at  Tea  Island — we 
had  a good  opportunity  of  minutely  examining  the  far- 
famed  little  female  feet.  I had  been  purchasing  a 
pretty  little  pair  of  satin  shoes,  for  about  half  a dollar, 
at  one  of  the  Chinese  farmers’  houses,  where  we  were 
surrounded  by  several  men,  women,  and  children.  By 
signs  we  expressed  a wish  to  see  the  pied  mignon  of  a j 

* Macpherson’s  Two  Tears  in  China. 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  FORTUNE. 


really  good-looking  woman  of  the  party.  Our  signs 
were  quickly  understood,  but,  probably  from  her  being  a 
matron,  it  was  not  considered  quite  comme  il  faut  for 
her  to  comply  with  our  desire,  as  she  would  not  consent 
to  shew  us  her  foot ; but  a very  pretty  interesting  girl, 
of  about  sixteen,  was  placed  on  a stool  for  the  purpose 
of  gratifying  our  curiosity.  At  first  she  was  very  bash- 
ful, and  appeared  not  to  like  exposing  her  Cinderella- 
like  slipper,  but  the  shine  of  a new  and  very  bright 
‘loopee’  soon  overcame  her  delicacy,  when  she  com- 
menced unwinding  the  upper  bandage  which  passes 
round  the  leg,  and  over  a tongue  that  comes  up  from 
the  heel.  The  shoe  was  then  removed,  and  the  second 
bandage  taken  off,  which  did  duty  for  a stocking ; the 
turns  round  the  toes  and  ankles  being  very  tight,  and 
keeping  all  in  place.  On  the  naked  foot  being  exposed  to 
view,  we  were  agreeably  surprised  by  finding  it  delicately 
white  and  clean,  for  we  fully  expected  to  have  found  it 
otherwise,  from  the  known  habits  of  most  of  the  Chinese. 
The  leg  from  the  knee  downwards  was  much  wasted ; 
the  foot  appeared  as  if  broken  up  at  the  instep,  while 
the  four  small  toes  were  bent  flat  and  pressed  down 
under  the  foot,  the  great  toe  only  being  allowed  to 
retain  its  natural  position.  By  the  breaking  of  the 
instep  a high  arch  is  formed  between  the  heel  and  the 
toe,  enabling  the  individual  to  step  with  them  on  an 
even  surface ; in  this  respect  materially  differing  from 
the  Canton  and  Macao  ladies,  for  with  them  the  instep 
is  not  interfered  with,  but  a very  high  heel  is  substi- 
tuted, thus  bringing  the  point  of  the  great  toe  to  the 
ground.  When  our  Canton  compradore  was  shewn  a 
Chusan  shoe,  the  exclamation  was  : ‘ He-yaw  ! how  can 
walkee  so  fashion?’  nor  would  he  be  convinced  that 
such  was  the  case.  The  toes,  doubled  under  the  foot 
I have  been  describing,  could  only  be  moved  by  the  hand 
sufficiently  to  shew  that  they  were  not  actually  grown 
into  the  foot.  I have  often  been  astonished  at  seeing 
how  well  the  women  contrived  to  walk  on  their  tiny 
pedestals.  Their  gait  is  not  unlike  the  little  mincing 
walk  of  the  French  ladies ; they  were  constantly  to  be 
seen  going  about  without  the  aid  of  any  stick,  and  I 
have  often  seen  them  at  Macao  contending  against  a 
fresh  breeze  with  a tolerably  good-sized  umbrella  spread. 
The  little  children,  as  they  scrambled  away  before  us, 
balanced  themselves  with  their  arms  extended,  ancl 
reminded  one  much  of  an  old  hen  between  walking  and 
flying.  All  the  women  I saw  about  Chusan  had  small 
feet.  It  is  a general  characteristic  of  true  Chinese 
descent ; and  there  cannot  be  a greater  mistake  than  to 
suppose  that  it  is  confined  to  the  higher  orders,  though 
it  may  be  true  that  they  take  more  pains  to  compress 
the  foot  to  the  smallest  possible  dimensions  than  the 
lower  classes  do.  High  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  all 
more  or  less  follow  the  custom ; and  when  you  see  a 
large  or  natural-sized  foot,  you  may  depend  upon  it  the 
possessor  is  not  of  true  Chinese  blood,  but  is  either  of 
Tatar  extraction,  or  belongs  to  the  tribes  that  live  and 
have  their  being  on  the  waters.  The  Tatar  ladies, 
however,  are  falling  into  this  Chinese  habit  of  distor- 
tion, as  the  accompanying  edict  of  the  emperor  proves  : 
‘ For  know,  good  people,  you  must  not  dress  as  you  like 
in  China.  You  must  follow  the  customs  and  habits  of 
your  ancestors,  and  wear  your  winter  and  summer  cloth- 
ing as  the  emperor  or  one  of  the  six  boards  shall  direct.’ 
If  this  were  the  custom  in  England,  how  beneficial  it 
would  be  to  our  pockets,  and  detrimental  to  the  tailors 
and  milliners.  Let  us  now  see  what  the  emperor  says 
about  little  feet,  on  finding  that  they  were  coming  into 
vogue  among  the  undeformed  daughters  of  the  Mant- 
cliows.  Not  only  does  he  attack  the  little  feet,  but  the 
large  Chinese  sleeves  which  were  creeping  into  fashion 
at  court.  Therefore,  to  check  these  misdemeanours, 
the  usual  Chinese  remedy  was  resorted  to,  and  a 
flaming  edict  launched,  denouncing  them  ; threaten- 
ing the  ‘heads  of  the  families  with  degradation  and 
punishment  if  they  did  not  put  a stop  to  such  gross 


illegalities;’  and  his  Celestial  majesty  further  goes  on 
and  tells  the  fair  ones,  ‘ that  by  persisting  in  their  vulgar 
habits,  they  will  debar  themselves  from  the  possibility 
of  being  selected  as  ladies  of  honour  for  the  inner 
palace  at  the  approaching  presentation !’  How  far 
this  had  the  desired  effect  I cannot  say.  When  the 
children  begin  to  grow,  they  suffer  excruciating  pain, 
but  as  they  advance  in  years,  their  vanity  is  played  upon 
by  being  assured  that  they  would  be  exceedingly  ugly 
with  large  feet.  Thus  they  are  persuaded  to  put  up 
with  what  they  consider  a necessary  evil;  but  the 
children  are  remarkably  patient  under  pain.  A poor 
little  child,  about  five  years  old,  was  brought  to  our 
surgeon,  having  been  most  dreadfully  scalded,  part  of 
its  dress  adhering  to  the  skin.  During  the  painful 
operation  of  removing  the  linen,  it  only  now  and  then  ] 
said,  ‘ He-yaw,  he-yaw  !’ 

Mr  Robert  Fortune,  a botanist,  was  nearly  nine  | 
years  resident  in  China,  employed  on  three  separate 
missions  by  the  Horticultural  Society  of  London  to  j 
collect  specimens.  In  1847  he  published  Three  Years' 
Wanderings  in  China;  in  1851,  his  Two  Visits  to  the 
Tea  Countries  of  China;  and  in  1857,  A Residence 
among  the  Chinese,  Inland,  on  the  Coast,  and  at  Sea.  ] 
These  works  of  Mr  Fortune  are  extremely  valuable  j 
as  affording  information  relative  to  the  social  habits 
of  the  Chinese,  as  well  as  the  natural  products  of  i 
the  country.  A French  missionary,  M.  Hue,  has  j 
also  added  fresh  details  in  his  work,  V Empire  Chinois, 
1854,  of  which  an  English  version  has  had  great 
success  in  this  country.  In  describing  his  personal 
adventures,  the  French  ecclesiastic  is  supposed  to 
have  indulged  in  the  proverbial  licence  of  travellers ; 
but  his  account  of  Chinese  customs  is  said  to  be 
exact. 

[Chinese  Thieves — From  Fortune's 1 Residence  among  the 
Chinese' ] 

About  two  in  the  morning  I was  awakened  by  a loud 
yell  from  one  of  my  servants,  and  I suspected  at  once 
that  we  had  had  a visit  from  thieves,  for  I had 
frequently  heard  the  same  sound  before.  Like  the  cry 
one  hears  at  sea  when  a man  has  fallen  overboard,  this 
alarm  can  never  be  mistaken  when  once  it  has  been 
heard.  Before  I had  time  to  inquire  what  was  wrong,  j 
one  of  my  servants  and  two  of  the  boatmen  plunged 
into  the  canal  and  pursued  the  thieves.  Thinking  that 
we  had  only  lost  some  cooking  utensils,  or  things  of  little  | 
value  that  might  have  been  lying  outside  the  boat,  I j 
gave  myself  no  uneasiness  about  the  matter,  and  felt 
much  inclined  to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  my  servant, 
who  returned  almost  immediately,  awoke  me  most  : 
effectually.  ‘I  fear,’  said  he,  opening  my  door,  ‘the 
thieves  have  been  inside  the  boat,  and  have  taken  away 
some  of  your  property.’  ‘ Impossible,’  said  I ; ‘ they 
cannot  have  been  here.’  ‘ But  look,’  he  replied ; ‘ a 
portion  of  the  side  of  your  boat  under  the  window  has 
been  lifted  out.’  Turning  to  the  place  indicated  by  my 
servant,  I could  see,  although  it  was  quite  dark,  that 
there  was  a large  hole  in  the  side  of  the  boat  not  more 
than  three  feet  from  where  my  head  had  been  lying. 

A t my  right  hand,  and  just  under  the  window,  the  trunk 
used  to  stand  in  which  I was  in  the  habit  of  keeping 
my  papers,  money,  and  other  valuables.  On  the  first 
suspicion  that  I was  the  victim,  I stretched  out  my 
hand  in  the  dark  to  feel  if  this  was  safe.  Instead  of 
my  hand  resting  on  the  top  of  the  trunk,  as  it  had 
been  accustomed  to  do,  it  went  down  to  the  floor  of 
the  boat,  and  I then  knew  for  the  first  time  that  the 
trunk  was  gone.  At  the  same  moment,  my  servant, 
Tung-a,  came  in  with  a candle,  and  confirmed  what  I 
had  just  made  out  in  the  dark.  The  thieves  had  done 
their  work  well — the  boat  was  empty.  My  money, 
amounting  to  more  than  one  hundred  Shanghae  dollars, 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


my  accounts,  and  other  papers — all,  all  were  gone.  The 
rascals  had  not  even  left  me  the  clothes  I had  thrown 
off  when  I went  to  bed.  But  there  was  no  time  to  lose ; 
and  in  order  to  make  every  effort  to  catch  the  thieves, 
or  at  least  get  back  a portion  of  my  property,  I 
jumped  into  the  canal,  and  made  for  the  bank.  The 
tide  had  now  risen,  and  instead  of  finding  only  about 
two  feet  of  water — the  depth  when  we  went  to  bed — I 
now  sank  up  to  the  neck,  and  found  the  stream  very 
rapid.  A few  strokes  with  my  arms  soon  brought  me 
into  shallow  water  and  to  the  shore.  Here  I found  the 
boatmen  rushing  about  in  a frantic  manner,  examining 
with  a lantern  the  bushes  and  indigo  vats  on  the  banks 
of  the  canal,  but  all  they  had  found  was  a few  Manilla 
cheroots  which  the  thieves  had  dropped  apparently  in 
their  hurry.  A watchman  with  his  lantern  and  two 
or  three  stragglers,  hearing  the  noise  we  made,  came  up 
and  inquired  what  was  wrong ; but  when  asked  whether 
they  had  seen  anything  of  the  thieves,  shook  their  heads, 
and  professed  the  most  profound  ignorance.  The  night 
was  pitch  dark,  everything  was  perfectly  still,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  the  few  stragglers  already  mentioned, 
the  whole  town  seemed  sunk  in  ,a  deep  sleep.  We 
were  therefore  perfectly  helpless,  and  could  do  nothing 
further.  I returned  in  no  comfortable  frame  of  mind 
to  my  boat.  Dripping  with  wet,  I lay  down  on  my 
couch  without  any  inclination  to  sleep.  It  was  a 
serious  business  for  me  to  lose  so  much  money,  but  that 
part  of  the  matter  gave  me  the  least  uneasiness.  The 
loss  of  my  accounts,  journals,  drawings,  and  numerous 
memoranda  I had  been  making  during  three  years  of 
travel,  which  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  replace, 
was  of  far  greater  importance.  I tried  to  reason  philo- 
sophically upon  the  matter ; to  persuade  myself  that  as 
the  thing  could  not  be  helped  now,  it  was  no  use  being 
vexed  with  it ; that  in  a few  years  it  would  not  signify 
much  either  to  myself  or  any  one  else  whether  I had 
been  robbed  or  not ; but  all  this  fine  reasoning  would 
not  do. 

[ What  the  Chinese  think  of  the  Europeans.] 

[From  Hue’s  I? Empire  Chinois.] 

The  Europeans  who  go  to  China  are  disposed  to  think 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Celestial  Empire  odd  and  ridicu- 
lous ; the  Chinese  who  visit  Canton  and  Macao  return 
the  compliment.  They  exhaust  their  caustic  and 
mocking  vein  upon  the  appearance  of  the  Western 
devils,  express  unutterable  astonishment  at  the  sight 
of  their  scanty  garments,  their  close-fitting  pantaloons, 
their  prodigious  round  hats  in  the  shape  of  a chimney, 
their  shirt-collars,  which  appear  devised  to  saw  the 
ears,  and  which  so  gracefully  surround  their  grotesque 
faces  with  the  long  nose  and  blue  eyes,  without  beard 
or  moustache,  but  which  display  in  compensation  on 
each  jaw  a handful  of  red  and  frizzled  hair.  They  are 
puzzled,  above  all,  by  the  shape  of  the  dress-coat.  They 
endeavour,  without  success,  to  account  for  that  strange 
habiliment  which  they  call  a half-garment,  because  it 
is  impossible  to  make  it  meet  on  the  chest,  and  because 
the  tails  which  hang  down  behind  are  entirely  wanting 
in  front.  They  admire  the  exquisite  and  refined  taste 
of  wearing  at  the  back  large  buttons  like  coins  without 
having  anything  to  button  to  them.  How  much  more 
beautiful  do  they  think  themselves,  with  their  oblique, 
narrow,  black  eyes,  high  cheek-bones,  nose  the  shape  of 
a chestnut,  and  shaven  head  adorned  with  a magnificent 
tail  which  reaches  to  the  heels  ! Add  to  this  graceful 
and  elegant  type  a conical  hat  covered  with  red  fringe, 
an  ample  tunic  with  large  sleeves,  black  satin  boots 
with  white  soles  of  an  enormous  thickness,  and  it  is 
beyond  dispute  that  a European  can  never  rival  a 
Chinese.  But  it  is  chiefly  in  their  habits  of  life  that 
they  assume  to  be  so  much  our  superiors.  When  they 
see  Europeans  spending  several  hours  in  gymnastic 
promenades,  they  ask  if  it  is  not  a more  civilised  mode 
790 


of  passing  leisure  time  to  sit  quietly  drinking  tea  and 
smoking  a pipe,  or  else  to  go  at  once  to  bed.  The 
notion  of  spending  the  larger  portion  of  the  night  at 
balls  and  parties  has  never  occurred  to  them.  All  the 
Chinese,  even  among  the  upper  ranks,  begin  to  sleep  in 
time  to  be  able  to  rise  with  the  sun.  At  the  hours  in 
which  there  is  the  greatest  stir  and  tumult  in  the  prin- 
cipal cities  of  Europe,  those  of  China  enjoy  the  most 
profound  repose.  Every  one  has  gone  home  to  his 
family,  all  the  shops  are  shut,  the  boatmen,  the 
mountebanks,  the  public  readers  have  finished  their 
labours,  and  there  are  no  signs  of  activity  except  among 
the  theatres  for  the  working-classes,  who  have  no  leisure 
but  at  night  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  a play. 

The  recent  hostilities — 1857-58 — ending  in  a 
treaty  with  China,  have  led  to  various  publications 
respecting  the  Celestial  Empire,  the  most  copious 
and  generally  interesting  being  China , or  the  Times’ 
special  correspondence  from  China,  by  Mr  George 
Wingrove  Cook,  author  of  a Life  of  Bolingbroke , 
The  State  of  Parties , &c.  We  give  a few  extracts 
from  Mr  Cook’s  lively  and  graphic  narrative : 

[The  Chinese  Language.] 

In  a country  where  the  roses  have  no  fragrance,  and 
the  women  wear  no  petticoats ; where  the  labourer  has 
no  Sabbath,  and  the  magistrate  no  sense  of  honour; 
where  the  roads  bear  no  vehicles,  and  the  ships  no 
keels ; where  old  men  fly  kites ; where  the  needle  points 
south,  and  the  sign  of  being  puzzled  is  to  scratch  the 
antipodes  of  your  head ; where  the  place  of  honour  is 
on  your  left  hand,  and  the  seat  of  intellect  is  in  the 
stomach;  where  to  take  off  your  hat  is  an  insolent 
gesture,  and  to  wear  white  garments  is  to  put  yourself 
in  mourning — we  ought  not  to  be  astonished  to  find  a 
literature  without  an  alphabet,  and  a language  without 
a grammar,  and  we  must  not  be  startled  to  find  that 
this  Chinese  language  is  the  most  intricate,  cumbrous, 
unwieldy  vehicle  of  thought  that  ever  obtained  among 
any  people. 

[The  Execution-ground  of  Canton.] 

Threading  our  way,  under  the  guidance  of  some  expe- 
rienced friend,  Tve  come  to  a carpenter’s  shop,  fronting 
the  entrance  to  a small  potter’s  field.  It  is  not  a rood 
in  area,  of  an  irregular  shape,  resembling  most  an  oblong. 

A row  of  cottages  open  into  it  on  one  side ; there  is  a 
wall  on  the  other.  The  ground  is  covered  with  half- 
baked  pottery;  there  are  two  wooden  crosses  formed 
of  unbarked  wood,  standing  in  an  angle,  with  a shred 
of  rotting  rope  hanging  from  one  of  them.  There  is 
nothing  to  fix  the  attention  in  this  small  enclosure, 
except  that  you  stumble  against  a human  skull  now 
and  then  as  you  walk  along  it.  This  is  the  Aceldama, 
the  field  of  blood,  the  execution-ground  of  Canton.  The 
upper  part  of  that  carpenter’s  shop  is  the  place  where 
nearly  all  the  European  residents  have,  at  the  price  of 
a dollar  each,  witnessed  the  wholesale  massacres  of 
which  Europe  has  heard  with  a hesitating  scepticism. 

It  was  within  this  yard  that  that  monster  Yeh  has  : 
within  two  years  destroyed  the  life  of  70,000  fellow-  j 
beings ! These  crosses  are  the  instruments  to  which  j 
those  victims  were  tied  who  were  condemned  to  the 
special  torture  of  being  sliced  to  death.  Upon  one  of 
these  the  wife  of  a rebel  general  was  stretched,  and  by 
Yeh’s  order  her  flesh  was  cut  from  her  body.  After 
the  battle  at  Whampoa  the  rebel  leader  escaped,  but 
his  wife  fell  into  the  hands  of  Yeh;  this  was  how  he 
treated  his  prisoner.  Her  breasts  were  first  cut  off, 
then  her  forehead  was  slashed  and  the  skin  torn  down 
over  the  face,  then  the  fleshy  parts  of  the  body  were 
sliced  away.  There  are  Englishmen  yet  alive  who  saw 
this  done,  but  at  what  part  of  the  butchery  sensation 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


G.  W.  COOK. 


ceased  and  death  came  to  this  poor  innocent  woman, 
none  can  tell.  The  fragment  of  rope  which  now  hangs 
to  one  of  the  crosses  was  used  to  bind  a woman  who 
was  cut  up  for  murdering  her  husband.  The  sickening 
details  of  the  massacres  perpetrated  on  this  spot  have 
been  related  to  me  by  those  who  have  seen  them,  and 
who  take  shame  to  themselves  while  they  confess  that, 
after  witnessing  one  execution  by  cutting  on  the  cross, 
the  rapidity  and  dexterity  with  which  the  mere  behead- 
ing was  done  deprived  the  execution  of  a hundred  men 
of  half  its  horror.  The  criminals  were  brought  down 
in  gangs,  if  they  could  walk,  or  brought  down  in  chairs 
and  shot  out  into  the  yard.  The  executioners  then 
arranged  them  in  rows,  giving  them  a blow  behind 
which  forced  out  the  head  and  neck,  and  laid  them 
convenient  for  the  blow.  Then  came  the  warrant  of 
death.  It  is  a banner.  As  soon  as  it  waved  in  sight, 
without  verbal  order  given,  the  work  began.  There 
was  a rapid  succession  of  dull  crunching  sounds — chop, 
chop,  chop,  chop ! No  second  blow  was  ever  dealt,  for 
the  dexterous  manslayers  are  educated  to  their  work. 
Until  they  can  with  their  heavy  swords  slice  a great 
bulbous  vegetable  as  thin  as  we  slice  a cucumber,  they 
are  not  eligible  for  their  office.  Three  seconds  a head 
suffice.  In  one  minute  five  executioners  clear  off  one 
hundred  lives.  It  takes  rather  longer  for  the  assistants 
to  cram  the  bodies  into  rough  coffins,  especially  as  you 
might  see  them  cramming  two  into  one  shell  that  they 
might  embezzle  the  spare  wooden  box.  The  heads  were 
carried  off  in  boxes ; the  saturated  earth  was  of  value 
as  manure. 

[The  Horrors  of  the  Canton  Prisons.] 

A Chinese  jail  is  a group  of  small  yards  enclosed  by 
no  general  outer  wall,  except  in  one  instance.  Around 
this  yard  are  dens  like  the  dens  in  which  we  confine 
wild  beasts.  The  bars  are  not  of  iron,  but  of  double 
rows  of  very  thick  bamboo,  so  close  together  that  the 
interior  is  too  dark  to  be  readily  seen  into  from  without. 
The  ordinary  prisoners  are  allowed  to  remain  in  the 
yard  during  the  day.  Their  ankles  are  fettered 
together  by  heavy  rings  of  iron  and  a short  chain,  and 
they  generally  also  wear  similar  fetters  on  their  wrists. 
The  low-roofed  dens  are  so  easily  climbed,  that  when 
the  prisoners  are  let  out  into  the  yard,  the  jailers  must 
trust  to  their  fetters  alone  for  security.  The  places  all 
stank  like  the  monkey-house  of  a menagerie. 

We  were  examining  one  of  the  yards  of  the  second 
prison,  and  Lord  Elgin,  who  is  seldom  absent  when  any 
work  is  doing,  was  one  of  the  spectators.  As  it  was 
broad  daylight,  the  dens  were  supposed  to  be  empty. 
Some  one  thought  he  heard  a low  moan  in  one  of  them, 
and  advanced  to  the  bars  to  listen.  He  recoiled  as  if  a 
blast  from  a furnace  had  rushed  out  upon  him.  Never 
were  human  senses  assailed  by  a more  hoi'rible  stream 
of  pestilence.  The  jailers  were  ordered  to  open  that 
place,  and  refusing,  as  a Chinaman  always  at  first 
refuses,  were  given  over  to  the  rough  handling  of  the 
soldiers,  wrho  were  told  to  make  them.  No  sooner  were 
hands  laid  upon  the  jailers,  than  the  stifled  moan 
became  a wail,  and  the  wail  became  a concourse  of  low, 
weakly  muttered  groans.  So  soon  as  the  double-doors 
could  be  opened,  several  of  us  went  into  the  place.  The 
thick  stench  could  only  be  endured  for  a moment,  but 
the  spectacle  was  not  one  to  look  long  at.  A corpse  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  den,  the  breasts,  the  only  fleshy 
parts,  gnawed  and  eaten  away  by  rats.  Around  it  and 
upon  it  was  a festering  mass  of  humanity  still  alive. 
The  mandarin  jailer,  who  seemed  to  wonder  what  all  the 
excitement  was  about,  was  compelled  to  have  the  poor 
creatures  drawn  forth,  and  no  man  who  saw  that  sight 
will  ever  forget  it.  They  were  skeletons,  not  men.  You 
could  only  believe  that  there  was  blood  in  their  bodies, 
by  seeing  it  clotted  upon  their  undressed  wounds.  As 
they  were  borne  out,  one  after  the  other,  and  laid  upon 


the  pavement  of  the  yard,  each  seemed  more  horrible 
than  the  last.  They  were  too  far  gone  to  shriek, 
although  the  agony  must  have  been  great,  the  heavy- 
irons  pressing  upon  their  raw,  lank  shins  as  the  jailers 
lugged  them  not  too  tenderly  along.  They  had  been 
beaten  into  this  state,  perhaps  long  ago,  by  the  heavy 
bamboo,  and  had  been  thrown  into  this  den  to  rot. 
Their  crime  was  that  they  had  attempted  to  escape. 
Hideous  and  loathsome,  however,  as  was  the  sight  of 
their  foul  wounds,  their  filthy  rags,  and  their  emaciated 
bodies,  it  was  not  so  distressing  as  the  indescribable 
expression  of  their  eyes ; the  horror  of  that  look  of  fierce 
agony  fixed  us  like  a fascination.  As  the  dislocated 
wretches  writhed  upon  the  ground,  tears  rolled  down  the 
cheeks  of  the  soldiers  of  the  escort,  who  stood  in  rank 
near  them.  A gigantic  French  sergeant,  who  had  the 
little  mandarin  in  custody,  gesticulated  with  his  bayonet 
so  fiercely,  that  we  were  afraid  he  would  kill  him.  We 
did  not  then  know  that  the  single  wrord  which  the  poor 
creatures  were  trying  to  utter  was  ‘ hunger,’  or  that 
dreadful  starting  of  the  eyeball  was  the  look  of  famine. 
Some  of  them  had  been  without  food  for  four  days. 
Water  they  had,  for. there  is  a well  in  the  yard,  and  their 
fellow-prisoners  had  supplied  them ; but  cries  for  food 
were  answered  only  by  the  bamboo.  Alas  ! it  was  not 
till  the  next  morning  that  we  found  this  out,  for 
although  we  took  some  away,  we  left  others  there  that 
night.  Since  the  commencement  of  this  year,  fifteen 
men  have  died  in  that  cell.  Some  of  those  who  were 
standing  by  me  asked : ‘ How  will  you  ever  be  able  to 
tell  this  to  the  English  people?’  I believe  that  no 
description  could  lead  the  imagination  to  a full 
conception  of  what  we  saw  in  that  Canton  prison.  I 
have  not  attempted  to  do  more  than  dot  a faint  outline 
of  the  truth ; and  when  I have  read  what  I have 
written,  I feel  how  feeble  and  forceless  is  the  image 
upon  paper  when  compared  with  the  scene  upon  my 
memory. 

This  was  the  worst  of  the  dens  we  opened,  but  there 
were  many  others  which  fell  but  few  degrees  below  it  in 
their  horrors.  There  was  not  one  of  the  6000  prisoners 
we  saw  whose  appearance  before  any  assemblage  of 
Englishmen  would  not  have  aroused  cries  of  indigna- 
tion. ‘ Quelle  society  exclaimed  Captain  Martineau,  as 
in  the  first  yard  we  visited  he  saw  a little  boy  confined 
here  because  he  was  the  son  of  a rebel — ‘ Quelle  society 
pour  un  enfant  de  quatorze  ans /’  Alas ! we  saw  many, 
many  such  cases  in  our  after-experience.  In  one  of  the 
dens  of  the  Poon-yu,  the  door  of  which  was  open,  some 
one  pointed  attention  to  a very  child — rather  an  intelli- 
gent-looking child — who  was  squat  upon  a board  and 
laughing  at  the  novel  scene  taking  place  before  him. 
We  beckoned  to  him,  but  he  did  not  come.  We  went 
up  to  him  and  found  he  could  not  move.  His  little  legs 
were  ironed  together ; they  had  been  so  for  several 
months,  and  were  now  paralysed  and  useless.  This 
child  of  ten  years  of  age  had  been  placed  here,  charged 
with  stealing  from  other  children.  We  took  him  away. 

It  was  not  until  our  second  day’s  search  that  we  were 
able  to  discover  the  prison  in  which  Europeans  had 
been  confined.  Threats  and  a night  in  the  guard-house 
at  last  forced  the  discovery  from  the  mandarin,  or  jail- 
inspector,  in  our  custody.  It  is  called  the  Koon  Khan, 
is  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  city,  and  is  distinguishable 
from  the  others  only  that  it  is  surrounded  by  a high 
brick-wall.  Nearly  the  whole  of  our  second  day  was 
passed  in  this  place.  It  has  only  one  yard,  and  in  this 
the  prisoners  are  not  allowed  to  come.  There  is  a joss- 
house  at  one  end  of  the  court ; for,  of  course,  the 
Chinese  mix  up  their  religion  with  their  tyranny.  The 
finest  sentiments,  such  as  * The  misery  of  to-day  may  be 
the  happiness  of  to-morrow  !’  ‘Confess  your  crimes,  and 
thank  the  magistrate  who  purges  you  of  them!’  ‘May 
we  share  in  the  mercy  of  the  emperor !’  are  carved  in 
faded  golden  characters  over  every  den  of  every  prison. 
Opening  from  this  yard  are  four  rooms,  each  containing 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


four  dens.  The  hardest  and  most  malignant  face  I ever 
saw  is  that  of  the  chief  jailer  of  this  prison.  The 
prisoners  could  not  be  brought  to  look  upon  him,  and 
when  he  was  present  could  not  be  induced  to  say  that 
he  was  a prisoner  at  all,  or  that  they  had  ever  seen  him 
before.  But  when  he  was  removed,  they  always  reiter- 
ated their  first  story.  ‘The  other  jailers  only  starve  and 
ill-treat  us,  but  that  man  eats  our  flesh.’  Many  of  the 
prisoners  had  been  inmates  of  the  place  for  many  years, 
and  it  appeared  quite  certain  that,  within  a period 
dating  from  the  commencement  of  the  present  troubles, 
six  Europeans-^-two  Frenchmen  and  four  Englishmen — 
had  found  their  death  in  these  dreadful  dens.  Many 
different  prisoners  examined  separately  deposed  to  this 
fact,  and  almost  to  the  same  details.  The  European 
victims  were  kept  here  for  several  months,  herding  with 
the  Chinese,  eating  of  that  same  black  mess  of  rice, 
which  looks  and  smells  like  a bucket  of  grains  cast 
forth  from  a brewery.  When  their  time  came — prob- 
ably the  time  necessary  for  a reply  from  Pekin — the 
jailer  held  their  heads  back  while  poison  was  poured 
down  their  throats.  The  prisoners  recollected  two 
who  threw  up  the  poison,  and  they  were  strangled. 
The  result  of  the  investigation  was,  that  the  jailers 
were  roughly  handled  by  the  British  soldiers  in  sight  of 
the  prisoners,  and  the  lieutenant-governor  taken  into 
custody,  to  give  an  account  of  his  conduct. 

Since  the  publication  of  Dr  Clarke’s  first 
volume,  in  which  he  gave  a view  of  Russia,  that 
vast  and  in  many  respects  interesting  country 
has  been  visited  by  various  Englishmen.  Amongst 
the  books  thus  produced,  is  Recollections  of  a 
Tour  in  the  North  of  Europe , 1838,  by  the 
Marquis  of  Londonderry  (1778-1854),  whose 
rank  and  political  character  were  the  means  of 
introducing  him  to  many  circles  closed  to  other 
tourists.  The  marquis  was  also  author  of  A Steam 
Voyage  to  Constantinople  by  the  Rhine  and  the  Danube 
in  1840-41,  and  to  Portugal  and  Spain  in  1839, 
two  volumes,  1842.  Mr  John  Barrow,  junior,  is 
the  author,  besides  works  on  Ireland  and  on  Ice- 
land, of  Excursions  in  the  North  of  Europe , through 
parts  of  Russia , Finland , Sfc.,  1834.  He  is  invari- 
ably found  to  be  a cheerful  and  intelligent  com- 
panion, without  attempting  to  be  very  profound  or 
elaborate  on  any  subject.  Domestic  Scenes  in  Russia , 
by  the  Rev.  Mr  Venables,  1839,  is  an  unpretend- 
ing but  highly  interesting  view  of  the  interior  life 
of  the  country.  Mr  Venables  was  married  to  a 
Russian  lady,  and  he  went  to  pass  a winter  with 
her  relations,  when  he  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
the  daily  life  and  social  habits  of  the  people.  We 
give  a few  descriptive  sentences. 


[Russian  Peasants'  Houses .] 

These  houses  are  in  general  extremely  warm  and 
substantial ; they  are  built,  for  the  most  part,  of 
unsquared  logs  of  deal,  laid  one  upon  another,  and 
firmly  secured  at  the  corners  where  the  ends  of  the 
timbers  cross,  and  are  hollowed  out  so  as  to  receive 
and  hold  one  another;  they  are  also  fastened  together 
by  wooden  pins  and  uprights  in  the  interior.  The  four 
comers  are  supported  upon  large  stones  or  roots  of 
trees,  so  that  there  is  a current  of  air  under  the  floor 
to  preserve  the  timber  from  damp ; in  the  winter, 
earth  is  piled  up  all  round  to  exclude  the  cold ; the 
interstices  between  the  logs  are  stuffed  with  moss  and 
clay,  so  that  no  air  can  enter.  The  windows  are  very 
small,  and  are  frequently  cut  out  of  the  wooden  wall 
after  it  is  finished.  In  the  centre  of  the  house  is  a 
stove  called  a peech  [pechka\  which  heats  the  cottage  to 
an  almost  unbearable  degree ; the  warmth,  however, 
which  a Russian  peasant  loves  to  enjoy  within  doors, 
792 


is  proportioned  to  the  cold  which  he  is  required  to 
support  without ; his  bed  is  the  top  of  his  peech ; and 
when  he  enters  his  house  in  the  winter  pierced  with 
cold,  he  throws  off  his  sheepskin  coat,  stretches  himself 
on  his  stove,  and  is  thoroughly  wanned  in  a few 
minutes. 


[Employments  of  the  People .] 

The  riches  of  the  Russian  gentleman  lie  in  the 
labour  of  his  serfs,  which  it  is  his  study  to  turn  to 
good  account ; and  he  is  the  more  urged  to  this,  since 
the  law  which  compels  the  peasant  to  work  for  him, 
requires  him  to  maintain  the  peasant;  if  the  latter 
is  found  begging,  the  former  is  liable  to  a fine.  He 
is  therefore  a master  who  must  always  keep  a certain 
number  of  workmen,  whether  they  are  useful  to  him  or 
not;  and  as  every  kind  of  agricultural  and  outdoor 
employment  is  at  a stand-still  during  the  winter,  he 
naturally  turns  to  the  establishment  of  a manufactory, 
as  a means  of  employing  his  peasants  and  as  a source 
of  profit  to  himself.  In  some  cases  the  manufactory  is 
at  work  only  during  the  winter,  and  the  people  are 
employed  in  the  summer  in  agriculture ; though,  beyond 
what  is  necessary  for  home  consumption,  this  is  but  an 
unprofitable  trade  in  most  parts  of  this  empire,  from  the 
badness  of  roads,  the  paucity  and  distance  of  markets, 
and  the  consequent  difficulty  in  selling  produce. 

The  alternate  employment  of  the  same  man  in  the 
field  and  in  the  factory,  which  would  be  attempted 
in  most  countries  with  little  success,  is  here  rendered 
practicable  and  easy  by  the  versatile  genius  of  the 
Russian  peasant,  one  of  whose  leading  national  charac- 
teristics is  a general  capability  of  turning  his  hand  to 
any  kind  of  work  which  he  may  be  required  to  under- 
take. He  will  plough  to-day,  weave  to-morrow,  help 
to  build  a house  the  third  day,  and  the  fourth,  if  his 
master  needs  an  extra  coachman,  he  will  mount  the  box 
and  drive  four  horses  abreast  as  though  it  were  his 
daily  occupation.  It  is  probable  that  none  of  these 
operations,  except,  perhaps,  the  last,  will  be  as  well 
performed  as  in  a country  where  the  division  of  labour 
is  more  thoroughly  understood.  They  will  all,  however, 
be  sufficiently  well  done  to  serve  the  turn — a favourite 
phrase  in  Russia.  These  people  are  a very  ingenious 
race,  but  perseverance  is  wanting ; and  though  they 
will  carry  many  arts  to  a high  degree  of  excellence, 
they  will  generally  stop  short  of  the  point  of  perfection, 
and  it  will  be  long  before  their  manufactures  can  rival 
the  finish  and  durability  of  English  goods. 

Excursions  in  the  Interior  of  Russia,  by  Robert 
Bremner,  Esq.,  two  volumes,  1839,  is  a very  spirited 
and  graphic  narrative  of  a short  visit  to  Russia 
during  the  autumn  of  1836.  The  author’s  sketches 
of  the  interior  are  valuable,  for,  as  he  remarks, 
‘even  in  the  present  day,  when  the  passion  for 
travel  has  become  so  universal,  and  thousands  of 
miles  are  thought  as  little  of  as  hundreds  were  some 
years  ago,  the  number  of  Englishmen  who  venture 
to  the  south  of  Moscow  seldom  exceeds  one  or  two 
every  year.’  The  same  author  has  published 
Excursions  in  Denmark,  Norway,  and  Sweden , two 
volumes,  1840.  Before  parting  from  Russia,  it  may 
be  observed  that  no  English  book  upon  that  country 
exceeds  in  interest  A Residence  on  the  Shores  of  the 
Baltic,  described  in  a Series  of  Letters , 1841,  being 
more  particularly  an  account  of  the  Estonians, 
whose  simple  character  and  habits  afford  a charm- 
ing picture.  This  delightful  book  is  understood  to 
be  from  the  pen  of  a lady,  Miss  Rigby,  now  Lady 
Eastlake,  who  has  also  written  Livonian  Tales,  1846. 

One  of  the  most  observant  and  reflecting  of  the 
travellers  of  our  age  is  undoubtedly  Mr  Samuel 
Laing,  of  Papdale,  Orkney,  a younger  brother  of 
the  author  of  the  History  of  Scotland  during  the 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LAING — BULLAR. 


seventeenth  century.  This  gentleman  did  not  begin 
to  publish  till  a mature  period  of  life,  his  first  work 
being  a Residence  in  Norway  in  1834-36,  and  the 
second,  a Tour  in  Sweden  in  1838,  both  of  which 
abound  in  valuable  statistical  facts  and  well-digested 
information.  Mr  Laing  resided  two  years  in 
different  parts  of  Norway,  and  concluded  that  the 
Norwegians  were  the  happiest  people  in  Europe. 
Their  landed  property  is  so  extensively  diffused  in 
small  estates,  that  out  of  a population  of  a million 
there  are  about  41,656  proprietors.  There  is  no 
law  of  primogeniture,  yet  the  estates  are  not  sub- 
divided into  minute  possessions,  but  average  from 
forty  to  sixty  acres  of  arable  land,  with  adjoining 
natural  wood  and  pasturage. 

[Agricultural  Peasantry  of  Norway .] 

The  Bonder,  or  agricultural  peasantry  (says  Mr 
Laing),  each  the  proprietor  of  his  own  farm,  occupy 
the  country  from  the  shore  side  to  the  hill  foot,  and 
up  every  valley  or  glen  as  far  as  corn  can  grow.  This 
class  is  the  kernel  of  the  nation.  They  are  in  general 
fine  athletic  men,  as  their  properties  are  not  so  large 
as  to  exempt  them  from  work,  but  large  enough  to 
afford  them  and  their  household  abundance,  and  even 
superfluity  of  the  best  food.  They  farm  not  to  raise 
produce  for  sale,  so  much  as  to  grow  everything  they 
eat,  drink,  and  wear  in  their  families.  They  build 
their  own  houses,  make  their  own  chairs,  tables, 
ploughs,  carts,  harness,  iron-work,  basket-work,  and 
wood-work;  in  shoi-t,  except  window-glass,  cast-iron 
ware,  and  pottery,  everything  about  their  houses  and 
furniture  is  of  their  own  fabrication.  There  is  not 
probably  in  Europe  so  great  a population  in  so  happy 
a condition  as  these  Norwegian  yeomanry.  A body 
of  small  proprietors,  each  with  his  thirty  or  forty 
acres,  scarcely  exists  elsewhere  in  Europe ; or,  if  it 
can  be  found,  it  is  under  the  shadow  of  some  more 
imposing  body  of  wealthy  proprietors  or  commercial 
men.  Here  they  are  the  highest  men  in  the  nation. 
* * The  settlers  in  the  newer  states  of  America, 

and  in  our  colonies,  possess  properties  of  probably 
about  the  same  extent ; but  they  have  roads  to  make, 
lands  to  clear,  houses  to  build,  and  the  work  that 
has  been  doing  here  for  a thousand  years  to  do,  before 
they  can  be  in  the  same  condition.  These  Norwegian 
proprietors  are  in  a happier  condition  than  those  in 
the  older  states  of  America,  because  they  are  not  so 
much  influenced  by  the  spirit  of  gain.  They  farm 
their  little  estates,  and  consume  the  produce,  without 
seeking  to  barter  or  sell,  except  what  is  necessary  for 
paying  their  taxes  and  the  few  articles  of  luxury  they 
consume.  There  is  no  money-getting  spirit  among  them, 
and  none  of  extravagance.  They  enjoy  the  comforts  of 
excellent  houses,  as  good  and  large  as  those  of  the 
wealthiest  individuals;  good  furniture,  bedding,  linen, 
clothing,  fuel,  victuals,  and  drink,  all  in  abundance,  and 
of  their  own  providing ; good  horses,  and  a houseful  of 
people  who  have  more  food  than  work.  Food,  furniture, 
and  clothing  being  all  home-made,  the  difference  in 
these  matters  between  the  family  and  the  servants  is 
very  small ; but  there  is  a perfect  distinction  kept  up. 
The  servants  invariably  eat,  sleep,  and  sit  apart  from 
the  family,  and  have  generally  a distinct  building 
adjoining  to  the  family  house. 

The  neighbouring  country  of  Sweden  appears  to 
be  in  a much  worse  condition,  and  the  people  are 
described  as  highly  immoral  and  depraved.  By  the 
returns  from  1830  to  1834,  one  person  in  every 
forty-nine  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  towns,  and  one 
in  every  hundred  and  seventy-six  of  the  rural  popu- 
lation, had  been  punished  each  year  for  criminal 
offences.  The  state  of  female  morals,  particularly 
in  the  capital  of  Stockholm,  is  worse  than  in  any 


other  European  state.  Yet  in  Sweden  education  is 
widely  diffused,  and  literature  is  not  neglected.  The 
nobility  are  described  by  Mr  Laing  as  sunk  in 
debt  and  poverty;  yet  the  people  are  vain  of  idle 
distinctions,  and  the  order  of  burgher  Hobility  ia 
as  numerous  as  in  some  of  the  German  states. 


[Society  of  Sweden.] 

Every  man  (he  says)  belongs  to  a privileged  or 
licensed  class  or  corporation,  of  which  every  member  is 
by  law  entitled  to  be  secured  and  protected  within  his 
own  locality  from  such  competition  or  interference  of 
others  in  the  same  calling  as  would  injure  his  means  of 
living.  It  is,  consequently,  not  as  with  us,  upon  his 
industry,  ability,  character,  and  moral  worth  that  the 
employment  and  daily  bread  of  the  tradesman,  and  the 
social  influence  and  consideration  of  the  individual,  in 
every  rank,  even  the  highest,  almost  entirely  depends  ; 
it  is  here,  in  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  upon  cor- 
porate rights  and  privileges,  or  upon  licence  obtained 
from  government ; and  in  the  higher,  upon  birth  and 
court  or  government  favour.  Public  estimation,  gained 
by  character  and  conduct  in  the  several  relations  of  life, 
is  not  a necessary  element  in  the  social  condition  even 
of  the  working  tradesman.  Like  soldiers  in  a regiment, 
a great  proportion  of  the  people  under  this  social  system 
derive  their  estimation  among  others,  and  consequently 
their  own  self-esteem,  not;  from  their  moral  worth,  but 
from  their  professional  standing  and  importance.  This 
evil  is  inherent  in  all  privileged  classes,  but  is  concealed 
or  compensated  in  the  higher,  the  nobility,  military,  and 
clergy,  by  the  sense  of  honour,  of  religion,  and  by  educa- 
tion. In  the  middle  and  lower  walks  of  life  those 
influences  are  weaker,  while  the  temptations  to  immo- 
rality are  stronger  ; and  the  placing  a man’s  livelihood, 
prosperity,  and  social  consideration  in  his  station  upon 
other  grounds  than  on  his  own  industry  and  moral 
worth,  is  a demoralising  evil  in  the  very  structure  of 
Swedish  society. 

Mr  Laing  has  since  published  Notes  of  a Traveller 
in' Europe,  1854;  Observations  on  the  Social  and 
Political  State  of  the  European  People  in  1848-49; 
and  Observations  on  the  Social  and  Political  State  of 
Denmark  and  the  Duchies  in  1851. 

Travels  in  Circassia  and  Krim  Tartary , by  Mr 
Spencer,  author  of  a work  on  Germany  and  the 
Germans , two  volumes,  1837,  was  hailed  with 
peculiar  satisfaction,  as  affording  information  re- 
specting a brave  mountainous  tribe  who  have  long 
warred  with  Russia  to  preserve  their  national  inde- 
pendence. They  appear  to  be  a simple  people,  with 
feudal  laws  and  customs,  never  intermarrying  with 
any  race  except  their  own.  Further  information 
was  afforded  of  the  habits  of  the  Circassians  by  the 
Journal  of  a Residence  in  Circassia  during  the  years 
1837,  1838,  and  1839,  by  Mr  J.  S.  Bell.  This 
gentleman  resided  in  Circassia  in  the  character  of 
agent  or  envoy  from  England,  which,  however,  was 
partly  assumed.  He  acted  also  as  physician,  and 
seems  generally  to  have  been  received  with  kindness 
and  confidence.  The  population,’  according  to  Mr 
Bell,  is  divided  into  fraternities,  like  the  tithings  or 
hundreds  in  England  during  the  time  of  the  Saxons. 
Criminal  offences  are  punished  by  fines  levied  on  the 
fraternity,  that  for  homicide  being  200  oxen.  The 
guerrilla  warfare  which  the  Circassians  have  carried 
on  against  Russia,  marks  their  indomitable  spirit 
and  love  of  country,  but  it  must,  of  course,  retard 
civilisation. 

A Winter  in  the  Azores,  and  a Summer  at  the  Baths 
of  the  Furnas , by  Joseph  Bullar,  M.D.,  and  John 
Bullar  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  two  volumes,  1841,  fur- 
nish some  light  agreeable  notices  of  the  islands  of 

793 


from  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


the  Azores,  under  the  dominion  of  Portugal,  from 
which  they  are  distant  about  800  miles.  This 
archipelago  contains  about  250,000  inhabitants.  St 
Michael’s  is  the  largest  town,  and  there  is  a con- 
siderable trade  in  oranges  betwixt  it  and  England. 
About  120,000  large  and  small  chests  of  oranges 
were  shipped  for  England  in  1839,  and  315  boxes  of 
lemons.  These  particulars  will  serve  to  introduce  a 
passage  respecting 

[The  Cultivation  of  the  Orange , and  Gathering  the 
Fruit.] 

March  26. — Accompanied  Senhor  B to  several  of 

his  orange-gardens  in  the  town.  Many  of  the  trees  in 
one  garden  were  a hundred  years  old,  still  bearing  plen- 
tifully a highly  prized  thin-skinned  orange,  full  of  juice 
and  free  from  pips.  The  thinness  of  the  rind  of  a St 
Michael’s  orange,  and  its  freedom  from  pips,  depend  on 
the  age  of  the  tree.  The  young  trees,  when  in  full 
vigour,  bear  fruit  with  a thick  pulpy  rind  and  an 
abundance  of  seeds ; but  as  the  vigour  of  the  plant 
declines,  the  peel  becomes  thinner,  and  the  seeds 
gradually  diminish  in  number,  until  they  disappear 
altogether.  Thus,  the  oranges  that  we  esteem  the  most 
are  the  produce  of  barren  trees,  and  those  which  we 
consider  the  least  palatable  come  from  plants  in  full 
vigour. 

Our  friend  was  increasing  the  number  of  his  trees  by 
layers.  These  usually  take  root  at  the  end  of  two  years. 
They  are  then  cut  off  from  the  parent  stem,  and  are 
vigorous  young  trees  four  feet  high.  The  process  of 
raising  from  seed  is  seldom,  if  ever,  adopted  in  the 
Azores,  on  account  of  the  very  slow  growth  of  the  trees 
so  raised.  Such  plants,  however,  are  far  less  liable  to 
the  inroads  of  a worm  which  attacks  the  roots  of  the 
trees  raised  from  layers,  and  frequently  proves  very 
destructive  to  them.  The  seed  or  ‘pip’  of  the  acid 
orange,  which  we  call  Seville,  with  the  sweeter  kind 
grafted  upon  it,  is  said  to  produce  fruit  of  the  finest 
flavour.  In  one  small  garden  eight  trees  were  pointed 
out  which  had  borne  for  two  successive  years  a crop  of 
oranges  which  was  sold  for  thirty  pounds.  * * 

The  treatment  of  orange-trees  in  Fayal  differs  from 
that  in  St  Michael’s,  where,  after  they  are  planted  out, 
they  are  allowed  to  grow  as  they  please.  In  this  orange- 
garden  the  branches,  by  means  of  strings  and  pegs  fixed 
in  the  ground,  were  strained  away  from  the  centre  into 
the  shape  of  a cup,  or  of  the  ribs  of  an  open  umbrella 
turned  upside  down.  This  allows  the  sun  to  penetrate, 
exposes  the  branches  to  a free  circulation  of  air,  and  is 
said  to  be  of  use  in  ripening  the  fruit.  Certain  it  is 
that  oranges  are  exported  from  Fayal  several  weeks 
earlier  than  they  are  from  St  Michael’s;  and  as  this 
cannot  be  attributed  to  greater  warmth  of  climate,  it 
may  possibly  be  owing  to  the  plan  of  spreading  the 
trees  to  the  sun.  The  same  precautions  are  taken  here 
as  in  St  Michael’s  to  shield  them  from  the  winds ; high 
walls  are  built  round  all  the  gardens,  and  the  trees 
themselves  are  planted  among  rows  of  fayas,  firs,  and 
camphor-trees.  If  it  were  not  for  these  precautions, 
the  oranges  would  be  blown  down  in  such  numbers  as 
to  interfere  with  or  swallow  up  the  profits  of  the 
gardens  ; none  of  the  windfalls  or  ‘ ground-fruit,’  as 
the  merchants  here  call  them,  being  exported  to 
England.  * * 

Suddenly  we  came  upon  merry  groups  of  men  and 
boys,  all  busily  engaged  in  packing  oranges,  in  a square 
and  open  plot  of  ground.  They  were  gathered  round  a 
goodly  pile  of  the  fresh  fruit,  sitting  on  heaps  of  the 
dry  calyx-leaves  of  the  Indian  corn,  in  which  each 
orange  is  wrapped  before  it  is  placed  in  the  boxes. 
Near  these  circles  of  laughing  Azoreans,  who  sat  at 
their  work  and  kept  up  a continual  cross-fire  of  rapid 
repartee  as  they  quickly  filled  the  orange-cases,  were 
a party  of  children,  whose  business  it  was  to  prepare 


the  husks  for  the  men,  who  used  them  in  packing. 
These  youngsters,  who  were  playing  at  their  work  like 
the  children  of  a larger  growth  that  sat  by  their  side, 
were  with  much  difficulty  kept  in  order  by  an  elderly 
man,  who  shook  his  head  and  a long  stick  whenever 
they  flagged  or  idled.  * * 

A quantity  of  the  leaves  being  heaped  together  near 
the  packers,  the  operation  began.  A child  handed  to  a 
workman  who  squatted  by  the  heap  of  fruit  a prepared 
husk ; this  was  rapidly  snatched  from  the  child,  wrapped 
round  the  orange  by  an  intermediate  workman,  passed 
by  the  feeder  to  the  next,  who,  sitting  with  the  chest 
between  his  legs,  placed  it  in  the  orange-box  with 
amazing  rapidity,  took  a second,  and  a third,  and  a 
fourth  as  fast  as  his  hands  could  move  and  the  feeders 
could  supply  him,  until  at  length  the  chest  was  filled  to 
overflowing,  and  was  ready  to  be  nailed  up.  Two  men 
then  handed  it  to  the  carpenter,  who  bent  over  the 
orange-chest  several  thin  boards,  secured  them  with 
the  willow-band,  pressed  it  with  his  naked  foot  as  he 
sawed  off  the  ragged  ends  of  the  boards,  and  finally 
despatched  it  to  the  ass  which  stood  ready  for  lading. 
Two  chests  were  slung  across  his  back  by  means  of 
cords  crossed  in  a figure  of  eight;  both  were  well 
secured  by  straps  under  his  belly ; the  driver  took  his 
goad,  pricked  his  beast,  and  uttering  the  never-ending 
cry  ‘ Sackaaio,’  trudged  off  to  the  town. 

The  orange-trees  in  this  garden  cover  the  sides  of  a 
glen  or  ravine,  like  that  of  the  Dargle,  but  somewhat 
less  steep;  they  are  of  some  age,  and  have  lost  the 
stiff  clumpy  form  of  the  younger  trees.  Some  idea  of 
the  rich  beauty  of  the  scene  may  be  formed  by  imagining 
the  trees  of  the  Dargle  to  be  magnificent  shrubs  loaded 
with  orange  fruit,  and  mixed  with  lofty  arbutuses — 

Groves  whose  rich  fruit,  burnished  with  golden  rind, 

Hung  amiable,  and  of  delicious  taste. 

In  one  part  scores  of  children  were  scattered  among  the 
branches,  gathering  fruit  into  small  baskets,  hallooing, 
laughing,  practically  joking,  and  finally  emptying  their 
gatherings  into  the  larger  baskets  underneath  the  trees, 
which,  when  filled,  were  slowly  borne  away  to  the  pack- 
ing-place, and  bowled  out  upon  the  great  heap.  Many 
large  orange-trees  on  the  steep  sides  of  the  glen  lay  on 
the  ground  uprooted,  either  from  their  load  of  fruit, 
the  high  winds,  or  the  weight  of  the  boys,  four,  five, 
and  even  six  of  whom  will  climb  the  branches  at  the 
same  time ; and  as  the  soil  is  very  light,  and  the  roots 
are  superficial — and  the  fall  of  a tree  perhaps  not 
unamusing — down  the  trees  come.  They  are  allowed  to 
lie  where  t^hey  fall ; and  those  which  had  evidently 
fallen  many  years  ago  were  still  alive,  and  bearing  good 
crops.  The  oranges  are  not  ripe  until  March  or  April, 
nor  are  they  eaten  generally  by  the  people  here  until 
that  time — the  boys,  however,  that  picked  them  are 
marked  exceptions.  The  young  children  of  Villafranca 
are  now  almost  universally  of  a yellow  tint,  as  if 
saturated  with  orange  juice. 

Travels  in  New  Zealand,  by  Ernest  Dieffenbach,  ; 
M.D.,  late  naturalist  to  the  New  Zealand  Company,  j 
1843,  is  a valuable  history  of  an  interesting  ' 
country,  destined  apparently  to  transmit  the  Eng-  ! 
lish  language,  arts,  and  civilisation.  Mr  Dieffen-  j 
bach  gives  a minute  account  of  the  language  of  New  j 
Zealand,  of  which  he  compiled  a grammar  and  j 
dictionary.  He  conceives  the  native  population  I 
of  New  Zealand  to  be  fit  to  receive  the  benefits  of  I 
civilisation,  and  to  amalgamate  with  the  British 
colonists.  At  the  same  time  he  believes  in  the 
practice  of  cannibalism  often  imputed  to  the  New 
Zealanders. 

Life  in  Mexico , during  a Residence  of  Two  Years 
in  that  Country,  by  Madame  Calderon  de  la 
Barca,  an  English  lady,  is  full  of  sketches  of 
domestic  life,  related  with  spirit  and  acuteness.  In 


travellers.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  robertson — borrow. 

no  other  work  are  we  presented  with  such  agreeable 
glimpses  of  Mexican  life  and  manners.  Letters  on 
Paraguay , and  Letters  on  South  America,  by  J.  P.  and 
W.  P.  Robertson,  are  the  works  of  two  brothers 
who  resided  twenty-five  years  in  South  America. 

The  Narrative  of  the  Voyages  of  H.M.S.  Adventure 
and  Beagle,  1839,  by  Captains  King  and  Eitzroy, 
and  C.  Darwin,  Esq.,  naturalist  of  the  Beagle, 
detail  the  various  incidents  which  occurred  during 
their  examination  of  the  southern  shores  of  South 
America,  and  during  the  Beagle’s  circumnavigation 
of  the  globe.  The  account  of  the  Patagonians  in 
this  work,  and  that  of  the  natives  of  Tierra  del 
Euego,  are  both  novel  and  interesting,  while  the 
geological  details  supplied  by  Mr  Darwin  possess 
a permanent  value. 

Notes  on  the  United  States  during  a Phrenological 
Visit  in  1839-40  have  been  published  by  Mr  George 
Combe,  in  three  volumes.  Though  attaching  what 
is  apt  to  appear  an  undue  importance  to  his  views 
of  phrenology,  Mr  Combe  was  a sensible  traveller. 
He  paid  particular  attention  to  schools  and  all 
benevolent  institutions,  which  he  has  described  with 
care  and  minuteness.  Among  the  matter-of-fact 
details  and  sober  disquisitions  in  this  work,  we 
meet  with  the  following  romantic  story.  The 
author  had  visited  the  lunatic  asylum  at  Blooming- 
dale,  where  he  learned  this  realisation  of  Cymon  and 
Iphigenia — finer  even  than  the  version  of  Dryden ! 

[An  American  Cymon  and  Iphigenia .] 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  a case  was  mentioned 
to  me  as  having  occurred  in  the  experience  of  a highly 
respectable  physician,  and  which  was  so  fully  authen- 
ticated, that  I entertain  no  doubt  of  its  truth.  The 
physician  alluded  to  had  a patient,  a young  man,  who 
was  almost  idiotic  from  the  suppression  of  all  his  facul- 
ties. He  never  spoke,  and  never  moved  voluntarily,  but 
sat  habitually  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes.  The 
physician  sent  him  to  walk  as  a remedial  measure.  In 
the  neighbourhood,  a beautiful  young  girl  of  sixteen 
lived  with  her  parents,  and  used  to  see  the  young 
man  in  his  walks,  and  speak  kindly  to  him.  For  some 
time  he  took  no  notice  of  her ; but  after  meeting  her 
for  several  months,  he  began  to  look  for  her,  and  to 
feel  disappointed  if  she  did  not  appear.  He  became 
so  much  interested,  that  he  directed  his  steps  volun- 
tarily to  her  father’s  cottage,  and  gave  her  bouquets  of 
flowers.  By  degrees  he  conversed  with  her  through  the 
window.  His  mental  faculties  were  roused;  the  dawn 
of  convalescence  appeared.  The  girl  was  virtuous, 
intelligent,  and  lovely,  and  encouraged  his  visits  when 
she  was  told  that  she  was  benefiting  his  mental  health. 
She  asked  him  if  he  could  read  and  write?  He 
answered,  No.  She  wrote  some  lines  to  him  to  induce 
him  to  learn.  This  had  the  desired/ effect.  He  applied 
himself  to  study,  and  soon  wrote  good  and  sensible 
letters  to  her.  He  recovered  his  reason.  She  was 
married  to  a young  man  from  the  neighbouring  city. 
Great  fears  were  entertained  that  this  event  would 
undo  the  good  which  she  had  accomplished.  The  young 
patient  sustained  a severe  shock,  but  his  mind  did  not 
sink  under  it.  He  acquiesced  in  the  propriety  of  her 
choice,  continued  to  improve,  and  at  last  was  restored 
to  his  family  cured.  She  had  a child,  and  was  soon 
after  brought  to  the  same  hospital  perfectly  insane. 
The  young  man  heard  of  this  event,  and  was  exceed- 
ingly anxious  to  see  her ; but  an  interview  was  denied 
to  him,  both  on  her  account  and  his  own.  She  died. 
He  continued  well,  and  became  an  active  member  of 
society.  What  a beautiful  romance  might  be  founded 
on  this  narrative ! 

America,  Historical,  Statistical,  and  Descriptive , by 
J.  S.  Buckingham,  is  a vast  collection  of  facts  and 

details,  few  of  them  novel  or  striking,  but  appar- 
ently written  with  truth  and  candour.  The  work 
fatigues  from  the  multiplicity  of  its  small  state- 
ments, and  the  want  of  general  views  or  animated 
description.  In  1842  the  author  published  two 
additional  volumes,  describing  his  tour  in  the  slave- 
states.  These  are  more  interesting,  because  the 
ground  is  less  hackneyed,  and  Mr  Buckingham 
felt  strongly,  as  a benevolent  and  humane  man,  on 
the  subject  of  slavery,  that  curse  of  the  American 
soil.  Mr  Buckingham  was  an  extensive  traveller 
and  writer.  He  published  narratives  of  journeys 
in  Palestine,  Assyria,  Media,  and  Persia,  and  of 
various  continental  tours.  He  tried  a number  of 
literary  schemes,  establishing  the  Oriental  Herald 
and  Athenaeum  weekly  journal,  and  was  a successful 
lecturer.  He  had  published  two  volumes  of  an 
autobiography,  when  he  died  somewhat  suddenly 
in  1855,  aged  sixty-nine. 

Among  other  works  on  America  we  may  mention 
the  Western  World,  by  Alexander  Mackay,  three 
volumes,  1849,  a very  complete  and  able  book ; Things 
As  they  are  in  America,  by  William  Chambers  ; and 
Life  and  Liberty  in  America,  by  Charles  Mackay. 

1 A visit  to  America,’  as  Mr  Chambers  has  said,  ‘ is 
usually  one  of  the  early  aspirations  of  the  more 
impressionable  youth  of  England.  The  stirring 
stories  told  of  Columbus,  Sebastian  Cabot,  Raleigh, 
and  Captain  John  Smith  ; the  history  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  fleeing  from  persecution ; the  description 
of  Penn’s  transactions  with  the  Indians ; the  narra- 
tives of  the  gallant  achievements  of  Wolfe  and 
Washington,  and  the  lamentable  humiliations  of 
Burgoyne  and  Cornwallis ; the  exciting  autobio- 
graphy of  the  Philadelphian  printer,  who,  from 
toiling  at  the  press,  rose  to  be  the  companion  of 
kings — all  have  their  due  effect  on  the  imagination.’ 
The  facilities  afforded  by  steam-boat  communication 
also  render  a visit  to  America  a matter  of  easy 
and  pleasant  accomplishment. 

Spain,  with  its  fine  scenery  and  romantic  asso- 
ciations, has  been  well  described  by  Mr  Richard 
Ford  (1796-1858),  author  of  a Handbook  for  Spain , 
1845,  and  Gatherings  from  Spain,  1846.  The  latter 
work  is  the  "best  modern  popular  account  of  Spain. 
Two  remarkable  works  on  Spain  have  been  published 
by  Mr  George  Borrow,  late  agent  of  the  British 
and  Foreign  Bible  Society.  The  first  of  these,  in  two 
volumes,  1841,  is  entitled  Zincali,  or  an  Account  of 
the  Gipsies  in  Spain.  Mr  Borrow  calculates  that 
there  are  about  forty  thousand  gipsies  in  Spain,  of 
which  about  one-third  are  to  be  found  in  Andalusia. 
The  caste,  he  says,  has  diminished  of  late  years. 
The  author’s  adventures  with  this  singular  people 
are  curiously  compounded  of  the  ludicrous  and 
romantic,  and  are  related  in  the  most  vivid  and 
dramatic  manner.  Mr  Borrow’s  second  work  is 
named  The  Bible  in  Spain,  or  the  Journeys,  Adven- 
tures, and  Imprisonments  of  an  Englishman,  in  an 
attempt  to  circulate  the  Scriptures  in  the  Peninsula, 
1844.  There  are  many  things  in  the  book  which,  as 
the  author  acknowledges,  have  little  connection  with 
religion  or  religious  enterprise.  It  is  indeed  a series 
of  personal  adventures,  varied  and  interesting,  with 
sketches  of  character  and  romantic  incidents  drawn 
with  more  power  and  vivacity  than  is  possessed  by 
most  novelists. 

[Impressions  of  the  City  of  Madrid .] 

[From  Borrow’s  Bible  in  Spain."] 

I have  visited  most  of  the  principal  capitals  of  the 
world,  but  upon  the  whole  none  has  ever  so  interested 
me  as  this  city  of  Madrid,  in  which  I now  found  myself. 

795 

FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  to  1859. 


I will  not  dwell  upon  its  streets,  its  edifices,  its  public 
squares,  its  fountains,  though  some  of  these  are  remark- 
able enough  : but  Petersburg  has  finer  streets,  Paris 
and  Edinburgh  more  stately  edifices,  London  far  nobler 
squares,  whilst  Shiraz  can  boast  of  more  costly  fountains, 
though  not  cooler  waters.  But  the  population ! Within 
a mud  wall,  scarcely  one  league  and  a half  in  circuit, 
are  contained  two  hundred  thousand  human  beings, 
certainly  forming  the  most  extraordinary  vital  mass  to 
be  found  in  the  entire  world ; and  be  it  always  remem- 
bered that  this  mass  is  strictly  Spanish.  The  population 
of  Constantinople  is  extraordinary  enough,  but  to  form 
it  twenty  nations  have  contributed — Greeks,  Armenians, 
Persians,  Poles,  Jews,  the  latter,  by  the  by,  of  Spanish 
origin,  and  speaking  amongst  themselves  the  old  Spanish 
language ; but  the  huge  population  of  Madrid,  with  the 
exception  of  a sprinkling  of  foreigners,  chiefly  French 
tailors,  glove-makers,  and  perruquiers,  is  strictly 
Spanish,  though  a considerable  portion  are  not  natives 
of  the  place.  Here  are  no  colonies  of  Germans,  as  at 
St  Petersburg ; no  English  factories,  as  at  Lisbon ; 
no  multitudes  of  insolent  Yankees  lounging  through 
the  streets,  as  at  the  Havannah,  with  an  air  which 
seems  to  say  the  land  is  our  own  whenever  we  choose 
to  take  it;  but  a population  which,  however  strange 
and  wild,  and  composed  of  various  elements,  is  Spanish, 
and  will  remain  so  as  long  as  the  city  itself  shall  exist. 
Hail,  ye  aguadores  of  Asturia ! who,  in  your  dress  of 
coarse  duffel  and  leathern  skull-caps,  are  seen  seated  in 
hundreds  by  the  fountain-sides,  upon  your  empty  water- 
casks,  or  staggering  with  them  filled  to  the  topmost 
stories  of  lofty  houses.  Hail,  ye  caleseros  of  Valencia  ! 
who,  lolling  lazily  against  your  vehicles,  rasp  tobacco  for 
your  paper  cigars  whilst  waiting  for  a fare.  Hail  to 
you,  beggars  of  La  Mancha ! men  and  women,  who, 
wrapped  in  coarse  blankets,  demand  charity  indifferently 
at  the  gate  of  the  palace  or  the  prison.  Hail  to  you, 
valets  from  the  mountains,  mayordomos  and  secretaries 
from  Biscay  and  Guipuscoa,  toreros  from  Andalusia, 
riposteros  from  Galicia,  shopkeepers  from  Catalonia ! 
Hail  to  ye,  Castilians,  Estremenians,  and  Aragonese,  of 
whatever  calling ! And,  lastly,  genuine  sons  of  the 
capital,  rabble  of  Madrid,  ye  twenty  thousand  manolos, 
whose  terrible  knives,  on  the  second  morning  of  May, 
worked  such  grim  havoc  amongst  the  legions  of  Murat ! 

And  the  higher  orders — the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the 
cavaliers  and  senoras ; shall  I pass  them  by  in  silence  ? 
The  truth  is,  I have  little  to  say  about  them  ; I mingled 
but  little  in  their  society,  and  what  I saw  of  them  by 
no  means  tended  to  exalt  them  in  my  imagination.  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who,  wherever  they  go,  make  it  a 
constant  practice  to  disparage  the  higher  orders,  and  to 
exalt  the  populace  at  their  expense.  There  are  many  capi- 
tals in  which  the  high  aristocracy,  the  lords  and  ladies, 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  nobility,  constitute  the  most 
remarkable  and  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  popu- 
lation. This  is  the  case  at  Vienna,  and  more  especially 
at  London.  Who  can  rival  the  English  aristocrat  in 
lofty  stature,  in  dignified  bearing,  in  strength  of  hand, 
and  valour  of  heart  ? Who  rides  a nobler  horse  ? Who 
has  a firmer  seat  ? And  who  more  lovely  than  his  wife, 
or  sister,  or  daughter  ? But  with  respect  to  the  Spanish 
aristocracy,  I believe  the  less  that  is  said  of  them  on 
the  points  to  which  I have  just  alluded  the  better.  I 
confess,  however,  that  I know  little  about  them.  Le 
Sage  has  described  them  as  they  were  nearly  two 
centuries  ago.  His  description  is  anything  but  captivat- 
ing, and  I do  not  think  that  they  have  improved  since 
the  period  of  the  immortal  Frenchman.  I would  sooner 
talk  of  the  lower  class,  not  only  of  Madrid,  but  of  all 
Spain.  The  Spaniard  of  the  lower  class  has  much  more 
interest  for  me,  whether  manolo,  labourer,  or  muleteer. 
He  is  not  a common  being ; he  is  an  extraordinary  man. 
He  has  not,  it  is  true,  the  amiability  and  generosity  of 
the  Russian  mujik,  who  will  give  his  only  rouble  rather 
than  the  stranger  shall  want;  nor  his  placid  courage, 
796 


which  renders  him  insensible  to  fear,  and  at  the  command 
of  his  czar  sends  him  singing  to  certain  death.  There  is 
more  hardness  and  less  self-devotion  in  the  disposition  of 
the  Spaniard : he  possesses,  however,  a spirit  of  proud 
independence,  which  it  is  impossible  but  to  admire. 

Mr  Borrow  has  since  published  Lavengro—the 
Scholar , the  Gipsy , the  Priest , 1851 ; and  Romany 
Rye , a sequel  to  Lavengro.  These  works  are  inferior 
in  interest  to  his  former  publications,  but  are  still 
remarkable  books.  Mr  Borrow  is  a native  of 
Norfolk. 

A.  H.  LAY  ARB. 

Few  modern  books  of  travels  or  narratives  of  dis- 
covery have  excited  greater  interest  in  this  country 
than  the  two  volumes  published  in  1848,  Nineveh 
and  its  Remains,  by  Austen  Henry  Layard.  Mr 


Layard  (born  in  Paris,  of  French  Protestant  parents, 
in  1817)  had  travelled  extensively  in  the  East,  and 
was  devoted  to  the  study  of  Eastern  antiquities  and 
manners.  The  vast  mounds  near  Mosul,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tigris,  were  traditionally  known  as 
the  site  of  the  ancient  Nineveh ; the  French  consul 
at  Mosul,  M.  Botta,  had  made  interesting  discoveries 
at  Khorsabad ; and,  stimulated  by  his  example, 
Mr  Layard  entered  on  a course  of  excavations  at 
the  same  spot.  The  generosity  of  Sir  Stratford 
Canning — now  Lord  Stratford  de  RedclifFe — sup- 
plied funds  for  the  expedition.  In  October  1845, 
Mr  Layard  reached  Mosul,  and  commenced  opera- 
tions at  Nimroud,  about  eighteen  miles  lower  down 
the  Tigris.  He  descended  the  river  on  a raft. 

[. Appearance  of  Nimroud.] 

It  was  evening  as  we  approached  the  spot.  The 
spring  rains  had  clothed  the  mound  with  the  richest 
verdure,  and  the  fertile  meadows  which  stretched 
around  it  were  covered  with  flowers  of  every  hue. 
Amidst  this  luxuriant  vegetation  were  partly  concealed 
a few  fragments  of  bricks,  pottery,  and  alabaster,  upon 
which  might  be  traced  the  well-defined  wedges  of  the 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


cuneiform  character.  Did  not  these  remains  mark  the 
nature  of  the  ruin,  it  might  have  been  confounded  with 
a natural  eminence.  A long  line  of  consecutive  narrow 
mounds,  still  retaining  the  appearance  of  walls  or 
ramparts,  stretched  from  its  base,  and  formed  a vast 
quadrangle.  The  river  flowed  at  some  distance  from 
them  : its  waters,  swollen  by  the  melting  of  the  snows 
on  the  Armenian  hills,  were  broken  into  a thousand 
foaming  whirlpools  by  an  artificial  barrier,  built  across 
the  stream.  On  the  eastern  bank  the  soil  had  been 
washed  away  by  the  current ; but  a solid  mass  of 
masonry  still  withstood  its  impetuosity.  The  Arab, 
who  guided  my  small  raft,  gave  himself  up  to  religious 
ejaculations  as  we  approached  this  formidable  cataract, 
over  which  we  were  carried  with  some  violence.  Once 
safely  through  the  danger,  my  companion  explained  to 
me  that  this  unusual  change  in  the  quiet  face  of  the 
river  was  caused  by  a great  dam  which  had  been  built 
by  Nimrod,  and  that  in  the  autumn,  before  the  winter 
rains,  the  huge  stones  of  which  it  was  constructed, 
squared,  and  united  by  cramps  of  iron,  were  frequently 
visible  above  the  surface  of  the  stream.  It  was,  in  fact, 
one  of  those  monuments  of  a great  people,  to  be  found 
in  all  the  rivers  of  Mesopotamia,  which  were  undertaken 
to  insure  a constant  supply  of  water  to  the  innumerable 
canals,  spreading  like  network  over  the  surrounding 
country,  and  which,  even  in  the  days  of  Alexander, 
were  looked  upon  as  the  works  of  an  ancient  nation. 
No  wonder  that  the  traditions  of  the  present  inhabitants 
of  the  land  should  assign  them  to  one  of  the  founders  of 
the  human  race  ! The  Arab  was  telling  me  of  the  con- 
nection between  the  dam  and  the  city  built  by  Athur, 
the  lieutenant  of  Nimrod,  the  vast  ruins  of  which  were 
now  before  us — of  its  purpose  as  a causeway  for  the 
mighty  hunter  to  cross  to  the  opposite  palace,  now  repre- 
sented by  the  mound  of  Hammum  Ali — and  of  the 
histories  and  fate  of  the  kings  of  a primitive  race,  still 
the  favourite  theme  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  plains  of 
Shinar,  when  the  last  glow  of  twilight  faded  away,  and 
I fell  asleep  as  we  glided  onward  to  Baghdad. 

The  1 cuneiform  character  ’ referred  to  is  the  arrow- 
headed  alphabet,  or  signs  and  characters  found  on 
bricks,  on  cylinders,  on  the  remains  of  ancient 
buildings,  and  on  the  smooth  surfaces  of  rocks, 
from  the  Euphrates  to  the  eastern  boundary  of 
Persia.  Professor  Grotofcnd  deciphered  certain 
names  in  these  inscriptions,  and  his  discovery  has 
been  followed  up  by  Sir  Henry  Rawlinson,  Dr 
Hincks,  and  others,  with  distinguished  success. 
Mr  Layard  commenced  his  operations  at  Nimroud 
on  a vast  mound,  1800  feet  long,  900  broad,  and 
60  or  70  feet  high.  On  digging  down  into  the 
rubbish,  chambers  of  white  marble  were  brought  to 
light ; then  sculptures  with  cuneiform  inscriptions, 
winged  lions  with  human  heads,  sphinxes,  bass- 
reliefs  representing  hunting-pieces  and  battle- 
scenes,  with  illustrations  of  domestic  life.  One 
discovery  caused  great  consternation  among  the 
labourers. 

[. Discovery  of  a Colossal  Sculpture.] 

On  the  morning  I rode  to  the  encampment  of  Sheikh 
Abd-ur-rahman,  and  was  returning  to  the  mound,  when 
I saw  two  Arabs  of  his  tribe  urging  their  mares  to  the 
top  of  their  speed.  On  approaching  me,  they  stopped. 

‘ Hasten,  O Bey,’  exclaimed  one  of  them — ‘ hasten  to 
the  diggers,  for  they  have  found  Nimrod  himself. 
Wallah,  it  is  wonderful,  but  it  is  true  ! we  have  seen 
him  with  our  eyes.  There  is  no  god  but  God;’  and 
both  joining  in  this  pious  exclamation,  they  galloped 
off,  without  further  words,  in  the  direction  of  their 
tents. 

On  reaching  the  ruins  I descended  into  the  new 
trench,  and  found  the  workmen,  who  had  already  seen 


A.  H.  LAYARD. 


me  as  I approached,  standing  near  a heap  of  baskets 
and  cloaks.  Whilst  Awad  advanced  and  asked  for  a 
present  to  celebrate  the  occasion,  the  Arabs  withdrew 
the  screen  they  had  hastily  constructed,  and  disclosed 
an  enormous  human  head  sculptured  in  full  out  of  the 
alabaster  of  the  country.  They  had  uncovered  the 
upper  part  of  a figure,  the  remainder  of  which  was  still 
buried  in  the  earth.  I saw  at  once  that  the  head  must 
belong  to  a winged  lion  or  bull,  similar  to  those  of 
Khorsabad  and  Persepolis.  It  was  in  admirable  pre- 
servation. The  expression  was  calm,  yet  majestic,  and 
the  outline  of  the  features  skewed  a freedom  and  know- 
ledge of  art  scarcely  to  be  looked  for  in  the  works  of  so 
remote  a period.  The  cap  had  three  horns,  and,  unlike 
that  of  the  human-headed  bulls  hitherto  found  in 
Assyria,  was  rounded  and  without  ornament  at  the  top. 

I was  not  surprised  that  the  Arabs  had  been  amazed 
and  terrified  at  this  apparition.  It  required  no  stretch 
of  imagination  to  conjure  up  the  most  strange  fancies. 
This  gigantic  head,  blanched  with  age,  thus  rising  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  might  well  have  belonged  to 
one  of  those  fearful  beings  which  are  pictured  in  the 
traditions  of  the  country  as  appearing  to  mortals,  slowly 
ascending  from  the  regions  below.  One  of  the  workmen, 
on  catching  the  first  glimpse  of  the  monster,  had  thrown 
down  his  basket  and  run  off  towards  Mosul  as  fast  as 
his  legs  could  carry  him.  I learned  this  with  regret,  as 
I anticipated  the  consequences. 

Whilst  I was  superintending  the  removal  of  the  earth, 
which  still  clung  to  the  sculpture,  and  giving  directions 
for  the  continuation  of  the  work,  a noise  of  horsemen 
was  heard,  and  presently  Abd-ur-rahman,  followed  by 
half  his  tribe,  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  trench.  As 
soon  as  the  two  Arabs  had  reached  the  tents,  and  pub- 
lished the  wonders  they  had  seen,  every  one  mounted 
bis  mare  and  rode  to  the  mound,  to  satisfy  himself  of 
the  truth  of  these  inconceivable  reports.  When  they 
beheld  the  head,  they  all  cried  together  : ‘ There  is  no 
god  but  God,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet!’  It  was 
some  time  before  the  sheikh  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
descend  into  the  pit,  and  convince  himself  that  the 
image  he  saw  was  of  stone.  ‘ This  is  not  the  work  of 
men’s  hands,’  exclaimed  he,  ‘ but  of  those  infidel  giants 
of  whom  the  prophet — peace  be  with  him  ! — has  said  that 
they  were  higher  than  the  tallest  date-tree ; this  is  one 
of  the  idols  which  Noah — peace  be  with  him  ! — cursed 
before  the  flood.’  In  this  opinion,  the  result  of  a careful 
examination,  all  the  bystanders  concurred. 

The  semi-barbarism  of  the  people  caused  frequent 
difficulties ; but  the  traveller’s  tact,  liberality,  and 
courage  overcame  them  all.  In  about  twelve 
months,  eight  chambers  were  opened.  Additional 
funds  for  prosecuting  researches  were  obtained 
through  the  trustees  of  the  British  Museum,  and 
ultimately  twenty-eight  halls  and  galleries  were 
laid  open,  and  the  most  valuable  of  the  exhumed 
treasures  transmitted  to  the  British  Museum.  Mr 
Layard  afterwards  commenced  excavations  at 
Kouyunjik,  on  the  plain  beyond  the  Tigris,  opposite 
Mosul,  and  was  there  equally  successful.  In  1849, 
he  undertook  a second  expedition,  funds  having 
been  supplied  (though  with  a niggardly  hand)  by 
the  trustees  of  the  Museum  and  the  government. 
On  this  occasion,  Mr  Layard  extended  his  researches 
to  Babylon  and  the  confines  of  Persia,  but  the  most 
valuable  results  were  obtained  in  the  field  of  his 
former  labours,  at  Nimroud  and  Kouyunjik.  The 
sculptures  were  of  all  kinds,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  being  a figure  of  Dagon — a four- winged 
mate  divinity.  There  were  representations  of  almost 
every  mode  of  life — banquets,  processions,  sieges, 
forts,  captives  in  fetters,  criminals  undergoing 
punishment,  &c.  The  Assyrians  appear  to  have  been 
familiar  with  the  most  cruel  barbarities— flaying 
alive,  impaling,  and  torturing  their  prisoners.  In 


FROM  1830 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


to  1859. 


the  mechanical  arts  they  were  inferior  to  the. 
Egyptians,  and  in  moving  those  gigantic  sculptures 
they  had  no  motive-power  but  physical  force— the 
captives,  malefactors,  and  slaves  being  employed. 
The  well-known  emblems  of  Egyptian  art  appear 
on  those  Assyrian  marbles,  and  Sir  Gardiner 
Wilkinson  considers  this  as  disproving  their  early 
date.  They  are  all,  he  concludes,  within  the  date 
1000  b.c.,  illustrating  the  periods  of  Shalmaneser 
and  Sennacherib ; and  Mr  Layard  is  also  of  opinion 
that  the  Assyrian  palaces  he  explored  were  built  by 
Sennacherib,  who  came  to  the  throne  at  the  end  of 
the  seventh  century  before  Christ.  The  mounds  at 
Nimroud,  Kouyunjik,  and  Khorasan  would  seem  to 
be  all  parts  of  one  vast  city  or  capital — the  Nineveh 
of  Jonah,  which  was  a three  days’  journey,  and 
contained  100,000  children,  or  a population  of  half 
a million.  The  measurement  of  the  space  within 
the  ruins  gives  an  area  almost  identical  with  that 
assigned  by  the  prophet. 

The  account  of  this  second  expedition  was  pub- 
lished by  Mr  Layard  in  1853,  under  the  title  of 
Discoveries  in  the  Ruins  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon.  He 
afterwards  entered  into  public  life,  was  a short  time 
Under-secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs,  and 
member  of  parliament  for  Aylesbury;  he  visited 
the  Crimea  during  the  war  with  Russia,  and  on  his 
return  was  one  of  the  most  urgent  in  demanding  I 
inquiry  into  the  management  of  the  army.  His  | 
zeal  was  not  always  controlled  by  judgment  ; and  j 
those  who  had  most  cordially  admired  him  as  | 
the  enlightened  and  intrepid  explorer  of  Eastern  I 
antiquities,  were  not  disposed  to  regret  that  the  | 
constituency  of  Aylesbury,  in  1857,  declined  to  j 
return  him  again  to  parliament. 

[City  of  Baghdad , or  Bagdat .] 

We  are  now  amid  the  date-groves.  If  it  be  autumn, 
clusters  of  golden  fruit  hang  beneath  the  fan-like 
leaves ; if  spring,  the  odour  of  orange  blossoms  fills  the 
air.  The  cooing  of  the  doves  that  flutter  among  the 
branches  begets  a pleasing  melancholy,  and  a feeling  of 
listlessness  and  repose.  The  raft  creeps  round  a pro- 
jecting bank,  and  two  gilded  domes  and  four  stately 
minarets,  all  glittering  in  the  rays  of  an  Eastern  sun, 
rise  suddenly  high  above  the  dense  bed  of  palms.  They 
are  of  the  mosque  of  Kaithaman,  which  covers  the 
tombs  of  two  of  the  Imaums  or  holy  saints  of  the 
Sheeah  sect.  The  low  banks  swarm  with  Arabs — men, 
women,  and  naked  children.  Mud  hovels  screened  by 
yellow  mats,  and  groaning  water-wheels  worked  by  the 
patient  ox,  are  seen  beneath  the  palms.  The  Tigris 
becomes  wider  and  wider,  and  the  stream  is  almost 
motionless.  Circular  boats  of  reeds,  coated  with  bitumen, 
skim  over  the  water.  Horsemen  and  riders  on  white 
asses  hurry  along  the  river-side.  Turks  in  flowing  robes 
and  broad  turbans;  Persians  in  high  black  caps  and 
close-fitting  tunics;  the  Bokhara  pilgrim  in  his  white 
head-dress  and  -way-worn  garments ; the  Bedouin  chief 
in  his  tasseled  keffiih  and  striped  aba ; Baghdad  ladies 
with  their  scarlet  and  white  draperies,  fretted  with 
threads  of  gold,  and  their  black  horse-hair  veils  con- 
cealing even  their  wanton  eyes ; Persian  women  wrapped 
in  their  sightless  garments;  and  Arab  girls  in  their 
simple  blue  shirts,  are  all  mingled  together  in  one 
motley  crowd.  A busy  stream  of  travellers  flows  with- 
out ceasing  from  the  gates  of  the  western  suburb  of 
Baghdad  to  the  sacred  precincts  of  Kaithaman. 

An  account  of  the  Highlands  of  Ethiopia , by 
Major  W.  Cornwallis  Harris,  H.E.I.C.  En- 
gineers, three  volumes,  1844,  also  abounds  with 
novel  and  interesting  information.  The  author  was 
employed  to  conduct  a mission  which  the  British 
708 


government  sent  to  Sahela  Selasse,  the  king  of 
Shoa,  in  Southern  Abyssinia,  whose  capital,  Ankober, 
was  supposed  to  be  about  four  hundred  miles  inland 
from  the  port  of  Tajura,  on  the  African  coast.  The 
king  consented  to  form  a commercial  treaty,  and 
Major  Harris  conceives  that  a profitable  intercourse 
might  be  maintained  by  Great  Britain  with  this 
productive  part  of  the  world. 

DAVID  LIVINGSTONE. 

Since  the  period  of  Mungo  Park’s  travels  and 
melancholy  fate,  no  explorer  of  Africa  has  excited 
so  strong  a personal  interest  as  Mr  David  Living- 
stone, a Scottish  missionary,  whose  Researches  in 


David  Livingstone. 


South  Africa  were  published  in  1857.  Mr  Living- 
stone had  then  returned  to  England,  where  his 
arrival  was  celebrated  as  a national  event,  after 
completing  a series  of  expeditions,  commenced  six- 
teen years  before,  and  which  he  is  still  prosecuting, 
for  the  purpose  of  exploring  the  interior  of  Africa, 
and  spreading  religious  knowledge  and  commerce. 
The  narrative  describes  long  and  perilous  journeys 
in  a country,  the  greater  part  of  which  had  never 
before  been  visited  by  an  European,  and  contains  a 
great  amount  of  information  respecting  the  natives, 
the  geography,  botany,  and  natural  products  of 
Africa.  In  the  belief  that  Christianity  can  only  he 
effectually  extended  by  being  united  to  commerce,  Dr 
Livingstone  endeavoured  to  point  out  and  develop 
the  capabilities  of  the  new  region  for  mercantile 
intercourse.  The  missionary,  he  argues,  should  be  a 
trader — a fact  known  to  the  Jesuits  in  Africa,  and 
also  to  the  Dutch  clergy,  but  neglected  by  our 
Protestant  missionary  societies.  ‘ By  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  raw  material  of  our  manufactures, 
African  and  English  interests  will  be  more  closely 
linked  than  heretofore;  both  countries  will  be 
eventually  benefited,  and  the  cause  of  freedom 
throughout  the  world  will  be  promoted.’  To  these 
patriotic  and  national  advantages  indicated  by  Dr 
Livingstone,  his  work  possesses  the  interest  spring- 
ing from  a personal  narrative  of  difficulties  over- 
come and  dangers  encountered,  pictures  of  new  and 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DAVID  LIVINGSTONE. 


strange  inodes  of  life,  with  descriptions  of  natural 
objects  and  magnificent  scenery.  The  volume  fills 
687  pages,  and  is  illustrated  with  maps  by  Arrow- 
smith,  and  a number  of  lithographs.  The  style  is 
simple,  and  a little  more  practice  at  book-making 
would  have  enabled  the  traveller  to  condense  his 
materials  and  present  them  in  a better  shape ; but 
the  solid  value  of  the  work  is  not  surpassed  by  any 
book  of  travels  of  modern  date.  Dr  Livingstone 
was  admirably  fitted  for  his  mission.  He  was  early 
inured  to  hardship.  From  his  wages  as  a poor 
weaver,  he  put  himself  to  college,  and  studied 
medicine.  His  ambition  was  to  become  a missionary 
to  China,  but  the  opium  war  was  unfavourable,  and 
he  proceeded,  under  the  auspices  of  the  London 
Missionary  Society,  to  Africa.  The  most  remote 
station  from  the  Cape  then  occupied  by  our  mission- 
aries was  Kuruman  or  Latakoo.  Thither  our  author 
repaired,  and  excluding  himself  for  six  months  from 
all  European  society,  he  gained  a knowledge  of  the 
language  of  the  Bechuanas,  their  habits,  laws,  &c., 
which  proved  of  incalculable  advantage  to  him. 
The  Bechuana  people  were  ruled  over  by  a chief 
named  Sechele,  who  was  converted  to  Christianity. 
The  people  are  social  and  kindly,  and  Dr  Livingstone 
and  his  wife  set  about  instructing  them,  using  only 
mild  persuasion.  Their  teaching  did  good  in  pre- 
venting wars  and  calling  the  better  feelings  into 
play,  but  polygamy  was 'firmly  established  amongst 
them : they  considered  it  highly  cruel  to  turn  off 
their  wives.  They  excused  themselves  by  thinking 
they  were  an  inferior  race.  In  a strain  of  natural 
pathos  they  used  to  say,  ‘ God  made  black  men  first, 
and  did  not  love  us  as  he  did  the  white  men.  He 
made  you  beautiful,  and  gave  you  clothing,  and 
guns,  and  gunpowder,  and  horses,  and  wagons,  and 
many  other  things  about  which  we  know  nothing. 
But  towards  us  he  had  no  heart.  He  gave  us 
nothing  except  the  assegai  (with  which  they  kill 
game),  and  cattle,  and  rain-making,  and  he  did  not 
give  us  hearts  like  yours.’  The  rain-making  is  a sort 
of  charm — an  incantation  by  which  the  rain-doctors, 
in  seasons  of  drought,  imagine,  they  can  produce 
moisture.  The  station  ultimately  chosen  by  Dr 
Livingstone  as'  the  centre  of  operations  was  about 
three  hundred  miles  north  of  Kuruman.  In  one  of 
his  expeditions  he  was  accompanied  by  two  English 
travellers,  Major  Vardon  and  Mr  Oswell;*  and  the 
party  discovered  the  great  lake  Ngami,  about 
seventy  miles  in  circumference,  till  then  unknown 
except  to  the  natives.  About  one  hundred  and 
thirty  miles  north-east  from  this  point  the  travellers 
came  upon  the  river  Zambesi,  a noble  stream  in  the 
centre  of  the  continent.  In  June  1852,  he  com- 
menced another  expedition,  the  greatest  he  had  yet 
attempted,  which  lasted  four  years.  In  six  months 
he  reached  the  capital  of  the  Makololo  territory, 
Linyanti,  which  is  twelve  hundred  miles  above  the 
latitude  of  Cape  Town.  The  people  were  desirous 
of  obtaining  a direct  trade  with  the  sea-coast,  and 
with  an  escort  of  twenty-seven  men  he  set  out  to 
discover  the  route  thither.  The  traveller’s  outfit 
was  small  enough : 

[An  African  Explorer's  Outfit.'] 

We  earned  one  small  tin  canister,  about  fifteen  inches 
square,  filled  with  spare  shirting,  trousers,  and  shoes, 
to  be  used  when  we  reached  civilised  life,  and  others  in 
a bag,  which  were  expected  to  wear  out  on  the  way ; 

* Another  English  traveller,  Mr  Rodaleyn  Gordon  Cum- 
ming,  penetrated  into  this  region,  following  a wild  sporting 
career,  and  has  published  Five  Years  of  a Hunter's  Life  in  the 
Far  Interior  of  South  Africa , two  volumes,  1850. 


another  of  the  same  size  for  medicines ; and  a third  for 
books,  my  stock  being  a Nautical  Almanac,  Thomson’s 
Logarithm  Tables,  and  a Bible ; a fourth  box  contained 
a magic  lantern,  which  we  found  of  much  use.  The  sex- 
tant and  artificial  horizon,  thermometer  and  compasses, 
were  carried  apart.  My  ammunition  was  distributed  in 
portions  through  the  whole  luggage,  so  that,  if  an 
accident  should  befall  one  jjart,  we  could  still  have 
others  to  fall  back  upon.  Our  chief  hopes  for  food 
were  upon  that,  but  in  case  of  failure  I took  about 
twenty  pounds  of  beads,  worth  forty  shillings,  which  still 
remained  of  the  stock  I brought  from  Cape  Town;  a 
small  gipsy  tent,  just  sufficient  to  sleep  in ; a sheepskin 
mantle  as  a blanket,  and  a horse-rug  as  a bed.  As  I 
had  always  found  that  the  art  of  successful  travel  con- 
sisted in  taking  as  few  ‘impediments’  as  possible,  and 
not  forgetting  to  carry  my  wits  about  me,  the  outfit  was 
rather  spare,  and  intended  to  be  still  more  so  when  we 
should  come  to  leave  the  canoes.  Some  would  consider 
it  injudicious  to  adopt  this  plan,  but  I had  a secret 
conviction  that  if  I did  not  succeed  it  would  not  be  for 
lack  of  the  ‘knickknacks’  advertised  as  indispensable  for 
travellers,  but  from  want  of  ‘ pluck,’  or  because  a large 
array  of  baggage  excited  the  cupidity  of  the  tribes 
through  whose  country  we  wished  to  pass. 

They  ascended  the  rivers  Chobe  and  Leeambye, 
and  stopped  at  the  town  of  Shesheke,  where  Dr 
Livingstone  preached  to  audiences  of  five  and  six 
hundred.  After  reaching  a point  800  miles  north 
of  Linyanti,  he  turned  to  the  west,  and  finally 
reached  Loanda,  on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic. 
The  incidents  of  this  long  journey  are,  of  course, 
varied.  The  fertility  of  the  country — the  Barotze 
district,  and  the  valley  of  the  Quango,  with  grass 
reaching  two  feet  above  the  traveller’s  head,  the 
forests,  &c.,  are  described  at  length.  There 
appeared  to  be  no  want  of  food,  although  the 
amount  of  cultivated  land  is  ‘ as  nothing  with 
what  might  be  brought  under  the  plough.’  In  this 
central  region  the  people  are  not  all  quite  black, 
some  inclining  to  bronze— the  dialects  spoken  glide 
into  one  another.  Dr  Livingstone  confirms  the 
statements  by  Mr  Roualeyn  Gordon  Gumming 
with  respect  to  the  vast  amount  of  game  and  the 
exciting  hunting  scenes  in  that  African  territory. 
The  following  is  a wholesale  mode  of  destroying 
game  practised  by  the  Bechuanas : 

[. Hunting  on  a Great  Scale.] 

Very  great  numbers  of  the  large  game — buffaloes, 
zebras,  giraffes,  tsessebes,  kamas  or  liartebeests,  kokongs 
or  gnus,  pallas,  rhinoceroses,  &c. — congregated  at  some 
fountains  near  Kolobeng,  and  the  trap  called  hopo  was 
constructed  in  the  lands  adjacent  for  their  destruction. 
The  hopo  consists  of  two  hedges  in  the  form  of  the 
letter  Y,  which  are  very  high  and  thick  near  the  angle. 
Instead  of  the  hedges  being  joined  there,  they  ai*e 
made  to  form  a lane  of  about  fifty  yards  in  length, 
at  the  extremity  of  which  a pit  is  formed,  six  or 
eight  feet  deep,  and  about  twelve  or  fifteen  in  breadth 
and  length.  Trunks  of  trees  are  laid  across  the  margins 
of  the  pit,  and  more  especially  over  that  nearest  the 
lane  where  the  animals  are  expected  to  leap  in,  and 
over  that  furthest  from  the  lane  where  it  is  supposed 
they  will  attempt  to  escape  after  they  are  in.  The 
trees  form  an  overlapping  border,  and  render  escape 
almost  impossible.  The  whole  is  carefully  decked  with 
short  green  rushes,  making  the  pit  like  a concealed 
pitfall.  As  the  hedges  are  frequently  about  a mile  long 
and  about  as  much  apart  at  their  extremities,  a tribe 
making  a circle  three  or  four  miles  round  the  country 
adjacent  to  the  opening,  and  gradually  closing  up,  are 
almost  sure  to  enclose  a large  body  of  game.  Driving 
it  up  with  shouts  to  the  narrow  part  of  the  hopo,  men 


FROM  1830  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1859. 


secreted  there  throw  their  javelins  into  the  affrighted 
herds,  and  on  the  animals  rush  to  the  opening  pre- 
sented at  the  converging  hedges,  and  into  the  pit  till 
that  is  full  of  a living  mass.  Some  escape  by  running 
over  the  others,  as  a Smithfield  mai*ket  dog  does  over 
the  sheep’s  backs.  It  is  a frightful  scene.  The  men, 
wild  with  excitement,  spear  the  lovely  animals  with  mad 
delight : others  of  the  poor  creatures,  borne  down  by  the 
weight  of  their  dead  and  dying  companions,  every  now 
and  then  make  the  whole  mass  heave  in  their  smothering 
agonies. 

Dr  Livingstone  left  Loanda  on  20th  September 
1854,  and  returned  to  Linyanti,  which  was  reached 
in  the  autumn  of  1855.  Excited  by  the  account  of 
what  wonders  they  had  seen,  as  told  by  the  men  who 
accompanied  Dr  Livingstone  to  the  shores  of  the 
Atlantic,  the  Makololo  people  flocked  to  his  standard 
in  great  numbers  when  he  announced  an  expedition 
to  the  east  coast  of  Africa.  With  a party  of  one 
hundred  and  fourteen  picked  men  of  the  tribe,  he 
started  for  the  Portuguese  colony  of  Killimane,  on 
the  east  coast,  in  November  1855.  The  chief 
supplied  oxen,  and  there  was  always  abundance  of 
game.  He  found  that  British  manufactures  pene- 
trate into  all  regions. 

[ English  Manufactures  in  the  Interior  of  South  Africa .] 

When  crossing  at  the  confluence  of  the  Leeba  and 
Makondo,  one  of  my  men  picked  up  a bit  of  a steel 
watch-chain  of  English  manufacture,  and  we  were 
informed  that  this  was  the  spot  where  the  Mambari 
cross  in  coming  to  Masiko.  Their  visits  explain  why 
Sekelenke  kept  his  tusks  so  carefully.  These  Mambari 
are  very  enterprising  merchants ; when  they  mean  to 
trade  with  a town,  they  deliberately  begin  the  affair  by 
building  huts,  as  if  they  knew  that  little  business  could 
be  transacted  without  a liberal  allowance  of  time  for 
palaver.  They  bring  Manchester  goods  into  the  heart 
of  Africa:  these  cotton  prints  look  so  wonderful  that 
the  Makololo  could  not  believe  them  to  be  the  work  of 
mortal  hands.  On  questioning  the  Mambari,  they  were 
answered  that  English  manufactures  came  out  of  the 
sea,  and  beads  were  gathered  on  its  shore.  To  Africans 
our  cotton-mills  are  fairy  dreams.  ‘ How  can  the  irons 
spin,  weave,  and  print  so  beautifully?’  Our  country  is 
like  what  Taprobane  was  to  our  ancestors — a strange 
realm  of  light,  whence  came  the  diamond,  muslin,  and 
peacocks.  An  attempt  at  explanation  of  our  manu- 
factures usually  elicits  the  expression,  ‘Truly,  ye  are 
gods  !’ 

After  a journey  of  six  months  the  party  reached 
Killimane,  where  Dr  Livingstone  remained  till  July, 
and  then  sailed  for  England.  One  of  the  Makololo 
people  would  not  leave  him;  ‘Let  me  die  at  your 
feet,’  he  said  ; but  the  various  objects  on  board  the 
ship,  and  the  excitement  of  the  voyage  proved  too 
much  for  the  reason  of  the  poor  savage ; he  leaped 
overboard,  and  was  drowned.  The  great  object  of 
Dr  Livingstone  is  to  turn  the  interior  of  this  fertile 
country  and  the  river  Zambesi,  which  he  discovered, 
into  a scene  of  British  commerce.  The  Portuguese 
are  near  the  main  entrance  to  the  new  central 
region,  but  they  evince  a liberal  and  enlightened 
spirit,  and  are  likely  to  invite  mercantile  enter- 
prise up  the  Zambesi,  by  offering  facilities  to  those 
who  may  push  commerce  into  the  regions  lying 
far  beyond  their  territory.  The  ‘white  men’  are 
welcomed  by  the  natives,  who  are  anxious  to 
engage  in  commerce.  Their  country  is  well  adapted 
for  cotton,  and  there  are  hundreds  of  miles  of  fertile 
land  unoccupied.  The  region  near  the  coast  is 
unhealthy,  and  the  first  object  must  be  to  secure 
800 


means  of  ready  transit  to  the  high  lands  on  the 
borders  of  the  central  basin,  which  are  comparatively 
healthy.  The  river  Zambesi  has  not  been  surveyed, 
but  during  four  or  five  months  there  is  abundance 
of  water  for  a large  vessel.  There  are  three  hun- 
dred miles  of  navigable  river,  then  a rapid  intervenes, 
after  which  there  is  another  reach  of  three  hundred 
miles.  Dr  Livingstone  proposes  the  formation  of 
stations  on  the  Zambesi  beyond  the  Portuguese 
territory,  but  having  communication  through  them 
with  the  coast.  Shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
Researches , the  doctor  set  out  on  another  and  more 
imposing  expedition  to  the  country  of  the  Makololo. 
He  reached  the  boundaries  of  civilisation  in  safety, 
whence  he  proceeded  to  the  scene  of  his  labours  and 
triumphs  with  high  hopes  and  undaunted  courage. 

It  may  be  long  ere  we  learn  the  success  of  the 
mission,  and  we  can  only  bid  him  God-speed  on  his 
patriotic  enterprise. 

THE  ARCTIC  EXPEDITIONS. 

Expeditions  to  the  arctic  regions  were  continued 
after  the  fruitless  voyage  of  Sir  John  Ross,  1829-33. 
The  interval  of  160  miles  between  Point  Barrow, 
and  the  furthest  point  to  which  Captain  Franklin 
penetrated,  was,  in  1837,  surveyed  by  Mr  Thomas 
Simpson  and  the  servants  of  the  Hudson’s  Bay 
Company.  The  latter  had,  with  great  generosity, 
lent  their  valuable  assistance  to  complete  the 
geography  of  that  region,  and  Mr  Simpson  was 
enthusiastically  devoted  to  the  same  object.  In 
the  summer  of  1837,  he,  with  his  senior  officer,  Mr 
Dease,  started  from  the  Great  Slave  Lake,  following 
the  steps  of  Franklin  as  far  as  the  point  called 
Franklin’s  Farthest,  whence  they  traced  the  remain- 
der of  the  coast  to  the  westward  to  Point  Barrow, 
by  which  they  completed  our  knowledge  of  this 
coast  the  whole  way  west  of  the  Coppermine  River, 
as  far  as  Behring’s  Straits.  Wintering  at  the  north- 
east angle  of  the  Great  Bear  Lake,  the  party 
descended  the  Coppermine  River,  and  followed  the 
coast  eastwards  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the  Great 
Fish  River,  discovered  by  Back  in  1834.  The  expe- 
dition comprised  ‘ the  navigation  of  a tempestuous 
ocean  beset  with  ice,  for  a distance  exceeding  1400 
geographical  or  1600  statute  miles,  in  open  boats, 
together  with  all  the  fatigues  of  long  land-journeys 
and  the  perils  of  the  climate.’  In  1839  the  Geo- 
graphical Society  of  London  rewarded  Mr  Simpson 
with  a medal,  for  ‘advancing  almost  to  completion 
the  solution  of  the  great  problem  of  the  configuration 
of  the  northern  shore  of  the  North  American  conti- 
nent.’ While  returning  to  Europe  in  June  1840, 
Mr  Simpson  died,  it  is  supposed,  by  his  own  hand 
in  a paroxysm  of  insanity,  after  shooting  two  of 
the  four  men  who  accompanied  him  from  the  Red 
River  colony.  Mr  Simpson  was  a.  native  of  Ding- 
wall, in  Ross-shire,  and  at  the  time  of  his  melan- 
choly death  was  only  in  his  thirty-second  year. 
His  Narrative  of  the  Discoveries  on  the  North  Coast 
of  America,  effected  by  the  Officers  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  during  the  years  1836-39,  was  published 
in  1843.  . 

In  1845  the  Admiralty  commissioned  two  ships, 
the  Erebus  and  Terror,  to  prosecute  the  problem  of 
the  North-west  Passage.  Captain  Sir  John  Franklin 
had  returned  from  Tasmania,  and  the  expedition 
was  placed  under  charge  of  that  experienced  and 
skilful  commander,  Captain  Crozier  being  the  second 
in  command.  The  expedition  was  seen  in  Davis 
Strait  by  some  whalers,  and  it  was  discovered  that 
they  passed  the  winter  of  1845-46  in  a small  cove 
between  Cape  Riley  and  Beechey  Island,  facing  j 


TRAVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OSBORN — McCLURE. 


Lancaster  Sound.  In  this  spot  were  found  remains  of 
the  observatory,  carpenters’  and  armourers’  working- 
places,  old  clothing,  &c.,  and,  lastly,  the  graves  of 
three  of  the  crew  of  the  Erebus  and  Terror.  The 
latter  interesting  memento  is  thus  noticed  in  Stray 
Leaves  from  an  Arctic  Journal , by  Lieutenant  S. 
Osborn,  1852. 

[i Graves  of  the  English  Seamen  in  the  Polar  Regions] 

The  graves,  like  all  that  Englishmen  construct, 
were  scrupulously  neat.  Go  where  yoif  will  over  the 
globe’s  surface — afar  in  the  east,  or  afar  in  the  west, 
down  among  the  coral-girded  isles  of  the  South  Sea,  or 
here,  where  the  grim  North  frowns  on  the  sailor’s  grave 
— you  will  always  find  it  alike;  it  is  the  monument 
raised  by  rough  hands  but  affectionate  hearts  over  the 
last  home  of  their  messmates ; it  breathes  of  the  quiet 
churchyard  in  some  of  England’s  many  nooks,  where  each 
had  formed  his  idea  of  what  was  due  to  departed  worth ; 
and  the  ornaments  that  nature  decks  herself  with,  even 
in  the  desolation  of  the  frozen  zone,  were  carefully  culled 
to  mark  the  dead  seaman’s  home.  The  good  taste  of 
the  officers  had  prevented  the  general  simplicity  of  an 
oaken  head  and  footboard  to  each  of  the  graves  being 
marred  by  any  long  and  childish  epitaphs,  or  the  doggrel 
of  a lower-deck  poet,  and  the  three  inscriptions  were  as 
follows : 

‘Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Wm.  Braine,  R.M.,  of 
H.M.S.  Erebus , died  April  3,  1846,  aged  32  years. 
“Choose  you  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve.” — Josh.  xxiv. 
15. 

‘ Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  J.  Torrington,  who  departed 
this  life,  January  1,  1846,  on  board  of  H.M.S.  Terror , 
aged  20  years. 

‘ Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  J.  Hartwell,  A.B.,  of  H.M.S. 
Erebus,  died  January  4,  1846,  aged  25  years.  “Thus 
saith  the  Lord  of  hosts ; Consider  your  ways.” — Eaggai 
i.  7: 

I thought  I traced  in  the  epitaphs  over  the  graves  of 
the  men  from  the  Erebus  the  manly  and  Christian  spirit 
of  Franklin.  In  the  true  spirit  of  chivalry,  he,  their 
captain  and  leader,  led  them  amidst  dangers  and 
unknown  difficulties  with  iron  will  stamped  upon  his 
brow,  but  the  words  of  meekness,  gentleness,  and  truth 
were  his  device. 

Three  years  elapsed  without  any  intelligence  of 
the  voyagers,  and  the  Admiralty  organised  searching 
expeditions  by  sea  and  land.  Of  these  we  have 
interesting  accounts  in  the  Narrative  of  an  Expedi- 
tion to  the  Shores  of  the  Arctic  Sea  in  1846  and  1847, 
by  John  Rae,  1850  ; Journal  of  a Voyage  in  1850-51, 
performed  by  the  Lady  Franklin  and  Sophia  under 
command  of  Mr  W.  Penny , by  P.  C.  Sutherland, 
M.D.,  two  volumes,  1852 ; Papers  and  Despatches 
relating  to  the  Arctic-searching  Expeditions  o/T850-l-2, 
by  James  Mangles,  R.N.,  1852  ; Second  Voyage  of 
the  Prince  Albert  in  Search  of  Sir  John  Franklin , 
by  W.  Kennedy,  1853;  The  Last  of  the  Arctic 
Voyages , being  a Narrative  of  the  Expedition  in 
H.  M.  S.  Assistance,  under  the  command  of  Sir 
Edward  Belcher,  C.B.,  in  Search  of  Sir  John 
Franklin,  1852-3-4,  two  volumes,  1855 ; The  Dis- 
covery of  the  North-west  Passage , by  H.M.S.  Investi- 
gator, Captain  R.  M‘Clure,  1850-54,  published  in 
1856.  The  last  of  these  voyages  was  the  most 
important.  Captain  M'Clure  was  knighted,  and 
parliament  voted  him  a sum  of  £5000,  with  an 
equal  sum  to  his  officers  and  crew.  The  gallantry 
and  ability  displayed  by  the  officers  of  the  various 
expeditions,  and  the  additions  made  by  them  to  the 
geography  of  the  Polar  Seas,  render  these  voyages 
and  land-journeys  a source  of  national  honour, 
though  of  deep  and  almost  painful  interest.  The 
103 


abundance  of  animal  life  in  the  polar  regions  is 
remarkable.  Rein-deer,  hares,  musk  oxen,  with 
salmon,  and  other  fish  were  found,  and  furnished 
provisions  to  the  exploring  ice-parties.  In  1854  Dr 
Rae  learned  from  a party  of  Esquimaux  that  in  the 
spring  of  1850  about  forty  white  men  were  seen  on 
the  shore  of  King  William’s  Land.  They  appeared 
thin,  and  intimated  by  signs  that  their  ships  had 
been  lost  in  the  ice,  and  that  they  were  travelling 
to  where  they  hoped  to  find  deer  to  shoot.  They 
were  dragging  a boat  and  sledges.  The  Esquimaux 
further  stated  that  later  the  same  season,  before  the 
ice  broke  up,  the  bodies  of  thirty  white  men  were 
discovered  on  the  continent  a day’s  journey  to  the 
west  of  the  Great  Fish  River,  and  five  more  bodies 
on  an  adjacent  island.  In  1857,  Lady  Franklin 
organised  another  searching  expedition,  and  Captain 
M‘Clintock,  with  a crew  of  twenty-four  men,  sailed 
in  the  Fox  yacht.  They  spent  the  winter  of  1857-58 
in  the  ice,  drifting  about  1200  miles.  In  the  spring 
they  resumed  operations,  and  in  August  reached 
Brentford  Bay,  near  which  the  ship  was  laid  up  for 
winter-quarters.  In  the  spring  of  1859,  Captain 
M‘Clintock  and  Lieutenant  Hobson  undertook 
sledge  expeditions,  embracing  a complete  survey  of 
the  coasts.  At  Point  Victory,  upon  the  north-west 
coast  of  King  William’s  Island,  Lieutenant  Hobson 
found  under  a cairn  a record,  dated  April  25,  1848, 
signed  by  Captains  Crozier  and  Fitzjames,  stating 
that  the  Erebus  and  Terror  were  abandoned  on  the 
22d  of  April  1848,  in  the  ice,  and  that  the  sur- 
vivors, in  all  one  hundred  and  five,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Captain  Crozier,  were  proceeding  to  the 
Great  Fish  River.  Sir  John  Franklin  had  died  on 
the  11th  of  June  1847.  The  unfortunate  party 
had  expected  to  be  able  to  penetrate  on  foot  south- 
wards to  some  of  the  most  northerly  settlements 
of  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company.  Traces  of  their 
progress  were  further  found — a large  boat  fitted  on 
a sledge,  with  quantities  of  clothing,  cbcoa,  tea, 
tobacco,  and  fuel,  with  two  guns  and  plenty  of 
ammunition.  Five  watches,  some  plate,  knives,  a 
few  religious  books,  and  other  relics  were  discovered ; 
but  no  journals  or  pocket-books.  The  gallant 
band,  enfeebled  by  three  years’  residence  in  arctic 
latitudes,  disappointment,  and  suffering,  had  no 
doubt  succumbed  to  the  cold  and  fatigue,  sinking 
down  by  the  way,  as  the  Esquimaux  had  reported 
to  Dr  Rae,  and  finding  graves  amidst  the  eternal 
frost  and  snow. 


ADDENDA. 

During  the  progress  of  this  work  through  the 
press,  some  of  the  names  mentioned  in  its  pages 
have  dropped  off1  from  the  file  of  living  authors.  Dr 
Edward  Maltby,  died  July  3,  1859.  His  valuable 
library,  with  funds  for  the  endowment  of  a librarian, 
he  left  to  Durham  University.  The  Rev.  Charles 
Hardwick,  archdeacon  of  Ely,  met  with  a melan- 
choly death,  August  19,  1859,  while  ascending  the 
mountain  called  Col  du  Port  de  Venasque,  in  the 
Pyrenees.  He  had  declined  the  services  of  the 
guide,  being  a bold  and  intrepid  climber,  but  in  his 
descent  he  fell  down  a shelving  mass  of  rock  through 
a distance  of  about  two  hundred  feet,  and  must  have 
been  instantaneously  killed.  Of  humble  descent,  Mr 
Hardwick  owed  his  high  position  in  the  university 
of  Cambridge  to  his  varied  attainments  and  spot- 
less character.  The  veteran  poet  and  essayist, 
Leigh  Hunt,  died  August  28, 1859,  aged  seventy-five. 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


His  fine  fancy  and  lively  interest  in  literature  and 
social  events  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  ‘ Only 
the  very  day  before  his  death,’  says  a friendly  eulogist 
in  the  Daily  News,  * he  requested  a friend  to  read  to 
him,  as  he  lay  in  his  sick-bed,  a review  which  had 
appeared  in  a weekly  contemporary  of  Mr  John 
Stuart  Mill’s  new  work.  Another  of  his  predilec- 
tions shewed  itself  even  nearer  still  to  the  close  of 
all.  He  was  a passionate  lover  of  music,  especially  of 
that  which  belongs  to  what  may  be  called  the  land  of 
music ; and  only  three  or  four  hours  before  his  death 
was  listening  with  great  delight  to  some  Italian 
airs  which  his  daughter  was  singing  in  an  adjoining 
room.  He  signified  his  approval  of  these  in  a tone 
of  voice  so  firm  and  loud  that  any  apprehensions 
which  had  been  previously  felt  were  in  some  degree 
removed;  but  shortly  afterwards  he  fainted.  On 
recovering,  he  said  to  one  of  his  sons,  who  was  seated 
by  his  bedside,  “ I don’t  think  I shall  get  over  this,” 
and  almost  immediately  passed  away.’ — Dr  John 
Pringle  Nichol,  a popular  illustrator  of  astro- 


nomical facts  and  discoveries,  and  professor  of 
Astronomy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  died  at 
Rothesay,  September  19,  1859,  aged  fifty-five.  Sir 
James  Stephen — long  the  able  Under-Secretary 
for  the  Colonies,  the  accomplished  essayist,  and 
professor  of  modern  history  in  the  University  of 
Cambridge — died  at  Coblentz,  September  16,  1859, 
aged  seventy. 

A new  poem  from  the  pen  of  Mr  Alfred 
Tennyson  deserves  commemoration.  In  July  1859, 
appeared  Idylls  of  the  King , a series  of  four  idylls  or 
legends  selected  chiefly  from  the  body  of  romance 
known  as  the  Morte  d’ Arthur.  These  four  tales  of 
love  and  chivalry  are  in  blank  verse,  and  possess 
dramatic  force  and  unity  of  fable  and  style.  The 
versification  is  soft  and  flowing,  occasionally  defi- 
cient in  energy  and  condensation,  but  presenting 
many  eminently  beautiful  pictures  and  descriptions, 
with  passages  of  true  pathos.  The  work  sustains 
the  reputation  of  Mr  Tennyson,  but  cannot  be  said 
to  form  the  1 crowning  glory  ’ of  his  genius. 


% X ' - — 

A Beckett,  G.  A.,  ii.  . . 624 

Abel,  Dr,  ii.  . . 667 

Abercrombie,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 524 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel,  ii.  3S5 
Abra’s  Love  for  Solomon,  i.  . . 557 

Absence— [Pastoral  Ballad],  i.  . 719 

Activity,  God’s  Exhortation  to,  i.  . 546 
Adair,  Sir  R.,  ii.  . . . 72 

Adam  after  the  Fall,  i.  . . 398 

Adams,  John  C.,  ii.  . . 743 

Addison,  Joseph,  i.  549-555,  619,  624-628 
Addison,  Tickell’s  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of,  i.  . . . . 593 

Address  to  Bishop  Valentine,  i.  . 115 

Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie  on 
her  Birthday,  ii.  . . 410 

Address  to  the’  Mummy  in  Belzoni’s 
Exhibition,  ii.  . . 394 

Address  to  the  Ocean,  ii.  . . 401 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer,  ii.  . . 396 

Admiral  Hosier’s  Ghost,  i.  . 749 

Adonis,  Death  of,  Venus’s  Prophecy 
after  the,  i.  . . . . 110 

Adonis,  the  Horse  of,  i.  . . 110 

Adventures  of  Gulliver  in  Brobding- 
nag,  i.  . . . . 643 

Adversity,  i.  309 

Adversity,  Hymn  to,  i.  . . 737 

Adversity  and  Prosperity,  i.  . 257 

Advertisement,  Literary,  ii.  . . 322 

Advertisements,  Quack,  i.  . 622 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters,  ii.  . 79 

Advice  to  a Lady,  i.  . . 730 

Advice  to  the  Married,  ii.  . . 11 

Advice  to  a Reckless  Youth,  i.  . 213 

Advice  to  a Youth  of  Rambling 
Disposition,  i.  638 

JEneid , Extract  from  Surrey’s  Trans- 
lation, i.  . . .44 

JEsop’s  Invention  to  bring  his  Mis- 
tress back,  &c.,  i.  . . . 444 

Afar  in  the  Desert,  ii.  . . 411 

Afflicted,  Comforting  the,  i.  . . 309 

Affliction,  Consoling  in— [Lady  Mary 
W.  Montagu  to  the  Countess  of 
Bute],  i.  . . . 667 

Africa,  Influence  of  a Small  Moss  in 
Fructification  amidst  the  Deserts 
of— [Mungo  Park],  ii.  . . 245 

African  Explorer’s  Outfit,  ii.  . 799 

African  Hospitality,  ii.  . . 245 

Age,  from  Anacreon,  i.  . . 330 

Age,  Gradual  Approaches  of,  ii.  . 272 
Ainsworth,  W.  H.,  ii.  . . 640 

Air,  the  Dancing  of  the,  i.  . .113 

Aird,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 584 

Airy,  G.  B.,  ii.  743 

Akenside,  Mark,  i.  . . 725-729 

Alas ! Poor  Scholar,  &c.,  i.  . . 412 

Alchemist,  the,  i.  . . . 213 

Aldrich,  Dr  Henry,  i.  . . 473 

Alexander’s  Feast,  i.  . . 383 

Alexander,  Sir  James,  ii.  . . 785 

Alford,  Rev.  Henry,  ii.  . 735 

Alfred,  i.  . . .2 

Alfric,  i.  . . . . 2 

Alison,  Rev.  Archibald,  ii.  . 241,  530 

Alison,  Sir  A.,  ii.  . . 678 

Allingiiam,  William,  ii.  . . 612 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imo- 
gine,  ii.  . . . 336 

Alps,  Scenery  of  the,  ii.  . . 206 

Althea,  to,  from  Prison,  i.  . . 156 


Page 

Amantium  Irse  Amoris  redinteg- 
ratio  est,  i.  . . . .46 

Ambition,  i.  630 

Ambition,  Results  of  Misdirected 
and  Guilty,  i.  794 

Amelia  Wentworth,  ii.  . . 403 

America,  from  Burke’s  Speech  on 
Conciliation  with,  ii.  . . 212 

America,  Discovery  of,  ii.  . 175 

America,  Verses  on  the  Prospect  of 
Planting  Arts  and  Learning  in,  i.  671 
American  Coin,  New  Device  for,  i.  803 
American  Cymon  and  Iphigenia,  ii.  795 
American  Freedom,  Dependence  of 
English  on,  ii.  . . 213 

American  Scenery,  South,  ii.  . 304 

American,  the  Bustling,  Affection- 
ate, little,  ii.  ...  648 
Amherst,  Lord,  ii.  . . 567 

Amicos,  ad,  i. . . . .759 

Amort,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 202 

Amynta,  i.  . . . 759 

Anacreon,  Note  on,  i.  . . 336 

Anacreontics,  i.  330 

Anastasius— Death  of  his  Son,  ii.  484 
Ancient  Countries,  Modern  State  of,  i.  270 


Ancient  Greece,  ii. 

Ancient  Poets,  Translations  of  the,  i. 
Ancrum,  Earl  op,  i.  . 

Anecdote  of  the  Discovery  of  the 
Newtonian  Philosophy,  i.  . 
Anecdote  of  the  Sultan  Bello— [Den- 
ham and  Clapperton],  ii.  . 

Angels,  Assembling  of  the  Fallen,  i. 
Angler’s  Wish,  the,  i. 

Angling,  Recommendation  of,  i. 
Anglo-Saxon  and  English,  Speci- 
mens of,  Previous  to  1300,  i. 
Anglo-Saxon  Writers,  i. 

Animals,  Cruelty  to— Picture  of  the 
Chase,  ii. 

Animals,  Proportionate  Lengths  of 
the  Necks  and  Legs  of,  i.  . 

Anna,  the  Grave  of,  ii. 

Anningait  and  Ajut,  i. 

Anonymous  Writers,  a Hint  to,  ii. 
Ansted,  Professor,  ii. 

Anster  Fair,  Passages  from,  ii.  . 
Anstey,  Christopher,  ii.  . 
Anti-Jacobin  Poetry,  ii.  . 

Antioch,  the  Siege  of,  i. 

Antiquary,  an,  i.  . 

Antonio  and  Mellida,  Scene  from,  i. 
Antony,  Mark,  and  Ventidius,  Scene 
between,  i.  . 

Antony,  Mark,  over  Caesar’s  dead 
body,  L 

Apelles  and  Protogenes,  i. 
Aphorisms,  Miscellaneous,  i. 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  ii. 

Apple  Dumplings  and  a King,  ii. 
Approbation,  Desire  of,  i. 

Arab  Chief,  Remark  by  an,  ii. 
Arbuthnot,  Dr  John,  i. 

Arcadia,  Description  of,  i. 

Arcadia,  Picture  of,  ii. 

Arcite,  the  Death  of,  i.  . 

Arctic  Discovery,  ii.  . 

Arden  of  Feversham,  Scene  from,  i 
Argcntile  and  Curan,  Tale  of,  i. 
Armida  and  her  Enchanted  Girdle,  i 
Armstrong,  John,  L . . . 

Arnold,  Dr,  ii.  . . . 


350 

512 


556 
354 
435 
746 

5 
1 

534 

545 

75 
770 

744 
760 
435 

50 

76 
7 

427 
231 

399 

200 
559 
. 432 
352 
. 80 
475 
. 787 
656-660 
249 
. 203 
19 

563,  800 
191 
242 
108 

745 
692 


Arnold,  Matthew,  ii.  . . 611 

Arthur,  King,  and  his  Round  Table,  ii.  326 
Arthur’s  Coronation,  Proceedings  at,  i.  6 
Articles  of  Religion,  Subscription  to,  ii.  745 
Ascham,  Roger,  i.  . .81 

Ashford,  Isaac,  a Noble  Peasant,  ii.  26S 
Ashmole,  Elias,  i.  . . 509 

Aspatia,  Grief  of,  for  the  Marriage  of 
Amintor  and  Evadne,  i.  . . 221 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite— [Plea- 
sures of  the  Imagination],  i.  . 727 
Aspirations  of  Youth,  ii.  . . 379 

Atherstone,  Edwin,  ii.  . . 312 

Atterbury,  Dr  Francis,  i.  . 675 

Atterbury,  Pope  to,  i.  . . 653 

Aubrey,  John,  i.  . . . 509 

Auburn,  Description  of,  &c.,  ii.  . 5 

Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birthday,  Ode 
to,  ii.  ....  40 

Austen,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 466 

Austin,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 727 

Author,  an,  must  Feel  what  he 
Writes,  i.  . . . .371 

Author,  a Sensitive,  ii.  . . 118 

Autumn,  ii.  . . . . 610 

Autumn,  from  the  Sermon  on,  ii.  530 
Autumn,  to,  ii.  367 

Autumn  Evening  Scene,  i.  . 693 

Autumn  Scenery— [Pope  to  Mr  Dig- 

by],  i 653 

Autumn,  Sketches  of,  ii.  . . 272 

Avalanche,  Swiss  Mountain  and,  ii.  569 
Avarice,  . . i.  527,  654 ; ii.  551 

Await[the  Issue,  ii.  . . . 725 

Ayton,  Sir  Robert,  i.  . 172 

Aytoun,  Professor,  ii.  . . 602 

Babbage,  Charles,  ii.  . . 743 

Babe  Christabel,  conclusion  of,  ii.  . 610 
Baby’s  Debut,  the— By  W.  W.— [Re- 
jected Addresses],  ii.  . . 392 

Babylon,  Summons  of  the  Destroy- 
ing Angel  to  the  City  of,  ii.  . 405 

Bacon,  Lieutenant  Thomas,  ii.  787 
Bacon,  Lord,  i.  . . 254-259 

Bacon,  Lord,  Lines  on,  i.  . 333 

Bagdad,  City  of,  ii.  . . . 798 

Bagdad,  the  City  of— Magnificence 
of  the  Caliphs,  ii.  . . 183 

Bagdad,  View  of  Society  in,  ii.  . 566 
Bage,  Robert,  ii.  . . 155 

Bailey,  P.  J.,  ii.  . . . 595 

Baillie,  Joanna,  ii.  . Ill,  409 

Baillie,  Miss  Agnes,  Address  to,  on 
her  Birthday,  ii.  . . 410 

Baker,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . . 280 

Balaklava,  Battle  of,  ii.  . . 699 

Balclutha,  Desolation  of,  ii.  . 15 

Bale,  Bishop,  i.  . . 79,  175 

Ball,  Scene  from  the,  i.  . 241 

Ballad— (’Twas  when  the  seas  were 
roaring),  i.  ‘ . . 592 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaise,  ii.  . . 655 

Ballad  Poetry,  ii.  . . . 57 

Ballad  Singer,  the  Country,  i.  . 589 
Ballantine,  James,  ii.  . . 618 

Baltic,  Battle  of  the,  ii.  . . 333 

Balwhidder,  Mr,  Placing  of,  as  Minis- 
ter of  Dalmailing,  ii.  . . 481 

Bancroft,  George,  ii.  . . 707 

Banim,  John,  ii.  . . . 603 

Bannockburn,  the  Battle  of,  i.  . 27 

Barbauld,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 85 

803 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Page 

Barbour,  John,  i.  . .26 

Barclay,  Alexander,  i.  . 40 

Barclay,  Robert,  i.  . • 480 

Bard,  the ; a Pindaric  Ode,  i.  . 738 

Barham,  R.  H.,  ii.  . » 626 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne,  ii.  . 88 

Barnfield,  Richard,  i.  . 118,  810 

Barrow,  Dr  Isaac,  i.  . . 449 

Barrow,  John,  ii.  . . 792 

Barrow,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . 567 

Barton,  Bernard,  ii.  . . 400 

Bastard,  the,  i.  . . 582 

Battle-field,  Solitude  on  a,  ii.  . 764 

Baucis  and  Philemon,  i.  . . 563 

Bawdin,  Sir  Charles,  Death  of,  ii.  . 20 

Bawn,  Hamilton’s — [The  Grand. 

Question  Debated],  i.  . . 567 

Baxter,  Richard,  i.  . . 473-476 

Baxter’s  Judgment  of  his  Writings,  i.  474 
Baxter,  Change  in  his  Estimate  of 
his  own  and  other  Men’s  Know- 
ledge, i.  . . . . 475 

Baxter’s  Youth,  Observance  of  the 
Sabbath  in,  i.  . . .476 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes,  ii.  . 416 

Baynes,  C.  R.,  ii.  . . . 7S7 

Beaton,  Cardinal,  Assassination  of,  i.  317 
Beattie,  Dr  James,  ii.  . 40-45,  192 

Beaumont,  Francis,  i.  . . 128-130 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  i.  218-225 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Character 
of,  i.  ....  511 

Beaumont,  Sir  John,  i.  . . 127 

Beautiful,  Love  of  the,  ii.  . .764 

Beauty,  i.  . . . . 119 

Beauty  and  Love,  Platonic  Repre- 
sentation of  the  Scale  of,  i.  . 669 

Beauty,  Recollection  of  Youthful,  ii.  655 
Beckford,  William,  ii.  . 148-154,  561 

Beddoes,  T.  L.  and  Dr  T.,  ii.  . 450 

Bede,  i.  ....  2 

Bede,  Adam,  Description  of,  ii.  . 677 

Bee,  Bag  of  the,  i.  . . 153 

Beechey,  Captain,  ii.  . . 565 

Beggar,  the,  ii.  . . .52 

Behn,  Mrs  Aphra,  i.  . . 410 

Belcher,  Sir  E.,  ii.  . . . 801 

Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague,  ii.  71 

Belinda  and  the  Sylphs,  i.  . .573 

Bell,  John,  ii.  . . 561 

Bell,  J.  S.,  ii.  ...  793 

Bedl,  Sir  Charles,  ii.  . . 739 

Bellenden,  John,  i.  . .77 

Belphoebe,  Description  of,  i.  . 99 

Belzoni,  J.  B.,  ii.  . . 556 

Bengal,  an  Evening  Walk  in,  ii.  370 

Bennett,  W.  C.,  ii.  . . . 612 

Bennoch,  Francis,  ii.  . . 618 

Benson,  Rev.  C.,  ii.  . . . 527 

Bentham,  Jeremy,  ii.  . . 554 

Bentley,  Richard,  i.  . .674 

Beresford,  Rev.  J.,  ii.  . . 553 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  i.  . . 670 

Berkeley’s  Siris,  the  Concluding  Sen- 
tence Imitated,  ii.  . . 55 

Bermudas,  the  Emigrants  in,  i.  . 359 

Berners,  Lord,  i.  . . 77 

Bertram,  Scene  from,  ii.  . . 445 

Beth  Gelert,  or  the  Grave  of  the 
Greyhound,  ii.  . . . 380 

Bethlehem,  the  Shepherds  of,  i.  . 72 

Bethlehem,  the  Star  of,  ii.  . 260 

Bethune,  Alex,  and  John,  ii.  . 762 

Biancha,  Disinterestedness  of,  i.  222 

Bible,  Translation  of  the,  i.  . . 286 

Bible,  Tyndale’s  Version,  &c.,  i.  80 

Bickekstaff,  Isaac,  i.  . .769 

Bickersteth,  Rev.  E.,  ii.  . 731 

Bigg,  Stanyan,  ii.  . .676 

Bigotry,  i.  . . . . 526 

Bingham,  Commander  J.  E.,  ii.  . 788 

Biography  and  History,  i.  . 515 

Birch,  Dr  Thomas,  . i.  808 ; ii.  178 

Bird  and  Musician,  Contention  of,  i.  237 
Birds,  an  Invocation  to,  ii.  . 403 

Birks  of  Invermay,  i.  . . 725 

Biron,  Return  of,  i.  . . 605 

Birtha,  Description  of  the  Virgin,  i.  158 

Bishop,  a real,  ii.  . . 544 

Bishop,  Samuel,  i.  . . . 750 

Bishop,  to  Mrs,  i.  . . 750 

Blackie,  Professor,  ii.  . . 617 

Blacklock,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 39 

Blackmore,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . 584 

Blackstonf.,  Sir  William,  i.  747 ; ii.  228 
Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine , 

&c.,  ii.  . . . . 571 

804 

Page 

Blair,  Dr  Hugh,  ii.  . . . 199 

Blair,  Robert,  i.  . . 698 

Blair,  William,  ii.  . . . 695 

Blake,  Admiral,  Death  of,  ii.  . 713 

Blamire,  Miss,  ii.  . . 84 

Blanchard,  Laman,  ii.  . . 766 

Blenheim,  the  Battle  of,  i.  . . 553 

Blessington,  Countess  of,  ii.  . 631 

Blind  Harry,  i.  . .30 

Blind  Youth,  Description  of  a,  ii.  253 

Bliss,  the  Bower  of,  i.  . .95 

Blomfield,  Bishop,  ii.  . . 735 

Bloomfield,  Dr,  ii.  . . .735 

Bloomfield,  Robert,  ii.  . . 250-255 

Bloomfield  to  his  Children,  ii.  . 253 

Blossoms,  to,  i.  152 

Blue  Stocking  Club,  ii.  . . 237 

Blunt,  Dr  J.  J.,  ii.  . . . 736 

Bobadil  and  Matthew— [A  Simpleton 
and  a Braggodocio],  i.  . . 211 

Bobadil’s  Plan  for  Saving  the  Ex- 
pense of  an  Army,  i.  . . 212 

Bohemia,  Queen  of,  to  the,  i.  . 130 

Boleyn,  Queen  Anne,  the  Death  of,  i.  74 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,  i.  . 660-664 

Bonaparte,  Napoleon,  Intellectual 
and  Moral  Character  of,  ii.  . 551 

Bonny  Kilmeny,  ii.  . . . 430 

Book-collector,  the,  i.  . 41 

Books,  i.  430 

Books  and  Ships  Compared,  i.  . 259 

Borrow,  George,  ii.  . . 795 

Boston  in  the  last  Century,  ii.  . 707 

Boston,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 492 

Boswell,  James,  ii.  . . 242 

Boswell,  Sir  Alexander,  ii.  . 427 

Botany,  Invocation  to  the  Goddess 
of,  ii.  ...  . 70 

Boteville,  Francis,  i.  . . 266 

Bowdich,  Mr,  ii.  . . 556 

Bower,  Archibald,  i.  . . 787 

Bowles,  Rev.  W.  L.,  ii.  . . 303 

Bowring,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . 617,  787 

Bowyer,  WTlliam,  ii.  • . 552 

Boyer,  Abel,  ii  .—note,  . . 179 

Boyish  Scenes  and  Recollections,  ii.  537 
Boyle,  the  Hon.  Robert,  i.  . 537-541 
Bozzaris,  Marco,  ii.  , . 418 

Braes  of  Yarrow,  the,  i.  . .756 

Braid  Claith,  ii.  . . 91 

Bramble  Flower,  to  the,  ii.  . . 414 

Brandon,  Samuel,  i.  . . 190 

Bray,  Mrs,  ii.  ...  644 

Breakfast,  the  Public,  ii.  . 50 

Bremner,  Robert,  ii.  . . 792 

Breton,  Nicholas,  i.  . . 117 

Brewster,  Sir  David,  ii.  . .749 

Bride’s  Tragedy,  Passages  from  the,  ii.  450 
Bristow  Tragedy,  or  the  Death  of 
Sir  Charles  Bawdin,  ii.  . . 20 

Britain,  the  Languages  of,  i.  . 266 

British  Monarchy,  the,  ii.  . . 215 

British  Navy,  the,  i.  . . 343 

Brockedon,  William,  ii.  . . 561 

Brodie,  George,  ii.  . . 517 

Brome,  Richard,  i.  . . . 233 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  ii.  . . 659 

Bronte,  Death  of  E.  and  A.,  ii.  . 662 

Bronte,  Emily,  and  her  Dog 

‘Keeper,’  ii.  660 

Brooke,  Arthur,  i.  . . 88 

Brooke,  Henry,  ii.  . . . 140 

Brooks,  Shirley,  ii.  . . 676 

Broome,  William,  i.  . . 581 

Broomstick,  a Meditation  upon,  ac- 
cording to  the  Style  and  Manner 
of  the  Hon.  Robert  Boyle’s  Medi- 
tations, i.  . . . 643 

Brothers,  the  Italian,  ii.  . . 609 

Brough,  R.  B.,  ii.  . . 624 

Brougham,  Lord,  ii.  . . 547 

Broughton,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 785 

Brown,  Dr  John,  i.  . . 806 

Brown,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 739 

Brown,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  . . 523 

Brown,  Frances,  ii.  . . . 604 

Brown  Jug,  the,  i.  . . 751 

Brown,  Tom,  i.  . . 528 

Browne,  Dr  E.  H.,  ii.  . . 736 

Browne,  I.  II.,  i.  . . 703 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  312-316 

Browne,  William,  i.  . 138 

Brownie  of  Blednoch,  the,  ii.  . 441 

Browning,  Mrs  E.  B.,  ii.  . 591 

Browning,  R.,  ii.  . . 59jj» 

Browns,  the,  ii.  . . . ffn 

Bruce,  James,  ii.  . . 243 

Page 

Bruce,  Marinda,  Portrait  of,  ii.  203 

Bruce,  Michael,  ii.  . . . 31 

Brunton,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 466 

Brutus  and  Titus,  Scene  between,  i.  408 
Bryan,  Sir  Francis,  i.  . . 45 

Bryant,  Jacob,  ii.  . . . 202 

Bryant,  W.  C.,  ii.  . . 419 

Brydges,  Sir  Egerton,  ii.  . . 553 

Buchanan,  George,  i.  . 173,  323 

Buchanan’s  Latin  Version  of  the 
137th  Psalm,  i.  . . 173 

Buckingham,  Duke,  Character  of,  i.  379 
Buckingham,  Henry,  Duke  of,  in  the 
Infernal  Regions,  i.  . .88 

Buckingham,  J.  S.,  ii.  . 565,  795 

Buckinghamshire,  Duke  of,  i.  . 395 

Buckland,  Dr,  ii.  . . 739,  751 

Buckle,  H.  T.,  ii.  . . 749 

Buckstone,  Mr,  ii.  . . 624 

Bud,  the,  i.  . . . 343 

Budgell,  Eustace,  i.  . . 628 

Bull,  John,  History  of,  i.  . 656-659 

Bullar,  Dr  Joseph,  ii.  . . 793 

Bullar,  John,  ii.  . . 793 

Bunbury,  Selina,  ii.  . . 672 

Bunsen,  Chevalier,  ii.  . . 708 

Bunyan,  John,  i.  . . 485-492 

Bunyan’s  Autobiography,  i.  . 487 

Burchell,  Mr,  ii.  . . 556 

Burckhardt,  J.  L.,  ii.  . . 556,  565 

Burgoyne,  General,  ii.  . . 72 

Burial-ground  in  the  Highlands, 

Lines  written  in  a,  ii.  . . 397 

Burial-march  of  Dundee,  ii.  . 602 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  ii.  . 370 

Burke,  Edmund,  ii.  . . 209-217 

Burke  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  Dif- 
ference between,  ii.  . . 216 

Burke’s  Account  of  his  Son,  ii.  . 214 

Burleigh,  Lord,  i.  . . . 250 

Burnes,  Sir  Alexander,  ii.  . 567 

Burnet,  Dr  Thomas,  i.  . . 469 

Burnet,  Gilbert,  i.  . . 502-509 

Burnet,  James— [Lord  Honboddo], 

ii 231 

Burney,  Frances— [Madame  D’Ar- 
blay],  ii.  . . . 144 

Burney,  Miss,  Explains  to  King 
George  III.  the  Circumstances  At- 
tending the  Composition  of  Eve- 
lina, ii.  147 

Burney,  Sarah  Harriet,  ii.  . 148 

Burning  Babe,  i.  102 

Burns,  Robert,  ii.  . . 94-105 

Burns  to  Mrs  Dunlop,  ii.  . . 100 

Burns— from  his  Epistles,  ii.  . 100 

Burns,  Prize  Poem  in  Honour  of,  ii.  616 
Burton,  Dr  Edward,  ii.  . 561,  731 

Burton,  John  Hill,  ii.  , . 702 

Burton,  Robert,  i.  . . 287 

Bury,  Lady  Charlotte,  ii.  . 501 

Bush  aboon  Traquair,  i.  . . 758 

Busy-body,  the,  i.  . . . 292 

Butler,  Bishop,  L . . 795 

Butler,  Samuel,  i.  . 361-369,  426 

Butler’s  Remains,  Miscellaneous 
Thoughts  from,  i.  . . . 368 

Butterfly,  to  the,  ii.  . . 277 

Btrom,  John,  i.  . . 731 

Byron,  Lord,  ii.  . , 346-355 

Byron  and  Lochnagar,  ii.  . . 770 

Cade’s  Insurrection,  i.  . 62 

C.3SDMON,  i.  . . .2 

Caesar,  Generosity  of,  i.  . . 220 

Cairo,  Dr,  ii.  . . . . 739 

Cairo,  Legend  of  the  Mosque  of  the 
Bloody  Baptism  at,  ii.  . . 787 

Calamy,  Edmund,  i.  . . 477 

Calderon  de  la  Barca,  Madame,  ii.  7 94 
Calderw-ood,  David,  i.  . . 319 

Caleb  Williams,  Concluding  Scene 
of,  ii.  . . . . 456 

Calista’s  Passion  for  Lothario,  i.  607 

Camden,  William,  i.  . . 277 

Cameronian’s  Dream,  the,  ii.  . 442 

Campbell,  Dr  G.,  ii.  . . 200 

Campbell,  Dr  John,  i.  . . 787 

Campbell,  John,  ii.  . . 556 

Campbell,  Lord,  ii.  . . . 712 

Campbell,  Thomas,  ii.  328-334,  521,  785 
Canaletti  and  Turner,  ii.  . . 772 

Candlish,  Dr,  ii.  . . . 739 

Canning,  George,  ii.  . .76 

. Canning,  G.,  Portraiture  of,  ii.  . 501 

Canning’s  Lines  on  the  Death  of  his 
Eldest  Son,  ii.  . .77 

GENERAL  INDEX. 

Page 

Canterbury  Pilgrimage,  Select 
Characters  from  the,  i.  . . 16-19 

Canterbury  Tales,  Introduction  to 
the,  ii.  156 

Canton,  Execution-ground  of,  ii.  790 

Canton  Prisons,  Horrors  of  the,  ii.  . 791 
Canute  the  Dane,  i.  3 

Cape,  Spirit  of  the,  ii.  . .49 

Captivity — the  Starling,  ii.  . 137 

Car- travelling  in  Ireland,  ii.  . 651 

Caractacus,  Passage  from,  ii.  . 9 

Careless  Content,  i.  . . . 732 

Carew,  Lady  Elizabeth,  i.  . 165 

Carew,  Thomas,  i.  . .131 

Carleton,  William,  ii.  . . 505 

Carlisle,  Earl  of,  ii.  . . 785 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 720-726 

Carnatic,  Destruction  of  the,  ii.  . 214 

Carne,  John,  ii.  . . . 565 

Carpenter,  Dr,  ii.  . . .754 

Carr,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . 553 

Carriage,  Pepys  sets  up  a,  i.  . 442 

Carrington,  N.  T.,  ii.  . . 417 

Carte,  Thomas,  i.  . .784 

Carter,  Elizabeth,  i.  . . 755 

Carthagena,  Pestilence  at,  L . 695 

Cartwright,  William,  i.  . 149 

Cary,  Rev.  H.  F.,  ii.  . . 420 

Casa  Wappy,  ii.  . . 580 

Castara,  Description  of,  i.  . . 145 

Castle  of  Indolence,  from  the,  i.  695 

Cataract  and  the  Streamlet,  ii.  . 401 

Catiline,  the  Fall  of,  i.  . . 209 

Cato,  from  the  Tragedy  of,  i.  . 553 

Cauler  Water,  ii.  . . 92 

Cause  and  Effect,  i.  . . 72 

Cave,  Edward,  i.  . . 808 

Cave,  the  [Written  in  the  High- 
lands], ii.  . . , .17 

Cavendish,  George,  i.  . 76 

Caxton,  William,  i.  . .61 

Celia,  to  (Drink  to  me  only  with 
thine  eyes),  i.  123 

Celia,  to  (Kiss  me,  sweet ! the  wary 
lover),  i.  . . . 123 

Censorious  People,  i.  . . 654 

Centlivre,  Susannah,  i.  . . 618 

Chalkhill,  John,  i.  . . 148 

Chalmers,  Dr  T.,  ii.  531-536,  555,  739 

Chalmers,  Dr,  Character  of,  ii.  . 738 

Chalmers,  George,  ii.  . . 513 

Chamseleon,  the— [George  Bucha- 
nan], i.  . . .323 

Chamberlayne,  William,  i.  . 339 

Chambers,  Ephraim,  i.  . . 808 

Chambers,  Robert,  ii.  . 703,  711 

Chambers,  William,  ii.  . . 795 

Chambers's  Journal , ii.  . . 571 

Chameleon,  the— [Prior],  i.  . . 558 

Chameleon,  the— [Merrick],  i.  . 753 

Chamier,  Captain,  ii.  . . 628 

Charoouni,  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in 
the  Vale  of,  ii.  . . 301 

Change,  ii.  ...  408 

Changes,  ii.  . . . 614 

Changes  in  Life  and  Opinions,  ii.  529 

Channing,  W.  E.,  ii.  . 551 

Chapman,  George,  i.  . . 225 

Chapone,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 235 

Character,  Anatomy  of,  performed 
by  Uncharitableness— [From  The 
School  for  Scandal ],  ii.  . . 120 

Character,  Discernment  of,  ii.  . 574 

Charcoal  Fire,  Kindling  of,  i.  . 290 

Charity— [Dr  Isaac  Barrow],  i.  454 

Charity— [Sir  T.  Browne],  i.  . 316 

Charles  I.,  Character  of,  i.  . . 496 

Charles  II.,  Character  of,  i.  . 506 

Charles  II.,  Escape  of,  after  the  Battle 
of  Worcester,  i.  . . 497-501 

Charles  II.  and  the  Queen  in  the 

Park,  i 442 

Charles  V.,  Emperor,  Epicurean 
Habits  of,  ii.  ...  726 

Charles  V.  performs  the  Funeral 
Service  for  himself,  ii.  . . 726 

Charles  Edward  Stuart,  the  young 
Pretender,  ii.  695 

Chableton,  Walter,  i.  . . 427 

Charm-Song,  the,  i.  . . . 230 

Chase,  the,  i.  704 

Chase,  Picture  of  the,  ii.  . 534 

Chastity,  to,  i.  . . 142 

Chastity,  Praise  of,  i.  . 350 

Chatham,  Earl  of,  ii.  . . 226 

Chatham,  Speech  of,  on  being  Taunted 
on  Account  of  his  Youth,  ii.  . 226 

Page 

Chatham,  Speech  of,  against  the 
Employment  of  Indians  in  the  War 
with  America,  ii.  . . 227 

Chatham — his  last  public  appear- 
ance, ii.  . . . 227 

Chatham— his  character,  ii.  . 228 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  ii.  . 17-24 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  i.  . 12-23,  35 

Chaucer,  Immediate  Predecessors 
of,  i.  . . . . 11 

Chaucer,  Inscription  for  a Statue  of, 
at  Woodstock,  i.  . . 729 

Chaucer,  Last  Verses  of,  i.  . 23 

Cheke,  Sir  John,  i.  . . .80 

Cherry  Ripe,  i.  . . 154 

Chess-board,  the,  ii.  . . . 614 

Chesterfield,  Earl  of,  ii.  . 201 

Chettle,  Henry,  i.  . . . 190 

Chevy  Chase — Death  of  Douglas,  i.  57 

Child  that  Died,  upon  a,  i.  . . 154 

Child,  Epitaph  upon  a,  i.  . 154 

Childhood,  ii.  . . . . 610 

Children,  Cry  of  the,  ii.  . . 593 

Children,  Education  of,  i.  . . 251 

Children  Ready  to  Believe,  i.  . 303 

Chillingworth,  William,  i.  . 300 

Chinese  Expedition,  Narratives  of 

the,  ii 788 

Chinese  Ladies’  Feet,  it  . . 788 

Chinese  Language,  ii.  . . 790 

Chinese  Thieves,  ii.  . . 789 

Chinese— what  they  think  of  the 
Europeans,  ii.  . . 790 

Chivalry,  ii.  177 

Chivalry  and  Modern  Manners,  ii.  . 515 
Chloe,  to,  i.  150 

Choice,  Passage  from  the,  i.  . 393 

Christ  Crucified  afresh  by  Sinners,  i.  291 
Christ,  Kingdom  of,  not  of  this 
World,  i.  . . . 679 

Christiad,  the,  ii.  . . 261 

Christian,  the  Dying,  to  his  Soul,  i.  580 

Christian  in  the  hands  of  Giant  De- 
spair, i.  489 

Christian  Religion,  the  Excellency 

of  the,  i 450 

Christian  Vices,  a Mohammedan’s 
Lecture  on,  i.  . . .33 

Christianity,  Arguments  for  the 

Abolition  of,  treated,  i.  . . 642 

Christianity,  Inconveniences  from  a 
Proposed  Abolition  of,  i.  . . 642 

Christianity,  the  Statute-book  not 
necessary  towards,  ii.  . . 535 

Christmas,  i.  . . . 138 

Christmas  Eve,  Picture  of,  ii.  . 286 

Christ’s  Kirk  on  the  Green,  opening 
Stanzas  of,  i.  . . .39 

Chronicle,  the,  i.  . . . 332 

Chroniclers,  the  Rhyming,  i.  . 6 

Church  Music,  Influence  of,  i.  . 254 

Church  Music,  Usefulness  of,  i.  . 675 

Church,  Pepys  at,  i.  . . 443 

Church,  the  Country,  i.  . .773 

Church,  the  Primitive,  ii.  . 709 

Churchill,  Charles,  ii.  . . 29 

Churchyard,  Thomas,  i.  . 117 

Cibber,  Colley,  i.  . . . 618 

Cid,  Romance  of  the,  ii.  . . 327 

City  Shower,  a Description  of  a,  i.  563 

Civil  War,  Various  Events  of  the,  i.  304 

Clare,  John,  ii.  . . . 386 

Clarendon,  Lord,  i.  . 492-502 

Clarke,  Dr  Adam,  ii.  . . 530 

Clarke,  Dr  E.  D.,  ii.  . . 558 

Clarke,  Dr  Samuel,  i.  . . 677 

Clarke,  Mrs  C.,  ii.  . . .672 

Claudian’s  Old  Man  of  Verona,  i.  333 

Cleland,  William,  i.  . . 411 

Clergy,  the  Glory  of  the,  i.  . 464 

Clerk  of  Tranent,  i.  . . .30 

Cleveland,  John,  i.  . . 159 

Cliffe,  Letter  to  Lord,  i.  . . 274 

Clitumnus,  Temple  of,  ii.  . 351 

Clothes,  against  Fine,  i.  . . 289 

Cloud,  the,  ii.  . . 359 

Clown,  the,  i.  ...  294 

Cobbett,  William,  ii.  . . 536 

Cobham,  Lord,  Death  of,  i.  . .79 

Cock  and  the  Fox,  i.  . 387-390 

Cockburn,  Lord,  ii.  . . 703 

Cockburn,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 88 

Coffey,  C.,  i.  . . . 769 

Coffin,  Long  Tom,  Death  of,  ii.  . 625 

Coleridge,  Hartley,  Derwent, 
and  Sara,  ii.  572 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  ii.  291-303,  443,  746 

Page 

Coleridge,  Portrait  of,  ii.  . .723 

Coleridge,  Henry  Nelson,  ii.  . 573 

Colin  and  Lucy,  i.  . . 593 

Colin  Clout,  Extract  from,  i.  . 41 

Coliseum,  the,  ii.  . . 560,  649 

Coliseum,  the— Midnight  Scene  in 
Rome,  ii.  ...  352 

Collins,  Wilkie,  ii.  . . 624,  668 

Collins,  William,  i.  . . 712-716 

Colman,  George,  ii.  . . . 114 

Colman,  George,  Younger,  ii.  122-128 

Colton,  Caleb  C.,  ii.  . . 550 

Combe,  George,  ii.  . . 524,  795 

Combe,  William,  ii.  . . 537 

Comet  of  1811,  to  the,  ii.  . . 431 

Comical  Revenge,  Scene  from,  i.  410 

Commendation  before  Trial  Injudi- 
cious, i.  281 

Commissionnaire,  a French,  ii.  . 763 

Common  Lot,  the,  ii.  . . 379 

Companies  for  Leasing  Mount  Vesu- 
sius,  &c.,  ii.  ...  623 

Companions,  Agreeable,  and  Flat- 
terers, i.  . . . 621 

Companions,  Street,  ii.  . . 597 

Complaint  of  Nature,  ii.  . . 35 

Complaynt,  Extract  from  the,  i.  55 

Compliment,  the,  i.  . . . 131 

Comus,  Scene  from,  i.  . . 350 

Comus,  the  Spirit’s  Epilogue  in,  i.  . 351 
Concord  and  Discord,  i.  . . 454 

Congreve,  William,  i.  . . 610 

Conolly,  Lieutenant  Arthur,  ii.  7 86 

Conscience,  Terrors  of  a Guilty— 

[Fuller],  i 431 

Conscience,  Terrors  of  a Guilty— 
[Blacklock],  ii.  . . 40 

Constable,  Henry,  i.  . . 117 

Constable’s  Miscellany,  ii.  . . 570 

Constancy,  i.  147 

Constantinople,  the  Taking  of,  by 
the  Turks,  i.  . . .279 

Content,  Careless,  i.  . . 732 

Content,  Hymn  to,  ii.  . . 86 

Content,  a Pastoral,  i.  . . 755 

Content,  a Sonnet,  i.  . . 184 

Contented  Mind,  on  a,  i.  . . 45 

Contentment,  Argument  for,  ii.  . 803 
Contentment,  a Wish,  i.  . . 702 

Conversation,  on,  i.  . 431,  523,  806 

Conversation,  Passage  from,  ii.  . 59 

Conversation  between  Chesterfield 
and  Chatham— [From  Imaginary 
Conversations  of  Literary  Men 
and  Statesmen],  ii.  . . . 311 

Convict  Ship,  the,  ii.  . . 583 

Conybeare,  J.  J.  and  W.  D.,  ii.  . 734 

Conybeare,  Rev.  W.  J.,  ii.  . 733 

Cook,  Eliza,  ii.  613 

Cook,  G.  W.,  ii.  . . . 790 

Cooke,  George,  i.  . . 233 

Cooke,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 581 

Cooper,  John  Fenimore,  ii.  . 624 

Cooper,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 611 

Copyright,  the  Literary  Profession 
and  the  Law  of,  ii.  . . . 714 

Corbet,  Richard,  i.  . . 126 

Corbet,  Vincent,  to,  i.  . . 126 

Cordery,  Tom,  the  Poacher,  ii.  . 509 

Corinna,  to  go  a Maying,  i.  . . 155 

Coriolanus,  Prologue  to,  i.  . 731 

Coronach,  ii.  . . . . 345 

Costello,  Mis3,  ii.  . . 768 

Cotton,  Charles,  i.  . . 369,  437 

Cotton,  Nathaniel,  ii.  . . 55 

Cotton,  Sir  Robert,  i.  . . 278 

Country  Ballad-singer,  the,  i.  . 589 

Country  Churchyard,  Elegy  Written 
in  a,  i.  . . . . 739 

Country  Life,  Praise  of  a,  i.  . 525 

Country,  Love  of,  ii.  . . . 342 

Court-life,  Picture  of,  i.  . . 227 

Court  Masques  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  i.  . . . . 214 

Courtier,  the  Old  and  Young,  i.  246 

Courtship,  Rustic,  i.  . . . 602 

COVERDALE,  MlLES,  i.  . 80 

Cowley,  Auraiiam,  i.  328-334, 418-422,  812 
Cowley,  Abraham,  Lines  on,  i.  . 338 

Cowley’s  Love  of  Retirement,  i.  . 469 

Cowley,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 122 

Cowper,  William,  ii.  . . 56-67 

Cowper,  on  the  Receipt  of  his  Mo- 
ther’s Picture,  ii.  . . .60 

Cowper,  Inscription  on  the  Tomb 
of,  ii.  . . . 68 

Cowper’s  Grave,  ii.  . . . 595 

805 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Page 

Coxe,  William,  ii.  . . 513 

Coyne,  Stirling,  ii.  . . . 624 

Ceabbe,  George,  ii.  . . 265-272 

Craig,  Miss,  ii.  615 

Craik,  G.  L.,  ii.  . . . 699 

Crashaw,  Richard,  i.  . 160-164 

Crashaw,  on  the  Death  of,  i.  . 329 

Craven,  the  Hon.  R.  K.,  ii.  . 561 

Crawford,  John,  ii.  . . 618 

Crawford,  Robert,  i.  . . 758 

Creation— [Caedmon],  i.  .2 

Creation— [Dr  R.  Cud  worth],  i.  448 

Creation— [Sir  R.  Blackmore],  i.  . 585 
Creation,  Diversified  Character  of,  ii.  59 
Creation,  Eve’s  Account  of  her,  i.  355 

Creation,  the  Mosaic  Vision  of,  ii.  . 757 
Creation,  the  Works  of,  i.  . 627 

Cressy,  Battle  of,  i.  . . .77 

Critics,  Hostile,  i.  . . 654 

Crocodile,  Riding  on  a,  ii.  . .777 

Crocodile  Shooting  in  the  Nile,  ii.  777 

Croker,  John  W.,  ii.  . .782 

Croker,  T.  C.,  ii.  . . 644 

Croly,  Rev.  George,  ii.  . . 406 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Character  of,  i.  501 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Interview  with,  i.  479 
Cromwell,  Personal  Appearance  of,  ii.  723 
Cromwell,  Vision  of  Oliver,  i.  . 421 

Cromwell’s  Court,  Fanaticism  of,  ii.  711 
Cromwell’s  Expulsion  of  the  Parlia- 
ment in  1653,  ii.  . . . 516 

Croppy’s  House,  Description  of  the 
Burning  of  a,  ii.  . . 504 

Crowe,  E.  E.,  ii.  . . . 504 

Crowe,  Mrs,  ii.  663 

Crowe,  Rev.  William,  ii.  . 382 

Crowne,  John,  i.  . . 409 

Crusade,  Muster  for  the  First,  i.  7 

Crusades,  Against  the,  i.  . . 764 

Cuckoo,  to  the,  ii.  . . 34 

Cudworth,  Dr  Ralph,  i.  . . 446 

Cumberland,  Dr  Richard,  i.  . 448 

Cumberland,  Richard,  ii.  115, 154 

Cumming,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 739 

Cumming,  R.  G.,  ii. — note,  . 799 

Cumnor  Hall,  ii.  . .48 

Cunningham,  Allan,  ii.  . . 432 

Cunningham,  John,  i.  . . 754 

Cunningham,  Thomas,  ii.  . 440 

Cupid,  to,  i.  . . . . 151 

Cupid  and  Campaspe,  i.  . . 178 

Cupid  and  Psyche,  ii.  . . 249 

Cupples,  George,  ii.  . . 676 

Curates,  All,  hope  to  draw  great 
Prizes,  ii.  . . . 544 

Curiosity,  Fatal,  i.  . . 608 

Currie,  Dr  James,  ii.  . . 243 

Custance,  Departure  of,  i.  . 20 

Cymbeline,  Dirge  in,  i.  . . 716 

Czar  Peter  in  England  in  1698,  i.  508 

Dacre,  Lady,  ii.  . . 501 

Daffodils,  to,  i.  . . 152 

Dale,  Rev.  Thomas,  ii.  . .739 

Dana,  R.  H.,  ii.  . . . 607 

Dance,  the,  i.  . . . .51 

Daniel,  Samuel,  i.  103,  190,  278,  811 

Daniel’s  Sonnets,  Selections  from,  i.  104 
Darley,  George,  ii.  . . 584 

Darwin,  C.,  ii.  . . .795 

Darwin,  Dr  Erasmus,  ii.  . 68-72 

Davenant,  Sir  William,  i.  . 157-159 

David  II.,  Return  of,  from  Captivity,  i.  30 
David,  Song  to,  ii.  . . 45 

Davies,  Sir  John,  i.  . . 112 

Davis,  John,  i.  268 

Davis,  John  Francis,  ii.  . 788 

Davison,  Francis,  i.  . . 122 

Davy,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 720 

Davy,  Sir  Humphry,  ii.  . . 760 

Dawson,  Phoebe,  ii.  . . 269 

Day  Breaking,  i.  . . 232 

Day,  John,  i.  233 

De  Bohun,  Sir  H.,  Death  of,  i.  . 27 

De  La  Beche,  Sir  H.  T.,  ii.  . 753 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  ii.  . .778 

De  Lolme,  ii.  . . 225 

De  Montfort,  Scene  from,  ii.  . . 112 

De  Montfort,  Jane,  Description  of,  ii.  114 
De  Vere,  Sir  A.  and  A.  S.,  ii.  . 584 

Dead,  the,  ii.  . . 11 

Death— its  Desirableness,  i.  . . 315 

Death— [Supposed  Last  Verses  of  the 
Poet  Nicoll],  ii.  . . 439 

Death — the  Changes  it  Effects,  i.  310 

Death,  Against  Repining  at,  i.  . 324 

Death,  the  Court  of,  i.  . . 591 

806 

Page 

Death,  Fear  of,  i.  . . 202,  398 

Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper,  ii.  646 
Death,  the  Image  of,  i.  . . 102 

Death,  Old  Age  and,  i.  . . 344 

Death,  Night  Piece  on,  i.  . 586 

Death,  the  Pomp  of,  i.  . . 307 

Death  Song,  Written  for,  and  Adapted 
to,  an  Original  Indian  Air,  ii.  . 248 
Death,  Time  of— Advantages  of  our 
Ignorance  of  it,  i.  . . . 460 

Death  of  Two  Lovers  by  Lightning 
—[Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 
tagu], i.  ...  651 

Death  of  the  Warrior  King,  ii.  . 608 

Death’s  Final  Conquest,  i.  . . 159 

Death-bed,  the  Pauper’s,  iL  . 575 

Deceit  of  Ornament  or  Appearances, 

i  203 

Deception,  a— [From  She  Stoops  to 

Conquer],  ii.  . . . 115 

Dedications,  ii.  . . 768 

Defoe,  Daniel,  i.  . . 631-638 

Dekker,  Thomas,  i.  . 226,  289 

Delta— See  Moir,  D.  M. 

Denham  and  Clapperton,  ii.  .555 

Denham,  Sir  John,  i.  . . 337 

Dennie,  Colonel,  ii.  . . 787 

Dennis,  John,  i.  . . . 581 

Depending  upon  Others,  ii.  . . 633 

Descriptive  Sketch,  i.  . . 139 

Desert,  Afar  in  the,  ii.  . . 411 

Desert,  Children  of  the,  ii.  . 732 

Desert,  Meeting  of  Two  Warriors  in 
the,  ii.  497 

Desolation  of  the  Cities  whose  War- 
riors have  marched  against  Rome, 

ii  600 

Detraction,  Against,  i.  . . 295 

Detraction  Execrated,  i.  . . 148 

Devil’s  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck, 

from  the,  ii.  ...  585 

Devil’s  Head  in  the  Valley  Perilous,  i.  34 

Devils  in  the  Head,  i.  . 299 

Diana,  Hymn  to,  i.  . . . 123 

Diana,  the  Priestess  of,  i.  . 149 

Diana,  the  Votaress  of,  i.  . . 149 

Dickens,  Charles,  ii.  . 624,  644-650 

Dieffenbach,  Dr  E.,  ii.  . .794 

Dinner  Given  by  the  Town  Mouse 
to  the  Country  Mouse,  i.  . .47 

Dion,  Character  of,  ii.  . . 705 

Dirge — (What  is  the  existence  of 
man’s  life),  i.  128 

Dirge— (Blessed  is  the  turf,  serenely 
blessed),  ii.  ...  385 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline,  i.  . . 716 

Disappointment— [Pastoral  Ballad],  i.  720 
Discretion  in  Giving,  i.  . . 52 

Discretion  in  Taking,  i.  , .53 

Disdain  Returned,  i.  . , 132 

Disorder,  Delight  in,  i.  . . 154 

Dispensary,  the— [Sir  S.  Garth],  i.  583 
Disputation,  i.  . . . 536,  654 

Disraeli,  Benjamin,  ii.  . . 640 

Disraeli,  Isaac,  ii.  . . 549 

Distinction,  Means  of  Acquiring,  ii.  543 
Divine  Government,  View  of  the, 
afforded  by  Experimental  Philos- 
ophy, i.  468 

Dixon,  W.  H.,  ii.  . . . 712 

Dobell,  Sydney,  ii.  . . . 609 

Doctrines,  Opposition  to  New,  i.  537 

Doddridge,  Dr  Philip,  i.  . . 799 

Doddridge,  Happy  Devotional  Feel- 
ings of,  i.  801 

Dodsley,  Robert,  i.  . 750,  808 

Dodwell,  Edward,  ii.  . . 559 

Domestic  Scene  between  Mr  and  Mrs 
Pepys,  i.  . . . 443 

Donaldson,  Dr,  ii.  . . 707 

Donne,  John,  i.  114 

Donne’s  Satires,  a Character  from,  i.  116 
Doran,  Dr,  ii.  . . 783 

Dorax  and  Sebastian,  Scene  between, 

i  401 

Dorset,  Earl  of,  i.  . . 394 

Dorset,  Earl  of,  Epistle  to  the,  i.  . 595 
Douce,  Francis,  ii.  . . 553 

Douglas,  Death  of,  i.  . . .57 

Douglas,  Gavin,  i.  . . 53 

D’Oyly,  Lr,  ii.  . . . 527 

Drama,  the— its  Rise  in  England,  i.  174 
Dramatic  Literature— its  Decline, 

ii  619 

Drayton,  Michael,  i.  . . 105 

Dream,  the,  i.  ...  150 

Dream-children— a Reverie,  ii.  . 316 

Page 

Dream  of  Love,  ii.  . . 616 

Dreams  and  Prophecies,  i.  . 299 

Drelincourt  on  Death — Recommend- 
ed by  the  Apparition  of  Mrs  Veal 
—[Daniel  Defoe],  i.  . . 633 

Dress,  Directions  Respecting — [John 
Tobin],  ii.  . . . . 451 

Dress,  Fashions  in,  i.  . . 440 

Drinking,  i.  . . . . 330 

Drum,  Ode  on  Hearing  the,  i.  . 754 

Drummond,  William,  i.  . 170-172,  323 
Drummond  to  his  Lute,  i.  . . 171 

Drury  Lane,  a Tale  of— By  W.  S. 

—[Rejected  Addresses],  ii.  . 393 

Dryden,  John,  i.  . 376-392,  396-403, 

510-518,  812 

Dryden  to  his  honoured  Kinsman, 

John  Dryden,  Esq.,  i.  . . 382 

Dryden’s  Translation  of  Virgil,  i.  515 

Duchess  of  Malfi,  Death  of,  and 
Scene  from  the,  i.  . . . 228 

Duelling,  Against,  i.  . . 301 

Dugdale,  Sir  William,  i.  . . 509 

Dugdale’s  Monasticon,  Lines  Written 
in  a Blank  Leaf  of,  ii.  . . 37 

Dunbar,  William,  i.  . 49 

Duncan,  King,  Murder  of,  i.  . 197 

Duncan,  Rev.  Henry,  ii.  . 760 

Dunlop,  John,  ii.  . 711 

Durandarte  and  Belerma,  ii.  . 336 

D’Urfey,  Tom,  i.  528 

Dwarfs,  on  the  Marriage  of  the,  i.  342 

Dwight,  Dr  T.,  ii.  . . . 527 

Dyer,  John,  i.  . . 705 

Dying  Bequest,  i.  . . .236 

Eagle,  the  Bald,  ii.  . . 106 

Earle,  John,  i.  . . 293 

Early  History  of  Nations,  i.  . 279 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer,  i.  . 334 

Earth  full  of  Love,  ii.  . . 611 

Earth,  Insignificance  of  this,  ii.  . 535 

Earthly  Glories,  End  of  all,  i.  . 202 

Eastern  Manners  and  Language— 

[Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu  to  Mr 
Pope],  i.  . . .665 

Eastern  Travellers,  ii.  . . 565 

Eblis,  the  Hall  of,  ii.  . . 151 

Echard,  Lawrence,  i.  . . 673 

Echo  and  Narcissus,  i.  . . 160 

Economy,  Domestic,  i.  . . 250,  432 

Eden,  the  Garden  of,  i.  . . 355 

Edgeworth,  Miss,  ii.  . 451,  462 

Edinburgh,  Decadence  of  the  Ancient 
Portion  of,  ii.  . . .740 

Edinburgh,  the  High  Street  of,  ii.  428 

Edinburgh  and  Leith,  Burning  of, 
by  the  English,  in  1544,  i.  . 321 

Edinburgh  Review,  "Commencement 
of  the,  ii.  . . 541,  544 

Edinburgh,  a Sunday  in,  ii.  . 94 

Education,  a Complete,  i.  . . 415 

Education,  the  Alliance  between 
Government  and,  i.  . . 740 

Education  Confined  too  much  to 
Language,  i.  431 

Education,  on  Female— [Lady  Mary 
W.  Montagu  to  the  Countess  of 
Bute],  i.  . . . 667 

Education,  Love,  Hope,  and  Patience 
in,  ii.  . . . . 302 

Education— What  it  Embraces,  i.  281 

Edward  VI.,  Death  and  Character 
of,  i.  . . . . 504 

Edward,  Prince,  Speech  of,  in  his 
Dungeon,  ii.  . . .114 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  i.  . . 792 

Edwards,  Richard,  i.  . 45,  176 

Edwin  and  Angelina,  ii.  . . 7 

Edwin  and  Emma,  i.  . .724 

Edwin,  Description  of,  ii.  . 42 

Egeria,  Apologue  from,  ii.  . . 597 

Egyptians,  Ancient,  Moral  Supe- 
riority of,  ii.  . . . 708 

Electric  Wires,  and  Tawellthe  Mur- 
derer, ii  ...  763 

Elegy,  i.  . . . . 760 

Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady,  i.  . 576 
Elegy  written  in  a Country  Church- 
yard, i.  . . . . 739 

Elegy  written  in  Mull,  ii.  • 331 

Elegy  written  in  Spring,  ii.  . . 32 

Elephant  in  the  Moon,  i.  . 365-368 

Eliot,  George,  ii.  . . 677 

Eliza,  Death  of,  at  the  Battle  of 
Minden,  ii.  . . . .71 

Elizabeth,  Melvil’s  Interview  with,  i.  319 

GENERAL  INDEX. 

Page 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  Death  and  Char- 
acter of,  ii.  . . . . 172 

Elizabeth’s  Reign,  Sports  upon  the 
Ice  in,  i.  . . . 266 

Ellesmere,  Earl  of,  ii.  . . 422 

Elliot,  Miss  Jane,  ii.  . . 88 

Elliot,  Sir  Gilbert,  i.  . . 759 

Elliotson,  Dr,  ii.  . .754 

Elliott,  Ebenezer,  ii.  . . 413 

Ellis,  George,  ii.  . . 72 

Ellis,  Henry,  ii.  . . 567 

Ellis,  Mrs,  ii.  ...  671 

Ellis,  Sir  Henry,  ii.  . . 553 

Ellwood,  Thomas,  i.  . . 484 

Ellwood’s  Intercourse  with  Milton,  i.  484 
Eloisa  to  Abelard,  from  the  Epistle 

of,  i 574 

Elphinstone,  the  Hon.  Mount- 
stuart,  ii.  . . . . 787 

Elyot,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  . 70 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  ii.  . . . 784 

Emigrant  Ship,  ii.  . . 767 

Emulation  and  Envy,  i.  . . 283 

f Encyclopaedias,  &c.,  i.  . . 808 

i Endymion,  the  Story  of,  i.  . . 334 

England,  the  Homes  of,  ii.  . 399 

England,  Exordium  to  History  of,  ii.  684 
England,  Feelings  of  an  American 
on  first  Arriving  in,  ii.  . . 488 

England,  Popular  Agitation  in,  ii.  226 

England,  What  Harm  would  come 
to,  if  the  Commons  thereof  were 
Poor,  i.  . . .60 

English,  Commencement  of  the  Pre- 
sent Form  of,  i.  . .5 

English  Country  Seat*  Ancient— 
[Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 
tagu], i.  . . .652 

English  Country  Gentleman,  ii.  . 655 

English  Country  Gentleman  of  1688,  ii.  686 
English  Courage,  i.  . . . .60 

English  Landscape,  ii.  . . 594 

English  Liberty,  ii.  . . . 64 

English  Mansion,  Old,  Description 
of,  ii.  ....  490 

English  Manufactures  in  the  Interior 
of  South  Africa,  ii.  . . 799 

English  Scenery,  Recollections  of,  ii.  83 
Eng’ish  Shyness,  or  * Mauvaise 
Honte,’  ii.  . . . . 465 

English  Squire,  Banquet  of  an,  ii.  254 

English  Travellers  Visit  a Neapolitan 
Church,  ii.  . . . . 165 

English  Trees,  ii.  . . 671 

Enjoyment  of  the  Present  Hour  re- 
commended, i.  391 

Envious  Man  and  the  Miser,  i.  . 25 

Envy,  Against,  i.  . . 526 

Envy  and  Emulation,  i.  . . 283 

Epic  Poem,  Recipe  to  Make  an,  i.  654 

Epicure,  the,  i.  331 

Epistle  to  the  Countes3  of  Cumber- 
land, Extract  from,  i.  . . 103 

Epistle  to  a Friend,  i.  . . 144 

Epitaph,  an,  i.  130 

Epitaph  Extempore,  by  Prior,  i.  556 

Epitaph — Jack  and  Joan,  i.  . . 556 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth,  L.  II.,  i.  . 124 

Epitaph  on  Gervase  Beaumont,  i.  128 

Epitaph  on  Southey,  ii.  . . 308 

Epitaph  on  the  Living  Author,  i.  333 

Epithalamion,  Passage  from  the,  i.  100 
Error,  Acknowledgment  of,  i.  . 654 

Error  only  to  be  Combated  by  Argu- 
ment, ii.  . . . 550 

Ebskine,  Rev.  EBENEZERand  Ralph,  i.  798 
Esquimaux,  Description  of  the,  ii.  563 

Essex,  Henry  de,  i.  . . . 432 

Esteem,  True  Path  to,  i.  . . 528 

Eternity,  Musings  on,  ii.  . . 413 

Ethereoe,  Sir  Georoe,  i.  . 410 

Eton  College,  Ode  on  a distant  Pros- 
pect of,  i.  . . . 736 

Ecstace,  J.  C.,  ii.  . . 561 

Evelyn,  John,  i.  437 

Evelyn’s  Account  of  his  Daughter 
Mary,  i.  . . .440 

Evening,  i.  ...  139 

Evening  Primrose,  to  the,  ii.  . 400 

Evening  Scene  by  Lake  Leman,  ii.  351 

Excursion,  the,  ii.  . .414 

Execution,  Military,  ii.  . . 423 

Exequies,  the,  i.  335 

Exercise,  Different  Kinds  of,  i.  . 70 

Exile’s  Song,  the,  ii.  . . 439 

Eye  and  Ear,  Pleasures  of  the,  ii.  190 

Eyre,  Lieut.  Vincent,  ii.  . . 787 

Page 

Faber,  Rev.  F.  W.,  ii.  . . 611 

Fabian,  Robert,  i.  . . .62 

Fable,  i 615 

Faery  Queen,  Vision  of  the,  i.  . 121 

Fair  Recluse,  the,  ii.  . . 405 

Fairfax,  Edward,  i.  . . 108 

Fairies,  Farewell  to  the,  i.  • 127 

Fairy  Queen,  the,  i.  . . . 413 

Faith  and  Works,  on,  i.  . . 804 

Falconer,  William,  ii.  . 24-28 

Falkland,  Lord,  Character  of,  i.  . 495 

Falstaff  Arrested  by  his  Hostess, 
Dame  Quickly,  i.  . . . 205 

Falstaff,  Character  of,  ii.  . . 540 

Falstaffs  Cowardice  and  Boasting,  i.  204 
Fame,  i.  526 

Fame,  Poetical,  the  Perishable  Nature 
of,  ii.  ....  547 

Familiar  Faces,  the  Old,  ii.  . 315 

Families,  Declension  of  Great,  i.  . 432 
Family  Library,  ii.  . . 570 

Family  Likeness,  ii.  . . .678 

Fanaticism,  Ludicrous  Image  of,  i.  643 

Fancy,  to,  ii.  . . . .38 

Fancy  Fair  in  Guildhall  for  Painting 
St  Paul’s,  ii.  ...  623 

Fane,  H.  G.,  ii.  . . . 787 

Fanshawe,  Sir  Richard,  i.  , . 163 

Faraday,  Professor,  ii.  . . 750 

Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Ir- 
wan,  ii.  . . .11 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  ii.  . • 315 

Farmer,  Dr  Richard,  ii.  . . 202 

Faruuhar,  George,  i.  . . 615 

Fashion,  Picture  of  the  Life  of  a 
Woman  of,  i.  . . 615 

Fatal  Curiosity,  i.  . 608 

Father’s  Grief  for  the  Death  of  his 
Daughter,  i. — note,  . . 325 

Fawkes,  Francis,  i.  . . 751 

Feast  in  the  Manner  of  the  Ancients, 

i 781-784 

Fellows,  Charles,  ii.  . . 785 

Felon,  Dream  of  the  Condemned,  ii.  270 
Feltham,  Owen,  i.  . . 294 

Female  Beauty,  a Description  of,  ii.  15 
Fen,  an  English,  ii.  . . .271 

Fenton,  Elijah,  i.  . . 581 

Ferguson,  Dr  Adam,  ii.  • . 231 

Fergcsson,  Robert,  ii.  . . 90-94 

Ferriar,  Dr  John,  ii. — note , . 134 

Ferrier,  James,  ii.  . . 748 

Ferrier,  Miss,  ii.  . . 493 

Feudal  System,  Effects  of  the,  ii.  518 

Field,  Nathaniel,  i.  . . 233 

Field-sports— [Cobbett],  ii.  . 537 

Field  of  the  World,  the,  ii.  . . 379 

Fielding,  Henry,  i.  . 775-779 

Fielding,  Sarah,  i.  . • . 779 

Fingal’s  Airy  Hall,  ii.  . . 15 

Finlay,  George,  ii.  . . . 706 

Fireside,  the,  ii.  . . . 55 

First  Love’s  Recollections,  ii.  . 388 

FisnER,  John,  i.  . . . 69 

Fisherwomen,  Newhaven,  ii.  . 673 

Fitzball,  Edward,  ii.  . . 624 

Fitzpatrick,  General,  ii.  . .72 

Fitzroy,  Captain,  ii.  . . 795 

Flatterers  and  Agreeable  Compa- 
nions, i.  . . . 621 

Flattery  of  the  Great,  i.  . . 639 

Flavel,  John,  i.  . . . 477 

Fleming,  Professor,  ii.  . . 760 

Fletcher,  Andrew,  of  Saltoun,  i.  640 
Fletcher,  John,  i.  . . 218-225 

Fletcher,  Phineas  and  Giles,  i.  . 132 
Flodden,  Battle  of,  ii.  . . 343 

Flora’s  Horologe,  ii.  . . . 83 

Florence,  from  Old  Pictures  in,  ii.  596 

Fool,  a Rich,  i.  . . .164 

Fools  are  Happy,  wherein,  i.  . 132 

Foote,  Samuel,  i.  . .767 

Forbes,  Professor  J.  D.,  ii.  • 741 

Forbes,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . 784 

Forties,  Sir  William,  ii.  . 520 

Ford,  John,  i.  . . 236-238 

Ford,  Richard,  ii.  . . 795 

Foreign  Travel,  Advantages  of,  ii.  . 781 
Forest  Scenery,  ii.  . . 362 

Forgiveness,  i.  . . .764 

Forster,  JonN,  ii.  . • 712 

Forsyth,  Joseph,  ii.  . • . 559 

Forsyth,  William,  ii.  . . 710 

Fortescue,  Sir  John,  i.  .60 

Forth,  the  River  of,  Feasting,  i.  171 

Fortitude,  i.  . . . . 764 

Fortune,  of,  i.  109 

Page 

Fortune,  Robert,  ii.  . . 789 

Fosbrooke,  Rev.  T.  D.,  ii.  . 553 

Fossil  Pine-tree,  the,  ii.  . .758 

Foster,  Dr  James,  i.  . . 802 

Foster,  Rev.  John,  ii.  . . 529 

Fountain  at  the  Dwelling  of  Oileus,  ii.  748 
Fox,  Charles  James,  ii.  . . 513 

Fox,  George,  i.  . . . 478 

Fox,  John,  i.  . . . .73 

Fox,  Sir  Stephen— [A  Fortunate  Cour- 
tier not  Envied],  i.  . . 439 

Fox’s  Ill-treatment  at  Ulverstone,  i.  478 
Fragment — (Gane  were  but  the  Win- 
ter-Cauld),  ii.  433 

France  contrasted  with  Holland,  ii.  5 

France  in  1718— [Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 
tagu to  Lady  Rich],  i.  . . 667 

France,  Journey  to,  i.  . . 126 

France,  the  South  of,  ii.  . . 674 

Francesca  of  Rimini,  ii.  . . 421 

Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles 
V.,  Characters  of,  ii.  . . 178 

Francis,  Sir  Philip,  ii.  . . 217 

Frankenstein— his  Creation  of  the 
Monster,  &c.,  ii.  . . 472 

Franklin,  a,  i.  . . 293 

Franklin,  Dr  Benjamin,  i. . . 802 

Franklin,  Captain  John,  ii.  . 564 

Fraser,  James  Baillie,  ii.  . 497,  567 

Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  Charac- 
ter of,  i.  . . . 787 

Frederick  the  Great,  ii.  . . 724 

Freebooter  Life  in  the  Forest— [J.  L. 

Peacock],  ii.  ...  510 

Freedom,  Apostrophe  to,  i.  . 27 

Freedom,  Progress  of,  ii.  . . 171 

Freedom,  Savage,  i.  . . 397 

French,  the,  i.  ...  296 

French  Army  in  Russia,  ii.  . 407 

French  Love  of  Dancing,  i.  . . 296 

French  Peasant’s  Supper,  ii.  . 138 

French  Revolutionary  Assassins,  ii.  679 

Frere,  John  Hookham,  ii.  . 76,  325 

Friar,  Lawrence,  i.  . . .88 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  ii.  . . 12 

Friars,  Mendicant,  i.  . .37 

Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife- 

Grinder,  ii.  . . . .77 

Friends,  the  Last,  ii.  . . 604 

Friendship,  . . i.  257 ; ii.  374 

Frost  at  Midnight,  from,  ii.  . 302 

Froude,  Mr,  ii.  690 

Fuller,  Thomas,  i.  . . 428 

Fullerton,  Lady  G.,  ii.  . . 667 

Funeral  Ceremony  at  Rome,  ii.  . 561 

Future  State  of  Human  Beings,  ii.  . 760 
Futurity,  Apostrophe  to,  ii.  . 415 

Gaberlunzie  Man,  the,  i.  .59 

Gaffer  Gray,  ii.  . . 155 

Gall,  Dr,  ii.  . . . . 524 

Gall,  Richard,  ii.  . . 109 

Galt,  John,  ii.  . . 480 

Gambling  in  the  Last  Century,  ii.  702 

Garden,  Thoughts  in  a,  i.  . 360 

Garland,  the,  i.  . . 557 

Garrick,  David,  i.  . . . 765 

Garrick,  Death  and  Character  of,  ii.  236 
Garrick,  Prologue  Spoken  by,  at  the 
Opening  of  the  Theatre  in  Drury 
Lane,  in  1747,  i.  . . 711 

Garth,  Sir  Samuel,  i.  . . 583 

Gascoigne,  George,  i.  . .89 

Gaskel,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 667 

Gauden,  John,  i.  . 303 

Gawtrey  the  Coiner,  Death  of,  ii.  637 

Gay,  John,  i.  . . . 588-592 

Gay  Young  Men  upon  Town,  i.  . 611 

Gell,  Sir  William,  ii.  . . 559 

Genius,  Admiration  of,  ii.  . . 636 

Genius,  Dawnings  of,  ii.  . . 389 

Genius,  English,  i.  . . 343 

Genius,  Men  of,  ii.  . . 721 

Genius  not  a Source  of  Unhappiness 
to  its  Possessor,  ii.  . . . 546 

Genius,  Pictures  of  Native,  ii.  . 415 

Genius,  Power  of  Literary,  ii.  . 501 

Genius,  Real  Men  of,  Resolute 
Workers,  ii.  ...  675 

Genius,  True,  always  united  to  Rea- 
son, ii.  550 

Genoa,  Sufferings  during  the  Siege 
of,  ii.  * 693 

Geoffrey  op  Monmouth,  i.  . 4,  5 

Geology  compared  to  History,  ii.  . 752 
George  II.  and  Queen  Caroline,  Per- 
sonal Traits  of,  i.  . . . 786 

807 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Page 

George  III.  and  Queen  Charlotte, 

Visit  of,  to  the  City  of  London,  ii.  783 
Geraldine,  Surrey’s  Description  and 
Praise  of  his  Love,  i.  . .43 

Gertrude,  Death  of,  ii.  . • 331 

Ghosts,  i.  . . . 316 

Gibbon,  Edward,  ii.  . . 179-188 

Gibbon,  his  Mode  of  Life  at  Lau- 
sanne, ii.  . . . 187 

Gifford,  William,  ii.  . 73 

Gildon,  Charles,  i.  . . . 5S1 

Gilfillan,  Rev.  G.,  ii.  . . 770 

Gilfillan,  Robert,  ii.  . . 439 

Gillies,  Dr  John,  ii.  . 188, 513 

Gilpin,  Rev.  William,  ii.  . . 240 

Gilpin,  John,  the  Diverting  History 
of,  ii.  ....  65 

Ginevra,  ii.  . . .276 

Gipsies— an  English  Fen,  ii.  .271 

Girdle,  on  a,  i.  . . 342 

Glaciers  in  Scotland,  ii.  . .759 

Gladiator,  the,  ii.  . . . 351 

Gladstone,  Right  Hon.  W.  E.,  ii.  . 707 

Glapthorne,  Henry,  i.  . . 233 

Glasscock,  Captain,  ii.  . . 628 

Gleig,  Rev.  G.  R.,  ii.  . . 673 

Glenburnie,  Picture  of,  &c.,  ii.  . 469 
Glencoe,  the  Valley  of,  ii.  . 686 

Globe,  Antiquity  of  the,  ii.  . . 756 

Globe,  Final  Conflagration  of  the,  i.  470 
Gloucester,  Protector,  Scene  in  the 
Council-Room  of  the,  i.  .64 

Glover,  Richard,  i.  . . 748 

God,  the  First  Cause,  i.  . . 282 

God,  Delight  in,  Only,  i.  . . 141 

God,  Devout  Contemplation  of  the 
Works  of,  i.  ...  472 

God,  to  Find,  i.  . . 154 

God,  the  Goodness  of,  i.  . . 453 

God,  Honour  to,  i.  . . 453 

God,  though  Incomprehensible,  not 
Inconceivable,  i.  . . 447 

God,  Light  the  Shadow  of,  i.  . 315 

God,  Nature  of  the  Evidence  of  the 
Existence  of,  i.  . . 472 

God,  Omnipresence  of— [The  Works 
of  Creation],  i.  627 

God  and  Mammon,  i.  . . 477 

God’s  Exhortation  to  Activity,  i.  . 546 

Godwin,  W.,  ii.  . 443j  453-461,  555 

Goethe,  Death  of,  ii.  . . . 727 

Goethe’s  Daily  Life  at  Weimar,  ii.  730 

Gold,  i.  . . . .330 

Gold  and  Silver,  the  Relative  Value 
of,  ii.  . . . . 754 

Golden  Age  Restored,  i.  . . 216 

Golden  City,  the,  i.  . . . 490 

Gold-fishes,  to  Certain,  ii.  . 573 

Goldsmith,  O.,  ii.  . 2-9,  115,  139,  206 
Good  Breeding,  Definition  of,  ii.  . 201 

Good  Life,  Long  Life,  i.  . . 124 

Goode,  Rev.  William,  ii.  . .736 

Gore,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 628 

Gough,  Richard,  ii.  . . . 239 

Governing  a Nation,  Difficulty  of,  ii.  543 
Government,  i.  257 

Government  and  Liberty,  i.  . 423 

Gower,  John,  i.  . 24,  810 

Grafton,  Richard,  i.  . . 265 

Grahame,  James,  ii.  . . 261-265 

Grahame  to  his  Son,  ii.  . . 265 

Grahame’s  Sabbath,  Passages  from, 

ii 262-264 

Grainger,  Dr  James,  i.  . . 752 

Grand  Question  Debated,  i.  . . 567 

Granger,  ii.  . . . 179 

Grant,  James,  ii.  . . 673 

Grant,  Mrs,  ii.  . .*  . 247 

Grant,  Robert,  ii.  . . .743 

Grape  Harvest,  Picture  of  the,  ii.  596 
Grasshopper,  the,  i.  . . 331 

Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  to  the,  ii.  385 
Grattan,  T.  C.,  ii.  . . . 500 

Grave,  My,  ii.  . . 615 

Grave,  the,  i.  . . . . 698 

Grave  of  Anna,  the,  ii.  . . 75 

Graves  of  a Household,  the,  ii.  . 400 

Graves  of  .the  English  Seamen  in  the 
Polar  Seas,  ii.  . 801 

Gray,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 733-741 

Grecian  Mythology — the  Various 
Lights  in  which  it  was  regarded,  i.  796 
Greece,  Ancient,  ii.  . . . 350 

Greece,  Picture  of  Modern,  ii.  . 349 

Greece,  Satan’s  Survey  of,  i.  . 35S 

Greek  History,  Early,  not  to  be  judged 
by  Modern  Feeling,  ii.  . . 703 


Page 

Green  Heys  Fields,  Manchester,  Pic- 
ture of,  ii.  . . . . 667 

Green,  Matthew,  i.  . . 701 

Greene,  Robert,  i.  . . 182-185 

Greenland,  ii.  . . 376 

Greenland  Missionaries,  the,  ii.  . 58 

Greenwich  Hill,  ii.  . . 75 

Greenwich  Pensioners,  the,  ii.  . 304 
Gregory,  Lord,  Ballad  of,  ii.  . 82 

Greswell,  Rev.  E.,  ii.  . . 733 

Grief,  against  Excessive,  i.  . 519 

Grief  controlled  by  Wisdom,  i.  . 453 
Grief,  Moderation  in,  i.  . . 294 

Griffin,  Gerald,  ii.  . . . 504 

Grimoald,  Nicholas,  i.  . . 45 

Grongar  Hill,  i.  706 

Grose,  Francis,  ii.  . . 239 

Grote,  George,  ii.  . . . 703 

Gulliver  in  Brobdingnag,  l.  . 643 

Gunpowder,  Invention  and  Use  of,  ii.  186 
~ 520 

739 

787 

788 

144 
534 
254 
353 
179 
267 
523 
475 
301 
768 
549 

445 
151 
568 

62 
290 
632 
527 
116 
517 
417 
411 

492 
433 
509 
469 

493 
756 
200 

38 
540 
676 

494 

732 
628 
693 
374 

576 
162 
230 
523 
309 
130 
44 
167 
801 

733 
591 
142 

141 

422 
88 
109 
807 
798 
807 
266 
30 
793 
333 
713 
688 
40 
772 
732 
670 
67 

446 
774 
279 


Gurwood,  Lieut.-colonel,  ii. 
Guthrie,  Dr,  ii. 

Guthrie,  William,  i. 

Gutzlaff,  Mr,  ii. 

Habington,  Willtam,  i. . 

Habit  and  Practice,  i. 

Hafiz,  Persian  Song  of,  ii. 

Haidee,  Description  of,  ii. 

Hailes,  Lord,  ii.  . 

Hakluyt,  Richard,  i. 

Hale,  Sir  Matthew,  i.  . 

Hale,  Sir  Matthew,  Character  of 
Hales,  John,  i.  . 

Haliburton,  T.  C.,  ii. 

Halifax,  Earl  of,  i. 

Halifax,  Marquis  of,  i. 

Hall  of  Eblis,  the,  ii. 

Hall,  Capt.  Basil,  ii. 

Hall,  Edward,  i. 

Hall,  Joseph,  i.  . . 116, 

Hall,  Mrs  S.  C.,  ii. 

Hall,  Rev.  Robert,  ii. 

Hall’s  Satires,  Selections  from, 
Hallam,  Henry,  ii. 

Halleck,  Fitzgreene,  ii.  . 

Hallo  my  Fancy,  &c.,  i.  . 
Halyburton,  Thomas,  i. 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame,  ii.  . 

Hamilton,  Anthony,  i. 

Hamilton,  Mrs,  ii. 

Hamilton,  Thomas,  ii. 

Hamilton,  William,  i.  . 

Hamlet,  Ghost  Scene  in,  i.  . 

Hamlet,  the— an  Ode,  ii. 

Hamlet,  the  Character  of,  ii. 

Hamley,  Colonel,  ii. 

Hampden,  Character  of,  i.  . 
Hampden,  Dr  R.  D.,  ii. 

Hannay,  James,  ii.  . 

Hannibal,  Character  of,  ii. 

Happiness,  ii.  . 

Happiness  Depends  not  on  Riches, 
but  on  Virtue,  i. 

Happiness,  Estimates  of,  ii. 

Happiness  of  Married  Life,  i. 
Happiness  of  Others,  Desire  of  the,  ii, 
Happiness,  Real  and  Apparent, 

Happy  Life,  the  Character  of  a,  i 
Happy  Life,  the  Means  to  Attain,  i. 
Hardwick  in  Derbyshire,  ii.  . 
Hardwick,  Rev.  C.,  ii.  . . 735 

Hare,  A.  W.  and  J.  C.,  ii.  . 

Hare  and  Many  Friends,  i 
Harley,  Death  of,  ii.  . 

Harley  sets  out  on  his  Journey,  &c 
[From  The  Man  of  Feeling],  ii. 
Harrington,  James,  i.  . 
Harrington,  John,  i. 

Harrington,  Sir  John,  i. 

Harris,  James,  i. 

Harris,  Major  W.  C.,  ii.  . 

Harris,  William,  i.  . 

Harrison,  William,  i.  . 

Harry,  Blind,  i. 

Hartley,  Dr  David,  i.  . 

Harvey,  William,  on  the  Death  of,  i. 
Hassan,  or  the  Camel-driver,  i. 
Hastings,  Battle  of,  ii. 

Hawes,  Stephen,  i.  . 

Hawkes worth,  John,  i. . 

Hawkins,  Dr  E.,  ii.  . 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  ii 
Hayley,  William,  ii. 

Haynes,  James,  ii.  . 

Hayward,  Abraham,  ii. 

Hayward,  Sir  John,  i.  . 


Page 

Hazlitt,  William,  ii.  . 521,  539 

Head,  Sir  George  and  Sir  Francis, 
ii. 

Health,  Duty  of  Preserving,  i.  . 

Heart,  a Doubting,  ii. 

Heart,  to  his— [Scot],  i.  . 

Heaven  and.  Hell,  i.  . . 

Heaven,  Thoughts  of,  ii.  . 

Heaven,  What  is  in,  i. 

Heavens,  the  Starry,  ii.  . 

Heber,  Dr  Reginald,  ii. 

Heber’s  Journal,  Verses  from,  ii. 

Hebrew  Bard,  the,  i. 

Hebrew  Maid,  Hymn  of  the,  ii. 

Hebrew  Race,  ii. 

Hedderwick,  James,  ii.  . 

Heir  at  Law,  Scene  from  the,  ii. 

TJf  nl  /-\T*  P TT  l,.1rn/\nn  yvl  — Z 


762 

537 

616 

166 

329 

439 

12 

412 

368 

369 
701 
346 
642 
614 
123 
426 
780 
398 
101 
720 
178 
477 
171 


Helen  of  Kirkconnel,  ii. 

Helps,  Arthur,  ii. 

Hemans,  Mrs,  ii.  . 

Henderson,  on  Captain  Matthew,  ii. 
Henry,  Dr,  ii. 

Henry,  Dr  Robert,  ii.  . 

Henry,  Matthew,  i.  . 

Henry,  Prince,  Epitaph  on,  i. 

Henry  III.,  Extract  from  a Charter 
of,  i. 

Henry  VII. ’s  time,  a Yeoman  of,  i. 

Henry  VIII.,  Markets  and  Wages  in 
the  Reign  of,  ii. 

Henry  VIII.,  Portrait  of,  ii. 

Henryson,  Robert,  i. 

Heraud,  J.  A.,  ii. 

Herbert,  George,  i. 

Herbert,  Lord,  i. 

Herbert,  Sir  Thomas,  i. 

Herbert,  William,  ii.  . 

Hereditary  Transmission  of  Quali- 
ties, ii. 

Heresy’,  i.  . 

Hermit,  the— (Far  in  a wild,  un- 
known to  public  view),  i.  . 

Hermit,  the — (At  the  close  of  the 
day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still),  ii. 
Herrick,  Robert,  i. 

Herschel,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . 

Hervey,  Lord,  i. 

Hervey,  Rev.  James,  i. 

Hervey,  T.  K.,  ii.  . . 

Hester,  to,  ii.  . 

Heylin,  Peter,  i. 

Heywood,  John,  i.  . 

Hbywood,  Thomas,  i. 

High  Life  Below  Stairs,  Scene  from, 
i. 

High  Life,  Scandal  and  Literature 
in,  i. 

Highland  Girl,  to  a,  ii.  . 

Highland  Poor,  the,  ii. 

Highlands  of  Scotland,  Written  in 
the,  ii. 

Highway  Robbery,  a Game  of,  ii. 
Highways  in  England,  Fabulous 
Account  of  the  First,  i.  .8 

Hill,  Aaron,  i.  . . 581,  618 

pills  o’  Gallowa’,  the,  ii.  . . 440 

Hind  and  Panther,  the,  i.  . 381 

Hind,  John  R.,  ii.  . .743 

Hindoo  Widow,  Sacrifice  of  a,  ii. 

Hinds,  Dr  Samuel,  ii. 

Hislop,  James,  ii. 

Historian,  Qualifications  of  an,  i. 

History — How  to  Read  it,  i. 

History  and  Biography,  i.  515 ; ii.  573 
History,  on  the  Credit  due  to,  i.  . 475 
History  of  John  Bull,  i.  . 

History,  the  Course  of,  ii.  . 

Hitchcock,  Dr  E.,  ii. 

Hoadly,  Dr  Benjamin,  i.  . 

Hobbes,  Thomas,  i. 

Hobhouse,  J.  C.,  ii.  . 

Hogg,  Jambs,  ii.  . 

Hohenlinden,  ii. 

Holcroft,  Thomas,  ii. 

Holiness  and  Sin,  i.  . 

Holinshed,  Raphael,  i. 

Holland,  i.  . 

Holland,  Dr,  ii.  . 

Holland,  Lord,  ii.  . 

Holland,  a Whimsical  Satire  on,  i. 
Holland  and  its  Inhabitants,  i. 

Holly  Tree,  the,  ii. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  ii. 

Holy  Scriptures,  Some  Considera- 
tions Touching  the  Style  of  the,  i. 
Home,  ii. 

Home  among  the  Mountains,  ii. 


691 
. 47 

574 
142-144 
284 
. 276 
413 

728 
299 

5S6 

45 
151-155 
741 
785 
798 
583 
315 
295 
175 
238 


612 

289 

248 

277 

145 


732 
442 
84 
5 36 


656-659 
. 781- 
753 
. 679 
281-2S4 
. 559 
428 
. 333 
129,  154 
. 457 
266 
. 30 

559 
. 520 
i.  361 
. 296 
309 
. 607 


540 

380 

395 


GENERAL  INDEX. 

Page 

Home  and  Old  Friends,  ii.  . .712 

Home,  John,  i.  . . 763 

Home,  Henry— [Lord  Kames],  ii.  190 

Homeric  Poems,  the  Unity  of,  ii.  706 

Homes  of  England,  the,  ii.  . . 399 

Homicide,  Against,  i.  . . 764 

Hone,  Wiltjam,  ii.  . ..  . 768 

Honour,  Against  Titles  of,  i.  . 481 

Honour,  Apostrophe  to,  i.  .53 

Hoon,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 577 

Hook,  Dr  James,  ii.  . . . 493 

Hook,  Theodore  E.,  ii.  . . 499 

Hooke,  Nathaniel,  i.  . . 785 

Hooker,  John,  i.  . . 266 

Hooker,  Richard,  i.  . 251-254 

Hop  Garden,  Directions  for  Culti- 
vating a,  i.  . . . .47 

Hope,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 483 

Hope— [Pastoral  Ballad],  i.  . . 720 

Horace,  Ode  from,  i.  . . 601 

Horne,  Dr  G.,  ii.  . . 199 

Horne,  Dr  T.  H.,  ii.  . . 527 

Horne,  R.  H.,  ii.  . . 595 

Horsley,  Dr  Samdel,  ii.  . 197 

Hosier’s  Ghost,  i.  . . 749 

Hospitality,  Vulgar,  i.  . . 648 

Hours,  the,  ii.  ...  337 

How  no  Age  is  Content  with  his 
own  Estate,  &c.,  i.  . .43 

Howard,  Mr,  ii.  . . . 628 

Howard  the  Philanthropist,  Charac- 
ter of,  ii.  . . . 217 

Howard,  Lines  on,  ii.  . . 71 

Howell,  James,  i.  . .271 

Howell  to  Capt.  Thomas  B.,  i.  . 273 

Howitt,  William  and  Mary,  ii.  . 7 64 

Howson,  Rev.  J.  S.,  ii.  . . 733 

Hudibras,  Accomplishments  of,  i.  . 363 
Hudibras,  Personal  Appearance  of,  i.  364 
Hudibras,  Religion  of,  i.  . . 364 

Hudibras,  Pepys  tries  to  admire,  i.  442 
Hughes,  John,  i.  . . 630 

Hughes,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 676 

Human  Character,  Fruits  of  Expe- 
rience of,  i. . . . . 474 

Human  Greatness,  Decay  of,  i.  . 133 

Human  Life,  ii.  . . 276 

Human  Natur  and  Soft  Sawder,  ii.  769 
Hume,  Alexander,  i.  . . 167 

Hume,  David,  i.  787,  788-792;  ii.  169-173 
Hume,  Miss,  ii.  615 

Humility,  i.  298 

Humorous  Scene  at  an  Inn,  i.  . 616 

Hunnis,  William,  i.  . 45 

Hunt,  Leigh,  ii.  . 383,  622,  801 

Hunter,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 247 

Hunter, William,  Notable  History  of,  i.  75 
Hunting  on  a Great  Scale,  ii.  . 799 

Hurd,  Dr  R.,  ii.  . . . 199 

Hussey,  Dr,  ii.  733 

Hussey,  to  Mistress  Margaret,  i.  42 

Hutcheon,  i.  . . 30 

Hutcheson,  Dr  F.,  i.  . . 787 

Hymn  to  Adversity,  i.  . . 737 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni,  ii.  301 

Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews,  ii.  . 405 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship,  ii.  . 260 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid,  ii.  . 346 

Hymn,  Missionary,  ii.  . . 369 

Hymn  to  the  Name  of  Jesus,  i.  . 163 

Hymn  to  Pan,  ii.  . . 366 

Hymn— Twenty-first  Sunday  after 
Trinity,  ii.  . . . . 416 

Hypocrite,  the,  i.  . . . 292 

I do  Confess  thou ’rt  Smooth  and 
Fair,  .....  172 

Ideas,  Fading  of,  from  the  Mind,  i.  536 
Ideas,  Great,  ii.  . . . 552 

II  Penseroso,  i.  352 

Ill-natured  and  Good-natured  Men,  i.  463 
Imagination,  Fears  of,  ii.  . 114 

Imagination,  Idols  of,  ii.  . . 640 

Imagination  on  Canvas,  and  in 

Books,  ii.  . . . C39 

Immoderate  Self-Love,  i.  . 459 

Immortality  of  the  Soul,  Opinion  of 
the  Ancient  Philosophers  on  the,  ii.  182 

Impressions,  FirBt,  ii.  . . 744 

Improvisatrice,  from  the,  ii.  . 408 

Inchbald,  Mrs  E.,  ii.  . 128,  161 

Independence,  Ode  to,  L . . 743 

I Indian  Air,  Lines  to  an,  ii.  . . 363 

Indian  at  the  Burying-place  of  his 
Fathers,  ii.  . . . 420 

Indian  Forest,  Scene  in  the,  ii.  . 658 

Page 

Indian  Gold  Coin,  Ode  to  an,  ii.  . 256 
Indian’s  Account  of  a London  Gam- 
ing-house, i.  529 

Indifference  of  the  World,  ii.  . 655 

Industry,  i.  . . 454,  672 

Inglis,  H.  D.,  ii.  . . . 568 

Ingratitude  an  Incurable  Vice,  i.  . 465 
Inn,  Arrival  at  the  Supposed,  ii.  116 

Inn  at  Henley,  Written  at,  i.  . 772 

Inn,  Humorous  Scene  at  an,  i.  . 616 

Inoculation  for  the  Small-pox — [Lady 
Mary  W.  Montagu  to  Mrs  S.  C.],  i.  666 
Inquiry,  Free,  i.  . . . 299 

Intellect,  the  National,  of  England 
and  Scotland,  ii.  . . 759 

Intellectual  Beauty— [Pleasures  of 
the  Imagination],  i.  . .727 

Intemperance,  On  the  Laws  against, 

ii 748 

Intolerance,  Social,  ii.  . . 748 

Ion,  Passages  from,  ii.  . . 620 

Iona,  Reflections  on  Landing  at,  ii.  205 
Ireland,  Samuel  and  W.  H.,  ii.  . 238 

Irish  Landlord  and  Scotch  Agent,  ii.  464 
Irish  Postilion,  ii.  . . 465 

Irish  Serpents,  the  Last  of  the,  ii.  644 

Irish  Village  and  School-house,  Pic- 
ture of  an,  ii.  506 

Irony,  ii.  . . . . 746 

Irving,  Washington,  ii.  . . 485 

Irwan,  Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley 
of,  ii.  . . .11 

Israelites,  Scene  of  the  Encampment 
of  the,  after  Crossing  the  Red  Sea, 

ii 785 

Italian  Evening  on  the  Banks  of  the 
Brenta,  ii.  352 

Italian  Landscape,  an,  ii.  . . 167 

Italian  Song,  an,  ii.  . . 277 

Italians  and  Swiss  contested,  ii.  4 

Italy,  Letter  from,  i,  . . . 552 

* Its,’  the  Word,  ii.  . . 734 

Ivry,  ii.  ....  601 

James,  G.  P.  R.,  ii.  . . 634 

James  I.  of  Scotland,  i.  . .38 

James  I.  a Prisoner  in  Windsor,  i.  3S 

James  V.,  Character  of,  i.  . . 320 

James  VI.,  i.  . . 168,  286 

James  VI.  and  a Refractory  Preacher, 

i 322 

Jameson,  Mrs,  ii. . . . 770 

Jane  Shore,  Penitence  and  Death  of,  i.  607 
Jeafpreson,  J.  C.,  ii.  . . 676 

Jeanie  Morrison,  ii.  . . . 437 

Jeffrey,  Lord,  ii.  . . 544 

Jephson,  Robert,  ii.  . . . 110 

Jerrold,  Douglas,  ii.  . . 622, 766 

Jerusalem  before  the  Siege,  ii.  . 404 

Jerusalem,  Conquest  of,  by  the  Cru- 
saders, ii.  . . . . 183 

Jesse,  Edward,  ii.  . . 784 

Jesus,  Hymn  to  the  Name  of,  i.  . 163 

Jew  of  Malta,  Passages  from  the,  i.  187 
Jew,  Wandering,  Scene  of  Conjura- 
tion by  the,  ii.  . . 168 

Jews,  Hymn  of  the  Captive,  ii.  . 405 

Jewsbury,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 672 

Joan  of  Arc,  ii.  . . 780 

Jocelyn,  Lord,  ii.  . . . 788 

Johnson,  Dr  Samuel,  i.  707-712,  769-772, 
784;  ii.  203 

Johnson  and  Hannah  More,  ii  . 236 

Johnson’s  Dictionary,  Extract  from 
the  Preface,  ii.  . . 204 

Johnson’s  Letter  to  Lord  Chester- 
field, i 708 

Johnston,  Dr  Arthur,  i.  . 173 

Johnstone,  Charles,  i.  . . 784 

Johnstone,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 492 

Jones,  Rev.  Richard,  ii.  . . 555 

Jones,  Sir  William,  ii.  . . 53 

Jonson,  Ben,  i.  . 122-126,  20C-214,  811 

Jonson,  Ben,  Character  of,  i.  .511 

Jonson,  Ben,  Letter  to,  i.  . 129 

Jortin,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . . 199 

Jowett,  Dr,  ii.  . . 733 

Judge  and  the  Victim,  the,  ii.  . 162 

Judgment,  the  Day  of— [Jeremy 
Taylor],  i.  . . . .311 

Judgment,  the  Day  of— [Version  of 
the ‘Dies  Ir*’],  i.  . . 372 

Judgment,  the  Day  of— [H.  H.  Mil- 
man],  ii.  . . . 406 

Judgment,  Hasty,  i.  . 71 

Julia,  i.  ....  153 

Julia’s  Recovery,  i.  . . 153 

Page 

Junius,  ii.  . . 217-224 

Junius’s  Celebrated  Letter  to  the 
King,  ii.  . . . 221 

Jupiter— is  it  Inhabited?  ii.  . 750 

Kamf.s,  Lord— [Henry  Home],  ii.  190 

Kavanagh,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 667 

Keats,  John,  ii.  . . . 363-368 

Keble,  Rev.  John,  ii.  . 416,  731 

Keightley,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 698 

Kemble,  John,  Portraiture  of,  ii.  . 123 
Kennedy,  It.  H.,  ii.  . . 787 

Kennedy,  Walter,  i.  . .56 

Kennedy,  William,  ii.  . . 801 

Kennett,  Basil,  i.  . . 674 

Keppel,  Hon.  George,  ii.  . 565 

Keswick,  Vale  of,  i.  . . 807 

Khubla  Khan,  Passage  from,  ii.  295 

Kidd,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . . 739 

Killigrew,  Mrs  Anne,  Ode  to  the 
Memory  of,  i.  381 

Killing  a Boar,  i.  . . . 407 

Kilmeny,  from  the  Queen’s  Wake,  ii.  430 
King— What  he  is  Made  for,  i.  . 298 

King,  Captain,  ii.  . . 795 

King,  Dr  Henry,  i.  . . . 127 

King,  Edward,  i. . . . 808 

King  of  Tars,  i.  . .10 

Kingdom  of  Christ  not  of  this  World, 

i 679 

Kinglake,  A.  W.,  ii.  . . 786 

Kings,  the  Strength  of,  i.  . . 263 

Kingsley,  Rev.  Charles,  ii.  . 656 

Kirby,  Rev.  W.,  ii.  . . .739 

Kiss,  the— a Dialogue,  i.  . . 152 

Kiss,  Stolen,  Sonnet  upon  a,  i.  . 137 

Kitten,  the,  ii.  . . 409 

Kitto,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . . 736 

Knife-grinder  and  Friend  of  Huma- 
nity, ii.  . . .77 

Knight,  Charles,  ii.  . . 774 

Knight,  Henry  G.,  ii.  . . 382 

Knolles,  Richard,  i.  . 279 

Knowledge,  Limitation  of  Human,  i.  294 
Knowledge,  Love  of,  i.  . . 283 

Knowledge,  on  Useful,  i.  . 769 

Knowledge,  Uses  of,  i.  . . 259 

Knowles,  Herbert,  ii.  . . 371 

Knowles,  J.  S.,  ii.  . . . 447 

Knox,  John,  i.  , . 316-319 

Knox,  William,  ii.  . , . 411 

Kyd,  Thomas,  i.  . • . 180 

Labour,  on  the  Division  of,  ii.  . 231 

Lackeys  and  Footmen  in  the  last 
Century,  ii.  ...  655 

Laconics,  or  New  Maxims  of  State 
and  Conversation,  i.  . . 529 

Ladies,  Good,  the  Garment  of,  i.  48 

Lady  Alice,  ii.  ...  612 

Lady,  to  a,  Admiring  Herself  in  a 
Looking-glass,  i.  . . . 157 

Lady,  to  a very  Young,  i.  . 374 

Lady,  Poet’s  Praise  of  bis,  i.  . 46 

Lady  Veiled,  to  a,  i.  . 150 

Lady’s  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth 
Century,  ii.  ...  475 

Laidlaw,  William,  ii.  . . 440 

Laing,  Malcolm,  ii.  . . 188 

Laing,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 792 

L’Allegro,  i.  . . . .351 

Lamb,  Charles,  ii.  . . 313-319 

Lamb,  Lady  Caroline,  ii.  . . 501 

Lampoon,  i.  514 

Lanark,  Scene  at— [From  Humphry 
Clinker ],  i.  780 

Lander,  Richard,  ii.  . . 556 

Landon,  L.  E.,  ii.  . . 407 

Landon,  L.  E.,  Last  Verses  of,  ii.  . 409 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  ii.  . 309 

Landscape  Painters,  Advice  to,  ii.  . 79 

Langiiorne,  Dr  John,  ii.  10 

Langsyne,  in  the  Days  o’,  ii.  . 440 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  i.  . . 596 

Laodamia,  ii.  . . . . 289 

Lardner,  Dr  Dionysius,  ii.  . 760 

Lardneh,  Nathaniel,  i.  . . 802 

Last  Man,  from  the,  ii.  . . 334 

Latimer,  Hugh,  i.  . .71 

Laud,  Archbishop,  ii.  . . , 715 

Lauder,  Sir  T.  D.,  ii.  . . 492 

Laughter,  i.  283 

Law,  Rev.  W.,  i.  797 

Lawrence,  Dr,  ii.  . . 72 

Laws,  Importance  of,  i.  . . 445 

Lawsuit,  a Carman’s  Account  of  a,  i.  55 
Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his  Muse,  i.  . 747 
809 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Layamon,  i. 

Layard,  A.  H.,  ii. 

i Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  from  the,  ii. 

I Le  Bas,  Rev.  C.  W.,  ii.  . . 

Le  Fevre,  the  Story  of,  ii. 

! Learning,  Absurdity  of  Useless,  i. 
j Learning  and  Wisdom,  i. 

Lee,  Nathaniel,  i. 

Lee,  Sophia  and  Harriet,  ii.  . 
Legend  of  St  Francis,  i.  . 

Leighton,  Bishop,  Death  and  Char- 
acter of,  i. 

Lbland,  Dr,  ii. 

Leland,  John,  i. 

Leland,  John,  i. 

Lemon,  Mark,  ii.  . 

Lennox,  Charlotte,  ii.  . 
Leonidas,  Address  of,  L . 

Leslie,  John,  i. 

Leslie,  Charles,  i. 

Leslie,  Sir  John,  ii.  . 

L’Estrange,  Sir  Roger,  i. 

Levellers,  Remonstrance  with,  i.  . 
Leven  Water,  Ode  to,  i.  . 

Lever,  C.  J.,  ii. 

Levett,  Dr  Robert,  on  the  Death  of, 

1782,  i 

Lewes,  G.  H.,  ii.  . . 675, 

Lewis,  M.  G.,  ii.  . . Ill,  167, 

Lewis,  Sir  G.  C.,  ii.  . 

Leyden,  John,  ii. 

Libels,  i. 

Liberty,  i.  . 

Liberty,  English,  ii.  . 

Liberty  and  Government,  i. 

Liberty,  Ode  to,  i. 

Liberty  of  the  Press,  i.  . 

Libraries,  i.  . 

Library,  upon  the  Sight  of  a Great,  i. 
Lie,  the,  i. 

Life,  Country,  i.  . . 153, 

Life,  the  Courtier’s,  i. 

Life,  Death,  and  Immortality,  on,  i. 
Life  and  Death  Weighed,  i.  . 

Life,  Decay  of,  i.  . 

Life,  Human,  ii. 

Life  and  Immortality,  ii. 

Life  in  Earnest,  Few  Men  take,  ii. 
Life,  on  the  Increased  Love  of,  with 
Age,  ii. 

Life,  Married,  Happiness  of,  i.  . 

Life,  the  Middle  Station  of,  i. 

Life,  Miseries  of  Man’s,  i. 

Life  not  too  Short,  i. 

Life,  Picture  of,  i. 

Life,  Public  and  Private,  i.  . 

Life  in  Imperial  Rome,  i. 

Life,  Shortness  of,  and  Uncertainty 
of  Riches,  i.  ... 

Life,  the  Shortness  of,  i.  . 

Life  — Unreasonableness  of  Com- 
plaints of  its  Shortness,  i. 

Life,  Vicissitudes  of,  i.  . 

Life— What  is  it?  ii.  . 

Life’s  Progress,  i. 

Lillo,  William,  i.  . 

Lily,  the,  ii.  . . . 

Lindsay,  Lord,  ii.  . 

Lines  Composed  a Few  Miles  above 
Tintern  Abbey,  on  Revisiting  the 
Banks  of  the  Wye,  ii. 

Lines— (My  heart  leaps  up  when  I 
behold),  ii.  . 

Lines  prefixed  to  Sir  A.  Gorge’s 
Translation  of  Lucan,  i.  . 

Lines— (There  is  a charm  in  footing 
slow),  ii. 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,  ii. 

Lines  Written  in  the  Churchyard  of 
Richmond,  Yorkshire,  ii.  . 

Lines  Written  in  a Lonely  Burial- 
ground  in  the  Highlands,  ii. 
Lingard,  Dr  John,  ii.  . 

Lisbon,  the  Great  Earthquake  of, 
in  1755,  ii.  . . . 

Lister,  T.  H.,  ii.  . . 500, 

Literary  Advertisement,  ii.  . 
Literature,  the  Worldly  and  Un- 
worldly in,  ii. 

Lithgow,  William,  i. 

Liturgy  at  Edinburgh,  Reception  of 
the,  in  1637,  i.  . . 

Livingstone,  David,  ii.  . 

Lloyd,  Robert,  ii.  , 

Loch,  Capt.  G.  G.,  ii. 

Lochaber  no  More,  i.  . 

Lochinvar,  Young,  ii.  , 

810 


Page 

5 

796 

600 

527 

135 

662 

299 

407 

155 

61 

505 

179 

76 

802 

624 

202 

748 

320 

681 

740 

444 

81 

744 

662 

711 
727 
334 
691 
255 
299 
537 

64 

423 

715 

416 

257 

291 

120 

375 

45 

685 

202 

141 

276 

44 

712 


597 


285 

284 

121 

367 

363 

371 

397 

576 

752 

521 

322 

779 

270 

494 

798 

28 

788 

602 

344 


Page 

Lochnagar  and  Byron,  ii.  . .770 

Locke,  John,  i.  . . 530-537 

Lockhart,  J.  G.,  ii.  . . 488,  711 

Loddon,  on  Revisiting  the  River,  ii.  37 
Lodge,  Thomas,  i.  . . 118,  185 

Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen,  ii.  128 
Logan  Braes,  ii.  . . 425 

Logan,  John,  ii.  . . . 33 

London  Earthquakes  and  London 
Gossip,  ii.  . . . . 234 

London  Gaming-house,  an  Indian’s 
Account  of  a,  i.  . . . 529 

London  in  Autumn,  ii.  . . 382 

London,  its  Greatness,  ii.  . . 712 

London  Life,  Exclusive,  ii.  . 630 

London,  Service  in,  ii.  . . 162 

London,  the  Great  Fire  in,  i.  . 433 

London,  the  Great  Plague  in,  i.  . 635 
London,  the  November  Fog  of,  ii.  382 
London  at  Sunrise,  ii.  . . 500 

London,  Walking  the  Streets  of,  i.  590 
Londonderry,  Marquis  of,  ii.  . 792 
Long-ago,  the,  ii.  . . . 605 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  ii.  . . 607 

Longlande,  Robert,  i.  . . 12 

Loss,  the,  i.  . . . .335 

Lot,  the  Common,  ii.  . . 379 

Lot  of  Thousands,  the,  ii.  . . 248 

Lothario,  Calista’s  Passion  for,  i.  607 
Loudon,  John  Claudius,  ii.  . 784 

Louis  XIV.,  Letter  from  Scarron  in 
the  Next  World  to,  i.  . . 528 

Love— (Turn  I my  looks  unto  the 
skies),  i.  . . . 119 

Love— [From  the  New  Inn],  i.  . 211 

Love— (Anger,  in  hasty  words  or 
blows),  i.  . . . 342 

Love— (Why  should  we  kill  the  best 
of  passions,  Love?),  i.  . . 764 

Love— (All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all 
delights),  ii.  ...  301 
Love— (Hail  love,  first  love,  &c.),  ii.  373 
Love — Its  Glorifying  Influence,  ii.  474 

Love  Anticipated  after  Death,  i.  . 398 
Love  and  Beauty,  i.  . . 397 

Love  of  Country,  ii.  . . . 342 

Love,  Early,  i.  . . 104 

Love  of  Fame,  i.  . . .688 

Love  and  Happiness,  Effects  of,  on 
the  Mind,  ii.  ...  775 
Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Educa- 
tion, ii.  . . . 302 

Love  Inconcealable,  i.  . . 151 

Love  for  Love,  Scene  from,  i.  . 612 
Love,  Pastoral,  i.  . . 223 

Love,  Picture  of  Domestic,  ii.  . 331 
Love,  the  Power  of,  i.  . . 225 

Love,  Rondel  of,  i.  . . 166 

Love  Scene  by  Night  in  a Garden,  i.  198 
Love,  Unequal,  i.  . . . 235 

Love,  Unhappy,  i.  . . 340 

Love  in  Women,  i.  . . . 409 

Love’s  Servile  Lot,  i.  . . 102 

Lovelace,  Richard,  i.  . . 155 

Lover,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 662 

Lover,  Arraignment  of  a,  i.  . . 90 

Lover,  the  Careless,  i.  . . 148 

Lover,  the  Re-cured,  Exulteth  in  his 
Freedom,  i.  . . . .44 

Lover’s  Lute  cannot  be  Blamed, 

&c.,  i 44 

Loves  of  the  Poets,  ii.  . . 771 

Lowe,  John,  ii.  87 

Lowth,  Dr  Robert,  i.  . .'  797 

Lowth,  Dr  William,  i.  . . 679 

Loyalty  Confined,  i.  . . 247 

Lucasta,  to,  on  Going  to  the  Wars,  i.  156 
Lucy,,ii.  ....  284 
Lucy’s  Flittin’,  ii.  . . 440 

Lute,  Drummond  to  his,  i.  . . 171 

Luther,  Martin,  Character  of,  ii.  175 

Luttrell,  Henry,  ii.  . . 382 

Luxury,  Estimate  of  the  Effects  of,  i.  789 
Lycidas,  Passage  from,  i.  . . 353 

Lyckpenny,  the  London,  i.  . 40 

Lydgate,  John,  i.  . .40 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles,  ii.  . . 751 

Lying,  i.  654 

Lyly,  John,  i.  . . 177,  324 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David,  i.  .55 

Lyndsays,  the— Their  Removal  from 
Braehead,  ii.  ...  492 

Lyon,  Captain,  ii.  . . 565 

Lyon,  Lieutenant,  ii.  . 555 

Lyttelton,  Lord,  i.  . . 729 

Lytton,  E.  R.  B.,  ii.  . . . 613 


Lytton,  Sir  E.  B.,  u. 


. 634-640 


Pago 
243 
598,  684 
202 


77 

733 


. 379 
795 
597,  795 
140-144 
525-528 


Macartney,  Lord,  ii. 

Macaulay,  Lord,  ii.  . 

Macauley,  Catherine,  ii. 

.Macbeth,  Part  of  the  Story  of,  i 
Macbride,  Mr,  ii. 

Macdonald,  George,  ii. 

Macfarlane,  Charles,  ii. 

Mac-Flecknoe,  i. 

Mackay,  Alexander,  ii. 

Mackay,  Charles,  ii. 

Mackenzie,  Henry,  ii.  . 

Mackenzie,  Sir  George,  L . 
Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  ii.  514,  524,  740 
Mackintosh  in  Defence  of  Mr  Pel- 
tier,  for  a Libel  on  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, ii. 

Macklin,  Mr,  i.  . 

Maclagan,  Alexander,  ii.  . 

Maclaren,  Charles,  ii.  . 

Macleod,  Mr,  ii.  . 

Macneill,  Hector,  ii. 

Macpherson,  Dr  D.,  ii. 

Macpherson,  James,  ii.  . 

M'Carthy,  D.  F.,  ii. 

M‘Clure,  Captain  R.,  ii. 

M'Crie,  Dr  Thomas,  ii. 

M'Culloch,  J.  R.,  ii. 

M‘Diarmid,  John,  ii. 

Madden,  Dr  R.  R.,  ii. 

Madeline  at  her  Devotions,  ii. 

Madonna,  Pictures  of  the,  ii. 


515 
. 765 

. 618 
760 
. 568 
. 108 

. 788 
13-17,  179 
612,  617 
801 
. 520 
555 
. 784 
. 565 

. 365 
771 

Madrid,  impressions  of  the  City  of,  ii.  795 
Madrigal— (Amaryllis  I did  woo),  i.  137 
Madrigal— (As  it  fell  upon  a day),  i.  119 
Madrigal,  Rosalind’s,  i.  . . 119 

Maginn,  William,  ii.  . 762 

Magnanimity  in  Humble  Life,  ii.  . 551 
Magnificat,  the,  i.  . . 37 

Maid’s  Lament,  the,  ii.  . . 310 

Maitland,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . 166 

Malcolm,  Sir  John,  ii.  , 521,  566,  567 

Mallet,  David,  i.  . .722 

Malone,  Edmund,  ii.  . . 239 

Maltby,  Dr  Edward,  ii.  . 526,  801 

Malthus,  Rev.  T.  R.,  ii.  . 554 

Mammon,  cannot  serve  God  and,  i.  477 
Man,  all  Things  not  Made  for,  i.  . 547 
Man  before  the  Fall,  i.  . . 465 

Man  from  the  Brown  Forests  of  the 
Mississippi,  ii.  648 

Man,  the  Dignity  of,  i.  . . 113 

Man  of  Ross,  the,  i.  . . . 580 

Man,  Superiority  of  the  Moral  over 
the  Intellectual  Nature  of,  ii.  .675 
Man  was  made  to  Mourn,  ii.  . 104 

Man  whose  Thoughts  are  not  of  this 

World,  i 687 

Mandevelle,  Bernard,  i.  . 638 

Mandeville,  Sir  John,  i.  .33 

Mangles,  James,  ii.  . . 801 

Maniac,  Description  of  a,  ii.  .412 

Mankind— (Men  are  but  children  of 
a larger  growth),  i.  . . 398 

Manley,  Mrs,  i.  . . . 639 

Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch 
Times,  ii.  . . . 486 

Manners,  Lord  John,  ii.  . 611 

Manning,  Robert,  i. . . .8 

Mansell,  Dr,  ii.  . . . 733 

Mansell,  Letter  to  Dr  Francis,  i.  . 271 
Mant,  Dr  Richard,  ii.  . . 527 

Mantell,  Dr,  ii.  . . 753 

Marcelia,  ii.  ...  402 

Makcet,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 555 

Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France,  ii.  215 
Marie  Antoinette,  Death  of,  ii.  .725 
Mariner,  Rime  of  the  Ancient,  ii.  296 

Mariner’s  Hymn,  ii.  . . 575 

Mariner’s  Wife,  the,  ii.  . . 56 

Markham,  Isabella,  Sonnet  on,  i.  88 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  i.  120, 185-190 
Marlowe’s  Faustus,  Scenes  from,  i.  186 
Marlowe’s  Edward  II.,  Scenes  from,  i. — 
188, 189 

Marmion,  Death  of,  ii.  . . 343 

Marriage — Its  Importance,  i.  . 307 

Marriage  not  free  from  all  Incon- 
veniences, i.  ...  431 

Marriage,  Dialogue  on,  i.  . 603 

Marriage  a Lottery,  i.  . . 539 

Marriage,  in  Prospect  of— [Lady 
Mary  to  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq.],  i.  665 
Marriage,  on,  i.  . . 804 

Marriage,  the  Happy,  i.  . . 733 

Married,  Advice  to  the,  ii.  . . 11 

Marryat,  Captain  F.,  ii.  . 626 

Marsh,  Dr  Herbert,  ii.  . . 527 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Page 

Marsh,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 667 

Marston,  John,  i.  . . 117,  231 

Marston  Moor,  the  Opposing  Armies 
on,  ii.  . . . 573 

Marston,  Westland,  ii.  . . 624 

Martin,  Theodore,  ii.  . . 602 

Martineau,  Miss  H.,  ii.  . 699,  774 

Marvell,  Andrew,  i.  . 358-361 

Mary  of  Castle-Cary,  ii.  . . 109 

Mary,  to — [Mrs  Unwin],  ii.  . . 61 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  and  the  Lords 
of  Council  at  Lochleven  Castle,  ii.  709 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  Character  of,  ii.  174 
Mary’s  Dream,  ii.  . . 87 

Mason,  Mrs,  Epitaph  on,  ii.  . 10 

Mason,  William,  ii.  . . .9 

Masques,  Court,  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  i.  214 

Massey,  Gerald,  ii.  . . . 609 

Massey,  W.,  ii.  . . . 702 

Massinger,  Philip,  i.  . 233-236 

Masson,  Charles,  ii.  . . 787 

Masson,  David,  ii.  . . .715 

Mathematical  Learning,  Usefulness 
of,  i.  ....  659 

Mathematics,  on,  ii.  . . 748 

Mathews,  Henry,  ii.  . .561 

Matin  Hymn,  i.  . . . 143 

Matrimonial  Happiness— [Lady  Mary 
to  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq.],  i.  . 665 
Matrimonial  Love,  Decay  of,  ii.  . 653 

Matrimony,  Dialogue  on,  ii.  . 678 

Maturin,  Rev.  C.  R.,  ii.  . 445,  474 

Maurice,  Rev.  J.  F.  D.,  ii.  . 749 

Maxwell,  W.  H.,  ii.  . . 673 

Maxwell,  the  Young,  ii.  . 433 

May  Day,  ii.  . . . .82 

May,  the  First  of,  i.  . . 174 

May  Morning,  on,  i.  . . . 349 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna,  ii.  . 384 

May,  Song  to,  ii.  . . 72,  321 

May,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 279 

Mayhew,  the  Brothers,  ii.  . . 676 

Mayne,  John,  ii.  . . . 425 

Mean  and  Sure  Estate,  of  the,  i . 45 

Mecca,  the  Caravan  of,  i.  . 695 

Medicean  Venus  at  Florence,  Statue 
of  the,  ii.  . . . . 561 

Meditation— Its  Design,  i.  . 295 

Medway  and  the  Thames,  Wedding 
of  the,  i.  . . .97 

Melancholy,  i.  . . 225 

Melancholy,  Abstract  of,  i.  . . 287 

Melancholy,  Cures  for,  i.  . 701 

Melancholy  and  Contemplation,  i.  288 
Melmoth,  William,  i.  . . 805 

Melrose  Abbey,  Description  of,  ii.  342 
Melvil,  Sir  James,  i.  . . 319 

Melvill,  Rev.  H.,  ii.  . . 739 

Memory,  Rules  for  Improving  the,  i.  431 
Men  of  Old,  the,  ii.  . . . 605 

Men’s  Understandings,  Causes  of 

Weakness  in,  i.  . 533 

Mental  Vigour,  Prerequisites  of,  i,— 
note,  ....  324 
Mercy,  i.  . . . . 203 

Meredith,  George,  ii.  . .676 

Merivale,  Rev.  C.,  ii.  . . 694 

Merle  and  Nightingale,  i.  .50 

Mermaid,  the,  ii.  . . . 257 

Merrick,  James,  i.  . . . 753 

Messiah,  the,  i.  . . 572 

Method,  Principles  of  the  Science 
of,  ii.  ....  746 
Metrical  Romances,  English,  i.  . 9 

Mexico,  Storming  the  Temple  of,  ii.  682 
Mexico,  View  of,  from  the  Summit 
of  Ahualco,  ii.  681 

Mickle,  William  Julius,  ii.  . 47 

Middle  Age,  ii.  614 

Middle  Ages— Progress  of  Freedom,  ii.  171 
Middle  Ages,  Studious  Monks  of 
the,  ii.  772 

Middle  Station  of  Life,  the,  i.  . 795 

Middleton,  Dr  Conyers,  i.  785,  797 
Middleton,  Thomas,  i.  . . 229 

Midnight  Repose,  i.  . . . 398 

Midnight  Scene,  L . . 234 

Midnight  Wind,  the,  ii.  . . 437 

Milkmaid,  the  Fair  and  Happy,  i.  293 
Mill,  James,  ii.  . 520,  524,  555 

Mill,  John  S.,  ii.  . . 748 

Miller,  Hugh,  ii.  . . 755-760 

Miller,  Hugh— the  Turning-point  in 
his  life,  il.  . . . . 755 

Miller,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 768 

Milman,  Dean,  ii.  . ..  . 733 


Page 

Milman,  Henry  Hart,  ii.  . 404 

Milnes,  R.  Monckton,  ii.  . . 604 

Milton,  John,  i.  . 344-358,  .4LL41$- 

Milton,  on,  . . i.  382;  ii.  312 

Milton  and  Spenser,  i.  . . 514 

Milton— could  he  have  written  Para- 
dise Lost  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury? ii.  . . . 698 

Milton’s  Blindness,  and  Remem- 
brance of  his  Early  Reading,  ii.  . 519 

Milton’s  Literary  Musings,  i.  . 414 

Mind,  Operations  of  the,  in  the  Pro- 
duction of  Works  of  Imagination, 

i  728 

Mind,  Richard’s  Theory  of,  i.  . 559 

Mind,  my,  to  Me  a Kingdom  is,  i.  242 
Minden,  Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle 

of,  ii.  . . . .71 

Minister  Acquiring  and  Losing 
Office,  i.  . . . 654 

Minister,  Placing  of  a Scottish,  ii.  481 

Ministers,  Wise,  distinguished  from 
Cunning,  i.  ...  664 

Minot,  Lawrence,  i.  12 

Minstrel,  Opening  of  the,  ii.  . 42 

Minstrel’s  Song  in  Ella,  ii.  . 23 

Miracle  Plays,  i.  174 

Mirrour  for  Magistrates,  Allegorical 
Characters  from  the,  i.  . 86-88 

Mirza,  the  Vision  of,  i.  . . 625 

Misfortune,  Compassion  for,  i.  . 235 

Missionaries,  the  Greenland,  ii.  . 58 

Missionary  Hymn,  ii.  . . 369 

Mistress,  to  his  [Butler],  i.  . 369 

Mitchell,  Thomas,  ii.  , . 423 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  ii.  . 508 

Mitford,  Rev.  J.,  ii.  . .611 

Mitford,  William,  ii.  . . 510 

Mitherless  Bairn,  the,  ii.  . .617 

Modena,  the  Sleeping  Figure  of,  ii.  402 
Modern  Greece,  Picture  of,  ii.  . 349 

Modern  State  of  Ancient  Countries,  i.  270 
Modesty,  as  opposed  to  Ambition,  i.  428 

Mohammed,  Appearance  and  Char- 
acter of,  ii.  . . . . 184 

Mohammedan’s  Lecture  on  Christian 
Vices,  i.  . . .33 

Mohammedan  Religion,  Effects  of 
the,  ii.  . . . . 538 

Mohammedan  System,  Religious 
Status  of  Women  in  the,  ii.  . 785 
Moir,  D.  M.,  ii.  . . . 580 

Monboddo,  Lord— [James  Burnet], 

ii  231 

Monks,  Studious,  of  the  Middle  Ages, 

ii 772 

Monody  on  Thomson,  i.  . . 730 

Mont  Blanc,  ii.  712 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 

i  664-668 

Montagu,  Mrs  E.,  ii.  . . 235 

Montgomery,  Alexander,  i.  . 167 

Montgomery,  James,  ii.  . 375-380 

Montgomery,  Robert,  ii.  . 412 

Moon,  Address  to  the,  ii.  . . 15 

Moon,  Elephant  in  the,  i.  . 365-368 
Moon,  How  a Man  may  Fly  to  the,  i.  467 
Moonlight  Night,  with  fine  Music,  i.  199 
Moonlight  at  Sea— Memory  of  Absent 

Friends,  ii.  . . . . 322 

Moorcroft,  W.,  ii.  . . 567 

Moore,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . . 158 

Moore,  Edward,  i.  . . 732 

Moore, .Sir  John,  the  Burial  of,  ii.  . 370 
Moore,  Thomas,  ii.  . 321-325,  621 

Moorish  Host,  Attack  of,  ii.  . 327 

Moral  Feelings  Instinctive,  i.  . 458 

More,  Dr  Henry,  i.  . . 471 

More,  IIannaii,  ii.  . . 235 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  . 65 

More,  Lady,  Letter  to,  i.  .66 

More’s  (Sir  T.)  Resignation  of  the 
Great  Seal,  i.  285 

Morell,  J.  D.,  ii.  . . . 741 

Morgan,  Lady—  [Sydney  Owenson], 

ii  471,  561 

Morier,  James,  ii.  . 496,  566 

Morley,  COUNTES3  of,  ii.  . . 501 

Morning,  ii.  373 

Morning,  Description  of,  i.  . 407,  562 

Morning  Landscape,  ii.  . . 43 

Morning  in  May,  i.  . .54 

Morning  in  Warwickshire,  i.  . 105 

Morpheus,  Song  to,  i.  . . 339 

MoraTua,  i.  . . .141 

Mortification,  i.  . . 144 

Morton,  TnoMAS,  ii.  . . 451 


Moschus,  Note  to,  i.  . 

Moses  Concealed  on  the  Nile— [Dar- 
- - win],  ii.  . . . . 

Mosque  of  the  Bloody  Baptism  at 
Cairo,  Legend  of  the,  ii.  . 

Moss,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 

Mother,  the  Widowed,  ii. 

Mother,  Tribute  to  a,  ii.  . 
Motherwell,  William,  ii.  . 
Mountain  Children,  ii.  . . 

Mountain  Daisy,  to  a,  ii. 

Mountains,  ii. 

Mouse,  the  Town  and  Country,  i.  . 
Mudie,  Robert,  ii.  . . 

Muirhead,  J.  P.,  ii.  . 

Muller,  K.  O.,  ii. 

Mulock,  Miss,  ii. 

Multitude,  Inconstancy  of  the,  i. 
Mummy,  Address  to,  ii. 

Munday,  Anthony,  i.  . ' 
Murchison,  Sir  R.  I.,  ii. 

Mure,  William,  ii.  . . 

Murphy,  Arthur,  ii. 

Murray,  Lieut.  Alexander,  ii. 
Muse,  Companionship  of  the,  i. 

Muse,  the  Modest,  i. 

Music,  Church,  i. 

Music  by  Night,  i.  . 

Music,  on  Scottish,  ii. 

Music,  Scottish  Scenery  and,  ii.  . 
Music’s  Duel,  i. 

Musings  on  Eternity,  ii.  . 

Myself,  of— [Sir  T.  Browne],  i. 

Myself,  of— [A.  Cowley],  i. 

Mystery  and  Intrigue,  ii. 

Nabob,  the,/ii.  . . . 

Nabbes,  Thomas,  i. 

Nairn,  Baroness,  ii. 

Napier,  Colonel  W.  F.  P.,  ii.  . 
Napier,  Lord,  ii. 

Napier,  Macvey,  ii. 

Napier,  Mark,  ii.  . . 

Nash,  C.,  ii. 

Nash,  Thomas,  i. 

Nathan  and  David,  Parable  of,  i. 
Nation,  Difficulty  of  Governing  a,  ii. 
National  Partiality  and  Prejudice,  i. 
National  Security,  the  Dangers  of,  ii. 
Nations,  Uncertainty  of  the  Early 
History  of,  i. 

Nations,  Vicissitudes  of,  ii.  . 
Nativity,  Hymn  on  the,  i. 

Natural  Philosophy,  the  Study  of, 
Favourable  to  Religion,  i.  . 

Nature,  Complaint  of,  ii.  . 

Nature,  on  the  Love  of,  ii.  . 64, 

Nature,  Study  of,  Recommended,  i. 
Nature,  the  Temple  of,  ii.  . 

Navy  Board,  Pepys  makes  a Great 
Speech  in  favour  of  the,  i. 

Navy,  the  British,  i. 

Nesera,  on,  i.  . . . 

Neglect,  of,  i.  . . . 

Negro  Servitude,  ii.  . ' 

Nelson,  Effects  of  the  Death  of,  ii. 
Newcastle  Apothecary,  ii. 

Newcastle,  Duchess  of,  i. 

Newcome,  Lady  Clara,  ii. 

Newman,  Rev.  J.  H.  and  F.  W.,  ii. 
Newspapers,  i.  . . 325, 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  i.  . . 541- 

Newtonian  Philosophy,  Anecdote  of 
the  Discovery  of  the,  i. 

New  Year,  the,  i. 

New  York,  Manners  in,  During  the 
Dutch  Times,  ii.  . 

Niciiol,  Professor,  ii.  . 743, 

Nichols,  John,  ii. 

Nicholson,  William,  ii. 

Nicoll,  Robert,  ii.  . 

Nicolson,  Dr  William,  i. 

Niebuhr’s  Ballad  Theory,  ii. 

Night,  . . i.  139 ; ii.  377, 

Night  in  a Camp,  i.  . 

Night-piece,  a City,  ii.  . 

Night,  to,  i.  . 

Nightingale,  Florence,  ii. 

Nightingale,  Sonnet  to  a,  i.  . 
Nightingale,  Ode  to  a,  ii. 

Nights  at  Sea,  ii. 

Nile,  Bruce  at  the  Sources  of  the,  ii. 
Nimroud,  Appearance  of,  ii. 

No  Age  Content  with  his  own  Estate,  i 
No  Man  can  be  Good  to  All,  i. 
Nobility,  the  Order  of,  ii.  . 
Nocturnal  Reverie,  i. 

811 


Page 

336 

69 

787 
52 

306 

67 

436 

765 

101 

765 

47 

553 

716 

707 

669 

409 

394 

190 

753 

706 

115 

788 
136 
371 
254 
290 
193 

92 

161 

413 

316 

418 

550 

84 

233 

89 

519 

788 

547 

712 

787 

182 

180 

543 

661 

773 

279 

706 

347 

538 
35 

192 

545 

618 

443 

343 

174 

295 

141 

539 
127 
375 
654 
731 
547 
-545 

681 

369 

486 
802 
552 
441 
438 
682 
694 
402 
204 
209 
123 
619 
172 
366 
628 
244 
796 
i.  43 
295 
215 
597 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP  ENGLISH  IITERATTJEE. 

Page 

Norman  French,  Introduction  of,  i.  4 

Norman  Poets  of  England,  the,  L . 4 

Normanby,  Marquis  of,  ii.  . 500 

North-west  Passage,  Davis’s  Voyage 
in  Search  of,  i.  269 

Norton,  Hon.  Mbs,  ii.  . . 581 

Norton,  Thomas,  i.  . . 175 

Norway,  Agricultural  Peasantry  of,  ii.  793 
Novelists,  Modern,  ii.  . . 129 

Novels,  Rise  of,  i.  . . 773 

Nugent,  Lord,  ii  . . 521 

Nut-brown  Maid,  the,  i.  . 57-60 

Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death 

of  her  Fawn,  i.  . . 360 

Njmph’s  Reply  to  the  Passionate 
Shepherd,  i.  ...  120 

Oak  and  the  Brier,  Fable  of  the,  i.  . 99 

Obelisk,  the  Oldest,  in  the  World,  ii.  732 
Oblivion,  i.  . . . 314 

Obscurity,  of,  i.  . . . 420 

Obscurity,  Wishes  for,  i.  . . 409 

Occupations,  Choice  of,  i.  . 83 

Ocean,  Address  to  the— [Procter],  ii.  401 
Ocean,  Apostrophe  to  the— [Byron], 
ii.  . . • . . 3o2 

Ocean,  the  Dry  Bed  of  the,  i.  . 471 

Ode  to  Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birthday, 
ii.  • . . .40 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr  Thomson,  i.  716 
Ode  to  the  Departing  Year  (1795),  ii.  299 
Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College,  i.  . . . . 736 

Ode  to  Evening,  ii.  . . 713 

Ode  on  Hearing  the  Drum,  i.  .754 

Ode  from  Horace,  i.  . . 601 

Ode— (How  are  thy  servants  blest, 

O Lord !),  i.  ...  552 

Ode,  in  Imitation  of  Alcaeus,  ii.  54 

Ode  to  Independence,  i.  . 743 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin,  ii.  256 

Ode  to  Leven  Water,  i.  . . 744 

Ode  to  Liberty,  i.  . . . 715 

Ode  to  a Nightingale,  ii.  . . 366 

Ode  on  the  Passions,  ii.  . . 714 

Ode  to  Solitude,  i.  . .752 

Ode  to  my' Son,  aged  Three  Years 
and  Five  Months— [Hood],  ii.  . 579 

Ode  to  Spring,  ii.  . . . S6 

Ode— (The  spacious  firmament  on 
high),  i.  . . . . 553 

Ode  written  in  the  Year  1746,  i.  . 713 
O’Keefe,  John,  ii.  . . 451 

Old  Age  and  Death,  i.  . .344 

Old  Age,  Growing  Virtuous  in,  i.  654 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  the,  ii.  . . 315 

Old  Men,  Miscalculations  of,  i.  . 764 

Old  and  Young  Courtier,  i.  . . 246 

Old  Songs,  ii.  . . 613 

Oldys,  William,  i.  . . . 754 

Oliphant,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 672 

On  my  First  Daughter,  i.  . . 124 

Once  upon  a Time,  ii.  . . 575 

One  who  Died,  Slandered,  i.  . 232 

Ophelia’s  Drowning,  i.  . . 202 

Opie,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 247,  461 

Opinion,  Prevalence  of  an,  no  Argu- 
ment for  its  Truth,  i.  . . 303 

Opinions  and  Prejudices,  i.  . 672 

Opinions,  Reverence  for  Ancient,  i.  303 
Opinions,  Toleration  of  other  Men’s,  i.  537 
Opium  Eater,  Dreams  of  the,  ii.  . 779 
Oracles,  i.  . . . . 299 

Orange,  Cultivation  of  the,  and 
Gathering  of  the  Fruit,  ii.  . 794 

Orme,  ii.  . . . . 179 

Oroonoko,  Scene  from,  i.  . . 604 

Orphan  Boy’s  Tale,  ii.  . . 247 

Osborn,  Lieutenant,  ii.  . . 801 

Ossian’s  Address  to  the  Sun,  ii.  . 15 

Othello’s  Relation  of  his  Courtship 
to  the  Senate,  i.  » . . 201 

Otway,  Gesar,  ii.  . . 504 

Otway,  Thomas,  l . . .403 

Oudney,  Dr,  ii.  . . 555 

Ousely,  Sir  William,  ii.  . . 566 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  . 292 

Overvalued,  of  Being,  i.  . . 294 

Owbn,  John,  i.  . . 476 

Owen,  Professor,  ii.  . .754 

Owl  in  the  Twilight,  i.  . . 290 

Oxenford,  Mr,  ii.  . . 624,  727 

Oxford,  Edward  Verb,  Earl  of,  i.  114 

Pacific  Ocean,  Discovery  of,  by 
Vasco  Nunez,  ii.  . . 781 

Paestum,  ii.  ...  278 

812 

Page 

Pagan  Rites,  Scene  of,  i.  . . 764 

Painted  Window  at  Oxford,  Lines 
on,  ii.  ....  37 

Palamon  and  Arcite,  i.  . . 221 

Palestine,  Picture  of,  ii.  . . 368 

Paley,  Dr  William,  ii.  . . 195 

Palgrave,  Sir  Francis,  ii.  . . 688 

Pampas,  Description  of  the,  ii.  . 763 

Pan,  Hymn  to,  ii.  . . . 366 

Pan,  Song  to,  i.  . . 225 

Paradise,  Evening  in,  i.  . . 356 

Paradise,  Morning  in,  i.  . . 356 

Paradise,  Expulsion  from,  i.  . 357 

Paradise,  Marks  of,  not  utterly 
Defaced  by  the  Flood,  i.  . . 262 

Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden,  ii.  205 
Pabdoe,  Miss,  ii.  . . 666 

Pardoner,  Speech  of  the,  i.  . 56 

Pardoner’s  Tale,  the,  i.  . .20 

Parental  Ode  to  my  Son,  ii.  . 579 

Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary,  ii.  268 
Park,  Andrew,  ii.  . . 618 

Park,  Mungo,  ii.  . . . 243 

Parkes,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 615 

Parnell,  Thomas,  i.  . . 585 

Parr,  Dr  Samuel,  ii.  . 199,  526 

Parry,  Sir  Edward,  ii.  . . 563 

Parson,  the  Good,  i.  . . .22 

Parthenia,  or  Chastity,  Description 
of,  i.  . . . . 134 

Parting,  i.  . . . . 407 

Partington,  Mrs,  Story  of,  ii.  . 542 

Partridge  at  the  Playhouse,  i.  . 777 

Party  Nicknames,  i.  . . . 416 

Party  Zeal,  i.  654 

Passions,  i.  . . . 409 

Passions  Likened  to  Floods  and 
Streams,  i.  . . . . 121 

Passions,  Ode  on  the,  i.  . . 714 

Past,  Memorials  of  the,  ii.  • . 242 

Pastoral,  a,  i.  . .731 

Pastoral,  a Sweet,  i.  . . . 117 

Pastoral  Ballad,  1743,  i.  . . 719 

Pastoral  Dialogue,  i.  . . . 132 

Pastoral  Employments,  i.  . 139 

Pastoral,  the  First,  of  Philips,  i.  . 596 
Pastoral  Love,  i.  . . . 223 

Paths,  the  Two,  ii.  . .773 

Patmore,  Coventry,  ii.  . . 613 

Patriot,  Pleasures  of  a,  i.  . 663 

Patriotism— Intellectual  Beauty,  i.  727 

Patriotism,  Maxims  concerning,  i.  673 

Paulet,  Sir  Amyas,  Pursues  two  of  his 
Missing  Seamen,  ii.  . . 658 

Pauper,  Death  and  Funeral  of  a,  ii.  646 
Pauper’s  Death-bed,  ii.  . .575 

Payne,  J.  H.,  ii.  . . . 446 

Paynter,  William,  i.  . .89 

Peacock,  J.  L.,  ii.  . . 510 

Pearce,  Nathaniel,  ii.  . . 244 

Pearson,  Dr  John,  i.  . . 467 

Peasant,  a Noble,  ii.  . . . 268 

Peasant-Poet,  Scenes  and  Musings 
of  the,  ii.  . . . 389 

Pedantry  in  England,  Decline  of,  i.  523 
Pedler’s  Story,  ii.  . . 107 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  ii.  . 710 

Peele,  George,  i.  . . 17S 

Pekin,  Scene  at,  ii.  . . 567 

Pelican  Island,  the,  ii.  . . 37S 

Pembroke,  Countess,  Epitaph  on,  i.  124 

Pembroke,  Lady,  i.  . . . 190 

Penn,  William,  i.  . . 481 

Penn’s  Advice  to  his  Children,  i.  . 4S3 
Pennant,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 239 

Penny  Magazine,  &c.,  ii.  . .571 

Pennythorne,  Leigh,  Death  of,  ii.  669 

Penshurst,  at,  i.  . . . 343 

Penshurst,  to,  i.  . . .124 

Pepys,  Samuel,  i.  . . . 441-444 

Percy,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  . . 406 

Pericles  and  Aspasia,  ii.  . . 11 

Perseverance,  i.  . . . 203 

Persian  Song  of  Hafiz,  ii.  . 54 

Persian  Town,  Sketch  of  a,  ii.  . 567 

Pestilence  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  i.  746 
Petrarch,  the  Celebrated  Canzone'  of 
— Chiare,  fresche,  e dolce  Acque,  ii.  386 
Philanthropy — Mr  Howard,  ii.  . 71 

Philips,  Ambrosb,  i.  . . 595, 618 

Philips,  John,  i.  . 392 

Philips,  Katherine,  i.  . . 375 

Phillips,  Samuel,  ii.  . . . 674 

Phillis,  on,  Walking  before  Sunrise,  i.  159 
Philosophers  and  Projectors,  Satire 
on  Pretended— [Swift],  i.  . ; 645 

Physic,  Housewifely,  i.  . . 47 

Page 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  ii.  . . 345 

Picken,  Andrew,  ii.  . . 493 

Picture,  to  My— [Randolph],  i.  . 157 

Picture  of  Christmas  Eve,  ii.  . 286 

Picture  of  a Country  Life,  ii.  .114 

Picture  of  Domestic  Love,  ii.  . 331 

Picture  of  an  Irish  Village  and  School- 
house,  ii.  . . . 506 

Picture  of  a Poetical  Enthusiast,  ii.  377 
Picture  of  a Retired,  Happy  Literary 
Life,  ii.  . . .721 

Picture  of  Twilight,  ii.  . . 583 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius,  ii.  . 415 

Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery,  and  of  the 
City  of  Venice,  ii.  . . . 643 

Pictures  of  the  Madonna,  ii.  . 771 

Piedmont,  Massacre  of  the  Protest- 
ants in,  i.  . . . 349 

Pierce  Plowman,  Extracts  from,  i.  12 

Pilgrimage,  the,  i.  . . 122 

Pilgrims  and  the  Peas,  ii.  .79 

Pindar,  Peter,  ii.  . . . 78-82 

Pinkerton,  John,  ii.  . . . 188 

Pitcairn,  Robbrt,  ii.  . . 710 

Pitt,  Christopher,  i.  . . 755 

Pitt,  Mr,  Character  of,  ii.  . 73 

Pitt,  William,  Earl  of  Chatham,  ii.  226 
Pity  and  Indignation,  i.  . . 283 

Pixies  of  Devon,  the,  ii.  . . 417 

Plague  in  London,  i.  . . . 635 

Planche,  Mr,  ii.  . . . 624 

Platonic  Representation  of  the  Scale 
of  Beauty  and  Love,  i.  . . 669 

Playfair,  Professor  J.,  ii.  . 740 

Pleasure,  against,  i.  . . .375 

Pleasure  is  Mixed  with  every  Pain,  i.  45 
Pleasure  and  Pain,  i.  . . . 535 

Pleasure,  Sinful,  i.  . . 308 

Pleasure,  Utopian  Idea  of,  i.  . 67 

Pleasures  of  Amusement  and  Indus- 
try Compared,  i.  . . 464 

Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  Ear,  ii.  190 

Pleasures  of  Memory,  from,  ii.  . 274 

Pleasures  of  a Patriot,  i.  . . 663 

Pleasures,  Partaken,  ii.  . . 764 

Pleasures,  Wise  Selection  of,  i.  . 453 

Pocockes,  i.  473 

Poe,  Edgar,  ii.  . 605 

Poet  and  the  Rose,  i.  . 591 

Poet,  a Small,  i.  426 

Poetical  Enthusiast,  Picture  of  a,  ii.  377 
Poetry,  Definition  of,  ii.  . . 746  { 

Poetry,  Essay  on,  Passages  from,  i.  395  | 

Poetry,  Moral  Aim  of,  i.  .81 

Poetry  and  Poets,  i.  . . 420 

Poetry,  Praise  of,  i.  . . . 250 

Poets,  Ancient,  Translations  of  the,  i.  512  j 

Poet’s  Bridal-day  Song,  the,  ii.  . 434  i 

Poet’s  Life,  the  Miseries  of  a,  ii. . 28 

Poets,  Loves  of  the,  ii.  . .771 

Poet’s  Prayer,  ii.  . . . 416 

Politeness,  Overstrained,  i.  . . 648  | 

Political  Agitation  not  always  Hurt- 
ful, i 446 

Political  Redemption— [Chatterton],ii.  19 
Political  Upholsterer,  the,  i.  . 624 

Politics  and  Evening  Parties,  ii.  . 233 

Pollok,  Robert,  ii.  . . . 372 

Polyolbion,  Part  of  the  Twenty-eighth 
Song  of  the,  i.  . . 106-108 

Pomfret,  John,  i.  . . 393 

Pomp  and  Superfluity,  i.  . . 639 

Pompeii,  Description  of,  ii.  . 562 

Poor  Country  Widow,  Description  of 

a,  i .19 

Poor  Gentleman,  Passages  from  the, 
ii.  . . . . 125 

Poor  Relations,  ii.  . . 317 

Poor,  Rural,  Appeal  to  Country  Jus- 
tices in  behalf  of  the,  ii.  . . 10 

Pope,  Alexander,  i.  568-581,  649-656 

Pope  in  Oxford,  i.  . . 650 

Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu,  i.  650 
Pope  to  Gay— on  his  Recovery,  i.  . 653 
Pope  to  Bishop  Atterbury,  in  the 
Tower,  i.  . . . 653 

Pope  and  Dryden,  Parallel  between, 
ii.  . . . . 205 

Popish  Plot,  the,  i.  . . 444 

Porson,  Richard,  ii.  . . 239 

Portbous,  Dr  Beilby,  ii.  . 197 

Porter,  Anna  Maria,  ii.  . . 461 

Porter,  Jane,  ii.  . . . 462 

Porter,  Sir  R.  K.,  ii.  . . 566 

Portrait— (She  was  a phantom  of 
delight),  ii.  . . . . 2S5 

Postans,  Captain,  ii.  . . 787 

GENERAL  INDEX. 


Page 

Postans,  Mrs,  ii.  . . .786 

Potter,  Dr,  i.  . . 674 

Powell,  Rev.  Baden,  ii.  . . 743 

Power  and  Activity,  Distinction  be- 
tween, ii.  . . . 525 

Power  and  Genius,  ii.  . . 640 

Power  and  Gentleness,  or  the  Cata- 
ract and  the  Streamlet,  ii.  . 401 

Practice  and  Habit,  i.  . . 534 

Praed,  W.  M.,  ii.  . . 576 

Prater,  a,  i.  . . . 426 

Prayer,  on,  i.  . . . . 310 

Prayer— (Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere 
desire),  ii.  . . . . 379 

Prayer  and  Early  Rising,  i.  . 334 

Prayer,  a Poet’s,  ii.  . . .5 

Preacher,  the  Village,  ii.  . . 5 

Preaching,  Inefficacy  of  mere  Moral, 

ii 532 

Prejudices,  i.  534 

Prejudices  and  Opinions,  i.  . .672 

Prescott,  W.  H.,  ii.  . * 6S0 

Press,  Liberty  of  the,  i.  • . 416 

Price,  Dr  Richard,  i.  . . 794 

Price,  Sir  Uvedale,  ii.  . . 240 

Prichard,  Dr  J.  C.,  ii.  . . 750 

Pride,  False,  Caution  against,  i.  . 371 
Pride,  Human,  Rebuke  of,  i.  . 471 

Pride  of  Noble  Birth,  against  the,  i.  482 
Pride  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach  in  his 
Daughter,  i.  . . 234 

Prideacx,  Dr  Humphrey,  i.  . 682 

Priestley,  Dr  Joseph,  ii.  . . 194 

Primrose,  to  an  Early,  ii.  • 260 

Primrose,  to  the  Evening,  ii.  . 400 
Primroses  Filled  with  Morning  Dew,  i.  154 
Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales,  from  the 
Funeral  Sermon  for  the,  ii.  . 528 
Princess  Royal,  on  the  Birth  of  the,  ii.  384 

Pringle,  Thomas,  ii.  . .411 

Printing,  the  Invention  of,  i.  73 

Prior,  Matthew,  i.  . 555-560 

Prior’s  Lines — ‘ For  my  own  Monu- 
ment,’ i.  . . . 556 

Private  Judgment  in  Religion,  i.  302 

Procrastination — [Cowley],  i.  . 420 

Procrastination— [Young],  i.  . 688 

Procter,  B.  W.,  ii.  . . 401,  446 

Procter,  Miss,  ii.  . . 615 

Prodigal  Lady,  the,  i.  . . 240 

Prologue  to  Coriolanus,  i.  . 731 

Prologue  to  King  David  and  Fair 
>>  Bethsabe,  i.  ...  179 

Pronouns,  of,  i.  . . 808 

Property,  of— [Paley],  ii.  . . 195 

Property,  on  the  Right  of— [Black- 
stone],  ii.  . . . . 229 

Prophecy  of  Famine — [Churchill],  ii.  30 
Prophecy  of  Nereus,  Imitation  of  the,  i.  594 
Prophetic  Language,  the,  i.  . . 542 

Prosperity  and  Adversity,  i.  . 257 

Protector,  Lord,  a Panegyric  to  the,  i.  342 
Protestant  Infallibility,  Ironical  View 
of,  i.  . . . . . 680 

Protogenes  and  Apelles,  i.  . 559 

Pbout,  Dr  W.,  ii.  . . . 739 

Proverbs,  on,  ii.  . . . 735 

Prudent  Sea-Captain— Abuse  of  Ship 
Stores,  ii.  . . . 627 

Prudent  Worldly  Lady,  Character 
of  a,  ii.  . . . . 629 

Psalm  of  Life,  ii.  . . . 607 

Psalmanazar,  George,  i.  . . 787 

Psyche,  Description  of,  i.  . 140 

Psyche,  from,  ii.  . . 249 

Public  Breakfast,  the,  ii.  , 50 

Publications,  Irreligious,  i.  . . 804 

Pulteney,  Miss  C.,  to,  i.  . . 595 

Pultock,  Robert,  ii.  . . 130 

Puns  and  Sayings  of  Jerrold,  ii.  768 
Purchas,  Samuel,  i.  . . . 268 

Pusey,  Dr,  ii.  . . 731 

Pyramids,  Description  of  the,  ii.  . 558 
Pyrrha,  to,  i.  330 

Quack  Advertisements,  i.  . . 622 

Quarles,  Francis,  i.  . . 140 

Quarterly  Review,  Establishment  of 
the,  ii.  . . . . 571 

Queen,  to  the,  i.  . . , 158 

Queen  Mab,  i.  . . 202 

Queen  Mab,  Opening  of,  ii.  . , 359 

Quince,  ii.  ...  576 


Radcliffb,  Ann,  ii. 
Rae,  John,  ii. 
Ragg,  Thomas,  ii. 


164 

801 

611 


Page 

Railway  Locomotive,  Starting  the 
First,  ii.  . . .718 

Railway,  Opening  of  the  Liverpool 
and  Manchester,  ii.  . . 719 

Railways,  Locking  in  on,  ii.  . 543 

Rain,  Summer,  ii.  . . . 612 

Rainbow,  the,  i.  . . . 134,  334 

Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn,  ii.  . 488 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  i.  120,  259-264 
Raleigh,  Sir  W.,  the  Night  before 
his  Death,  i.  . . .122 

Ramsay,  Allan,  i.  . . 598-604 

Ramsay,  John,  ii.  . . 615 

Randolph,  Lady— Discovery  of  her 
Son,  i.  . . .762 

Randolph,  Thomas,  i.  . . 156,  233 

Raven,  the,  ii.  ...  605 

Ray,  John,  i.  . . 545 

Reach,  Angus  B.,  ii.  . . 674 

Reade,  Charles,  ii.  . . 672 

Reade,  John  E.,  ii.  . . . 576 

Readiness  to  take  Offence,  against,  i.  294 
Reading,  Remarks  on,  ii.  , 187 

Reason,  Defence  of,  i.  . . 253 

Reason  and  Discretion,  the  Age  of,  i.  307 
Rebuke  of  Human  Pride,  i.  . 471 

Recluse,  the,  ii.  . . 378 

Recluse,  the  Fair,  ii.  . . 405 

Recreation,  i.  ...  430 

Recruiting  Officer,  Scenes  from  the, 

i 616-618 

Red  Sea,  Passage  of  the,  ii.  . 785 

Redbreast  Coming  into  his  Chamber, 
upon  Occasion  of  a— [Bishop 

Hall],  i 290 

Rede,  Leman,  ii.  . . . 624 

Rees,  Dr  A.,  . . i.  808;  ii.  569 

Reeve,  Miss  Clara,  ii.  . . 139 

Reformation  in  England,  State  of 
Parties  at  the,  ii.  . . . 171 

Reformation,  the,  i.  . . 418 

Reformation,  the— Monks  and  Puri- 
tans, i.  . . , ' . 338 

Reid,  Captain  M.,  ii.  . . 668 

Reid,  Dr,  ii.  . . . . 189 

Reign  of  Terror,  ii.  . • 679 

Rejected  Addresses,  ii.  . . 390 

Relations,  Poor,  ii..  . . 317 

Religion,  i.  . . . 143 

Religion,  Against  the  Employment 
of  Force  in,  i.  301 

Religion,  on  the  Effects  of,  ii.  . 198 

Religion  not  Hostile  to  Pleasure,  i.  464 
Religion  of  the  Imagination,  Dan- 
gers of,  ii.  . . . .738 

Religion,  Private  Judgment  in,  i.  302 

Religion,  Right  of  Private  Judgment 
in,  i.  . . . . 521 

Religion,  the  Influence  of,  ii.  . 761 

Religion,  Zeal  and  Fear  in,  i.  . 253 
Religious  Discussions,  Reason  must 
be  Appealed  to  in,  i.  . . 301 

Religious  Edifices,  Destruction  of, 

in  1559,  i 322 

Religious  Matters,  Authority  of  Rea- 
son in,  i.  . . . 674 

Religious  Opinions,  Vindication  of,  i.  801 
Religious  Toleration,  i.  . . 312 

Remorse,  Scene  from,  ii.  . . 443 

Resignation,  ii.  . . . 24 

Restoration,  Improved  Style  of  Dra- 
matic Dialogue  after  the,  i.  . 511 

Resurrection,  the,  i.  . . 331,  467 

Retaliation,  Passages  from,  ii.  . 8 

Retired  from  Business,  ii.  . 624 

Retirement,  1758,  ii.  . . 44 

Retirement,  the,  i.  . . 370 

Retirement,  Cowley’s  Love  of,  i.  . 469 

Retirement  from  the  World,  i.  . 770 

Retirement,  on  his— [Pope  to  Swift], 

i 650 

Revenge,  Nubian,  ii.  . . 778 

Revenge  of  Injuries,  i.  . . 165 

Revenge,  on,  i.  . , 769 

Reverie,  a Nocturnal,  i.  . • 597 

Revolution  of  1688-9,  ii.  . . 685 

Reynolds,  Frederick,  ii.  • . 451 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  ii.  . 239 

Reynolds’  Painted  Window  at  Ox- 
ford, Lines  on,  ii.  . . . 37 

Rhyming  Chroniclers,  the,  i.  . 6 

Ricardo,  David,  ii.  . . . 555 

Rich,  Claudius  James,  ii.  . 565 

Rich,  the  Art  of  Growing,  i.  . 629 
Richard  II.  the  Morning  before  his 
Murder  in  Pontefract  Castle,  i.  104 

Richard  III.,  Character  of,  i.  . 67  | 


Page 

Richard’s  Theory  of  the  Mind,  i.  . 559 
Richardson,  Dr,  ii.  . . 566 

Richardson,  Joseph,  ii.  . . 72 

Richardson,  Samuel,  i.  . . 774 

Riches,  on,  i.  . . . 35 

Riches,  the  Emptiness  of,  i.  . 688 

Richmond,  Countess  of,  Character 
and  Habits  of  the,  i.  . .69 

Riddell,  H.  S.,  ii.  . . 618 

Right  of  Property,  ii.  ’ . . 229 

Right  and  Wrong,  Natural  and  Es- 
sential Difference  between,  i.  . 678 
Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  ii.  296 
Rimini,  Funeral  of  the  Lovers  in, 

ii 385 

Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet  and  the 
Enchanted  Wood,  i.  . . 108 

Ritchie,  Leitch,  ii.  . . 663 

Ritchie,  Mr,  ii.  555 

Ritson,  Joseph,  ii.  . . 240 

Robert  Curthose,  Description  of,  i.  8 
Robert  of  Gloucester,  i.  . 6 

Roberts,  Miss  Emma,  ii.  . . 786 

Robertson,  Dr  William,  ii.  173-178 
Robertson,  J.  P.  and  W.  P.,  ii.  . 795 
Robin  Goodfellow,  i.  . . 245 

Robin  Hood,  ii.  615 

Rochester,  Earl  of,  i.  . . 372 

Rochfort,  Viscount,  i.  .45 

Rogers,  Henry,  ii.  . 711,  736 

Rogers,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 272-279 

Roget,  Dr,  ii.]  . . . 739 

Rolla’s  Address  to  the  Peruvian 
Army,  ii.  . . . .111 

Rolle,  Richard,  i.  . . 12 

Rolliad,  the,  ii.  72 

Roman  Luxury  and  Slaves,  ii.  . 695 

Roman  Power  in  Britain,  Expiration 
of  the,  i.  . . . 418 

Romances,  English  Metrical,  i.  . 9 

Rome,  Funeral  Ceremony  at,  ii.  . 561 
Rome,  Midnight  Scene  in,  ii.  . 352 

Rome,  Ruins  of  Ancient,  ii.  . 609 

Romeus  and  Juliet,  Love  of,  i.  . 88 

Rooks  returning  to  their  Nests,  ii.  240 
Roscoe,  William,  ii.  . . 188 

Roscommon,  Earl  of,  i.  . 371,  701 

Rose,  a,  i.  . . . 164 

Rose,  the,  i.  . . 156 

Rose,  W.  S.,'ii.  . . . 422,  561 

Roses  and  Tulips,  upon  the  Sight  of. 
Growing  near  one  another,  i.  . 539 

Rosiphele,  Episode  of,  i.  , .25 

Ross,  Alexander,  ii.  , . 87 

Ross,  Sir  John,  ii.  . . . 563 

Ross,  the  Man  of,  i.  . , 580 

Rosy  Hannah,  ii.  . . 252 

Rowe,  Nicholas,  i.  . . 606 

Rowley,  William,  i.  . . 232 

Royalists,  Attack  of,  on  the  City,  i.  349 

Rule  Britannia,  i.  . . 698 

Rural  Life,  Descriptions  of,  ii.  . 251 

Rural  Picture,  ii.  . . . 32 

Rural  Sounds,  ii.  . . . 59 

Ruskin,  John,  ii.  . . . 772 

Russell,  Dr  William,  ii.  . . 179 

Russell,  Lady  Rachel,  i.  . 424 

Russell,  Lady  R.,  to  Dr  Fitzwilliam, 
i.  . ...  424,  425 

Russell,  Lady  R.,  to  the  Earl  of 

Galway,  i.  . . . . 425 

Russell,  Lady  R.,  to  Lord  Cavendish,  i.  425 
Russell,  Lord  John,  ii.  . 521,  710 
Russell,  W.  H.,  ii.  . . . 699 

Russia— Employments  of  the  People, 

ii 792 

Russia,  the  French  Army  in,  ii.  407 

Russian  Peasants’  Houses,  ii.  . 792 
Ruth,  ii.  . . . . 287 

Rutherford,  Samuel,  i.  . . 492 

Rymer,  Thomas,  i.  . . 510 

Sabbath  Morn,  ii.  . 256,  262 

Sabbath  Walk,  an  Autumn,  ii.  . 264 

Sabbath  Walk,  a Spring,  ii.  . 263 

Sabbath  Walk,  a Summer,  ii.  . 263 
Sabbath  Walk,  a Winter,  ii.  264 

Sackville,  Thomas,  i.  . . 86, 175 

Sadler,  M.  T.,  ii.  . . 555 

Sailor  Boy,  the  Impressed,  ii.  . 265 

Salamis,  the  Armies  at,  i.  . . 749 

Sale,  George,  i.  . . . 787 

Sale,  Lady,  ii.  . • 787 

Salt,  Henry,  ii.  . . . 244 

Sandys,  George,  i.  . . . 270 

Sardanapalus’s  State,  ii.  . . 312 

Satan’s  Address  to  the  Sun,  i.  . 354 

813 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Page 

Satan’s  Speech — [Caedmon],  i.  . 2 

Satan’s  Survey  of  Greece,  i.  . . 35S 

Satires,  Pope’s,  from  the  Prologue  to,  i.  578 
Saturn  and  Thea,  ii.  . . . 365 

Saul  and  his  Guards,  Approach  of, 
against  the  Philistines,  ii.  . 320 

Saul— Song  of  the  Virgins  Cele- 
brating the  Victory,  ii.  . . 320 

Savage,  Richard,  i.  . , 582 

Saviour,  Character  of  the,  ii.  . 737 

Saviour,  in  Praise  of  the,  ii.  . 17 

Saxon  Chronicle,  1154,  Extract  from,  i.  5 
Sayers,  Dr  Frank,  ii.  . . 382 

Scandal  and  Literature  in  High  Life,  i.  612 
Schmitz,  Dr,  ii.  . . .707 

Scholar,  Every  Nature  not  Suitable 
for  a,  i.  . . . 280 

Schoolmaster,  Observations  from,  i.  83,  84 
Schoolmaster,  the  Good,  i.  . . 429 

Schoolmistress,  the,  L .717 

School-usher,  Wretchedness  of  a,  ii.  29 
Science  and  Scripture,  ii.  . . 745 

Scipio,  Character  of,  ii.  . . 693 

Scoresby,  William,  ii.  . . 565 

Scorn  not  the  Least,  i.  . . 103 

Scot,  Alexander,  i.  . . 166 

Scotch  Lady  of  the  Old  School,  ii.  494 

Scotland’s  Scaith,  or  the  History  of 
Will  and  Jean,  ii.  . . . 108 

Scott,  John,  i.  . . 754 

Scott,  Michael,  ii.  . . . 628 

Scott,  Sir  W„  ii.  337-346,  476-480 

Scottis,  the  New  Maneris  and  the 
Auld  of,  i.  . . . 78 

Scottish  Language  after  the  Period 
of  the  Revolution,  ii.  . . 702 

Scottish  Poetry,  Early,  i.  .26 

Scottish  Rebellion,  the,  ii.  . 233 

Scripture  and  the  Law  of  Nature,  i.  252 
Sculpture,  Colossal,  Discovery  of  a,  ii.  797 
Sea,  the,  i. . . . .268 

Sea-coast,  Scenery  of  the,  ii.  . 208 

Sea,  Stanzas  on  the,  ii.  . . 401 

Sea-view  from  the  Window  of  the 
Sick-room  at  Tynemouth,  ii.  . 775 

Seasons,  Hymn  on  the,  i.  . 694 

Seasons,  the,  ii.  . . .612 

Sectarian  Differences,  i.  . . 654 

Sedgwick,  Professor,  ii.  . . 754 

Sedley,  Sir  Charles,  i.  . . 374 

Selden,  John,  i.  297 

Self-Control— Final  Escape  of  Laura,  ii.  467 
Self-Love,  Immoderate,  i.  . 459 

Self-Murder,  i.  409 

Selma,  the  Songs  of,  ii.  . . 16 

Sempill,  Sir  James,  Robert,  and 
Francis,  i.  . . . .597 

Senior,  N.  W.,  ii.  . . 555 

Sennacherib’s  Army,  Destruction  of,  ii.  70 
Sensitive  Plant,  from  the,  ii.  . 361 

Sephestia’s  Song  to  her  Child,  i.  . 184 
Sermons,  i.  299 

Seward,  Miss,  ii.  . .87 

Sewell,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 672 

Shadwell,  Thomas,  i.  . . 410 

Shaftesbury,  Earl  of,  i.  ' . 668 

Shaftesbury,  Character  of,  i.  . 378 

Shaftesbury’s  Address  to  Monmouth,  i.  379 
Shakspeare— his  Poetry,  i.  109-112,  810 
Shakspeare— his  Plays,  i.  . 191-206 

Shakspeare,  Character  of,  i.  . . 510 

Shakspeare,  Inscription  for  a Monu- 
ment to,  i.  . . . . 729 

Shakspeare,  to  the  Memory  of,  i.  125 

Shakspeare,  on  the  Portrait  of,  i.  . 125 
Shakspeare,  on  the  Genius  of— [Lord 
Jeffrey],  ii.  . . . . 545 

Shakspeare’s  Self-retrospection,  ii.  579 
Sharp,  Richard,  ii.  . . .761 

Sharpe,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 708 

Sheffield,  John  [Duke  of  Buck- 
inghamshire], i.  . . . 395 

Sheffield,  Lord,  ii.  . . 243 

Sheil,  R.  L.,  ii.  . . . 446 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  ii.  . 355-363 

Shelley,  Mrs,  ii.  . .472 

Shbnstone,  William,  i.  . . 716-722 

Shepherd,  Passionate,  to  his  Love,  i.  120 
Shepherd,  the  Steadfast,  i.  . . 137 

Shepherd  and  his  Wife,  i.  . 184 

Shepherd’s  Life,  the  Blessings  of  a,  i.  204 
Shepherd’s  Life,  Happiness  of  the,  i.  133 

Shepherd’s  Song,  i.  . . . 238 

Sheridan,  Mrs  F.,  ii.  . . 154 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  ii.  117 

Sherlock,  Dr  William,  i.  . . 460 

She’s  Gane  to  D wall  in  Heaven,  ii.  434 
814 

Page 

Shipwreck,  the— [Falconer],  ii.  . 25 

Shipwreck,  the— [Byron],  ii.  . 353 

Shipwreck,  the— [Prof.  Wilson],  ii.  397 
Shipwreck  by  Drink,  i.  . . 239 

Shirley,  James,  i.  . . 159,  239 

Siamese,  State  and  Ceremonial  of,  ii.  788 
Siberian  Exile,  the,  i.  . . 695 

Sic  Vita,  i.  . . . 128 

Sickness  and  Death—  [Pope  to  Steele],  i.  649 
Siddons,  Mrs,  Picture  of— [Descrip- 
tion of  Jane  de  Montfort],  ii.  . 114 

Side  Tails,  Supplication  in  Contemp- 
tion  of,  i.  . . . 55 

Sidney,  Algernon,  i.  . . 422 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  i.  . 90,  248,  809 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  Epitaph  on,  i.  . 122 
Silius,  Accusation  and  Death  of,  in 
the  Senate-house,  i.  . . 209 

Siller  Gun,  Mustering  of  the  Trades 
to  Shoot  for  the,  ii.  . . 426 

Silurian  Rocks,  the  Lower,  ii.  . 754 

Silvan  Retreat,  i.  . . . 40 

Simond,  M.,  ii.  ...  569 

Simplicity  and  Refinement,  i.  . 789 

Simpson,  Thomas,  ii.  . . . 800 

Sin  and  Holiness,  i.  . . 457 

Sin,  the  Progress  of,  i.  . . 308 

Sinclair,  Miss  C.,  ii.  . 672 

Singularity,  i.  ...  458 

Sinners,  the  Resurrection  of,  i.  . 308 

Sixteen,  ii.  . . . 310 

Skelton,  John,  i.  . . 41 

Skinner,  John,  i.  . . 758 

Skylark,  to  a,  ii.  . . . 360 

Skylark,  the,  ii.  432 

Slavery,  American  Law  of,  ii.  671 

Sleep,  to,  i.  . . . 225 

Sleep,  Epigram  on,  ii.  . . 82 

Sleep,  the  House  of,  i.  . .99 

Sleeping  Child—  [Frost  at  Midnight],  ii.  302 
Sleeping  Child — [Professor  Wilson],  ii.  396 
Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena,  ii.  . 402 

Smart,  Christopher,  ii.  . . 45 

Smedley,  F.  E.,  ii.  . . . 676 

Smiles,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 718 

Smith,  Albert,  ii.  . . 674 

Smith,  Alexander,  ii.  . . 609 

Smith,  Dr  Adam,  . i.  793 ; ii.  230 

Smith,  Dr  J.  P.,  iL  . . 753 

Smith,  Dr  W.,  ii.  . . 695 

Smith,  James  and  Horace,  ii.  390-395 

Smith,  Mrs  Charlotte,  ii.  . 82,  163 

Smith,  Rev.  Sidney,  ii.  . . 541 

Smith,  William,  ii.  . 622 

Smollett,  T.  G.,  i.  741-745,  779-784,  787 
Smyth,  William,  ii.  . . . 710 

Smythe,  Hon.  Mr,  ii.  . . 611 

Snails,  upon  the  Sight  of  Two,  i.  . 290 
Snake,  Adventure  with  a,  ii.  . 777 

Society  compared  to  a Bowl  of  Punch,  i.  639 
Socrates,  Condemnation  and  Death 
of,  ii.  . . . . 115 

Soldier,  a Drowned,  i.  . . 232 

Soldier’s  Home,  the,  ii.  . . 254 

Solicitude — [Pastoral  Ballad],  i.  . 720 

Solitude  Preferred  to  a Court  Life,  i.  203 
Somerville,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 742 

Somerville,  William,  i.  . .704 

Song  of  the  Crazed  Maiden,  ii.  . 272 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  ii.  . . .579 

Song  to  David,  ii.  . . 45 

Song  to  Echo,  ii.  . . .72 

Song  to  May,  ii.  . . 72,  321 

Song  by  Rogero,  in  The  Rovers , ii.  . 77 

Songs— 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea,  ii.  434 
Ae  Fond  Kiss,  ii.  . . 103 

(Ah,  Chloris ! that  I now  could  sit),  i.  374 
(Amarantha,  sweet  and  fair),  i.  . 156 
(Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  be- 
stows), i.  . . . .131 

(At  setting  day  and  rising  morn),  i.  602 
Auld  Robin  Forbes,  ii.  .85 

Auld  Robin  Gray,  ii.  . . 88 

(Away!  let  nought  to  love  dis- 
pleasing), i.  . . . 760 

Birks  of  Invermay,  the,  i.  .725 

Black-eyed  Susan,  i.  . . 592 

Braes  o’  Balquither,  the,  ii.  . 424 

Braes  o’  Gleniffer,  the,  ii.  . 424 

Bruce’s  Address,  ii.  . . 103 

(Busy,  curious*  thirsty  fly),  i.  . 754 

(Come  away,  come  away),  i.  . 230 

Constancy,  L . .373 

Convivial,  i.  ...  241 

Cupid’s  Curse,  i.  . 180 

(Dorinda’s  sparkling  wit  and  eyes),i.  394 

Page 

Songs — continued : 

(Dry  those  fair,  those  crystal  eyes),  i.  128 
Farewell  to  Ayrshire,  ii.  . 110 

Flower  o’  Dumblane,  the,  ii.  . 425 

Flowers  of  the  Forest,  the  [Miss  J. 

Elliot  and  Mrs  Cockburn],  ii.  . 89 

Give  me  more  Love  or  more  Dis- 
dain, i.  . . .132 

Gloomy  Winter ’s  now  Awa’,  ii.  425 

Go,  lovely  Rose,  i.  . . . 344 

(Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant 
glades),  ii.  . . 247 

Good  Night,  and  Joy  be  wi’  Ye  a’,  ii.  428 
(Hast  thou  seen  the  down  in  the 
air),  i.  . . .148 

(I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart),  i.  147 
(If  I had  thought  thou  couldst 
have  died),  ii.  . . 371 

Ilka  Blade  o’  Grass  keps  its  ain 
Drap  o’  Dew,  ii.  . . . 618 

Jemmy  Dawson,  i.  . 721 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver,  ii.  . 427 

Jenny’s  Bawbee,  ii.  . . 427 

Laird  o’  Cockpen,  the,  ii.  . . 89 

Land  o’  the  Leal,  the,  ii.  . 89 

Last  Time  I came  o’er  the  Moor,  i.  602 
(Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and  bless 
the  air),  i.  225 

(Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat),  i.  410 
(Love  still  has  something  of  the 
sea),  i.  . . . 374 

(Love  wakes  and  weeps),  ii.  . 346 

Macpherson’s  Farewell,  ii.  . 102 

Mary  Morison,  ii.  . . 103 

May-Eve,  or  Kate  of  Aberdeen,  i.  755 
Menie,  ii.  . . . 102 

My  Bonny  Mary,  ii.  . . 103 

(My  dear  mistress  has  a heart),  i.  373 
My  Nanie  O,  ii.  . . 434 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  O,  ii.  . 109 

(O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me),  ii.  12 
(O  tuneful  voice ! I still  deplore),  ii.  247 
(O  do  not  wanton  with  those  eyes),  i.  123 
(Oh  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold),  ii.  371 
(Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome 
day),  i,  . . .238 

Parting  Kiss,  the,  i.  . . 750 

(Phillis,  men  say  that  all  my  vows),  i.  374 
Poet’s  JBridal  Day,  the,  ii.  . 434 

Royalist,  the,  i.  . . 165 

Saint’s  Encouragement,  the,  i.  164 

Say,  Lovely  Dream,  i.  . . 343 

(Sweet  woman  is  like  the  fair  flower 
in  its  lustre),  i.  . . . 590 

(The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery 
nest),  i.  . . . .158 

(The  season  comes  when  first  we 
met),  ii.  . . . . 247 

There  is  a Garden  in  her  Face,  i.  245 
(’Tis  now,  since  I sat  down  before),  i.  146 
(To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land),  i.  394 
(Too  late,  alas!  I must  confess),  i.  373 
Tubal  Cain,  ii.  . . 598 

(What  ails  this  heart  o’ mine?)  ii.  84 
(What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does 

wail?)  i 178 

(Whatpleasure  have  great  princes), i.  242 
(When  first  mine  eyes),  i.  . 46 

When  the  Glen  all  is  Still,  ii.  . 619 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame,  ii.  432 

(While  on  those  lovely  looks  I 
gaze),  i.  . . . .372 

(Why  should  you  swear  I am  for- 
sworn), i. . . . . 156 

(WRy  so  pale  and/wan,  fond  lover?)  i.147 
(Wi’  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan 
rang),  ii.  . . . . 442 

(Woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’),  ii.  S7 

(Would  you  know  what ’s  soft),  i.  131 
Ye  Mariners  of  England,  ii.  . 332 

(Ye  shepherds  of  this  pleasant 
vale),  i.  . . . .757 

Songs  of  Israel,  Conclusion  of  the,  ii.  411 
Sonnets— 

Britain,  to,  ii.  . . 604 

Chapman’s  Homer,  on  First  Look- 
ing into,  ii.  367 

Drummond’s,  i.  . . 172 

England,  on,  ii.  . . 367 

First  Man,  the,  ii.  . . 573 

Glowworm,  to  the,  ii.  . . 387 

Hope,  ii.  ...  304 

Hope,  to,  ii.  ...  383 

Human  Seasons,  the,  ii.  . 367 

King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge,  ii.  284 
London,  1802,  ii.  . . . 283 

Milton  on  his  own  Blindness,  i.  . 349 

GENERAL  INDEX. 

Page 

Sonnets— continued : 

(Muses,  that  sing  Love’s  sensual 
empirie),  i.  244 

Nightingale,  Departure  of  the,  ii.  83 
Poesy,  Influence  of,  ii.  . 83 

Primrose,  the,  ii.  . . . 388 

Sabbath  Morn,  on,  ii.  . . 256 

Shakspeare,  to,  ii.  . . . 573 

Sidney’s,  Sir  Philip,  i.  . . 90 

Solitary  Life,  in  Praise  of  .a,  i.  169,  172 
Spring,  Written  at  the  Close  of,  ii.  83 
Thrush’s  Nest,  the,  ii.  . . 388 

Thurlow’s,  Lord,  ii.  . . 321 

Time,  to,  ii.  ...  303 

Westminster  Bridge,  Composed 
upon,  Sept.  3,  1803,  ii.  . . 284 

(What  art  thou,  Mighty  One !),  ii.  260 
Winter  Evening  at  Home,  ii.  . 303 

World  is  Too  Much  with  Us,  the,  ii.  284 
Sorceress  of  Vain  Delight,  i.  . 134 

Sorcery  and  Witchcraft,  i.  . . 286 

Sorrel,  Hetty,  ii.  . . . 677 

Sotheby,  William,  ii.  . 319,  443 

Soul  and  Body,  the,  i.  . . 472 

Soul,  Immortality  of  the,  ii.  . 182 

Soul’s  Immortality,  Reasons  for  the,  i.  113 
Sound,  Effect  of,  as  modified  by 
Association,  ii.  . . 242 

South,  Dr  Robert,  i.  . . 461-466 

Southerne,  Thomas,  i.  . . 604 

Southey,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 574 

Southey,  R.,  ii.  . 305,  517,  520,  537 

Southgate,  Rev.  H.,  ii.  . . 785 

Southwell,  Robert,  i.  . . 101 

Spalding,  Professor,  ii.  . 748 

Speaking,  Evil,  i.  . . • 298 

Speed,  John,  i.  278 

Spelman,  Sir  Henry,  i.  . 278 

Spence,  Sir  Patrick,  i.  . .59 

Spencer,  the  Hon.  W.  R.,  ii.  . 380 

Spencer,  Mr,  ii.  . . 793 

Spenser,  Edmund,  i.  . 91 

Spenser  and  Milton,  i.  . . 5l4 

Sphynx,  the,  ii.  . . . 786 

Splendid  Shilling,  the,  i.  . . 392 

Sports  upon  Ice  in  Elizabeth’s  Reign,  i.  266 
Spotiswood,  John,  i.  . . 322 

Sprat,  Dr  Thomas,  i.  . . 467 

Sprig  of  Heath,  on  a,  ii.  . . 248 

Spring,  Approach  of,  i.  . . 132 

Spring,  Birds  Pairing  in,  i.  . . 692 

Spring,  a Northern,  ii.  . . 413 

Spring,  Showers  in,  i.  . . 692 

Squire  and  the  Dove,  i.  . . 96 

Squire  of  Low  Degree,  i.  .11 

St  Augustine,  Ladder  of,  ii.  . 608 

St  Columbanus,  i.  . . .1 

St  Helena,  Description  of,  i.  . 277 

St  John,  Letter  to  Sir  William,  i.  . 272 
St  Leon’s  Escape  from  an  Auto  de 

F6,  ii 459 

St  Paul,  Martyrdom  of,  ii.  . 734 

St  Paul,  Varied  Life  of,  ii.  . . 733 

St  Paul’s  Cathedral— How  a Gallant 
should  behave  Himself  in,  i.  . 289 

St  Quentin,  the  Priest  of,  ii.  . 664 

St  Serf  and  Sathanas,  i.  .29 

St  Serfs  Ram,  i.  . . . 29 

Staffa,  Verses  on,  ii.  . . . 319 

Stag-Hunt— [Sir  Philip  Sidney],  i.  249 
Stag-Hunt— [Michael  Drayton],  i.  . 105 
Stanhope,  Earl,  ii.  . . 695 

Stanley,  Rev.  A.  P.,  ii.  710,  711,  732 

Stanley,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 335 

Stanzas— (As  when  a lady,  walking 
Flora’s  bower),  i.  . . . 140 

Stanzas— (Oddly  called  by  Herbert 
The  Pulley),  i.  143 

Stanzas  by  Shelley  — Written  in 
Dejection,  near  Naples,  ii.  . 362 

Stanzas— (When  midnight  o’er  the 
moonless  skies),  ii.  . . 381 

Starling,  the— [Captivity  1,  ii.  . 137 

Starry  Heavens,  the,  ii.  '.  . 412 

Staunton,  Sir  George,  ii.  . 243,  567 

Steam-engine,  the,  ii.  . 718 

Steele,  Sir  Richard,  i.  618,  619-624 

Steevens,  George,  ii.  . . 202 

Stella  and  Vanessa— [Swift],  i.  . 561 

Stephen,  Sir  Jame3,  ii.  . 710,  802 

Stephens,  J.  L.,  ii.  . . 567 

Stephenson,  George,  at  Drayton,  ii.  719 
Stephenson,  Robert,  ii.  . . 720 

Sterne,  Laurence,  ii.  , 133-139 

Stevenson,  J.  H.,  ii.  . . 134 

Stewart,  Professor  Dugald,  ii.  522,  740 
Still,  John,  i.  175 

Page 

Stillingfleet,  Edward,  i.  . 458 

Stirling,  Earl  of,  i.  . . 168 

Stirling,  William,  ii.  . . 726 

Storer,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 114 

Story  of  a Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble 

Life,  ii 270 

Story-Telling,  i.  . . . 623 

Stow,  John,  i.  265 

Stowe,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 670 

Strangford,  Viscount,  ii.  . . 423 

Strawberry  Hill,  ii.  . . 232 

Strickland,  Miss,  ii.  . .709 

Strype,  John,  i.  . . . 673 

Stuart,  Dr  Gilbert,  ii.  . .179 

Studies,  i.  . . . . 259 

Studies,  Tendency  and  Effect  of 
Philosophical,  ii.  . . . 742 

Studies,  Useful,  i.  . . . 308 

Study  of  God’s  Works,  i.  . . 316 

Study,  Injudicious  Haste  in,  i.  . 535 

Study  should  be  Relieved  by  Amuse- 
ment, i.  ».  . . . 82 

Stukeley,  William,  i.  . . 808 

Style  of  the  Period,  1558  to  1649,  i.  324 
Style  Royal  and  Critical— The  Plural 

‘ We,’  ii 783 

Style,  Simplicity  of,  Recommended,  i.  81 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  i.  * . 145-148 

Suckling’s  Campaigne,  i.  . . 145 

Sullivan,  Mr,  ii.  . . 624 

Summer  Evening,  i.  . . 692,  701 

Summer  Morning,  . i.  692 ; ii.  388 

Sumner,  Archbishop  and  Bishop,  ii.  527 
Sun,  on  the  Setting,  ii.  . . 338 

Sun-dial  in  a Churchyard,  ii.  . 304 

Sunday,  i.  . . . 143 

Superstitious  Beliefs,  ii.  . . 698 

Suretyship  and  Borrowing,  i.  . 251 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  i.  , 42 

Sutherland,  P.  C.,  ii.  . . 801 

Sutherland,  to  the  Duchess  of,  ii.  582 

Swaggering  Bully  and  Boaster,  i.  611 

Swain,  Charles,  ii.  . . . 608 

Swallow,  the,  . . i.  381 ; ii.  586 

Sweden,  Society  of,  ii.  . . 793 

Sweet  Neglect,  the,  i.  . . 123 

Swift,  Jonathan,  i.  . 560-568,  640-649 

Swift,  Character  of,  ii.  . . 782 

Swift— Verses  on  his  own  Death,  i.  564 
Swift’s  Thoughts  onVarious  Subjects, i.  647 
Swiss  and  Italians  Contrasted,  ii.  4 

Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi,  ii.  438 
Syren’s  Song,  the,  i.  . . .140 

Tabernacle  and  Temple  of  the  Jews,  i.  449 
Tailor,  of  a Precise,  i.  . . 109 

Talent  and  Genius,  ii.  . . 637 

Talfourd,  T.  N.,  ii.  . 620 

Tamerlane— Term  of  his  Conquest, 

Death,  &c.,  ii.  . . 185 

Tannahill,  Robert,  ii.  . . 423 

Taste,  on  the  Cultivation  of,  ii.  . 199 

Taste,  on  Delicacy  of,  i.  . . 788 

Taste  and  Genius,  Difference  be- 
tween, ii.  . . . 200 

Taste— [Pleasures  of  Imagination],  i.  728 
Tawell,  the  Murderer,  ii.  . . 763 

Taylor,  Henry,  ii.  . . 622 

Taylor,  Isaac,  ii.  . .737 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  i.  . . 304-312 

Taylor,  Robert,  i.  . . . 232 

Taylor,  Tom,  ii.  . . . 624 

Taylor,  W.,  ii.  787 

Taylor,  William,  ii.  . . 422 

Tear,  on  a,  ii. . . . . 278 

Tears,  i.  . . .398 

Tears  of  Scotland,  i.  . . . 744 

Temperance,  or  the  Cheap  Physician,  i.  163 
Tempest,  a,  i.  . . 249 

Temple  of  Mars,  the,  i.  . 41 

Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Heliopolis,  ii.  732 

Temple,  Sir  William,  i.  . 518-523 

Ten  Years  Ago,  ii.  . . 584 

Tenison,  Archbishop,  i.  . . 473 

Tennant,  William,  ii.  . . 435,  584 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  ii.  X5S6-591,  701,  802 
Tetrastic— From  the  Persian,  ii.  55 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  ii.  . 650-656 

Thames  and  Windsor  Forest,  i.  . 337 

Thanatopsis,  from,  ii.  . . 419 

Thanksgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar,  ii.  265 
Thanksgiving  for  his  House— [Her- 
rick], i 154 

Theatre,  Pepys  at  the,  i.  . . 442 

Theatre,  the— By  the  Rev.  G.  C.— 
[Rejected  Addresses],  ii.  . . 392 

Theatres,  Early,  i.  . • 176 

Page 

Thebes,  Opening  a Tomb  at,  ii.  . 557 

Thebes,  the  Ruins  at,  ii.  . . 557 

Theobald,  Lewis,  i.  . . . 581 

Theodore  and  Honoria,  i.  . 384-387 

Theological  Controversies,  i.  .476 

Thermopylae,  the  Battle  of,  i.  . 263 

Thief  and  the  Cordelier,  i.  . . 558 

Thinking,  on,  i.  . . . 804 

Thirlwall,  Bishop,  ii.  . . 703 

Thom,  William,  ii.  . . 617 

Thomson,  Dr  Andrew,  ii.  . . 531 

Thomson,  James,  i.  . . 689-696 

Thomson,  from  the  Monody  on,  i.  . 730 
Thrale,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 51 

Three  Fishers  went  Sailing,  ii.  . 657 

Three  Rules  to  be  Observed  for  the 
Preservation  of  a Man’s  Estate,  i.  264 
Thunder-storm,  ii.  . . . 351 

Thurlow,  Edward,  Lord,  ii.  . 321 

Thyestes,  Extract  from,  i.  . . 409 

Tickell,  Richard,  ii.  . . 72 

Tickell,  Thomas,  i.  . 592-595 

Ticknor,  Mr,  ii.  . . . 684 

Tidings  fra  the  Session,  i.  . .52 

Tighe,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 247 

Tillotson,  John,  i.  . . 455-458 

Timber,  i.  . . . .335 

Time— (Why  sitt’st  thou  by  that 
ruined  hall),  ii.  . . 345 

Time,  Thoughts  on,  i.  . . 686 

Time,  Wrecks  and  Mutations  of,  i.  746 

Time’s  Alteration,  i.  . . . 246 

Time’s  Changes,  ii.  . . 624 

Times  go  by  Turns,  i.  . . 102 

Timour— Term  of  his  Conquest, 
Death,  &c.,  ii.  . . 185 

Tindal,  Dr  Matthew,  i.  . 682 

Tindal,  Nicholas,  i.  . . 682 

Tinker,  the,  i.  . . 293 

To (Go— you  may  call  it  mad- 
ness, folly),  ii.  . . 278 

To (Music,  when  soft  voices 

die),  ii.  363 

To (Too  late  1 stayed— forgive 

the  crime),  ii.  . . 381 

To  my  Daughter  on  her  Marriage — 

[By  Mrs  Hunter],  ii.  . . 248 

To  a Lady,  with  some  Painted 
Flowers,  ii.  . . . .86 

To  T.  L.  H.,  Six  Years  Old,  during  a 
Sickness,  ii.  ...  385 

Tobin,  John,  ii.  . . . 451 

Tod,  Lieut.-col.  James,  ii.  . 567 

Toilet,  the,  i.  . 573 

Toleration,  i.  . . . . 315 

Tomb,  the,  i.  335 

Tooke,  J.  H.,  ii.  . . 224 

Tourneur,  Cyril,  i.  . . 232 

Tower  of  Babel,  Building  of  the,  i.  56 

Town,  Farewell  to,  i.  . . 118 

Town  Ladies,  Satire  on,  i.  . 167 

Townley,  Rev.  Mr,  i.  . . 766 

Townsend,  Lord  John,  ii.  . 72 

Train,  Joseph,  ii.  . . 442 

TravellerSji'Talesj.of,  i.  . . 276 

Treason,  of,  i.  . . . . 109 

Trebeck,  George,  ii.  . . 567 

Tree,  Full-blossomed,  i.  . . 290 

Trench,  Dr  R.  C.,  ii.  . 584,  734 

Triumph,  Her,  i.  . 123 

Trollope,  Adolphus  and  Anthony,  ii.  630 
Trollope,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 630 

Tron-Kirk  Bell,  to  the,  ii.  . . 91 

Truth,  i.  . . . . 418 

Truth  and  Moderation,  i.  . . 446 

Truth  and  Sincerity,  Advantages  of,  i.  456 
Tuberville,  George,  i.  . .117 

Tucker,  Abraham,  ii.  . . 194 

Tucicey,  Captain,  ii.  . . 555 

Tuft-hunting,  i.  . . . 767 

Tulloch,  Dr  John,  ii.  . .739 

Tullochgorum,  i.  . . . 758 

Turner,  Sharon,  ii.  . . . 513 

Tusser,  Thomas,  i.  . . 46 

Tweedside,  i.  . . . . 759 

Twelfth  Night,  or  King  and  Queen,  i.  152 
Tyme,  Ane  Schort  Poeme  of,  i.  » . 168 
Tyndale,  William,  i.  . 79 

Tytler,  P.  F.,  ii.  . . 519,  521 

Tytler,  William,  i.  . . 787 

Udall,  Nicolas,  i.  . . .175 

U dolpho,  Description  of  the  Castle  of,  ii.  166 
Ugolino  and  his  Sons  in  the  Tower 
of  Famine,  ii.  421 

Ulysses  and  the  Syren,  i.  . 104 

Una  with  tko  Lion,  Adventure  of,  i.  95 
815 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Page 

Una  and  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  i.  . 94 

Unbelievers,  Difficulty  of  Convincing 
Interested,  i.  448 

Universe,  a Sketch  of  the,  ii.  . 207 

Universities,  i.  257 

Unrest,  ii.  . . . . 610 

Unwin,  Mrs,  Inscription  on  the  Tomb 
of,  ii.  ....  68 

Upas  in  Marybone  Lane,  ii.  . 394 

Upon  his  Mistress  Sad,  i.  . . 160 

Useful  Knowledge,  Society  for  the 
Diffusion  of,  ii.  . . .571 

Usher,  James,  i.  . . 299 

Utility,  Principle  of,  ii.  . . 642 

Valediction,  a,  i.  . . . 150 

Valediction— Forbidding  Mourning,  i.  115 
Valerius— his  Visit  to  Athanasia  in 
Prison,  ii.  . . . . 489 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  John,  i.  . . 614 

Vanities  of  the  World,  a Farewell  to 
the,  i.  130 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  i.  . 709 

Vanity  of  the  World,  i.  . . 141 

Variety,  i.  . . . . 751 

Vathek  and  his  Magnificent  Palaces,  ii.  150 
Vaughan,  Henry,  i.  . . 334 

Vaux,  Lord,  i.  . . .45 

Veal,  Mrs,  a True  Relation  of  the 
Apparition  of,  &c.,  i.  . . 633 

Vedder,  David,  ii.  . . 617 

Velasquez’s  Faithful  Colour-grinder, ii.  727 
Venables,  Rev.  Mr,  ii.  . . 792 

Venice,  a Morning  in,  ii.  . . 562 

Venice— Canaletti  and  Turner,  ii.  772 

Venice  Preserved,  Scenes  from,  i.  404-407 
Venus  and  the  Graces,  i.  . . 216 

Vice,  Resolution  Necessary  in  For- 
saking, i.  . . .457 

Vicious  Course,  Commencement  of,  i.  458 
Village  Scold,  a,  ii.  . . 107 

Vintner,  a,  i.  . . . . 426 

Violet,  on  a Faded,  ii.  . . 363 

Violets,  to  a Tuft  of  Early,  ii.  . 76 

Virginius,  Scene  from,  ii.  . 448 

Virgins,  to  the,  to  Make  Much  of 
their  Time,  i.  . . .152 

Virtue,  i.  . . . . 143 

Virtue  more  Pleasant  than  Vice,  i.  . 527 
Virtue  and  Vice  Declared  by  the 
General  Vote  of  Mankind,  i.  . 456 
Vision,  a,  ii.  . . . 104 

Visit,  Fatal,  of  the  Inca  to  Pizarro 
and  his  Followers,  ii.  . . 682 

Voice  of  Spring,  the,  ii.  . . 399 

Voltaire  and  the  Lace-worker,  ii.  . 61 

Vortigern,  King,  the  Deposition  of,  i.  62 
Vortigern  and  Rowen,  i.  . . 8 

Wace,  i.  . . . .4 

Waddington  and  Eanbury,  ii. . 566 

Wakefield,  Gilbert,  ii.  .197 

Waldie,  Miss,  ii.  . . 561 

Wallace,  Adventure  of,  i.  . .31 

Wallace,  Escape  of,  from  Perth,  i.  31 
Wallace,  the  Death  of,  i.  . . 33 

Waller,  Edmund,  i.  . . 340-344 

Walpole,  Horace,  ii.  110,  139,  232 
Walsh,  William,  i.  . . 549 

Walton,  Izaak,  i.  . 433-437 

Walton,  Izaak,  Invitation  to,  i.  . 369 

Wanderer,  the,  ii.  . . 683 

War,  Desolation  of,  ii.  . . 498 

War,  Image  of,  ii.  . . 350 

War,  Picture  of  the  Miseries  of,  ii.  206 
Warburton,  Bishop,  i.  . . 795 

Warburton,  Eliot,  ii.  . . 777 

Ward,  R.  P.,  ii.  . . . 501 

Wardlaw,  Dr  R.,  ii.  . . 739 

Wardlaw,  Lady  E.,  i.  . . 59S 

Warner,  Dr,  ii.  . . 179 

816 


Page 

51 

643 

419 

409 

305 

803 

38 


Warnings,  the  Three,  ii. 

Warren,  Samuel,  ii. 

Warrior,  the  Disinterred,  ii. 

Warriors,  i.  . 

Warriors— their  Departed  Spirits 
[From  Joan  of  Arc],  ii. 

Wars,  Cost  of,  i.  . . 

Warton,  Joseph,  ii.  . 

Warton,  Thomas,  ii. 

Warwick  Castle,  ii.  . . 

Washington,  Eulogium  on,  i. 

Waterton,  Charles,  ii. 

Watson,  Dr  Richard,  ii. 

Watson,  Robert,  ii. 

Watson,  Thomas,  i.  . 

Watt,  James,  ii.  . . . 

Watts,  Alaric  A.,  ii. 

Watts,  Dr  Isaac,  i. 

We  are  Brethren  a’,  ii. 

‘ We,’  the  Plural,  ii. 

Webster,  Alexander,  i. 

Webster,  John,  i. 

Wedding,  Ballad  on  a,  i. 

Weimar,  Picture  of,  ii.  . 

Wellsted,  Lieut.  J.  R.,  ii.  . 

Welsh  Guide,  a,  i. 

Welsted,  Leonard,  L 
Wesley,  John,  i.  . 

West,  Gilbert,  i. 

Westminster  Abbey,  Sir  Roger 
Coverley’s  Visit  to,  i. 

Westminster,  on  the  Tombs  in,  i 
What  is  truly  Practical,  ii.  . 

Whately,  Archbishop,  ii. 

Wheatstone,  Charles,  ii. 

Whetstone,  Georgb,  i.  . 

Whewell,  Dr,  ii. 

Whig  and  Tory,  ii.  . 

Whiston,  William,  i. 

Whitbread’s  Brewery  Visited  by 
their  Majesties,  ii.  . 

White,  Henry  K.,  ii.  . . 

White,  Rev.  Gilbert,  ii.  . 

White,  Robert,  ii.  . . 

White,  Walter,  ii.  . , 

Whitefield,  George,  i.  . . 

Whitehead,  William,  i. 

Whitelocke,  Bulstrode,  i. 

Whittaker,  John,  ii.  . . 

Widow  Miller,  ii. 

Widowed  Mother,  the— [From  Tha- 
laba  the  Destroyer ],  ii'.  . . 

Wife,  Bayly  to  his,  ii. 

Wife,  Children,  and  Friends,  ii. 

Wife,  Choice  of  a,  i. 

Wife,  the,  a Tale  of  Mantua,  Pas- 
sage from,  ii. 

WlLBERFORCE,  WlLLIAM,  ii.  . 

Wilderness,  a Virgin,  ii. 

Wilkins,  Dr  John,  i. 

Wilkins, Peter,  and  his  Flying  Bride, ii. 131 
Wilkinson,  Sir  J.  G.,  ii."  . 70S 

Will,  the,  i.  . . . . 115 

Will  for  the  Deed,  the,  i.  . 462 

Will,  the  Necessity  of  the,  i.  . 283 
William  III.,  Character  of,  i.  . 508 

William  and  Margaret,  i.  . . 723 

Williams,  Folkestone,  ii.  . 676 

Williams,  H.  M.,  ii.  . . 382 

Williams,  H.  W.,  ii.  . . 559 

Williams,  Rev.  J.,  ii.  . . 731 

Williams,  Sir  C.  H.,  i.  . . 705 

Willis,  N.  P.,  ii.  . . 607 

Wilson,  Alexander,  ii.  . 106 

Wilson,  Arthur,  i.  . . . 280 

Wilson,  Daniel,  ii.  . 710 

Wilson,  Dr  George,  ii.  . . 720 

Wilson,  Professor,  ii.  . 395,  491 

Wilson,  Thomas,  i.  . . .81 

Wilson,  William  Rae,  ii.  . 565 

WlNCHELSEA,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF,  L 596 


671 
. 803 
777 
. 197 
179 
. 117 
716 
. 583 
700,  797 
. 438 

783 
. 798 

227 
. 146 
• 728 
. 785 
370 
. 581 
79S 
. 755 
de 

. 626 
129 
. 774 
555,  740,  744 
. 751 
. 176 

739,  743 
. 695 

. 681 

80 
259 
239 
710 

784 
79S 
751 
502 
179 
618 

306 
416 
381 
250 

449 
198 
625 
466 


Page 

Wind,  the  Blowing  of  the,  i.  . 82 

Wind,  Moral  Reflections  on  the,  i.  . 47 

Wind-flower,  the,  ii.  . 419 

Windsor  Castle— Written  after  See- 
ing it,  ii.  . . . .36 

Windsor  Forest  and  the  Thames,  i.  337 
Windsor,  Prisoner  in,  he  Recounteth 
his  Pleasure  there  Passed— [Earl 
of  Surrey],  i.  . . .43 

Wine,  Over-indulgence  in,  i.  . 745 

Winter,  Benevolent  Reflections  from,  i.  694 
Winter  Evening  in  the  Country,  ii.  61 
Winter  in  London,  ii.  . ,767 

Winter  Landscape,  i.  . . 693 

Wisdom,  on,  ii.  528 

Wisdom,  True,  i.  . . . 458 

Wise  Man,  How  to  be  Reputed  a,  i.  654 
Wish,  a,  ii.  , . . 278 

Wish,  the,  i.  . . . .332 

Wit  the  Flavour  of  the  Mind,  ii.  543 
Wit,  the  Ready  and  Nimble,  i.  . 427 

Wit,  the  Slow  but  Sure,  i.  . . 427 

Wit— What  is  it?  i.  . . 452 

Witch  of  Edmonton,  Scene  from  the,  L 232 

Witch,  Picture  of  a,  i.  . . 407 

Witch’s  Cave,  the,  i.  . . 149 

Witches— How  they  Travel,  i.  . 2S6 
Wither,  George,  i.  . . 135-138 

Wolcot,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 78-82 

Wolfe,  Charles,  ii.  . .370 

Wolsey,  Cardinal,  Lines  on,  i.  . 42 

Wolsey’s  House,  King  Henry’s  Visits 
to,  i.  . ' . . .76 

Woman’s  Inconstancy,  on,  i.  . 172 

Women,  Ironical  Ballad  on  the 
Duplicity  of,  i.  . .23 

Women,  Praise  of  Good,  i.  . 9 

Wood,  Anthony,  i.  . . . 509 

Woodman’s  "Walk,  the,  i.  . 244 

Woods,  Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the,  ii.  240 
Wordsworth,  William,  ii.  . 279-291 

Workhouse,  Parish,  and  Apothecary, ii.  268 
Works  of  God,  Devout  Contempla- 
tion of,  i.  . . . . 472 

World  Compared  to  a Stage,  i.  . 203 

World,  Evidence  of  a Creator  in  the 
Structure  of  the,  i.  . . 457 

World,  the,  Made  with  a Benevolent 
Design,  ii.  . . . . 196 

Worldly  Blessings, Thankfulness  for,  i.  435 
Worsaae,  J.  J.  A.,  ii.  . . 710 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  i.  . 130,  280 

Wotton,  William,  i.  I . . 523 

Wrangham,  Archdeacon,  ii.  . 420 

Wright,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 710 

Writers  that  Carp  at  other  Men’s 
Books,  i.  . . . 109 

Writing,  Grandiloquent,  ii.  . 312 

Written  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  in 
Autumn— [J.  Logan],  ii.  . . 34 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  . . 44 

Wycherley,  William,  i.  . . 410 

Wycliffe,  John,  i.  . . 36 

Wyntoun,  Andrew,  i.  . .29 

Wyoming,  Battle  of,  &c.,  ii.  . 331 

Xenophon’s  Address  to  the  Army,  ii.  704 

Yeoman  of  Henry  VIL’s  Time,  i.  . 71 

Yonge,  Miss  C.  M.,  ii.  . . 672 

Yorkshire  Moors,  Description  of,  ii.  659 
Young,  Arthur,  ii.  . . . 552 


Young,  Edward,  i. 


. 683-689 


Young  Female  taking  the  Veil,  ii.  . 612 
Young  Ladies,  Counsel  to,  ii.  . 771 

Young  Thief,  the  Troubles  of  a,  i.  637 

Youth  and  Age,  ii.  . . . 302 

Yule  or  Christmas,  the  Windy,  ii.  4S3 

Zeluco— Dispute  and  Duel  between 
the  Two  Scotch  Servants  in  Italy,  ii.  159 


